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A shrill ringing is what wakes Hannibal from his light slumber. It grates on his ears, pulling him back to consciousness rapidly, but sluggishly. The sound is irritating.
He opens his eyes to the darkness of his bedroom, blinking away sleep while he blindly fumbles for his cell phone on the nightstand. The clock tells him it is just after one in the morning. Only a select few would call him this early, and one is more likely than all the others, so, without glancing at the caller ID to confirm, Hannibal answers the call and presses the phone to his ear.
The first thing he hears is hitched, uneven breathing, and it’s all the confirmation he needs.
“Will?” He greets, his voice rough with sleep. “Is every—”
“It happened again! It happened again, I did it again!”
The terror in Will’s voice has Hannibal sitting up in bed and reaching for the lamp. He knows what it is; at this time of the morning, there is nothing else that it could be, however, Hannibal has to play oblivious. “What’s happened?”
Over the line, Will is panting, drawing in sharp, ragged breaths. Short, insufficient. He’ll faint if he doesn’t attempt to regulate. “I’m s-sleepwalking again.” He stutters, almost too shaky for Hannibal to understand. “ I’m outside, I–I don’t—”
“Will, deep breaths, please.” Hannibal orders firmly. Over the line, he hears his boy take a shaky, deep inhale and then the muffled sound of Will’s breath on the receiver. Good boy, he almost says. His poor boy is so afraid and he’s reached out for comfort, for someone to rescue him.
Hannibal accepts this honorable task with ease.
“Are you hurt at all?”
“Um, m-my feet are cut up and my sh-shoulder is seizing up. I d-don’t know.”
“You’re barefoot?”
Will lets out a soft sound that could almost be a whimper. “Yeah. It hurts.”
A sharp feeling cuts through Hannibal’s sternum. It’s unfamiliar and sudden, like a defibrillator’s shockwave, and suddenly he’s throwing the covers off and making his way out of the bedroom. The situation feels like it has shifted without his permission. Hannibal feels uneasy.
“Do you know where you are?” He asks.
“N-no, no. I’m in the woods.” In the background, he hears shuffling, like paper is being moved. Leaves, he realizes. “It’s dark,” His boy continues. “I c-can’t… I can't see a-anything, I don’t know where I am.”
“Will.”
“I was at home, I—I was going to bed, I was fine, and then I w-woke up here.” Over the line, his breathing has picked up again, quick and panicked. He’s going to hyperventilate. Hannibal has never heard him sound so frightened before.
“Will, listen to me.” Hannibal tries again as he slips on his boots.
“I’m not this kind of crazy, Doctor Lecter.” He mumbles, half to himself, it seems, but his voice keeps getting thinner and less coherent as he continues on; “This is wrong. I’m not like this, I’m not. I’m not, I’m not crazy.”
“Will!” He barks. That ugly feeling keeps growing in Hannibal’s chest, even as he’s yanking his overcoat out of the closet and throwing his arms haphazardly into the sleeves.
But, Will keeps going, not listening; “I’m not crazy, I’m not crazy, I’m not, I’m not, I’m not crazy—”
“Will, mylimasis, I hear you,” The endearment falls from Hannibal’s lips before he can stop it, but he can’t find it in him to take it back. “I hear you, Will, but I need you to listen to me for a moment, please. Can you do that?”
Even to his own ears, Hannibal sounds very gentle. He’s used this tone before on patients or friends, but never this sincerely. Will’s distress calls to him in a way that is visceral and beyond his understanding. In this state, Will would be so malleable, but yet, all Hannibal can think of as he’s stuffing his wallet into his coat pocket and clutching his car keys so tightly that it hurts, is getting to Wolf Trap as swiftly as he can. Will needs him.
He still hasn’t answered the question, so Hannibal tries again as he throws the door open and steps out into the garage. “Are you listening, Will? Can you hear me?”
Will lets out a noise that sounds like a sob. “Yeah. Yeah, I c-can.” He sounds so young now, lost, and broken.
Hannibal doesn’t have time to think about why it twists his insides up, why the distance between them suddenly feels too far apart.
“Good boy,” He says, throwing the driver’s side door of the Bentley open and climbing inside. “I am leaving my house now to find you, but I need an approximate location. Does your phone have a flashlight?”
