Chapter Text
The whimpers begin earlier today. It doesn’t usually start until past two in the morning but their growing frequency lately prepared him to anticipate their recurrence.
He’s barely drifted to sleep himself. Just the fluttering beginning of an invisible dream. Now his eyes fly wide open and he rolls onto his back, flinging the blanket off as he sits up straight.
The walls are too thin in this place and for nights like these, he’s grateful for them. His bare feet pad across the wood flooring that groan awake under his passing weight. The door’s unlocked. They’ve learned the hard way to keep it that way. He grabs the dry towel from the stack as he marches to the edge of the bed and stops abruptly to stare at what lies in front of him there.
Hannibal isn’t awake yet. Usually he is by the time Will has crossed the hallway, silently pulling himself up to catch the dry towel Will throws at him. But tonight, he’s still trapped in his sleep. Will takes that in; from the top of his head twitching on the pillow to his curling and uncurling of his bone white toes peeking out from under the covers. He’s writhing in his own quiet and controlled way, clearly distressed.
In all the years that Will has known him, he’s never seen him like this.
Even when he was severely injured, he still wore his mask so well. Still kept Will out of the veil. But now, there’s nothing to hide him. His agony is out in the open, and Will wonders if anyone else - Bedelia or Alana - has seen Hannibal like this. He hopes not. Selfishly, he wants to be the only one to witness Hannibal in torment.
Reciprocity, he thinks, is what Hannibal would call it. He’s seen Will in misery far too many times for this one to count. And yet, the rarity triples its price.
He waits by the bedside until the nightmare passes. Until Hannibal’s pale eyelids flutter open and he pulls in a gasp of air as if he’s taking his first breath. He’s not aware that Will is there. His face twists in displeasure as he adjusts himself, turning onto his back and he freezes when their eyes meet. The amber of his irises seem to smolder as he registers Will’s presence. Silence fills the air as Hannibal waits in his half-risen state, elbows propped on the mattress supporting his weight while Will lets him decide what he wants to do next.
He does nothing.
Will tosses the towel in his direction and he catches it deftly midair, as he always does. But his eyes stay sharp and hawk-like, fixed on Will even as he brings the supple cotton to wipe the sweat on his face. Will ignores the heat of his stare and walks to the window. It’s tightly shut and he cracks it open to let a sliver of cold air in. It should help with the sweat.
He stands there for a while, watching the night still falling thick, chasing the next day in shades of ebony. The stars are absent tonight. The moon beaming white and proud high above the cloudless sky. The air is dense with broaching winter. The wind bites sharper and when he senses a minute tremor passing through Hannibal’s shoulders, he snaps the window back shut.
The first time he’d awakened to Hannibal’s whimpers, he’d sat bolt-right on his own bed the whole night, unable to sleep. The second time, he’d braved the distance, pried the door open after tentative knocks to the door and asked an alert Hannibal if everything was alright. The answer was a yes. The answer had always been yes until he learnt better and stopped asking at all.
But he didn’t stop opening the door. Didn't stop going inside and making sure that everything was indeed alright. After his knocks and questions have grown weary over time, his concern began to show in a toss of a dry towel for Hannibal to wipe his sweat off. Where in the beginning he departed quickly, later on, he began to linger. For a minute then two and the latest, a solid five until he shut the window and left without a word.
Tonight he walks to the armchair next to the window and takes a seat there.
He’d thought about sitting here ever since he’d begun to linger. But he never could bring himself until today. When he looks up, Hannibal’s already looking at him.
“That didn’t sound like a good dream.”
It’s an absurd comment to make. A flat, lazy joke with no intent and purpose other than a bunch of empty words strung together to fill in the silence.
Hannibal doesn’t seem to take offence. “It wasn’t.” He says and Will nods.
It’s been a year and a few months since they’ve stuck together after surviving the fall. They haven’t really spoken much ever since. At least in comparison to what they use to prattle on and on about everything and nothing at all. Silence cast them in more companionable shadows. They keep to themselves, slithering through the crowds in enviable synchrony. And when in private, they keep to themselves in their own private bubbles.
It doesn’t feel like they need many words these days.
