Work Text:
It starts like any other day does. Hannibal makes breakfast, Will does a crossword, and they share a pot of coffee. It’s a good day, even, it’s cold outside but they have a fire going in the living room and the house smells sugary sweet from the chocolate chip french toast Hannibal’s decided to make.
Will gets up from where he’s sat at the island and pours himself a second cup. It’s a lime green mug that he bought from a teenager in Yarmouth who’s trying to make her own pottery business, the handle is a little funky, and the girl painted horrendous orange spots all over it that she said were meant to resemble flowers. (They don’t, but Will didn’t tell her that.) What makes him love it so much is the fact that Hannibal hates it. He refuses to drink out of the blue one with an equally funky handle that Will bought him, instead opting to drink out of a normal white porcelain cup.
It’s an ongoing thing with them, and every morning they have the same faux argument about it.
“Come on, darlin’, for me?” Will asks, doing his best to uncover his Southern drawl as much as possible. It usually works on him, something about his real accent always gets Hannibal riled up in a way Will couldn’t have ever expected.
Hannibal gives him a look, mouth twitching funnily in an attempt not to smile. “No beloved,” he says, trying his hardest to seem stern but failing miserably as he fights the smile, “I hate it.”
“Sweetheart, I bought it for you, special.” Will takes a sip from his cup. “Don’t you wanna make me happy?”
Hannibal turns back to the food and then back to Will to look at him, eyes narrowing in a way that makes Will chuckle. “I could shatter it and you’d remain as happy as you always are.”
“I paid good money for it, actually.” Will walks back around the island and sits at the bar; he picks the crossword back up. “I need a seven letter word for hell.”
“Money is the root of all evil.” Hannibal tuts, pulling a plate down from the cabinet. Will’s favorite plate, the one with the little daisies on it. “You wouldn’t be nearly as tense if you worried about money less. Try gehenna.”
“Thanks.” He quickly scribbles in the word before laughing as Hannibal’s words hit him. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Hannibal hums but doesn’t acknowledge Will. He’s gotten better about ignoring Will’s little jabs against him, and Will’s done the same. Instead, he plates Will’s breakfast, sprinkles powdered sugar over the french toast, and then hands it to him along with the fork that Will uses for every meal. Will observes it for a moment, taking note of the fruit.
“Mangoes aren’t in season,” Will says as he slides the crossword over and picks up his fork to eat. “Neither are strawberries.”
Hannibal takes a sip of his coffee before he picks a piece of french toast off of Will’s plate. “And yet you have them.”
For a long time Will didn’t think they could ever have any semblance of a normal relationship. For the first four months they consistently bickered, poking each other in the soft parts of their egos. At one point it was near physical and Will had to leave for an afternoon to calm down before either of them did something they regretted. It took a lot, and it still takes effort sometimes, but that’s any relationship he guesses. They aren’t normal, anyway, so he had to have a lot of grace.
Love for them hasn’t always been patient or kind, and it truly is and continues to be a deeply jealous and resentful creature, but he doesn’t want to do this with anyone else. He’ll take one sided screaming matches and Hannibal manipulative nature every day if they still get times like this.
They’re a lot better now, happier, bad days are less. Will’s thankful for it, in a weird way. Thankful enough that he doesn’t swat Hannibal away when he takes a second bite off his plate.
They eat in silence, and Will finishes his crossword before they deposit the dishes in the dishes in the sink to do after dinner.
In their bedroom they have two suitcases out on the trunk at the end of their bed. Hannibal’s is packed and Will’s is more or less a mess of clothes and shoes. They’re apparently going on a trip to a ski lodge, which means Will is going to consistently bust his ass because he doesn’t really know how to ski and Hannibal's going to get some sick amusement out of it.
Hannibal looks at Will’s mess before following him into their bathroom to shower. “Remember to pack after work.”
“I will, we don’t even leave until tomorrow night,” Will says as he steps out of his pajama pants. He watches Hannibal do the same, eyeing him the way he always does. “You could just pack for me.”
Hannibal huffs, tossing his shirt at Will. “As tempting as that is, my love, you are a grown man who should be able to pack for himself.”
