Chapter Text
He remembers the blood, inky black on Hannibal’s face, and his eyes ferocious with hunger. He remembers the chill of the night biting at his fingers as the plasma dries and becomes tacky. He remembers pressing his face into Hannibal’s chest and waiting for death, falling through the darkness towards an ocean that roars, the waves a welcoming maw to eternal nothingness.
When they crash into the water he believes it’s over. He followed his final impulse to do the right thing by his friends, his family, the world. The last flutters of morality within him had guided him, even as he looked into the eyes of a murderer who had somehow compelled his fall from grace. Here, in the frigid deep waters, their chapter is closed and their story is concluded. Except it isn’t. This is just the beginning.
His next conscious thought is the recognition that he’s dizzy and in pain, his body burning furiously despite the cold that surrounds him. There’s seawater in his mouth and he’s lost in a seemingly endless abyss of nothingness when strong arms heave him through the gloom towards the surface. The first thing he sees is the stars, glittering above him in a carpet of spilled ink. Hannibal’s hands feel hot even through his clothes, palms against his chest before they curl into fists and hold on tightly.
Will’s awareness slowly comes back to him, as if waking from a dream. He feels sluggish and heavy in the water, rocked by the waves but anchored by Hannibal, eyes still ferocious in a way that Will finds indulgently captivating. It takes a few long moments for Will to realise that they survived. That this is real and unending.
“Tell me. Why did you do that, Will?” Hannibal asks him, treading water, gasping for air. Will diagnoses a collapsed lung, perhaps some broken ribs; injuries that likely mirror his own. It’s a miracle they’re alive. Is this god’s plan or Hannibal’s? It certainly wasn’t Will’s.
He considers the question as he looks at Hannibal’s face, the moonlight casting shadows that make him look ethereal and alien.
“I was curious,” he says eventually, the water around him churning red in the waves. It’s true, up to a point. He was forever changed upon that clifftop and did what he thought was right whilst he still possessed a grasp on his moral compass. His shoulder feels sharp and his left arm feels loose, limp on the water, but in this moment he hardly feels it, “I wanted… To see what would happen.”
The smile that bleeds across Hannibal’s face is disturbing and beautiful; it matches the tsunami that rages in his dark eyes perfectly. Then he kisses Will hard, and it tastes of iron and salt water, a desperate fitting together of mouths that have yearned for far too long. Will returns it with a vigour that’s been building in his chest since the day they met, because he needs it and because he wants it, even though he loathes it in equal measure. It’s a kiss that is painful and desperate, and then a wave crashes over them, smothering them both.
Will is tempted to succumb to it, let his lungs fill with water and fade away to nothing, but he knows Hannibal won’t let him die for as long as he lives. Their path has been chosen, their destination as yet unknown.
Hannibal heaves him to shore, the lesser damaged of them both, and Will collapses into his side, exhausted and tired and unable to comprehend what he was thinking. The longer he’s conscious the sharper his mind becomes, the more aware he is of what he’s done and what it means. What he has to do next. He closes his eyes, desperate for peace and an escape from the present. He’s alive but he feels like he has no life left in him at all, dead weight at the water’s edge.
“I’ll make a place for us,” Hannibal says to him, methodically taking hold of Will’s limp arm and wrenching it back into its socket for him.
The pain is unbelievable as Will doubles over, burying his face into Hannibal’s thigh as he cries out in pain. Nausea rolls over him in a rush that he swallows back, breathing hard through his nose as the pain slowly ebbs away, replaced in time by the burn of salt bleeding into his many, many wounds.
“And I’ll take care of you. I’ll put you back together. Better than before.”
Will shakes his head, so much adrenaline coursing through his veins that he’s shaking hard, sprawled across Hannibal’s lap like a sacrifice at an altar.
“I can’t,” he grits out. ‘My family’ gets stuck in his throat. It doesn’t feel wise to mention them, but he does think of them, even as he starts to pass out. His vision is blurring at the edges, darkness getting darker.
“This is where I’d intended to bring us,” Hannibal pants, running the flat of his palm up and down Will’s back, the repetitive motion soothing his tightly coiled frame and easing some of his nausea.
Will exhales a mirthless laugh into the sodden fabric of Hannibal’s pants, “The shores of a cliff edge?”
With great difficulty he heaves himself upright, almost collapsing back into the sea before Hannibal yanks him back with a hand in his collar. It brings them close together again, breathing each other’s air as Hannibal smiles and looks up at his home on the cliff.
“This was the place I intended to make. For you and for me. For Abigail.”
Abigail. The word feels sharp in the air even now, and it wounds Will deeper than any mark the Dragon left on his skin. He’s so tired and so beaten and so fragile that it makes him want to sob, or howl at the moon for what he’s lost. What he’s losing. But he has nothing left to give, nothing at all as his head thunks down onto Hannibal’s shoulder.
“We can’t stay here,” he grits out instead of everything else he wants to say. He finally gives in to temptation and closes his eyes, listening to the crash of the waves as it harmonises with the rise and fall of their breathing.
“Not forever,” Hannibal replies, “But we can for now.”
~
It was a long, slow walk back up to the house. He practically carried Will for most of it, and when they finally got to the top they took a moment to look at the blood-red wings of the dragon as he lay dead. Hannibal was already considering what to do with him, how he should best make use of what is likely his last body for a time, but as if sensing his thoughts Will shook his head and pulled him away, towards the house, and Hannibal went reluctantly but obediently away from their prize.
Now, Will lies where Hannibal deposited him in the bathtub, bloodied and limp, lying in about two inches of pale red water. He’d taken the liberty of stripping Will to his underwear and rinsing his wounds, wiping the debris from his body with a sodden cloth. He has his own injuries to tend to, but they feel small and unimportant to him, and he wonders absently when precisely Will took such a priority position in his life.
As he tends to Will’s injuries, he’s so distracted by the perfect blossoming of bruises on his naked skin, wiping away the last of the plasma and grime and sea salt as he lays motionless in the half-empty tub, that he startles when Will’s fingers curl around his wrist and still him.