“No.”
That is rather inconvenient, but Hannibal is adaptable. He’s just lucky that Will’s phone was on his person when his unconscious mind decided to take over his body.
“Alright, can you put me on speakerphone and use the backlight?”
Will lets out a soft affirmative, then there is a soft click and the sounds over the line expand. Hannibal listens, hears the wind blowing against the microphone and a series of shuffling noises as Will heeds his request.
Perfect boy, he wants to say.
“Look around slowly.” He says instead as he pulls out of the garage. “What do you see?”
There’s a pause, the whistling of the wind, and the sound of dead, crunchy leaves under Will’s (bare, exposed, injured) feet, then; “I think I see the road.”
“Can you walk towards it?”
“Yes.”
“Go on. Very good, Will. You’re doing so well.” The words feel heavy on his tongue. Hannibal does not soothe people, at least, not like this, but Will responds to kindness and praise and Hannibal wants to give it to him. “Now when you get to the road, I want you to do the same thing. Do you see any street signs?”
The sound of crunching leaves ends but he can hear the padding of bare feet on cement. “I think I’m near the state road west of my house. There’s a red barn.” Will swallows hard, barely covering an anxious whine. When he speaks again, his voice is so weak, so far away. “I walked over a mile.”
“It’s alright, Will.” He urges, speeding down the dark roads in the direction of Wolf Trap, Virginia. “I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me, sit by the road, and do not move until I get there, yes?”
God forbid he falls asleep again, and wanders off, deeper into the woods. The idea sends an unpleasant sensation down Hannibal’s spine. Surely he will arrive before there is a risk of that, but he would track Will Graham through the forest by scent alone if it came down to it.
Will lets out another weak noise, then presumably sits down in a defeated heap against the curb.
Good boy. Stay where you are, I’m coming to get you.
He gives the Bentley a little extra gas, exceeding the speed limit by at least ten miles per hour in his haste.
“I’m scared.” Will says faintly, his voice trembling like he’s confessing to sin. “I don’t understand. What’s happening? What’s wrong with me?”
The gnawing restlessness grows.
Hannibal does not understand it.
Setting Will’s magnificent brain on fire had a purpose; to open it. To whisper through the chrysalis and spread the embers so that the hellfire inside of him could grow. His capacity for violence, for greatness is too powerful an asset (and, by extension, an alibi) to be left to rot away.
And yet, stirring just there, in the confines of his rib cage, something akin to apprehension has begun to fester like an open wound.
How curious.
The feeling, viscid and thick like tar, clots the back of Hannibal’s throat. He swallows as much down as he can, then lowers his voice to a murmur. “We will sort it out, Will.”
Will tries to laugh, but it sounds all wrong. He doesn’t believe me.
Hannibal opens his mouth to say something else, something to distract and comfort, but Will lets out a shuddering breath that overwhelms the microphone.
“I can’t feel my hands. I only have a t–shirt on.” He whispers, childlike and fragile. “I’m really c-cold.”
Tar spills into Hannibal’s chest cavity and floods his stomach with ice.
Somewhere, behind a door in his Memory Palace that he never opens, a soft voice that is roughened from illness and hunger whispers; “It’s so cold, Han. It hurts. I want to go home.”
No matter that they were already home, it was just the house was in ruins. Mischa never returned to him.
Will Graham will not suffer as she had. Hannibal will not allow it.
“Hold on, Will,” Hannibal orders through the tar in his throat. “Hold on for me. I will be there soon.”
Will whimpers over the line like he’s trying not to cry, waking up some ancient, slumbering part of Hannibal who wants to protect.
He presses down the pedal. The speedometer inches above ninety miles per hour, the world outside his windows a giant blur. He isn’t worried about the police; should he be pulled over, he will simply kill the pig standing in between him and Will Graham. It would be a pleasure.
Hold on, my love. Hold on.
_________________
Will’s silence is unnerving. He is often quiet, locked off in his own mind, or trying hard to take up as little space in the real world as possible.
This is a different type of silence. Loud, oppressive, as if Will were suspended over a cliff top instead of sitting in the armchair in his living room. Hannibal decidedly does not like it. Not one bit.
