Chapter Text
In the morning, Will woke to find Hannibal still sleeping curled around him. Will was on his back now, Hannibal still on his side; Hannibal’s sandy head was heavy on his chest, arm tightly gripped around him. His soft breaths tickled against the hairs on Will’s stomach.
He looked serene, and Will almost mourned the purple bruise that still spread over his cheek, the little lacerations across his face. The little boy who Hannibal had been once didn’t deserve those things; didn’t deserve to be scarred like this. Neither did Will. No boy does.
But as men, they’d earned those scars, and they were scant punishment for the people they’d become.
Will ran his hand through Hannibal’s soft hair where it lay across his forehead, raking it out of his closed eyes. He wanted so badly to let go of his anger and his vengeance against this man. In time, maybe he could.
He gently lifted Hannibal’s heavy arm to extricate himself, and stepped quietly out of the bed. As he walked towards the door, he heard a little groan, and turned to see Hannibal clutching at Will’s pillow in his sleep.
He padded out to the kitchen and put the kettle on for coffee, scooping four rounded spoons of black grounds into the French press. While it boiled, he watched out the window as a gull took flight from the stone patio, gliding straight out to sea.
He could easily do the same at this point. With knowledge of where he was and how to get to town, he had no reason to stay with Hannibal. No obligation to forge their scarred histories into a new life, to put all their fear and doubt aside and trust each other.
But that path was wiped from his mind, replaced with a clean nothing. The only thing he could see in his future was Hannibal.
He poured himself a cup of coffee and set about pulling some dry goods from the cabinet to take with them on their journey. By the time he had it all laid out on the counter, Hannibal emerged from his bedroom, shirtless and bleary-eyed, hair a mess. He came to stand by Will at the island and yawned as he looked over Will’s cache.
“We’ll want medical supplies as well.”
Will nodded.
Hannibal pretended to be focusing intently on inventorying the bags of flour and rice and oatmeal, but Will noticed his nervous hand clenching and unclenching reflexively where he’d rested it on the counter. Will reached out his own hand and placed it over Hannibal’s, stroking the side of it with his thumb. Hannibal let out a hard breath and his twitch stopped. Will took his hand away again.
“Breakfast?” Hannibal asked, as confident and steady as ever.
“I thought you’d never ask,” Will replied, casual and easy.
Hannibal stepped back towards the kitchen, putting a quick hand to the small of Will’s back as he passed him.
He set himself to warming the leftover biscuits and the remaining sausage while Will worked on packing their things into the bottom of the rucksack he’d found in the linen closet. The whole thing was decidedly domestic, the way they’d fallen into this tiny routine in so short a time. Despite himself, Will was hungry for more of it.
After they ate, they split up to gather their things and prepare to leave. Will dressed himself warmly in the clothing he found in his dresser: a thick, blue cable-knit sweater over a henley, with denim work pants. He grabbed several extra t-shirts and boxers and slipped them into his rucksack. Over all of it, he put the peacoat back on, checking the pocket for the little knife. After a moment’s thought, he slipped it out and put it in the front pocket of the bag.
When they met again in the living room, Hannibal had also gathered some extra clothing for himself, and Will packed it into the bag alongside his own. On top, he put the little medical kit Hannibal had put together: extra antibiotics, morphine, gauze, and the little kit of needles, as well as several bottles of medication Will guessed might be difficult for them to acquire without a valid medical license.
Will insisted on carrying the supply bag himself. “Look at your back, Hannibal. You think I’m going to let you wear this?”
Hannibal looked intently at him for a moment, thoughts passing rapidly behind his eyes, and then nodded and set himself to shutting down the house: turning off the lights and thermostat, locking the door and leaving the key under the little rock on the patio.
“Will we come back here?”
“No.”
Will eyed the rock, balanced lightly on its ledge, the rusting key underneath. “You can’t know that.”
Hannibal looked out at the sea, churning a deep indigo where it stretched beyond the cliff. “You’re right,” he said as he turned inland again. “I can’t.”
