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—Day 1—
“Tell me where he is.”
Jack Crawford’s voice is rough like gravel, weighed down by exhaustion and rage. Hannibal lies unmoving in his too-cold hospital bed, aware of every single ache and stab in his body while his brain, foggy from morphine, tries to comprehend what’s being said. Although he’s heard every word Jack has said, his pulse is roaring too loud. Though, he doesn’t really need the words to understand. From the moment Jack stomped into the hospital room, his face stony, but barely masking the rage behind his eyes, Hannibal knew. From the first moment Jack opened his mouth, Hannibal knew.
It’s been two days since Hannibal woke up, body aching and nose burning with the strong smell of hospital disinfectant. It’s been three days since Hannibal was found on a beach, clinging to life in the cold wind and his drying, tattered clothes. It’s been four days since he and Will had killed Francis Dolerhyde together. Four days since they had gone over the cliff and into the Chesapeake Bay. Four days since Will had nearly brushed his bloodstained lips against Hannibal’s own while they stood on the rocky ledge. Four days since Will had gazed upon their tableau; a Great Red Dragon with wings of blood slain on the concrete, then gazed up at Hannibal with wetness in his eyes, and whispered “ it’s beautiful”.
It’s been four days since anyone has seen Will Graham.
“We dragged the water for hours, Hannibal.” Jack rambles on. “We found nothing. He wasn’t at the ambulance scene either. Will Graham left with you. There was a large amount of his blood at the lakehouse, and we found you, but no Will.” There’s something in his voice akin to grief, but like he won’t allow it to come out.
Hannibal doesn’t look at him. He says nothing, just closes his eyes against the harsh lights. Behind his eyelids he sees Will’s face the last time he saw it; covered in inky blackness and so, so close…
He hears Jack take a step forward but he doesn’t open his eyes.
“Did you kill him before or after you killed Dolerhyde? Or did you and the Tooth Fairy kill him together?”
Hannibal’s eyes snap open and fix on Jack’s immediately. The accusation screams against his ears. He feels the mask slip down, and whatever Jack sees, it makes him flinch. Jack, of course, tries to hide it, but Hannibal notices.
“We slayed your Dragon, Jack. Together.” Hannibal finally says, cold, calculated. His voice is weak from seawater and disuse, and he sounds more hollow than he thinks he ever has. He says the last word slowly, emphasizing the point, just to drive the knife further into Agent Crawford’s gut. There was no doubt in his mind that Jack had listened to the recording of his and Will’s exchange at the BSCHI before they escaped. He imagines Jack’s face as he listens to the way Will had whispered “please”, the little smile that had probably crept across his face because he believed in Will.
Detrimental mistake, Uncle Jack.
Hannibal had seen the look in Will’s eyes as he laid out the plan at his feet and whispered please. It’s time for us to leave, his lamb had been telling him.
Us.
“Yes, you did.” Jack snaps. “You killed Dolerhyde, then you killed Will Graham and threw him off of the cliff.” Jack believes this completely, Hannibal realizes. The head of the BAU.
The fury in his blood feels like static now and he imagines pushing Jack’s eyes into his skull. “I did not kill Will Graham.” The I wouldn’t, not now goes unspoken, but Jack has obviously heard it.
His ex-friend scoffs at him, a gruff, venom-filled sound that echoes in Hannibal’s ears. “See, I don’t believe you. Will was against you. He lied to you, he tricked you, and the last time he did that, you killed him.”
Hannibal’s mind blanks out for a second, something that hasn’t happened since he was a child. His throat goes dry, but he doesn’t dare cough in front of Jack. He knows what Jack is referring to, but he knows it’s impossible.
Hannibal had stared into Will’s eyes while he sliced the knife through his belly, but he knew where to cut. He wanted to punish Will, but no matter what Hannibal did, no matter how deeply the betrayal had gutted him, or opened him raw, he couldn’t bring himself to take Will’s life from him. That final step, that last centimeter that would have… no. Hannibal hadn’t been able to do it. He left Will behind, but he knew in his heart that Will would survive, and he had.
He keeps his expression blank, not giving Jack anything to work with, and the trick pays off. Jack grunts in irritation, then steps closer to the bedside where Hannibal is shackled and flicks through the file in his hands until he finds what he’s seemingly looking for and drops a report onto his lap. “See?” Jack says, pointing to the page.
Hannibal holds Jack’s gaze for a few seconds longer, unblinking, trying to unsettle him as much as he possibly can, before leaning forward a bit to read the page.
It’s a medical report from almost four years earlier. Will’s name is highlighted in yellow at the top, and a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the saline hits his blood because he knows exactly where this is from. Jack in the pantry, Alana shattered on the pavement outside, a curved blade coated in blood while he leans down and snarls: “I gave you a rare gift. But you didn’t want it.”
“He was dead, Hannibal. Will Graham died on the table, and it was only because of the surgeons that he survived. He betrayed you, and you killed him.”
Hannibal can’t believe it, but as he’s reading the report, he knows he can’t argue.
“So, I am going to ask you one more time:” Jack hisses. “What did you do to him?”
“It’s as I said, Agent Crawford. We fought, we fell, and I have not seen him since.” What else can he say, other than the truth?
Jack’s eyes flash, and he straightens his spine in a feeble attempt to appear taller. He says nothing but makes a performance out of the way he gathers the file up and turns towards the door. “I’ll be back,” He warns, and Hannibal rolls his eyes. “If you change your mind.” Then, he leaves, slamming the door behind him, and leaving Hannibal alone.
Hannibal closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he finds himself on the beach. The full moon is bright overhead, turning the blood on his clothes an inky black, and the waves are crashing against the sand. It would be peaceful if something so important wasn’t missing.
He smells teakwood and seawater before he hears the footsteps, and something within him settles. He turns his head and takes in Will’s form, bloody, bruised, but victorious and alive.
“We did it.” Will says.
Hannibal smiles. “We did.”
Will smiles at him, breaking his heart, and sits down in the sand beside him, gazing out over the ocean that seems to go on forever. They sit in a comfortable silence as they have many times before, and all Hannibal can do is look at him and ache to reach out and touch Will’s skin, but he knows this is all in his head and it won’t do much good.
“What do we do now?” Will asks after a while.
This time, Hannibal frowns. For once he doesn’t have an answer, and that troubles him. There are so many things to consider: Will is currently missing, and the FBI has been searching for him to no avail. Will is smart, Hannibal knows. He is clever and cunning and stronger than Jack Crawford believes he is. Will is resourceful. He spent years as a child working on boats and he knows his way around undertow and strong currents. He sailed to Italy on his own, and traveled to Lithuania partially on foot. He’s survived and endured so much already, including Hannibal Lecter himself. If Will can survive Hannibal, he can survive anything. That has to count for something.