After nearly breaking the sound barriers on the way to Wolf Trap, it took Hannibal nearly thirty minutes to find Will. His boy followed orders and did not move from his spot on the side of the road near the woods until the Bentley’s headlights illuminated his small, shivering figure. He was dressed in jeans that were damp and rumpled from his walk, and the thin white t–shirt he wore was soaked with fever sweat, and dirt. His lips were deathly pale, nearly blue, and he was shivering so violently when Hannibal arrived that he was almost certain Will was having a seizure.
Thankfully, he was wrong. He had never been so happy to be wrong, though the irony that he had been inducing the seizures in the first place was not lost on Hannibal. It simply didn’t matter right now.
Will is safe. That is what matters.
Hannibal, beyond caring at this point now that he had located his boy, wasted no time in throwing his long overcoat over Will’s shoulders to keep him warm, then huddled him into the passenger seat. Will remained mostly catatonic throughout the drive, taking to staring out the window, blinking, breathing, but… missing.
He hasn’t uttered a sound since. Not when Hannibal helped to remove his wet clothes and replace them with warm, dry pajama pants and a fresh t–shirt. Not when Hannibal built the fire in the hearth and rummaged through the kitchen to make tea. Not even now.
Hannibal glances up under his eyelashes, confident enough in his first–aid abilities to allow his eyes to linger for several seconds. Will stumbled into a tree during his unfortunate adventure which left him with shallow scrapes on the back of his right upper arm. The surrounding skin has already begun to bruise; it will be an inky purple color in a few hours.
“This poor right arm of yours,” He says blithely, recalling the star-shaped scar on Will’s shoulder, courtesy of a very audacious drug addict from New Orleans. “It can never catch a break, can it?”
The hope is that Will might laugh, but he doesn’t. His flicker over when he talks, catching Hannibal’s own for a split second, but he does not laugh. He doesn’t even smile.
He’s awake, that much is clear, but Hannibal feels as though he is speaking into a cavern, his own voice echoing off the walls but reaching no one but his own ears. Will turns his head back forward. The loss of his eyes feels more like a slammed door, but Will Graham does not look angry. He looks hollow. Empty.
If Hannibal wasn’t concerned before, he absolutely is now.
He finishes placing the bandage, then places everything off to the side and shifts in the chair he brought in from the dining room so that he’s facing Will, intentionally allowing their knees to brush together.
“Tell me what you are feeling.” He keeps his voice gentle. Will seems so fragile, he’s almost afraid to speak too loud, should he shatter.
A pink tongue licks at chapped, wind–bitten lips. “I feel fluid. Like I’m spilling.”
Hannibal considers this. “Like oil?”
“Oil is valuable.” He argues distantly, to Hannibal’s frustration. “I feel like a glass of water that’s been tipped over and now I’m falling out all over the table. Onto the floor. Making a mess.” Will lets out a shuddering breath. “My thoughts are scaring me. Lines are getting all… blurry. I’m afraid that I’m right,” He swallows hard like the words get stuck in his throat. “But, I’m… more afraid that the idea of being right…”
“The idea of being right doesn’t upset you the way you believe it should.” Hannibal finishes, feeling strangely uneasy by the turn this conversation has taken
Will looks up, then, after a pause, he nods. Several conflicting emotions are at war in the endless blue of his eyes. There’s fear evident in his scent, but guilt, resignation, and defeat are all Hannibal can see on his face. Something has shifted for Will Graham, and whatever it is, the conclusion has conquered whole wings of his beautiful mind, leaving him this weakened shadow without a drop of fight in his veins.
Hannibal’s heart skips a beat, perhaps two. “What are you afraid to be correct about?”
The room is silent for a moment as Will’s stricken expression falls utterly blank. Closed off. Indifferent.
Then:
“I think I’m dying.”
Hannibal blinks, feeling blindsided, before a surge of relentless anger floods every corner of his body.
Will stares with that same vacant mask he’s built, giving nothing away.
“You are not dying.” He replies, sure as can be. Of course, Will isn’t dying. Ridiculous boy, how could he—
“Maybe I should.”
And Hannibal freezes.
Blood, bones, and tar all turn to ice. His spine straightens without his permission and Hannibal leans back, fixing his unmoving boy with a blank stare that reflects a calmness that he no longer feels.
