Work Text:
The person that emerges from the Atlantic is not the same person that went in.
Will knows this as he fights toward the shore, separated from Hannibal not by choice but by the concrete sheet of icy water when it hit them. He remembers their holds, tight on each other, loosening as their bodies slipped beneath, ripping them apart as Will fought for the strength to keep his head above it.
The current continues its relentless pull away from the shore, but he can’t allow it to win. He can make out a thin figure lying on the beach, can only see a glimpse of dark eyes before another wave knocks him down, filling his mouth with salt water and making his cheek sting. And he knows he has to survive.
He keeps fighting. He uses numb arms to force himself closer to shore, closer, until only small waves lick his feet and he’s able to collapse on his stomach in the rough sand. He coughs up mouthfuls of salt water and takes in desperate gasps of air, rolling onto his back and letting his head fall, limp, to the ground.
Hannibal is there, sitting up somewhere beside him, watching Will’s chest heave with the effort of breathing. Only when it slows to a somewhat normal pace does Hannibal finally speak.
“Congratulations, Will.” When the brunet turns to face him, Hannibal looks rather proud. “You have been reborn. Tell me, how do you feel?”
Will forces himself to at least sit up, pressing a few fingers to the deep gash on his cheek. Hannibal tuts softly, reaching up to pull Will’s fingers away. “Don’t make it worse.” He says, keeping Will’s fingers gripped gently in his hand. The water had cleaned them, but blood that wasn’t either of theirs still stuck underneath his fingernails.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” Will replies through ragged breaths, not pulling away from Hannibal’s touch but leaning into it, just barely. “We have to move, to get back up to-”
Hannibal holds up his free hand, effectively silencing him. “There’s a rowboat down the shore that Abigail and I had used. It has a first aid kit, and blankets. We just need to get there. I could bring it back alone, if you can’t move-”
Will curls the fingers of his other hand into Hannibal’s soaked sleeve, cutting short any unbearable ideas of leaving him alone.
“Can you stand?” The question is spoken gently but firmly, a hand lifting Will’s chin to look into his eyes.
Testing, Will shifts his legs, and though the fatigue and the cold was weighing on him they moved at his orders. “I think so,” he confirms after a moment, not taking his eyes off of Hannibal.
The man nods softly and pulls himself to his feet first, movements slower and more careful than usual given the bullet in his side. Then, he offers a hand to Will.
Will had received the worst of the Dragon’s wrath, and thus standing is a struggle for him somewhat. He leans heavily on Hannibal, whose arms are strong and firm even in his weakness. But he stands, and that is a victory in and of itself.
They move slowly down the shore, away from the house that would soon become a crime scene. Distantly, Will wonders what headline Freddie Lounds will use when she gets her hands on this story: Honeymoon from Hell or Beach Home Threesome?
He doesn’t care now, though, can’t bring himself to as the rowboat Hannibal had described slowly comes into distant view. It’s small, simple, but to Will it’s a place to rest and therefore a savior.
Hannibal nearly has to drag him there, but he does so without complaint. Finally, he gets Will into the rowboat and they both collapse there, across from one another, out of breath and clutching their respective wounds in pain.
When they look up and meet each other’s eyes, they smile. Then, after a moment, they laugh.
They laugh until the pain in Will’s cheek is too much, and his laugh turns into lowered eyes and a grimace of pain.
Hannibal is beside him in seconds, fingers gentle on his jaw to turn his head and inspect the wound. “It needs stitches,” he murmurs quietly, looking into Will’s eyes.
After a moment of Will just watching Hannibal moves away, returns a moment later with a fully stocked first aid kit and a thick blanket. Will curls his fingers into fists just as the antiseptic burns against his wound, and Hannibal chooses that moment to wrap the blanket around his shaking shoulders almost as if in apology. Will bites back a wince, looking up at the sky. It’s cloudy, but dawn is breaking slowly and filtering through the clouds, lighting Hannibal’s face just a little as he threads the surgical needle. Then, he takes Will’s jaw in his hand and sets to work.
Hannibal is quick and concise in his treatment, though Will can’t help the small noise of pain that escapes him when the needle slips into his skin.
It’s over almost as quickly as it begins, and when he opens his eyes open Hannibal is gazing at him fondly. “What a fascinating creature you are,” he whispers, soft fingers still dancing along his jawline.
Wordlessly, their lips meet.
There’s blood mingling between them along with a small twinge of pain coming from Will’s cheek, but it’s perfect nonetheless. Hannibal’s hand leaves his jaw to latch at the nape of Will’s neck, pull him closer and deeper into the kiss, consummating his rebirth, his baptism into this new life.
Will’s heart soars, even more so than when he’d plunged them off of the cliff, falling without the knowledge of whether they would live or die. His eyes flicker shut and his own hands grasp at Hannibal, resting on his biceps as Hannibal’s other hand comes up to cup Will’s face.
When they’re forced apart by the necessity of air, Hannibal rests their foreheads together without the intent of separating. Will opens his eyes and looks at him, sudden relief seeping through his body and making his shoulders slump.
Why had he allowed himself to wait so long for this? Why had he forced himself to hide away this part of him, sweep it under the rug and attempt to forget? He’d wasted so much time.
But now it doesn’t matter, he tries to tell himself. It doesn’t matter because he’s here now, close to Hannibal and set to spend the rest of eternity with him.
He’s so grateful.
But he should’ve seen sooner.
He’s so overwhelmed with it all: regret, happiness, the idea that Hannibal was able to forgive him and he was able to do the same -
Will’s eyes brim with tears, and he pulls away to wipe at them harshly with the back of his hand. Hannibal notices in seconds, and takes the younger man’s face in his hands. “Will.”
He bites the good side of his cheek to hold back a sob, looking into the man’s brown eyes. Eyes he once found so empty of life or care now full and emotional, so emotional, so loving. He’d been so blind.
He looks away, unable to meet Hannibal’s eyes in his shame.
The man holds Will’s face in steady hands and wipes away the tears that have managed to slip down his cheeks with his thumb, watching him carefully. He’d been expecting something along these lines. Will is experiencing a wide range of new emotions with his rebirth, it would only make sense for him to have some confliction regarding all of these feelings at once. Not uncertainty, never uncertainty. Will knows just as well as Hannibal does that he belongs here, with him. It isn’t a topic of debate anymore.
Thus he doesn’t have to ask to know what’s wrong, and after a moment he pulls Will close to him and wraps his arms around the smaller man, lets tears wet his chest warmly.
“It’s alright, Will.” Hannibal murmurs into his dark curls, his eyes moving to the rising sun as he pets Will’s hair comfortingly. The clouds are clearing, giving Hannibal an uninterrupted view of the bright orange orb as it signifies the beginning of something very new.
The battle is far from won. There are wounds that need to heal, newly exposed pieces of Will to explore. Dinners to attend. But Hannibal had Will by his side, now.
And with him there, the battle seemed a little less daunting.