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Will regains consciousness in moments. Moments in which Hannibal was always with him, always there when he opens his eyes. Whether beside him resting, or hovering above him, tending meticulously to the stab wound on his shoulder or cheek. More often it was the former, though. They slept next to each other every night, and rested every day the same. Always close by, and when the cold crept intrusively into the room during the night, chilling them both, they would find themselves pressed against each other in the morning. A small comfort that neither mention nor critique. Something needed, something welcomed.
When he dreams, he dreams of Hannibal. Of the two of them mended and alive, and he dreams of nothing else. Sometimes they speak exactly how they would if he were awake, delving into complicated feelings by use of complicated metaphors, and it feels real enough that later he’ll wonder if he was actually speaking aloud all that time. Sometimes they say nothing, only exchanging glances and quietly, timelessly basking in the other’s company, while meanwhile Hannibal does something mundane; cooking or playing on the harpsichord, or scribbling in his notebook while the sun falls slowly below the mountains.
Often, they stand upon the cliff top, and it is Will who breaks the dwelling silence as the water roars below them and the leaves rustle in the breeze.
I’m sorry I didn’t see it before. I didn’t understand.
In his dreams, Hannibal smiles at him. Always smiles at him, in his way that is overly generous and without thought, without care. With an affection over and above affection.
I’m glad you’re here, Will.
And then he wakes, dragged slowly and then instantly to the surface.
“How do you feel?” Hannibal asks him, his voice familiar, soothing.
Reality comes to him in pieces.
“Like hell,” Will groans, bringing a hand to his face.
He feels the bandage on his cheek, still a fresh wound underneath that greatly disagrees with being touched. He attempts to stretch and finds a stiffness knotted in every muscle, and a pain threatening to build in his shoulder. Hannibal opens a drawer next to the bed, and from inside pulls out a yellow prescription bottle.
“All considered, you are doing quite well.” Hannibal says, measuring out a dose of medicine into his hand, and pouring a glass of water from a pitcher left on the nightstand. He is injured, Will knows. Shot by the dragon. Thrown off a cliff. And yet the man is standing, bandaged and stitched together beneath his clothing, but evidently in good enough shape to play the role of nurse.
Will looks around groggily, seeing his surroundings for the first time. It has been partially transformed into a hospital room, with medical supplies strewn throughout and left on every table. The air has a certain staleness, and a smell of antiseptic that he remembers from when it had invaded his sleep.
Hannibal offers him the glass of water, and stiffly he pushes himself into a sitting position. He takes the glass in his left hand and drinks, soothing his sore throat, and places it back when he’s done.
Hannibal sits carefully on the edge of the bed, bracing his middle as he does.
“I am glad to see you awake, Will,” he says, a little bashful. “I don’t expect you’ll remember much until later.”
Hannibal’s face looks tired, and because he is correct about Will’s lack of memory, he can only imagine what he’s had to do to get them here. Their apparent survival was an unlikely one. Not an easy feat, especially not when Will was so apt to make it so difficult for him.
“We’re supposed to be dead,” Will says, his voice more fragile than intended.
“And yet death rejected us,” Hannibal remarks.
Will looks around the room, considering. “I didn’t expect to wake up.”
“You dreamt,” Hannibal muses, “you knew you were alive.”
Will shakes his head slightly. “I wasn’t certain if either of us were.”
Hannibal ponders this, tipping his chin in thought. “Would that mean the afterlife awaiting us is nothing more than a series of brief imaginings? Dreamscapes built in our subconscious?”
“I think if that’s all that awaits us we got off easy.” Will tells him.
Hannibal grins, and it lasts a moment before fading. He hesitates before speaking.
“While we stood on the cliffs, Will, did you not consider the possibility that we may survive?”
Will looks at him guardedly, offering no answer.
Hannibal continues. “You left our fate up to chance. Either we die together, or we continue on in some capacity.”
“I wasn’t thinking about much before I pulled us over.” Will says, and they both know it is a deflection. Will was thinking. Thinking too much, thinking too little. Scared and panicked and cynical, Hannibal knows, but he decides not to press the matter. He stands and walks to the nightstand, then gathers the pills he previously measured.
“A pain reliever and a muscle relaxant. Both will take away the ache in your muscles, and help you to relax.”