“We find each other again.” He answers simply.
“And how do you intend to do that from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Dr. Lecter?” Will asks him, bad-tempered but obviously teasing.
Hannibal smiles grimly as another wave of uncertainty washes over his body. He doesn’t know yet, and the bitter taste of this curls around his throat.
Neither of them speaks again.
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—Day 5—
Hannibal is released from the hospital once his wounds are no longer considered life-threatening. He’s ordered back to the BSHCI where his hospital bed is set up inside his cage. A few of his books have been returned to a table near his bedside; most likely a gift from the hateful but compassionate Alana Bloom.
Recovery is slow by his standards, which is unbearably irritating on its own. The gunshot wound is by far the worst, but luckily the Dragon had other plans, and the shot was a perfect through-and-through. The wound aches and stings, but it is ultimately nothing to be overly concerned with.
Jack’s constant visits had been more irritating. He stands on the other side of the glass and makes irascible threats that Hannibal only partially listens to. He knows that there are still teams looking for Will, though clearly, the FBI is just as clueless and incompetent as always. Jack rambles and spits venom whenever he can, and the doctors and nurses skirt around him out of fear, giving him a significant amount of alone time.
Hannibal spends most of his time in various rooms of his memory palace. His office or home in Baltimore, his apartment in Florence, Will’s home in Wolf Trap… anywhere that isn’t the present where Will Graham’s absence is so glaringly loud. He relives their final moments on the cliffside several times; sometimes to search for any indication of where Will had gone, but more often than not, all he wants is to relive the moment where he and Will had become one force and joined together in bloodshed.
He thinks of Will. He wonders where he is now, if he’s stuck in some desolate cabin in the woods, or a run-down motel, nursing his wounds in a sickly-looking bathroom. The thought of Will attempting to heal on his own is… concerning, to put it mildly. The Dragon did more damage to Will on the cliffside before Hannibal was able to get to his feet, not to mention that they fell into the icy Atlantic which definitely did not help his wounds.
Hannibal sighs and adjusts himself into a slightly less uncomfortable position on the hospital bed. Recovery is tedious.
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—Day 7 —
“...you hear the news, brother?”
The door to the hallway is open slightly, allowing Hannibal to hear two of the orderlies gossiping away in the hallway. The BSHCI staff is quite prone to gossip, not unlike most workplaces, and although Hannibal couldn’t care less about their trivial nonsense, it’s not as if he has anything else to do while stuck in a hospital bed in a glass cage. He tilts his head towards the door.
“Yeah, man, I wonder if they’re gonna say something to Lecter. Where’d they find him anyway?”
Hannibal’s eyes snap open at that, and a chill goes down his spine.
The first orderly’s laugh echoes off the walls. “Fucker washed up on the beach last night. I hope they do tell him. It’s not like that psycho can do anything from where he is. I bet Lecter will even ask them to wheel Graham’s corpse in here when they’re done messing with it so that he can curl up with it at night.”
Pain, so white-hot that it’s icy cold and searing through every limb in his body tunes out the rest of the nurses’ chatter.
Fucker washed up on the beach last night.
Graham’s corpse.
Bile rises in Hannibal’s throat. It can’t be right. It can’t be.
Images of Will’s face are flashing across his eyes; Will’s body caked with old blood and sand, eyes milky white, skin rippled and decaying from the saltwater—
He gags at the thought and tries to breathe. His mind is screaming and there’s a lot of incessant beeping in the background that Hannibal realizes is coming from the heart monitors. Any minute now, the nurses will come running and put their hands on him and hold him down. He bares his teeth and struggles against the restraints on his body. Will Graham isn’t dead. How can he be dead when Hannibal is here alive? It isn’t possible.
Sure enough, the nurses and doctors come running into the cage, followed by the armed guards who all point their guns at Hannibal. Hands from all directions are grabbing at him, they’re all shouting, but Hannibal isn’t hearing them. He growls and snarls like some sort of wild animal against the restraints, but someone slips one of the bite masks over his face, taking away his one defense.
“Sedate him!” Someone shouts.
He can’t hear the response through the chaos, but he feels the prick of the needle in his arm, and suddenly everything is hazy and unfocused. He feels his body sinking into the sheets, but he’s fighting against it. How can he help Will if he’s stuck here?
“You’re alright, Doc. Just relax.” One of the nurses says, and Hannibal growls weakly back.
He is not alright. He is not alright and neither is Will, and he has to get out of here. He’ll find his way to the FBI, he knows he can, because Will isn’t dead. He’s alive. He is. He has to be.
As the sedative takes effect in his blood, Hannibal looks past the medical staff to find a version of Will standing in the corner, still dressed in his ragged, bloody, soaking wet clothes that are dripping seawater on the floor. He’s not speaking, but Hannibal can tell simply by the expression on his face that he’s not the only one pleading. Find me. He’s saying. Find me, Hannibal.
“Will—” He rasps just as he slips under.
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—Day 8, Denial—
It’s dark in the room when he opens his eyes again. The sedative is still making him groggy and it takes Hannibal several tries to focus his vision.
There’s a figure on the other side of the glass wall. Hannibal squints against his hazy vision until Alana Bloom solidifies before him. She looks tense, exhausted, and somber, but not at all like she’s grieving. His heart skips, and a feeling so frighteningly close to hope is overtaking him.
Alana purses her lips. “You made one of the nurses quit with your tantrum.” She says flatly.
Hannibal doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even have it in him to be angry about the ‘tantrum’ comment.
She sighs and steps closer to the glass. “I know why you reacted that way. No one found a body, Hannibal, it was just a rumor.”
The relief is so sweet that Hannibal knows he would stagger if he were on his feet. Will isn’t dead. There was no body. He’s still alive.
“Why are you telling me this?” He asks her, voice scratchy and rough with sleep.
“Because I don’t think you killed him.”
He keeps his face neutral, not wanting to give her anything to work with, but he’s actually quite surprised. “Are you still trying to look for the best in others, Dr. Bloom?”
She scowls at him. “No. Especially not you. But, I still don’t believe you would kill him after everything. He sprung you from here after all, no matter what Jack wants to believe.”
A small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “And why is that?”
Alana takes a while to respond, long enough that Hannibal turns to meet her gaze directly. Her eyes are now brimming with tears of resentment and acceptance at the same time. Alana Bloom always was perceptive about his relationship with Will, and although it’s clear she hates it, she can’t deny the truth that Will Graham would, and did, choose Hannibal Lecter over her and everyone else. “You’re a special type of monster, Hannibal, but Will is special too. You called him family once. I think you love him too much to kill him.”