“Don’t,” he says, voice unbearably broken. He sounds tired, utterly bone tired, as tired as Hannibal himself feels. He nods and withdraws, observing the way Will seems to shrink and relax, rivulets of water dripping down his ribs.
As Will comes back to consciousness, he offers him some pills and a shallow glass of whisky. Will eyes them suspiciously and takes only the glass, knocking the pills to the floor as he does so. Hannibal can’t help but smile.
“You may come to regret that, I need to close the wound at your temple.”
“Go right ahead,” Will says, quiet and distant, borderline dismissive as he tilts his head to offer himself up for it. He holds the glass of whisky limply in his lap, and it tilts precariously but doesn’t spill.
Hannibal reaches for the first aid kit at his knees. He has long prepared for calamity to befall him at this place, he just didn’t expect it to be quite like this. As he sews Will’s wounds closed, he watches the pain in him as it flickers through his face. His shoulders and chest tense and his stomach flinches, but Will makes no audible complaint as Hannibal stitches him up, he simply accepts the meticulous way that Hannibal puts him back together.
When he’s done, Will looks up at him, like a fawn.
“Have you ever considered how foolish it is?” he asks slowly, eyes unfocused. The adrenaline is fading fast, and Will is becoming hazier with every passing moment, but there’s still an alertness to his eyes, like he’s waiting for something to happen.
Hannibal quirks an eyebrow at him curiously, waiting for him to continue and clarify what he means. Will takes a long, steady breath and blinks at him slowly, like a cat might, as he builds his sentences brick by brick. Hannibal recognises the position he’s in; when the weight of the world and your injuries finally lay waste to your body and exhaust you. Everything feels like wading through treacle, laborious and exhausting, and yet Will perseveres.
“Doing what you do,” he says finally all in one exhale. He knocks back his whisky in a single mouthful and rests his head on the lip of that bathtub, closing his eyes. It’s a slight gesture of trust, and Hannibal would dearly like to touch him in this moment. To brush his hair out of his eyes, soothe his thumb over his cheek, trace a finger down his exposed throat. He denies himself the impulse.
“What part do you consider to be foolish?” Hannibal asks him, and Will exhales a laugh, shaking his head. Evidently, he doesn’t feel like expanding. Hannibal waits a few beats before making his reply, “Everything that I do has a degree of calculated purpose, simply because I choose to do it.”
“That doesn’t make it impervious to being a foolish action,” Will says softly, drifting a little more.
“Is that how you see me? Foolish? Ringmaster of my wayward destiny?” Hannibal asks, resting his forearm on the tub as he leans in closer, indulgently admiring Will’s face as he fights to remain awake. The slope of his nose is unusually inviting in the low light. Hannibal is pleased it didn’t get broken amidst all the chaos.
“Yours and mine,” Will corrects uselessly, then thinks on Hannibal’s question for a long time, breathing deep and measured, fingers occasionally twitching around the empty glass in his lap. “No,” he says eventually, sighing.
“Then how do you see me?”
Will wets his lips, eyes still closed, cheek still pillowed on the lip of the tub as he contemplates the question.
“Inevitable, in a sense,” he says, wistfully, “A force. I don’t know.”
Hannibal nods, curious about this assessment and what compels Will to speak it, but he says nothing. It’s an astute enough observation. He is a force, and pleased to be one. He’s spent many years honing his instincts and is the product of all his hard work. One day he hopes to invoke the same rite of passage in Will.
There’s a long period of quiet before Will speaks again, breaking the careful silence around them just as Hannibal had begun to think he’d fallen asleep.
“We can’t stay here,” he says again, like he did on the shores of the cliff, except this time he sounds further away, like it’s an afterthought rather than an emergency.
“I know,” Hannibal replies, looking at Will thoughtfully, gazing at his wounds and imagining his red blood cells working to save his life, “I think it might be best if we left the country.”
Will’s face seems to harden infinitesimally at this statement, his jaw flinching at the hinge. Hannibal watches it with awe, yearning to run his fingers over the bones of Will’s face. He seems to be constantly struck with a new impulse to touch rather than crush, but despite how enticing it is to be gentle he continues to keep his hands to himself.
“Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, Will,” he says, staring at Will’s closed eyes, lashes fanned out over his flushed and still somewhat bloodstained cheeks, “You don’t have to come with me.”
There’s a long silence, and Hannibal wonders if Will is sensing his manipulation of him. The subtle way in which Hannibal offers him an out that they both know he will not and cannot take. That’s part of what makes Will so fascinating; the fact he will keenly notice the way Hannibal pulls his emotional levers and simply lets it happen.
But then the lines have blurred so much now, more than Hannibal has ever let them blur with anyone else. Nothing is certain anymore, least of all the things he will do in the name of Will Graham. There’s a nauseating part of him that knows, despite everything else, despite good judgement and common sense and objective logic, that he would let Will leave this place and never look back if that’s what he wanted. And that frightens Hannibal to his core.
“Where else will I go?” Will whispers on an exhale, finally opening his eyes to look up into Hannibal’s.
It’s an echo of an earlier time that makes warmth bloom through Hannibal’s chest despite the chill in the air and the dampness that still clings to him. He wishes more than he ever has that he could peer into Will’s mind in this moment, learn what he’s thinking at his most vulnerable ebb. What his motives and intentions are. Why he wants this. He wants to trust Will, but he has his reservations. Though they aren’t as pervasive as he suspects Will’s are.
For now, he accepts this response at face value and nods, swallowing hard as the weight of Will’s gaze seems to crush him as he holds it.
“We’ll depart in the morning,” he says eventually, slowly rising and holding out a hand for Will to take, intending to help him up and take him to bed.
Will looks at Hannibal’s outstretched hand for a moment, then, maddeningly, runs his fingers over the indents of his palm. He slowly traces one down to his index finger, then back up, then down again, not stopping until he reaches his fingertip. It’s a strangely intimate gesture that makes Hannibal’s skin tingle, but he lets it happen, watching Will explore the lines of his life.
