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Will woke up choking, gagging around something thick pressing his throat apart, preventing him swallowing, breathing. He ripped it out, gagging and heaving and finally gasping relieved breaths when the length was gone. His skin was itchy, so itchy, several small itchy things stuck in his arms and on his chest, and he yanked them all off in panic.
Where was he? Pale walls and too bright light. Stiff bed.
Hospital?
Why?
He glanced down. He was sweating and naked under his cheap polyester gown, but nothing looked missing or broken. He was there, under the thin blue blanket, seemingly whole. Why the hospital?
He felt like he couldn't breath. His hands were sweaty where he scratched at his arms and chest. His body itched with the need to move, to squirm.
How did he get here?
The last thing he remembered was.. nothing.
Nothing?
He didn't have time to think anything else before a startled nurse came in and yelled at him to calm down. He tried, having to idea why he was panicking. Why his heart was racing and beating adrenaline through his limbs. Why he wide eyed waited for something to send him into flight or flight. She called in a woman in a lab coat, the doctor, who smiled brightly and explained things to him.
He'd been comatose for a year, just moved to the long term residency wing yesterday. In other words, they hadn't expected him to wake up.
When he tried to talk, he found his voice was gone, and she told him that was common due to unused vocal cords, and the tube in his throat was because lately his breathing had been strange. His voice would comeback eventually, and to just nod yes or no.
“Do you know your name?”
Name? Oh. Will Graham. His name was Will Graham.
He nodded.
“Maiden name,” Her eyes flashed down and back from her clipboard. “William Graham, yes?” He nodded.
“Do you know where you are?” He shook his head.
“You're in St Mary's Hospital, in Baltimore Maryland.”
Maryland. Okay. Didn't he live in Virginia? He didn't know how he knew that, but he did. Wait, no, Hannibal lived in Baltimore.
A rush of memories came back to him in one smooth movement, like a pebble falling down a well and disappearing with a small plop.
Everything, everything. Jack, Alana, the cases, his life, his dogs, his fishing, Abigail, Hannibal, everything. Between one breath and the next he remembered who he was. He'd been reliving the crime of a particularly artful murder, corpses brutally flayed and arranged into some kind of dance scene, complete with rudimentary garments made of their own skin, when he'd lost time again, then woke up here.
A deep sense of relief washed over him, and the next breath he took felt like he was actually awake.
.....
That relief lasted until Hannibal walked through the door.
The nurses were all bumbling around with excitement since it wasn't everyday a coma patient woke up, and in between their buzzing around they informed him they'd notified Hannibal, and he was on his way, which was a relief. He must have brought him to the hospital. He had questions and he was sure Hannibal would have answers.
In their time being friends Will had always felt at a disadvantage, if only for Hannibal's ability to eerily discern his emotions seemingly without a tell. Will had spent a life holding back too much to say, shutting down in behaviors because behavioral science was a career that would have read deeper into everything Will was if he didn't. Having his inner thoughts, his head space so intimately invaded bothered him. But as Dr Lecter became Hannibal Will began to be able to decipher the face he once only took for stoic.
Which is why is surprised him when Hannibal walked through the door, suit crisp and hair gelled, and it took no effort at all to see the blatant relief as he rushed to his side and collapsed into a chair, which sent Will's face through a roller coaster of confusion. Hannibal did not collapse into chairs. He descended, he lowered, he sank with poise, he did not clutch Will's hand between in own and hold it to his lips, shoulders hunched, voice scratchy with emotion.
“Will.”
Abigail burst into the room, it was clear from her rosy cheeks and panting she'd run. She looked lovely in a power blue sweater and scarf. Will took in her large doe eyes for only a moment before she flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him and holding him tight.
“Dad!”
Will choked. If he could talk, he probably would have screamed.
.....
They monitor him for the next week, just to be sure he's fine. The day he woke up, Hannibal and Abigail's visit had been brief before the doctors and shooed them both out, saying to return the next day since visiting hours were over. Will couldn't speak, but he could watch, and he watched Hannibal for some clue as to what was going on. And Hannibal watched him, out of character with his hurried movements and eager eyes. Everything about him screamed relief and joy for what reason Will could not fathom.
In fact, everything he saw that day only spiraled him further into confusion. He watched through the large observation window as doctors spoke to Hannibal, and he signed papers. Abigail kept shooting him big eyed smiles and little waves when she turned back to look at him, jittery, excited. Hannibal only turned back to him once, before he ushered he and Abigail out of the hospital, and the deep adoration he saw made Will look away first.
That look made horrifying sense what some nurses brought in some of his things the next morning. Including a velvet box whose content the nurse in green scrubs helped slip onto his left hand. It hung loose on his thin finger.
“Your doctor is very happy you woke up.” She beamed in the reflection of the silver wedding band.
Will knew she didn't mean the woman in the white lab coat.
He tried every night, when he was alone, to talk. The first five nights, nothing but dry air. The sixth, some squeaky, garbled sound, and the seventh he could say words one at a time, though his voice was rough and scratchy. He kept that information to himself.
The next morning Hannibal came alone to take him home. Wherever that might be. He signed some release forms, noting how Hannibal's mouth quirked down when he signed them Will Graham. He supposed he was Will Graham-Lecter now or something.
