Archive of Our Own

***

She was afraid to touch him at first; afraid her fingertips might meet flesh too cold to be alive. She recognized the signs; his skin held the same gray tinge the dead have, when the blood has rushed its last only to pool elsewhere, stagnant and silent. She struggled to detect even the slightest rise and fall of his chest finally lifting a delicate hand to his nose to feel a faint puff of air. He was still fighting. With her palm pressed to his heart she felt a weak rhythm. Even to her untrained hands it seemed erratic and out of step. Tentatively, Abigail reached up to touch his face. His skin was cool and damp. There was no recognition in him even when she knelt down and spoke his name, muttered it like a tiny prayer.

“What did you do to him?” Abigail’s eyes flashed with anger.

“Nothing that he wouldn’t have done to either of us, given of course that it suited his purposes,” Bedelia said the cadence in her voice slow and rhythmic.

Inside what was now a disjointed and broken version of his once lavish mind palace, Hannibal recognized the heaviness of narcotics flowing through his veins. He was lucid enough to want to open his eyes, and more than that he desperately wanted to move, but sadly his body was ignoring all of his commands at the moment.

Two voices swirled in the air around him, twisting and changing until they became music; the bright ethereal notes of a flute, and then as its timbre faded, the warmer velvety tones of a violin. Lecter could see corresponding colors brought to life; bright splashes of deep blue and lavender as the flute played out its breathy narrative. Slow moving auras of burnt orange and burgundy bled across his vision as the violin answered, its tone seductive as it was sweet. Underneath it all was the steady impact of percussion that seemed to be resonating from inside his chest, all of it culminating together causing the most peculiar vibrations against his skin.

 It was unlike any symphony he had ever heard.

He could feel it pass through him, could see the notes floating above him like some strange orchestral version of the northern lights. For a minute he thought he could almost taste them, the flute bitter and bright like fresh tea leaves and the violin soothing like warm honey.

He was lost in the melody for a moment.

The music told a story, as good music will tend to do. It was his story. Feelings became tied to sounds. They evolved and manifested as the melody arched and swelled around him. It was dizzying, like being out on a turbulent sea, tossed about from one memory to the next, faces surfacing like debris kicked up from the depths, swirling and sickening.

His stomach turned but the nausea wasn't enough to ground him. He still felt lost and disconnected, adrift in his thoughts, the familiar landscape of his mind palace reduced to a series of fragmented pieces that overlapped and collided with each other. Images surfaced from the haze of colors that hung in the air like fog. He met Mischa’s eyes, innocent and pleading with him, but when he reached out to her his fingers only grasped at the air. She became smoke that settled and morphed into the prone form of Will Graham, his eyes upturned to Lecter, blood pooling around him. Hannibal stilled his hand. This image of Will had been burned into his memory. And yet, he wasn’t ready to see it dissolve away.

Abigail watched as emotions spread across Hannibal’s features. She pressed her hand to his forehead when he began to mutter and moan, her voice holding a sting of worry in it as she whispered shushes to him. Hannibal had curled himself into the corner of the room, his face pressed against the wall, legs sprawled out on the floor in a most undignified fashion. Abigail had thrown a blanket across his shoulders and busied herself with wrapping him tightly in it. He mumbled something under his breath but the words were unintelligible. Abigail didn’t need to understand to hear the longing in them.

“Hannibal,” she tilted his head up, her voice frantic and small. She tried to coax him to open his eyes. “Please wake up, wake up...”

“Give it a few hours dear,” Bedelia cooed, “There’s no use talking to him now. Try to enjoy this moment of peace before it shatters.”

Hannibal coughed, feeling like his mouth and throat were filled with sand. Abigail was still frantically trying to rouse him, but he was unreachable. Her hands carded through his messy hair, fingers delicately playing over his temples.

“How could you do this?” Abigail shot Bedelia another indignant glare, her eyes dancing back and forth, a spark of fire lighting in them. “He trusted you.”