“I need to know that I’m safe with you,” Will says then, so quiet, so achingly quiet. “I need to know you won’t… Murder me in my sleep. Or take a part of me you can’t give back.”
Hannibal looks at him, considering Will’s statement. He knows in his own heart that Will is the exception to the rule, that he somehow overrides so many of his usual impulses. He usually delights in making promises that he’s unlikely to keep, but he thinks again of the blurred lines between them, of the emotional levers that Will is himself now pulling in his chest. Things have changed so much over the years, and yet some things remain the same. Some things will never change. And for now, at least, he wants to give an answer that represents right now and mean it.
“You’re safe, Will. I don’t intend to do you any harm. I would just like to spend time with you again. Be close to you. Could that be enough?”
Will blinks at him, taking Hannibal’s hand, gently at first, then winding his fingers tightly around his wrist like an anchor, like a promise.
“Yes,” he says, hard faced and determined beneath Hannibal’s shadow, “It could.”
~
Will wakes very early, even though he hardly slept. His shoulder burns and his body aches and the last thing he needs is a long and potentially treacherous journey, but this is the road he has chosen to walk, for reasons he is still attempting to figure out, and he’s come too far to give up now. He dresses with difficulty, refusing any assistance, and when he’s finally ready to leave, Hannibal sits him down at the kitchen table and halts all proceedings.
“You know it’s nothing short of a miracle we haven’t already been found,” Will says irritably, “I’m not sure stalling further is the right move.”
“You need to rest your shoulder until the pain settles. That means minimising movement,” Hannibal says firmly, tearing through a sheet of muslin he’s pulled from a linen closet, “The dislocation was fairly simple, and you should have more movement in a few days, but a full recovery will take some weeks.”
Will sniffs. Somehow a dislocated shoulder falls relatively low on the list of injuries he’s gained through association with Hannibal. He watches quietly as Hannibal creates a sling with the muslin, gently guiding Will’s arm into it with a level of reverence that makes him shiver. He swallows the feeling that seems to surge in his stomach. He doesn’t want it.
“I’m assuming you have a plan,” he says eventually, letting the sling take the weight of his arm and sighing as it absolves some of the pain.
Hannibal doesn’t seem to hear him at first. He’s observing Will with the clinical eyes of a physician, tightening the sling and tucking in errant scraps of material before he inhales suddenly and replies just as the question felt unanswered.
“I have a house we can go to,” he says, still busying himself with Will’s sling, manipulating the material until his arm and shoulder are at what he feels to be the most optimal angle. Will hates how easily Hannibal has reduced his pain, part of him thinks he deserves to feel it. “It’s secluded and not directly connected to me by name. I should think it would be suitable for us, for a time. While we lay low. Though I don’t anticipate it to be in the best condition. It’s been a very long time since I last laid eyes on it.”
“How long?” Will asks, flexing his fingers and wincing at the way they ache. Last night’s excursions seem to make themselves known every time he moves.
Hannibal finally meets his eye and holds it, looking grave in a way that’s almost amusing, “A little over a decade. Perhaps closer to two.”
“Well, that sounds wonderful,” Will says, flat but without any real malice. He’s still tired. He thinks he might always be tired. He wonders again whether he’s doing the right thing, and considers what he’s sacrificing by doing this, what his motives are. He doesn’t want to think too keenly about why he’s still here, all he knows is that it’s better when Hannibal is with him. For better or for worse, they can’t be apart.
Hannibal looks at him appraisingly, then steps back to roll his shirt sleeves back down.
“I expect we’ll be at sea for a time. Two weeks at least, realistically three.”
Something flickers inside Will, embers of a past life sparking back up. The things he enjoyed, his hobbies and interests, have all felt like a distant memory these past months. Suddenly the idea of running away feels entirely more appealing, or at the very least, more tolerable.
“Where are we going exactly?” Will finally thinks to ask, “Two to three weeks by boat… That would take us as far as Europe.”
“Scotland,” Hannibal says, moving swiftly around the house as he packs, sweeping various medications gathered on the kitchen table into a first aid kit and snapping it shut, “I’ve arranged for someone to meet us and moor the boat at a nearby marina until we need it again.”
Will hums as he processes this.
“And is this person—“ ‘Someone we can trust?’ he starts to ask, then bites his tongue. He knows realistically he doesn’t need to question Hannibal’s abilities when it comes to being evasive. There’s nobody in the world who’s better at hiding than he is. He’s confident he’s already calculated every risk, and selected people he’s confident he can trust with their anonymity.
They take what they can from the house and leave before the sun rises to meet a man Hannibal refers to as Abraham, a wiry older man who accepts them with disdain and refuses to speak with Will under any circumstance. Will finds it both unsettling and intriguing that Hannibal has the unique ability of summoning obscure contacts from the rolodex in his mind. He has a specific person for almost anything you could dream of, and almost all of them owe him something.
Will is more than happy to give them a wide berth, standing on the docks and breathing deep the smell of the sea, but even from here he can see fear and discontent in Abraham’s eyes. He keenly understands the look on his face, it’s the look of someone tied to someone else when they’d really prefer not to be. It makes him wonder how Hannibal came to know and possess this man in such a way that come the end of their brief discussion they’re fully equipped for the long sail to Scotland.
Will watches Abraham watching them as they leave the port. His eyes look hollow and grim but some of the tension leaves his face as they leave him behind, intact and relieved.
“How do you know these people?” He asks Hannibal, watching him as he steers the boat out of the port with surprising efficiency, “What do you have on all of them to give you so much loyalty?”
Hannibal glances at him, then looks back at the skyline, blue ink mixed with golden light as the sun threatens to rise on their escape, “You think these favours have been earned through deceit.”
“Oh, at the very least,” Will says, trying not to smile cruelly, “You’re not telling me these people help you out of the goodness of their hearts?”
Hannibal looks at Will then. It’s a look that Will finds himself unable to identify.