Hannibal’s thoughts are already catching up to Will’s unspoken ones and Will’s hands are already reaching where Hannibal wants without any verbal exchanges. But just because there are lesser words, doesn’t mean there are lesser conversations between them. Even when they’re sitting walls apart, they can ‘hear’ what the other’s thinking. Like a pair of limbs attached to a singular central nervous system, they operate in tandem.
It makes him wonder if all those plentiful words in the past were only there because of his resistance; Hannibal tugging him down the cliff while Will vehemently holding on.
And then he fell.
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
“Do you?” Hannibal asks brusquely. He’s snappish in the aftermath of a bad dream. His eyes are flat with no emotions in them. The sharper edges from before recedes inside when Will doesn’t bite the bait. His shoulders fall and he lets out a sigh as he peels the blanket off of himself.
There’s a wet patch in the shape of his body on the sheet soaked with sweat. They both look at it for a long second. Then Hannibal stands up, walks to the cupboard and bends over to retrieve a new set of bedsheets from there.
Will watches the line of his pale body - long limbs and torso, softened hip dips with age and injuries - as he limps back to the bed and drops the folded sheets there. Then he steps into the adjoined bathroom, closing the door behind him. Will gives a few seconds before standing up and changing the sheets.
It doesn’t make sense for him to sit there doing nothing while Hannibal gets ready for bed a second time around that evening. Besides, the faster things get done, the earlier they sleep and the more they rest before the Sun chases them out of the bed again.
By the time Hannibal exits the bathroom, Will has flattened the new sheets and bundled the sweat soaked ones in the hamper.
“Thank you,” Hannibal says with a weary glance at the bed. His voice cracks with either sleep or exhaustion. It’s grating, rough and unpleasant to hear.
“Water?”
Hannibal thinks for a moment before he nods.
They head downstairs together. Will leads the way with Hannibal following after. He turns on the light switch at the foot of the stairs, pauses to take the space in. Eyes doing a swipe and two just to be sure that there are only them in this bungalow, Hannibal’s form a palpable source of warmth that he misses as soon as he steps away from him.
The kitchen hosts a dancing light show for them; white moonlight shining through the window onto the opposite wall with branches of the tree outside swaying to the tune of the breeze. Hannibal speaks when Will places a hand over the light switch.
“Leave it dark.”
Will nods. He can appreciate the vision without wearing Hannibal’s eyes. His hand slips down the wall and he looks over his shoulder to ask, “Will water do or do you want milk?”
“Milk,” Hannibal answers after a pause. “Warmed, preferably.”
Will doesn’t bother to respond to that. He already knows how Hannibal likes to take his milk. Not too hot to burn the tongue but warm enough to feel its heat going down. A generous tablespoon of honey. Presented in his favourite polka dot mug.
“Take a seat,” he tells him. “I’ll get to it.”
The moon is bright enough to lit the room tonight. The flame from the stove adds to the light when it comes alive. Every time he sees the fire, he’s glad they’ve replaced the electric stove that was preinstalled when they first got here. It doesn’t quite feel the same and being someone who cooks more and is knowledgeable in the art, he thinks Hannibal agrees with his opinion as well.
There’s half a bottle of fresh cow milk and a full unopened bottle of goat milk in the fridge. He takes the cow milk and shuts the door. He’ll settle for tea tonight he supposes. He’d never developed the taste for goat milk even if he’d found it in himself to savour goat cheese in later years.
Hannibal sits on the kitchen stool at the counter. Arms folded atop as he watches Will in silence, eyes tracing each one of his moves without missing a beat. It used to bother him, but he’d forgotten since when it hadn’t. Now the knowledge of his gaze simply registers as an extension of his own shadow cast across the kitchen floor.
He puts the pot of milk on the stove top. The air around them warmed up from the fire he started earlier on. While he waits, he shuffles around the kitchen, opening the cabinet doors, fetching the damned polka dot mug, the pot of honey and before he forgets, his own chipped pale blue mug (which came with the house and he refused to exchange it with the matching pair of dark blue polka dot mug Hannibal got for him, to go along with his burgundy one).