Will drops his eyes, clenches his hands into fists, then releases. “Maybe I should just let whatever this is…” He swallows hard. “Kill me.”
Everything in Hannibal’s mind evaporates into nothing. He no longer feels the thick cotton of his sleep pants or the soft sweater over his arms. The chair under his thighs and the hardwood beneath his shoes disappear. The walls of Will’s home crumble and blend together on the edges of his vision, and all that’s left is Will.
Will, who doesn’t look ashamed of what he’s said.
Will, who won’t look at him.
Despite the ice in his veins, Hannibal takes a deep breath and leans down to capture Will’s gaze. When fathomless blue connects with his own, Hannibal suddenly feels as though he’s looking at the lifeless eyes of a corpse.
Numbly, Hannibal wets his lips and allows his voice to drop to a concerned whisper. “Are you experiencing suicidal thoughts, Will?”
“It’s not suicide if it’s going to happen anyway.” He answers, emotionless as his eyes. “If I’m dying already—“
“You are not dying.” Hannibal bites back with enough force to make Will flinch in surprise, but he can’t help it. He suddenly feels like he’s the one with the brain fever. Bile (or tar) is building up in Hannibal’s throat. How dare you say such a thing to me. How dare you entertain this thought for more than a second. You belong to me and me alone. You are not allowed to die unless it is by my hand.
He cannot say that aloud, so he forces himself to remain gentle and amicable by placing a comforting hand on his boy’s arm. “We will uncover whatever this is, together, and we will treat it. You have had a very frightening night, and I know—“
“If I’m not sick, I’m crazy. That’s my alternative, and I’m starting to think it’s not the better one.”
“Will,” He tries, tar making it difficult to breathe.
“Would you want to live like this, Doctor Lecter? Broken, barely able to stand on your own two feet while everyone just looks at you like a petulant dog that doesn’t want to walk on the fucking leash?” Will’s eyes flash and he bares his teeth, then growls out with bitterness dripping from every word: “If I die, at least I can’t be fucking useful to anyone for their own whims.”
If I die, if I die, if I die.
Hannibal feels his world come to a screeching halt. Will is no longer speaking of hypotheticals despite the glaring if. This is thought out, and unplanned, but he is prepared. More than that, Will is satisfied with death as an outcome. And perhaps, Hannibal realizes as nausea begins to grow in his belly, Will Graham is hopeful.
The monster that resides in Hannibal’s heart snarls and thrashes, enraged and terrified of the territory they’ve crossed into, unable to shake the notion that Will Graham would prefer to die, to leave Hannibal alone again.
It’s intolerable. Unacceptable. Horrific. He would never allow it.
Will, disturbed by Hannibal’s sudden silence, exhales shakily and drops his eyes. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what’s real. I—I can’t trust anything I see or anything I feel.” A strangled, nearly hysterical laugh that doesn’t match the grief that’s staining his eyes startles the both of them. “I don’t even know for sure if you are real.”
The tar thickens. Hannibal tastes remorse in the back of his throat. “Will,” He urges, taking one of his boy’s icy hands in his own and squeezing lightly, hoping to pour the emotion from his own body into Will’s. “I am real.”
Stricken blue eyes dart hazily over his right shoulder. “Is he?”
A chill travels down Hannibal’s spine at the haunting question. He cranes his neck around to the empty, darkened doorway into the next room where nothing dances in the shadows—at least, not that Hannibal can see. He turns back to Will and finds himself, most disturbingly, unable to trust the denial on his tongue.
But one look at the pitiful attempt at a smile, and every word dies. Will is so far gone. Hannibal doesn’t know if he can get him back.
“I can’t trust what isn’t solid.” He says mournfully. He stares down at their conjoined hands, the most intimate of touches they have had thus far, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. “And I don’t want to die. I really, really don’t want to die,” He continues. “But, what if they’re all right? What if you’re right? What if I lose time and hurt someone? Kill someone? What if…” Then, Will looks up, and there are tears in his eyes. Frightened, angry, traitorous tears.
And Hannibal can’t even savor them as the beauty they are, because they represent Will Graham’s undoing, his defeat, and how willing he is to leave him.
“What if that someone is you?”