The smile falls, and Hannibal holds his breath. I think you love him too much to kill him. She’s right, of course. Back in Florence, his resentment towards Will and his betrayal almost did cause him to take Will’s life, but now when Hannibal thinks back on it, he feels a twinge of regret. Not having Will in his life now is almost intolerable, especially now that no one knows where he is.
“Hannibal.” Alana says, her voice breaking on his name. It brings his attention back to her, and now he finds grief so powerful it hits him right against his ribcage. “Hannibal… It’s been days. I don’t think they’re going to find Will’s…” She pauses to swallow against the tears. “You didn’t kill him. I know you didn’t. But I don’t think he’s alive.”
“Will Graham is resilient.” He bites back, though the first strings of doubt are starting to creep across his senses, no matter how hard he tries to push them down. He looks away, not wanting to see her heartbroken expression. “He is resourceful and clever, and stronger than you believe.”
There’s another pregnant pause before she speaks again. “You were a psychiatrist, Hannibal. You know what the stages of grief are. You’re in denial.”
Hannibal whips around to look at her again, and she takes a step back. He doesn’t need a mirror to see how horrific he must look in that moment; the rage that makes his eyes look more red than maroon, the lock of his jaw, and his predator-like stillness. “Do not underestimate him, Alana. I know Will Graham far better than you ever could. I know what he is capable of.”
Truly frightened, Alana stares back at him with wide eyes, but she holds her ground. “Well,” She mumbles, voice surprisingly strong. “I hope you’re correct. I really do.” With that, she turns and leaves, shutting the door behind her and leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Hannibal breathes deeply and closes his eyes again. His hands are trembling slightly, and he mentally curses his body for betraying him. He’s not in denial. Will is alive. He knows it.
“Being optimistic now?” Will’s voice says from somewhere beside him.
He opens his eyes and finds himself inside his office, settled in his chair while Will stands by the window with a sardonic smile on his face. Seeing him makes Hannibal smile too, mostly out of relief. “I suppose if you consider believing the truth to be optimistic.” He answers. “You are extraordinary, Will. I do not know where you are now, but I will find you.”
He half expects Will to argue with him, much as he always does, but instead, his smile softens and he nods. “Not if I find you first.”
Hannibal holds out his hand, and Will gets closer to take it. The warm weight of their combined hands and the comfortable silence is enough to renew the hope that had burned through him earlier.
Will Graham is alive. He just needs to wait.
And he will wait for as long as he needs.
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—Day 121, Anger—
The scent hits Hannibal’s nose before he hears the footsteps. It’s woodsy and sweet with cheap perfume and the smell of dogs, and without turning around, Hannibal knows who has stepped into his space. He’s lying on his bed with his nose in a book, and he doesn’t look over when he says: “Mrs. Graham, I presume.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath and the scent turns sour with fear.
Hannibal closes his book and gets to his feet before turning to face the woman. His first impression of Mrs. Graham is that she’s exactly as he pictured her; plain-faced and blonde with ruddy cheeks and a similar sense of style to Will himself, complete with hiking boots, jeans, and a flannel that is most likely Will’s, if the size is anything to go by. Hannibal loathes her immediately.
Mrs. Graham (Molly, he remembers) grits her teeth. “I’m here to talk to you about my husband.” Her voice is shaking, and it sends a thrill through his veins.
“Of course you are.” He walks closer to her, and she steps back. “Did Jack Crawford send you, or were you simply curious about me?”
“I’m not even remotely curious about you.” Molly snaps back, venom lacing her every word.
Hannibal cocks his head, considering this. “Aren’t you? You’re not at all curious what it is about me that led Will Graham away from you?”
Molly hesitates, and her eyes flash. She has a fiery spirit, something Will would search for while having to extinguish the fire in his own blood. Molly Graham is a decent conduit, but her appeal is overshadowed by how utterly dull she is below the surface. So normal, filled with a moral code that rivals Jack Crawford’s, and completely the opposite of what Will really needed. “My husband,” She growls, infuriating Hannibal further. “Was brought back here because Crawford needed him. Will was trying to save lives, and you took his. I want to know what you did to him.”
“I am not sure what you’re expecting to learn.” Hannibal answers. “I’ve already told Jack Crawford everything that occurred that night. My answer hasn’t changed.” His hands are practically trembling with how furious he is. In his mind, he’s already killed this pest in a thousand different ways, each more violent and painful than the last. He wants Molly Graham to suffer and suffer heavily.
Molly lets out a breath and dips her head so that her blonde hair falls into her face, then turns away without another word. However, as she gets closer to the door, she pauses, and Hannibal waits patiently for the beratement that he knows is coming. “I know that you think I didn’t know him. That’s your whole thing, isn’t it? That I’m not like you so I couldn’t understand him?”
Hannibal arches an eyebrow but says nothing.
She swallows audibly in the quiet room. “Well, I did. He told me everything before we got married. I know everything he’s done, the people he’s killed for his job, and everything he did to get you. I also know everything that you did to him. Every single thing you’ve put him through, I know everything. ” Molly turns to face him then, her jaw is locked and her cheeks are flushed with angry tears. “He hated you. He hated you for what you did to him, and he would have done anything to keep you where you are. Maybe I wasn’t what he wanted, but are you really stupid enough to believe he’d want you instead?”
The words hang in the air long after Molly Graham has left the room, ringing in Hannibal’s ears like the worst form of tinnitus. He sits down on the bed and picks up his book with trembling hands. He can’t concentrate on a single word, however, because all he can think about is the expression on Will’s face from years ago when he tried to say goodbye and Hannibal wouldn’t allow him to. The teacup’s broken. It’ll never gather itself back together again.
He refuses to believe it. He refuses to believe that Will had looked him in the eye, told him it was okay if he wasn’t able to save himself, told him their shared kill was beautiful, only to turn around and abandon Hannibal altogether. Will’s resentment doesn’t equate to the power of their connection.
No. Molly Graham is very, very wrong, and she will pay for it.
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—Day 126—
Alana Bloom returns to see him only days later with tears in her eyes and a quiver in her voice when she tells him that the FBI is declaring Will Graham to have perished in the line of duty. She tells him of the funeral that will be held, and of the empty coffin they will bury. She doesn’t need to tell him he won’t be allowed to attend, but he knows it’s true regardless.
Hannibal doesn’t say a word to her. He doesn’t look up from the drawing he had been working on; one, ironically, of Will Graham himself.
