Work Text:
And nobody gets out of it, having to
swim through the fires to stay in
this world.
Hannibal smokes when he’s anxious.
This isn’t something he ever bothered to tell Will-nor was it something that told on itself. He’d never smelled of cigarette smoke In Baltimore, nor had he left rooms to smoke when he could’ve, he hadn’t even used it as a method of escape when he absolutely should have. But none of that matters, because Will only discovers that Hannibal smokes when he’s anxious because he slips out of bed and onto their bedroom balcony one too many times.
Tonight is one of those nights.
Will wakes, brain groggy from sleep, blinking in the dark, early hours of the day, and thrusts a hand into Hannibal’s side of the bed only to find the blanket pulled back and the satin sheets cool from the late summer air.
It makes him grimace and shift around his side of the bed. Which only serves to make him more aware of the lack of Hannibal’s presence. It stings, really, the feeling of Hannibal’s empty space-the places he’s been that he hasn’t stayed in. Like the space itself had stretched and shifted to make space for him but couldn’t gather together again. Will tries very hard not to linger on why the sting grows sharper when he notices it.
It’s somewhere in the late evening-perhaps the early hours of the morning, all dark and clammy with the threat of a new day. He grimaces at it, all too aware of the reasons he prefers to sleep in, and sits up, blinking heavily into the inky black of their bedroom.
They started sleeping in the same bed when Hannibal was well enough to get to the upstairs bedrooms. There are many reasons for this, though Hannibal insists it’s about the size and shapes of the rooms, the layouts, and the furniture. Truly, it’s mostly convenience-Hannibal’s barely graduated from wheelchair-bound to crutch-bound, which makes getting up to do most things at night an affair and it’s easier if Will just nags him into letting him do it so that he doesn’t end up falling down the stairs. But also there’s a small, strange part of Will that can’t quite sleep without the quiet comfort of Hannibal’s breathing next to him.
(If it matters, it took three days to convince him, and Hannibal only agreed because he was threatened with the wrath of Chiyoh, who has absolutely no issue with sticking him on the couch downstairs.)
The other truth, though, is the thing blooming between them.
Really, there’s always been a thing. The kind of thing that hides itself in shortness of breath or the twist of a hem. So palpable and annoying, honestly, that it’s fairly shocking they’ve never really spoken about it. Especially seeing as in the past, moving away from verbal sparring had led to hospital trips.
Until now, of course. When they’re sleeping in the same large, expensive bed and sharing a small, dangerous life together. Because now, Hannibal won’t open his goddamn mouth about it. It’s all normal; pleasantries and battles-of-wit, the sort of conversations he’d played over and over in his head in Florence.
Even then, there hasn’t really been talking. Just silent understanding-gestures and faces and the pleasant, vibrating company of Hannibal’s joy radiating from every space they’re in. A quiet life, a contented one-save the nightmares.
It’s odd, the notion of Hannibal the Cannibal being prone to nightmares. Will still has them, vivid and angry, though not as sharp-toothed as they’d gotten before his stint in prison. He knows the adrenaline of waking and finding there’s nothing there, the same way he knows Hannibal’s smoking before he sees the steady orangey-red glow of his cigarette light from the edge of their balcony.
Typically, he ignores it in favor of going back to sleep. He’s not nearly as good at keeping Neichian-level conversations at three in the morning as Hannibal is; it’s much easier to grunt and hum in the early hours, particularly when the early-morning-ish chill makes his shoulder ache.
Instead, he watches the way the light of the cigarette fades when Hannibal takes a puff, and then he gets out of bed.
It’s early fall, the wispy ends of August clinging to the wind in a faded, quiet way. Too busy making space for cooler days-not that it really matters, because cold in Cuba isn’t cold in Virginia. Still, he tugs on the soft, cottony robe that Hannibal had purchased for him-and it is for him, judging by the delicately embroidered W.G. on its breast pocket, despite how deeply it smells of Hannibal’s cologne-as he pads against the room’s hardwood flooring and out onto their deck.
It’s a new thing, some sort of edition Hannibal had put on the house a few months before he’d gone to prison. It’s all cement and wood-a hard edge that juts out from the smoothed sides of the villa. It’s an odd shape, not quite square and not quite triangular, spanning a good chunk of the back half of their home but still small enough that, from a distance, it sinks into the villa’s stone-grey cement sides.
Post-modern-brick-shithouse, Will calls it, mostly because it makes Hannibal’s expression sour.
Hannibal doesn’t turn to look at him when he opens the sliding glass door, nor does he make an attempt to hide what he’s doing. He’s leaned over the side looking out towards their little dock and beach, which is empty, save the glow of the moon on the water and the ghostly-white edge of the little boat they’d arrived on.
“You keep wearing my robe.” Will greets, trying to pretend he’s not enjoying the aesthetic of Hannibal’s shirtless back stretched out and broad. “You have one too, you know, they’re labeled and everything. I recall the letters H and L. ”
Hannibal hums around a large puff, “ I recall there being a place for yours next to mine on a bathroom hook rather than the edge of the bed.”
Will just hums, moving until he’s next to Hannibal, close enough that their arms touch. “I never took you for a smoker.”
“You assumed my taste too refined for such pleasantries?”
“No, but you’ve always hated bad meat, wasted organs.”
Hannibal flicks the ash off of the edge of his cigarette into a crystal tray next to him, “I’m afraid I currently have no plans of tasting myself.”
It makes Will crack a smile, feeling the tug of new, tight skin. His stitches had come out only a few days after Hannibal had taken up crutches, the only trace of their existence a thin, pinkish line that settles against his jaw that snags when he’s not careful. He leans to nudge Hannibal, hoping to knock him a little off balance.
The sky is inky black in the early hours, deep like velvet, curling like smoke along a light breeze. There are more stars here than Will remembers there being in Wolf Trap, though he spent so much of his time there barely to the left of coherent he’s not really sure if it’s true. They used to blend and swirl with the lights of his home-all orangey tinted haze. Here, though, there are thousands that blaze against the cutting edge of the water. It reflects them tenfold, turns one sky into two. Really, if he couldn’t hear the waves lapping he’d think they were suspended somewhere between Heaven and Earth. It makes him sigh with relief.
“I never used to look at the stars.” he says quietly, letting the statement slither from him and join the crackling sky above them, “I didn’t realize how much I’d miss them until I was arrested.”
Hannibal’s cigarette burns between his lips, all bright-soft-bright-soft, “You find them comforting?”
He shrugs, “I find that I feel much smaller in their presence.”
“Alone?”
He turns, watching the way the stars reflect in Hannibal’s dark eyes, the way they turn themselves into small seas. “Not really, just less afraid. Everything means less when you’re stepped back. It’s like when you’re leaning over the edge of a cliff and you realize that you’re much more insignificant than you’ve ever felt.”
Hannibal hums, pressing out the nub of his cigarette with chill-stiff fingers and efficiently lighting another one. Will has to fight the urge to steal it from its spot between his lips.
Instead, he says; “You smoke when you’re anxious.”
