Chapter Text
"I don't even know what I feel. How could I, when I don't know why I did it?"
Will's steps echo through the house, accompanied by the howl of the wind passing through the shattered glass. Hannibal looks at him, with that forsaken, unreadable blank slate of a stare that Will understands less than if he had tried to read ancient runes. He walks back and forth, back and forth, like the pendulum of a clock. The heels of his shoes click against the wooden floor with every step he takes.
"When we paint, we start with the lightest colors, for making light dark is far easier than making dark light. The darkness that resides in us has a tendency to pour out and drown all sources of light" Hannibal answers. It is one of those answers that Will thinks he understands, but there always seems to be a deeper meaning that Will would have to figure out for months to come in everything Dr. Lecter said.
He thinks about the darkness in himself. The one that sought for the beauty he had felt when his knife drew the life out of The Dragon. But when he thinks about that he thinks about killing Garret Jacob Hobbs. That hadn't felt beautiful. He thinks about Hannibal's words and wonders if that was because there was still more light than dark at that point. He contemplates how ugly he had felt when he thought he'd killed Abigail. Was she his light? Sometimes he hated Hannibal for putting that light out. For having it drown in its own blood while Will watched.
Will hates himself too, even more than he does Hannibal. He hates Hannibal for opening his eyes to the world beyond the veil, but he hates himself more for being unable to resist it. He thinks that maybe the beauty he had felt when killing The Dragon would follow him into death if he took his own life. Maybe the fleeting moment could be made permanent in the afterlife, if there existed such a thing.
Maybe it would’ve been best if Hannibal hadn’t dragged him into the house once they were sure the Dragon had stopped breathing. It would’ve been better if he had let him bleed out rather than suture his wounds with a first aid kit they retrieved under the sink.
The needle had stung when it repeatedly penetrated his skin to drag the thread into shutting all his wounds, but it had stung more when he realized he’d have to live with what he’d done and how he felt about it.
He had looked at Hannibal’s face then. The blood, his own, Will’s and Dollarhyde’s, painting in splashes and streaks across his face. He was still bleeding from his wounds but refused to treat them until he had stitched together Will’s. He had looked focused and calm, a staggering opposite of the turmoil Will felt within him. It worsened the twist in his stomach.
A part of him- the part that had wanted him to do good with the FBI and save lives- was terrified of Hannibal's contentment with murder. It repulsed him and made his muscles tense in preparation to run away. Another part- and it felt like it had been growing stronger for every second he’d spent with Hannibal the last couple of years- envied him and relished in it. He wished that the regret and anxiety he felt would subside so he could let the exciting, potent feeling of sweet power wash through him. He felt it in his chest when he saw the glint of life in Dollarhyde’s eyes go out. He felt it when he looked at Hannibal right afterward, seeing him bent over and catching his breath, while his eyes stayed on Will. The feeling grew when Hannibal’s eyes sparkled with joy and pride, and it faltered when he felt himself smile.
Hannibal has brought an overwhelming amount of despair into his life. His shoulder has never recovered from being shot by Chiyoh. The deep scar still stretches over his abdomen and the gaping hole in his heart that Abigail used to fill throbs with emptiness every day. But he can’t bring himself to hate him. Most days he feels like Hannibal is the only one he can ever be himself with. The only one he ever wants to be himself with. When he looked at his eyes, following the movements of the needle he was threading in and out of his skin, he never wanted to look away again. He wanted Hannibal to look at him forever. He wanted him to see every part of him that he felt was wrong, and turn it into something beautiful.
“Will?”
The call of his name drags him out of his memories. He has stopped wandering back and forth and now instead stands in front of the shattered window. His eyes are glued to the splayed out corpse of Francis Dollarhyde, laying in a pool of his own blood. They feel dry as if he hasn’t blinked in a while. He drops his head and stares at his feet, at the puddle of wine he is standing in. They hadn’t cleaned up. They hadn’t rested. They were still covered in blood, in a cold house, with life threatening injuries. Maybe it would’ve been better to rest, but the racing of Will’s thoughts was unmerciful. Hannibal had called his name from the seat he had taken after he’d licked his own wounds. Where he had watched him fight within himself.