He takes a sacchet of tea from the top drawer, tears the packet and pops the bag into it. Then he fills the kettle and sets it to boil. The milk starts to simmer on the stovetop. Hannibal sits straighter with anticipation while Will waits for it to come to a boil. When it does, he turns off the fire and takes the pot off of the stove. He grabs a large bowl from the lower cabinet and fills it with ice cold water before lowering the pot into it.
It’ll take exactly a minute and a half to get the ideal temperature. In the meantime the kettle switches off when the water boils and he pours the still bubbling water into his trusty old mug until the tea bag floats to the surface. He leaves that to steep, uncapping the pot of honey and scooping a spoonful into Hannibal’s mug. Then he pours the milk to the brim and stirs until he feels the honey at the bottom dissolve.
With the air warm and toasty, he serves the hot beverage on the kitchen counter and takes a seat on the stool facing Hannibal.
“Thank you,” rasps Hannibal before he takes a careful sip. Both hands wrapping greedily around the ceramic mug seeking warmth.
He grunts, keeps his own hands close to the steaming mug of tea but not in direct contact with it. Hannibal may have developed resistance to heat but not Will. The smell of honeyed milk and oolong tea coalesce strangely but harmoniously in the air. He takes a deep breath in, eyelids fluttering close at the comfort it brings.
“What did you dream about?”
The question surprises him as soon as he hears his own voice echoing. He didn’t mean to ask it. He never knew he ever wanted to ask it. Until after he did.
Hannibal’s eyes meet his over the mug’s rim. Pupils blown out in the dark to adjust to the dim light. His throat is unmoving, which indicates that he’s not drinking to excuse the silence that follows. But after a long minute, he swallows, places the mug down on the coaster and clears his throat.
“Most of my childhood and the worst of my adulthood. Their fragments intersperse, jagged and sharp. Cutting.”
Will stares into the distance between the spread of Hannibal’s fingers, unseeing. There’s nothing he can say to that. He shouldn’t have asked the question to start with. He doesn’t know why he did it. Curious, he supposes. After nights of simply watching Hannibal tormented by things he couldn’t see, he wanted to know what it was to sate his own curiosity.
“What do you dream about when you sleep, Will?”
He blinks, looks up and shrugs. “Falling. Pain. Sometimes I see people I could have saved, just out of reach.”
“Your failures.”
“I guess.”
A moment passes where they both hunch over the steam, inhaling it in, deep in private thoughts and then: “Do you dream of me?”
Will’s eyes snap to meet Hannibal’s, and for a second he’s humored by the question. Then he realises that there’s nothing funny about it. All of his nightmares feature Hannibal, and now some of his better dreams too.
“Sometimes.”
Hannibal nods, a little quirk to his mouth followed by pointed silence that makes him feel left-hanging on purpose. He huffs a breath and kicks a foot out to nudge Hannibal under the counter.
“What about you?”
“All the time,” Hannibal chuckles. His eyes flick to Will then everywhere else, as if he cannot look at him at that moment. There’s some kind of secrecy still retained in that confession, a sort of vulnerability that is faint but foreign to Hannibal. As he picks up the mug for a long drink, his gaze resolutely never lands on Will.
“Are all of your dreams about me a nightmare?”
“I dream about you irrespective of its nature. Akin to an extension of my own conscience, you are always present in the same room as I am.”
“Whether I’m physically there or not.” Will echoes, understanding. He’s not referring to dreams as much as he’s referring to reality. Nevertheless, he gets it. “Must be all the time we spend in close company.”
Hannibal’s avoidant eyes snap to Will. Bright and clear. “Do you wish for distance?”
Will purses his lips. “I think it’s best if we stick together -”
“Even if we get tired of each other?”
He stops, mouth parted mid sentence, having been interrupted by Hannibal and he closes it. Swallows with a click and asks with a sudden heaviness clogging his chest cavity. “Are you tired of me?”
“Does one get tired of the air they breathe?”
It’s not a question but a confession. Will hears the ringing in his ears wash away the sentence. He ducks his head, scrubs his face hard and takes a deep inhale.
“I’m not tired of you,” he states. He’s not one for grand gestures like Hannibal but he’s honest. In the end, that’s all that matters to him. That doesn’t mean that he thinks Hannibal’s lying. He simply possesses flair for the dramatics.