Stepping into the shower, he turns the water on as high as he can. The heat scorches his skin until it’s red and warm, and it’s refreshing against the cold that’s trying to break through and into their house.
About twenty seconds pass before Hannibal steps in behind him and turns the water down to a more agreeable temperature. It makes him sigh but he doesn’t say anything; Hannibal has sensitive skin so he has to bask in his hellfire showers for the few seconds he gets them.
“Figured you’d want to pack for me, you can decide what I wear.” Will turns to face him, letting the water soak his hair. “Controlling fucker.”
“I already buy all of your clothes, Will. Anything you wear will be by my design.” Hannibal asserts, grabbing him by the hips and pulling him forward out of the spray.
Will places an open mouthed kiss on his shoulder, letting his tongue touch the delicate skin there. When he talks again his voice is monotone. “Only because you’re the one always on your tablet, but why would I buy my own clothes when it makes you so happy to dress me up however you want.”
Again, Hannibal doesn’t acknowledge what he’s said, and he’s happier for it. He used to tell Hannibal that he treated Will like a Barbie so, he guesses this is progress.
Will swats Hannibal when he tries to wash his hair with his expensive shampoo, the one he bought specifically for Will’s hair type and smells like lilac, but allows him to use his drugstore shampoo and wash his hair.
He’s gentle, combing through Will’s curls slowly. He’s in need of another haircut, and figures he’ll let Hannibal do it tomorrow before their trip, especially as his hair is starting to get a tendency for knots.
Every day he returns the favor. Hannibal’s shampoo is silky and smells floral, it doesn’t lather like Will’s so he always ends up using too much but Hannibal doesn’t complain. He massages his scalp for a time before letting him under the water.
After their shower, Will makes an odd comment about being late for work–which has never happened because Hannibal wouldn’t allow it–even as he slides down the bed until he’s laying flat on his back. His wet hair soaks the satin pillowcase on Hannibal’s side of the bed.
He’s hard, not uncomfortably, but he’s restless as Hannibal takes his slow time getting on the bed. He straddles either side of Will’s hips, sinking down onto his cock slowly. Will takes a breath, watching with rapt attention as Hannibal takes his cock.
There’s something about it that feels like resurrection, like living again. He doesn’t know why and he doesn't care to dissect it, he just wants to feel it.
Will’s hands find his hips, his thumbs rub soft circles against his hip bones when Hannibal sinks all the way down, he sits there for a second before moving up and then back down at the same horrendously slow speed.
One of his hands wraps around Will’s throat, pressing down until he’s just barely light headed. Will’s fingers dig into Hannibal’s hips but doesn’t move him, doesn't demand anything more than Hannibal’s willing to give, he just allows him to fuck himself against his cock.
He’s leaking precome all over Will’s belly, each time Will’s fully inside him, Hannibal’s dick twitches and dribbles more. With each slide of Will’s cock, he moans softly. It only takes a few times around for him to tuck his feet under Will’s legs and ride him faster, not enough to make either of them come, but enough that Will starts to fuck up into him.
The hold around his throat tightens when Will thrusts hard enough into him to make Hannibal have to catch himself. Will’s eyes flutter and he stops moving, like he knows Hannibal wants him to. His ears buzz and his head goes light and then Hannibal lessens his grip.
Will moves one of his hands from his hips and takes Hannibal’s heavy cock into his palm. It’s warm and throbbing and when he pulls the foreskin back Hannibal makes an obscene noise. It’s something he’ll never get used to, he thinks, how easy it is to make Hannibal moan and whine.
Will slides his hand down and then back up the length of his dick, watching his face twist and listening to the little phrases of Italian that roll off his tongue. He does this until his hand is soaked and Hannibal’s abdomen is twitching and he’s lost his rhythm. He’s still trying to ride him, but he’s getting sloppy and desperate for release–Will feels the same way.