Bedelia laughed and Abigail thought perhaps it was the cruelest sound she had ever heard.

“Hannibal’s trust in me,” she said, her voice sure and even, “was only in his ability to exact control over me. Honestly, I think it’s the only reason he keeps either of us around.”

“Shut up!” Abigail yelled, tears beginning to brim in her eyes at the sight of him, his breath labored, a pained expression making his face appear harsh in the low light. “He chose us. He trusted us enough to make a place for us here…with him,” she whispered, hands caressing Hannibal’s face, a few tears staining her pale cheeks. “He loved us and you’ve hurt him. He’s hurt…how could you do this?”

“Easily,” Bedelia said, coming to kneel next to them both, a hand resting on Abigail’s shoulder that she immediately shrugged off. “Don’t worry, I made sure not to give him too much. Just enough to keep him from killing anyone tonight. Does that make me a horrible person in your eyes?”

Abigail wouldn’t look at her. Tears were streaming down her face at the sight of him. Her heartbeat quickened as anxiety took hold, a quiet panic lighting a fire in her veins. She touched his cheek, the pad of her thumb running across his jaw line. He tilted his head back and subconsciously leaned into her hand.

The specter of Will reached out to him, hands stained with his own blood. He left crimson fingerprints across Lecter’s cheek, eyes pleading with him.

“Will…” the name sounded like a whimper. Hannibal turned uncomfortably towards the wall, huddled against it, mumbling something indecipherable under his breath. It sounded foreign to Abigail, not gibberish, but it had structure and cadence to it. She stroked his face and pushed the hair off his forehead.

“He’s not here…remember,” she whispered, a knot forming in her chest at the thought of Will alone and so far away across the vastness of oceans. “Shhh... I’m here. I'm right here."

Hannibal's eyes flew open then, glassy and blown huge. He stared past her into the void. Helpless he watched as memories played out in front of him. Abigail could only guess as to what horrors he witnessed, before his face grew slack and his eyes shut again.

“It’s ok,” Abigail soothed, “It’s ok now.” Hannibal's eyes fluttered under heavy lids and Abigail shot another angry look over her shoulder at Bedelia. “You gave him too much.” The words sounded like a growl.

Bedelia strolled to the open window and leaned against the sill, the cool of the evening air ghosting across her face. The air seemed charged, alive with consequences that were balancing, toes to the edge, threatening any minute to drop and turn their lives sideways. It had been this way since they arrived, but lately it seemed that Hannibal was doing everything within his power to speed up the process.

It was happening too fast.

For a moment she swore she felt eyes on her. She had squint to make out a figure, dark against the low light of the evening sky. He was there, not a figment of her imagination, standing perfectly still, face upturned to her while all the other patrons of the piazza flowed around him, like a rock in the middle of a brisk moving stream.

Perhaps she should have retreated from the window, perhaps hid her face or closed the curtains. She stood just as still, the inevitability of this moment way beyond her influence to prevent it.

The figure moved swiftly across the piazza, his identity apparent to her before his blurry form ever came into focus. It was a relief to see him, the constant stress of keeping appearances had weighed on her more than she had realized.

It’s just as well, she thought. Just as well that it happen now.

Her attention turned back to Abigail who had busied herself with bringing a bowl filled with ice water and a cloth to Hannibal’s side. Unconsciously he sighed as the cool cloth made contact with feverish skin. Abigail touched him lightly, mindful not cause any unnecessary distress, hoping it might rouse him, bring him back from wherever he had disappeared to inside his head. He stirred and settled with his shoulder pressed against the wall, head bowed, breathing roughly.

“You’re wrong about him,” she said her eyes never leaving him. He sucked a breath in and shivered. Abigail rubbed his arm through the blanket, speaking shushes to him.

“I wish that were true,” Bedelia said. Her attention had turned to the door. Her heart dropped a little when the knock sounded, slow and drawn out, calling to mind the patience and certainty of the person on the other side.

