Unspoken

by Fanfaron

Summary:

“Looks like I don’t realistically have many options,” he murmured, not quite willing to confess just exactly how committed he was to their current situation. He smoothed his hand down across the sheet, returning to watching Hannibal’s peacefully sleeping face, the way his dry lips parted just enough to let out light puffs of air. “Will Graham died, I can stay in purgatory a little longer to make sure that Hannibal stays dead with me.”

~

Surviving the fall, much to Will's initial displeasure, leaves Will and Hannibal isolated in a remote location in Canada, with only Chiyoh's intermittent visits to prevent cabin fever and keep them afloat.
There is one more problem, however, which is that the fall appears to have triggered some sort of traumatic response in Hannibal, resulting in him becoming entirely mute.
Will needs to learn not only how to live with the decisions that he has made but also how to deal with the man he once knew no longer utilising one of his most precious weapons.
How can he tackle their new life together if it feels like the man who loved him is fading out of existence?

Notes:

Aw shit, here we go again.

A more slow-burn and emotional fic this time, but I have no doubt that my sense of humour will worm its way in there as it always does.

Some things to note:
-The chapter starts with present tense but then transitions into past tense which is how it'll then stay
-The Explicit rating is for later sex
-There may be some dub-con and possible brief non-con, chapters will always contain content warnings
-I have PTSD so a lot of the trauma-related stuff I write comes from my own experiences as well as those of others, but it is still a work of fiction so always take things with a grain of salt
-Hannibal being mute does not mean that he is going to be an uwu soft boy, but he is distinctly traumatised
-A happy ending is guaranteed

I'll be aiming for a chapter a week as is my usual, shorter approx. 3000-word chapters this time around as I think it fits the narrative.

This is not beta'd so feel free to (politely) point out errors, and as always I live and breathe off of your kind and generous feedback, you are all amazing and what keep me writing.

Chapter 1

 Beneath the thick metallic scent of blood and the lingering spray of ocean air travelling through the atmosphere is something so familiar that it makes his chest ache, like remembering something from a faintly forgotten vision. It’s impossible to tell if it’s genuine nostalgia or something he fabricated, the way that one foot is always caught in the bear trap of his past no matter how hard he struggles to step forward. 

 But it’s there, locked inside his sinuses, seeping from every fibre of the blood-soaked sweater pressed against the side of his face. A fragrance that can’t stem from any cologne, it’s subtle yet heady all at once and warms him to the core; it’s a life he left behind. He wants to cry and scream but all he can do is succumb and press into the solid torso holding him, allowing him this brief reprieve before the inevitable. 

 He’s been here before, relived it countless times in misshapen fragments, though none quite as vivid as this. The one thing that always nags at him that it’s not real is the silence, like being suspended inside a vacuum. He had seen the other man’s lips move, the bottom drenched in dark liquid like so many parts of his face and body, but there were no words to hear. So, like every time he envisions this, he just rests against him and waits. 

 Though he knows it was he who pulled them over the edge, in these replays it feels as though they are hurled forward by the gravitational pull of the moon. They are swayed along with the waves of the sea to join the depths awaiting them, like returning home. The place that was made for them in this world. 

 This occasion is different, it feels as though time has stood still and nothing carries them over. Something about that creates a nauseous sensation, it steals the peace from his gut and churns inside him; this denial of their fate is unacceptable. He tries to pull back, to look at the man holding him, to see if anything in his face can explain why they’re being refused their entry into the afterlife, but he cannot break free. 

 It’s as though the blood drying in the brisk night air is sticking them together like glue, his skin feels as though it is tearing the more he tries to pull away. He wants to cry out, to demand an explanation, but everything is muted. He tries another tactic instead and pushes, pressing his hands against the body close to him, but as he does everything begins to soften underneath his touch.

 He feels as though he is in quicksand, trying to escape from hot tar. Everything becomes blackened, melting into a viscous monolith of ink. No man is holding him, just a roughly humanoid shape collapsing into a heap of substance that he can’t get off of his body, all movements are rendered futile no matter how hard he tries to escape. 