Hannibal nods.
“I don’t care that I dream of you,” Will carries on. “The familiarity helps sometimes. I see you and I know you and I feel comforted by you.”
“In your subconscious.”
“Not just.”
Hannibal is quiet. Will waits for him to speak, taking a sip of his still hot tea. He’s given too much he thinks, then maybe just enough. He’s not sure. The admission makes him feel like he’s cut open.
Eventually Hannibal speaks.
“Memories from my childhood blur into vague traumatics. The outline is faint but it’s enough to construct a horrific tale made up by the neurons in my brain. Oftentimes I see my sister in that place. Sometimes I see you with her. You are either as young as I was, or am, in that dream, or as old as you are now. First, you only materialised my later years memories, brighter, more defined. A floating entity in the sea I hold onto in order to breathe. But later on, you began to bleed into all of my pages. I see you in places I’ve never seen you before. Sometimes you are punishing, other times you are comforting. But always, you are grounding.”
He pauses for breath. His finger taps the mug, twice, thrice and then, “My conscience and subsconscience have come to associate you with safety.” His eyes land on Will, full of weight and clarity.
Will stares right back at him, unwavering. The words feel loaded, burdensome but frankly, it’s been an unspoken fact gardened and nurtured between them for so long now to feel affected. Denying that he feels the same would only be lying. Admitting feels like peeling his skin off of his flesh. But Hannibal’s sitting in front of him with his viscera raw and red for Will’s perusal. So he nods.
He picks his own mug, half hiding his face as he takes a slow sip and he puts it down gently. “It’s not different to how I feel.”
Confessions are hard. Only got harder as years passed by. He was bad at it to start with then somewhere along the line he opened up with Hannibal’s constant prodding. Then like fly-trap, everything snapped shut. Now, prying things out of his head feels like a physical exertion. It leaves his palms clammy, heart racing and sweat beading across his forehead.
He swallows thickly and stares at the shadows of branches and leaves on the wall over Hannibal’s shoulder. There's a question on the tip of his tongue which he’s been toying with lately. Especially after the storm cloud has passed and they’ve made a home out of the safety house. Imperfect, but still, a home. His eyes flick to Hannibal who’s staring out the window. At the moon that casts the shadow.
“Are you happy?” Will asks, voice stuck in the grave, still trying to crawl three feet left up there. Quiet, non imploring, but merely concerned.
He’s aware of the lifestyle they’ve adapted in order to fit in here. All the injuries accounted for, disabling the vigor they used to afford before. There’s a deep sort of exhaustion that resides in them now, weary on their old creaking joints and bones. He thinks it’s multiple things accumulated into one large avalanche that has buried the two of them whole. They’re not dead really. They’ve just grown comfortable in hiding.
But that’s not how Hannibal used to live. He thrives to savour every second of a moment with passion and endless curiosity. For his sake, Will hopes this plateau is temporary. But it’s been six months and counting. Without carefree socializing and extravagant luxuries. They savour but rarely indulge. Will has begun to question what version of him Hannibal has become.
Is the hesitancy still lingering? Does he still not feel safe to fully live instead of surviving? Is he happy going through life like this? Will wants to know.
“Happiness is fleeting and subjective.” Hannibal avoids his eyes.
“But do you feel it?” Will asks. Demands, more like. Leaning forward as he tries to catch Hannibal’s eyes.
“Of course.”
“Look at me,” Will commands and waits until he does. “Is this the life you want to live?” His voice cracks at the end of it.
He hears the question rip a bandaid over his own unhealed wounds. Some bleed, some burns. He’s asking this himself as much as he’s asking Hannibal and he can see it mirrored in the dark pool of his eyes.
Will blinks, looks away and pulls another deep breath. He didn’t imagine being here when he’d gone to bed earlier. Lately, things have been predictable and boring and this definitely changes the pace.
He pushes the mug away and takes his face into the cusp of his hands. “I wear the guilt of ruining your life. It haunts me worse than the ghosts of my past.” The heat of his breath condenses and he brings his hands down, dares to look Hannibal in the eyes again. There it is, he thinks, his veins and arteries pulsating in the open.
Hannibal looks at him for a long while before he says, “My life is not ruined.”