Will found he had to move slow, despite the fact he'd been allowed to walk around his room for exercise all week. The body he remembered was gone, replaced by a thinner, fragile one with fingers too long and wrists too bony and everything a bit more lax and sunken. Hannibal kept a strong arm around his waist to keep him from falling in and out of the wheelchair he pushed to his car.
Hannibal didn't say anything in the car, or try to touch him more than he needed to, and Will was grateful for that. He was still trying to figure out how much time he had lost to pass out at a crime scene and wake up at least a year later married to Hannibal Lecter. He needed to ask him as soon as he could, but that would be a lengthy conversation. Will's voice and psyche weren't up to it yet.
Will reached for the CD player, raising his eyebrows at Hannibal for permission. He nodded with a small smile, and Will fell asleep five minutes later to a cello and piano's love affair.
He woke to warm fingers in his hair, and jumped back. Hannibal was still driving.
“I thought I should wake you before we reach home.” He smiled gently. “To discuss your confusion.”
Will breathed in relief. So he had picked up on it. Will was beginning to doubt how solid their marriage was if Hannibal could no longer eerily read his moods. Will knew he was the kind of man who would need such a partner, someone to discern him when he felt closed off, someone to let him be when he was, yet knew how to pull him out again. In fact, the whole week he'd been thinking about it. Hannibal's personality fit the needed profile. He could admit that, even if he was still weirded out. Though he was grateful now. For once he was relieved to have his head space so intimately known.
“Naturally you would be.” Hannibal began. “A coma is an intense state of being. It would be normal to wake up confused, to still have confusion after situational affairs were explained.” He seemed to pause. “But your coma is not the only cause of your confusion.”
“The doctors didn't bother to run further tests once you identified myself, Alana, Beverly, Jack..” He waved his fingers dismissively. “You answered memory questions enough, showed enough cognitive thought that they believed you to be fine.”
He glanced into Will's eyes, his words penetrated with meaning. “You're not fine, are you Will?”
Slowly, Will shook his head.
“I see.” Hannibal sighed quietly, and Will heard the barest sound of sadness undercurrent the heavy air. “We'll discuss this further when you can talk.”
Will nodded, turning his eyes to the road, and seeing a lovely house pull up. He hadn't realized the long dirt road they'd been driving on was their driveway. It had to have been at least a mile long.
The house was lovely. Two stories, white columns, trees in the front yard and a thick wood in the back. And not familiar.
They must have bought it when they got married. When William Graham had become William Graham-Lecter. He still had a hard time believing it, even with the ring on his finger and the shared dream house and Abigail and all of his dogs racing out of the house toward him.
The dogs reached them first, and he couldn't help but smile. He crouched down and played with them. How was Buster still kicking? Will thought for sure his stupidly fearless dog would have gotten attacked by something at this point. Winston licked his face enthusiastically, and five other noses of smaller pups licked his hands. At least his dogs hadn't changed.
He stood to embrace Abigail, who had started crying while she watched him greet the dogs. Her delicate hands held over her crinkled mouth. Will held his arms out hesitantly, still unsure how far her new affection for him went, only to have her rush into them so hard he would have fallen if the car hadn't been behind him to land on.
“Dad!” She was either stronger than she looked, or he was frailer than he felt. “It's unreal. You're back, you're here! It's like a dream.” She pulled back, all smiles and wet blue eyes. “Papa, isn't it unreal? How do you feel, are you okay?” She looked over him, as if worried he was going to fall over.
He nodded, reassuring her with a smile. Though, now that he thought about it he did feel light headed. He looked to Hannibal knowing he wouldn't make it inside by himself, who then moved toward him, wrapped and arm around his waist, and helped him walk towards the steps. Will could only shuffle along, incredulous of how weak he actually was. He couldn't even lift his feet high enough to take a normal step.
Abigail bounced ahead of them, holding the door open, running ahead of them to the kitchen.
Will was dizzy by the time he got to the steps, and had to clutch Hannibal tightly to stop from falling in the hallway. His vision was shaky, and after a break halfway there, he pressed forward to the kitchen and sank into a chair gratefully, holding his head in his hands to stop his world spinning.
He felt Hannibal standing beside him, silently monitoring him as he always did. Once again he was grateful for his insight into his head space. If he was going to pass out Hannibal would probably know before he did.
Abigail poured him coffee and bounced around to fuss over him, and Hannibal continued to observe him from the chair beside him, after taking off his suit jacket. When the world stopped shaking, Will looked around the kitchen, noting its stainless steal appliances and functionality. Very Hannibal-esqe.
Hannibal left his side to make dinner after stroking his hair, and Abigail talked to him while they watched him work, filling him in on everything but trying not to overload him. Which hardly mattered seeing as how nothing she said made sense. He didn't remember anything she was talking about, and concluded it all must have taken place during his time loss. Like his and Hannibal's marriage. Or how they finally adopted Abigail. Or when Abigail became friendly enough with him to start calling him dad. Or his coma, how did that happen?
That evening, after a simple dinner Will couldn't eat much of, shrunken stomach and all, Abigail went to bed after kissing him on the cheek, and Hannibal helped him into a small parlor and sat him on a familiar couch.
Will gives him questioning eyes.
“I imagine your confusion over most of our house is due to you not remembering it?” Hannibal says. “Though unfortunate, coma patients with select amnesia aren't rare.” He sounds resigned to that fact.
“We usually relax in here before going to bed.” Hannibal explained. “Our bedroom is through that door.” He pointed to a corner where a door is nestled between bookshelves. Will nods.
