Chapter Text
Will Graham gets stabbed. In another world, it would have only been once, a quick jab with a clean blade in the shoulder, and he would have gone down as the mugger ran into the alley. In another world, it would have ached, the slice of metal would have been so sharp that it severed nerves. His partner would have called 911 (pressing the keys perfectly) after applying pressure to the wound. He would have made a full recovery. He would quit work as a homicide detective in New Orleans and apply at Quantico. He would have the glossy scar tissue as a reminder that he can survive men who think they have the right to take things from the world.
Instead, Will gets stabbed in the stomach, the shoulder, the chest. The blade is old and jagged and rusty, and it burns like fire, like ice. His partner is screaming into her radio. He falls, hitting his head against the dirty alley wall, and unceremoniously begins to bleed out. His fingertips skim the puddle of blood, tracing invisible patterns. His breathing whistles. He suddenly can’t hear anything except for that weak, high hiss. He feels dread, a vague impending worry. His eyes close. There is a knife still stuck in his chest.
The EMTs slice him open, an emergency thoracotomy to keep his heart pumping, and assess his head wound. They maintain manual systole as they race to the hospital, gripping his heart between blood slicked fingers. He goes into surgery as soon as he gets to the emergency room. His liver is slashed, his left lung is punctured, his intestines are leaking into his body. It is a miracle that he is breathing. It is a miracle that the stabbing was so near a level one trauma centre. It is a miracle that his pancreas isn’t injured, that he’s not in hypovolemic shock, that there is no peritonitis. It is a miracle that the pneumothorax is small, easily fixed with a chest tube.
There are conflicting opinions on what should be done about his head and his heart, which one to mend first, which one to monitor. The blade is deep in one ventricle, sealing the damage; stable, but more volatile with every moment. Permanent brain damage is the other concern. They decide to focus on the head trauma.
The consequences of that decision leave Will with a heart that doesn’t quite work. He has persistent arrhythmias, and more concerningly, abnormal scar tissue formations. He is barely conscious, swimming through pain medication. Two days pass, during which he becomes markedly improved, before he collapses in bed in cardiac failure. He is put on an ECMO device, the blood oxygenating outside his body. Through the haze, Will watches as lines of syrupy red enter and exit his body, sloshing in the machine. He stays that way for nine days before it’s obvious that the wound will not heal adequately. An LVAD isn’t an option because of the risk of gastrointestinal bleeding. A pacemaker would strain his heart too much.
Will needs a heart transplant; everyone agrees on that, including him. He signs the forms with a shaky hand. Phone calls are made, waiting lists are edited, arguments about need and patients erupt, and finally a match is found. Another miracle for the detective, says the hospital gossip machine. Five days later, Hannibal Lecter, cardiac fellow at Johns Hopkins Medical Centre, gets off a plane from Baltimore, Maryland, carrying Will Graham’s new heart.
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“Can I see it?” mutters Will with a warm southern twang after Doctor Lecter introduces himself. “The heart in a box?” He can make his voice sound convincing, comforting, curious, when he wants to.
Doctor Lecter allows him the privilege. Will cannot be moved, so the heart is moved to him. It sits, ever-beating, bloody, in an organ care system which flushes it with nutrients and oxygen. The thump of it is heavy in Will’s ears, warm and sickening, very very beautiful. The fist of muscle pulses rhythmically, the veins protruding, the pink of the flesh, the life of it. Will’s left hand pulls at his hospital pajamas, finding his own broken heart, sinking his nails into his chest as though he could rip through. His head, constantly blurry from the pain medicine, clears and lifts. It is as though he is watching from six inches above himself. Neurological problems are common side effects from trauma, but he hasn’t experienced much aside from this floating feeling.
“A fascinating little device, isn’t it? Holding the most essential part of a human body outside of its confines. Nurtured, warmed. I feel as though I’ve brought you a valentine. Appropriate, I think, considering tomorrow's date.”
Will scowls, but he feels oddly charmed. He has never liked Valentine’s Day, in theory or in practice, but it’s February, his surgery is scheduled for the 14th, and a doctor has brought him an impossible heart. Even seeing the thing as a patient, Will thinks, is probably against many rules.
The corner of Doctor Lecter’s mouth twitches; it is difficult to tell whether in amusement or displeasure. “Perhaps you’d have preferred a paper one from Doctor Bloom.”
Doctor Alana Bloom is Hannibal Lecter’s colleague, a resident who came along because she was the one who found the donor heart; Will had seen her twice, both times she greeted him with a smile.
“Perhaps.” The curt response is inadequate and both of them feel it. There is tension here, Will realizes, tension that cuts like a rope wound tight. The air is filled with the sound of three hearts, one of which belongs to Will, one of which belongs to the doctor, one of which belongs to them both. Doctor Lecter runs his hand possessively over the box before picking it up. He leaves gracefully, telling Will that he’s been assigned to the case, and to ring the call button should he need anything. Will eyes the button warily for a long time before falling asleep. The echoes of heartbeats drum in his ears when he dreams.