“Are you sure -”
“Do you feel as if you’ve ruined your own life?” Hannibal interrupts before he could challenge. “A misplaced guilt at your own expense.”
Will bites his tongue, swallowing down the rage it invokes to be called misdirected. Misplaced - Same difference. He’d pondered over this thought for way too long to have it questioned. He grits his teeth and bites it out.
“My guilt is not misplaced. The only ruin I’ve subjected my life to is the continuity of it.”
“You wish it had ended.”
“I wish I had died when I jumped.”
The silence rings like an echo of an unrung bell. The hollow that follows his raised voice, accidentally unleashed contempt and shattered regret. His heart beats loud enough to knock against his eardrums. Tremors begin to creep under his skin and he breathes out, long and slow to chase it out of his stream.
Grabbing his pale blue mug, he pulls it back closer and hangs on. Willing the fading warmth from the cooling tea to bleed into his hands and further into his body.
The wind outside ruffles the leaves. Hannibal lowers his head to finish the last of his milk and Will follows his action, taking large gulps of the tea and sighing gratefully at the perfect temperature that heats his belly.
“Do you still wish you were dead?” Hannibal asks in the darkness of the unlit kitchen. His voice free of judgement, a mere casual tone adopted from old professional habits.
“Sometimes.” Will tells him.
“What about most of the time?”
“Most of the time, I don’t think about it. I don’t care. It didn’t happen and I’m not actively trying to make it happen.” He shakes his head. Nervous scoff punching out of his chest. He takes another drink, finishes the tea and pushes it out of his way. “That’s not what we’re talking about. I asked you a question.”
“And I answered your question.”
“Not really,” Will points out. “It was a yes or no question, you avoided saying either.”
Hannibal regards him for a short second. “Happiness is subjective,” he repeats his statement from earlier. “Oftentimes we find our happiness in people we love. Are you happy, Will?”
I’m content, he thinks. But what comes out his mouth is a delirious, “Why? Does your happiness depend on mine?”
“Yes,” Hannibal says, without batting an eye. So sure of his answer, as if to ask: Do I need to make it any more obvious?
His chest swells, “I’m not… Unhappy.”
“Neither here nor there,” Hannibal smiles. It’s small and sad. His fingers tap incessantly against the mug before he asks, “Will adopting a stray help?”
“A stray?” Will barks out a laugh. Shocked by the suggestion that seems to have come out of nowhere.
But Hannibal is still serious. “Yes.” He says, despite Will’s visible scepticism. “You have always found joy in your family of strays.”
“Which I don’t have,” he blurts out, chasing the rest of his words down his throat.
He doesn’t have anyone, but himself to blame for what he’d lost. He misses his dogs everyday, sometimes throughout an entire day. But he can only hope they’re taken care of. That Molly doesn’t project her anger at Will onto them even though he knows that she’s not the type. Because people can be unpredictable. Take him, for example.
He stops picking at his hangnail and shrugs, “There aren’t any strays around.” Their eyes lock when he looks up.
Hannibal’s mouth twitches at the corner. “Not yet,” he agrees. “But Mary’s dog is expecting a litter of five soon, I hear. If you’re interested.” He adds pointedly.
“She may want to keep them.”
“She’s looking for potential adopters. Has her hands full of the farm animals.”
“And you offered?”
“No. I wanted to ask you.”
Will takes that in. He worries his lower lip, eyes downcast as he weighs in the proposal. “I don’t know…” he trails off. “It’s been a while.”
“I understand.”
“But we’ve been here for a while.” He looks back at Hannibal. Testing the waters. Making sure before the excitement brewing in his veins triple.
“We have.”
“No one has come looking.”
“Indeed.”
“You think… You think we could settle here?”
Hannibal makes a show of pulling in a breath and looking around the kitchen at expanse. “Seems like a good place to do so, don’t you think?” His mouth gives way to a smile, thinning the wider it stretches.
“You are deliberately encouraging.”
“I have no reasons to oppose,” he chuckles. His eyes glinting with the first sign of joy Will has seen in a long time. It makes him smile in return, mirroring the emotion.
He stands up, shaking his head as he collects the emptied mugs.
