Chapter Text
Will makes three startling discoveries upon being pulled from the water.
The first is that he is alive. This is quite the dilemma as he fully intended for the fall to kill him. Between the drop, the crushing waves, and the amount of blood he and Hannibal lost bringing Dolarhyde down together there wasn’t supposed to be any chance that either would walk out of this alive. Yet here he is, spluttering and shivering on the shore, a group of concerned fishermen gathered over him with worried looks on their faces.
The second discovery is that he can’t see out of his left eye. He’s not sure if this is a permanent or temporary malady as the eye itself seems to be intact, but his vision is well and truly gone on one side. Disturbing, but not life-threatening.
The third realization is that Hannibal is nowhere to be found.
Despite a great ache in his head and a vicious pain in his cheek he stands, practically throwing himself back to the water to find the missing man. His haste is impeded only by the men who revived him, who grab him with firm hands weathered by years of hard work and drag him back to safety. He struggles, but between the headache and the blood loss and his impaired vision he just doesn’t have the strength to fight left in him. All of it was spent defeating a dragon. He falls back to the cold, wet sand and clasps his head in his hands, body shaking so hard he feels his soul might be dislodged from its moorings.
He barely registers the chill seeping into his skin from his wet clothes. The wounds in his cheek and side are nothing more than distant aches. He is aware of nothing but Hannibal’s absence.
They were supposed to fall together. Odette and Siegfried, unable to be joined in life but forever bound in death, plunging into the lake to seal their pact. There was no other way. Will couldn’t exist with Hannibal in the dark world he’d created for him, no matter how twisted and sick he’d become in the years they’d known each other. No matter how he’d been shaped into Hannibal’s image. In that same vein he couldn’t turn Hannibal over to Jack, couldn’t imagine a life lived without him. Without his intensity, his strength.
Will has made a terrible, terrible mistake.
He doesn’t notice the ambulance until strong hands are gripping him by the shoulders and a woman crouches into his field of vision.
“Hi there,” she says, smiling kindly. Will immediately resents her. Despises her. Wishes he had the strength to get up and walk far, far away, back into the ocean to let the waves pull him under. Back to Hannibal. “Can you tell me what your name is?”
For a moment he debates ignoring the question, but it won’t be long until Jack catches wind of his retrieval and once more has Will in his grasp. No sense in prolonging the inevitable. “Graham. Will Graham,” he rasps, voice hoarse and raw from the saltwater he’s swallowed. His cheek pulls and burns, and he can feel a fresh trickle of blood spill from the wound.
The woman nods to someone standing behind Will, and he can hear a man’s voice speaking to someone through a radio. He doesn’t care who. It takes him a moment to realize the woman is speaking again. “...good care of you, Will. Can you stand? Come on, easy does it.” She offers her hand (he debates ignoring it but even he isn’t that rude) and with a gentle tug pulls him to his feet. A blanket is placed around his shoulder as he’s led into the ambulance, and then they’re off.
Every mile takes him away from that inky black water, from where Hannibal is waiting for him. From where Will has left him behind.
*
A doctor holds a small light in front of him, shines it directly into his right eye and watches with approval as Will’s pupil dilates. She moves the small penlight to the left, where it promptly disappears from Will’s sight.
“There. Nothing now,” Will says wearily.
The doctor hums and writes something down on her clipboard. Will knows he should ask if it’s permanent, should wonder what the course of his treatment is going to be, but he can’t seem to find it within himself to care. All he wants is to curl up with his dogs and a bottle of whiskey and drink until he disappears.
“Well, Will,” the doctor says softly, tucking her hand in her pocket. She’s a petite woman somewhere in her fifties, hair short and stark white, eyes dark and sparkling. She seems kind. The nametag worn neatly on the lapel of her white coat reads “Dr. M. Chaudhary.” “It’s mostly good news, although we’ll need to hear back on some of your blood work before you’re completely in the clear. You’ve got a hematoma in your eye. That explains the loss of vision, and it means it’ll be back in a few weeks or so. We can pursue some treatment options to speed the recovery along. We will have to keep you though to keep an eye on those wounds, you’ve lost a fairly extensive amount of blood.”