Bedelia froze, wanting to savor that last moment before, once again, everything changed. Part of her would miss Hannibal, she mused, the way one misses the rush of adrenaline you get from jumping out of a plane. But she had made her peace with it, had accepted it. She strode towards the door and into the unknown.  

The door opened to Will, looking completely wrecked. He had lost a considerable amount of weight since she last saw him and there was a heaviness just underneath his eyes that made him look older. His clothes were torn, dark patches of burgundy where blood had dried hard. His wounds had scabbed over but she could tell they were still fresh, still swollen and painful. He eyed her over the top of black rimmed glasses, eyes triumphant.

“Mrs. Fell, is your husband in?” Will pushed past her and into the room nearly knocking her off balance.

“He is but I’m afraid he’s taken ill. You may want to come back later,” she said brushing blonde curls over her shoulder, “or perhaps not at all.”

Will walked into the drawing room to find Abigail crouched in the corner. She turned to him, eyes wide with surprise. She hesitated for the length of a heartbeat before running to him.

“Abigail,” Will whispered as he swept her off the ground, “my dear sweet Abigail.”

“Will,” she said her voice breaking through tears. “I thought…I thought I’d never see you again.”

“What other lies have these two been feeding you?” Will asked putting her squarely back on her feet and looking her over. Bedelia sat back down in her chair and sipped absently at her wine.

“And what has happened here?” Will said his attention turning to Hannibal who was quite literally in a heap on the floor. “What have you managed to do? And, more importantly, how did you manage to do it?”

Will walked towards him and took a knee. Here was the man who had held his life in his hands, now quite powerless. It was strange to see him like this, when the last memories he had of him were quite different; dominant, vengeful, and merciless.

“She drugged him,” Abigail said her voice full of anguish. She knelt down beside them both and retrieved the cloth from the ice water, ringing it out before dabbing at Hannibal’s forehead. “He asks for you, Will. In his sleep he says your name.” And then after a pause she added softly, “He worries if you will ever forgive him.”

“I didn’t think Hannibal worried about anything,” Will said mimicking her hushed voice. He took the cloth from her and plunged it back into the water.

“He does,” she said sniffing back the remnants of her tears. “I watch him sometimes, when he sleeps. He wishes you were here. He wishes you had come with us.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Will said giving her a soft smile before ringing the water from the cloth. He folded it neatly and laid it across the back of Hannibal’s neck.

Abigail smiled back at him, her attention torn between her two saviors. She watched as Hannibal’s eyes darted back and forth under closed lids. She wondered what he saw.

“And what was your method of delivery, Bedelia? A quick jab with a needle? I don’t see any marks.” Will was looking him over. He brushed the hair off his neck examining him. There was a fondness there, in his small touches, tempered with just the slightest bit of anger that had burned itself out into smoky embers.

“Just a few ingredients we had lying around the house, pared nicely in a glass of wine. An after dinner cocktail to ensure the peace of the evening,” Bedelia slurred the last few words. She sauntered across the room to refill her glass.

“He let you do this to him,” Will said, his hand protectively laid on the nape of Hannibal’s neck.

“Perhaps,” Bedelia said her voice sounding distant, “but the result is still the same.”

Will had spoken to her so far without their eyes ever meeting but now he turned to her, eyes peering over the edge of his glasses.

“Do you value your life, Mrs. Fell? Or have you suddenly become suicidal?” Will’s question hung in the air. Bedelia answered him with silence.

Hannibal stirred, pain radiating into his legs from sitting on the floor for so long. He let out a soft moan. Will leaned over him, adjusting the blanket. He traced a finger over the cuts on his face, still fresh, and wondered about their origins.

 “You do forgive him…don’t you,” Abigail whispered, her words more of a statement than a question. Will was silent, monitoring Hannibal’s shallow breathing. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of lungs desperate for air, and the flutter of a rapid heartbeat.