Will takes a minute to get comfortable, watching Hannibal sit across from him. In a chair set-up not unlike his old office, he picks up a bookmarked book. Will's friend looks comfortable, even still mostly dressed in a suit. He'd slid off his shoes and coat downstairs, but the rest of him was still neat and controlled.
Will wondered if he ever stopped wearing suits after they got married. He couldn't picture a married couple never wearing casual wear around each other, but couldn't picture Hannibal wearing casual wear in any circumstance. Did he have worn jeans in their dresser, threadbare t-shirts covered in work stains? Sneakers? That would be comical, if bizarre.
Will yawned, realizing how tired he was. He couldn't believe he was tired when he'd just spent a literal year sleeping. He hoped the nightmares would have mercy on him that night, because he didn't know if it was possible to collapse from exhaustion when one was sleepwalking, but he didn't want to find out. If he slept at all. He often had restless nights in new places.
He supposed it was time. Voice or no, he wasn't going to be able to sleep in this strange house leaving all the mysteries as they were. He needed answers.
Where to start. The first thing he wanted to ask was how the hell did we get married? But that seemed a bit insensitive. He decided to start safer.
“Hannibal, when did we adopt Abigail?” His voice is scratchy and low, but the words are fluid enough, and Hannibal nearly dropped the book he'd been holding, though he recovered smoothly.
“What do you mean?” He slides the bookmark back into place and sets it aside, giving Will his full attention.
“I..” A whole week since he's woken up, and he hasn't thought of a smooth way to say this. “I don't remember a lot.” He admits, grimacing apologetically.
It's the best he can do. He doesn't want to offend his friend by shouting I don't remember anything about our life together.
Hannibal leans forwards, dark eyes unreadable. He had slid into full psychiatrist mode in the space of a breath.
“Why don't we start with what you do remember.”
Will swallows, trying to get his voice to sound a little better.
“I was standing at a crime scene, the one with the ballroom dancers. I was in the middle of my thing, reconstruction, whatever. I hadn't gotten far. I remember grounding myself: 'My name is Will Graham, it is 11:24pm, and I am in Oakland Michigan.' Jack cleared the room of other FBI personnel and local officers. I remember specifically because one was very loud and Jack had to get loud to get him out.” He meets Hannibal's carefully blank eyes. “I don't remember anything after that.” He says carefully, once again taking in the strange room, the strange life he found himself in the middle of.
Hannibal watches him, and Will waits for him to break the silence.
Hannibal seems to take a long breath, and leans forward on his knees.
“Will, you've never worked for the FBI.”
Will has to have him repeat that.
“What?” He asks, disbelieving.
“You were a police officer, once, long ago before Abigail was born. Your supervisor was named Jack Crawford. But you never worked for the FBI.”
Will feels his eyebrows dip in confusion. “Explain further.” He commands.
“You used to repair boats for a living, but now we live off my salary as a psychiatrist, and you run a fishing equipment store as a hobby. You left police work behind when our daughter was born, seventeen years ago.”
There's no way. He's never owned a fishing store. He'd thought about it once, but never had, and the only boat motors he'd repaired had been his father's and his own.
“You were my psychiatrist.” Will says, stiff. “You taught me the grounding technique. You said it was an anchor in reality.”
“It is a technique I supply to patients, but you were never my patient Will.”
“Then what about Abigail!” Will snaps, frustrated. “There's no way I'm her father; she looks nothing like me. Or you, for that matter!”
“She is my biological daughter, and Alana Bloom is her biological mother.” Hannibal continues in his calm, irritating fashion. “She does look like Alana, no? We've had her since the day she was born. She's been ours since the beginning. We never adopted her.”
If Will could get up to pace he would. Nothing Hannibal is saying makes any sense.
“We've been married twenty years-”
“Well I don't remember it, Hannibal!”
Will scowls at the wall behind Hannibal's head. He refuses to look at him. “I don't remember anything.”
It doesn't make sense. He loses time, he doesn't falsely remember an entire life. He's not that kind of crazy.
Hannibal rises to his feet calmly, and moves past Will's rigid form. Will hears shuffling sounds behind him, and Hannibal returns with a black photo album, and sits close. He places it in Will's lap softly.
“Open it, Will.”
He does. The first picture he seems is a picture of himself, much younger, mouth open in mock surprise, and a much younger Hannibal kissing his cheek, eyes crinkled in happiness. He feels his stomach clench like cold steel.
There's no way.
But as he flips through the album in disbelief, from the tired hospital pictures of Alana sweaty and holding a bunch of white blankets, to formal family pictures with Will holding baby Abigail and Hannibal standing with his hand on his shoulder, to vacation pictures where Hannibal is in shorts and covered in dirt with ten year old Abigail covered in dirt too. He watches as page by page vacations and anniversaries and school photos pass, Abigail grows into her blue doe eyes and Hannibal and he start to grow lines around their faces. The last photo in the album looks like it was two years ago, Abigail looks a bit younger, her hair a bit shorter, taken at Christmas.
He's shaking when Hannibal pulls the book from his lap and returns it to the bookshelf.
“Let's go to bed Will.”
.....
Will can't sleep in Hannibal's bed. He sleeps in a guest bedroom, and his dogs pile around him. He pulls Winston on his chest and strokes him until he falls asleep.