His breath catches and the room goes still.
He wants to counter. He should tell Will that it is impossible, that Hannibal would never let him get to that point, but that would show his own hand too soon, or Will simply wouldn’t believe him.
For once, Hannibal doesn’t know how to proceed.
“I couldn’t cope if it was you.” Will murmurs, plunging the knife further into Hannibal’s chest. “Killing you would hurt me the most. You’re… you’re so important to me. I… I need you, all the time. Every day. You’re my best friend. You’re the only real one I’ve got.”
Oh, my love.
“I was so alone before I met you, and…” His voice cuts off abruptly with a strangled sound, and there, before his eyes, Will Graham begins to crumble.
Hannibal’s heart lurches. “Will.“
At the sound of his name, Will drops his face into his hands and all of his words come tumbling out at once. “I’m so scared all the time. I just want to sleep. I’m so tired, but every time I close my eyes, all I see is blood. It’s so loud, there’s so much noise. Everything hurts. I just want it to stop.” Another sob, then his voice goes high with something close to panic. “Why won’t it stop?”
Obsession, possessive devotion, and the tar that Hannibal has determined to be guilt flood every atom of his body.
This is his fault. All of this.
Will Graham wants to die. He wants to leave Hannibal all alone in the world and it’s all Hannibal’s fault.
“Will—“ He tries.
The dam breaks. Whatever thread of control Will was holding onto suddenly snaps. Hannibal surges forward to catch him in his trembling arms just as Will reaches for him and begins sobbing.
“Hannibal, I can’t do this anymore.” He cries, barely understandable through his gasps. “I’m so scared. I’m so fucking scared.”
Hannibal tightens his arms around his boy, burying his hand in soft curls, cradling him close to his frenzied heart. Will’s fear, his despair sours his scent, and Hannibal can hardly stand it.
This was not supposed to end this way. This was not supposed to happen. Hannibal was supposed to let the fire burn and use Will as a scapegoat when he got too close to the truth before setting him free. It was meticulously planned. It was Hannibal’s design.
Now that design has burned up, right alongside Will’s fight.
And it’s all Hannibal’s fault.
Unable to help himself, Hannibal hugs his boy tighter, knowing the only safe place in the world for him is in Hannibal’s arms. He presses his lips to Will’s hair and rocks him back and forth like a child. Will clings, clutching the back of his sweater in his fists so tightly it’s a wonder the fabric doesn’t tear. He sobs, soaking the front of Hannibal’s sweater with his tears and whispering a litany of “I can't do this, I can’t, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” Hannibal whispers, more of a command than a promise. “Yes, you can. You are so brave, Will. You are Patroclus on the field of battle in Achilles' armor; stronger, smarter, and more powerful than you believe, and you can survive this. I will not allow otherwise. Do you understand?”
Will shakes his head, letting out another hollow sound of anguish that curdles Hannibal’s blood with the implication.
It isn’t just that Will wants to die, it’s that he truly believes he is not worth the fight it would take to heal him. Will Graham does not see his own worth.
My fault. All my fault. If you leave me, if I become alone again, I will be the only one to blame.
No.
Will Graham is not allowed to leave him. Not now, not ever.
He holds his boy close, impossibly tighter, offering as much comfort as he’s seeking. He needs to know that Will would never do it, that he’s just afraid and wouldn’t dare give up his life when it no longer belongs to him. Because it does not. Will’s life, his body, his mind, his heart, they all belong to Hannibal.
Briefly, he toys with the idea of stealing his boy away tonight. Drugging him, bringing him back to his home, and keeping him locked in the basement, docile and pliant with anti–virals and sedatives until the worst has passed. Hannibal would have to return to Wolf Trap and call Jack Crawford, tell him Will called him in a dissociative panic and is now missing. They would search for days, drag the river, comb through every inch of the surrounding forest. Hannibal would pretend to be worried, fret over details of his beloved’s disappearance, knowing full well that Will is alive and all his.