Hannibal seems to ponder it for a moment, like he’s loading an answer he’s not quite happy with. His expression stays unchanged though, smoothed in the pale, dark light. He takes another puff, letting the smoke wind its way from his lips slowly, “Does it bother you?”
Will huffs a laugh, “God no, my father smoked Camels his entire life. Yours smell better though, less chemically, probably more expensive than I’d like to know.”
“They’re high-quality, yes, if that’s what you mean.” Hannibal quips, tone low enough that Will can picture the rise and fall his grin.
“It’s all bad for you anyway, doesn’t take much time smoking to tell you that.”
“You smoke?”
Will takes the cigarette from between his lips out of spite, “Occasionally, the way one might say they see the dentist.”
It’s not as good as he remembers them being, back when he’d used to steal them from his father’s coat pocket and bring them to bonfires in the middle of the woods. The smoke is warm though, earthy in the way it adheres to the back of his throat and nestles into the cracks between his teeth.
He passes it back on his exhale, watching the way the smoke dissipates into the night air, “If I were more in practice, I’d show you a trick. A kid in college taught me how to make rings.” ”
Hannibal takes it delicately, twisting it in the spindle of his fingers, “I began smoking as a child as a way to soothe. The places I lived were not kind, then, and it was a rare moment of peace.”
Will hums, reaching a hand out to touch the length of his forearm, tracing the deep scars that mar the edges of his wrists where Matthew Brown had bound him. “It’s funny, I can’t see you being afraid like that. You’re the thing that goes ‘bump’ in the night.”
“Dear Will, there are worse things to be afraid of.” Hannibal tells him, taking in the last of his cigarette before it joins its twin in the ashtray.
His bicep flexes in the dim evening light, like he’s trying to decide if he needs another. Will beats him to it, reaching into the little tin box and grabbing one, placing it so far inbetween his lips that he feels the paper dampen with his spit as he gropes for the lighter.
HIs second puff isn’t any better than the first, but it’s more about tempting Hannibal than anything else, so he swallows the way it burns his throat when he takes a puff, and gestures the lit cigarette out towards Hannibal. “Like nightmares?”
Hannibal’s fingers are cold as they accept the cigarette, the rough edges of his fingertips graze Will’s knuckles with the sort of fire that makes his skin crawl.
“Yes,” Hannibal tells him, “Like nightmares.”
“What did you dream about?”
Hannibal takes another long draw, letting smoke wind from his lips haphazardly, “Falling off the bluff.”
Will hums, “Reliving it?”
“You died.” Hannibal tells him, voice low with grief.
Will makes a small sound as if he’s been struck, feeling the way his heart twists in his chest with something akin to love. “I’m sorry.”
“I lost you to the waves. We were too far out, fighting against the current. Your head disappeared underneath the waves and I lost you. I couldn’t find you. I lost you.” I couldn’t honor you goes unsaid.
“I’m here now.” Will tells him, “I can’t go anywhere without you.”
His hand finds the crest of Hannibal’s shoulder, all taut and cold, uncovered in the evening chill. He only tenses more when he rubs against the side of it, up and into the corner of his neck, the juncture where muscle meets bone.
The cigarette burns, bright-soft-bright-soft, forgotten in Hannibal’s hand. “I love you.” he says then, wound with smoke, “I love you, Will.”
Will lets his hand travel upwards, feels the scruff of his unshaven face, measures the weight of the prickly, rough edge of his jaw in his palm. Lets his thumb find the corner of Hannibal's mouth. “I know.”
Hannibal presses a kiss to his thumb, and they sit in the early morning.
Will spends more time in the little boat shed near the edge of the water than he’d like to admit.
Truthfully, he’d had no intention of really touching it; it’d been dank and abandoned when they’d shown up, in an uncharacteristic state of disrepair for anything touching a Lecter property. He’d had to help Chiyoh drag their small boat into it when they’d landed, slogging through the bits of rotted wood and the sour, foul smell of decay that had sunk into the wooden walls. It had been so dark he’d wanted to burn it, to let it engulf itself into a burning mass, to crinkle away at the edges of its stained, forgotten walls.
Now, though, it’s brighter. Cleaner.
Certainly not clean- but better than it had been, mostly because he’d gotten stir-crazy enough to venture out to it with a bucket of heavy-duty cleaner and rags that he’d taken from the far-back left corner of their linen closet. The smell has backed off now, at least, after he’d taken to scraping the wood until the surface was fresh, and the lingering salt had abated. It reminds him of where he grew up-of coasting through backchannels and big, gaping shipping containers being filled in little ports. It’s a sanctuary so far away from his barn in Wolftrap, from mottled, splintered wood and molded bales of hay and the scraping of Freddie Lound’s boots against cold, dark dust.
His room here is one he spends evenings tinkering away at the little white fishing boat that had appeared in it’s belly. He hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t even really considered buying one for himself-more than content to simply sit in the room and drink, like generations before him had. But Hannibal had visited him one day, dragged his wheelchair down the little stone pathways that run across their beach like roots, and the boat had turned up the next day, plopped just far away from the boat they’d arrived on that Will had known it was his. Hannibal’s sharp, knowing grin when they’d eaten that night had confirmed it, though.
The boat itself is a piece of shit-one that Will wouldn’t have bothered to try to touch before Hannibal’d presented it to him. It’s some old 80s thing that probably barely floated when it was brand-new, let alone now. Its detachable engine doesn’t really detach anymore and is impressively damaged, the greeny vinyl seats are torn to shreds, and the egregious white paint job whoever owned it last gave it does nothing to hide its original olive-green plastic. But it’s something to do, something to tinker and play with, the first thing, really, that Hannibal’s bought him in this new life. So he tries not to be too snooty about it.
Hannibal doesn’t really bother him here, it’s some sort of unspoken rule they’ve created-mostly after Will had grown so raw-edged from the echos of the house that he’d cried. His things are in here too-a terrible Igloo cooler in an atrocious orange Chiyoh had brought him when he’d asked for one, a small, junky radio he tunes to find the old country songs his father played when he was younger, the rough edges of his tools-all from some designer Swedish tool brand that Hannibal had given him that he takes more pleasure in dirtying than he probably should.
He can’t work as hard as he used to before Dolerhyde, his shoulder’s movement is limited at best, despite his best efforts. Which means the engine comes apart slowly, pieces spread and bagged, placed into spare coffee cans he steals from the kitchen. The grease inside is older than he is, probably, hard enough that it stops up tubes and encases gears in a black, crinkly shell. One in particular, a big, angry thing near the rudder, forces both of his hands inside the shell, covering his fingers in the dark, slippery grease. It’s locked itself to its place, trapped with a thick, filmy line of the dried stuff so thoroughly he has to shove the thin edge of a flathead screwdriver under it just to gain leverage. He puts his weight against it, ignoring the twinge of his shoulder and pressing until he feels the un-sticking of the grease releasing the gear with a stiff, angry pop!
Chiyoh picks that moment to walk into the boathouse.
