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Will looks lovely covered in blood, but not like this.
Not like this.
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Will priming himself for a kill is intoxicating.
He tucks the gun into the waistband of his pants almost out of habit more than anything; he’s grown more fond of knives and fists than gunpowder. However, they must be prepared for anything. Especially with this particular kill.
Will gazes at himself in the mirror an hour before they’re set to leave, eyeing the long scar across his cheek. Hannibal, just out of a shower, watches from a distance, a soft towel wrapped around his waist.
Will has always been beautiful, but Hannibal has found that he’s never more exquisite than when his eyes darken with the kind of euphoria only inspired by murder. His mouth sets itself into something unforgiving. His stature speaks of danger. He’s both drawn into himself and pushed out, into the bright if not deceptive light of the moon.
There’s a reason Hannibal loves him. And this is just one small ship in the armada of them.
The drive there is made in silence, and when Hannibal sneaks a glance at Will he’s gazing out the window, lost in thought. His scar is more pronounced in the wistful light of dawn, the slightly raised flesh contrasting against the gentle set of Will’s face. Hannibal quite prefers it. He’s made plenty of scars on Will’s body, and each has its own significance, but this is the most important by far. A marriage certificate, of sorts. Signed in blood and sealed in the scars given by the Dragon.
Jack Crawford doesn’t seem like a man who does his own grocery shopping, but somebody has to. He steps out of the neighborhood supermarket with a bag in his hand. The parking lot is empty, save his car and Hannibal’s.
It’s now or never. Hannibal opens the door and climbs out of the car. He can hear Will do the same, can hear the purposeful steps he takes toward the man who had forced him deeper and deeper into the water even after he had begged to be taken out.
Jack doesn’t hear him. He’s striding to his car, long steps sounding across the gravel, and when he reaches it and digs through his pockets for his keys they strike.
Will spins Jack around and punches him square in the jaw. The man’s keys slip to the floor, shining and twinkling in the fading light. It happens slowly in Hannibal’s eyes, the way Will’s fist moves in slow motion to meet with Jack’s face again and again and again.
Jack’s hand comes up to catch Will’s wrist, though, and twists until it cracks. Will lets out a scream.
Hannibal comes into play, then, furious that anybody but him would hurt Will. He slams Crawford into the back of his car and wraps skilled fingers around his throat. He holds him there, too focused on the way Jack’s panicked eyes roll back and not focused enough on where his hands are going.
And then, the gunshot sounds.
Hannibal’s fingers loosen only when he hears Will hit the ground.
He turns his head just in time, sees Will’s face contort in pain and his hand fly to his chest as he falls.
Blood slips between fingers like red water.
Hannibal feels his heart beat dully in his ears, twice, but it’s much too slow. Distantly, he realizes it’s Will’s pulse he must be hearing.
He can hear Jack clutch at his keys and skitter into his car, but doesn’t care. He falls to his knees beside him, writhing and putting up a fight even though it’s already lost. He feels the parking lot gravel bite into his skin. He doesn’t care.
He forces himself to shift, to become objective to the situation for just a second while he peels Will’s hand away and inspects the wound.
It’s severed major arteries. The bullet is lodged somewhere in his chest. He has a few minutes, at most.
The gravel crackles under Crawford’s car as he pulls out of the lot and onto the street. Hannibal doesn’t hear it. He touches Will’s face, carefully sweeping a brunet curl from his forehead.
Without a word, Hannibal screams Will’s death sentence. His face is unmasked, stoicism peeled away to reveal completely unadulterated regret, despair, and pain.
It’s like falling, but instead of being locked in that embrace Hannibal’s still standing on the ledge, watching Will’s bloodied form crashing toward the icy water without him.
He’s powerless to prevent it.
Will’s hand finds his, blood-covered and weak, and his eyes are searching for the answer to a silent question.
He isn’t aware of his own death. He stills believes Hannibal will fix him. Can fix him.
He wraps his fingers around Will’s and holds tightly.
“H-Hannibal,” he gasps, and the idea that this could be his last word to the world both honors and disgraces the owner of that name.
Will tries to tighten his grip on Hannibal’s hand, but his strength is leaving him. Tears fill Hannibal’s eyes as he gazes down at this beautiful creature.
“I-”
“It’s alright.” Hannibal quiets quickly, bringing up his free hand to cradle Will’s face. “I’m sorry.”
Will’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “Why are you-”
He breaks off with a grunt of pain, eyes filled to the brim with the emotion. Hannibal aches.
“I couldn’t protect you,” he replies softly, stroking a thumb over Will’s scarred, beautiful cheek. “It is not the first promise I have failed to keep, but it is by far the most significant. I am very sorry, Will.”
He shakes his head, and it clearly takes a world of effort. “I love you.”
Tears fall freely down Hannibal’s cheeks, scarring him not outwardly but eternally. “I love you, Will.”
His body goes slack.
His chest stops rising and falling.
His body falls beneath the waves.
Hannibal allows himself a moment to grieve. Blood spreads on the ground beneath Will’s still form. His eyes are wide and empty, and after a bit Hannibal reaches up closes them.
He sits there, slouches over his body, fingers tangled loosely wish a dead man’s. He’s half tempted to stay there, to allow Will’s fingers to tighten up through rigor mortis and attach the two of them together eternally.
But he has to move.
He carefully pulls Will’s fingers from his own and stands, regarding Will one last time.
Blood cakes the top of his shirt, but his face is clean. He could be sleeping. He doesn’t look like any body Hannibal’s ever seen.
After a moment he kneels down one last time, and presses a kiss to Will’s rapidly cooling forehead. He whispers an almost-silent blessing in his ear, before he stands once again and turns his back to the most beautiful thing his life has had the privilege of seeing.
Will’s blood is still on his hands when he climbs into the car, turns it on and drives until the man in the lot becomes just one more crime scene tied to his name.
He’s numb as he breaks a window, climbs in and decommissions two FBI agents. He’s numb as he steps through the hallway and into the bedroom to come face to face with Will’s killer.
Jack Crawford smiles. Hannibal once believed that he himself was the devil but no, the devil must be embodied in this man. Nobody higher could’ve taken Will from him.
“I knew you would come.” He doesn’t sound remorseful in the slightest. “But I’m surprised you didn’t wait until later in the night.”
He doesn’t reply. He won’t be needing the cover of darkness anymore. He lunges forward.
Jack doesn’t go down easy but he does go down, only after the blood from Hannibal’s knuckles mingles with the blood from Jack’s face, after Hannibal has pinned him on the ground and slammed his head into the hardwood and dark blood with small bits of brain spread under him like it spread under Will.
Finally, the struggle ends. He’s gotten his vengeance. He can hear rapid feet on the floor in the hallway. He stands shakily, bloodied himself from the bleary battle he’d ended, but not won.
The door slams open, two more FBI agents with guns. In the span of seconds, their eyes flick from him to Jack’s gory body and back.
They pull their triggers.
He falls back, closes his eyes and imagines the salty scent of the ocean he’s hurtling toward. When he opens his eyes it’s dark and breezy, and when he turns his head Will is falling beside him, a peaceful smile pulling the corners of his lips up.
Hannibal smiles, too.
They hit the water together, again.