For the first time since he woke up in the hospital, Hannibal does the one thing he’s been avoiding subconsciously for the last few months; he considers the possibility that perhaps the FBI is right. Perhaps Will Graham is dead.
The idea of it is so brutal and agonizing, burning through his body with every lungful of air.
How could you? How could you do this to me now, after everything we’ve done? Everything we could have done, everything we could have been… How could you leave me now? Hannibal is quite surprised by how much of his anger is directed at Will himself, but that doesn’t stop the tirade. He feels gutted and betrayed, and how could he not when Will Graham finally accepted himself for what he was, only to be taken away by the ocean?
He hated you. He hated you for what you did to him, and he would have done anything to keep you where you are. Maybe I wasn’t what he wanted, but are you really stupid enough to believe he’d want you instead?
Could Molly Graham have been correct after all? It would hardly be the first time that Will had successfully tricked Hannibal, but even at the height of his deceit, Will had struggled with his loyalty to his morals, to Jack Crawford, to everything that upheld the values of good and evil. But, that was before Florence, before the Vergers, and before the inevitable goodbye. Could Will’s resentment have run deeper than Hannibal had allowed himself to believe? Could Will have hated Hannibal enough to let himself drown, just so that Hannibal would be forever haunted by the loss? Could Will have hated him enough to take himself out of their equation, their long-running game, so that Hannibal couldn’t follow him anymore?
“You wouldn’t let me go before.” Will says from somewhere off to his left. “Now you have no choice.”
Hannibal glances up and his vision is tunneling with red. “Don’t I?”
Will, who is leaning against the glass wall, clenches his teeth. “No. You don’t.”
The book in his hand goes hurling at the wall, and just like that, Will is gone, his absence deafening in the cell.
He takes a few breaths to gather himself and decides to push down his feelings toward Will Graham.
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—Day 153, Bargaining—
The more days go on, the more anger Hannibal feels. Jack Crawford doesn’t bother him anymore, and neither do any of the other lawyers and members of the FBI that had shown their faces in hopes that he would reveal something about Will Graham’s whereabouts that they hadn’t heard before.
The worst of it? Hannibal has found himself thinking about what Alana Bloom had said about grief and its five stages, and, even more abhorrently, he realizes that he’s going through the motions just as any normal human being would. Not that anyone could ever truly understand what this type of loss feels like.
On long nights where sleep evades him completely, he keeps his eyes closed and travels to places he would search for Will Graham. His home in Lithuania, a cabin in the woods in Canada, an apartment in Mexico, Louisiana, Italy, France… so many places where Will could go to hide. Hide from whom? His mind supplies.
On bad days, he thinks about Will’s lifeless body in the ocean, trapped down there until he breaks through the surface.
On worse days, he thinks about what Will must have gone through while he took his last breath of icy water. Had he struggled but had been ultimately too weak to fight? Or had he simply let go?
Hannibal does not believe in God; at least, not in any traditional sense of devotion to a higher power. He does, however, believe that wherever Will is, he can still hear Hannibal in his subconscious, begging him to be alive, begging him to come back.
“Why won’t you just let me go, Hannibal?” Will asks him from his usual place against the wall.
Hannibal purses his lips into a grim smile. “You of all people should know that I am very difficult to get away from.” He hesitates, the sorrow so heavy in his throat that he has to pause for several seconds before speaking again. “What else would you have me do, Will? Try to move on as I attempted to in Florence? Pretend that you never existed in the first place? As if you and I… as if we never…” He trails off, unable to even imagine it.
Will sighs, and even his apparition sounds tired. “You lost me once before, twice if you count the time after you tried to saw my fucking head open. Why is this any different?”
“Because the last time, you were alive.” He bites back hatefully. “You came back to me. All I had to do was wait for you.”
“But I wasn’t alive. Not the whole time. You saw to that.”
Hannibal’s heart plummets when he remembers the medical report that Jack had shown him, back when Will had actually been dead as a result of the stab wound. So far, he had tried not to think about that.
“What do you want, Hannibal?” Will asks him softly.
I want you to come back to me. I need you. I would cut my heart out and lay it at your feet. I would let you hurt me, whether with knives or words. I would stay here forever if it meant you were somewhere on the other side where I knew you were alive. I would spare that wife of yours. I would not touch her. I would not try to take her from you again if she was what you wanted. I would even forgive her if only that meant you would return to me.
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—Day 177, Depression—
He has weekly sessions with Alana, most of which consist of her asking questions and Hannibal ignoring them. He doesn’t want to speak to her. It’s lost its appeal.
It’s been almost six months since Hannibal returned to the BSHCI. Six months without a single sighting of Will Graham. Six months of torment and anger, all pent up inside his body without an outlet. For a brief moment, Hannibal wonders if this is what madness feels like.
His hour is up, apparently, given how Alana gathers her things to leave with a pinched expression, just how she always looks when she leaves without him saying a word. For once, however, there’s a question burning on his lips, one he hasn’t wanted to ask for so long, out of pride or fear he doesn’t know. “The night I left Baltimore,” He begins to say, voice rough with disuse.
Alana freezes where she stands in shock, then slowly turns to face him. “Yes?”
“I killed him.” He says simply, the words tearing his throat apart. “Jack Crawford was kind enough to show me the doctor’s report. Will Graham died on the table, for several minutes.”
Alana is still frozen in place, eyes wide and horrified as she takes in what he has just said, but she stays silent.
Hannibal swallows back against the lump in his throat. “Did you know?”
“No, I didn’t. He never… Will, I mean, he never mentioned it.”
He nods and closes his eyes. He doesn’t have the energy to speak anymore.
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—Day 184, Acceptance—
Nightmares plague him every single night now. Hannibal is a man who requires very little sleep, but nowadays he spends more time awake and staring at the ceiling so that he doesn’t have to dream at all. He feels empty; gutted and left to rot. Even Will’s apparition has decided to hide from him now.
The food they serve him, though Alana tries to accommodate his tastes, tastes like ash in his mouth. The music they play for him sounds monotonous and seems to pound against his eardrums. He reads when he can concentrate, and sketches when he can’t, though every drawing he does seems to embody Will Graham in some way. It’s like he’s suffocating with Will’s presence while he’s also hollow at the thought of him.
It’s Sunday when Alana Bloom visits him again, which is odd, considering she generally never works on Sundays. She’s dressed more casually than Hannibal has seen her in a long while, with leggings and a loose-fitting blue sweater. Her hair is down, and her eyes are rimmed red. She is tailed by an armed guard holding a pair of handcuffs, who orders Hannibal forward so that he may put them on.
