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It was the small things that Will always noticed. Even in the most serious and tense of times, his awareness was fluttering with a endless bouquet of sensory input. At least that never changed. He supposes he could take some kind of solace in that one thing in his life was still secure, as the rest fell around apart him.
The most pressing of experienceial concerns for his always active mind would have to be the dull pain emanating from his wrists. Bound in a fibrous rope and roughly suspended behind his back, above his head, dug into his bruised and tender flesh on his wrists. The slight scratching of stands of rope danced along his nerves, serving only slightly to distract him from the deep burst blood vessels below the skin of his pale hands, and the gradually encroaching pins and needles sensation.
Moving down from the Hands, Will's left shoulder was causing him quite a lot of distress. Dislocated at some point during the conflict leading up to his current predicament, it was being forced to bear the load of holding his torso up from his tied hands. The violation of human anatomy and the massive loss of gross motor control in his arm, not to mention the ache of stretched muscle and tendon, being forced to bear the load that was once his bones duty continued to harass it's host mind.
The cold unmaintained concrete floor could be felt easily on his bare legs and knees. His kneecaps pressing into the stiff and rigid was uncomfortable, and he was plagued with the constant subconscious need to shift his weight into something for favourable for his aching leg joints. Such a manoeuvre, was of course, clearly impossible, given his current status.
The combination of the enforced kneeling and backwards arm bind gave him no choice but to expose his bare torso forwards, the slightly icy Baltimore air causing gentle shivers across his naked body.
Smells of the world assaulted his conciousness. While he perhaps did not have the neigh-supernatural scent-pinning ability of another acquaintance of his, he was in no way unable to notice the distinct aroma of several features in his surroundings. The Dry, salty smell of sweat and skin, the bitter scent of blood, coagulating and otherwise. The must and mould of the basement he was trapped in. The harsh sting of disinfectant and alcohol wipes. The gentle, cold smell of cologne and sophistication, masking the deeper scent of tranquil fury and exertion.
Coppery blood mixed with saliva continued to leak into his mouth. More wounds, in this case, from taking a fairly nasty haymaker to the face from his captor. His slightly numb and swelling-feeling jaw made it difficult to clear the blood out. Regardless, he gathered it into the front of his mouth with his tongue and prepared to expunge a glob of blood and bile. The tears in his gums continued to taste of iridium and flesh, and the dislodged molars in the bottom right of his mouth wobbled as they were passed by.
He slowly opened his eyes once more, after closing them to properly analyse his surroundings. Taking a second to focus and to have the tear fluid wash away, he soon looked ahead. In front of the lamp illuminating him, crouched down to get to eye level with him was, the not so good doctor himself. Still wearing a suit, through this one now had a few tears and seam breaks every here and there. A few gentle bruises, cuts, and other assorted wounds littered what parts of his skin that were visible. A subtle reminder, Will thought to himself, that for all his poise and behaviours, he was still as human as everyone else.
He was not expressive in the best of times, but even he had slight tells. The way his pupils were gently dilated. The way he slowly scanned Will over and over, as if hoping to dissect him with his eyes alone. The way he breathed shallow and carefully. This was the look of a man not standing over with anger, nor disgust or hate, but one that almost appeared to be gazing on the most beautiful thing that he has ever laid eyes upon.
A single hand reached out to touch will on the cheek. Gentle fingers brushed across his face, the lightest touch with the utmost care, as if he was examining a most precious treasure.
Will's throat sunk and his emotions rose. He cleared the blood out of his mouth, and attempted to speak through his bloodied throat and raw voice box.
“Just fucking do it!” Will spluttered out, as forceful and intensely as he could manage.
A smooth, perfectly calm and serene voice spoke back to him, uneffected totally by the bloody atmosphere. “Why, do what?”
“End it!” Will rasped out, forcing the words violently out. “Kill me, Hannibal. Fucking. Kill! Me!”
The psychiatrist smiled radiantly at Will, perhaps the first and only genuine emotion that Will had ever seen him show.
“Now, why would I do that?” He asked himself.
He moved his cheek hand under Wills jaw, and lifted his head up to face him directly. They two made eye contact, and Will stared deep into his counterparts eyes.
Something dragged across his torso, a sharp metal point. The tip of a fishhook, perhaps. Before just scraping across his neck and ending at his throat.
“I could never just... Kill something as beautiful as you”. Hannibal continued to monologue gently.
“No, a specimen as precious as you must be savoured.”