“Will forgives him the way you forgive a lion for being a lion,” Bedelia said her voice cutting the silence in the room. “You can’t find fault in a lion for wanting to eat you, now can you?” a pause while she slowly sipped her wine, “I personally rather appreciate lions from a safe distance, preferably with bars between us, don’t you agree Will? Or have you become biased, becoming a lion yourself?”

“Just ignore her,” Abigail said under her breath, “She’s been drinking all afternoon.”

“It begs the question,” Will said his voice still lowered as he held fingers to Hannibal’s throat for a pulse, “why would you choose to stay in the lion’s den?”

Bedelia was silent, considering this. She opened her mouth to answer but stopped as Hannibal stirred again, his eyes finally opening. Abigail sat back on her heels and let out a sigh of relief. Hannibal blinked up at Will, his eyes struggling to find focus. Will smiled at him, his hand still rested heavy on his chest.

“Will,” his voice was raw. Abigail put a glass to his lips and he readily drank, coughing at the end as the ice cold water hit his parched throat.

“Dr. Fell,” Will said, smiling despite himself. “It seems you may want to consider seeing a lawyer since your wife has taken to drugging you.”

Hannibal reached a shaky hand out towards Will's, and made him lower his eyes. He almost winced at the contact. He had been waiting for this moment, obsessing about it inside his mind, creating different scenarios that could have been, some ending in blood, others in the strange euphoria of their bond reunited, but none like this, not like the weak and broken version of the man he saw reach out to him.

Will squeezed his hand and their eyes made contact. Hannibal’s vision was still blurred and it wavered in and out with the thudding of his heartbeat. He was still fighting. He shut his eyes and for a moment the world threatened to slip away from him. He felt Will’s hands holding his face, heard his voice steady and commanding.

“Hannibal, listen to me, you need to try to stay awake.” His eyes fluttered and then opened again, descending from where they had begun to roll back in his head.

“She gave him too much,” Abigail said again, the worried look settling back into her face. Hannibal moaned in pain, a hand protectively clutching his stomach.

 “Oh, and Hannibal hasn’t ever slipped something into your meal without telling you? Please…” Bedelia said from across the room.

“She has a point.” Will was watching Hannibal grimace in pain. He had gone pale and his breath was ragged. He let out another moan. “Abigail, sweetheart, can you empty this please?”  Will handed her the bowl of now luke warm water. She did as she was asked and returned with it.

“You may not want to watch this,” he said a hand coming to rest on her cheek.

“I won’t leave him,” She said settling against Will and handing him the bowl. Will shrugged and took it from her.

“Hannibal…stay with me.” Will tried to rouse him again, a few light taps to the side of his face had him opening his eyes wide. “Talk to me. Tell me what hurts.”

Hannibal reeled from the brightness of the room, his eyes overly sensitive. He swallowed hard. “Here…” he managed his fingers splayed out against his stomach. He swallowed again, saliva beginning to pool under his tongue. His eyes never left Will, or at least what he hoped was actually Will. His image glowed and wavered, as if there was a halo behind him, bright and soft. He wished that his eyes would properly focus. If it really was Will he had waited a very long time for this moment and his chest tightened at the thought of possibly missing it.

“I’m here,” Will soothed as Hannibal screwed his eyes shut, a wave of nausea and prickly heat breaking over his body.

“Are you?” Hannibal’s voice was tight through gritted teeth. The image of Will seemed no more solid than the specters of his mind. He worried that soon he would dissolve and dissipate into the air. It seemed like a real possibility.

“I’m right here,” Will soothed again, maneuvering the bowl into Hannibal’s lap. He stared into it, his vision still refusing to maintain focus. Will placed a gentle hand on the back of his neck and felt Hannibal swallow hard. He wove fingers through his hair and tucked a strand behind his ear. Will kissed the exposed skin pausing for a moment before what he was about to do, lips lingering close, brushing against his temple as he whispered, “I’m afraid this is not going to be pleasant for either of us.”