 He isn’t frightened, he hardly even feels distressed, he is merely forlorn with exhaustion and this terrible denial. All he wants is for this to end, he’ll relive the horror a million times for the rest of his days if he has to, so long as he’s allowed to finish this. That’s all he wants, just to save themselves and free the world from their terror. No more monsters. 

 Why won’t the world let them go? 

 

---

 

 Will was startled awake by the seizing burn in his lungs, desperately trying to inhale against what felt like talons scraping inside his chest, as though in the fall he had swallowed some sort of sea creature whose only means of keeping him alive had been to try to obliterate him from the inside out repeatedly. 

 Usually, he felt as though he was teetering on the edge, being held just on the cusp of life as a form of torment and praying that, eventually, the creature would grow bored and finally let him die. He had lost count of how many times he had awoken like this, how many different locations or modes of transport he found himself in as he choked; first on seawater, then his own saliva, then on whatever liquid was being forced down his throat. 

 Today was different. Despite the pain, there was a lingering strength that he hadn’t felt before now, as though he finally might be able to move his arms for more than two seconds, and he might actually be able to remain conscious. He hadn’t felt lucidity in so long that the concept seemed utterly alien. 

 The first thing he did was reach for his face, roughened fingertips fumbling across his cheek to search for evidence that not everything had been a dream. He found it with a hiss through gritted teeth, feeling along the neat little row of stitches pulling together the gouge in his flesh, the permanent reminder that he was, in fact, alive. 

 “The last thing that he said to me before he fell unconscious the first time, was that he hoped I would not make you ugly,” spoke a faintly familiar voice in the near distance. It made Will realise that his eyes were only half-open, his head lolling across his shoulders as he tried to focus on his surroundings and find the source. 

 He was in some sort of small room, the air thick with the scent of wood and dust, magnolia paint chipping on the walls. He managed to pull his gaze over to the doorway, honing in on the figure perched there in the dim lamplight. Her mouth was pressed in a straight line, her dark hair pulled up and back into a bun, and a thick dark coat covered most of her form. Chiyoh. 

 “Did you succeed?” He slurred slightly, voice raspy from a lack of use and the motions of his mouth peculiar with the strange tug of skin at his cheek as he spoke. He supposed that’d be something that he’d have to get used to if this didn’t turn out to be Hell or limbo. 

 “I’ll let him be the judge,” Chiyoh replied with the faintest hint of something not entirely unpleasant in her tone, though her expression remained cool and neutral. She stepped toward him, revealing a bottle in her hand, the lid removed. “A homemade electrolyte, you will drink this.” 

 Will didn’t argue, he gratefully took the bottle in both of his hands and tried to force himself not to chug it, but to slowly sip the faintly citric liquid, the strain in his arm making itself known. He was torn between wanting to immediately throw it back up, and feeling thirstier than he’d ever felt in his life. It would seem that nothing was going to be easy for some time. 

 “Where is he?” He choked the words out between sips, studying her face. He knew they’d been on the move and that there had been periods of time where he’d been awake but he couldn’t remember them with any sort of clarity; his last memory of Hannibal was one he didn’t want taking up any space inside his mind: blood, salt water and panic. 

 “He is still asleep, he likely will be for some time. It was easier to take care of him in the study, but it will be more comfortable to move him here soon,” Chiyoh explained, monitoring Will as he consumed the beverage. She seemed to falter for just a second, before reaching out to place a hand on Will’s arm. The light touch didn’t feel reassuring. “Tomorrow I will leave. I need to know that you are not going to try to kill him.” 

 It was a fair request, he supposed, that is what he had tried to do. In his defence, it wasn’t just Hannibal that he pulled over the cliff. It had to be either both of them, or neither of them, and apparently, fate had decided to be a cruel bitch and deny him that release. He had no immediate desire to die, therefore neither did he have any desire to end Hannibal’s life. 

 “Not tonight,” Will coughed and tried to straighten his back, pulling himself up into more of a sitting position with a strained grunt, looking around to see that he was at the far edge of a sagging double bed that had seen better days. “Or tomorrow, probably not the next day either.” 