It feels wrong to be in the house at all. This house that belongs to William Lecter, as he finds out, not even Lecter-Graham, Lecter, and his family. With its wine cellar and kitchen and halls decorated with pictures of Abigail and Hannibal and Will Lecter with smiles big enough to burst the frames. And its rooms filled with books and art and music and furniture Will discovered he's made himself. It's clean and tidy despite the dogs and there's a river five minutes through the woods that's teaming with fish and a swim hole and it's everything Will thought he'd ever find in a dream house, and none of it, none of it is his.
He can walk on his own after a few days, just short distances at first, then longer ones. He walks the dogs a lot, takes walks in the woods, fishes. Anything to not be in the house. He dislikes the way he fidgets with Hannibal and Abigail's expectant eyes following him everywhere.
Hannibal cooks all their meals, and Abigail helps. She's quite good, like Hannibal. Once Will's appetite returned they began cooking in earnest, trying to help him regain the muscle and body mass he lost. It works slowly, and he feels stronger and more like himself every day.
And less like Will Lecter.
He buys his own clothes. He can't stomach wearing the other ones. The five piece suits and cashmere turtlenecks and tailored waistcoats only serve to remind him this isn't his stuff. He's never even worn a cashmere sweater.
He finds he still has a separate bank account from the joined one he shares with Hannibal, which is where his fishing store money goes. He feels like that's a good thing.
He pours over the photo album when Hannibal's gone to bed. Willing himself to remember. Remember anything. But nothing comes, and more than once he's slammed it shut in frustration, put it back quietly, and stormed out of the house.
His certainty with reality begins to loosen after the first week back. He thought he had sleeping problems. Night terrors, night sweats, sleep paralysis, sleepwalking. He doesn't anymore. He's not sure he ever did actually. The only times he has trouble sleeping is when he takes off in the middle of the night for a long car ride, to clear his mind, to feel the distance pass, to do anything and feel like he's done something. He's sure to return before Hannibal wakes up, but the dark eyes over breakfast tell him he knows all the same.
The only explanation he can come up with is that he suffered amnesia, and his mind created an alternative reality to fill in the space. It's an unsatisfactory explanation at best. But he can draw no other conclusion given the evidence.
They never told Abigail anything was amiss, but she's not their child for nothing. Her beaming smiles lose their wattage before stopping all together. She doesn't kiss him goodnight anymore. Her doe eyes see everything around her, from her dads not touching to the way Will never looks his husband in the eyes anymore. He'd too afraid of what he'll find there. He doesn't think he could handle the affection, and he knows he can't handle the growing disappointment that he's certain is there.
He does the dishes every night after dinner with Hannibal, and they go to the parlor by Hannibal's bedroom. Every night it's the same routine of almost-but-not-quite-therapy. Hannibal lets him vent, lets him talk about everything he thinks he remembers. Will never tells him everything; there's no way this Hannibal can stomach it all. And Hannibal tells him stories about their life together, calm, professional. He might as well have been talking about someone else, a different marriage, a couple he saw on the news. Anybody else. That's what Will thinks until one evening a shared laugh makes him glance over at his friend, and he sees sadness emanating from Hannibal's eyes. It strangles him.
He goes to bed without a word.
At some point he asks about his old house, what they did with it. Hannibal tells him they kept it as a second home, they'd planned to give it to Abigail when she was older. Will doesn't bring it up again.
He feels Abigail's resentment of him. His empathy disorder was quite real after all he found out. His very presence is slowly tearing them apart, bit by bit, and they have to pretend otherwise. It's cruel. They finally have him back, but he's not here at all. He's sorry for them both. He sorry he's not who they need. And he starts formulating a plan to leave.
.....
He leaves four months after he woke up. The weather is warm enough to be homeless now. Not that he tells anyone that. But if the plan with the cabin hadn't worked out, that's what he'd be, and he didn't want to freeze to death.
While Hannibal is at work and Abigail is at school, he packs his things. Only the clothes he bought, the cheap ones. His soaps, anything personal of his he thinks will get thrown out and not missed. He leaves Winston there, and drives to his new home. It's not far, just two hours away from the Lecters' home. It's a small log cabin, on a river. Recluse, isolated.
He won't need to work if he's frugal. But he knew himself, and this would be ideal for him, for however long he needed to be here. He makes sure the locks he hired to be installed open for the keys he has, tosses his luggage into the living room, and then makes the drive back to the Lecters', preparing for what's coming.
He feels the tension of the air the second his car shuts off, like the very atmosphere is rigid with what's to come.
Hannibal meets him on the porch.
“You're leaving.”
He's stiff, formal. Will can't read anything in his face.
He clears his throat. “Yeah.”
Hannibal just gazes at him silent as the grave, and Will suddenly feels the needs to justify himself before the air strangles him.
“I can't stay here.” He fumbles for the words, tearing his eyes away from that impenetrable stare. “I can't remember anything, Hannibal, I've tried, I can't remember this house, or our daughter, or you, this reality isn't what I remember, and it's driving me insane.” He runs a hand through his hair, trying not to break down. “I don't remember you as anything more than a friend at best.” He whispers. “That's nothing you should live with.”
Will slides his wedding band off his finger and picks up Hannibal's limp palm, closing it inside. “It's not mine.”
Hannibal says nothing, and doesn't turn when Abigail joins him in the doorway.
“Are you leaving us?” She asks, big eyes taking in everything. She glances between Hannibal and Will, reading the air the best she could.