She doesn’t typically come in the boathouse either, though he’s not really sure if it’s because she understands or because Hannibal had to tell her. Either way, her feet slide against the worn floorboards quietly enough that he wouldn’t’ve heard her if he didn’t know he had to look out for it.
Now that Hannibal’s relatively self-sufficient, she tends to spend what little time she stays on the shore with them prowling the edges of the property. She’s smart enough not to stick her nose in places it doesn’t belong, but it’s mostly thanks to the tug of Hannibal’s leash against her neck.
“I’m leaving Thursday.” She tells him, coming to a halt a few feet from his workbench, head tilting to look at the greasy edge of the engine.
He sniffs, slipping his hands from the engine's cavity, the gear now abandoned, “You leave every day.” he tells her.
She hums, “I’m not coming back.”
He can feel the edge of his brow crinkle before he has the chance to stop it; “Does Hannibal know?”
“He’s been expecting it for a while.” She tells him, though her eyes darken as she says it.
“Taking the opportunity to slip out the back exit?”
“The door’s cracked, what else is there to do?”
He cracks a smile at that, wiping his hands clean with one of the stolen rags. “What will you do?”
Chiyoh looks at him for a moment, eyes pointed, lips drawn taut. “Visit Florence, perhaps.”
“Not back to the castle?”
She shrugs, “You made sure our business there ended.”
“I thought you’d stay.” Will says, shifting to lean back against the edge of the workbench, “You’ve always had a sweet spot for doing what he asks of you.”
The left corner of her lip lifts, “I think you understand better than most what happens if you don’t. Besides, it’s not like I’ll be unreachable.”
“Ah, an attack dog with good enough recall to be let off leash?”
“At least I’m trusted to roam.”
Will laughs, a quiet thing he keeps close to his chest, “Want a drink?”
He gestures weakly to the orange monstrosity of a cooler on the floor-there are Coors inside, tucked between bits of ice. Really, he could give less than a fuck about what’s in it, but Hannibal’s begun to recognize there are some battles he has to lose, and beer is one he’s willing to concede.
She shakes her head, “I’m going tonight.”
“Hopefully there won’t be a last supper.”
“Why do you think I’m hoping he expects it?”
The edges of her lips curl into a sort of half-smile, something begging for the barring of teeth. Will wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, if they might’ve been friends in another life. Still, she turns on her heel and he lets her leave.
The house is eerie after Chiyoh disappears. And she does, quietly in the night when Will can still feel the shape of Hannibal in bed beside him. She takes the little boat she’d rescued them on with her, which leaves the shed feeling more cavernous than before, and leaves no trace that she was ever there.
For what it’s worth, Hannibal doesn’t seek out anything against her-or at least, not that he tells Will of. When morning dawns and she’s not there, he simply tells Will that she won’t be coming back, and that’s the end of it. He’s really only half-convinced she didn’t tell him, or that in the depths of their bedroom, he hadn’t somehow felt the length of her leash tighten until it snapped.
Life carries on, after that. Though.
It’s all fairly boring and frankly innocuous, he works on his boat and reads, helps Hannibal with his physical therapy, which largely means bearing the majority of his weight while they stumble back-and-forth across the smooth living room rug. He lets Hannibal help him too, by massaging his bad shoulder with ointments and tinctures until the tightness lessens, until it’s a strain instead of a burden.
Hannibal starts cooking more the second week after she leaves with the assistance of a walker with a built-in seat. He uses it to balance mostly, opting to set the knee of his shattered leg on the chair’s cushioned seat while he stands at the counter slicing things and generally ignoring Will’s attempts to needle at him while he cooks. It feels close to normal, to the way things used to settle in Hannibal’s Baltimore home.
They talk less now that she’s gone. Like she’d been the last thing keeping their communication grounded to one plane of existence-as if their streams of consciousness, their rooms of memories, have converged into one large room for them to walk together and left them aware of what the other means. It leaves conversations unsaid but interpreted, which is a funny sort of life to live with Hannibal, a man with the seeming inability to shut the fuck up. Which just leaves everything that is to become a witty, well-timed comment, a quoting of Plato or Dante or someone far more ostensibly boring and ancient.
The thought bothers Will-but not as much as he’d expected. Not in some wrathful, scorned way-or even gut-tightening nerves at the thought that maybe their life together might always be tied to a quiet, dull life. It bothers him the way an ill-placed seam in a sock irritates; slowly and then all at once.
They’re laying on the back patio one night, sprawled between two outdoor couches-they're more like beds, really, with how long they are, but the wrinkles in Hannibal’s forehead grow noticeably deeper when Will tries to mention it, which makes it easier to spread out on it and not say anything than to prod a little too heavily at him. They’ve laid themselves out in the way they usually do; rather starfish style, all precarious for the sake of their many, many injuries.
The night is quiet and indulgent ahead of them, drunk on a little wine and staring up at cottony, pink-orange clouds that wrap themselves into the setting sun. They’ve eaten their fill and Will hadn’t said no to the rather heavy pour of whiskey Hannibal had offered him on their way outside, so everything feels warm again. New and fresh, the burden of their old lives a forgotten, distant thing.
Hannibal doesn’t say anything as they lay, mostly for the sake of staring lazily between the clouds and then at the way the leaves of their garden lemon tree blow gently. But it pricks Will in the back of his mind, makes his muscles tense despite the alcohol running in his veins.
Really, it annoys him so terribly he doesn’t realize he’s said Hannibal’s name until he hums coarsely from his place on Will’s left.
“Did you ever watch the clouds as a kid?”
The fabric of Hannibal’s couch rustles and Will turns to see him propping himself up one elbow, “A few times that I remember, yes, mostly with my sister. She had a vivid imagination and I appreciated her stories.”
“I used to lay out on the top of my dad’s truck to watch them.” He tells Hannibal, “He always hated it-complained I’d put a dent in the roof. But he never stopped me.”
The silence Hannibal gives him is easy, one that passes like leaves floating down a gentle stream. He smiles a little, turns up the right corner of his mouth until it pinches tightly and the soft wrinkles around it make themselves known. “We used to climb the roof to see it. There was a wonderful little spot just where the roof sloped down and caught for the kitchen. We had to be quiet, god forbid my mother found her six-year-old fifteen feet in the air sitting next to the chimney.”
“Did you like it there?”
Hannibal makes a little sound, one that catches in the back of his throat. And for a moment, Will thinks he may have stepped into territory he shouldn’t come near. “I did, for a time. My mother and father were good to me, the house was big and lovely. I loved them all dearly; my sister I treasured.”
Will swallows, feels the tightness in the back of his throat. He’s never really used his empathy on Hannibal-never felt compelled to, really. His walls are thick and heavy, fortified beyond what Will’s ever desired searching past. There have always been glances the same way there always are with heavily-guarded people; moments he can connect with the emotions on their face, with the tone of their voice.