 “I will only be able to visit intermittently. I have already pulled two corpses from the sea and I would not like to see my work undone,” there was an undeniable firmness to her light voice that Will didn’t think he should risk pushing. He’d survived enough gunshots, he didn’t fancy his chances with another one. 

 “Can I see him?” He asked, taken aback by his own question. He had meant to ask where they were, how they got there, and what the plan was moving forward; but he had to know that this wasn’t all in his head. He needed to know that the man he had tried to pull into oblivion with him would have to make sense of all of this as well, that he wasn’t alone in this unfathomable endeavour. 

 Chiyoh gave a small shrug of her shoulders, “You are not being held captive,” and then promptly turned around and walked out of the room, the neat click of her shoes against old floorboards echoing as she went. 

 The climb out of bed wasn’t as excruciating as he had expected it to be, but the stiffness in his limbs from days of sleep felt like a hangover across his entire body ten times over. Each movement seemed like slow motion, like moving through mud, each minute shift taking so much longer than he expected it to. Once Will had finally managed to get his feet onto the floor and up into a standing position, he spent what felt like several minutes with his palms pressed to the wall, waiting for the Earth to stop spinning. 

 All of the lights in the musty cabin were dim as he shuffled little steps throughout the place, into a hall, then into what looked to be a small kitchen and entrance area; all on one floor, he noted. He spotted another room back from the kitchen through an open doorway and inside was the study, a cramped space that seemed to take place over something like a lounge, more like a claustrophobic sitting room. 

 Two of the walls were almost entirely covered by bookcases containing an assortment of tomes he couldn’t quite focus on, any words eluding him. Against one bare wall sat windows and a fireplace, and against the other was a low, forest-green sofa with a deep mahogany frame. Lying prone across it beneath a thick sheet covered in dull stains where blood could not be washed away, was a familiar figure that caused Will to freeze in place in the doorway. 

 His initial reaction was a sickening, guttural fear, followed by a shame that had him gripping an arm around his stomach. Here was the man who had tried and failed to kill him enough times to warrant running out of that cabin as fast as his legs could carry him; but there too was the frail, softly breathing unconscious form of the old friend that he had tried to pull into the depths with him. It was a strange thought, that Hannibal could ever have been his friend, but that feeling lingered in his mind as his first thoughts began to melt away. 

 Instead of leaving, or making a plan to escape whatever location they had found themselves in, he lowered himself down onto the floor beside the sofa, gentle grunts escaping his lips as he eased himself down onto his knees. He felt along the side of the sheet until he could find the recognisable shape of a hand, then lifted it to feel for clammy fingers and wrapped his own around them.  

 Hannibal’s face was so pale, so fragile. He looked older and almost alarmingly innocent; that thought almost made Will’s lips twitch with some semblance of a smile. Hannibal the Cannibal, who was likely to be the source of countless urban legends and dozens of sensationalised true crime documentaries in the future, a man who could truthfully be described as an irredeemable horror; now rendered weak and harmless. 

 He smoothed his thumb across Hannibal’s palm, rhythmic little circles, and didn’t pull away when he heard Chiyoh enter the room. She just seemed to stand and observe but he didn’t look up to check, he didn’t want to have to succumb to her thought processes. Hannibal was enough, the proof that he was alive, that they both were. 

 “Much like yourself, there have been moments where he has been awake,” her voice was quiet as she kept her distance, just her shadowy figure in the corner of his eye, “but I feel that it would be best to warn you that when he is alert he may not seem like the Hannibal that you know.” 

 At this Will couldn’t stop himself from looking at her, his furrowed brow meeting her calm expression; “What exactly do you mean by that?” 

 “I believe that although at first everything appeared normal, as much as it could with a gunshot wound, once he slipped under the first time and came back to us he decided to abandon his words,” Chiyoh explained, though it hardly felt like an adequate explanation at all. 

 Will rubbed at his temple with his free hand, as though he could massage understanding into his brain. “So, what, you’re telling me that he stopped speaking? Are we talking about physical trauma here or psychological?” 

 Chiyoh looked away and instead focused her gaze on their unconscious mutual companion, “Perhaps both, perhaps neither. I would imagine that only he knows.” 