Will hadn’t said it, and he hoped the doctor couldn’t tell how conflicted he was about him. He had been conflicted before but this was entirely new and more powerful. Every moment that passed he contemplated pouncing on Hannibal and wrapping his hands around his throat. Squeezing the life out of him until he was as still as the Dragon. Squeezing until he was sure that Hannibal Lecter could never hurt another person again. Squeezing until he was sure that the cannibal could never again persuade him into doing this.
He couldn’t bring himself to do that. In the same moment those thoughts passed through his mind, they fought with thoughts of getting down on his knees and thanking the doctor for opening this door for him. Thanking him for accepting him. Thanking Hannibal for showing him a part of life and himself that was so deeply tucked away he wasn’t even sure it existed before he’d entered Hannibal's mind.
“What,” Will answers. He wanted to snap it. Spit it. Show Hannibal how angry he is. But his question came in a pained whisper, as if his body couldn’t muster much more. He surprised himself by still standing up at all.
“How do you feel,” The doctor asks, as he had done earlier.
“I already told you I don't know how I feel,” This time his answer sounds adequately snappy.
“I think you do,” Lecter says with the same calm that Will despises. He turns around and looks at him, gnawing at the open wound in his cheek while trying to figure out what the psychiatrist is getting at. “I think you know exactly what you feel but you are ashamed to admit it,” his statement is objective and analysing. Will considers this. Hannibal continues: “I think that no matter what you decide you are feeling, you are betraying someone. Either me, or every other part of your life. The question is what is more important to you. Do you want to tuck yourself away again and live a normal life, or do you want to accept who you are and live with me?”. Will can see uncertainty in Hannibal's eyes. He is scared of what Will answers.
Will thinks about his life. His wife and son, whom he loves dearly. His dogs. All of which would never be safe if he returned. He would never be able to release Hannibal from his mind. He knew he couldn’t kill him, even if it often was his greatest wish. Hannibal had buried himself in the depths of Will’s soul, in a way that assured that he would never experience the peaceful life he longed for.
He thinks about Jack Crawford, who had used him for his own gain. His own gain, or for the gain of the FBI, but always without consideration for what Will needed. Jack Crawford, who pushed Will into the minds of the damned. Maybe Jack was at fault for Will’s becoming, just as much as Hannibal was. He thinks of Beverly Katz, who was dead because Hannibal killed her. He thinks about Abigail Hobbs, who was dead because Hannibal killed her. He thinks about Alana Bloom, who he had loved but who had turned against him because of Hannibal.
He thinks about himself and who he used to be, and realizes he doesn’t miss it at all. He realizes that despite everything, the only part of his soul he wants was the one that belongs to Hannibal.
“I feel like,” he starts and slowly turns around to look out the window again. He looks at the black sea of blood that reflects the moonlight and continues “like I want to eat him.”
Somewhere behind him, he feels Hannibal’s smile. But Will doesn’t turn around. His stomach turns at his own statement and he thinks he might puke. But he knew what he had said and he stands by it. He wants the life of Francis Dragonhyde to be honored. He wants to honor it like Garret Jacob Hobbs had done with all the girls he had sacrificed for the sake of keeping his daughter alive. For he loved her too much to kill her and consume her, even if it was something he would never stop wanting.
Will looks at Hannibal, who is standing up and walking towards him, and thinks that he understands the feeling.
He had thought that he had understood the feeling when he entered the mind of Hobbs, and realized the suffocating love he felt for Abigail. When he had consumed that love and felt it for himself, but now he realizes that he has never known anything. Will realizes that he will never get away from the suffocating obsession he feels for Hannibal. He will never be able to stop this. He knows that this is all just a first step down the staircase that will descend him into whatever world Hannibal rules.
