Work Text:
Everything is dark. Frigid. Ambivalent.
Will allows himself to sink, resisting the animal need to claw his way to the surface.
His body is numb, and for the first time he feels entirely calm. He sees a small light beneath him, then two. He squints through the dark, watching as the lights draw nearer.
The Stag Man blends into the void so seamlessly that Will doesn't recognize it until its twisted hands are gripping his shirt, pulling him with all its might. Will opens his mouth to scream.
His eyes snap open. He's panting, sweating, alert with fear but still strangely groggy. He groans, a dull pain crawling through his entire body. What...happened?
He takes a deep breath, wincing at the soreness in his chest. When he inhales, the smell of meat fills his senses. Bacon, he thinks. The scent makes him realize he's dizzy with hunger. When was the last time he ate?
The distinct tapping of a dog on hardwood floor catches his attention, and he forces himself to turn his head to the side. Sure enough, a brown pitbull makes her way to his bedside. Will reaches out a hand, letting her sniff him before hesitantly petting her head. "Hey, buddy," he mumbles.
With great effort, he sits up. There's a vanity against the wall beside him, and he studies himself in its mirror. To say he looked like hell would be an understatement, more like he'd been to hell and then was forcibly dragged back to Earth. He's pale, covered in bruises. His arm is wrapped in bandages, and a cursory attempt to curl his fingers almost has him seeing white. There's another bandage near his hairline. He notices a neat spread of medical supplies on the vanity- gauze, clean dressings, some ointment to prevent infection, over the counter painkillers. Considering the only thing available seemed to be a standard first-aid kit, he'd been tended to with a great deal of care.
Will sighs, caught somewhere between relief and dread.
"Hannibal."
As if summoned, Will hears staccato footsteps approaching.
"I was beginning to think you might never wake," He said, looming in the doorway. The sweater and corduroys he's wearing seem an awkward fit for him, both physically and aesthetically. He certainly got out better than Will, but not by that much. His jaw is swollen, and Will could tell by the odd rhythm of his steps that he was limping. Will wonders how the bullet wound in his stomach is fairing, but doesn't ask.
"Where are we?"
"Not far from where we fell," Hannibal says, and Will takes note of his word choice. 'Fell' is certainly an absolving perspective. "Come, you must be starving."
As he struggles to stand, Will realizes that he's only wearing his boxers, his blood stained clothes nowhere in sight. The idea that he should be embarrassed crossed his mind, but was there any such thing as modesty when he was with Hannibal? He might as well be naked, laid bare before him. Still, he isn't surprised when Hannibal pulls a worn blue robe from a closet, holding it out to him.
"Do try to keep warm. You're lucky you didn't end up with hypothermia."
"Oh yeah," Will replies. "I feel real lucky."
He stumbles into the small kitchen, falling into a wobbly wooden chair. His legs are killing him, but at least they're both still attached.
Hannibal pours some coffee into a chipped mug, not bothering to leave room for milk. He adds two spoonfuls of sugar, stirring as he brings it to the table. Will can tell by the scent alone that this coffee was born from a plastic tub of grounds, and finds himself smiling. Distantly, he recalls a memory of artisianal coffee shared with his psychiatrist. Were the men from that memory really the ones standing in this room?
"Never thought I'd see the day Hannibal Lecter serves his guest a cup of bargain coffee," He muses.
"You aren't my guest, Will," Hannibal says, neglecting to clarify what Will actually was.
Hannibal checks on the meat sizzling away on the stovetop, turning them as he speaks. "I've spent a lot of time reflecting since I surrendered. It was my tastes that led to my capture in Florence, and I'm in no financial position to indulge regardless. So I was thinking we could adopt a lifestyle more aligned to your tastes." He smirks, looking over to Will. "At least for now."
"Were you?" Will replies. He takes a sip of his coffee, eyes closing as he feels the heat move from his throat to fill the rest of his body. His throat is sore, raw from the salt water and dehydration, but it's comforting all the same.