Almost instantly, Hannibal is on guard. He knows her visit can only mean one thing, and he nearly opens his mouth to tell her to leave, that if they’ve really found Will’s body that he doesn’t want to know, but ultimately, he doesn’t. If this is punishment, he needs to take it, no matter how much it will hurt.
Once the cuffs are on, Alana gestures for the guard to wait outside, which he does without argument, leaving the two of them alone. “Hannibal,” She says, and he’s almost disarmed by the animosity in her voice, simply because it doesn’t seem to be towards him. Alana breathes deeply, though it comes out shaky. “I spoke to Jack. About the night that… well, about what you told me last week.”
He doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing.
Alana watches him carefully, and her expression twists into something hateful. “He lied to you. It was a lie, Hannibal. He fabricated the report to make you talk.”
All horrific thoughts in his mind evaporate, replaced by relief, then fury towards Jack Crawford. In fact, his need to see Jack’s body bloody and mutilated by his own hands is stronger than he has ever felt it.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… God, Hannibal, I’m sorry. The fact that he would lie about something like that, even to you, is horrid.”
“Agent Crawford has no reservations about who he hurts, so long as he gets his way.”
Alana shakes her head. “No, he really doesn’t.” There’s a pause before a quiet sob echoes in the room, and Dr. Bloom’s composure drops for a period of time. Suddenly, they’re no longer doctor-and-patient, or even rivals; they are two people grieving the loss of someone they loved and cherished. “Will’s almost a war hero at this point. People leave flowers at his grave every single day and Jack has awarded him some sort of medal of honor for his courage. I can’t stomach it anymore. I can’t even trust that Jack is doing it because he believes it. I feel like he’s going to such lengths because it’ll save him the guilt. It’s him refusing to accept responsibility for his mistakes, and I can’t stand it.” She’s crying openly now as she rants, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Hannibal feels something akin to sympathy for her. He knows her pain is warranted.
It, however, is nothing compared to the hole that Hannibal knows is where his heart should be. Alana Bloom will go home to her wife and her child, hold them close, tell them how much she loves them, and she will go to bed with tearstains on her pillow. But, as time goes on, it won’t hurt to think of Will Graham anymore. She will remember him fondly as a friend who met a tragic fate, but Alana will move on.
Hannibal knows now that he never will, and never can. Will Graham is dead, and Hannibal Lecter will have to suffer through his devastation for years to come.
“He’s so thick-headed and convinced that you were responsible for Will’s death, no matter what I tell him.” Alana continues on. “He won’t even consider the possibility that we might not be the only ones mourning him. I don’t even think Jack believes you have the ability to mourn.” She sniffles and wipes her eyes without smearing her makeup. “I know that this may not mean a thing coming from me, but… despite everything that’s happened, I am truly sorry for your loss, Hannibal. I mean that.”
The words are agonizing to hear, and all Hannibal wants to do is destroy everything in his sight, but he feels suspended and frozen in place where he stands. In his mind, without a body, it’s impossible to know for sure that Will really is gone, but after all of this time, it is difficult to believe anything else.
His throat feels parched and dry, so his voice comes out scratchy when he says: “Years ago, I found myself comparing Will and I to Achilles and Patroclus.”
Alana considers this. “Patroclus was empathetic and brave. It’s a fitting comparison.”
Hannibal nods once. “When Achilles learned of Patroclus’ death, he was furious, reduced to tears and vengeance. He ripped out his own hair, covered himself in his lover’s ashes, and proclaimed he wished his own ashes to be mixed with those of Patroclus, so that they may remain together for all time, even in death.”
Alana does a double take. It is clear on her face that she has questions after the implication he has made, but she doesn’t interrupt him.
“I do mourn Will. I have had to grow accustomed to many things throughout my life, though nothing can compare to… this.” He looks around his stark white and pale grey cage, filled with books he no longer wants to read and art that hurts him to create. “I feel his absence everywhere. I could not recognize the grief before, but you were correct.” Hannibal’s voice sounds nothing like his own; lifeless and raw. “Thank you for telling me the truth, Alana.” The truth doesn’t help the pain, but she could have kept it to herself, and yet she didn’t.
A fresh stream of tears falls down her cheeks, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Alana Bloom does the last thing Hannibal had ever expected.
She walks towards the door that keeps his cell closed, unlocks the door, and steps inside the cage with him. Normally, their sessions together are like this, though Hannibal is generally in a straightjacket and an anti-bite mask, not secured by a simple pair of metal handcuffs, without an armed guard present. Involuntarily, he takes a step away from her advancement, and she holds up her hands in a placating gesture. Her face is hard, but she approaches him regardless, and suddenly, he’s standing closer to Alana than he has in a very long time.
Then, as if nothing dreadful had ever occurred between the two of them, Alana Bloom wraps her arms around Hannibal’s shoulders and pulls him into an embrace.
The touch is foreign and strange, the angle slightly awkward, as his hands are still cuffed tightly behind his back. This could be his chance, he knows. Even with his hands quite literally tied, it wouldn’t be difficult to slip the cuffs, snap Alana’s neck, or sink his teeth into the delicate flesh of her throat, but even as Hannibal is thinking this, he knows that he won’t. Alana Bloom has shown him courtesy and compassion by coming here today, by acknowledging the devastating loss he is struggling with, and he will not act on his promise to kill her. Not today.
And, as time goes on, and her arms are still around him, Hannibal decides that maybe he won’t kill her at all. And in that moment of clarity, he leans his head to the side so that it may rest on hers, she tightens her arms and whispers another apology into his shoulder as she holds him. His legs feel weak like they haven’t in decades, not since he trudged through the snow, covered in his sister’s blood. In that moment, he allows himself to be held, and Hannibal Lecter forgives Alana Bloom.
_________________
—Day 208, 7:24pm—
The orderly pushing Hannibal towards the medical wing of the BSHCI is clumsy, jerking the gurney left and right, jarring Hannibal’s brain further. He’s being sent there to have his gunshot wound checked for the hundredth time, though the wound has more or less healed. With little else to do other than rest and heal, of course the wound is fine.
The orderly jerks him around another corner, and Hannibal grits his teeth behind the mask. He’d like to take the man’s hands from him, if he were able to do so at this point in time.
The hospital room is dim, but the guards get Hannibal strapped down onto the table without a fight, and then they leave him alone with the nurse, a gruff, older man with rotten bedside manner and rough hands. He allows the poking and prodding with carefully contained irritation.
From the hallway, he hears an audible thump and a sharp intake of breath that makes both Hannibal and the nurse pause and look toward the door.