He feels it this time with Hannibal, like a cool trickling down his sternum. It makes his jaw tense against the cold ache, clenching so tight his tender skin pulls. It’s only when Hannibal shifts, though, and stares him in the eye, that Will realizes he’s giving him this moment of vulnerability.
He swallows again, feels the way his cheeks stick to his molars as his mouth dries with unridden anxiety. Thank you is what he means, thank you. “Sometimes I’m afraid that I don’t think I know how to be alone with you anymore.” is what he says.
“Out of fear?”
Will shrugs, “I know what we do to each other. We cohabitated once. It was easy-I think it was, anyway, but it wasn’t truthful. I think it is now. I want it to be now.”
“ No more lies ?” Hannibal sighs, leaning into the dry, patchy part of his humor that makes Will’s uneasiness fade.
“I want to be able to love you entirely, you want to be able to keep me, but if one exists without the other, someone dies.”
Hannibal hums, deep and rigid, “Does my love erase that fear?”
“It eases it. I think mine does the same.” Will says, “But I don’t want to make mistakes again. I don’t want to be hurt, and I don’t want to hurt you.”
“An impossible task;” Hannibal muses, “To love someone without injury.”
Will rolls his eyes, “Irreparable physical harm, then.”
“Though I can’t say I regret the way your scars adorn you, I am sorry for the suffering that preceded them. I do love you, Will. I feel as if I’ve said it, but you don’t believe me.” He says it with such openness now, so far removed from their rebirth. The lines on his face are soft and careful, head cocked just barely to the left.
It makes Will feel very, very small.
The catch of his scar straining against a half-true smile is the only thing that keeps stinging, quiet tears from falling. He looks back up at the sky then, away from the faint concern of Hannibal's face, towards the purple, quiet paleness of the setting sun. “I do.” he says, and he hates that his voice cracks and splinters on it.
“I love you, Will,” Hannibal says again, and he’s forced to ignore the shifting of fabric he can hear from his couch. “I’ve loved you since I met you, I’ll love you when we pass on.”
The weight on the right corner near his feet tells him that Hannibal’s moved himself before the press of his palm meets Will’s bare ankle. He doesn’t grip so much as holds, soft, worn skin against the bony edge of his shin. It bleeds warmth into him, like a kindness he’d been missing, like he’d been freezing and fire had burst in front of him.
“After you…left, I kept playing the night over and over in my head. The weight of it sat in my stomach for months. I used to wonder if it would be the last time I’d see you, and if it was, that I’d never had the chance to apologize. And then, in Florence all I wanted to do was kill you. Part of me was so certain you wouldn’t die, that maybe part of you would crumble away like marble, but you’d still stand there. And that then you’d be able to see what you’d done to me. You’d see that you’d changed me more than I’d ever told you.”
The heat of Hannibal’s palm disappears from his shin, leaving warmth seeping from him into the night sky until it aches. It reappears, though, against his fingers, until he can move his fingertips into it, tracing the lines, deep and heavy, that dig into his calloused skin.
“I told you that I love you on the dock.” Will continues, “I told you that I’d loved you for a long time. And I have, but I’ve always been so scared of it. Of the way I’d let you possess me, of the way I know you’d like to. I want to be able to love you right, and I’m scared I never will.”
Hannibal’s hand clenches around his fingers, all empathy, “Dante thought that love was divine power, that finding salvation in it transforms it into Hell, and that those who seek its comfort fall victim to greed. I never understood that until I met you, I would die and start anew a thousand times over if it would please you. The way you love me will never be wrong, darling. You could leave me wanting for lifetimes and I would still find myself waiting for you.”
A sob burbles its way out of Will’s throat then, a pitiful thing, really, that sticks against the roof of his mouth. He finds himself peeling his hand away from where it clutches Hannibal’s to press against the wet crease of his eyes. He feels Hannibal hesitate from the edge of the couch, hand hovering over where his had been just a moment ago, and it makes his chest crackle.
“Will,” Hannibal whispers, scooting along the edge of the couch until his back is pressed to the divot in his side, bleeding warmth against him again, so agonizingly slow he wonders if it might kill him.
His fingers brush over the edge of Will’s jaw lightly, as if asking permission to touch, and Will finds himself fighting to push into it. He does turn his head though, silently begging that he might be allowed to feel without explaining. That this moment can stand, alone and unchanged, forever. Hannibal obliges him, pressing his palm against the crook of his jaw, slipping his pointer finger under where Will’s hands cover his face.
“I love you.” Will manages, choking on the wave of another sob, “I never stopped.”
“I know,” Hannibal murmurs, “I know.”
He takes Will’s hand in his own then, lifts it from its place over his eyes, and brings the edge of it to his lips, pressing gentle kisses against it. He spreads each of Will’s fingers, kissing between the edge of each knuckle, pressing against the side of his thumb, against the callouses of his hands. Will smiles, watery, and watches on.
“I’d offer to take you to bed,” Hannibal says, and Will feels the pearly edge of his teeth in the crux of where mouth meets hand, “But I’m afraid I’d disappoint, I’d only plan on putting you to sleep.”
That makes Will laugh, “First you tell me you’d walk backward into Hell for me, then you try to soften the blow with promises of a good night's sleep.”
“I’d only walk with you, my dear.” Hannibal says, tugging gently at his hand, “Let me take you to bed, even if it’s only to love you while we dream.”
Will sits up and obliges.
Hannibal is plotting something.
It doesn’t seem particularly serious when Will catches it initially; when Hannibal’s small, quiet smirk returns. Reasonably, he knows it’s not a hunt-they’re both too weak for that, neither one could keep up with anyone, let alone someone willing to give up a fight. Still, the thought nips at him from the back of his brain.
They haven’t discussed it yet; the idea of hunting. Rather swiftly though, Will realizes he doesn’t particularly have a problem with it. Hannibal seems so far above it all, so able to find those he deems meat, deems unworthy. It’s not something Will’s in practice with, really, even for the months he spent by Hannibal’s side he’d been forced to keep the thin veil between his desires taut, lest Jack catch wind that he might be enjoying everything a little too much. But the dragon was different-gorey, sure, but a release of pressure; like the breaking of a dam. It was real, entirely unplanned, and scarily exhilarating.
His indifference-excitement, even, at the prospect of doing that again with Hannibal, is heavily hindered by their current state though. And it really doesn’t help that Hannibal won’t talk to him about whatever it is that he’s plotting, which, again, is really not that out of the norm. He’s aware that he could easily leave his trust in Hannibal, wait faithfully for him to bring it forward, and do what he asks when the time arises, but it’s too simple not to, even with the very, very limited glimpse Hannibal gives him.
He works up the courage to ask one afternoon, when they’re settled in the large, open space of their living room. Hannibal’s plunking away at some melody on the jet-black grand piano that takes up a good chunk of the left side of the room, scratching roughly at sheet music. His back is to Will, who’s sat in one of the large, comfortable blue armchairs closer to the bookshelves that line the great wall separating the edge of the room from the beginnings of the dining room reading some Walt Whitman collection he plucked off the shelf closest to him. The raw edge of the afternoon sun plants itself firmly on the floor in bright, warm patches that almost beckon him to stretch out in them on the soft rug like a cat, and laze in them until they dissolve.