Then, he would leave. Once they stopped searching, Hannibal would leave the country. He would claim that the loss of his Will was too much and that he could no longer remain in Baltimore. He would take Will with him, of course, keep him delirious and malleable, plant his seeds until Will was ready to see. Until he wanted to see of his volition, and until he accepted. Until then, Hannibal would care for him. Treat the brain fever, stretch and strengthen his limbs so that his muscles would never atrophy, feed him well, possibly even return for Will’s dogs and even Abigail Hobbs. He could give Will a home, a pack, and a child, and by then, Will would be so dependent that he could hardly breathe without Hannibal in the room.
It’s a very tempting idea, but Hannibal dismisses it quickly. It’s too soon, much too soon.
Hannibal wants him, yes. But he also wants Will lucid and accepting because he chooses to, not because he is forced to. He wants Will to be happy with him. He can accept nothing less.
I need you all the time, Will said. Every day.
You’re my best friend. You’re the only real one I’ve got.
I was so alone before I met you.
Words he never believed he would hear from anyone, let alone Will Graham, no matter how much he wanted to hear them. They’ve caressed the monster’s animosity and tamed him with their earnestness. Will needs him.
Hannibal makes a decision.
He runs comforting circles into Will’s back, savoring the way he leans into the touch. His boy is so starved for touch, for kindness, for love he doesn’t even think he wants, and Hannibal knows that while the temporary satisfaction of having WIll take the fall is the safest route, this boy has become so dear to him, so vital, that the need for the brain fever is no longer necessary. It's no longer something Hannibal wants, not if it means Will Graham believes he would be better off dead.
“Let me help you. Allow me to take you to the hospital tonight.” He murmurs this into his boy’s ear, squeezing the back of his neck to add weight to his vow. In his arms, Will whimpers like he’s heartbroken. Hannibal kisses the top of his head again, allowing himself to linger. “We will take whatever tests are necessary and available until we can uncover whatever this is and treat it. We will fix this.”
“What if we can’t?” His boy sobs, distraught.
Hannibal could almost scoff. Ridiculous boy. “We can do anything. You just have to let me take care of you. Can you do that for me, mylimasis? Can you do that?” He keeps his voice soft, but there’s an unmistakable plea there. Hannibal needs Will to say yes.
It takes a while, but eventually, Will nods against his chest and says “okay” in a petal–soft voice.
Hannibal feels dizzy when he releases the breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and allows Will to sag further into his embrace. “Good boy. Very good, Will.” He says.
Will lets out a soft sound, weakened by the praise.
“It’s alright. I have you now, mylimasis, it will be alright.” He continues, not bothering to hide his relief or the terms of endearment that fall like autumn leaves. He breathes his boy in, welcomes his tears, and vows to keep him together. He pushes Will back so that he can cradle his wet face in his palms and wipe the tears away with his thumbs.
Will responds by sighing and leaning into the hands on his face like he wants to stay there forever. His despair seems to fall away as Hannibal keeps him moored to Earth and to himself.
“You are not going anywhere, Will Graham.” He vows. “You are going to stay right here, by my side, exactly where you belong. I will not allow anything to happen to you, not now, not ever.”
A fresh stream of tears falls down those beautiful, rosy cheeks, and his eyes the color of the Northern Lights glitter with gratitude and something so close to need. “You promise?” He whispers, sounding so fragile. “Promise you won’t leave me?”
Promise you won’t leave me.
The words send an electric shock down Hannibal’s spine. Will craves his attention as much as Hannibal craves his. Perhaps, he thinks, your acceptance of me is closer than I believed.
“I will never leave you,” He says firmly. “And I will never allow you to leave me.”
A look of comprehension passes over Will’s face and his eyes widen slightly as he takes in the weight and darkness of Hannibal’s words. He doesn’t look afraid even though they are both aware that Will is a wild thing being threatened with a cage. The predator that Will sees behind the mask is not one he fears. Not anymore. Not now that he also knows that that predator cherishes him. Needs him. Loves him.
Not now that he knows he needs Hannibal’s monster as much as the monster needs him.
And there, in the depths of Will’s irises, Hannibal sees acceptance.
The “we need to talk about this” goes unsaid between them. It’s a conversation for another day, one that can wait until his boy is healthy again.
Hannibal pulls Will back into his waiting arms and he does not resist. He buries his face in Hannibal’s neck, wrapping his arms around his shoulders as tightly as Hannibal holds onto him, and allows himself to be comforted.
Will knows Hannibal won’t let go.