Work Text:
"Oh, Will." Hannibal's hands are a vice either side of his head, fingertips pressed into his jawline as the former doctor lurks behind him, every bone in Will's face feeling as if they vibrate within him.
The seaside shack they are holed up in has only the most basic amenities - shower, toilet, a tiny cellar that chills the food and the skin on Will's face, but not enough to numb - and it won't be long before they move on. Hannibal has assured Will of that, whilst tending to them both; alcohol for their wounds and their throats dulling the pain of the fall, bandages stark against their battered skin. They are lucky, missing the rocks and plunging into the waves at such an angle that the worst damage is bruised ribs and twisted limbs, a gash or two easily tended to. In the dawn, they had hobbled to the empty fisherman's hut, touches soft in the growing light, Will's head resting on his companions shoulder as clouds roll in from the horizon.
And now Will rises, or rather his eyes swim back into focus, legs still numb against the wood of the chair legs. His legs are still sore from the fall, but his arms - his arms were fine, now they stick to the chair's arms, leather binding them tight. Fingers push back his hair, fondling the curls like the coat of a favoured pet, and Will feels his head bent back, spine curving against his will to let him meet the dark eyes of Hannibal, leaning over him.
Another figure would probably have mentioned the straps holding him to the chair were their salvaged belts, but Hannibal feels no need to fritter around with villainous stereotypes, merely checking the bindings before his hands drift over Will's face again, lingering on his cheek. The roof of his mouth is dry under Hannibal's gaze, and Will tries to wet it with his tongue, lips parted despite himself.
"You are a splendid creature, Will," Hannibal's smile is thin, his face distorting into a horrific, unrecognisable mask in the dim light of the shack. The pad of his thumb brushes over the gauze on Will's face, the Red Dragon's last claw mark still burning underneath. "Quite remarkable."
"Hannibal…"
"Quiet, now," something cold is pressed to Will's lips - the flat of blade (he knows that cold, that metallic tingle in the air far too well, where did he get that from) - and Hannibal moves round in front of him, something scraping across the floor for him to sit on. "I refrained from restraining your head as I believed I could trust you to remain still whilst I work," Hannibal's thumb and forefinger tilt Will's head forward a little, before ghosting over his skin again, tucking errant curls back behind Will's ears.
Work? Will's tongue disobeys him, tangling against his gums instead of forming words. Hannibal does not elaborate immediately, instead gently smoothing the creases out of Will's forehead, a craftsman flattening the canvas on his easel. The blade slides from Will's lips, slowly over the curve of his cheek and towards the Red Dragon's claw mark. It picks at the gauze - and Hannibal's hand tightens at Will's hairline, like he is scruffing a dog so it can be injected - before sliding underneath, still cool on Will's skin as the dressing is freed and flicked off. Will's throat bobs a little, a cold feeling beginning to pool in his gut.
Hannibal is methodical as always, the tip of the blade nicking the stitches open before his nails pinch them free, shreds of black thread dumped out of Will's line of sight. The wound has barely crusted over, a scab still wet as Hannibal touches it, dabs at it gently with a cotton pad. Surely the dressing didn't need changing - surely it didn't need it in such a manner, Hannibal's face melting into the shadows above as the blade reveals itself to be a scalpel, picking at the scabbing on Will's face. His lips purse a little in concentration, gaze moving slowly to meet Will's eyes.
"I vowed a long time ago," at first, Will feels only sweat and a chill that crawls up inside him as Hannibal murmurs to him, his voice the caress of a lover, "to be the only one to touch you like this, and you, to me. It is unfortunate that, in his dying moments, the Red Dragon thought he could elevate himself," then the prickling in his skin bursts as Hannibal's scalpel is pressed into his face, "to join me." One of Hannibal's hands moves to cup Will's other cheek, the other driving the scalpel in a firm line across his face, his skin bubbling as the blade sinks into his flesh. Will's limbs are forgotten - his world shrinks to the searing path dragging across his cheek.
It sinks almost to the bone as it nears his nose, Hannibal's fingertips reddening as he smears the blood a little, "I'm afraid, Will, that I simply cannot allow that." Will shakes, but he's strapped in too tight to protest fully, nostrils flaring as Hannibal's grip tightens on his jaw, forcing him into place. The cut is smooth, and Hannibal presses the blade through the cartilage of Will's nose - not deep enough to expose his airways, though, he is meticulously careful - and out the other side. He pushes the scalpel through to finish the line, stretching symmetrically across Will's face.
Hannibal pauses for a moment to wipe his blade on unseen cloth, before turning back to his canvas, the scalpel poised like a paintbrush between his fingers. His hand slides back into Will's hair, pushing his scalp back to tighten it, scalpel digging anew at the scab hidden at the hairline - a remnant of Italy, of good food and a rotating saw that almost bore into Will's skull. This time, his movements are more delicate, even as Will huffs uncomfortably beneath him, long fingers of fear clutching at his lungs, squeezing the air out of them.
"Easy, now, Will," Hannibal is anything, but soothing.
"Shhh, stop," Will's view is reddening, his cheeks still stinging as blood runs towards his mouth, "hhh, Hannibal…"
"Quiet, Will," the blade glides through Will's skin, tight enough to tear slightly as it's cut open. Will's mouth is metallic, his lungs fill with the rustic scent of blood - it's everywhere, on his teeth, seeping into his gums. "I'm restoring you."
His tongue wets his lips, a weak noise escaping his throat as Hannibal's blade pushes into the centre of his forehead and pulls down, a straight line travelling through his nose. The cartilage splits under the scalpel, running through the cut he's made before. Will yelps a little, tears bubbling in the corners of his eyes, mouth slightly ajar - a bad idea, as Hannibal's blade flashes down and the end of Will's tongue splits a little, blood dribbling over his chin.
"My hands are the only ones worthy of this," Hannibal's voice is almost a croon, thumb stroking down the side of Will's face, pulling at the wounds gently as he passes. "I am afraid that I am a little jealous, I am compelled to erase the mistakes of others," the ache in Will's face flares up as the blade re-enters his cheek, carving a line down from Will's left eyelid. It sinks deeper into the flesh of his cheek and Will moans - the blade almost feels like it's inside his mouth, just a thin layer of sinew and flesh holding it back from stabbing into his gums. Will's throat feels wet with every breath.
The scalpel draws out and Hannibal's lips swim before him, whispering something as he repeats the cut on the other side of Will's face, free hand stroking over Will's cheek. (Will wants to move, but his limbs are too far away, floating away from him on the ocean as Hannibal pushes him beneath the waves. He feels the salt spray on his skins, but he fears to look, in case it's as red as he imagines. He wishes this too was a dream, like all the times before he's found himself drowning, but Hannibal's touch is too real, his carving too emotional even for the darkest recesses of Will's consciousness.)
"Forgive me, Will," Hannibal's lips descend to touch softly against Will's forehead, and Will feels as if he is shattering beneath the tender kiss, "I only do it out of love."