Will’s heart sinks. He’s eager to get out from under these lights, into the darkness and quiet he’s longing for.
As if specifically attuned to Will’s misery and dedicated to worsening it, Jack Crawford walks in with a grim look on his face. He’s got his hands tucked in his pockets, his hat tilted low over one eye. Will remembers a time he used to bask in Jack’s unwavering determination. Now all he can see is the root of all of his unending pain.
“You’re going to have to stand on this side,” Will says lamely, motioning to the right. “I can’t see out of my left eye.”
Jack gives a short nod, adjusting accordingly. “What happened up there, Will?” If nothing else, he’s to the point.
Will is ready, though. He’s been practicing this answer for quite some time in his head, knowing it would be on the forefront of Jack’s mind when they reunited. While every aching piece of him wants to tell Jack the truth, wants to scream that Hannibal’s gone and it was supposed to be both of them and how dare he speak the name of the only man he could never get under his thumb...well, he knows that just isn’t wise.
So he blinks. And he sighs. And he picks out the pieces of the truth that Jack will want to hear.
“We killed Dolarhyde together,” he mutters out of one side of his mouth. The other is stiff, stitched and bandaged and still numb the lidocaine they injected into his skin. “He shot Hannibal and got a few good stabs in on me, but we managed to finish him off. He’ll be up there still, unless the vultures got to him.”
“And Hannibal? How did you end up in the water?” Jack’s voice is a warning. Watch what you say, I’m not sure I know where your allegiances lie anymore. Will has to give him credit, Jack is a smart man.
“Hannibal is dead,” he says, voice flat. “They brought his body in an hour ago, he couldn’t be revived. After Dolarhyde was dead we could barely stand up without holding on to each other, so...so I got him to the cliffside. And I pulled him over.”
Jack frowns, eyebrows knit as he pieces everything together. “You must have known the fall would likely have killed you.”
Will closes his eyes. He nods slowly. “I was banking on it.” His admission is met with silence, so he forces himself to continue. “I’ll never be free of him, Jack. Even now, now that he’s gone. He’ll never let me go. It seemed like the only way.”
“I can think of a few options other than killing yourself.” There’s a concern, a desperation in Jack’s voice that almost cracks through Will’s stony exterior.
“Can you?” he bites back, eyes flashing as he opens them to stare down the man in front of him. “I know you’ve struggled too, Jack. I know you’ve lost people you loved. But even through it all, you never for a moment lost track of who you were. You never lost sight of who you’re supposed to be, of what’s right.” He looks away, raising a shaking hand up to run his fingers through his hair. It’s still damp from the water. Or has he been sweating? Time swirls around him, points of reference melting into one another. “Even before him I didn’t know who I was. And when I finally start to figure it out it’s because someone I trusted implicitly had been manipulating me, shaping me into this...this monster I always feared I’d become. So no, Jack, there isn’t much left for me. Not many roads to travel, not if I’m going to be carrying all of this with me for the rest of my life.”
Silence fills the room, so thick and tense that Will thinks he might choke on it. It’s like the water all over again, forcing itself into his mouth and down his throat. When Jack finally speaks it is with the same dismissive tone he’s always carted out just for Will.
“You’ve been through a traumatic experience,” he says, clapping a firm hand on Will’s shoulder. Will’s muscles scream at the touch - the pain medication is starting to wear off, and beyond that he just doesn’t want Jack to touch him. “You’ve been tangled in his web for far too long, you don’t know how to exist outside of it. But you’ll get home, and you’ll pick your pieces back up, and you’ll see. I’m not going to let you waste away, Will.”
“I was always going to be his last victim, Jack,” he said softly. “Even with him gone, he’s seen to it. He killed everything that was Will Graham. I don’t know who he left in his place.”