With the hand that’s still on his hip, Will helps to steady him. Bring him down against him in time for each stroke until Hannibal’s coming against Will’s stomach and chest. He might cuss, Will’s sure he does but he’s too focused on fucking him through his orgasm that he didn’t pay it any attention. Both of Hannibal’s hands are pressed firmly against Will’s chest, arms trembling, taking deep lungfuls of air as he twitches with the aftershock.
“Come here baby,” He whispers when Hannibal’s finished. “Give me a kiss?”
Hannibal leans down, presses a sloppy kiss against Will’s mouth, biting into his mouth lightly. He parts his lips, deepening it, moaning when their tongues touch.
Will grabs his hip with the other hand again and fucks into him, faster and harder. Hannibal breaks the kiss to tuck his face into Will’s neck, body twitching, broken noises tremble through his throat each time Will’s cock hits his prostate.
When Will comes, he wraps both arms around Hannibal, keeping him close until they’re both laying there, breathless and tired again. Will moves his face, his clean hand brushes Hannibal’s hair from his face, and he kisses beside his eye.
“You did good,” he swallows, breathing hard. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” Hannibal closes his eyes before laughing. “What a waste of a shower.”
Afterward, Will cleans them both up with a warm washcloth. He gives Hannibal a tender kiss and dresses for work. He promises to be home before six, and he’ll pack if Hannibal seriously isn’t going to pack for him.
Hannibal holds his hand until Will walks away from the bed, and then some until they can’t physically do it any longer.
He leaves, taking his lunch from the fridge, and his truck keys. It’s reliable, and not flashy. An old, semi-rusted Chevy that he bought for cash before they skipped the border. Hannibal hates it, but it makes sense for his job. Salt water ruins trucks, might as well have a piece of garbage instead of ruining something new.
Work is good. It’s exactly like it always is. Will gets there, puts his thick rubber boots on, and walks out into the boatyard. It’s windy, and it feels like ice every time it blows against his face. His balaclava only does so much, but that’s just the way it is. Most of the boats he works on now are lobster boats, which are bigger than he’s used to, but mostly the same. Just takes more time.
He works with three other guys who mind their business well enough. All they know about him is that he’s married and he’s from Louisiana. That’s all they need to, and really he knows the same. Two of them are married and all three of them were born and raised in Nova Scotia.
The only guy who ever does ask anything is a younger kid by the name of Damian. He’s about 24, stocky. Sometimes he’s overly interested in Will, but he thinks it’s just because Will’s quieter than the other two and he’s the only person from the states that lives out this way.
Bear Point is a small town, it’s rare that people move here. He gets the interest, he’d be interested too. Especially given that Will just showed up one day with a facial bandage, covered in bruises looking for work.
People talked about him, about how he lives in a house that’s never been occupied before because it was bought by some foreign guy 20 years back. How he doesn’t talk and the only other person they’ve ever seen him with was another guy but he’s even more mysterious. All small towns are the same.
Still, despite the kid’s usual questions about the US and if Will’s husband can even put up with him, the day goes by smoothly. Nothing is so broken that it’s unrepairable and Will counts that as a good day. Usually someone, this one guy whose name he never remembers, messes his boat up bad enough it takes Will three days to fix it. Luckily he’s been out of town with his wife and Will hasn’t been given any awful tasks.
During his lunch break he sits in his truck, turns the heat on, and calls Hannibal. This is another thing that’s always good for them, no matter what, even if they’re in the middle of a blowout fight, Will calls him during his lunch break.
He talks to him around mouthfuls of ham sandwich and homemade chips. Laughing between bites, he says, “I think this kid has a crush on me.”
Hannibal’s doing something, probably making his own lunch. He hears something clatter on the other end. Hannibal tries to hide the disdain in his voice, but Will hears it. “Really?”
“Like a work crush,” Will amends, but he immediately feels warm all over. “Don’t get bent out of shape about it.”
Hannibal makes a noise, like he’s clearing his throat. “Anyone would be blind to not recognize your beauty.”
“Oh wow, that was good, baby.” Will snorts, taking another bite of his sandwich. “But you’ve already got me. You don’t have to flatter me.”