“Unfortunately, Will, I find myself reluctant to share my secrets with you,” he says, looking away from Will and back out at the ocean, “Given you’ve repeatedly shown yourself to be so careless with them.”
Will bristles a little at this but says nothing. It occurs to him for the first time that Hannibal might have grievances of his own that he’s dealing with, but Will quickly dismisses the thought, feeling a tension growing in his shoulders that only serves to irritate his healing bones.
He busies himself for a short time with checking the gauges on the boat’s dashboard for any concerning fluctuations, eyes occasionally flickering back to Hannibal as he steers them free of the city.
“I didn’t know you knew how to do this,” he says eventually, attempting to be offhand and casual and feeling anything but.
“There are a great many things I can do that you’re unaware of,” Hannibal says, fingers flexing on the ship’s wheel. His tone is sharp enough to cut, but then he breathes in slowly and seems to soften, “In this instance, I took an interest when I learned of yours.”
Something shivers in Will’s chest, like an animal shaking snow off its pelt. He wonders if Hannibal will ever lose the ability to surprise him like this. He’s silent for a time, watching Hannibal work, then he sighs and reaches out to him.
“You want to hold the wheel at 10 and 2,” he says, taking Hannibal’s right hand and moving it up a spoke, “More control.”
His hand lingers on top of Hannibal’s longer than it should. His skin is warm and soft and inviting in a way that makes Will’s stomach twist. He slowly withdraws and pockets his hand, swallowing dryly as he looks away.
“Thank you,” Hannibal says, earnestly, as Will looks behind them and watches the city fade away to a speck in the distance.
~
For the first week they hardly speak at all, they just exist in the same space. It gives Will all too much time to think about things, spending long evenings staring out at the vastness of the ocean, trying to piece together how he got here and why.
Some nights he sees himself as a martyr, sacrificing his life the way that he has, selflessly following Hannibal in order to ensure that those who encounter him don’t come to any harm. Other nights he feels strangled by his denial and his emotions, considering the possible reality that he came here of his own volition, chasing a feeling he’s now unwilling to act on. A feeling he’s unable to truly identify or understand.
He thinks about Molly often, and it hurts every time. He wonders how she’s doing; how hurt she might be feeling and whether that hurt has started to fade yet. Every time she crosses his mind he feels compelled to sit down and write her a letter explaining what he’s done, but the words don’t come to him easily. What would he even say?
The quarters on the boat are close, and with only one bed in the cabin they usually take it in turns to sleep, at Will’s insistence. There’s room enough for them to share, but the prospect is unsettling, and Will finds himself preferring to stand at the ship’s controls idly staring at the stars on the horizon as the boat ploughs through the waves.
Hannibal cooks, and that’s when they spend most of their time together, a few short hours in the mornings and evenings when they’re both awake. Will sits and watches, feeling something unusual and unrefined clench in his chest whenever Hannibal spares him a glance. The supplies they have with them aren’t grand or elegant, mostly tins and preserves that will last the entire trip, but Hannibal does his best to bring his usual flair to everything he serves, and it nourishes Will in a way he couldn’t possibly describe.
On their eighth night together, when they’ve finished eating and are sharing a comfortable silence simply looking at each other, Hannibal’s gaze lifts from Will’s eyes to his head.
“I think it’s time I remove your stitches,” he says, and Will unconsciously touches the place at his temple so carefully sewn together.
He’s no stranger to stitches and the uncomfortable way they tug and pull in his skin, but he’s found himself less bothered by the ones Hannibal put there himself. He only vaguely remembers him doing it, so exhausted and so drained, sitting in a bathroom lit only by moonlight. That was all Hannibal needed to do his work, which made Will wonder how often he’s had to stitch himself back up in the dark. He still thinks about the hazy memory of Hannibal’s hands dancing over his skin, touching his body with clinical precision and the utmost care. He hasn’t been touched by him since.
Hannibal clears away the plates as Will watches, heart trembling with anticipation in his chest. He clenches his jaw tight, trying to ground himself and feeling heavy in his seat. He suddenly has no idea what to do with his hands and they haven’t even started.
When Hannibal next sits back down, he has the first aid kit with him and he’s moved the chair up close to Will’s, staring at his temple with concentration. Will feels an impulse to speak but buries it, instead sitting uncomfortably in the silence as he waits for whatever comes next.
He almost leaps out of his skin when Hannibal carefully takes hold of his jaw, wrenching himself away instinctively before clearing his throat.
“Sorry,” he says, feeling a surge of guilt at such an outward display of his internal conflict, “You surprised me.”
It’s a flimsy lie, and they both know it, but Hannibal politely doesn’t comment on it, instead reaching for his chosen tool; something that looks like a seam ripper encased in paper and plastic. He tears it free and handles it carefully before looking back up into Will’s eyes.
“May I touch you, Will?” He says seriously, but Will can sense an undercurrent of something else and he wonders if he’s being mocked. He narrows his eyes and swallows, looking away with a nod.
Hannibal shifts in closer until their thighs are touching, a point of contact that immediately makes Will tense up and freeze, wanting to pull away but reluctant to move all at once. He stares steadfastly at one of the cabin’s portholes when Hannibal gently takes his chin in hand and tilts his head to one side, leaning in closely so he can see what he’s doing.
“I should have done this sooner,” he comments, resting his thumb just above Will’s temple to pull the sutures taut, “This may sting a little.”
“I’ve endured worse, as you’ve personally seen to. I think I’ll survive,” Will says, careful not to move a single muscle as Hannibal holds his face in his hands.
“And look how much character it’s built in you,” Hannibal says, a little dryly, and Will has to fight the urge to smile.
As Hannibal begins, Will focuses on the sway of the ocean as it rocks him in his seat and the sound of the waves as they lap against the ship’s hull. He feels a pinch as Hannibal cuts the first stitch and pulls it free and closes his eyes with a grimace. He notices with an inexplicable swoop in his stomach that the motion of the boat does not affect Hannibal’s careful hands, which remain enviously steady throughout the entire process.