Gingerly, he pushed two fingers into Hannibal’s mouth. Lecter’s eyes widened, a look of involuntary terror spread across his face. Will pressed them as far back as he could into the warm slick reaches of Hannibal’s throat. He gagged harshly against them, sharp teeth sinking into Will’s hand instinctually as he began to choke. Will removed his fingers, not at all disturbed by the trickle of blood that slid down the back of his hand. After he released him, Hannibal spit a mouthful of saliva into the bowl.

“Brave man,” Bedelia slurred with a laugh.

“Oh my god Bedelia, do you ever shut up?” Abigail was fuming. Her attention turned back to Hannibal who gagged a second time on his own, bringing up just the smallest dribble of stomach contents.

“That’s it,” Will whispered, his voice lowered and soothing. His fingers crept into Hannibal’s mouth again, pressing on the back of his tongue. After a loud retch, Hannibal’s body lunged forward, his head hanging bowed. Saliva coated Will’s fingers, a bit of drool mixed pink with blood dripping down his wrist. He didn’t give him a chance to take a breath this time, fingers pressing on the back wall of his throat. Hannibal gagged again, bracing himself against Will. A rush of hot liquid poured down Will’s arm, only some of it landing in the bowl, most of it in Will’s lap.

“I’m sorry, Will,” Hannibal managed between small gasps for air, and then a long moan, strands of vomit hanging from his chin. He put an arm around his stomach protectively and closed his eyes. Abigail turned away, her own stomach beginning to sour at the sight of Hannibal being sick.

Will readjusted himself at Hannibal’s side. “I would like to hear that again,” he said as Hannibal leaned his full weight against him, “perhaps when you’ve sobered up a bit.” Another pained moan. Will pressed his fingers to the back of Hannibal’s throat again, gently moving them until he gagged in response. A second wave of watery vomit rushed down the back of Will’s forearm, and splashed into the gathering sick in his lap.

Will released him. He placed his palm against Hannibal’s stomach, feeling the muscles curl and tense as he heaved.  On his own the retching sounded weak, only bringing up a trickle of burning liquid. Hannibal choked and spit trying desperately to get the taste out of his mouth, so overpowering that it sickened him, made him dry heave. Will was rubbing his back, whispering something to him that Abigail and Bedelia couldn’t quite hear. Another labored groan and Hannibal doubled over resting his forehead against Will’s chest.

There was a brief respite while Hannibal tried to focus on breathing, filling his burning lungs with desperately needed oxygen. It was short lived and before long he was hovering over the bowl again, his stomach muscles tensing painfully. Will rubbed his stomach, pressing lightly into his straining muscles. He gagged once unproductively before a loud burp at the end brought a thin stream of burning stomach acid up that dribbled from parted lips.

He coughed, tried to clear out the thick strings of saliva and bile that clung to his throat. Another gag and he was choking on what came up. Will was there, close, holding the hair out of his eyes that had begun to brim with tears Hannibal found he had no control over. He should be ashamed, Hannibal mused, to be laid so low and vulnerable, but with Will here, finally here, he found none of it mattered. None of it mattered because he had been found.

“Common,” Will said gently, quietly, a hand cupped to Hannibal’s chin, “last time, I promise.”

Eyes met and there was trust there. Hannibal submitted, his eyes slowly falling shut. He let Will gag him this time until his stomach emptied and there was nothing left to give up. He retched painfully at the end coming up dry.

Will took the bowl and placed it as far from them as his arm could reach without moving from Hannibal’s side. Hannibal leaned into him, his breath coming in short gasps, the remnants of tears beginning to dry against his cheeks. Will pulled him closer and folded arms around him, Hannibal’s face nestled into his shoulder, his eyes hidden against the rough fabric of his shirt.