“Yes.” Will says softly.
Abigail nods once, eyes tearing up. Her voice is calm though, and she raises her chin defiantly. “Where will you go?”
“Away.” He keeps his gaze on her. “I have a place to go. It'll be just me and Winston.”
“For how long?”
He licks his lips.
“My name is Will Graham.” He says slowly. “I woke up from a coma four months ago to a daughter I can't remember raising,” He watches the first tear break free and roll down her pale cheek. “and a husband I can't remember loving.” He keeps his gaze only on her crying eyes. As much as it hurts to see them, he knows whatever is on Hannibal's face will be so much worse.
He clears his throat in a hurry and says, “I won't be coming back. This is the last you'll have to see of me.” It was the least he could do. If it was going to hurt them any way he chose, he might as well perform a coup de grace.
He brushes past them into the house, and grabs Winston's leash, snatching him up when he pads over and hooking him on it. He takes one last look around the house, wondering if he'll ever see it again, and approaches the door, where Abigail is clutching Hannibal's shirt, a hand over her mouth, and crying. Hannibal gazes out to the driveway, back rigid. Will can't see his face. He hasn't moved.
“If I find Will Lecter, I'll send him back to you.” Will says, leading Winston past them. “For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what you two are going through.” He can't meet Hannibal's eyes, so he hugs Abigail, who sobs into his chest but doesn't beg him not to go, and turns to leave.
Hannibal grabs his arm, Will's wedding band between two fingers.
“It's yours.” His voice is dead flat, but pleading.
Will shakes his head and gently removes Hannibal's death grip from his sleeve.
He turns his head to the side to shout as he goes down the stairs, “If you send divorce papers, I understand.” Before letting Winston into the car and climbing in after him.
He drives down their winding driveway, and it stretches so long he has whole minutes to watch as neither Hannibal nor Abigail move from the doorway. They stand still, one of Abigail's arms around her father, the other hand over her mouth. He doesn't look at them directly until they won't be able to see him do so, and the entire winding drive down their driveway he watches them watch him go. Every cell between his skin pulsed with bitter regret.
They're nothing but pinpricks when he sees Hannibal's head drop into one hand, shoulders hunched.
And Abigail bends with the force of her sobbing, both hands over her mouth and Willhas to rip his eyes from the mirror and drive forward before he can see anything else.
His staying here will do nothing for any of them. He reminds himself again and again.
He fights back heavy tears the entire ride.
.....
Will Graham's new life is serene. He'd planned it that way.
He wakes up every morning at seven and goes for a run. Just a few miles along trails and then home. He eats a measured, healthy breakfast, does his chores until a measured, healthy lunch, and does his hobbies until a measured, healthy dinner, then he reads books and plays with Winston until he takes a shower and goes to sleep.
In his front yard is a garden full of vegetables. He tries to buy organic. He's determined to remember something. And he knows the first step in healing is health. His mind won't rebuild or unlock itself on cheap whiskey and cheap carbs. He's starting from scratch. Rebuilding his foundations. He doesn't have internet, or even a cellphone apart from the one he keeps in his car for emergencies. There's no electricity, and everything runs on gas or wood. He finds it refreshing.
He reads medical textbooks and articles he prints from the local library about amnesia and regaining memories. Anything to help. Most of what he finds is just timing. Some stuff comes back with time.
He lets his beard grow out. He gains muscle mass from running and cutting wood and doing chores. He visits town once a week to refresh his reading materials and pantry. He learns how to hunt and pickle things, and how to sew and garden. Things to fill his mind. He thinks the more he uses new tissue maybe old tissue might be revisited.
A few of the women in town gossip about the 'sexy lumberjack' that goes to the library on Fridays, and he'd been approached a few times. They're always nice and smell sweet and he goes home with them for one night and it's more than enough social interaction, even in it's most basic form, to last him a long time. He's not lonely, and after a time he refuses their offers, content with himself. He's comfortable being alone.
Except for how strongly he misses Hannibal and Abigail. It surprises him, but it shouldn't. It's a hearty ache deep in his bones, deep in his chest. It's an itch he can't ever relieve, can't alleviate. He supposes it's natural to miss Hannibal; he remembers him as one of his only friends. As a man who understood him and the only one who didn't find his disorder off putting, often encouraging him into further embracing who he was. It's natural to miss that kind of unwavering strength. And he'd thought of Abigail as a surrogate daughter anyway, so he supposes it's natural to miss her too in small degrees, but not to the extent he actually does, like he's mourning but can't remember why.
He fishes a lot. It's one of the only things that bridges his old world and the new. He likes catching his own meat anyway.The harvest that year is good and he prepares for what he's sure is going to be an interesting winter. He makes a woodshed and fills it and fishes and hunts and preserves the meat, not that town is far away, but he likes doing it. He makes jams and pickles things and smokes things and cans things and when the snow finally sticks to the ground he feels like he'll be alright.
He lost track of the months a while ago, but well into winter is when the first one comes back.
It's not one memory, it's snippets of many, and the knowledge that ties them together is Hannibal's favorite jam is rubarb-cherry. Will had been scraping the last of some blackberry he'd canned onto toast, and anticlimactically he knew these things he hadn't known a moment ago.