He’s half contemplating it, mostly for the sake of abandoning the Whitman collection, when Hannibal sniffs, sets down his pen, and tells him; “I’m going into town tomorrow.”
Will’s brow wrinkles far quicker than it should. “You’re on crutches.”
“I still have my arms, darling. I shouldn’t be more than an hour anyway.”
“What’re you planning?” Will says, halfheartedly dogearing Whitman.
Hannibal turns then, some sort of glint in his eye; “You’ll see soon enough.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hannibal doesn’t answer him, just smiles, all toothy and plotting, and turns back to his piano. Will, though he’d rather not admit it, enjoys the low fluttering feeling in his stomach and picks the collection back up.
He doesn’t get to ask about it again. Hannibal makes something close enough to red beans and rice for dinner that he wonders if it’s some sort of preemptive apology, but he eats it anyway, and accepts the three fingers of whiskey he’s offered when they retire to the back patio. They don’t linger out there like they usually would though, Hannibal seems overly-eager in a way that’s entirely uncharacteristic, no matter how well he thinks he’s hiding it.
The surprise needles at him though, while they return inside and he washes out their whiskey tumblers. More so when they retire upstairs together, shuffling through the routine of getting ready for bed side-by-side. Hannibal keeps looking at him, eyes shiny with something he can’t quite place. He can feel it in him too, when he goes to check on Hannibal’s stomach wound as usual. His skin vibrates with it, quiet and excited, though his face remains perfectly straight. It’s so entirely strange, that by the time they settle into bed, still stretched out enough that their stiff joints and weak muscles aren’t touching, he reaches for Hannibal’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Hannibal, in the dark, quiet cocoon of their bed, does the same.
It plagues him the next morning too, when he stumbles downstairs to find Hannibal already making breakfast as usual. He’s amused by it too, by the greenish wonder that’s somehow seeping out of Hannibal in uncontrolled, varying waves. Really, he’s more interested in sitting and seeing what happens.
Hannibal takes his leave after he feeds Will and the dishes are dried and put back in their place. He touches the edge of Will’s cheek, just under the puckered edge of his scar, and then, gently, tells him that he’ll be back, that he’ll always come back. It makes something dangerously tender in Will’s heart seize and start, and instinctually, he presses a kiss to the side of his knuckle, as if they’ve done it a thousand times before. Then, he gets in some sort of taxi-or paid chauffeur service, Will doesn’t really ask, and leaves him alone.
The morning passes quietly, then, even when Will realizes he hasn’t been entirely alone since before the dragon. It’s not as unwelcome as it was then, when he’d been pinned to his room by grief, but the feeling sirs underneath his tongue, and presses strangely against it. He’d been alone for the majority of his life in one way or another before Hannibal anyway, had grown thick enough calluses to ward off the sticky, aching feeling that ate away at him if he didn’t speak to anyone for long enough. It’s always been easier that way, keeping everyone at arms length-especially when his empathy rears its head, ugly and wild, despite his best attempts.
The ache doesn’t return, per se, in the face of Hannibal’s absence, but the wound lingers. He can feel it, the same way he feels his right shoulder stiffen in the cold; pronounced, constant. He carries it with him as he showers and changes, lets it settle over his shoulders like a frayed overcoat. It stays there when he returns to the first floor and pads into the living room, doubling when he checks the clock and sees that it’s only been just shy of half an hour.
Briefly, he considers sitting at the piano.
He’s never played before, but he’s got a half-decent ear thanks to the few awful years he spent in middle-school band. He can pluck out a decent tune on a guitar too, thanks to his dad’s insistence that he learn to play Willie Nelson, so he’s got some sort of musical head on his shoulders. He decides against it though, when he sees a horrifyingly dense-looking eight measures of the sheet music settled on the piano’s music rack.
He reads more Whitman, digging his nails into the edge of one long poem about nature after the next, until the hour runs out and the next sinks its teeth into him. He tries not to worry, not to feel the way time presses against his sternum. No one knows they lived; the FBI announced they were considered dead within 48 hours, though he knows Jack dragged the shoreline for bodies for almost a week after that. Chiyoh had been careful enough, Hannibal’s accounts hidden enough, that he knows it’s done with-at least for the moment. If the braying of Jack’s hounds ever nears, closes in on them a little bit, he knows Hannibal will find a way for them to slip through the cracks again, knows there will always be a place within a place they can hide out.
Still, though. Dread begins to creep through him at the thought of Hannibal, still barely able to hold his own, wandering through a Cuban market alone. That maybe he was done for the minute he stepped foot from his cab, that Jack will come looking for him next. He dogears the book again, settling it down harshly on a side table, and decides to make some lunch of some kind, mostly because he’s afraid the book might explode if he keeps handling it the way he has been.
He makes himself a sandwich he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep down with the ample ingredients in their fridge, and stares at the way it sits on his plate. It’s not a particularly elevated sandwich-just cured meats and cheese on day-old sourdough, but all of it bears the undeniable mark of Hannibal. Good, deep orange cheese, bright and pink salami fresh from a local butcher, sourdough he’d managed to create from a salvaged sourdough starter. It’s a far cry from the cold-cut turkey in an unsealable bag and individually wrapped American cheese he’d grown up on; further from the afternoons he’d had nothing at all.
It’s funny, he thinks, the ways that Hannibal’s changed him. Both physical and mental. There is no part of him that hasn’t been carefully dissected and stitched back together under his watchful eye, transformed like a tableau into something brighter, higher, than they’d been before he’d begun his work. The Bride of Frankenstein, Bedelia had called him once, when they’d been far enough removed that it’d stung instead of resonated. Now, though, he wishes the scars were more visible.
He gets two bites into his sandwich, which is admittedly very, very good, before he hears the crunching of tires against their driveway, and his adrenaline skyrockets so quickly he drops it, sending it clattering onto his plate, now forgotten. He does manage to slow himself before he runs to the door, forcing his breathing to slow and taking measured steps out of their kitchen and towards the front of the house.
Hannibal beats him there, opening it with a surprising amount of grace despite also handling a pair of crutches and a tired, stiff torso.
“You’re late.” He greets, though his mouth dries when a dog, no taller than Hannibal’s knee, steps into the house in front of him. It’s a scruffy thing, small and muscular, floppy-eared with a bushy, strange tail that doesn’t quite match the short hair on its body. The dog’s coloring is nice; a worn, tan-ish orange with a small patch of white decorating its chest. Its eyes are big, black things that look around the room inquisitively as it pitters against the wood flooring of the foyer. It sniffs at him wearily, raising its pointed, round snout in his direction, and its deep black nostrils flare at him almost judgmentally.
Hannibal watches him eagerly, smiling when his gaze shoots to the dog, then him, then the dog again.
“That’s a dog.” He says stupidly.
“Yes, it is,” Hannibal says, easing himself the rest of the way in the door. “My apologies for my lateness, it took longer than expected for the Veterinarian to see us.”