“On the contrary, I should flatter you more. Just because I have you, that doesn’t mean I don’t wish to remind you of my regard.” Hannibal hums into the phone, causing Will’s neck to warm with an unneeded blush.
Sometimes he feels stupid, like a kid whose crush just admitted to liking them back on the playground. Hannibal says things and Will doesn’t know how to respond–he’d write him psalms if he could. He’d lay at Hannibal’s feet and cover him with Hannibal’s clothes if he saw fit.
“You’re getting soft,” Will says, terribly fond. “I love you, baby.”
“I love you, too, dear Will.” The smile in his voice is louder than his words, and it sets Will in a better mood.
The rest of the day is mainly so he can organize his tools. It’s an off day, anyway, and he just came in to get ahead on some of the boats before his trip and show the kid what to do in some different situations.
Damian stays close by, watching how he arranges things, taking notes. The kid’s never really worked on a boat before, at least not alone, but his uncle is a lobsterman so he got out on the boatyard with a particular ease. Will gets that, he was able to work pretty much anywhere on the Southern East coast because of his dad. Now this kid squirmed his way into being Will’s makeshift apprentice.
“Keep the fort down until I get back, yeah?” Will says as he walks to his truck. It’s only 3:30; he’s leaving earlier than usual. “I expect you can do the basics. Nothing serious should happen unless a storm blows in. If that happens, Peter should be able to do it.”
“You’re leaving?” Damian says, following him to his truck. He’s nervous, and Will can’t place why. He should be able to do the bare minimum and there are other guys who work out here anyway. “Don’t you want to stay a little longer?”
Will laughs, not at the kid, but at the idea of staying out in the cold any longer than he needs to. “You’ll be fine without me, kid. I’ve got stuff to do around the house before my vacation.”
“Your husband can’t do it?” Something in his voice instantly sets Will off. Hannibal would chastise him for being paranoid–he was paranoid for a long time and he’s only just now gotten better. “He keeps you on a tight fucking leash, huh? Keeps you home, never lets you go out to the bar with us.”
“No, not at all.” Will pauses and looks at the kid, staring him down harshly. “You need to learn to mind your own damn business one day or you’ll get fucking hurt. Take care of my shit while I’m gone.”
The drive home is silent, Will doesn’t even put in one of his CDs. He just rides and brews and considers a million different possibilities. He’s just a dumb kid, Will reasons. He’s probably repressed or something. That’s it.
The tension eases slightly when he finally gets home. Seeing Hannibal always calms him down, as strange as it seems. Two years ago and he would have been sick with the idea of coming home to Hannibal. Now it’s the best part of his day.
“Hello, Will. How was work?” Hannibal looks up from his book. “You’re making that face again.”
Will toes out of his shoes and hangs up his jacket. “I’m not making a face.”
“You are,” Hannibal looks back down and flips the page. His eyes scan over the words, but Will knows he isn’t reading anymore. “You make this horrible little face when something is upsetting you. Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it.”
Will stares at him for a second before sighing and sitting. Hannibal has to adjust slightly, but they sit comfortably with his legs in Will’s lap.
It takes a few minutes of silence and Will rubbing his hand up and down Hannibal’s leg before he says anything. “That kid pissed me off, I don’t know. He was weird today.”
Hannibal closes his book and chunks it onto the coffee table. “In what way?”
This reminds him of therapy, he isn’t sure how to feel about that so he continues petting across Hannibal until he gets to his stomach. He dips his fingers under his shirt, feels the soft warm skin there.
“He said you keep me on a tight leash.” Will shrugs. Voicing it out loud makes him realize how stupid it sounds. Of course, everyone thinks that, he’s always preferred it, using the excuse that he has to get home to get out of anything and everything.
“Well, if he has a crush on you like you said, it wouldn’t be odd for him to be upset that you’re often rushing off to come home to me.” Hannibal places his hand over Will’s, squeezing it gently. “I trust your judgment, Will, but you have been known to have a paranoid personality.”
Will glares at him, catches himself, and then takes a centering breath. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Whatever, he’s probably just fucking weird. I’ve never met anyone as odd as the people that live in this town.”