The man is standing in front of him now. Despite not being much taller than Will he towers over him in his groundedness and complete control of the situation.
“Do you want to honor every part of him?” Hannibal asks. His tone gives way of nothing but a genuine question, but Will feels like he is mocking Hobbs. He shakes his head quickly, his eyes falling to the point of Hannibal's chest where he often lays them to avoid the piercing eye contact. He feels ashamed of his request. Ashamed to give in.
“No,” he answers and wills his eyes up to stare confidently into Hannibals. “He wasn’t innocent. He doesn’t deserve that,” The words feel like sod in Will's mouth as he utters them. “But I don’t want his death to have been for nothing.”
“His death wasn’t for nothing. It saved his future victims,” Hannibal argues. Will furrows his eyebrows. He had thought that Hannibal would delight in this. Hannibal understands. “I just want to make sure you are confident in your choice, Will.” He says and Will thinks that his name sounds sweet like honey when Lecter says it.
“I’m sure,” Will says and Hannibal walks to the kitchen and grabs a knife. Will suspects that this isn’t the doctors preferred way of harvesting his products, but they don’t have a sea of options available.
“Which piece would you prefer?” Lecter asks, as if he was a butcher in a shop.
“Please don’t ask me that…” Will thinks his voice sounds pathetic, but Hannibal looks at him almost sympathetically. Will wonders if Hannibal too was apprehensive his first time.
He turns his back and sits down by the piano. He isn’t a skilled player but any flow of disarrayed tunes will feel better for him than the sound of the knife penetrating what is left of the Dragons torso. He hears Hannibal walk past him and outside before he starts playing and he quickly lets his hands start dancing over the keys. He plays Vivaldi’s Four seasons and he plays as many wrong notes as he does right ones, but he doesn't stop. He doesn’t stagger to correct himself and he continues even when his shoulder starts aching.
He thinks back to when he first met Hannibal. Before he had taken a life. How many lives had Hannibal taken then? He realized that the disgust he feels is not with Hannibal, but with himself. He remembers himself as weak and vulnerable. Everything after Hannibal had toughened him up. The frequent thought of wishing he and Hannibal had never met enters his mind and he swatted it away. Hannibal had changed him, profoundly, and he was sure that he had changed Hannibal as well. He wishes not to live a life without him. Has that not been his entire dilemma? He can’t bear to think of himself as someone without Hannibal. He feels codependent.
The sound of Hannibal’s shoes against the broken glass causes Will to stop playing. He looks out the window first and sees that the only thing left is a puddle of blood. His curious eyes turn up, his body twisting so he can see Hannibal where he is standing behind him.
“I figured you would not be against me disposing of the body?” He suggests. Will smiles, just a little.
“No funeral?”
“He is probably bobbing in the water if you wish to take farewell,” a wretched smile plays on Hannibal's lips, and Will thinks that he doesn’t mind murder as long as he gets to continue staring at that for the rest of his life.
The doctor walks into the kitchen and lays the chosen organ on a plate which he covers in plastic wrap and places in the fridge. He turns to Will, who has followed him closely.
“I am below much, but I am far above cooking in dirty clothes, and so are you.” He decides and Will couldn’t care less. They were about to eat the inner parts of someone they had just murdered. Nothing on them hadn’t already been in him. But he doesn’t argue.
He follows Hannibal further into the house. This being the first time he had seen these rooms feels weird. Hannibal enters a room, which must be the master bedroom, and walks confidently towards the dresser. Will wonders what his plan had been, seeing it was already stocked. If they had run away when they intended they wouldn’t have been able to stay here for long anyways. He wonders how long they’ll be able to stay here now. The FBI knows they are gone. They probably know they have killed the dragon as well. It is not an if but a when they are going to show up.
He feels something in his hands and realizes that while he was thinking Hannibal has handed him a change of clothes and a towel.
“There is a shower down the hall, I will use the en-suite” He instructs and Will feels grateful that he doesn’t have to think for himself. Dr Lecter is a smart man, just like Will. They both understand he is in shock.