*
He sees a number of visitors during his convalescence. There’s a neverending stream of doctors, psychiatrists, detectives; a whole slew of nameless, faceless people he has no desire to speak to. Freddie Lounds comes in to start warming him up to the idea of a book, smirking and sure until he starts to shout and tries rip his IV out of his arm. It’s pretty drastic and all for show but it definitely gets her out of the room.
Surprisingly, Jimmy Price ends up being his favorite visitor. It doesn’t hurt that he walks in with a steaming cup of coffee that isn’t from the hospital cafeteria. It’s from some tiny cafe nearby, and when Will takes a sip it’s rich and dark and strong. He moans at the comforting bitterness, letting his head tip back to the stiff pillow behind him.
“It’s been a long time since I made a man moan like that,” Jimmy teases. “I wish I’d known sooner that coffee is the trick.”
Will manages a crooked smile; it’s the least he can do. “Does Jack know you’re here?”
“Jack realized a long time ago that trying to control me is like trying to walk a hummingbird on a leash,” Jimmy says, waving his hand. “Anyway, I’m a grown man. A stubborn one at that. I’d like to see him try to stop me.”
They spend an hour making surprisingly comfortable small talk, Jimmy catching Will up on everything that’s happening back at work. Now that Hannibal’s gone they’ve moved on to new cases, new criminals, new creeps that stalk the night and prey on the innocent. “No one building beehives out of people’s heads or using their bodies to grow mushrooms, but...it’s been nice. To solve some normal murders for a change.” Jimmy stops, making a face. “Well, as normal as murders can be.”
“No, I know what you mean,” Will sighs. “We’ve spent a long time dealing with the really bizarre ones.”
“Speaking of bizarre ones,” Jimmy says pointedly, putting his empty cup aside. “How are you dealing with Hannibal being gone? Are you alright?”
Will is too stunned to respond. Jimmy is the first person to acknowledge that Will might miss the man he’d grown so close to, that he might actually be in mourning. The question almost feels like a trap. He tries to stall for time, tries to tamp down the emotions that seem eager to bubble up out of him, but he can’t seem to find a way to keep it at bay.
“You look surprised,” Jimmy chuckles. It’s not unkind laughter, he seems to be looking at Will like he actually gives a damn. “You’re allowed to miss him, you know. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He sighs, sitting back in his seat and folding his arms. “I used to date this guy in college that was absolutely awful. Steve Manning. Just a total prick. A little while after we broke up he died in a car accident, I was devastated. Everyone I knew hated him; my parents, my friends, everyone. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love what I loved about him, what we had between us.”
Will adjusts in the bed. He’s turned so he can see Jimmy with his good eye, glued to his words. “I just...leave it to me to have a crisis of sexuality over a cannibal,’ he murmurs, a weight lifting off his chest as Jimmy laughs again. “I don’t know, Jimmy. He was a lot of things to me, I don’t know how I’m supposed to fill this empty space where he used to be.” It’s the first time he’s admitted the feelings to himself, now that they exist in the world he can’t deny the emotions simmering so close to the surface.
“You don’t,” Jimmy says simply, giving a small shrug. “That space is very specifically his size and shape, and it’ll always be there. But you’ll learn to look away from it, and it won’t itch so bad anymore. You’ll find new ways to fulfill yourself, new ways to spend your time. New people to have crises over.”
He reaches over, taking Will’s hand in his own. It’s warm and soft - Jimmy clearly cares about tending to skin. For once Will doesn’t feel the urge to pull away.
“You’re going to be okay, Will,” he promises. “I don’t know how yet and I doubt you do either, but you’ll be okay.”
Will doesn’t believe him, but he appreciates the sentiment all the same.