Will takes the pills in his hand and stares at them.
While he dreamt, he knew he was dreaming, and because of it he felt no responsibility, no obligation, no conflict within him. Now, with a dizzying shock, he feels the burden of guilt hit him like a tidal wave.
Had he wanted them to live? Had he hurled them off the cliff top hoping for freedom rather than death? Or had he sincerely wished to drown them both? Whatever it was then is a blurred memory now. He acted not out of rational thought but a kneejerk reaction, and he remembers it only as a muddied collection of feelings impossible to parse. He remembers falling. He remembers the crash into the water, and how it hurt just like he had hit concrete. He remembers more than he wants to. Details he wishes weren’t so painful; the way Hannibal grabbed him as they fell, the way he tensed just before they hit the water, the sound of his heartbeat…
His head spins. His chest tightens and begins to ache. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. This is all wrong. He is misplaced in time. In reality. In the world. He is an anomaly. A blip on the radar that shouldn’t be there. Something lost and broken and wrong-
“Coffee or tea?”
Will looks up, dazed. “What?”
“I haven’t been able to enjoy either properly since our escape, and I’d like to remedy that.”
Hannibal pours another glass of water and offers it, and Will, unable to use his right arm without great pain, and unable to grab the glass while holding the pills, pops the two of them in his mouth and takes the glass, swallowing them as he drinks.
Hannibal smiles at him, pleased, and asks again. “Coffee or tea?”
By the time Will answers, he has somehow forgotten his previous anxieties. The greater part of him, the hungry and exhausted part of him, wins out in the end.
“Coffee.” He answers simply, and with that Hannibal nods, turning to leave.
“And how are we feeling about that, then?”
Will swirls his glass above the counter, admiring the amber shade. His shoulder no longer hurts when he uses his arm, no longer aches after even a small movement, or burns even when not moved at all. His cheek has healed nicely, too. It might have healed sooner had he been less stubborn about recovery (as Hannibal was wont to remind him of), but heal it did. He bears the scar to prove it; fainter than he had expected it to be, thanks to the fastidious care he had no choice but to endure.
“You’re not my therapist,” Will answers tiredly, “and I’m not your patient. You don’t have to ask me how things make me feel anymore.”
“I don’t have to,” Hannibal agrees, his eyes steadied on the work below him. “but I want to. Our lack of professionalism doesn’t dissuade my curiosity.”
Hannibal has busied himself for the evening with cleaning out their coffee maker that evidently came from the antiquity. Where he managed to find one of these ancient contraptions, let alone two, Will doesn’t know. And why he likes them so much that he decided, who knows how long ago, to stash one away in a cabin up north for later usage, Will is also clueless of.
But he does admire it. Maybe too much. Seated on the first of two barstools against the island counter, he watches the meticulous taking apart of pieces, the in-depth cleaning, and then the process of putting it all back together again. It is soothing enough that he drifts from what they were talking about. Not that he knows what he wants to say, anyway. A small pleasantry has been that if he doesn’t have an answer, or doesn’t know how to respond, it isn’t pressured from him. Rushed responses often lead to dishonesty, whether intentional or not, and of the few things Will has promised or granted to Hannibal during their short stint with domesticity, honesty is one of them.
Hannibal has proven himself frustratingly patient, time and time again, allowing Will to sort out whatever is on his mind while never asking anything of him.
Hannibal has never asked anything of Will.
Nothing except that he stay.
Nothing except for his company. Even if that company is sarcastic or brooding or angry.
Will rests his arms on the counter and lets his head fall into the crook of his elbow, closing his eyes to shut out the light. Behind them, he is no longer forced to see nightmarish depictions that lurch him from sleep, that haunt him even while awake. Although sleep is not the most easily conquered endeavor for him, just as it has never been, it is a far more a welcome experience than he can ever remember it being. And during these months of recuperation, he has gotten plenty of it.
His body used to demand rest constantly, with no regard as to what time of day, what hour. Hannibal assured him that this was natural, that he was healing and that healing was taking a large allowance out of his energy, and that the more he recovered, the less rest he would need, until eventually it evened out to what was normal.
He would listen to this and scowl every time, knowing that while he slept the day away, Hannibal was up and about, sleeping substantially less yet still healing at a remarkable rate.