He started to walk, trusting Will to follow.
This walk was much easier than their last one. The sun had come out, and the ground was smooth and even. Snow crunched under their boots with a rhythmic shnk-shnk-shnk. Their fear of capture had gone down substantially – if Verger or Crawford were coming to find them, they would have come already.
The path led them downhill, and there were several areas where they had to scramble down icy rock faces, Hannibal always going first, his steady hand offered up to help Will down. Will fought the urge to roll his eyes, but the gesture pressed against a soft, needy place in his heart.
Eventually, they came across a highway and followed it from a wary distance. The road was mostly deserted, but all the same, any attention was bad attention. They began to see buildings lying in the snowy fields, little farmhouses, wooden clapboard churches, the beginnings of a town; and then, over a small rise, a grid of streets appeared. It looked mostly abandoned, vacant warehouses next to impound lots, chain restaurants and dollar stores.
On the main drag, Hannibal stopped in front of a newspaper box, scanning the front page.
“It’s Sunday, that explains why nothing is open.”
Will felt a little spark in the back of his brain, realizing for the first time that he’d had no concept of time since Italy. He couldn’t even say how long they’d been at the farm, or asleep in the forest. Sunday made just as much sense as Tuesday would, or Thursday.
“Anything relevant?”
“About us? No, we haven’t yet made the cover of the Wicomico County Weekly.”
“I’m almost insulted.”
Hannibal just hummed, walking on towards the auto garage at the end of the block.
When they got there, Will saw that it had a small used car lot in the back. An orange sign on the door read SORRY, WE’RE CLOSED. Hannibal tried the door and found it open. He walked back out holding a set of keys in front of him.
“This town is small enough for people to still trust their neighbors.”
Will snorted. “Apparently, it’s not their neighbors they should be concerned about.”
Hannibal held the keyring up, inspecting it and then looking over the lot to see their choices. “I live close enough to count as a neighbor. Think of this as a favor.”
“What, they’re giving you a car for your not eating them?”
“Something like that.” He gave Will a cheeky smile, opening the chain link fence that led to the car lot.
Will laughed, and it surprised him. Their conversations had always flowed with an easy humor, but they’d lost much of that with all that had happened. It felt good to have it back, to relish the spark of chemistry between them again.
The key Hannibal had had a black plastic cap with the Toyota logo embossed on it. He went to the first Corolla and tried the door. Nothing. He worked his way down the line, eventually coming to a little green Tacoma that swung open for him. Giving Will an expectant look, he hopped in the driver’s seat.
Will climbed into the cab and put the rucksack between his knees. Hannibal started the engine smoothly and drove off the lot, as though he’d owned this truck all his life.
“This is a good look for you.”
“Hmm?” Hannibal looked over curiously.
“Pickup truck driver. You almost look like a local,” Will teased.
“Almost?”
“Almost.”
While Hannibal drove them out of town, down past the closed bank and the diner with three patrons sipping coffee at barstools, Will cranked the heater and fiddled with the radio. The only thing he could pick up was a country legends channel, and he settled for listening to the smooth sounds of Willie Nelson.
Hannibal looked at him sideways, the hint of a smile on his lips, but didn’t say anything. This was surprisingly comfortable, easy.
After an hour, driving back east to the coast and then straight down, they came to another little town, this one a little livelier. Hannibal suggested they stop to stretch their legs and buy groceries.
Inside, they each took a cart and loaded up with supplies for their impending boat trip. Not knowing where they were going or for how long presented a challenge, but Will knew exactly which sorts of provisions would keep and cook well. He stayed towards the middle aisles of the store, picking up cans of tuna and beans, bags of rice, jars of peanut butter, bottles of water. He let Hannibal handle the less practical things: the filet steaks and endive and goat cheese. The things that wouldn’t last past a week, but would be admittedly delicious while they did.
In concession to each of their talents, Will would make sure they actually stayed alive for the whole of their voyage, while Hannibal would make the whole thing much more livable.