Will remembers this and countless times he's made Hannibal's crepe recipe for him, jam-based glaze drizzled on them, or pancakes, jam and sour cream on the side, or holiday cookies, the jam filled kind. They used to make a batch every summer up until a few years ago, when Abigail got too busy with school. Will didn't like it at first but grew to like it over time. They even had one night one summer where the jam had played an erotic part in their lovemaking.
Will isn't overwhelmed by the memories, but he cries all the same. He's relieved. He feels like his efforts have finally been rewarded. Winston licks his face.
He keeps on his regimen, and takes it one day at a time. And the memories don't stop after the jam. They come back in bits and pieces. He remembers Abigail's fifth birthday. Then a vacation they took when she was twelve. A particularly messy diaper fiasco. The first time Hannibal and he made love. Abigail wanted to major in neuroscience eventually, write mystery books. The way Hannibal's mouth felt against his neck. How they met. How his feet are shaped. The exact colors in his eyes. His time in the police force, and his fish shop. The one time he got Hannibal to wear a leather collar and what followed. Abigail's first words.
It all comes back, and everything he took for reality, the FBI, the gruesome murders, the terror and tragedy, it's surprisingly easy to let it go.
The divorce papers never come.
.....
Two years later.
It's two years later, and Will trims his beard to a short scruff. He doesn't want to show up covered in razor bumps like a teenager, or he would have just shaved. It's the first time he's seen his jaw in a long while, and he's almost surprised he isn't an old man under there.
He dresses in his one pair of good jeans and a button up. None of his clothes at home would fit him now, but that hardly mattered.
He's not sure how he'll be received. He thinks Abigail will be in college now. Or traveling around the world, like they always discussed she'd do if she didn't go to college right away. Thinking of Hannibal alone in that big house makes his chest tight.
He packs his bags but leaves them in the cabin. If Hannibal has moved on, or rejects him, he won't have carted his bag for nothing.
He's going to beg if he must though. He's going to beg for forgiveness. He's going to plead with all the love in his heart and pull Hannibal into his arms and not let him leave them. He's going to kiss his mouth, his cheekbones, his forehead, everywhere he can. He's going to hold him like he's precious and there isn't enough time to tell him all the ways how.
He parks out front, so when Hannibal comes home he'll see the car.
He's almost surprised when his key still fits. But why would he be.
After greeting the pack and letting them out to roam the yard, he sets about in the kitchen, one goal in mind. On their anniversary Will always cooks. He cooks the only fish dish he knows that Hannibal likes, and takes a bottle of wine from the year they were married out from the cellar, and makes a rubarb-cherry dessert.
He's missed two anniversaries. He and his newly refined cooking skills have a lot to make up for.
Dinner is ready a few hours later and he sets it out to dash upstairs to their dressing room. All of his clothes are there, dusty but untouched. Only one of his old suits fit, and it's a tight fit, and so decides against it in the end. Hannibal might not want this new Will in his old husband's clothes.
He pops the cork on the wine as he sees Hannibal's car, a pin prick far away, turn onto the driveway. He pours them both a glass and waits standing. He wouldn't sit. It wasn't his home yet. It might not be ever again. The idea terrifies him, but he pushes it from his mind.
He heart is racing as he hears Hannibal's car stop and his door open and slam close. He hears footsteps calmly make their way down the hall, and finally into the kitchen. Will lets his eyes absorb Hannibal for a long time before meeting his achingly familiar dark eyes.
But Hannibal's not looking at him. He's looking at the table.
The silence is thick and Will let's it stretch on before he realizes Hannibal won't speak first.
He clears his throat. “I hope I didn't spend two years falsely remembering memories that aren't even true.” Will says into the silence. A real worry. “Or was there a reason we stopped making jam four years ago that I don't recall?”
Hannibal didn't even twitch when he spoke. His body faced Will directly, straight and too at ease to be at ease.
Will drank in the sight of him. He looked well. Same crisp appearance, same hair, though it was a bit more gray. But overall, he just looked tired. And it went beyond bad-day-at-work tired, it seemed bone deep, etched into the lines in his face that once echoed laughter. Will wanted to smooth that all away.
He swallowed nervously, and took a slow step around the table, moving towards his husband. Hannibal merely stood, back straight, ever calm, staring unmovingly at the dinner laid out before him.
Pace by pace, slowly, Will approached him until he stood by his side, mere inches from contact. His cotton blend almost touching the pinstripe grey suit.
The silence between them hung like a heavy thick fog, choking and constricting. Will didn't want to break it. But the man he loved deserved words from him.
He leaned forward, and spoke softly.
“I'm sorry it took so long, mielasis.” He murmured. He had tried so hard to heal quickly, but it had still taken two long years.
He went to move away, to declare the evening over and ruined. Clearly Hannibal wanted nothing to do with him right now.But as he stepped away Hannibal's hand grabbed his forearm, though the rest of him hadn't moved.
Will froze. And then he waited.
“You learned to cook.”
Will couldn't stop the smile that almost made his face hurt. Hannibal Lecter, reduced to simple statements. It would be comical if it wasn't heartbreaking and endearing.
“I had a lot of free time.” Will moved slowly, turning his body around, stepping back into Hannibal's space. “If you like, we can sit and talk about it.”
A moment later, and Hannibal seemed to deflate. He posture slumped and Will saw how his exhaustion was even deeper than he first thought.
“I would like that.”
Will took Hannibal's jacket and hung it up before returning to his own seat and sitting down. Hannibal followed suit, and Will knew without looking his dark eyes hadn't left him for an instant. But they would if he looked for them.