His legs carry him towards the bathroom and in the shower he feels like death. His body aches, having been tossed like a ragdoll. He might have broken something, at the very least he is bruised. His stitches sting under the warm water and he isn’t sure if this is the proper way to treat them, but he doesn’t care. He fears that this feeling of uncertain distance from himself, the uncaring of whatever happens to him, was to persist. He didn’t choose Hannibal for a life without passion. If that was what he wanted he would’ve stayed home. He would’ve longed and kept Hannibal in the furthest room in his house of memories. The door would stay as closed as he could keep it until the day he finally died. But that wasn’t what he had chosen.
The water is scalding hot and it hurts. He hopes it will wash away every single drop of blood from him. Rid him of the taste in his mouth and smell in his nose. The coating of his lungs and the memories of his knife entering through the layers of skin and fat of the Dragons stomach. He wonders how Hannibal had felt when he did that to him. He didn’t think he felt powerful. He hadn’t looked like he had wanted to do it. But Will didn’t understand Hannibal Lecter. He understood how he felt and he was as much in Lecters head as his own. But when it came to Will, he was unclear on Hannibal's thoughts and actions regarding him. Feeling things about himself through the lens of someone else was uncomfortable and frightening and in the calm before the storm he had neglected to do so. Now it was far too complicated.
The soap the shower was stocked with is unscented, which disappoints Will. He had hoped for a clean smell to erase the copper that he tastes. Instead, he smells nothing, and the memory burns brighter than his senses.
He steps out of the shower and pats himself dry half-heartedly. He pulls on the clothes he has been given and looks at himself in the mirror. He has expected to not recognize himself, to be met with the face of a monster. But for the first time he sees himself with undoubtable clarity. No one else's psyche piggy-backing his. No criminal to enter the mind of. Just himself. Will Graham. Murderer, and soon to be cannibal. His eyes stay locked on his own for a long while before he leaves the room and walks towards the kitchen.
The brown sweater he has been given was soft and light, and he shivers at the cold air that got in through the window. The hole is large, a whole window pane missing and Will considers what to do about it. He should probably clean up if they are to stay there, but Will doesn’t know if they are.
When he enters the kitchen he looks at Hannibal, who is clean from blood, which shows all the cuts and scratches he now wears. He is clothed in a simple, yellow dress shirt. A soft shade of the color of the sun. Warm but pale. He has tucked it into a pair of black dress pants and Will wonders if he isn’t cold. Unlike when he usually cooks, Dr. Lecter isn’t wearing an apron. He has probably neglected to stock the house with one. Uncharacteristic.
Will’s eyes glaze over the wet strands of hair that stick to Hannibal’s forehead. He walks forward slowly. Stopping, he rests his hip against the kitchen island in a casual lean that doesn’t resonate with his internal feelings, and looks at what Hannibal is doing.
“Regrettably, I had not had the foresight to obtain fresh ingredients ahead of this,” Hannibal says, and Will laughs. “It will be a spartan meal.”
“Fine with me,” Will says and looks towards the window which continues to bug him so much. “What do we do about that?” He asks.
“Hm,” Hannibal says and takes a break from the cubing of the meat he was working on. Will can’t tell what organ he had picked out. Maybe because he doesn’t want to look. “Well, I suppose we could temporarily tape a blanket over it.” Will sees that he is displeased with such a raggedy solution. But they are both aware that phoning a handyman would be far from wise.
“How long are we staying here for,” Will asks and starts looking around for tape, which he finds in a supply closet. He takes the decorative blanket from the couch and starts trying to tape the blanket over the glass.
“Not long. It would not be wise. We have the misfortune of working with highly intelligent people. I do not believe they will be in a hurry to find us, for I think they have some sympathy for you. But they are professionals” Hannibal says. “I will settle a new residence somewhere else as soon as possible. Any requests?” He asks and returns to chopping the meat into three centimetre cubes.