He hisses when the last particularly stubborn thread catches as it’s pulled free, and swallows dryly as he feels a delicate, thin rivulet of blood trickle down the side of his face. He doesn’t know what possesses him but he looks at Hannibal when it happens and wonders if he, too, is thinking what he’s thinking. The pain, the warmth of his blood on his skin, the proximity of Hannibal to him in this moment; it’s impossible not to cast himself back to that night, and when he meets Hannibal’s eyes he pretty much has his answer.
“Am I bleeding?” Will asks redundantly, his voice low and quiet, close to a whisper.
Hannibal is watching the blood as it trickles down Will’s face and comes to a stop just above his cheekbone. He opens his mouth to reply, then leans in, making Will’s breath catch in his chest. He isn’t sure what to expect, but Hannibal simply looks at him, and not for the first time Will aches to know what he’s thinking.
“Only a little. As I said, I should have done this a day or two sooner. You’ve healed too well around your sutures.”
Will hums absently in reply, doing his best to embody an entirely sane person absorbing this information and not someone who suddenly feels the keenest sense of hunger for another human being that he’s ever felt.
He doesn’t jump when Hannibal touches him this time, catching the bead of blood with his thumb and wiping it away. Instead, humiliatingly, Will finds himself leaning into his touch, gently resting his face in Hannibal’s hand, who holds it obediently in the quiet. He could close his eyes, just for a moment, just to savour the sacred feeling of being held, but instead he comes back to himself with a start, inhaling sharply as he sits up straight again.
“Thanks,” he says tightly, standing quickly, “I’d better check we haven’t drifted off course.”
“Very well,” Hannibal says, standing himself and moving over to the sink to wash his hands. Will watches him and feels a sharp pang of something in his chest, something that longs, though he isn’t sure what for.
He opens his mouth to speak, but what he wants to say won’t come out, so instead he turns and leaves, letting the salty sea air cleanse his racing thoughts.
~
Things tick by peacefully enough on the boat, and the days seem to blend as they follow the path Will once sailed to Florence all those years ago. Despite the relative calm, there's a sharpness to the air that Hannibal can feel almost constantly, as if they're back on the cliff edge together about to topple. He's been tending to Will's wounds and his own, removing stitches in the quiet dusk and savouring every moment that he gets to put his hands on the object of so much of his affection and affliction.
By the second week, Will’s shoulder has healed enough for him to forgo his sling and Hannibal suggests physiotherapy. Will, predictably, makes an ugly face in response to this idea, nose wrinkling in distaste.
"I don't feel that's necessary," he says, unconsciously rolling his shoulder as he leans back a little deeper in his seat like a sullen child.
"I feel that it is," Hannibal replies, "Physiotherapy can increase your range of movement and speed up recovery."
Will hums, not meeting Hannibal's eye. They seem to get by on these minute scraps of conversation. Hannibal wonders if it's an inventive layer of punishment that Will has concocted, but he thinks it's more likely that Will is at war with his inner voice and doesn't know how to proceed. He decides, after some thought, that maybe all Will needs is a little coaxing.
Later that evening, when dinner has been cleared away and they take up their places in the cabin to sit quietly with only the sounds of the ocean for company, Hannibal looks at Will and attempts to read his thoughts. He's an excellent judge of character and of working out what a person might be thinking, but there are things about Will that are elusive to him even now. He looks pensive, sitting opposite him bathed in light from the stove, holding his customary glass of whisky as he stares morosely out of the porthole at the ocean. Hannibal has long since figured out that Will sits here because of his desire for them to be close, but says nothing as a way of repenting for this want.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, and Will startles like a deer, as if the last thing in the world he was expecting to hear was Hannibal's voice
There is a long pause where Will just looks at him, an indiscernible expression on his face as he considers his response and whether he should say it. Hannibal holds his gaze expectantly, waiting patiently for an answer he knows will come if he only waits for it.
Will shuffles a little in his seat, shifting from one hip to the other as he fiddles mindlessly with the fraying threads of the couch arm.
“I’m thinking about Molly," Will says, very quietly but very seriously, "I sometimes think I should write to her."
“And what would you say?” Hannibal asks. He has one leg draped over the other, hands clasped loosely in his lap. He is affecting a practised air of calm indifference that contrasts violently with the rage that dances in his stomach. This wasn’t an answer he expected, or wanted, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t find it intriguing.
Will rubs his stubbled jaw thoughtfully, visibly relaxing a little as they fall into a familiar pattern again.
“That I’m sorry. And that I hope she isn’t hurting. And that I can…” he trails off and seems to drift, staring at a spot on the wall of the cabin for a time before he breathes in slowly, “Mostly that I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” Hannibal asks him, watching the way Will’s jaw seems to ripple at the hinge at such a distasteful question.
“Yes,” Will says firmly, meeting Hannibal’s eye, “One of us should retain the ability to feel remorse.”
Hannibal smiles, just a slight quirk at the corner of his mouth that burns to be more revealing than it is. He has a lot of avenues to choose from here, and he’s having difficulty deciding which to chase Will down first.
“To feel remorse for something doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re sorry,” Hannibal says lightly, “Especially in such cases where you do what is necessary.”
“To you, perhaps,” Will says with an arched eyebrow. He’s enjoying this and he’s trying, and failing, not to show it.
“What would you apologise for?” Hannibal says then, continuing to guide Will through this conversation, just like he used to back in his office all those years ago.
Will exhales a humourless laugh, “I would think that’s obvious,” he says.
“Humour me,” Hannibal says, watching Will carefully as he rests his chin in his hand, settling in to receive a long essay.
Will sighs, once again lapsing into silence as he constructs his answer.
“For… All the things I did. And didn’t do. For leaving her. Abandoning her and her son and the dogs and—“
“Interesting,” Hannibal muses, noticing Will’s use of ‘her son’ instead of a name, or even ‘my son’ for the child he was a stepfather to.
Will looks at him curiously, “You don’t think any of those things warrant an apology?”