“I suppose I should apologize.” Will started, taking a bit out of the fish and tasting his words. “When I left I knew it would be difficult, but I honestly thought it would be for the best.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. He watched Hannibal's hands as he took a slow bite of the fish. “I can't apologize for the ends, but the means hurt you and Abby. And I'm sorry for that.”
Hannibal watched him, his face entirely schooled.
Will smiled encouragingly. “You can quiz me Doctor. I'm all here now.”
Hannibal took another bite, but Will saw the calculation come into his eyes. But he said nothing.
Will tried a different approach. “I didn't tell you much when I left. You must have questions. I'll answer one about the last two years for every one you ask me about our life together.”
To this, Hannibal finally nodded. “That's acceptable.”
Will smiled over his fish at his husband. “Make them challenging.”
The barest ghost of a smile that didn't reach his eyes flashed on his lips. It was more of a twitch, an acknowledgment, than anything. And it was anything but warm.
Hannibal straightened, leaning forward on his folded hands, food forgotten.
“Where were you for the past two years, Will?” His voice was cold as the ice glazing his eyes.
It was the first time Hannibal had looked at him since he returned, but Will wasn't sure he could even see him from behind the frost.
Will swallowed. The best course of action would be to not to over explain his answers, keep them short and sweet.
“In a small log cabin on a river, two hours from here. There's no electricity there, I never installed a phone. I wanted isolation. I wanted to be close enough to come back if I ever could.”
Will's answer invokes no warmth, if anything, the temperature in Hannibal's eyes drop. He's not sure what Hannibal wanted him to say, but it wasn't what he'd said.
But he doesn't comment.
“In what way did we meet?” He asked, voice calm, polite.
Will took a bite, if only to carry the illusion of casual comfort, considering what he should say. “In University. Alana introduced us. She was above me but below you, and told us later on that she only introduced us because she thought we would annoy each other instead of her.”
No change.
“Describe your time in the cabin to me.” Tight, professional.
This answer wouldn't be short and sweet, but he'd try to make it count.
“I thought the first step to regaining anything would be to start from the foundation. I began eating healthy and exercising. I began reading everyday and taking up new hobbies to keep using new tissues. I grew my own garden, caught my own meat, learned how to cook and sew and plant and all kinds of things to stave off the boredom. I went to town once a week to visit the library, read about memory loss and ways to regain memories, but that harbored little fruit.” He grimaced. “Winston kept me company. I started to regain my memories around the one year mark, and the rest filled in at a steady rate until there was nothing I didn't remember.”
Will hadn't been sure what would welcome him when he'd come today. His husband's eyes were iced over, not seeing him or anything around him. The temperature of the air seemed set at negative. Will would wear a bravado until he knew where they both stood. It was the only thing he could do.
“What were you thinking when you left here, Will?” The ice was even creeping into his voice now.
Will set his fork down too, staring at his plate. He spoke with meaning.
“That my friend and colleague was in love with me, and I could do nothing to remember why. And everyday I watch him grow sadder and more tired. That our daughter resented me for not being her father. That my very existence was a burden that neither of you wanted gone; just different, and I couldn't help that.” Will finally couldn't keep up his brave face and he heard his voice grow quiet. “I wanted to become the man you wanted, Hannibal. Or I wanted to give you the freedom to move on if I couldn't.”
Will had lost his appetite. The evening wasn't going as well as he'd hoped it would. Hannibal was furious. And Will couldn't bear it.
Will stood, and grabbed his coat off the back of his chair. He couldn't break down in front of Hannibal. And he couldn't beg an iceman. He'd have to go home, come back later.
“Sit the fuck down Will.”
Will's eyes snapped up, and if there wasn't a red gleam burning through the ice in Hannibal's eyes, he wouldn't have thought he'd spoken at all.
He set his jacket down and slowly sat.
“Yes, Hannibal?” Perhaps it was time to let the talker do the talking.
Hannibal met his gaze with a vengeance now, and Will sat breathlessly still as second by second with red fury not only melted the ice, but changed the stratosphere of Hannibal's eyes.
When he spoke, there was a snarl beneath his polite monotone.
“It is exceedingly cruel to willfully let someone worry about someone they love.” He leaned forward on his folded hands, eyes ablaze. “It is cruel that you made the executive decision to disappear off the face of the planet without my input.” His voice was firey and filled the room. “You wouldn't do that, even with friends. It is exceptionally cruel to not only not tell someone who loves you where you are going, but why you are leaving, or how to contact you.” He spits.
“I am irreparably hurt by you, Will.”
All at once the steam of fury he'd built up vanished and Will saw for the first time how deep the hurt ran in his eyes. He was hurt down to his soul, broken. For an instant his eyes were hollow caverns with a bottomless crevice shattered into the bedrock. Then Hannibal snapped his head to the side, breaking Will's gaze, and pushed away from the table in one shove.
Will ran around the table, and after him, heart racing.
He caught him by the arm, two steps up the stairs.
Will could only hear the sound of his own heart beating and Hannibal's shaky breathing.
“What would you have me do?” Will begged. There was nothing else he could do. “I would do anything.”
Hannibal's face turned towards the heavens. He spoke to the ceiling.
“I would have you as you are.” Hannibal cried out.
His strong back shook but his voice was rock steady.
“I would have you here. I would have you within my reach.”
