Work Text:
Anger is a burning feeling. Hannibal does not have to wonder why people replace the word so often with seething. To him it means to burn in his own flesh by the feeling of betrayal.
He holds Will in his arms, trudging through the snowy woods, blood trailing behind them like an obedient pet. His face remains numb, but he feels like he has been gutted. Will had sinned, and in return he had damaged the body of Hannibal's Christ; himself.
Will had been disappearing for hours at a time. This was not unusual, and Hannibal did not disturb him. He trusted Will to take care of himself. Some days he would even fantasize about Will returning home with fresh ingredients, bloodied, bruised, but standing tall without care.
What a lovely communion that would have been.
Hannibal remembers asking him what his daily activities have entailed recently. Will was starting to come home later and later.
"Hunting requires preparation, Doctor Lecter," he had responded, putting his jacket on the coat rack, and removing his shoes at the door. Hannibal's lips curled upwards ever so slightly at the teasing name.
"You cannot stone a bird without knowing it's migration patterns," Hannibal hummed in approval.
"I think this bird is starting to expect the stone," Will had sighed. Hannibal thought Will's voice might as well have been a songbird.
"Then you must confuse it. Shake its tree until it can no longer fly," Hannibal replied. The metaphor was meant to allude to what he had once done to Will. Will noticed this as well grimacing slightly.
"Awfully cruel to cause unnecessary suffering, don't you think?" Will shot him a glare for the comment.
Hannibal now tends the wounds on his lover's fallen body. Will is not deceased, but his silence is eerie in the room filled with just the two of them's small breaths. Hannibal's fingers trail his lover's body in the silence. He worships the scars that he had caused previously, after stitching the major wound in Will's shoulder.
He wants to taste the blood that has caked so beautifully onto Will's skin. He wants to lick Will clean, knowing it is only Will's blood and Will's blood only.
But, he refrains. He does so out of respect, not out of loss of desire. Instead, he gently cleans Will's body with a wet cloth. The blood wipes off slowly, and a twisted part of Hannibal is sad to see it go.
Will's shirtless body eventually shivers when Hannibal's cloth reaches his chest and Will groans, waking slightly. Hannibal says nothing, but retracts the rag slowly, and rings it into the small bucket he had broughten beside the bed.
When Will's eyes flutter open, he grimaces in pain and tries to roll to his side. Hannibal quickly stops him, rolling him back onto his back, making sure he does not burst his shoulder stitching. Will stares at him in confusion.
"You will burst your stitching," Hannibal explains in a clinical tone. His tone is plain and his eyes look at Will with only a medical sense now.
Will would not know his gentle praises in this state, and Hannibal made that clear. His mask was back on tightly. Now, only Hannibal would be gifted with the knowledge of how gently he was able to clean the dirt off of his God. Hannibal will be the only one to have that privilege, and he flourishes in that knowledge, taking it in like the Holy Spirit itself.
Will, however, looks to Hannibal in confusion, and then his own wound. It takes him a moment to process, but then he rests his head back down, no longer straining to look at his shoulder. He gives a sigh before he speaks. "You stitched me up. Was it bad?"
Will's tone has nothing of regret, and it tugs at Hannibal's annoyance. He doesn't understand how he can disregard his safety as such.
"No arteries were hit. You were lucky," Hannibal looks away for a moment to look at the winter outside. Will gives a slight nod. It seems like his love was not in too much pain but just enough to be a tad uncomfortable. He is thankful for that, no matter his feelings at the moment.
The room sits in silence, and Hannibal can hear their dog's paws on the wood floor of the other room.
"You could have been killed," Hannibal says, face still unemotional, feelings still hidden, as he turns back to his unphased lover. "You were reckless."
Will's eyes meet Hannibals, and he challenges him slowly, not raising his voice even a tad. "I made a miscalculation. Have you never made one of those, Hannibal?" Will raises an eyebrow.
"Not one as dire as this," Hannibal says, not missing a beat. The air is thick with tension for a moment before Hannibal speaks once more,"You would make me freeze in the snow for someone I love, once more, Will?" The image of Mischa being taken by the soldiers who had held them captive is burned into Hannibal's mind. It is harder to hide his venom in the comment.
The room goes quiet once more.
"You can't hover my every move, Hannibal, even if that means I put myself in danger. That is what defines free will," Will says with a tired tone.
Hannibal scoffs out loud at the notion. "You are now a prisoner due to my concern?"
Will groans,"You're putting words in my mouth, Hannibal–"
"It was clear what was implied," Hannibal's firmness does not sway. There is a pause in the room as Hannibal stands to leave, but stops in the doorway of the bedroom. He does not face Will, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to go against something Holy. His next words are quieter. "I do not wish to bury you without my corpse next to yours," he says. "If you wish to leave, the door will remain open, but our home is here, and you know this."
And with that, Hannibal takes this decree and leaves to the kitchen.
Will stares at the ceiling, too prideful to call Hannibal back, but too ashamed to leave the argument as it is. He closes his eyes in defeat and sleeps.