“You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.” Hannibal tells him. Hannibal lives by the rule that a good meal makes everything better. It’s how he shows love, how he apologizes, how he likes to spend evenings. “I’ll start dinner.”
Will moves, and lays down on Hannibal’s chest, resting his head so he can hear the slow beat of his heart. It’s comforting, he always does this when something upsets him too much. Hannibal likes it too, he can tell by this way his entire body relaxes, sinking into the couch.
Will turns his face, breathing him in. “Can I lay here for a little while first?”
Hannibal wraps his arms around him, smoothing a hand down his back, and kisses his hair. “Of course, dinner will be simple, we’re in no rush.”
Will sits down on the little swing he installed, shivering from the short walk alone across the porch. The night is worse than the day but they live far enough from the water that they don’t have to worry about wind. Despite the cold, they still like to sit outside together after dinner for as long as they can stand–which isn’t long. Once Hannibal deems it too cold, he all but ushers Will back inside.
He leans against the arrest, pushing his socked feet under Hannibal’s thigh, it’s toasty, especially given the fact that his husband is all bundled up. Hannibal pulls the blanket up and lets part of it rest on Will. It’s the one from their bed, the thickest one in the house so it oftentimes makes these little trips.
He hands Hannibal his cup of hot cocoa, and watches him taking it graciously.
This will be the lash dish of the night and then they can do the dishes, shower, and go to sleep. That settles Will more. He’s still antsy, but much more for their trip than anything. He doesn’t even know if he will sleep because of it. He never really went on too many vacations before, not as a kid or an adult, and this one is something he can try to be excited about.
“I’m all packed up and ready to go,” Will says and Hannibal puts his hand on his knee, rubbing his thumb over the fabric of the blanket. “I even packed that green shirt you like so much.”
“Thank you. You’ll love the mountains. The lodge is very nice as well.” Hannibal takes a sip of his cocoa, relishing in the warmth of it in contrast to the cold. “Not something I would usually do, but I feel like it’ll be a nice time. I’ll teach you to ski.”
“I’ll love having a break from work. It’s quite the drive though.” Will sighs, blowing on the cocoa. When he tastes it, it burns his tongue. “You’re gonna laugh at me struggling.”
“You don’t have to work, if you like the mountains I’d be willing to move there.” Hannibal shrugs and slides his hand down to squeeze Will’s thigh. “I wouldn’t laugh at you.”
“I like to work, it gives me something to do with my hands.” Will counters softly before blowing on his drink. “You like that I work.”
The corner of his lip twitches upward and Will knows he’s got him. He feels triumphant, like he just blew down the walls of Jericho.
“There are other things–“
Will hears it, not the whistle from the silencer, but he thinks he might hear that too, but the way it makes Hannibal’s head snap back and smack the back of the swing. His cup drops from his hand, hits the edge of the swing, and then shatters. Porcelain shards skitter across the porch.
Shock rolls over him first, and then sheer panic. He doesn’t look around them, he doesn’t try to find the source of the bullet, and he doesn’t have time for either of those.
Will moves mechanically but too fast, hot cocoa sloshing over the side of the mug and burning his hand as he tries to grab his face. He can hear someone distantly yelling, more than one person actually, but his mind is too hyper focused on Hannibal to know what they’re saying.
Blood pours out from under his left eye. The hole in his face is small, the thickness of a pencil, and perfectly round. It pours black blood in a heavy stream, enough that it’s already starting to pool around his shirt. Will moves his head as gently as he can manage; he has no exit wound. The bullet is lodged in his head. His eyes twitch, trying to focus.
Will moves his face then, turning his head so he can look at him. Hannibal’s blood is warm against his hand, thick. Somehow it burns him worse than the cocoa did. “No no no no, baby, look at me. Okay? Look at me, I’m gonna–I’m gonna make it better.”
He doesn’t know why he’s lying. It’s not for his own sake, he knows he can’t, but he still is. Whispering softly that everything’s okay, even as Hannibal’s body starts twitching from whatever the bullet has damaged in his brain.