Will stepped up and wrapped his arms around him, and pressed his face against his back. He held Hannibal close, tightly. Every tremor that wracked the doctor's body shook Will's. In all their years together he had never seen Hannibal sob like this, muffled, quiet. Both hands pressed against his face, hiding him and his shame from the world, from Will.
“You have me.” Will's own voice trembled with tears he refused their fall. “You have me.”
.....
It's a week later, Winston has reunited with the pack, Will's things are back home.
He shares his and Hannibal's bed again. He wear the clothes in his closet and throws his lumberjack ones into the trash. All his clothes are tight, and to Hannibal's amused smirk he replies that now that he won't be chopping wood everyday he expects his muscles to melt down to normal. Hannibal replies he won't mind in the meantime if Will's clothes are tight.
He asks for his ring back one night, and Hannibal tells him Abby wears it around her neck. Will asks why, and Hannibal tells him that after a while he considered melting it down into a bullet and tracking Will down. Abigail took it for safekeeping.
Will lets Hannibal call Abigail, to tell her her dad was back. All Will hears is disbelief, then wonder, then utter joy on the other end, all in French. She demands Will is put on the phone.
“Hi honey.” He smiles into the phone. “You know my French has never been as good as Papa's, so English please?”
“I'm coming home immediately. I need to see you, Dad.” He hears the tears in her voice, and suddenly he's crying too.
“Yeah.” He says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He clear his throat so his voice doesn't crack. “Yeah, I'd like that.”
She runs into his arms at the airport, her hair cut into a bob and her tongue pierced, and he spins her around his kisses her hair, and they cry and laugh and Will looks at Hannibal, who is stiffly looking away so Will can't see the mist in his eyes. They make dinner that night and talk about everything they can think of and anything that comes to mind and when Abigail teases him he could probably pick Hannibal up over his head with his new found strength there's only a brief moment of maniacal contemplation before Hannibal shuts that idea down with one cold look and Will and Abigail laugh until their sides hurt.
In the living room that night, when Hannibal had excused himself momentarily, Will apologizes to her too. She accepts it easily, leaning back against his chest, like they did all the time when she was a kid. And then she adds a deeper thought on after.
“I don't think I should apologize for how I treated you.” She murmurs, looking into space. “You weren't Dad back then.”
Will nods. “I don't think you should either.”
She nods once, thoughtful.
“How did he find you? Will Graham?” She asks.
Will hugs her closer, missing her still even after all the time they've spent together.
“It was less about finding me, and more about losing him.”
She nods, accepting that.
She leaves after a week, saying she'll be back for Christmas, and they wave goodbye as she boards the plane.
The next morning Hannibal slips his wedding band on his finger while they're eating breakfast.
Will doesn't expect the flood of emotion that fills him, or to break down into wracking sobs. He excuse himself to go to the bathroom, but Hannibal catches him and pulls his hands away from his face gently, and kisses his tears as they fall.
“I told you I would have you as you are.” He whispered, trailing his lips over Will's cheek, soft.
Will nods rapidly, sniffing loudly. “Yeah.” Sniff. “Yeah, you got me.” He pulls Hannibal's hand towards him and kisses his fingers. “As I am. Soppy and all.”
Hannibal kisses him, soft and lingering. His fingers run up his arms and cradle his head, pulling Will against his chest. Will cries quietly, Hannibal rubbing soothing motions on his back, his nose buried in his hair. And Will feels like he's finally where he belongs.
Will decides to continue his healthy lifestyle. Not that living with Hannibal gave him much leeway to relapse into microwavable food and whiskey like he had in college, but he feels good knowing his efforts paid off, and might continue to pay off. He writes down all his false memories into a journal, assembles his thoughts orderly, the life of Special Agent Will Graham. It's healthy, to get it all out, all the gruesome details he couldn't voice in Hannibal's vent sessions. It's horrific, and complex, and by the time Will is finished writing and reorganizing it all down, he has a large collection of journals.
He debates publishing them. They are a hell of a story. But the very last thing he wants is for some sick individual to read his books and reenact the crimes. Special Agent Will Graham's world needed to stay in his journals and never cross into the reality of rhubarb-cherry jam and harpsichord filled evenings. In the end he decides to slid them on a high bookshelf, neatly labeled, and let them collect dust.
.....
One evening while Will is standing next to the fireplace, staring at the photo album on the mantel, Hannibal walks into the parlor and wraps his arms around Will's waist, and Will leans back into him contently closing his eyes.
“What are you thinking, my Will?” He murmurs, low.
Will hums deep in his throat. “I was thinking we should start adding to the photo album.”
“Indeed?”
“I memorized it so well that I didn't need to take it when I left.” He leans into the soft kisses Hannibal trails down his neck. “I almost did anyway. Put it back because I thought you'd be mad at me if I did.”
“For taking a photo album of your family?”
“For taking a photo album of your family.” Will clarifies. “There was a good chance I wouldn't be back. I didn't want to take mementos of your husband from you.”
Hannibal slowly rocks them back and forth, humming content sounds against Will's skin.
“We've been meaning to add to it for awhile. So we should start soon.” Will sighs at the caress of Hannibal's lips on his neck. He was filled to bursting with affection, and basked in it further. It was never enough and never too much. And the way Hannibal was kissing him told him he had much better ideas brewing than scrapbooking.
Will turned around and brought his lips to Hannibal's, running his fingers under his jacket collar.
“Let's start that tomorrow.”