“You took it to the vet?”
“Her.”
Will makes a strangled sound; “Her?"
The dog patters over to him and sniffs the cuff of his jeans like she owns the place. She looks up at him, all big, beautiful eyes, and waggles her tail like she’s also amused by his confusion.
Hannibal hobbles to the closest chair with the help of his crutches, “Her name is Jefa, according to her ID card. I thought you might want to call her something else though, to give her a new start.”
Jefa looks at him, mildly accusing, and sits at his feet.
“Name her?” Will echoes, finally letting a hand slip down for her to run her damp nose across. She regards it carefully, and then presents the top of her head, delighting when he promptly scratches it.
“She’s ours, Will, she does require a name.”
“Oh.” Will blinks, crouching down to her level to inspect her, still scratching her lightly.
“She has a clean bill of health,” Hannibal continues, “A small flea infestation, but the Veterinarian offered a bathing service, so I had her cleaned and treated. Her intestines are also mildly inflamed, though I suspect that’s due to the inconsistency of her diet.”
“Wow, you really do love me.” Will jokes, smoothing his hand down and around Jefa’s flank, feeling the softness of her freshly washed fur. She preens under the attention, tail thumping enthusiastically on the hardwood floor.
“I do, quite terribly.” Hannibal tells him, all quiet earnesty.
He looks up then, catches Hannibal’s eye from where he’s sitting. The crinkle of his crow's feet spark in the light, a catch of skin and heat. It makes him think about what it would be like to crack open his chest and slip inside just to feel the way he’s loved in its entirety. Breaking through Hannibal’s ribs though, no matter how terribly it would ache, would be another new beginning, growth spilling from the bright angry red of muscle and blood. Adam sacrificed a rib for the sake of being known-and Hannibal, with his cavernous, angry spirit, would surely give him more, if only to keep him.
“Thank you, Hannibal.” He says, curling his fingers through Jefa’s fur.
Hannibal just smiles; “She can sleep indoors, I have no issue with cohabitation. She may not lay on the furniture though.”
It makes Will roll his eyes fondly, “ Yeah yeah… ”
“What are you going to call her?”
He shrugs; “I don’t know yet. I think I need to know her first-just for a little while. If I let you name her you’ll call her La Bete or something.”
Hannibal’s nose wrinkles in offense.
“That is not a real name for a dog, Hannibal.”
“La Bete is simple, effective. The veterinarian told me she was quite tenacious during her bath.”
“It’s like naming a car ‘truck’.”
Hannibal sighs, all faux and long-suffering, “Jefa for now, then?”
Jefa is a surprisingly well-behaved dog.
It doesn’t really surprise Will; he’s rehabilitated strays for the better part of two decades and has seen enough dogs to understand a pattern. Those that suffered the most tend to be either lenient or bitter about it, if they're guarded and snarling for the first few days, he knows their temperament will settle, as does all things. Jefa, though, is calculated. She doesn’t bite or snarl, just stares, all big, black eyes, until she understands. Copycats, he’d called them-there’d been a few notable ones; Dahlia, a German shepard mix with snarly hair that he’d picked up out of college, Jasper, a tiny little mutt that’d been oddly lumpy and entirely lovely. They’d been good dogs, the kind that always earned him appreciation from those around him, with watchful eyes that copied the moves of the rest of the pack unfailingly because they’d grown to understand the ways that Will paid attention to their packmates.
It’s odd, though, because Jefa’s alone. Dahlia had been joined by two more dogs; Copper and Wiley a month in, and Jasper had shown up a few years into his residency in Wolf Trap-when the pack was thick and full of far too much personality. She still copies both of them despite it, watches the way that they move through spaces, learns quickly what will earn her attention and treats.
It’s funny, the way she copies Hannibal’s long, tired sighs and Will’s sharp, angry sniff when he’s annoyed. She watches the way Hannibal cuts meat and vegetables when he cooks, eyes shifting from the sharp edge of the knife to the tile floor, tilting her head, waits in the little shed with Will while he works on the little green boat in a bed Hannibal purchases for her. She learns to do tricks in English and begrudgingly, in German, when Hannibal makes it apparent that he feels she should be multi-lingual, even after Will points out that she speaks Spanish already.
Hannibal is rather amused by her in general, it seems. They’ve taken to each other like a house on fire-mostly because Jefa asserts that she’ll shed on Hannibal as she pleases a day into her life with them, and he’s generally taken it well. Still, she tends to cuddle herself against his side when they’re on the outdoor couches because, according to Hannibal; the outdoor furniture will get messy anyway.
“I think I want to call her Matilde,” Will says one day, when they’re sitting comfortably in the living room.
It’s been pouring for the better part of two days, the sort of angry, fast rain that neither of them really want to bother with-Matilde doesn’t mind, though. If anything, she snorts at them judgementally when they usher her out the front door for a bathroom break and stand in the doorway. They’ve all curled into it though, Matilde, with her many toys and dog beds that Hannibal’s purchased without discussing with Will, who’s beginning to think that it might be a little too much, and them on the couch that faces the sleek, modern fireplace set into the wall opposite it. It’s gas, which isn’t terribly exciting, but Hannibal’s had it lit since it started raining, and doesn’t seem like he’s in the mood to shut it off, so Will doesn’t ask.
“Matilde,” Hannibal repeats, letting the name slip off his tongue unnervingly gracefully, “Is there any reason why?”
Will shrugs, “It feels right, feels like her.”
“There was an Italian leader in the late Middle Ages with the same name; Matilda of Tuscany. She was a reliable woman, intelligent and skilled. I think it suits her well.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring up the little French girl.”
Matilde, from her place tucked against Hannibal’s side, where she’s decidedly not supposed to be, snorts in offense.
Hannibal runs a soothing hand down her side, scratching her just below her collar the way she likes. It’s terribly domestic; soft-edged and lovely. They’re tucked half-under a navy blanket, Matilde dozing contently while Hannibal reads some thick, leather book from his collection. It makes Will’s heart oozey and warm, just shy of skipping a beat.
“Did you have any pets growing up?” He asks, watching as Hannibal’s fingers move to trace lazy circles on the top of Matilde’s head.
Hannibal smiles, “My sister took a liking to cats when she was fairly young, I remember we had a few gray kittens that roamed the house. Nothing since then, though. I never really had the desire to, I preferred not having something that needed me the way an animal does. I felt I couldn’t provide the sort of environment one might require from a capable owner.”
“What changed?”
Hannibal’s hand stills where it’s been petting softly against Matilde’s ribs, “Nothing, I’ve simply adjusted my priorities.”
Will smiles then, unreasonably fond and toothy, “I love you.”
The rain pitters on the windows in an uneven pattern behind them, sending the plants in their front lawn dancing merrily with the droplets. And the house is quiet.
The rain continues late into the night, growing thicker and heavier until droplets get fat enough that they sound like rattling gunshots against the roof of the house. The lightning starts an hour later.