Hannibal nods. "Who knows, it could prove to be quite illuminating, living small near the sea."
Near the sea, but not here. Not so close to home. "I have a boat, at my house. No need to forge a passport. It'd be difficult to get it, though. We'd have to go when no one is around, get away quick-"
"I don't imagine it will be that much of a challenge," Hannibal says with a shrug. "By now they've most likely tracked our steps, right until you brought me over the cliff with you."
Will feels a twinge of fear, noting the change of phrasing. A part of him isn't sure why he's not on a platter yet. "Jack's smarter than you give him credit for, I bet there's a feeling in his gut right now, telling him not to believe we died down there."
"I agree, but you were always the one giving a voice to his gut." Hannibal moves the meat from the pan to two plates, setting one in front of Will and one across the table from him. "Without you, he won't feel quieted until he pulls both of our waterlogged bodies from the unforgiving sea."
Will nods along. "But that kind of search is gonna take a lot of man hours, and Jack's not going to send a squad to guard my house based on a hunch."
"Especially if Molly and Walter aren't there."
Will feels a twist in his gut. Guilt, rage, resignation.
He pushes past it, picking up a piece of meat. His mouth waters at the smell of it. It's not bacon, but whatever it is looks good. He hears a whine beside him.
The pitbull is sitting at his side, tail thumping into the wooden floor. Will laughs, tearing a piece and offering it up. She eats it from his hand, then looks expectantly at him, begging for more.
"She's cute," Will says, scratching her behind the ear before turning his attention to his meal.
Hannibal may not have access to the finest ingredients, but the man can still make a damn good piece of meat. He savors it, chewing slowly as Hannibal reaches out to pet the dog. She flinches, but eventually relents when she smells that he's been cooking.
"You'll have to put your habit of collecting strays aside for a while, Will. I don't think she would fair well on a boat."
"She's awful friendly for a stray," Will says, taking another large bite from his breakfast.
"Well, she hasn't been a stray for very long."
Will freezes, forcing the meat down with a grimace. "Of course," he mutters.
"Don't let it spoil your appetite. This will fuel your healing."
He chooses not to respond.
"It's not as if you've never had it before."
Will glares at him from across the table, taking another scornful bite of the dog's previous owner. In for a penny, in for a pound. "We're dropping her off at a shelter before we leave town. Or at least on someone's doorstep."
After breakfast, Hannibal insists on tending to Will's wounds. Changing dressings, keeping everything clean and dry. He's methodical but confident, moving expertly with the occasional flourish. It's the same way, Will thinks, that Hannibal behaves when preparing a meal. The thought brings with it a wave of nausea.
"You're recovering quite well, considering what you put yourself through."
"I've always been a good healer. Can't you tell?" He asks, gesturing to the scars on his stomach and forehead. Love letters from Hannibal, tattooed into his skin.
Hannibal doesn't look up when he speaks, simply focuses on the task at hand. "Why did you try to kill us, Will?"
He asks it so casually that Will is caught off guard. He clears his throat to buy himself a precious moment of thought. Will braces himself. He knows Hannibal, knows how his polite veneer can turn on a dime. At any moment, Hannibal could strike. Would Will fight back?
"It felt like the only option at the time."
"At the time?" Hannibal echoes.
"Does it surprise you to hear that I feel safer with you around than I do when I'm alone?" Will asks.
Hannibal doesn't respond, but Will knows he has his full attention.
"You are...dangerous, Hannibal. Intrinsically, by design you are a threat. Not just because of your own actions but because of-" Will swallows, forcing himself to continue. "Because of this power that you hold over me. But you're not the only danger in the world. Killers I've crossed in the past, or new ones trying to make a name for themselves. I can feel their shadows in my wake, stalking me."
Will smiles, feeling the familiar insanity in his own words. "At least when you're with me, I know the only thing you'll let kill me is you."
Hannibal is observing him closely. "You've made a bed in the wolf's den, hoping to protect yourself from the pig."