“O’Neil?” The nurse calls to the guard outside.
There’s no response.
A twinge of curiosity hits Hannibal full force. An inmate, perhaps? One who got out? It would take some maneuvering, but Hannibal could get out if he tried.
The nurse lets out an irritated huff. “Goddamn trigger happy kids.” He grumbles as he turns away from Hannibal’s bed, and stomps towards the door. He throws it open and looks out into the hallway from left to right. “O’Neil!” He calls out. When there’s no response, the nurse lets out another annoyed sound and moves to close the door.
A dark figure suddenly emerges from the right side and slams into the man with pure brute force. Hannibal’s heart begins to beat erratically against his ribcage. It is too dark, he cannot see the assailant’s face, but the scent in the room is overwhelming and oh God, it can’t be, it can’t be, it can’t be…
There’s a grunt and then a wet-sounding slice as the knife in the assailant’s hand goes right into the nurse’s windpipe, then a second when the knife is plunged into the man’s skull. The smell of blood and steel and that unmistakable scent linger in the air, and Hannibal’s body feels hot and cold and shaken because he hadn’t really dared to hope for so long.
The assailant gets to his feet and hurries to the side of the bed, the lights illuminating his clear blue eyes, chestnut curls, and the beautiful, delicate bone structure of his jaw.
Will Graham stands at Hannibal’s bedside with blood covering his hands and face, and he is without a doubt the most beautiful thing that Hannibal has seen in his entire life.
“Hello, Will.” Hannibal rasps, his voice dangerously close to breaking.
Then Will smiles at him, and Hannibal can feel the broken pieces of his heart beginning to gather itself together, like he always hoped a teacup would. The relief is overpowering, and he wants to say so many things, he wants to hold Will close, kiss him, scream at him, crawl beneath his skin so that no matter what happens tonight, they will always be together. “Sorry I’m late. There was traffic.”
A pure, genuine laugh rips up from Hannibal’s chest. “I suppose I can forgive you just this once.” He replies.
Will chuckles and reaches his hand out to touch Hannibal’s cheek. The warmth from his body signifies his survival, and Hannibal allows himself to believe that this is real. Will is alive, he has come back, and everything will finally be alright.
Will’s hand leaves his face and begins unfastening the restraints. “We’ve gotta go, okay? I’ll explain everything later.” He explains as he helps Hannibal up. “They didn’t sedate you, did they? Can you walk?”
“They did not. I can walk.” Hannibal slides down off of the table and gazes down at the man in front of him, so relieved and so happy he can barely think. “You have certainly outdone yourself this time, Will.” He gestures to the now-dead nurse on the floor. “I assume you left Mr. O’Neil in a similar state?”
Will scoffs and slides his bloody hand into Hannibal’s lacing their fingers together. “Yeah, him and three others. I don’t think they’ll find them until after we’re gone, but I’d rather avoid a shitshow. You can wax poetic at me once we’re out of here.”
Then, they’re running. Will keeps a tight grip on Hannibal’s hand as he pulls him through the darkened halls of the BSHCI. They make it to the kitchen in no time at all, but are rudely interrupted by a lone guard who is so stunned at what he’s seeing that he reacts just a second too late, and Hannibal grabs his jaw, twists his head violently to the side, snapping his neck and drops him to the floor. The familiar bloodlust is running through his veins, and he wants to display every single one of these guards, but their escape is more important.
Will grins at him in approval, and the two escape easily out the kitchen exit, breaking into a sprint towards the forest. They get to a large tree several hundred feet from the building where they stop to catch their breath. Hannibal is shocked at how easy it had been to slip away from the hospital. It had been too convenient that the number of staff was so few.
Hannibal glances over at Will, who is rolling out the tension in his shoulders. “That was almost insultingly easy.” He deadpans.
“Planned. Not easy.” Will pants. “We’ve got to keep moving before they sound the alarm. You okay?”
“Of course.”
“Alright, then.” Will reaches out to take his hand for the second time, and Hannibal takes it willingly. The feeling of Will’s skin after months and months without him is blissful, even though they’re running for their lives through a dim forest.
They reach a side road within minutes, and Hannibal spots a grey car with two occupants barely hidden by the trees. He yanks Will back to keep them hidden, but Will turns to him shakes his head. “It’s alright. It’s for us.” He squeezes Hannibal’s hand to reassure him, and pulls both of them to their feet and towards the vehicle.
The passenger door opens, and to Hannibal’s utter surprise, Alana Bloom steps out and crosses her arms. “You said fifteen minutes!” She hisses at Will.
“I said maybe fifteen minutes.” He replies dismissively as he brushes past her and opens the trunk of the car, pulling out a backpack.
Hannibal’s eyes are flitting between Will, Alana, and Margot, who he has just noticed in the driver’s seat. Suspicion and apprehension are clouding his mind, and he finds himself unable to move. Alana seems so calm with Will’s sudden appearance. His brain is moving too fast with the relief of seeing Will again that he can’t even attempt to make sense of what’s happening. He frowns and feels the stirrings of annoyance at his brain for being so distracted and muddled at a time like this.
Will glances back at Hannibal, who is still frozen a few feet away. His expression softens, and he gestures for Alana to get back in the car. He makes his way over to Hannibal and reaches out for his hand. “It’s okay, Hannibal.” He coaxes. “It’s really okay. Please trust me.”
The tone of his voice is what really convinces Hannibal. Will is not one for pleading; he begged for Hannibal to spare Abigail’s life, but not his own. He never begged Mason Verger, or even Jack Crawford, but now, he’s pleading for Hannibal to trust him to keep them both safe, and although the situation is outrageous and bizarre, Hannibal acquiesces. He takes Will’s hand, and allows himself to be pulled to the car, just as a blaring siren sounds off in the distance.
They duck inside the vehicle, and Margot takes off the moment the doors are closed, keeping her speed just above the limit to not raise suspicions.
Will pulls a bundle out of the backpack and hands it to Hannibal. “Put this on over your jumpsuit until we get where we’re going.”
“Am I allowed to know where we are heading?” He asks as he slips on the hoodie with some sort of sports logo he doesn’t recognize on the front.
“Our home.” Alana answers.
“Just for tonight.” Margot interjects, giving Hannibal a pointed look in the mirror.
Hannibal looks to Will, who smirks. “The police won’t look there first. Chiyoh is coming for us in the morning.”
“And, after that, Alana, Morgan, and I will be taking an indefinite vacation at an undisclosed location while the FBI searches for you.” Margot says.