He took a deep breath, his senses awakening to Will’s familiar scent surrounding him. It was too precise to be his mind’s pale imitation; there were complex subtleties that Hannibal never quite remembered right until Will was really there, next to him. That could only mean that what he was experiencing was genuine, despite his vision that still seemed to pulse and throb, making the light seem harsh and the colors in the room seem caustic.

The room’s other occupants slipped away from them, until there was nothing outside of their tiny orbit. Breath and bodies slowly stilled, until the pattern of their breathing seemed to match up, Hannibal’s erratic heartbeat beginning to slow and track Will’s own. In silence they waited, until it was Hannibal who spoke first.

 “Will,” he said his voice shredded, “you’re getting vomit all over my shirt.”

Will snorted a laugh as Hannibal’s hand found its way to the back of Will’s shoulder, holding onto him tight. Hannibal closed his eyes and relished in the warmth and the feel of him.

“You found me.” He whispered. Abigail couldn’t help but stifle a giggle.

“Yes, I did,” Will said placing a cool palm to his cheek. Hannibal leaned into the touch letting his eyes close for a moment.

"I never doubted that you would," he said his accent heavy. Bedelia took her opportunity to slip out of the room, before Hannibal had a chance to even consider retaliation. Will caught her out of the corner of his eye but for once Hannibal was oblivious, his vision focused only on the man in front of him.

"You've been reckless," Will said, hands still tangled in messy hair. Hannibal managed a weak smile.

"Perhaps."

“Then you must know you’ve attracted some unwanted attention,” Will’s tone was almost chiding, but his gestures were tender, still rubbing the cramped muscles in Lecter’s stomach.

Getting sick had been somewhat sobering but a fog still lingered, still clouded his vision, made him doubt reality, or at least made him very suspicious of everything he was experiencing. He relaxed slightly, Will’s heavy hand on his sour stomach beginning to relive the cramping.

“It’s nothing…I can’t handle,” he said his voice hoarse, leaning into Will as he tried to lift him to his feet. The room pitched and swayed and Will found he had to bare most of Hannibal’s weight. They walked slowly to the claw foot tub, Will letting Hannibal slouch against him, a hand holding him steady wrapped around his waist. When they were close enough Hannibal grabbed the edge of the tub and held himself up by a shaky arm as Will began to undress him.

“It’s not safe here anymore,” Will said, fingers deftly unbuttoning Lecter’s shirt, and then sliding it off of broad shoulders.

“Perhaps,” Hannibal repeated, as Will helped him step out of unbuttoned pants.

With a bit more effort on Will’s part, Hannibal lowered himself into the cold porcelain tub. He settled with his head tipped back, his eyes closing, a long sigh escaping him. The faucet creaked open and Will adjusted the water hot enough to steam.

He was free to watch him then, without the distraction of Hannibal’s gaze staring back at him. When the tub had filled he cut off the faucet, steam rising and swirling on the surface reacting with the cool of the evening air. It gave a surreal dreamlike quality to the scene, as if Will might wake up at any moment to find he had dreamt it all and was still in Wolf Trap, dogs lying around his floor in the dark, a half empty bottle of whiskey staring back at him from the nightstand.

He removed his own vomit streaked clothes and left them in a small heap on the floor. Hannibal was quiet, his breath even and deep, eyes still closed, just listening to Will and the sounds of rustling articles of clothing as they were deposited on the floor. A sponge was soaked in the water, Will reaching elbow deep underneath its steaming surface. Hannibal’s eyes opened only slightly as Will began to bath him, torrents of warm water cascading down his chest, the rough sponge sliding over his exposed skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake.

Abigail lingered in the doorway, peaking in every now and then, straining to here the conversation. Perhaps they could leave this place, she thought, perhaps things might go back to the way they were, to before that horrible night when everything changed.

Kneeling beside the tub Will had let the sponge float away. He kissed Hannibal gently, lips pressing to damp skin. Hannibal reached up to catch his hand in his, bringing it under the water to rest on his stomach. Will felt taught muscles under his palm. His fingers spread feeling those muscles tense.