The house is cold with it, too heavily tiled to fight against the chill the way Hannibal’s home in Baltimore so often did. Somehow sticky with the humidity, despite the growing rawness of each room, which begins to feel less and less inviting. In the dark, blue-gray light of night, it’s haunting; an unoccupied home, a skeleton without muscle.
Will finds himself unable to sleep.
He can hear the soft breathing of Matilde in her bed at the foot of their own, feel the weight of Hannibal tucked beside him. Their warmth is present under his skin, a safety blanket he’s linked together with a broken chain.
He reaches out then, for the warmth of Hannibal’s skin, weary against the flashing and pattering of the angry night sky. When his fingers find nothing, though, his heart palpitates. It’s not entirely uncommon, of course, for Hannibal to slip away during the night, when his dreams don’t wake Will, or the weight of an idea pushes him into the study, but the sheets are cold, like they’ve been pulled off of ice.
It makes Will’s adrenaline spike.
Typically, he’s a very rational man. The rain is strong enough that Hannibal wouldn’t smoke on the patio, and he’s enough of a hedonist that Will’s fairly certain he wouldn’t smoke in the house, so Hannibal must be in the study downstairs. The idea hits him hard then, cutting through the tension in his body, and he turns to look at the door, waiting for the telltale orange glow of the hall light, a signal Hannibal will come back.
The hall, however, is pitch black.
He sits up abruptly when he notices it, reaching backward and shooting his hand out towards his side lamp, fiddling with the damn chain until he can click it on. It turns on, which is a good sign, means that the power most likely didn’t go out. The blood on Hannibal’s pillow is not.
It’s fresh, a deep jammy color that reminds him of Dolarhyde, of the crashing and striking of waves against the edge of the bluff. Hannibal’s pillow is soaked with it, a clear round patch that sits in the very center of it, still dark in the low light of the room. His mind reels when he looks at it, a mess of adrenaline and fear that forces him into his side drawer, where he clutches at the curved knife he keeps tucked against the front edge.
It’s at that moment, when his fingers curl around the handle of the knife, that Matilde’s loud, shuttery breathing stops.
Immediately he’s scrambling to the edge of the bed, tossing the sheets away from himself and clawing at them until he can see over the edge, where Matilde lays, eyes unseeing, in a puddle of her own blood. And Will’s hindbrain, some forgotten part of him, screams at him to leave.
Things move very quickly after that.
He launches himself out of bed and against the wall closest to the door, flicking the bedroom lights on so quickly he has to blink away bright white. The rest of the room is clean-no red-splattered walls or clumps of fur matted with viscera, only the art Hannibal had chosen so carefully for their walls.
The floor is another matter though, in addition to the pool of Matilde’s blood that grows and sinks into their bedroom rug, There’s a trail of blood from Hannibal’s side to the door and then out, into the darkness of the hallway, all bright and barren. A deep, spilling red that consumes the tile and wood beneath it. Being careful to toe around the edge of the trail, Will presses forward, and wishes he had a gun.
Their hallway is long, though admittedly less impressive than Hannibal’s Baltimore home. There are a few rooms pressed against the two walls, all bedrooms except one, that Hannibal keeps for drawing. The doors are all closed, and when Will tries their handles, locked the way he tends to keep them. Their white, blank faces in the blue-gray light look at him like ghosts as he creeps forward, setting his skin crawling with fresh vigor.
He presses his back against their handles as he moves, feels the bumpy, strange surface of the textured walls against his shoulder blades. It’s grounding, which helps him feel less like he’s going to float away while he follows a trail of Hannibal’s blood. It seeps into their hall runners, into the cracks of the floorboards, and puddles against the wall trim like water in a rain gutter.
There’s no sound but his own breathing, loud and uneven, even as he fights to keep himself from hyperventilating. His lungs burn from the effort while his muscles draw taut. Again, with clarity, he wishes that he had a gun.
He makes the right down the jutty of the hall, which leads towards an area that overlooks the living room and leads to the stairs. It’s open and black, an empty void with beams of white-blue light that stream in from the large windows that run down from the roof of the living room.
Distantly, he realizes his knife still is clutched tightly in one hand, the other ready to assist if necessary. His heart pitches and drops again, angry and equally terrified of the loss. To make it this far and die in an unexpected attack would be a waste. Such a waste.
The living room, from up above, is also blissfully quiet. Dark too, without the lights on. It makes Will’s mouth dry. There’s still no noise, no sign of Hannibal-or more worryingly, of a struggle. Everything’s still and untouched, quiet enough that he can still pick out the pounding of the rain against the roof.
He nears the stairs then, sees the way Hannibal’s blood spills down them. He goes to take a step and-
Matilde yaps, somewhere to his left.
She does it again before he has a chance to look at her, then again and again, loud and angry.
And then Will wakes up, teetering on the pitch-black edge of their stairs.
He immediately pitches his weight backward, falling on his ass with a loud, undignified thump and an even louder, strangled shout. He lands half on a rug, knife in hand, staring down the black abyss of their unlit stairwell.
Matilde yaps again, so loudly in his ears ring, and he finally looks at her. She’s entirely unharmed, all scraggly and disgruntled from following him around. For a split second he swears she makes a face at him; protective, concerned.
Then, Hannibal appears in the hallway with a flick of a light switch.
“Will?” He asks loudly, “Will, are you alright?”
He hobbles forward then, pitching all of his weight onto the one crutch he apparently grabbed before he’d booked it from their bedroom, “Are you hurt?”
There are about a million things that race through his mind at that, but what he says is; “You were dead.”
“Darling-”
“I had a dream.” Will corrects, “I had a nightmare, and you were dead.”
Hannibal reaches him then, throwing the crutch down beside him as he half-falls, half-crouches until they’re face-to-face. He reaches out a hand, frown deepening when Will flinches away from the touch.
“I need to see your eyes.” He says apologetically, never once relenting the soft hold of his palm, “I have to make sure your pupils aren’t unnaturally dilated.”
“Afraid I’m doing drugs, Hannibal?”
Hannibal’s expression slips for a moment, “I need to make sure you didn’t have a seizure.”
Another beat of adrenaline thrums through him; a hot, angry thing. His fingers tingle with it where they press into the hardwood floor of the landing, buzzing against the solid, dark oak. He thinks of dark, musty hallways and padded spaces, the howling of a wolf that isn’t there crawls against his skin.
Hannibal must feel the way Will’s pulse jumps, because his hand shifts, thumbs releasing the soft flesh of his eyelids and instead, cupping the solidness of his chin. “Encephalitis relapses are common, Will, especially after prolonged periods of stress.”
His throat tightens at the thought; sending dread buzzing through his ribcage. “Oh.”
“I haven’t smelled fever on you,” Hannibal murmurs, all earnest, “if it’s relapsed, we’ve caught it early.”
He opens his mouth to reply, but finds his jaw hinges and shuts mechanically, jawbone scraping from tension spread tight. He tries again, blinking when the sting of tears wraps its way around his temples and into the edges of his eyes. It’s foolish to cry about it, he knows, worse to do it in front of Hannibal. But he freezes nonetheless, muscles clenched so tight he fears he’ll crack his spine in two.