 “Well, forgive me if I seem sceptical, but I can’t imagine Dr Hannibal Lecter relinquishing one of his favourite weapons,” Will couldn’t stop the lop-sided pseudo-smirk as he spoke, a mirthless half-smile at the thought that Hannibal of all people, a man frankly incapable of shutting up even in the most dire situations, would choose not to speak. 

 With a small shrug of her shoulders, Chiyoh stepped closer to place the back of her hand upon Hannibal’s forehead, briefly glancing at the way Will held his hand. “I can only tell you what I witnessed. We received help from others these past three weeks, you likely do not remember them and that is probably for the best, and he is through the worst of it. As are you. You shall be safe here in my absence, but you will be alone.” 

 “Three weeks…” Will repeated, incredulous. How could he possibly have been so out of it to have hardly any recollection for that length of time? He’d been practically gutted and reduced to a quivering wreck with a temporary stoma in hospital but could remember more then than anything he could grasp ahold of in his mind now. “Where exactly are we?” 

 “Nunavut, Canada, in a remote location. The closest city is Iqaluit, but there are no roads here for you to get there, nor anywhere. I would not advise seeking civilisation if you are to stay here. I will endeavour to visit fortnightly to ensure that you are well-supplied,” Chiyoh explained cooly as she pulled back from Hannibal, seemingly satisfied with her little checks. 

 “No neighbours to recognise us, I’m guessing?” Will asked, carefully pulling his hand away and tucking the sheet back over the limb with surprising care. “How long are we meant to stay in hiding in the middle of nowhere?” 

 “You, Will Graham, are not obligated to stay here. You may go back to your old life, to your wife and child, though I confess that you may die of hypothermia before you succeed,” Chiyoh’s unaffected tone was almost impressive, given the scathing lashing of her words. 

 He pondered with an audible sigh, instinctively reaching for the wedding band still sitting on his finger, the metal not remotely tarnished from his little sea dive. A sharp, queasy pang sat in his stomach; he hadn’t thought about Molly since he woke up, instead his first thought, just like all of his dreams for the past three weeks, had only been of Hannibal. He didn’t love her any less, that in itself gave him more comfort than he expected, but he had made a decision and it was one he knew he had to see through to the end. Whose end exactly was still up in the air. It had to be either both of them, or neither of them.

 “Looks like I don’t realistically have many options,” he murmured, not quite willing to confess just exactly how committed he was to their current situation. He smoothed his hand down across the sheet, returning to watching Hannibal’s peacefully sleeping face, the way his dry lips parted just enough to let out light puffs of air. “Will Graham died, I can stay in purgatory a little longer to make sure that Hannibal stays dead with me.” 

 Although he hadn’t intended it, even that revealed more than he would have liked. He remembered her words, ‘Violence is what you understand’ . It felt like being up at the altar, standing not before God but instead subjugated by whatever demons had brought him away from a happy life and back into this mess. Strangely there was a sense of relief, belonging. ‘I deserve this’ . He was married to the devil now, he might as well run with it. 

 Chiyoh gave a curt nod but didn’t say anything else for a while, content to watch him and most likely ensure that he didn’t suddenly try to strangle Hannibal or see how easily an injured man could murder someone with a book. After a while, he noticed that the longer he watched Hannibal in turn, the less he seemed to feel the pains of his various injuries; not only from their battle with the Dragon but also the assortment of bruises littered across his body from hitting the water and likely colliding with several rocks. The concentration was a soothing distraction. 

 “You should get some more sleep—” Chiyoh almost startled him from his thoughts as she spoke again, “—he isn’t going anywhere.” 

 Will looked at her sheepishly and rose to his feet, stiff and laboured, to make his way back to the bedroom. He wanted to have a shower, he wanted a mirror to inspect the damage, and at the same time, he didn’t want either of those things. There was a peculiarly safe luxury being afforded to him in not being able to see himself past the worn-in bedclothes covering his skin, of not having to face every inch of his new reality just yet. 