“Not Lithuania” Will says and feels a stitch of regret that Hannibal never got to see his firefly. It would feel disgusting to tell him about it.
Hannibal chuckles lowly and nods in agreement. Will continues patching up the window and then brushes the glass shards into a big pile with his shoe. Cleaning this up feels worthless.
He returns to the kitchen, only a couple of steps from where he was working a minute ago, and leans against the island again. Hannibal takes his focus from his cooking and looks to Will, and his eyes are filled with happiness. Finally, he got what he wanted. Finally Will did what Hannibal always knew he was supposed to. In his eyes, Will could see that the older man hoped that he relishes in it just as much as Lecter does. He hopes he can in the future.
They stare at each other for what feels like eternity, the air between them thick but comfortable. They don’t have to say what they feel for the other. Will knows that Hannibal loves him. Maybe he’d known for as long as Hannibal had. Hannibal knows that Will has chosen him above all else, even if neither of them know what Will truly feels.
The silence which hangs heavy between them is broken when Hannibal takes a step forward. He places one hand on Will’s neck and the other on the side of his face, fingers threading into his hair. And suddenly Will was caged in by Hannibal’s hands and his sharp stare.
“I thought you were your most beautiful in Italy,” Hannibal states, his tone calm and soft. He runs his thumb over the jagged cut in Will’s cheek, the one only a decimetre below the one in his forehead. It hurts and Will grimaces and tries to pull away, but Hannibal’s grip is firm. “But you’ve never been more beautiful than you are now.” Will doesn’t think he means physically.
The food smells good and is plated delicately. Hannibal has cut the meat into cubes which he has seared to have a nice, firm outside. Will assumes the inside is tender. It’s displayed on sauce, lumpy with seeds in it, spread out in a thin, consistent layer over the bottom of the plate. The meat makes a small island in the middle of the sea of sauce. Around it lay a handful of blackberries spread out.
“What are we eating,” Will asks. He has sat down by the table which he set while Hannibal was cooking. Hannibal sits across from him. Will has lit candles between them. He wants it to feel like their old dinners in Hannibal's residence. Hannibal smiles fondly.
“Heart,” he states and Will’s own speeds up with an anxious stir. “On a bed of blackberry sauce, once again, I didn’t have a lot of options. I seasoned the meat lightly. I thought you might prefer to taste it as it truly is.” Will nods. He thought right.
Will picks up his fork and tenderly pierces one of the cubes. It’s perfectly bite sized and a soft, minuscule crunch is heard from the outer layer when it is penetrated. He brings it up to his nose, smells it. Slowly and with great uncertainty, he opens his mouth and places the meat on his tongue. He is painstakingly aware that Hannibal is watching his every move, and so he slowly bites down. The meat is akin to a steak, but firmer. A hard working muscle. It has a faint but not unpleasant taste of iron. The saltiness of whatever spice it's been seasoned with mixed with the sweet tanginess of the blackberry sauce is delicious. He thinks about it while he chews, forcing himself to picture Francis Dollarhyde. It tastes better.
“It’s delicious,” Will compliments, but it sounds weak and hesitant. Hannibal smiles nevertheless and takes a bite for himself.
“The most common day to suffer from a heart attack is Christmas day,” Hannibal trivias in response and peers at Will, his smile staying on his lips. Will considers.
“Tense family relations?” Will suggests half-heartedly.
“Or the opposite,” Hannibal suggests and breaks to chew another piece of heart. “One might feel great stress over deciding the perfect gifts for their loved ones.” His eyes glimmer and Will looks down at his plate.
“Is this your gift to me?” Will asks and slowly pierces another cube.
“This is all I ever wanted for you, Will.” Hannibal answers tenderly. Will tears his eyes away from the fork and looks at him. He’s filled with the same sensation he experienced when Francis Dollarhyde bled out around the shaft of Will’s knife. It feels serene and beautiful, and just as scary and wrong.