He hears the crunching of boots against dead leaves. Not looking is better for him though, he just wants Hannibal to be okay, even if he knows that he won’t be. He just wants to look at him and for Hannibal to look back.
“Will!” He hears someone yell. They’re close to the porch, probably by his truck. He shakes his head, and tells whoever it is to get the fuck back.
He doesn’t have his gun though, it’s in the house. He can’t do anything, not logically.
Hannibal tries to say something but nothing more than a gargle for air comes out. His eye is red, not maroon, but red. The white of it turns crimson as the seconds pass. His throat moves like he’s trying to swallow, and maybe he is.
He’s holding the collar of Hannibal’s shirt tight, so tight his knuckles bleach and burn and he thinks he just witnessed a crucifixion. He swears he knows what Mary Magdalene felt when her Messiah was hung up and bled out. What every religion whose Messiah died violently has felt.
His other hand is petting his hair back, fingers trembling. His throat seizes and hurts and tears drop from his eyes as he tries to talk to him. “Please, please. It’s okay, Hannibal. I promise. It’s gonna be okay. Do you hear me, it’s fine.”
His body goes lax in Will’s hold. It all happened too quickly, and someone grabs Will. He doesn’t look, he knows who it is. Logically, he knew from the moment Hannibal’s head snapped back who it was.
“You’re okay now, Will,” Jack yells when Will pulls back against him. “Will, it’s okay.”
Someone else, he doesn’t know who, another agent, takes over. She’s a woman, Hannibal’s age. She offers him wet wipes to clean off his hands, but he doesn’t take them.
“He can’t hurt you anymore.” She says, escorting him to one of the SUV’s. “You’re safe now.”
Will stares at his body for as long as he can, sitting in the middle seat in the back so he can watch what they do to him.
Hannibal crumpled as soon as Will was forced to let him go, sinking down into the swing. He didn’t like to see that, and now he doesn’t like how carelessly they’re handling his body. Their blanket is red, smeared with blood from Will’s hands. Someone’s boots crushed the broken pieces of Hannibal’s cup, Will can see where it’s been kicked off the porch and into the dormant flower garden there.
He tries to fight it, but he’s always been easy enough to maneuver and the shock is setting it quick and fierce. He doesn’t think he can handle it any other way, so he has to let it happen. He has to go somewhere that isn’t right now, anywhere else would be better.
They want to get him to the field office in Maine quickly so put him on a private plane with Jack and a few other agents. He can tell, even with how far removed he is from reality, that they’re treating him like he’s a victim. They must think he was abducted and forced to live out Hannibal‘s fantasies.
Someone offers him some water, something to eat, but he just stares out the window into the darkness, letting the food go cold and the water come up to room temperature. It’s so black outside he can see his reflection in the glass.
Someone puts a shock blanket on him, probably the woman from before, but it’s itchy and smells like mothballs and nothing like his blanket at home. He tries not to breathe it in, he doesn’t want it to taint his memories. He closes his eyes and thinks about home, trying to imagine he’s in bed, that he’ll wake up any minute and Hannibal will be there and they’re gonna leave to go on their trip. That the reason the blanket is itchy is because his hair’s too long and it’s scratching him.
“How do you feel?” Jack asks with the kind of gentleness he never afforded Will before. “That nightmare is over now.”
Will can’t hear him, not really. He’s locked himself in a room. He’s in bed. It’s warm and smells floral like Hannibal’s shampoo.
“Listen, I want you to know we came as soon as we could. We knew you were out there for around six months, one of the guys that worked with you called it in. He recognized you from a missing persons show he saw.” Jack pushes a bottle of water toward him. “We thought you were dead so when we found out you weren’t, it was a celebration.”
He wishes he was, he wishes they shot him too. He should have done something to have them shoot him, he should have taken one of their guns and shot one of them. He should have made them do it, shouldn’t have given them any other option.
“Molly’s going to be at the field office in Maine,” Jack says, and the cadence of his voice tells Will, whatever part of him that’s listening, that that’s supposed to be a comfort. His wife is there, she’s been waiting. “She’s going to ride up with you to the hospital. They’re going to check you out. Doctor Bloom is going to see you and then you can go home.”