 When he was back to the bed he could hardly even recall getting onto it. As soon as he was on the mattress with a pillow under his head he felt the pull of sleep clawing tendrils around his limbs; still so exhausted that even the feel of springs beneath the cheap, flimsy mattress made no difference at all. 

 He was grateful not to be visited by another dream.

Chapter 2

Summary:

“Hannibal…” Will took a deep breath, struggling to believe that this was a question that he was legitimately having to ask, “Is it that you don’t want to talk to me, or that you can’t talk to me?” Trying to mimic the failed movement, Will lightly pressed his fingers against Hannibal’s wrist but the psychiatrist withdrew his hand at such speed it was as though he had been burned.

~

Hannibal is awake, and Will is adjusting to the situation.

Notes:

The chapter is early because I have no chill.

I appreciate that this is a very slow burn so I appreciate y'all coming along for the ride before we really get into the meat of this. <3

 Will was faintly aware of the shifting dip in the mattress beside him as he stirred from sleep. He kept his eyes closed as he tried to recall where he was and why he was there, memories gently ebbing across the waves of his mind, slowly bringing him back up to speed. He was hesitant to look, to see what he knew would be there, who would be in the same bed.

 Instead, he was forced back to reality by a voice next to him; “I will be leaving soon.” 

 He shuffled onto his right side to open his eyes and behold the fuzzy shape of Chiyoh standing next to him, wrapped in a thick coat and hat, ominously aware that he was already awake. He looked up at her face, watching him steadily with that strangely comforting, unreadable expression. He tried to nod his understanding, unsure if it was clear in the low light. 

 “You will find enough supplies to last you the next fortnight, you may make requests upon my return but I cannot guarantee anything. Medication is in the bathroom, I would advise that you take it. The painkillers are weaker than what you have been accustomed to, however, lucidity shall work in your favour in my absence,” she explained in succinct little bursts, never waiting for any sign of recognition or cognisance from the half-asleep man gawking up at her through half-lidded eyes. 

 “Will he wake up today?” Will asked, unsure how exactly the warm body lying next to him had gotten there but he felt fairly certain that Chiyoh moved him rather than Hannibal walking himself there. Chiyoh embodying the level of strength required to move a broad-shouldered psychiatrist was, at that point, not remotely shocking to him. 

 “It is likely,” she answered with a small nod, glancing over at the other man before moving her gaze back to Will. He was half surprised that she had allowed any of this to happen, that he had been kept alive and seemingly in good health; well, as good as was possible. 

 “Thank you,” he whispered, not quite feeling able to expand on his gratitude. ‘For not leaving me in the ocean. For not killing me. For taking care of us. For everything.’

 She simply gave another nod and turned to leave the room, visibly straying for a brief moment to recheck Hannibal’s sleeping form before she vanished through the door. Will shifted onto his back and stared up at the dark void that was the ceiling, listening to the sound of her moving throughout the small cabin before he jolted slightly at the heavy noise of the front door opening and closing. 

 He finally forced himself to look to his left, and something about the sight gripped a tight fist around his heart. He had expected something akin to Hannibal lying prone on the sofa, something not too unlike a breathing corpse, but now there was something painfully human about him. 

 He was on his side, hands balled up into little fists curled against his chest, face pressed deeply into the pillow. His shorter hair was utterly ruffled, sticking out in all manner of directions. There was the tiniest glossy trail of saliva trickling down from his open mouth, disappearing into the pillow, and the sight of it almost convinced Will that the man had to be a stranger. Hannibal Lecter could not possibly look so unassuming, so normal . 

 But he wasn’t normal. He was recovering from a myriad of injuries, including a gunshot wound that had presumably missed any vital organs. He was a serial killer, a consumer of human flesh, and in love with Will Graham. ‘ Isn’t he? ’ It felt like a lifetime ago that Will had been sitting across from Dr Bedelia Du Maurier, spiteful and petulant, but the revelation hadn’t left the back of his mind. 

 If anything could make you reconsider your feelings for a person, having them pull you off of a cliff would probably do the trick. 

 It was with that thought that Will succumbed to the pull of sleep, his last thought before fading back into the unconscious was the memory of holding Hannibal’s hand and feeling that unfamiliar desire to soothe and comfort the injured man. 