Bitter wasn’t a strong enough word, but now the feeling has all but faded.
He raises his head, rubbing his eyes slightly. His thoughts drift to where they were before, headlines emboldened across the screen:
The search for Hannibal Lecter, known serial killer, and FBI detective Will Graham has been called off.
Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter pronounced dead.
He knows, Hannibal knows, that no one connected to either of them believes they’re dead. Not Jack, certainly not Alana. But the investigation into either of their whereabouts was fruitless, and, clearly, not worth the time and expense after almost twelve months with not a single lead to speak of.
Hannibal had made sure of that.
Will sighs, finally filling the silence.
“They were never going to find us.” It isn’t a question.
Hannibal looks up.
“No,” he agrees, “they weren’t.”
“Then why should I feel any different?”
Hannibal considers for a moment, turning his attention to Will.
“There is no should,” Hannibal responds, “only if you do.”
Will straightens in his seat, his now empty glass left on the counter. He understands why Hannibal cares so much what Will thinks, now that their freedom is more or less granted. Hannibal had asked that he stay, but Will has never promised to. Not entirely. Not in those words. He has passively agreed to, yes. Made no move and had no intention of leaving at any point during these months.
But not that he was in any position to leave, either. Not while he was injured, and not now while winter is only beginning. They are in the middle of nowhere, essentially, similar to the plot of land Will owned in Wolf Trap. And while that has its charms, it severely limits access to the outside world, especially as the snow continues to accumulate around them.
It’s almost as though the weather is in support of Hannibal’s wish to make him stay. Will frowns at the thought.
“We often feel loss at the confirmation of it, but not necessarily before,” Hannibal says. “It is quite common for our minds not to fully grasp our circumstances or choices until the finality of them is made clear.”
Circumstances and choices. Will sits upright, leaning against the back of the stool.
“Grasping something and being at peace with it are different.”
“Yes, they are,” Hannibal agrees, “but you cannot have the latter without the former.”
Hannibal wipes his hands clean and walks to the counter in front of Will, snatching the empty glass and filling it with whiskey. Will cocks an eyebrow as he is offered it.
“Is self-medication what you prescribe now-a-days, Doctor?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth. “I’m never opposed to indulgence.”
Will smirks, in that brief way that always feels won.
Hannibal continues, “It is in my profession opinion that you have not reached the limit at which more would be detrimental. So I see no harm in indulging.”
“Or you’re trying to get me drunk,” Will says, not entirely certain whether if he meant it as a tease.
“I’m not,” Hannibal responds innocently, “unless that’s what you want.”
Will takes the glass, “Getting drunk doesn’t fix anything,” he says, taking a drink. “and I didn’t learn that recently.”
The way they are here is far different from how they were before, sat in Hannibal’s office, aimed at each other and armed. There is no time limit, no goal the other is striving to reach before the other reaches his. The atmosphere and intent is casual. Or at least, as casual as it can be between them.
Hannibal knows that, if he allows Will time, the words that he wants or needs to say will come out unopposed. He doesn’t need to get him drunk for that. Although… he has to admit it never hurts.
Will watches as Hannibal continues with his cleaning, focused and diligent. The months have flown by, and Will has hardly noticed them pass. Now when he looks at Hannibal, he feels a flutter in his stomach and a muted feeling of defeat. He had tried, at first, to feel anger, just to see if he could. And then his attempts at resentment, and later bitterness, followed afterwards. Each were shorter lived than their predecessors, and all inevitably failed. His last ditch effort was to keep Hannibal at a determined distance, all while he tried to ignore the guilt he felt for doing so.
Hannibal responded to this with care and patience. He supplied Will with more than enough to keep him occupied during their months of healing, in the form of malfunctioning boat motors and engines conveniently left in sight (but never drawn attention to), books on historical fiction and non-fiction alike, fly-fishing equipment and a stream nearby (although useless in winter), and, most importantly, time and to be left alone. The only thing he had yet to do was bring a dog home, although he had strongly considered it. He often still does.
(Hannibal also took to baking pastries and pies more frequently, but Will is never wont to admit that he can be plied with sweets).