“It’s beautiful,” Will agrees, his voice a shake away from breaking. His eyes are locked on Hannibal, who has the same look as he had when Will’s face was in his hands. Beautiful is too weak a word for Hannibal to describe the feeling that resides in him when he watches Will ascend to his world.
Will takes a considerate second bite and chews for a long while before swallowing to allow his mouth to ask:
“Were you going to eat me?” The look on Hannibal’s face compels him to add, “Would you still?”
“If I had eaten you it would’ve been the greatest meal of my life.” Hannibal answers with great consideration. “It would quench my hunger, and I would never have to feed again. For nothing would ever taste as good.” Will’s stare does not relent. “But I would not eat you now,” he continues. “I’d rather stay hungry forever than lose your company.”
Will thinks about that and thinks about all the times he almost died at the hands of Hannibal Lecter. He thinks of the times he could’ve killed him, or at least could’ve let him die, but didn’t. He wonders what masochistic, sacrificial part of him thought it would be a good idea to leave the world behind to be with someone who had no qualms about inducing seizures in him and letting his encephalitis go untreated, all for the sake of his own morbid curiosity. Will has always considered himself smart. But when he’s with Hannibal he feels like his brains have melted out of his head and he’s completely left to the other man's devices. He knows Hannibal doesn’t see it like that. He knows that the doctor truly admires his intelligence. It draws him in.
“Will you ever forgive me,” He sounds thoughtful and slightly worried. Will looks up at him with his eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“I have forgiven you, Hannibal.” He remembers the tunnels in Italy. He knew Hannibal was there. Lecter may have a keen sense of smell but that's not the only way to sense a presence. Sometimes Will thinks that he’ll always know where Hannibal is. Instinctively. Once he loathed that. Now he relishes in the thought.
“Do you really think you have,” Hannibal asks. It should sound demeaning, but he sounds earnest. Will reflects. There is only one thing he can never forgive, but he often thinks that he was just as guilty for it.
“I have,” He nods. “Otherwise I would’ve killed you by now.” A shrug of his shoulder and Hannibal Lecter’s laugh follows. They finish their meal with a conversation about dream locations for their future. Hannibal wants somewhere with culture. Somewhere with great operas and large churches with carefully crafted art. Will wants to live up north in a secluded forest. He suggests Canada, but they both know that's too close. They finally decide that Russia might be adequate. But that future is far ahead. They can’t afford to have their minds wander there. They need to live in the now, get away from the FBI and only when they’re too far away to trace they can start trying to leave the country.
The night has fallen a long time ago. The moon was already bright in the sky when the Dragon fell, and hours have passed since then. The morning is fast approaching, but they decide they need to sleep anyway. Hannibal insists that it will quicken the healing of their wounds. Will doesn’t care about that.
The bed in the room that Hannibal assigns him is large and modern. He doesn’t like it. He misses his own bed. The one he shared with Molly and the one in Wolf Trap. He misses the smell and heat of his dogs and the steps of Walter getting up to drink water at the ungodly hours of the night. Now it's quiet. He can hear his heart beating and it feels like it hasn’t slowed down since they arrived here. Will thinks that he has handled this very well. His life has completely changed over the last handful of hours, and he hasn’t had a single episode over it. But it wasn’t over the last couple of hours, was it? His life permanently changed when he laid eyes on Hannibal. It was gradual and when he decided to rejoin the FBI to assist with finding the tooth fairy, he knew it peaked. He knew that that was the moment he made his decision.
His eyelids flutter closed. He feels like this is the first time he’s ever truly relaxed. But the sound of his door creaking open startles him and he opens his eyes.
Her brown hair is the first thing he sees. The low auburn undertones and the side part that frames her face. Then it’s the scarred gash in her throat. How many times hasn’t she been cut up?