Hannibal blinks as he absorbs the information. Slowly, the pieces are coming together, and he’s finding that Will has been a very busy boy indeed. He has a thousand things he wants to ask, but knows it is neither the time nor the place.
The drive to the Verger house is silent after that. Will, who is visibly tired, leans his head against the window and Hannibal runs his eyes up and down Will’s body, looking his boy over and taking in his appearance for the first time since they were first reunited.
Will is far too thin still, though not waifish as he often looked in the past. He’s dressed in all black, perfect for hiding in the shadows. Hidden well under his beard, the Red Dragon’s scar is still slightly pink and angry looking, but it’s otherwise pretty well hidden. There are bags under his eyes, his cheeks look gaunt, and it’s then that Hannibal realizes that this separation must have been just as difficult for Will Graham as it had been for him.
Will catches Hannibal staring somewhere along the way. He smiles warmly in response then squeezes Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal always knew how easy it would be to be openly affectionate like this, but considering how much turmoil their relationship has suffered, it’s almost surprising to have this boy so willing to touch him, and be so willing to be touched back. Surprising, but the furthest thing from unwelcome.
The car rolls up the familiar drive of the Verger mansion, still just ostentatious as Hannibal remembers, and they pull into a large garage lined with other cars of varying models. Margot and Alana lead them both inside, and Margot gives her wife a kiss before running upstairs to check on their son.
Once she’s out of sight, Alana turns to face Hannibal with an apprehensive expression. “I hope that this makes us even now.” She tells him almost desperately.
Hannibal glances at Will, who scowls at him in a way that is both a warning and a threat all at once. It makes him smile to see that Will’s fearlessness towards him hasn’t ceased. Not that it’s necessary; he had already decided to not go after Alana and her family, but not informing her of this has ended in his favor. He now understands exactly what’s happened, and he cannot wait to hear the story from Will’s mouth.
However, first things first.
“Your family is in no danger from me, Alana. I promise. I don’t feel as though I need to express how much I value keeping promises.”
Alana visibly relaxes and has to put a hand on the table to steady herself. “You keep my secret and I’ll keep yours?”
“Yes. You have my word.”
She nods jerkily and lets out a shaky sigh. “Thank you. Thank you, Hannibal.” Her voice is trembling with relief. “Margot and I will be up for a few more hours if either of you needs anything. We purposely left our phones here for tracking purposes, but Jack won’t have me return to the hospital tonight, nor will he come here. You’ll be safe for the night. Goodnight. Both of you.” On her way out of the room, she touches Will’s arm as she passes him, her happy smile tight but still warm, and Will returns the look.
Jealousy floods Hannibal’s veins almost instantly, but he bites it back. Will came back for him, not Alana Bloom.
Will gestures for him to follow, and the two make their way upstairs to a guest room that’s further down the hall. Hannibal looks around at the lavish but simple space, the cream carpet and gold bedding that is still disheveled from where Will had obviously been sleeping. There is a book and a pair of glasses on the bedside table, as well as a larger backpack that seems stuffed with clothes that has been tossed on the floor. Will produces a garbage bag and pair of soft street clothes from the bag and hands them off to Hannibal. “Sorry I don’t have a three-piece suit for you to sleep in, so you’ll have to deal with sweatpants like a normal person.” He teases.
Hannibal rolls his eyes but takes off his hoodie and strips out of the jumpsuit, which he hands over. “We will have to dispose of this.” He says.
“We will in the morning.” Will strips out of his own bloody clothes and places them in a garbage bag along with the awful jumpsuit, then ties it off and sets it next to the backpack.
They get ready for the night in comfortable silence, taking turns in the shower and brushing their teeth side by side at the sink, then crawl up onto the bed where they sit cross-legged in front of each other. The position mimics how they often sat during their sessions, and Hannibal wonders how intentional it was from Will’s point of view.
“Okay,” Will says softly. “Um… I guess I should start at the beginning then?”
“Yes. I am curious to know where you have been all this time.”
Will nods, not looking at Hannibal at all. He takes a deep breath and begins to speak. “After we went over, we washed up on two separate sections of beach. Chiyoh found me around the same time Jack found you. It was just bad luck, really. She got me to a safe house, patched me up as best as she could, and I spent most of that time recuperating and figuring out how the hell to get you out of there.” He sighs and shifts his weight on the bed. “I figured the best way to do it was to just disappear and wait for the scrutiny and police presence to dwindle a bit. The FBI declared me dead, so I started to plot for real.”
Hannibal listens carefully and hangs onto every single word. The story is mostly what he expected, and he feels himself relaxing. “When did you seek out Alana Bloom for help?” He asks. This unsettles him still, but he tries not to show it.
Will chuckles. “Yesterday. It went about as well as I expected it to, since I surprised her in the kitchen again. Margot uh… she actually hit me in the head with a rolling pin. Still have a bump from that, but I kinda deserved it.” Hannibal frowns at that but otherwise doesn’t interrupt. “I went to her because I figured she would be the easiest to sway, and I was correct. I told her that if she helped me get you out, I would make sure that you wouldn’t come after her and her family.” Will’s expression pinches into a glare. “I fully intend to keep that promise, by the way.”
“I have already agreed to that.” Hannibal replies curtly. Though as he is saying this, another thought pops into his head. “I am surprised that she was willing to let me out, when she could arguably be safer by keeping me locked up.”
“I thought of that too. She told me what Jack did. What he said to make you talk.” His jaw clenches and Hannibal feels his heart flutter at the furious power that seems to be radiating off of Will’s body. “It upset her enough, I guess. That’s an understatement, actually, she was furious, and it definitely helped her decision. And you know Margot, she likes to stir the pot, so once Alana agreed, Margot didn’t need convincing.”
Hannibal feels a strange but intense sense of gratitude toward the Verger-Blooms for what they’ve done. He wants to know more; what Will’s plans would have been if Alana Bloom hadn’t been willing to help him, and how he would have managed it on his own, but he decides that it doesn’t quite matter about the what ifs. Will came back for him. Will is alive and safe, and that is the only thing that matters. Besides, they would have all of the time in the world to discuss it, if the curiosity becomes too great.
A cool hand covers his own and breaks him out of his thoughts. Will is looking at him again, this time with concern and something so close to sorrow. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I’m sorry I left you alone.” He whispers reverently.
Hannibal shakes his head and reaches up to cradle Will’s face in his hands. “Do not apologize. You are here now, that is all that matters.” His voice sounds thick with emotion, and he feels like he’s choking and drowning in Will’s presence. It’s a very troublesome feeling, something Hannibal has never felt before this day, but one that has been flowing through his body ever since Will Graham stepped out of the shadows and back into Hannibal’s life to stay.