“I think you believe they warrant an apology, because that’s what you’re supposed to believe,” Hannibal says, watching as Will tenses in his seat.
“Do you feel anything you have done warrants an apology?” Will asks him then, seizing control whilst he can, making Hannibal’s stomach somersault. It’s so thrilling to spar like this again, to contend with an equal.
“Do you?” He counters, snatching it back.
“Yes,” Will says firmly, “Plenty.”
Hannibal takes this in, nodding as he processes it in his head, “Whilst I do feel remorse for some of the things I have done, Will, I’m not sorry that I did them.”
“Because they were necessary,” Will sneers, but he’s smiling, evidently enjoying the way their conversations ebb and flow with such ease. Perhaps he has missed this, too.
“Yes,” Hannibal replies, “In the same way that you are not truly sorry that you left that life behind to be here with me.”
It’s a bold statement, Hannibal knew that before it was even out of his mouth, but it’s a blow he’s wanted to land for some time. He lets it settle in the space between them for a moment before he continues.
“You’re troubled because you’re searching for an acceptable and just reason to be here and you can’t come up with one,” he says.
Will shakes his head dismissively. He’s smiling wryly, stretching his legs out in front of him as he pushes his hair out of his eyes.
“I feel like a sheep. Led astray by a wolf,” he says tightly, refusing to meet Hannibal’s eye.
“You’re not a sheep, Will,” Hannibal says, looking at Will with so much intensity that he’s forced to look back. “At best you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing. You have never and will never be weak. If I thought you to be weak I wouldn’t have let you live.”
Something glimmers in Will’s eyes at this news, something prideful that preens under such a compliment, then it fades away again almost as quickly as it appeared. The atmosphere around them suddenly feels thick and heady, and something in Hannibal’s chest pulls and aches; the anchor that Will dropped there years ago that’s now buried so deep in his heart he has no hope of removing it.
He wants Will. Achingly. Desperately. Being here with him in such close quarters is an agony that pervades everything that he does. He wonders if Will feels it too, the temptation and the obsession. Surely he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t.
“What would physiotherapy entail?” Will asks eventually, changing the subject and derailing Hannibal’s spiralling thoughts. He looks up at him and feels a shiver run down the nape of his neck when he finds him smiling at him, a small, perfect, earnest smile as if he’s throwing Hannibal a bone. His glass sits empty in his lap and he seems soft and relaxed for the first time in weeks.
“Nothing too intense,” Hannibal says, “Exercises to strengthen the muscle, massage to release any tension.”
Will nods slowly as he considers this concept. Hannibal watches him swallow, watches his adam’s apple bob, lets his eyes drift down to the base of his throat where he’s afforded a brief glimpse of Will’s collarbones before they disappear into his t-shirt.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, then rises slowly, “Go to bed, it’s late.”
“Do you intend to join me one of these nights?” Hannibal asks, giving Will cause to pause at the door, “This opposite arrangement we’ve fallen into isn’t very social, or necessary.”
Will turns and looks at him, eyes wandering to the door that leads to the bedroom, and Hannibal imagines what he might be thinking in this moment. He wonders absently if Will is comforted by the warmth of the bedsheets when he climbs into bed the moment Hannibal leaves it. He wonders if he, too, revels in the scent of someone he loves left behind.
“I’ll think about it,” he says again, and then he’s gone, leaving Hannibal alone with his thoughts once again.
~
As Will looks out into the darkness, hands on the ship's wheel, he thinks only of Hannibal. It’s not unusual for him to invade his thoughts whenever he has time alone to himself, but so far on this trip he’s done his best to remove him from his mind. Tonight, however, he indulges.
He thinks about the almost indiscernible twitch he observed in Hannibal’s features when he mentioned Molly. He thinks about the smile he wore when they verbally sparred, no doubt feeling the same warmth that Will felt as they settled back into familiar territory. He thinks about the future prospect of his hands on him, manipulating his aching muscles into obedience, touching his deprived skin.
He exhales a deep, sharp breath. His skin feels prickly and hot whenever he thinks about being touched. He had never particularly considered himself a person who needed physical touch to survive, and still very much doesn’t, but it’s hard to deny that he misses it. Craves it, even. Hands on his skin. The touch of someone else.
They both know he doesn’t need to stand here every night and sleep through most of the days. He can set the course and walk away any time he chooses. This arrangement is unsociable, Hannibal is right about that, but he also feels that it’s necessary. He’s afraid of what might happen if they share a bed, he’s afraid of what might cross his mind. It’s dangerous enough allowing himself to think about Hannibal when he’s lost in the depths of his confusing emotions, but what if he starts thinking about their night on the clifftop?
It occurs to Will then that he’s spent a lot of time on this boat feeling afraid of his own thoughts. As much as he’s been avoiding thinking about Hannibal, he’s also been fighting the urge to think about their final battle with Dolarhyde. Since they boarded, he’s locked the both of them away in some secret, disconcerting place in his head, but he always knew that it was unsustainable. Dolarhyde is howling to get out and Hannibal holds the key to his mind, he always has, and he knows his way around by heart.
Would it be so bad to let them both out? To think about all the things he’s been avoiding since they left? Images tend to flash through his mind whenever he pulls at an old injury, but he’s always dismissed them. He told Hannibal back on that clifftop that it was beautiful, what they had done together, and he meant it. He’s scared of fully realising that fact.
As the waves gently rock him his mind wanders further to their final moments before the fall. He remembers panting in the bitter, freezing air. He remembers the smell of rust all around them. He remembers Hannibal drenched in blood, fire in his eyes, telling Will this is all he had ever wanted for him and Will aching, yearning, to let him know that it’s everything he’s ever wanted for himself too. Then he remembers the crash of the waves around them, the urgency of a kiss…
Before he can talk himself out of it, he sets the ship’s course and walks away, rubbing anxiously at his stubbled jaw as he enters the cabin and makes a beeline for the bedroom. Part of him wants this to be a test of his resolve, but the more realistic part of him is screaming to be close to Hannibal, to feel even an inkling of the way that he felt before they fell.