When they met back up at the register, Will fought the urge to veto several of Hannibal’s selections, as he was sure Hannibal likewise wanted to eliminate his entire cart. Neither of them touched a thing, and at the register, Hannibal paid with an envelope of cash that had seemingly appeared out of thin air. Will knew better than to ask about it.
They loaded their bags into the bed of the truck, the weather cold enough they didn’t have to worry about refrigeration, and Hannibal kept driving, another hour down the coast to Chincoteague.
Will directed him through the little town to a harbor on the bayside. Hopefully someone would be in today – even if not, Will was now convinced Hannibal could find a way to get them onto one of those boats in any case. That might even be better, to avoid human contact as they had at the car lot.
He went into the little bait shop, and the bell dinged above the door.
It wasn’t Bill inside, but someone else, maybe his son or nephew. Will felt a moment of relief. They could still handle this legitimately, but it was less likely that this kid behind the counter would recognize him.
“Afternoon.”
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Any of these boats for sale out here?”
“Just the two on the end, and one of them has a shot motor.”
“What’ll you take for the one that works?”
“$5000.”
“It have a berth and kitchen?”
“Tiny one, yes sir.”
Reasonable. He pretended to think for a moment, looking out at the boat skeptically. “How about this, I’ve got a truck out here worth about $8000. Will you take that?”
The kid gave him a funny look.
“It’s a good deal, I’d take it if I were you.” Will could be smooth when he wanted to, persuasive. And often less obvious about it than Hannibal.
“Let me see the truck.”
Will walked him out to where Hannibal was still sitting in the driver’s seat. The kid looked it over and kicked the tires a few times.
“You guys trying to get out of here or something?”
“Do you want the truck or not?”
The kid walked around to the back and tried the little gate, opening it and closing it a couple of times. He wasn’t entirely buying this whole situation, but even he knew a good deal when he saw it. He nodded, seeming to come to some conclusion, then stood up and wiped his hands on his pants.
“Come inside, I’ve got the keys to the boat. I’ll help you load your stuff. Throw in some bait and a rod for you, too.”
Within thirty minutes, they’d gotten all their groceries onboard, the deck cleaned of old debris, and the engine purring smoothly. The kid seemed pleased with his new truck, and Will said a silent prayer that the used car dealer wouldn’t trace it all the way down here.
He was tired already from the day’s activity. Both of them were really still healing from their injuries and the stresses of the last week. His bones still ached a little, but he felt brighter and cleaner now than he had in months, years.
Their past life, the things that had belonged to them, were behind. Now all they had was this boat, this rucksack of clothing, and these bags of groceries.
He climbed up on deck and waved Hannibal up with him, holding out a hand to help him aboard. Once they were both steady, he checked all the gauges and untied the rope from the dock, pushing off with his hand.
He started the engine and let it run for a second, the thick smell of sparking gas filling the air briefly, and then they were off, passing slowly through the forest of boats that led out to the open sea. When he looked back at the dock, the kid had already gone inside.
Will took a seat on the bench lining the stern, guiding the motor with a steady hand. Hannibal came to sit beside him, and they watched as the peninsula turned into a lump on the horizon, and then a thin line; their boat, by now, a speck on the water when viewed from shore.
Once they were at a comfortable cruising speed, Will had a thought. He reached for the rucksack and opened the front pocket, fingering the little knife again, then taking it out. He held it and looked at it, turning it over in his hand once, twice, then tossed it over the side, Hannibal’s eyes tracing its arc as it splashed into the sea.
They sat back again together, watching the land go by, watching the gulls fly in close to them, and then farther inland, and then back again. The salt spray was cold in their faces, and it smelled good and clean and fresh.
“We’ll keep the land just in view and travel south.” Will had to yell over the noise of the motor.
Hannibal nodded, leaning in close to Will’s ear to make himself heard. “And then what?”
“We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
Hannibal smiled as he sat back. “I suppose we will.”