And, eventually, Will gave it up. Being angry with Hannibal, blaming him, may not have felt right or good per say, but it felt accurate. It felt just. Logical and factual. He felt it missing when he was alone, and then he would watch as it became completely unimportant when Hannibal so much as walked into view. It was an exhausting amount of effort, mental and physical, and he found that when he let it go it ran from him willingly. It was never his to keep.
From that moment on, his efforts to be more affable were met with nothing but reciprocation. Trust was built naturally, as were boundaries, and as were exceptions for those boundaries. The months they have spent in recovery have felt no different to Will than a fever dream.
He never once thought of the future.
Their future.
But now, their future is what Hannibal thinks incessantly of. He wants to know what Will wants, and they both wish it were that simple.
Will rises from his seat and sets his glass down, still partially filled.
“Give me time,” he requests, only that and nothing more.
A look of understanding passes between them, and after a moment Will nods, walking away. Only when Hannibal is alone does he exhale the breath he wasn’t aware he was holding in.
He has waited years for Will. For both of them.
He can wait a little a longer.
It is later that night that Will leaves his bedroom, unable to sleep and in desperate need of fresh air. He sleeps worse when he sleeps alone, he knows. He knows and yet does nothing about it. Reaching out for touch, for comfort, has begun to mean something else. Begun to incite other feelings. And Will has currently decided to ignore it rather than confront it.
Old habits die hard.
He slips out through the sliding glass door leading to the back porch, and leans forward against the railing. It is cold, and only lit by the light of the moon, unbroken and whole as it hangs in the sky.
The landscape is massive, they are surrounded by acres and acres, and most of it is dense woods. In the winter, now, it looks just like a wonderland; the snow on the ground glittering in the light like it’s topped with diamonds, and the trees all caked all in white as if they grew it. If he were a young he would consider himself in heaven.
Behind him, he hears the door slide open and then close again. Hannibal stands next to him, his breath coming out in puffs and his cheeks already reddening in the cold.
Will barely acknowledges him with a glance before speaking.
“I thought the life I made for myself was the one I wanted,” he admits, “I thought it would make me happy.” He shakes his head bitterly at the thought.
“I still can’t tell if I was lying to myself the whole time, or if I was unable to be happy because of how you’ve changed me.”
They have spoken little of Molly and Walter since their escape. Will prefers it that way, both to keep them safe and to keep their memory distant. He suspects Hannibal prefers it this way as well. It’s fair to say that he doesn’t think on their existence happily.
“You have lived your life in meticulous, careful seclusion,” Hannibal says, “there is a reason that you and I keep others out. Most aren’t capable of climbing the walls we build around ourselves.”
“You were.” Will says, staring at him for a moment before looking away.
He sighs, gazing up at the stars.
“When I was a boy,” Will begins, “I wanted to be an astronomer. Or an astronaut. When I was four I wasn’t clear on the difference.”
Hannibal gazes at him, smiling.
“As a boy, I entertained dreams of being a farmer,” Will looks at him quizzically and Hannibal dips his head.
“Childhood whims are often fleeting, but I did appreciate the company of animals more than of people.”
“I haven’t found that to be very fleeting,” Will says, “although I do think that dogs are an easier solution than farm handling.”
Hannibal smirks. “Perhaps not when you have seven.”
Will chuckles, feeling the same fluttering in his stomach. He has noticed that there is something about the moonlight that compliments his features. Hannibal looks young. Unstressed. Downright beautiful. Will stares at him longingly, unaware that he’s staring, thinking only that the space between them could so easily be filled.
If he could only…
If he would just…
“We should go inside,” Hannibal suggests, “if we stay out, I can’t promise that we’ll have all our fingers by the morning.”
Will nods in agreement. While he is unbothered by the cold, Hannibal detests it more than anyone he’s known, and so he thinks it fair that they go inside, if only for his sake.
“Coffee or tea?” Hannibal asks before Will has even slid the door shut.
“Are you asking if I want to drink coffee at 2 am?”
“Yes,” Hannibal responds, pausing, “do you?”
Will hesitates, and then nods. Might as well, he figures.
Hannibal makes his way to the kitchen and Will follows. He had considered lighting the fireplace, he had considered offering to help, and he had strongly considered lying down on the couch, forgetting about the night and the coffee and his feelings, and falling asleep.