*
A week into his hospital visit Alana comes to see him. Will doesn’t speak through the entire visit. It’s not that she’s done anything wrong; on the contrary, Alana seems to be the only one who ever does anything right. Still, he owes her so many apologies, an amount so overwhelming that the words get caught in his throat. So they sit in silence, hands twined together, speaking their sorrow through the simple bond of their touch.
She’s got Margot and their son. With Hannibal gone they are safe. Will can only hope that it’s atonement enough for all of his sins.
*
“Will. I’m glad to see you’re recovering.”
Of everyone affected by Hannibal’s gravitational pull he expects the visit from Dr. Du Maurier the least. They’ve always made their displeasure with each other quite clear. Will’s sure his hatred of her is some sort of misplaced jealousy, a simmering rage that she ran away to Italy as Hannibal’s bride while Will bled out on his kitchen floor. He made the wrong choice that day, and she took his place far too easily.
She walks in with a thinly veiled disinterest, eyes sweeping over him where he’s laid out on the bed. It’s getting easier to get up every now and then and walk around, although the wound on his stomach is taking its time to heal. His face still stings and itches as it begins to knit back together, but it’s no longer tearing open every now and then in a fresh gush of blood that runs down his cheek and into the corner of his mouth.
His eye is still no good, but perhaps that is his punishment for living when Hannibal did not.
“Bedelia,” he says wearily. “Good to see you.”
Bedelia offers a chilly smile as she pulls a chair close, sitting primly with her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap. “Good, we’ve gotten our customary lies out of the way. Let’s spend the rest of our visit being completely honest with each other. I’m told Hannibal Lecter is dead.”
Will looks away, clenching his teeth. The words make him want to vomit. He’s had nearly two weeks now to come to terms with the loss, but it’s not going as he’d hoped it would. Every day brings a fresh wave of pain and the renewed knowledge that he is now truly alone in the world. For better or worse Hannibal is the only person to ever see him for what he is, to love him for the demons inside of him. He’s starting to realize the depth of his own affections, and how it’s too late to do anything about them.
“He drowned,” he said quietly. “I was supposed to go with him, but I fucked it up.”
He should tell Bedelia that he can’t see her when she sits on the left like that, but he finds he doesn’t really want to see her anyway. The disinterest in her voice makes him want to scream, but he doesn’t want to reopen his stitches. Everything right now is teetering on a knife-edge between what he wants, what he needs, what he ought to do.
“How very Romeo and Juliet,” she says after a pause. “In the truest sense of the tale. They couldn’t get their deaths right either.”
For a moment Will debates asking her to fuck off, but somewhere in the back of his mind Hannibal gently reminds him that appearances are everything and rudeness is an abominable sin. “I guess that makes me Juliet,” he says with a sigh. “Is there something I can help you with, or did you come to gloat?”
Bedelia tuts gently. “Will, you were never my enemy. I’ve always found you to be a bit foolish, but your adoration of Hannibal can’t be blamed. We were all flies in his web, anyone who flew too close couldn’t help but stick. My most recent irritations all gravitated around you setting free the man who had promised to someday consume my flesh.” Will finally turns his head to he can see her as she speaks. Bedelia tilts her head, a curious look on her face. “Do you love him?”
Will is taken aback by the question. “What?”
“Do you love him?” she asks again, more firmly this time. “There must be something you feel for him, if you were so willing to die with him to avoid having to face your conscience and turn him in. To live without him. I know he loved you. Do you love him?”
The question quickens his pulse. He knows deep down that he has a lot of self-reflecting to do, so many questions to ask himself about who he and what this whole ordeal has done to him. Still, the words come to his lips before he has time to think about them.
“Yes. So much.”
Bedelia nods, lips pressed tight together. Despite her well constructed mask he can see a range of emotions flicker through her eyes, pity and disgust and understanding and something else that he can’t quite place. She lifts her purse into her lap, unsnapping the clasp and sliding her hand inside. A small piece of paper is retrieved, folded into a crisp square that she reaches over to press into his hand.
“Good,” Bedelia says firmly. “Go get him back.”