“Tell Mary we’re offering.”
“I’ll see her at the market,” Hannibal says as he remains seated. Talking over the stream of water when Will turns on the faucet. “You can tell her yourself if you come along this Saturday.”
He washes and rinses the mugs, turns off the water and wipes his hands dry before he turns around to face Hannibal. “Adopting a stray is still not an answer.”
Hannibal’s smile shrinks into a smirk. The joy in his eyes fades into dull amusement. “No it’s not,” he concedes.
“So what is it then?”
“I think you should shed that guilt you wear under the false impression that you have ruined my life, because I am exactly where I want to be.” Hannibal’s eyes stay on him for a long time until the point of the matter sinks in.
That there is no other place he’d rather be dead or alive if there is no Will by his side.
He nods, accepting it for the time being. “How far along is Mary’s dog?”
“Seven weeks last Sunday.”
Which means there’s approximately a month or so to prepare to welcome a new occupant. Pet store run, toilet training space and so on while they wait for the pup to wean off.
“You think Mary will say yes?”
“I think Mary will be more than happy to give away the pups to you than anyone else.”
“Pup,” Will corrects him. “Or pups. Depends how many gets rehomed of course.”
“Of course,” Hannibal ducks in agreement, endlessly amused.
Will folds the towel to dry on the counter’s edge and feels the need to state. “I’m not getting prematurely attached.”
“I agree. This is anticipation.”
Surely doesn’t sound remotely the same compared to the bubbling excitement building in his belly but he’s not going to argue against his own claim.
“We’ll keep them indoors. The weather’s too cold outside.”
“Of course.”
“They’ll have a training room for the first month of course. If they behave, they can roam the ground.”
“I defer to your expertise.”
He taps his fingers on the counter rapidly before pushing away from it, and he approaches Hannibal still seated on his stool. “Do you even like dogs?”
“I have nothing against them.” When Will arches his eyebrow at him, he continues, “I got along well with your dogs before.”
“You bought their affection with your homemade treats.”
“And I shall continue to do so with our soon to arrive puppies. With your permission of course.”
Will hums, pulling the stool opposite and plopping on it. “Is this…,” he waves in general, “a form of therapy.”
“Having a pet has always resulted in exceptional therapeutic results. Albeit, it was purely accidental that I came across an ecstatic Mary who was happy to share about her expectant companion and asked for our hand in adoption.”
“Sure,” Will scoffs. “Purely accidental how the conversation we had earlier coincided with this sudden ‘highly effective therapeutic plan’ as well.”
“You do not believe my words.”
“I have problems accepting happy accidents. Trust issues, you see.”
The edge of Hannibal’s lips twitch in amusement. “You can confirm this yourself coming Saturday.”
“I don’t think you’re lying about the puppy,” Will shakes his head. “I just think you wouldn’t have brought it up had we not been discussing what we were discussing earlier.”
Hannibal stays quietly thinking, before he says, “There is nothing I say that will dissolve this doubt from your mind.”
Yes, Will thinks. Nothing at all. Perhaps a word or two with Mary to confirm the truth but he’s not going to buy anything that Hannibal will tell him right now.
“Trust issues, like I told you.” He shrugs.
“Consequences I reap from my own former actions.”
Will doesn’t deny or confirm. The dancing shadows of the branches catch his attention and he follows their motion, listens to the wind whistle before it settles and asks, “Back to bed?”
“I suppose,” Hannibal sighs. His knees creak concerningly loud when he stands. Will waits for him to stretch them out before letting him lead the way back upstairs this time. He thinks, this has to be most amount of words they've exchanged in one sitting in months. Familiarly in depth, leaving his chest still feeling cleaved wide open for poking and prodding. There are words still stuck in his mouth. Like shards of a hard candy chewed in haste, stuck in between teeth, and it's sharp but sweet. He sucks on them wondering if Hannibal will be able to go back to sleep easily or will he too, struggle as he replays the conversation they had tonight.
At the landing, they stop to look at each other. Hannibal’s room is on the right side whilst Will’s to the left. Hannibal turns with a parting nod of acknowledgement, unceremonious. Whilst Will stands there, waiting until the door shuts close behind him and he murmurs a low, "Good night."