In the end, Will decides instead to linger in the kitchen, watching as Hannibal works their antediluvian coffee maker, measuring out spices and grounds. While the machine works, Hannibal takes two mugs from the cupboard and places them on the counter next to Will, carefully sprinkling nutmeg and cinnamon in the bottom of both.
Hannibal, already in a sharing mood from earlier, was about to explain that coffee was the first culinary art that he mastered as a young chef, before that train of thought was not so much interrupted as it was demolished.
In the end, their coffee is left cold on the counter, untouched.
Will kisses him before he has time to think. Before the nervous anxiety that has been building in his chest and pooling in his fingertips has time to advise him otherwise. And he feels himself soar as he does.
He wants this.
He has wanted this. Something so simple and so right.
He will worry about the consequences later, as he is always prone to do. Whether this will fog his already fogged view of Hannibal. Whether this will cloud his judgment. Whether this will blur them further. Of that, he has no doubt, but in the moment, when he is pressed against Hannibal and when most of the blood from his brain has migrated downwards, he doesn’t even pretend to care.
They enter the bedroom, stumbling as they attempt to move intertwined, only choosing to part when it’s for breath. Hannibal’s hands and mouth seem to be able to be everywhere at once, and Will soon finds himself beneath him on the bed, stripped to nothing but his boxers, squirming as Hannibal kisses the crook of his neck, as begins to work his way down, painfully slow, until finally he bares him and takes them both into his hand, thrusting and grinding their cocks together in rhythm, sending rattling gasps through Will as he arches from the bed.
When they finish, they lay exhausted and collapsed together, flushed and warm and sticky, glowing and giddy like boys. When Hannibal is able to coax Will out of bed and into the shower, they stand lazily beneath the stream of hot water, mouthing kisses against the other’s skin where beads of water start to form. When Will begins to tire, from lack of sleep and exertion both, he lets his head fall onto Hannibal’s shoulder, near enough already that when he leans into him there is hardly a movement. Hardly a shift.
They fall asleep almost instantly when they reach the bed, Will first and Hannibal following close after, wrapped around each other in search of warmth and in protest of allowing any space to exist between them.
And when Will dreams, he dreams of Hannibal.
Will wakes to the smell of breakfast. Of eggs and pancakes. He stirs and stretches, feeling worn from last night’s activities. The morning light creeps in through the windows, pouring into the room, warming him.
It is spring. The winter came and went, and Hannibal and Will spent what was left of it finding any excuse to be in close quarters. Never once after that night did they sleep in separate beds, accepting once and for all that alone was far less preferable than together. The pains that winter brought were all but forgotten when they began to distract themselves by making up for lost time.
Just as he is about to get up, Hannibal walks into the room. His hair is still messy from sleep and sex, and he looks radiant for it. Beautiful. In a swift movement he crawls next to Will and sweeps the hair out of his face, kissing his forehead.
“Good morning.” Hannibal murmurs.
“Good morning.”
Will nuzzles closer, bringing his face to Hannibal’s, and kissing him when they meet. He tastes of mint and of sleep and of home. Hannibal pulls away, kissing the tip of Will’s nose, his cheek, just behind his ear sending shivers down his spine. Will has learned that Hannibal, when he loves and is allowed to love, loves entirely. His affection is never bored or distracted, never exhausted. And Will is constantly at its mercy, whether it be day or night, at home or in public, convenient or inconvenient.
He can’t say he minds.
As they kiss, Will hears the patter of Marcy’s paws from just outside the bedroom, running back and forth; a young Labrador who they had rescued from the ownership of a less than caring owner. Hannibal was apathetic as to whether the owner in question should be allowed to live. A man in his 30s who believed that dogs belonged outside and never in, with no regard as to the time of year or whether they’re lonely.
Will was less apathetic, to say the least. Now, Marcy has all but forgotten her previous life. She took to both of them with ease, and has been nothing but spoiled since day one.
They will walk her after breakfast, an activity they always do together, and her impatience at being made to wait will be assuaged by Hannibal sneaking her scraps, bits of sausage and egg that he purposefully made slightly too much of.
Perhaps pampered isn’t a strong enough word.
Hannibal pulls away again, sitting back on his heels as Will pushes himself up, the sheet falling off of him and pooling in his lap.
“Coffee or tea?”
Will smiles warmly before scooting in, snaring him into another kiss.
“Do you have to ask?”