Chapter Text
They hold onto each other tightly as they spiral down into the savage waves below. Hannibal holds onto him even as Will falls unconscious with blood loss and temperature shock.
He clings to him, blood seeping into the water around them, tinging it for only a brief moment before it is washed away in the waves’ violent war against the rocks. Dragging the unconscious man through the torrent of an angry sea is difficult but he doesn’t want to think of the alternative, poetic as it would be. He pulls them to a small sandy beach placed between the cliff faces.
Hannibal knows it’s there, a small cabin sits almost untouched save for the small touch-ups Hannibal gave it when it was...vacated. It’s much closer to the water than it was back then.
He hauls his bleeding man up onto the bright sand. Even as he’s losing blood, Will is beautiful. As radiant as he is deadly. The moonlight really does make the blood look black against the sand.
Hannibal is dizzy with euphoria or maybe it’s his own blood loss. Will had finally seen. Beauty and art. It was similar to how he felt when Will had told him he killed Mrs. Lounds. But this time, it was real. He gathers Will in his arms and makes the trek to the cabin, pausing only briefly to acknowledge that he is carrying him over the threshold.
It’s small, similar to Will’s home in Wolf Trap. The bed, living room, and kitchen are all in one room. The only separate room was a humble bathroom. He gently sets Will down on the bed, careful to not agitate any of his wounds further. Starting the generator and finding the first aid kit he had stored years ago was trivial. He’ll get a fire going once he gets himself and Will patched up. Of course, Hannibal tends to Will first.
He strips off the blood-stained, soaking wet clothes, save for Will’s underwear. Save him some dignity. The cuts are deep, but the bleeding has slowed from a gallop to a trickle. Sewing and bandaging them is easy.
Gently cleaning the wounds, he takes a moment to cradle the cut that had gone through his cheek. Will's body is much too cold for Hannibal's liking. As he pulls the needle through over and over, Will shifts slightly and mumbles incoherently in pain.
“Settle down Will, you’ll pull the stitching.” He places his hand on Will's cold, damp chest, who draws in a shaky breath and calms. Only letting out small pained sounds every once in a while. Hannibal had seen Will in similar states before, bloodied and barely conscious. That doesn’t make it any more palatable for him.
This wouldn’t have happened if he had just… gone with him. Part of him wonders why he had warned him in the first place while the other part knows. He could have protected him. Still would. Few had made him feel even a fraction of what he feels for Will. One of those people was Mischa.
Unlike Mischa, Hannibal wanted to share himself with Will. Whole and entire. Intertwine with him, embedding himself in his skin. Let them assimilate into each other until there was no separation. They were closer now. Not as close as Hannibal wanted, but he could wait. He had waited this long, he can wait a bit more.
For now, he will do whatever Will requires him to. There’s one final tug as he finishes off the last stitch and goes about dressing the wounds. Once that’s done, he tends to himself.
The tedium of sewing allows for a strange sense of calm to wash over him. Most people wouldn’t be this calm, he had just killed a man and fallen from a cliffside. But Hannibal wasn’t most people. Never had been and never will be. It was as if for the first time in his life, he was free.
Free to be himself and be accepted for who he is. When he was with Will, it was as easy as breathing. There are spare clothes in the trunk at the foot of the bed that he dresses both himself and Will in. They are not to the quality that Hannibal would have Will wear. He’ll get him nicer things when they leave this place.
That is if Will even wants to go with him. It took Hannibal a while to realize that he had been sitting in relative darkness, staring at the rise and fall of Will’s chest for some time. He stood with one last look at Will before going out to find the spare firewood around back.
The fire crackled quietly as Hannibal took his time gathering blankets from the small closet next to the bathroom door. He deposited some of them on the floor in front of the fire. The rest were used to wrap Will in before he gently moved him to the fireplace.
Will was pale, cold, and the wet of saltwater still clung to his skin. The flames cast warmth over his calm face. Hannibal could have watched him there forever, soft breaths and warm light. A shame that Hannibal had to take his eyes off of him periodically as he went about the kitchen.
There wasn’t much, mostly dried or canned goods but that could be easily supplemented. It had been a while since Hannibal had gone hunting for any prey other than his fellow man. If they were going to be staying here for an extended period he would need to.
Foods rich in iron are crucial for Will’s recovery. Liver and kidney would be best, but beggars can’t be choosers. He will have to find the old gun that he knows is somewhere hidden in the floorboards. That can wait, however.
He loathes the cans of chicken as he stares at them. There have been worse things that he has had to put into his body; as he looks back at the bundle of blankets on the floor he pushes through the disgust.
A simple chicken noodle soup will do them both some good. At the very least, it filled the cabin with a smell that isn’t stale, stagnant, salted air and dried blood. He propped Will’s head up onto his lap and gently spooned the liquid into his mouth. Hannibal indulged himself and let his hand comb through Will’s salt-dried curls. He’ll wash it out later.
The soft light, crackle of the fire, and calm expression Will wore gave him a sense of serenity. His mongoose had finally come to stay under the porch. The idea must have been getting to his head because he allowed himself a small kiss on the ex-investigators head.
Hannibal finishes spoon-feeding the barely conscious man, who had finally stopped shivering under all his blankets. He contemplates moving Will back to the bed, but it was located under a particularly drafty window that faced the water. Maybe he’ll just move the bed.
He did. Practically rearranged the entire front room. Most likely not the best idea for his recovery, he can feel the stitching pull uncomfortably as he drags the meager furniture around. It’s endurable, however.
Will lets out a groan as he is lifted from the floor onto a creaky mattress. Hannibal settles in the old rocking chair next to the fire and watches over Will before letting exhaustion take over him. He’ll go hunting in the morning.