“Darling,” Hannibal’s tone is more worried than he lets on, “have you experienced any of your previous symptoms recently?”
The air leaves Will’s lungs in a slam, like he’s been pushed against a heavy, brick wall. His body squeezes with it, contorting so violently in a shiver that it rattles him.
“I hallucinated, I think.”
The lines in Hannibal’s expression deepen, “I should’ve been monitoring you for symptoms.”
“I saw Molly.” He says, feeling bruised and small on the wooden floor of their home. “I saw Molly when I woke up here. I talked with her-I dreamed about her too, about all of us. I just-I thought it wasn’t. It wasn’t like that, it was a nightmare, not terror.”
“What did Molly say to you?”
Will smiles halfheartedly, “You want me to talk about my dead wife?”
Hannibal’s hand moves into his hair, rubbing slow fingers against the edge of his temple.
“I want you to tell me about your hallucinations. ” He corrects, digging the very tip of his nails in until they scratch lightly against Will’s scalp.
“She sat with me once, when you were still recovering. She told me that you loved me.” Will laughs, “She told me that in a dream after she died too.”
“These dreams began when she passed?”
“The night she died, really. Haven’t let up yet. But they’re not like that-like the ones from before I was treated. They’re not vivid in the same way, they’re still murky enough that I know I’m dreaming.”
Hannibal’s other hand presses against his forehead, “And your hallucinations?”
He shrugs, “It’s more of an imaginative thing, something that bumps up against the walls of my skull. Comforting, I guess. I used to see Abigail after everything happened. I thought it was something…safer.”
“The musings of a guilty conscious?”
Will hums, “The dreams of a conscious in mourning.”
Hannibal sniffs in agreement, regarding Matilde from her place next to them, eyes crinkling at the concern in her expression; “I think we’ve worried her.”
“ I worried her.” Will corrects, “She stopped me from walking off the edge.”
“We’ve taken enough falls for the year, I think.”
He clicks his tongue at her, reaching one of his shaking hands out to pet her. Her fur is still warm, despite the persistent chill in the air, and she relaxes into the touch. “Agreed.”
Hannibal’s smile is small then, gentle and polite, “We’ll monitor you for the next few weeks, though I’m beginning to think this might be an acute stress reaction and not a relapse, but I’m not sure yet.” he lowers his face to the crook of Will’s neck then, inhaling deeply, “I smell nothing of concern.”
Will’s hand leaves Matilde’s fur, moving to grasp at the nape of his neck instead, to feel the warmth of him. “You said that last time.”
Hannibal leans back then, into the weight of his hand, “I was…unkind, last time. I wanted to see how far I could push you. It was unethical at best, damaging at worst.”
“You put me in prison.”
“I thought it was the only option. Now, though, we’re free from that life and the burdens carried within it. I won’t let you slip this time.”
Something in Will’s bones warms at the words, like he’s been set in a warm bath. Hannibal’s smile is earnest, face illuminated in the orange, quiet light of their hallway. He’s radiant, which isn’t really a surprise, but one that reminds him of a god, clothed in linen, set to decide his fate. There is no greater respect than his pyre, he thinks.
“I want to kiss you.” Will whispers, “Badly, terribly.”
Hannibal beams, “I don’t know if now would be appropriate, darling.”
“When have you ever cared about appropriateness in a situation?” Will jokes, squeezing his nape gently, feeling the way Hannibal’s hands, bright and soft, settle on his shoulders.
“When I care deeply about doing it right.” Hannibal murmurs, eyes studying his face, deep and brownish-red in the early hours of the morning.
Will hums and shifts forward, pressing his lips firmly against Hannibal’s. It’s gentler than their first kiss, when they’d been teetering half-dead on the edge of a cliff. Still, it’s bright, a promise of things they’ve denied each other in the warm, wetness of their mouths. Hannibal melts into him, fingers tightening and then loosening against his collarbones. He can feel his own fingers to the same on the edge of Hannibal’s hair, he can’t really bring himself to try and stop it, though.
They break apart slowly, like peeling the rind off an unripened orange, all warm breath and hot cheeks.
“We should sleep.” Hannibal says, “Or get under the covers, at least.”
Will laughs, “Suggesting something, doctor?”
Hannibal sighs regretfully, “We should still be resting, exertion will only prolong our injuries.”
“I love you.” Will says, “I love you. Take me to bed.”
“To sleep?”
Will squeezes his nape again, “To sleep.”
The dreams persist, but the fever never comes.
Hannibal spends weeks at his side, smelling him like a hound catching the scent, checking his vitals, holding him tightly in the dark abyss of their bed. Faintly, it reminds Will of being haunted; a quiet specter over the side of his shoulder. Hannibal is a kind specter though, a poltergeist he’s tamed.
They take to locking the bedroom door after Will has a second spurt of sleepwalking-he goes to another bedroom that time though, picks the lock in his sleep, and weeps on the edge of the bed until Matilde wakes Hannibal. But whatever restlessness in his soul seems to damper slightly after that, enough that his sleepwalking turns into night terrors that morph the shadows of their walls. Enough that Hannibal gripping at him to reassure him begins to work.
The terrors themselves don’t scare him as much as they used to; when he’d been fresh off of his stint in homicide and the gore had taken root, pressed to his temples. Mostly it’s the betrayal of his body that frightens him, the way his fingers shake without his control, the dampness that crawls down his neck. The way the pressing of his dreams makes his skin itch and crawl.
He tells Hannibal that one night; when they’re tucked in red, satin sheets. Lights off, doors locked.
Hannibal shifts from his place pressed to his back, wiggling until he can press a kiss to the nape of Will’s neck, where hair meets skin. “Our bodies are but temporary homes; the places we dwell when we’re seeking something more.”
Will snorts, “Clearly, my body seeks to sweat.”
He can feel Hannibal’s lips curl into a smile against his skin. “I adore you, Will. In any shape or form, any body.”
“You’ve made that clear.” Will tell him, pressing two of his fingers against the raised, jagged edge of the scar on his abdomen.
“And you’re all the more radiant for it.” Hannibal’s fingers meet his there, tracing the length of it.
“Do you think that’s how we love?” Will whispers, “With knives and blood? With death?”
Hannibal’s palm presses against his stomach, all warm and gentle. He threads their fingers together, squeezing reassuringly. “Is it death? Or is it transformation?”
“On others, it is. I’d like to stay in one piece.”
“No more eye-for-an-eye?”
Will shrugs, “We’ve tried to kill each other enough for the moment, I think.”
“Agreed.” Hannibal agrees, pressing it into his skin. “I know that my death, when it comes, could only ever be at your hand, my dear.”
“Is that what you’d want?” Will murmurs, fingers squeezing, “For me to leave a mark on you? To change you?”
“Dear Will,” Hannibal says in the pale, quiet light of their dark room, “you’ve already changed me to my very marrow.”