“Abigail,” He breathes and he hears the echo of his own voice in Hannibal’s kitchen. She smiles at him and steps into the room. He climbs out of bed, his legs betraying him and he stumbles towards her. She looks like she wants to laugh, but places her finger on her lips to tell him to be quiet. He stares at her. He wants to reach out and touch her, pet through her hair and hug her and convince himself she is real. But he’s too afraid that she isn't. “What are you doing here?” He whispers.
“He wanted to surprise you, just like last time.” She whispers back and adjusts the scarf that covers none of her scar. “But he’s asleep now, we can leave.” Will nods. Not because he’s sure he wants to leave Hannibal, but because if he’s alone with Abigail he can keep her safe. If he returns now they might not even imprison him. He can say that Hannibal kidnapped him and brought him here, forcing his hand to do what he had done. Returning a girl from the dead must absolve his sins, right?
Together they leave the room and walk down the hall with quiet footsteps. Will isn’t even wearing socks, but that doesn’t matter. If he could find the keys to the car he wouldn't even need shoes. Maybe they’re still in the ignition. He doesn’t know.
Abigail looks at him, her eyes bright and youthful and alive. He feels a great sorrow in his chest. She looks just like she did when he lost her.
With careful steps he walks towards the door. He slowly turns the lock and then, as if on instinct, the hairs on his neck raise and he’s aware of a change of the atmosphere.
He turns around quickly. His eyes are suddenly on Hannibal’s, who is holding onto Abigail's throat with one hand and her mouth with the other. His eyes are cold and emotionless. Panic rises in Will’s chest, and he freezes. He dares not breathe. He knows the strength of Hannibal’s arms. He saw him snap Verger into paralyzation. His eyes travel to Abigail’s, and the raw fear in them makes his stomach turn.
“Hannibal,” he croaks out and the doctor's lips quirk into a mean smile. “Please,” he can already feel the tears threatening his eyes. He can’t stand losing her again. He knows that something doesn’t make sense. Has she stayed here for three years? The house is completely uninhabited. No food in the fridge and no signs of life. Hannibal would’ve had no way to communicate with her. But what does that all matter? He will reflect on that later when she is safe, and he will make sure she is.
He darts to the pile of glass he scraped together and grabs a suitable piece of glass. The sharp edges cut into his palm as he grips it, and before his body can throw itself at Dr Lecter, he hears the distinguishable sound of a neck cracking. It’s not more complicated than that. Two hands and a tensing of the arms. He sees that Abigail is still alive. She’s breathing but unable to move. Her eyes follow his movements, wide and vulnerable.
White rage bubbles up within him and he doesn’t let himself lose the momentum. Hannibal dusts his hands off and when his eyes leave Abigail's limp body to look at Will, the furious man is already over him. He tackles him to the ground and his knees find the older man's shoulders to press them into the wooden floor. Blood drips from his palm and down onto Hannibal’ face when he raises the shard. He knows not what to do. He doesn’t want to draw it out, because despite everything he does not wish to see Hannibal suffer. But the rage is relentless and the more blood drips over Lecter’s features, the more he wonders how his face would look without skin.
He doesn’t get to wonder for long, because Hannibal snaps his body to the side, sending Will tumbling to the floor. The shard is taken from his hand and suddenly it’s Hannibal that is on top of him. The weight of his entire body hurts against Will’s torso. It’s hard to breathe and the fear that floods him isn’t helping. It’s worse that Hannibal is not saying anything. He must feel betrayed, but he hasn’t said a word. Hannibal does not like being betrayed. Will got to learn that the hard way.
He opens his mouth to speak, which is a fatal mistake because Hannibal shoves his hand in there and grabs hold of Will’s tongue. It feels gruesome and morbid and Will bites down. The taste of blood fills his mouth but Hannibal doesn’t relent. His finger pinch the muscle and the glass shard is brought to Will’s mouth. He wishes it would be quick, but it isn’t. Lecter makes slow, deliberate cuts. Deeper and deeper into the flesh of Will’s tongue. The pain is absurd and he can’t breathe when the flowing of blood pools in the back of his throat. With every breath he tries to take the blood follows the flow of air down into his lungs. It’s indescribable. His eyes search for Hannibal’s, and he finds them already staring into his own. He keeps watching them as he drowns in his own blood.