He knows that at least part of it is fear. Fear that he will wake up in the morning to find himself back inside his glass cell and Will will be gone again. He feels like a child again, overruled by fear and mistrust.
Will, ever attuned to his emotions, seems to notice the struggle, and his expression softens even more. “This is real, Hannibal.” He soothes, placing a hand on Hannibal’s knee and squeezing. “Feel this? This is me. I’m here. It’s okay.” They are so close now, their faces only inches apart, like they had been on the cliffside not so long ago, and Hannibal doesn’t fail to notice how dilated Will’s pupils are, or how his breathing has sped up in the seconds they’ve been sitting like this. “Do you believe me?”
“I am trying to.” Hannibal replies begrudgingly. The idea that he could doubt Will is absurd, but for the very first time in his life, Hannibal is struggling to believe himself.
“Then I guess I’ll have to prove it to you, won’t I?”
And with that, Will Graham leans forward and captures his lips in a kiss. White, blinding lights explode behind Hannibal’s eyelids, his skin feels so warm he could be standing in the inferno, and Will’s unmistakable scent is flooding his senses, blocking out everything else. A wounded noise escapes his throat, and finally, finally, the blissful awareness has solidified and replaced every doubt in his mind that Will Graham is really here. Not even his mind could create an apparition this realistic.
Hannibal grips Will’s shoulders and hauls him forward off of his knees to crush their lips together. Will lets out a soft gasp that sets his blood alight, and suddenly he can’t stop. The feeling of Will in his arms is so surreal, but he wants more. He wants Will underneath him, wants to litter his beautiful throat with bruises and bite marks so that no one could look at this boy again without also knowing he has been claimed. He wants to tie himself to Will in any and every way that is humanly possible and never let him go. He needs this. He needs it so badly.
Will’s arms come up and wrap around his neck, and with a simple but strong tug, they both go tumbling down to the sheets, their bodies only separated by their clothes. They are both panting and gasping for air into each other’s mouths, and Will lets out the softest cry of pleasure when Hannibal bites down on his lower lip. The noise triggers something primal in the back of Hannibal’s mind, and with one look enchanted between them, they tear at each other's clothes, ripping seams and buttons, but not caring one bit.
The first touch of skin against skin is blissful. They are both achingly hard by now with both of their cocks pressing against their bellies while they lose themselves to the hunger. Will Graham looks beautiful like this; face flushed and lips swollen from the bruising force of each kiss. The blue in his eyes is almost completely gone with how dilated his pupils are now, making them almost black in the dim light. Hannibal traces the scar on his stomach with a light brush of his fingertips, sending a shiver down Will’s spine and a loud whimper to pound against Hannibal’s ears.
“Fuck. H-Hannibal, wait. We don’t have… anything.” Will protests weakly, though he sounds like the world is ending.
Hannibal hums and bites down on Will’s throat, not hard enough to bleed, but certainly enough to leave a mark, and Will gasps so beautifully that it makes his heart ache. “Indeed we should wait for certain things, but I would very much like to keep you like this, if you are amenable.” He murmurs.
This time, Will lets out a breathless laugh. “If I’m amenable. You’re ridiculous.”
“Is that a no?”
“Hannibal,” He says very seriously. “If you stop now, I will leave you on Jack’s doorstep in the morning.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Hannibal leans down and pulls his boy close to kiss him while he grinds down, eliciting a loud moan from both of them. Will thrusts upwards to meet Hannibal’s movements, and they find a perfect rhythm just rocking against each other's bodies while they both fall apart together. Will’s body is flushed and shiny with sweat, and his curls have become wild where they fall onto the pillow.
This night is the beginning of a new life for the both of them, and with it brings new sensations, new emotions that Hannibal can’t begin to describe. He feels overwhelmed with love and desire and need, and before he even realizes it, Will stops him with a hand on his chest.
“Hannibal?” He whispers. “You look like you’re about to cry. What’s wrong?”
The way he says this is so gentle and kind that it breaks through whatever walls Hannibal has been subconsciously trying to put up. He cradles Will’s face in his hand and shakes his head. “Nothing is wrong. Not anymore.” He sighs and strokes his thumb over Will’s cheek. “You must understand, these past seven months have been closer to hell than I ever thought possible, Will. To have you like this now, after believing that you had left me for good… Oh, mano meilé, you cannot imagine how this feels.”
Below him, Will flashes that beautiful, rare, beaming smile that has his heart pounding and his mind spinning with desire and love. “I can imagine it, Hannibal. I can feel it. I feel you.” He presses a kiss to his wrist, no doubt feeling the pulse quicken beneath it. “I love you. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise me?”
“I keep my promises, darlin’. You should know that by now.” Will murmurs, his very, very light Louisiana drawl thickening his words. He’s heard it before, but hearing it directed at him in such a tone is something that will stay with him for life.
Hannibal is so dizzy with love that he can’t even begin to think of a proper response, so he just gathers his boy in his arms, holds him tight, and rocks against him slow and deep. Will is a very vocal lover, every little sound making Hannibal impossibly closer. He reaches for Will’s hand, laces their fingers together, and kisses him until they’re both seeing stars and spilling onto each other’s bellies.
For a long while afterward, they just lie together, shifting positions so that Will is curled up against Hannibal’s chest, and Hannibal wraps both arms around him, holding him as close as possible. Will grumbles sleepily about taking another shower but makes no move to leave their little nest. Hannibal doesn’t want to shower again, and not just because he is also quite exhausted; he wants to smell like Will and wants Will to smell like him. The idea of washing away the evidence of their love is appalling. He wants to stay like this forever.
Will is asleep minutes later, snoring softly with his face resting just over Hannibal’s heart which is still pounding so loudly that he’s surprised it doesn’t wake his sleeping boy. The sight is so beautiful and perfect, something that Hannibal has dreamed of for years but never thought he could actually have. Yet here he is, a free man, resting comfortably in a plush bed with Will Graham sleeping soundly against him.
In the morning, Chiyoh will come for them, and they will leave this place altogether. They will leave behind everything but each other. They will travel to beautiful places, create masterpieces together, make love under the stars, and nothing will ever rip them apart. There is much to do, but for the very first time in several months, Hannibal Lecter breathes in the saltwater and aftershave-with-the-ship-on-the-bottle scent that still lingers on Will’s skin after all these years, and he feels utterly and completely whole.
“I love you.” He whispers into dark curls. “Stay with me.”
A tiny, happy smile pulls at Will’s lips, and he hums in response, much too tired to say anything else, but he doesn’t need to. Hannibal can hear him.
Where else would I go?