As he slowly opens the bedroom door, he finds Hannibal lying still in the dark, facing the wall, a neat little space behind him as if he was expecting Will to come here all along. Will feels suddenly struck with an urgency to announce himself that wars fiercely with an urgency to turn around and leave. Eventually he follows the tug in his chest and pulls back the covers, kicking off most of his clothes and getting in before his head can protest.
He’s immediately hit with an overwhelming and comfortable scent; Hannibal in sleep, spicy and rich, a smell Will often finds on the pillows hours after Hannibal rises and Will climbs in. He sinks into the mattress, too hard but soft enough to curve around their combined weight. It’s a small double at best, but Will doesn’t care, all he wants is to be safe and warm and close, just for a night. To put his warring emotions aside and indulge.
He stares openly at the nape of Hannibal’s neck, exposed to moonlight that makes everything appear black and grey. A visceral urge to press his nose to the space almost chokes him but he swallows it back, tentatively drifting closer all the same. He wants to touch, but he finds more urgently he wants to see. He thinks of the brand burned into Hannibal’s skin between his shoulder blades. He wonders what it looks like now after so long, then he realises he wants to see all of Hannibal’s scars and speculate how he got the ones he doesn’t recognise. He simply wants to see everything there is to see, know everything there is to know about Hannibal. Just as he always has.
The sheets are pulled up over Hannibal’s shoulder, and before he can stop himself Will pulls them lower, exposing the vast expanse of Hannibal’s naked back to his eyes. He looks at the brand, healed but raised and strikingly pale in the low light. He swallows tightly, tracing the lettering with his fingertip and marvelling at how soft and delicate the skin feels under his touch.
“Does it ever piss you off?” Will asks quietly. He knows Hannibal is awake and has been since he entered the room. He’s watched him sleep before and it doesn’t look like this.
Hannibal exhales slowly as Will gently traces the outline of the crown that adorns the topmost part of the logo, and watches with unbridled delight as gooseflesh erupts over Hannibal’s shoulders.
“I will admit sometimes it vexes me,” he says, quiet and level, “But mostly I forget that it’s there.”
“It pisses me off,” Will says, tracing the outer circle of the scar now, thinking back to everything that happened at Muskrat farm. A time he’s considered many times, especially whilst Hannibal was incarcerated.
“Why?” Hannibal asks, and Will hesitates, clenching his jaw as he feels out his answer.
“A brand like this would imply a certain degree of ownership,” he says eventually. He’s withdrawn his hand, now he’s simply tracing the shapes that mar Hannibal’s skin with his eyes. He feels nauseous and afraid, “And you don’t belong to anybody.”
They’re quiet together for a few moments, and Will is almost tempted to slide in closer and rest his chin on Hannibal’s shoulder. Almost.
“Will…” Hannibal begins, and Will feels his throat start to close, his chest tightening. He closes his eyes quickly.
“Why did you come for me?” Will asks, “Back then. Why did you save me.”
Hannibal is quiet for a moment, and it gives Will the time to settle the storm that rolls and froths in his stomach. He breathes in measured increments, like he does when he’s trying to sleep through his disturbed and pervasive thoughts.
“Because Alana asked me to,” Hannibal replies.
Will nods slowly, his stomach churning harder, “Is that the only reason?”
There’s a pause, then Hannibal rolls over to face him and Will’s heart leaps up into his throat. The limited space in the bed brings them startlingly close together, mere inches apart.
“No. It wasn’t the only reason. It wasn’t the reason at all,” Hannibal says, and something ripples through Will’s frame like a wave, making him tremble. He wants to probe further, he wants to take hold of Hannibal and shake him and ask why then, if it wasn’t for Alana then who was it for, even though he knows the answer.
Hannibal edges closer in the darkness, his breath ghosting over Will’s cheeks, and Will feels a tug in his heart, something that responds with ferocity whenever Hannibal is this close to him. He longs to submit to temptation, and he pines for a kiss that isn’t laced with blood and salt… But he doesn’t think he can do it just yet.
He sits up and takes a breath, rubbing his palms down hard over his face, repeating the motion until stars begin to erupt behind his eyelids. Now that he has some distance his doubts begin to creep back in, sinking their claws into him again, breaking the skin of his resolve.
“I’m going to sleep,” he says defiantly, lying back down with his back to Hannibal and his hands pulled up tightly against his chest. He lets the warmth of Hannibal’s presence alone soothe him in the darkness and falls asleep faster than he has in weeks.
~
Will finds consciousness almost exactly where he left it. The room is dark and quiet and still, and he is alone. He reaches out with an arm behind him but feels nothing in the bed next to him, only sheets and pillows. He looks around and realises with eery calmness that the bedroom no longer has a door or any windows, it’s now just a room, plain and inescapable, but still Will doesn’t panic.
“Will,” he hears a voice whisper. Hannibal’s voice. And suddenly he’s there behind him, pressed entirely to Will’s spine, winding himself around him.
Will swallows and makes to protest, but Hannibal’s hands touch him with such gentle appreciation that it makes Will shiver, and a deepening ache grows in the pit of his stomach.
“Please…” he whispers, so quiet he hardly hears himself say it. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know what he’s begging for.
He turns his face into the pillows and closes his eyes, relishing the comfort of being close to someone, of Hannibal’s hands on his body, touching him overtop of his clothes. But then Hannibal’s hands turn inky, leaving behind oil-slick prints that soak into his clothes and burn his skin, sinking into him. His body accepts it, willingly, and Will watches it happen without protest.
“Will,” he hears again, closer this time, right in his ear, and now there’s an inky hand at his throat, fingers pressing in…
“Please… Please…”
The feeling of pending oblivion is strangely inviting.
“Will.”
Will opens his eyes and is greeted by a burnt orange sky through the cabin’s window as the sun threatens to rise over the ocean. His mouth is dry, so he reaches for his glass of water, only to remember that it isn’t there, because he didn’t come to bed following his normal routine. He inhales sharply when the previous evening tumbles back into place, and he remembers why he woke up in the first place. Someone said his name, Hannibal said his name, and now his hand is resting on his waist.