The bed is damp with sweat when he shoots up out of it. He struggles to catch his breath and his lungs remember the sensation of being filled with ichor. He stumbles out to the kitchen, as if to convince himself that it truly was a dream, and that Abigail’s body isn’t lying there. He feels a concoction of grief and relief. She truly is dead.
Still panting he stumbles further and goes to the sink, where he ducks his head and drinks and drinks and drinks, until he can't breathe. He continues until his instincts take over and force his head up. He chips for air and turns off the water before slowly sliding down to the floor with his back against the kitchen cabinets. He feels more tired than he did before he went to sleep. His mind still feels the presence of Abigail's life on the other side of the kitchen island, and he wants to leave. Will wants to step out into the night and run and run and run until he finds salvation from all of this. He wishes he could forget the guilt that floods him every time he thinks about Abigail’s death. They could’ve lived together. The three of them. In the end, he ended up with Hannibal anyway. It would’ve been better if he had never tried to play the double game. Then Abigail would still be here.
He doesn’t realize he has company until he speaks.
“Will?” Hannibal’s voice is full of concern and he squats down next to him. He is wearing silk pyjamas that Will thinks look stupid, but fits the doctor perfectly. He always made the dumbest articles of clothing look intentional and stylish. Meanwhile Will was running around in tattered plaid shirts and vests. He looked like something Hannibal had picked up off the street.
Will takes a deep, slow breath before he responds.
“Had a nightmare,” he assures. He always has nightmares. This one was just particularly gruesome. He looks up at Hannibal. He smells his familiar, ambiguous musk. He doesn’t smell overly masculine, nor feminine. He doesn’t smell fruity or clean or earthy. He just smells like Hannibal. Will can’t describe it. The other’s brown eyes are so firmly fixed on him that he feels pinned to the ground where he’s sitting.
“What did you dream,” he asks and reaches out a hand to comb away the sweat slick hair from Will’s forehead. Will leans away.
“You don’t want to know,” he sighs, leaning his head back against the wooden cabinet with a soft thunk. It’s a beautiful kitchen, but now it feels terrifying.
“I do,” Hannibal assures and sits down next to Will with his knees pulled up and back aligned with the cabinet door. Will looks at him, and feels guilty. “It was about me,” the doctor states, matter of factly.
“I thought Abigail was here. I tried to run away with her.” Will admits and he feels ashamed, as if his disloyal actions in the dream would offend Hannibal. He fears they will. “But you…” He changes his mind, and leaves out the part where Hannibal snapped the neck of their proclaimed surrogate daughter. Sometimes he believes Hannibal feels guilty over it. “...cut out my tongue and I drowned in my own blood.” He settles for instead. He can see that Hannibal knows he’s leaving out information.
“You’re far too good of a conversationalist to commit such an act.” Hannibal assures with a soft but playful smile. It feels surprisingly reassuring. Will doesn’t add that he’s only a good conversationalist with Hannibal, and an utter mess in all other social scenarios. He nods and Hannibal gets up with a grunt that reveals that, despite everything, he is a middle aged man. He smiles down at Will and offers his hand. Will takes it and Hannibal pulls him up. He can see the strain in the other facial muscles. He’s hurt, and the exercise tears on the damages done to him. Neither of them are in a state to fight each other. Are they ever?
Hannibal places his hand on Will’s upper back and guides him back towards his bedroom where he assists the other with getting into bed. Will could’ve done it himself, but he doesn’t. Once he’s laid down, they look at each other in silence. The light is peering through the curtains, and it would probably have been fine to get up, but Will doesn’t want to. He’s not ready to face the new day.
“You do not have to fear that I will kill you, dear Will.” Hannibal says slowly. “If I had such plans, you would know of them.” He successfully brushes Will’s hair out of his face this time before he leaves the room and shuts the door behind him.