Will nods. "And by your hand, I've been made into a wolf. It would give me no satisfaction to see you taken down by a pack of pigs."
"In other words, the two of us are best sharing a den. Until one of us is finally driven to eat the other."
Will catches Hannibal's eye and sees mischief in them. "I've heard that wolf meat is terrible, you know. Best to keep pork on the menu."
"While pork is in good supply," Hannibal agrees. "But any meat is preferable to starvation."
Despite the threat, or in truth because of it, Will laughs.
That evening, the two of them are covering their tracks. In preparation for their journey to retrieve Will's boat, Will tears apart the small house. He finds a few useful items- emergency sewing kit, portable camping stove, some cash tucked away. Hannibal is hard at work as well, feeding the fire in the living room. Shreds of the sheets Will slept on, among other traces of their presence, reduced to ashes.
Between them hangs a truth that neither will acknowledge. They wouldn't be able to move that fast in their conditions, let alone take anyone in a fight. If they are seen, they will either be caught or killed.
At least, that's what Will's line of logic indicates. But he isn't able to see it as a real possibility. Hannibal has never been governed by Will's sense of logic, why start now? He'd seen that man, now so carefully erasing their traces, emerge from hell victorious. Death seemed to sense Hannibal's approach like static in the air before a storm, gliding amicably out of his path.
Hannibal turns slightly, looking over his shoulder. He'd sensed Will's eyes on him, of course.
"Everything alright, Will?"
There was this...inevitably to Hannibal. Maybe that's why it was so easy for Will to make his choice. There never was one to begin with. Will could've built a thousand families in a thousand towns. He could've ran, hid, chased, or hunted Hannibal for the fullness of time. It still had to end with the two of them. Will's 'choice' only made this reality concrete, removing the illusion of free will entirely. There was nothing else, now or ever. Just Hannibal, in the glow of these dying embers.
"Bedelia told me that you were in love with me."
Hannibal makes him wait for a beat, then two.
"Did she?"
Will nods slowly, watching Hannibal in the way anyone would want to watch a dangerous, powerful creature. "In so many words. Not that I really needed her to say it. I think I knew for a long time." He swallows, mouth suddenly dry. His voice cracks a little. "When you killed the judge who wouldn't accept my defense, I think I knew."
"How did you feel, hearing her say it aloud?" Hannibal asks, pointedly not denying the sentiment.
Will speaks slowly, choosing each word like a bullet in his chamber. "At the time? Upset. Angry. A little afraid. But not surprised."
"'At the time' seems to be an important distinction for you. I'll make note of that," Hannibal says, giving nothing away. He takes a few limping steps across the room, drawing near. "And how about now?"
Will takes a small step forward as well, trying to avoid being cornered. "Still not surprised. Definitely still afraid."
"Not angry?" The question is coming from a place of curiosity, not hope.
Will scoffs. "What good would being angry do, Hannibal? I might as well be angry at the ocean for trying to drown me."
Hannibal is close now, within reach.
"Do you feel like you're drowning, Will?"
Hannibal Lecter is immense, overwhelming, omnipotent. Is it not natural, to suffocate in the face of such a thing?
"Drowning, no. I feel like I'm being waterboarded."
Hannibal looks into his eyes, his gaze dark and vast. "In Thieleman Braght's recount of the Flemmish Inquisition, he relays a testimony from a victim of waterboarding. In the testimony, he says-"
Will's kiss is feverish, a nervous meeting that serves mainly to moor himself. It takes a moment for Hannibal to reciprocate, switching gears mid-monologue.
If there is nothing left but Hannibal, then what does Will have to gain from delaying the inevitable? Is it not better to seek contentment, wherever it might find him?
Hannibal stays close when they part, indulging in the intimacy.
"'Praise the Lord, I've kept my lips'," He recites, insistent on finishing his thought.
Will breathes out a laugh, letting himself sink deeper into Hannibal's abyss until all that is left is passion. Warmth. Darkness.