“What’s the matter?” Will asks, trying to appear calm as he carefully moves away and gets out of bed, looking down at the shrapnel of the evening before, his clothing scattered haphazardly all around. It makes him feel strangely embarrassed in the cold light of day as he pulls his t-shirt back on.
“You were talking in your sleep,” Hannibal says, leaning up on an elbow as he looks up at him, “Do you still have nightmares?”
Will doesn’t meet his eye. He feels like he’s been caught in the act of something rotten, even though all they did was sleep.
“No,” he says firmly, though that isn’t exactly the truth. He does still have nightmares, but that didn’t feel like one, “We’re getting close. Another day, maybe two until we reach the coordinates you gave me. You said we’re meeting someone there?”
Hannibal nods, pulling back the covers to sit on the edge of the bed, “There’s a beach not far from the house. He’s watching for our arrival. When he sees us, he will sail out to us and take the boat to a marina. We’ll then use his to get to shore and take a car that he’ll leave for us to the house.”
Will sniffs, taking all of this in. It feels surreal, and the reality of running away is finally beginning to sink in as he hastily gets dressed. He has to admit, only to himself, that it’s impressive how Hannibal has this all figured out, it’s the only mildly comforting part of all of this. It makes sense suddenly that Hannibal was able to get to Florence and conceal himself there, only discoverable by breadcrumbs that Will diligently followed.
“Fine,” he says, sharper than he means to as he looks out of the window. He makes a quick assessment of whether they’re still on course based on how much he can see of the rising sun and quickly leaves the room.
His sense of foreboding only grows the closer they get to the island ahead of them, staring at it forlornly on the horizon as it grows bigger and ever more imposing. There’s a rock of discontent in his stomach as he wonders what he’s doing here, what they’re both doing here, and how this is going to play out. Every so often his gaze flickers to Hannibal as he stands at the bow of the ship, hands on the railings, deep in thought.
Will wonders if Hannibal’s sense of trepidation is as keen as his own. Hannibal has, at the very least, perfected an air of calm indifference this entire trip, but Will can definitely sense something in him that wasn’t quite there before. Something dangerous and cunning and enticing all the same.
The handover goes smoothly enough, but Will feels bereft when he hands over the keys to their boat. He felt safe there, adrift on the ocean, and now he’s giving it up for the unknown. He watches it for as long as he’s able, sickness squirming in his stomach as it disappears from sight, then he gets into the passenger seat of the car.
They’re forty minutes into a desperately silent journey when Will finally speaks, something plaguing him bubbling back up to the surface.
“What did I say? In my sleep,” he asks casually, staring out of the window. So far, Scotland has been cold, green and endless; a carpet of rolling hills for as far as Will’s eye can see, all laid out beneath a mournful grey sky. He glances up at the clouds and can tell from their hue that snow is coming.
“You said ‘please’,” Hannibal replies calmly, and Will’s stomach rolls unpleasantly, “Over and over.”
“Was that all?” he asks, glancing over at Hannibal as he drives them through the countryside.
“Yes,” Hannibal says, changing gear as the road in front of them begins to narrow and wind, “Can you remember what you were dreaming about? Were you begging for something in particular?”
Will exhales a breath, “Why should I believe you?” he says irritably, just to see how Hannibal reacts, just to pull a lever for the sake of pulling it.
“Because I have no reason to lie to you, Will,” Hannibal says, starting to smile, “And I would think you’d afford me a little more credit. I would have invented something much more extraordinary for you to have said.”
Will smiles despite himself, relaxing back into his seat as the winding roads take them past fields and farms and remote homesteads. Will can appreciate the solitude that this place could afford them. He likes to be cut off, so far from humanity that people have to make a vested effort to find him. Something that he thinks will certainly benefit them in the situation they find themselves in.
Eventually the roads become rougher and less travelled and in time they open up to a farmhouse, nestled in a valley surrounded by trees. It’s lovely enough, but even from a distance Will can see the state it’s in.
“What’s your plan here, exactly?” Will asks then, eyes roving over the stonework mottled with dying ivy and the plethora of missing roof tiles.
As they slow to a stop in front of the house, Hannibal pulls up the handbrake and sighs, “My plan is to keep you safe. And here is safe.”
Will hums, ignoring the giddy thrill that runs through him as he opens the car door and steps out to look at the house more closely. He runs his hands over the stone and thinks about how he’s going to do this, what he’s going to need. Suddenly the prospect of living here doesn’t feel quite as hopeless as it did. At least there will be plenty to do.
“Besides, I thought it would keep you busy,” Hannibal says lightly, another eery statement that comes as if having read Will’s mind, “I know how you prosper when faced with a challenge.”
Will feels a prickle at the back of his neck at this. Was he that obvious, or does Hannibal just know him that well? He shakes off the thought.
“Where’s the nearest town? We’ll need supplies and firewood. I assume the power's out and the central heating is probably shot.”
“I can arrange that, though I seem to recall there being a generator in the attic. It might be serviceable, particularly when it finds itself in your care,” Hannibal says, making his way to the front door of the farmhouse and pushing it open. It swings easily on hinges that squeal with protest.
“And get WD40,” Will adds, following Hannibal inside and breathing a disbelieving laugh as he watches him take a set of keys that are hanging barely two feet in from the front door. “You just left the keys here and the door unlocked?”
“I told you, Will. It’s very remote here. You’d only find this place on purpose, and not many people have cause to do that.”
Somehow, this previously very assuring notion strikes Will as intimidating. They’ve been alone together for weeks, but the prospect of it now that he’s here feels unwieldy and too purposeful. Being on a boat in the sea felt very much like Will’s territory. A remote farmhouse in rural Scotland somehow feels more like Hannibal’s.
“We lock the door from now onwards,” he says firmly, trying not to think too much about what lies ahead.