“I’ve missed you,” Hannibal whispered, his own hand coming to rest on top of Will’s. There was silence then, while Will tried to slow his quickened pulse. “I wonder…did you think of me often?”

“I’ve thought about you,” Will whispered his lips still close, his breath warm against Hannibal’s face. “I’ve seen you in dreams, missed you in waking hours when the sun slips away from me and I am left in the dark alone with only memories of you, with only memories of how you left.”

“Memories are a poor substitute for you and I,” Hannibal slurred his accent still heavy. Will leaned farther into the water and Hannibal pulled his hand lower. “Memories tend to gloss over the truth of real events. They leave you with a romanticized version of what really happened, they become a different truth, one you want to remem--”

Will climbed into the tub displacing a fair amount of water onto the floor.  He silenced Hannibal with a kiss, the taste of him bitter with bile.

“I know what I remember,” He said straddling Lecter in the tub, the warm water flowing between them, holding himself up precariously so that he hadn’t fully touched him, not yet. Hannibal reached up, hands exploring Will’s back as if this was all new territory. A small smile spread across his face when Will finally relaxed against him, letting the full length of their bodies meet.

“Mmm…” Hannibal moaned the feel of tender skin pressed together making him hard, “is this your forgiveness, Will?”

Will wriggled against him, his own body coming to life as he felt Lecter harden against his thigh. He laid his head against Hannibal’s chest, his hips moving lazily as they pressed against each other.

“Not…forgiveness…” Will mumbled reaching between them. His touch made Lecter arch his back, squeezing both of them into Will’s fist. He began to stroke them together ever so slowly, Hannibal’s face going slack as he pushed up into Will’s grip.

“Then…what?” Hannibal was breathing hard, every part of him sensitive, remnants of whatever he had been dosed with making his skin crawl with sensation. Will began kissing his neck, working his way up to Hannibal’s jaw line, teasing him until their lips met again.

“Understanding…” he whispered, his breath hot against Lecter’s cheek. Hannibal grabbed Will’s hips and lifted him up so he was straddled high on his waist.

For the first time, Hannibal laid eyes on the scar that he had made. He touched fingertips to it, traced its curving path across Will’s stomach, waited for Will’s response to his discovery.  

“The truth,” Hannibal said softly, “it is written on your skin.”

Will took Hannibal by the wrist and plunged his hand back under the water.

“I don’t need scars to remind me,” Will said his words interrupted by a small gasp as Lecter positioned himself between Will’s legs. He canted his hips, pushing up just slightly, enough to cause Will to lean against him, a long moan of pleasure escaping him as Hannibal pushed inside just a few meager inches. It made Will start to leak against Hannibal’s stomach.

“But now…the scars are part of you,” Hannibal said his voice rough. He pushed his full length inside of Will, making him cry out. “They’re part of…who you are….”

“Fuck…” Will rocked his hips as Hannibal filled him up so perfectly. He froze for a second, feeling like he might lose himself. Hannibal grabbed Will’s hips with both hands and pushed into him deeper. As he did he felt teeth sink into his shoulder, Will coming apart in front of his eyes, fingernails tearing down the length of his chest as Will tried not to cum.

Hands gripped Will’s hips almost painfully tight. Will cried out again grinding against Hannibal’s length, and then straightened up taking back a small bit of control, making Hannibal tilt his head back and close his eyes. Will slowed down and lifted Hannibal’s wrist to his mouth, kissing the long pale scar that lived there.

“You…are part of who I am…” He said his lips lingering above the small stretch of scar tissue. His breath felt like electricity against the sensitive scar. Hannibal could feel it as if it were fresh, as if it were still healing. He let out a long sigh against the dizzying sensation of being touched there.

Will quickened his pace, fingers teasing Hannibal’s chest, playing over each hardened nipple. Sensation became a fire lit across dampened skin as Will continued to touch him, slowly, reverently.