Will buries himself deeper. As deep as he possibly can. He’s on the boat. It smells like antiseptic and sweat and blood and Hannibal is so sick. They’re eating soup out of a can and sharing a twin sized mattress.
Jack continues to talk but it’s a dull noise at the back of his head, like the buzzing of a fly. A swarm of flies, devouring him and all that he still holds dear.
When he comes back, they’re landing. He wants to be closer to reality so they don’t have to manhandle him out of the plane. If anyone touches him he thinks he might go off the deep end.
The only reason he hasn’t is because of the shock. Give him a couple of days and he’s sure he’ll be out of his mind or depressed, or both.
“Are you going to cremate him? If you do, I want his ashes.” Will takes the blanket off, lets it hit the ground. His voice isn’t as strong as he wishes it was, nearly silent and trembling if anything.
No one is taking him seriously. He already knows they’re going to diagnose him with an unnecessary amount of disorders, anything to make sure they weren’t wrong about him. That somehow Hannibal forced his hand.
“Will, I know that you needed to pretend to survive, but you don’t have to now.” Jack insists like he needs to believe it himself. He’s being political too, which means the answer is no.
He looks down at himself, trying to get his bearings. He’s still got Hannibal’s blood on his shirt but his hands are clean. He knows they’re going to take the shirt once they get to the field office, pack it up with evidence and filed it away for the rest of any of their lives, but he needs to keep it. He wants to keep it so bad that he’s sick, retching into the walkway.
He wipes his mouth once he’s done and wraps his arms around himself. He’ll fight them over the shirt, he’s decided. He’ll kill anyone who tries to take it.
Molly isn’t at the field office, she’s at the airport, waiting for them on the tarmac with Alana Bloom and a plethora of agents. She looks exhausted, older in a bad way, like she’s been through hell and high water. She probably feels that way, Will gets it, even if he doesn’t want to.
She hugs him as soon as he steps onto the pavement, and Will ghosts his hands over her shoulders. Molly is warm, but she isn’t the comfort she thinks she is. He isn’t going to take this out on her, though, he realizes. She isn’t going to be what pushes him over the edge.
“We’re gonna get you home, okay?” Her voice quivers, Will can feel it in her chest. It shakes him, he wonders if Hannibal could feel the quiver in his voice in those seconds before he died. “I’m so happy you’re safe.”
Will looks out over the airport. Everyone has a gun. It would be easy to take one. He should take one, shoot someone else–or himself.
The sky isn’t as clear here, it smells like asphalt and there are too many people talking and moving them and he just wants to go back home. He just wants to be home. He wants to wake up now. He wants to go on their trip and struggle to ski and have Hannibal laugh at him.
He wants to argue one more time. He wants to get so mad at him but still call him during his lunch break and complain when Hannibal buys him clothes he doesn’t like but wear them anyway. He wants Hannibal to cook him something, something that’ll make him feel better.
Molly’s hand is on his back, helping him find his way to the car he’s supposed to get into, behind Alana. Jack is in the front. He never thought he’d ever see any of these people again. He’d throw up again if he could.
When they get in, Molly takes Will’s hand. It doesn’t feel right, it feels like being dead for days. It feels like someone trying to wake up his bones, telling him to get up and walk, but they’re a false prophet. She looks at it, at the wedding band that isn’t hers. The one he bought for himself when he bought Hannibal’s. They match. She puts her other hand over it. He knows they probably debriefed her on what to expect.
They can’t have the ring either. He’s keeping it, he’ll swallow it if he has to.
“We’re going to be home soon.” She repeats more to herself, squeezing his hand.
Will looks out the window, watching the dark and the trees zip by. Alana hasn’t spoken to him, and he suspects she has a really good idea of what was actually going on, even if everyone else was in denial.
He wonders what’s going to happen to their house, if anyone would even want to buy it. They still had dishes to do. They’re just sitting in the sink, waiting. Their bags are upstairs in their bedroom, their painted clay mugs are on the counter. Their house still smelled like french toast.