“Please Will…please…” the words sounded prayer like and almost foreign from the lips of a man who never begged for anything. Will took all of him in deep, nails dragging across his sides, the pain bright.

Hannibal stilled for a moment and pulled Will against him, breathing him in, holding his scent inside burning lungs, recording the feel of him into his memory, freezing time for a breath and a heartbeat so he would always have this moment. Will looked into his eyes then, his pupils larger than they should have been, eyes glassy, lids dropping lazily. His lips parted, breath ragged and rushed as Will canted his hips, grinding down against him.

Hannibal reached in between them, hand disappearing underneath the water. His touches felt desperate, full of so much longing. Will pushed closer to him, their bodies intertwined and tangled, his cheek pressed into Hannibal’s shoulder as he felt himself edge towards climax. He held his breath, eyes squeezed closed. Hannibal was silent, save for his labored breath as Will cried out, muscles tensing deliciously around him. Will breathed his name, his voice desperate and wanting, and Hannibal thought it sounded like a whispered hymn echoing in his ears. Will’s pleasure pushed him to the edge, his body and mind over stimulated and raw. He couldn’t help the tears that fell afterwards, as Will relaxed against him.

The water was tepid when Will finally stirred, a hand reached to Hannibal face, only to find long tracks of tears. He wiped them away with his thumb, and was rewarded with a soft brush of lips.

“I’ve found you,” Will whispered, a calloused hand caressing the side of Hannibal’s face, fingers lingering over fresh scars that had softened in the steam.

“Yes,” Hannibal’s voice sounded rough, “and what will you do now that I am under your apprehension?”

Will smiled against Hannibal’s chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns against his damp skin. Hannibal sighed, the contact too much for his overloaded senses. He pulled Will closer to him, content to wait in silence while Will considered his question.

“I would suggest a change of venue,” Will muttered sleepily, “perhaps somewhere warm?”

“That sounds intriguing.” A soft smile crept into the edges of Hannibal’s lips. He inhaled deeply, Will’s messy curls tickling him under his chin, the scent of him mixed with the subtleties of where he had traveled and all the places he had been.

“But first I suggest we rest,” Will said his voice sounding weary, “You are a difficult man to track down. The length of my journey has finally caught up to me and I don’t think either of us are in any condition to flee the country just yet.”

Hannibal’s smile was full, genuine. His eyes danced as the words echoed in his mind, the full weight of Will’s body laid across his own comforting. He would miss Florence with its sprawling architecture and ancient works of art, but to be found, to be sought out by Will, Florence could burn and he would have walked out of the flames and never looked back.

“I hear Argentina is lovely this time of year,” Abigail’s voice was small and hopeful. Will bit his lower lip and blushed as he lowered his eyes.

“Yes, and quite warm,” Hannibal said before placing a kiss to Will’s forehead making his blush deepen. Two towels were left for them before she disappeared into the next room.

“I’m going to go pack,” she said her voice a breath of fresh air.

Will lifted himself from the swiftly cooling water, stepping out of the tub, goose bumps forming across his skin. Hannibal watched him dry off, his eyes lingering on bruises, some deep purple, others yellowing with age. When Will helped lift Hannibal to his feet, his eyes met the same marks, some stitched and tender, others scabbed over and softened from being soaked.

“Will?” Hannibal asked his voice small as Will wrapped a towel around him. Will’s eyes lifted to meet his, and he lost himself for a moment. There was a silent curiosity there, mixed with rare emotion, that in anyone else’s eyes Will would have thought was sadness.

“If you will allow it, I have one request,” Hannibal walked with him slowly towards the bedroom, Will following along with a hand at his back. He paused to gingerly touch the bruise that blossomed along Will’s side, “As we fall asleep, will you tell me about these, will you tell me about who put them there?”

“Yes,” Will said his eyes rising to meet Lecter’s, “If you will do the same.”

***