 

---

 

 When Will awoke to light creeping in through open curtains, harsh and bright as it reflected on the snow outside, he found himself alone once again. This time when he pulled himself out of bed, he navigated to the closed door just outside the bedroom, where he found a cramped bathroom with a small shower. He could feel the humid air and faint scent of soap that suggested Hannibal had already made use of the facilities.

 As he relieved himself in the toilet, and even that looked worse for wear, he felt thankful that he couldn’t recall how that had all gone down during the healing process. He stripped himself gingerly but avoided the mirror of the bathroom cabinet suspended above the sink; that could at least wait until he was clean. 

 He brushed his fingertips along the stitches across his shoulder and cheek as he waited for the water to heat up, making a mental note to try and remember to ask Hannibal when they should be removed. Although the water pressure was weak, the sensation of a hot stream across his muscles was bliss; even the sting against the large patches of yellow and purple bruises across his body was welcome.

 He washed as quickly as his limbs would allow, using the little set of drugstore toiletries sitting on a shelf attached to the tiles, wary of how limited their hot water supply might be. Grabbing a towel laid out ready, noticing the space where another had been, he switched off the water and took a deep breath to finally face the mirror. 

 It could have been worse, but man could it have been better. Neatly maintained stubble had transformed into a full-on beard, his hair was starting to get a little longer, and with his cabin surroundings, there was an undeniable ‘mountain man’ vibe beginning to take over his visage. He tried to avoid letting his eyes settle on the puckered flesh of his cheek, where uneven little patches of hair may never grow properly again even with the thickening of his facial hair. 

 He took a few shaky breaths and, once dry, fished through a wardrobe in the bedroom to retrieve what looked to be Walmart’s finest. He wondered if Chiyoh had retrieved more suitable clothing for Hannibal that was hiding elsewhere in the room, but secretly he relished the idea of the man having to dress like a ‘normal’ person. 

 He heard Hannibal before seeing him; not words, nor scathing remarks, but rather the sound of air hissing through teeth. He froze in the doorway of the kitchen as he took in the sight of the older man in nothing but a towel wrapped limply about his waist, sitting awkwardly in a wooden chair at a small table. It was like seeing a ghost. He was underweight, almost gaunt, and his skin had a slight grey tinge. Will wasn’t sure how much of it was from the fall, and how much of it was from three years of incarceration. 

 An array of medical supplies were scattered across the table and he was attempting to remove water-soaked dressings from his healing gunshot wound with apparently very limited success, seemingly struggling with restricted mobility in his arms. 

 “Hey—” Will started, swallowing hard when amber eyes shot up rapidly to stare at him, as though having not noticed his presence. That in itself was strange; whether it was just a result of his cautionary nature or ridiculous olfactory senses, Hannibal always seemed to maintain a peculiar air of omniscience. The idea that he hadn’t known Will was in the room didn’t sit right. 

 Will stepped forward slowly, the unfamiliar sensation of approaching a wounded animal made his stomach churn. Through pure instinct, he held his hands out, palm-first, as though to reassure that he didn’t present a threat. What a ridiculous thought that was, that he could possibly be a threat to Hannibal Lecter . 

 “Do you need help with that?” He asked slowly, lips pursing together in a bemused expression as he watched Hannibal’s face remain still; there was a coldness to him that made Will’s pulse begin to quicken. 

 Hannibal shook his head, curt and sudden, but didn’t drop his gaze as he continued trying to pry the sodden dressing away from his skin. Will glanced over to the table and spotted a collection of pill organisers next to fresh dressings, neatly stacked with their names written on them in neat, blocky penmanship. 

 Feeling more than sufficiently like an insect under a microscope, Will plucked one of the little plastic containers and made his way over to the sink. Each step, each movement as he fumbled around searching for a cup in assorted cabinets, retrieving water from the sink to swallow down the little collection of pills, felt pinned beneath an icy stare. 

 “Are you going to say anything or just stare at me?” Will blurted out finally, an unintentional harshness lacing his words, which caused Hannibal to avert his gaze. He felt almost guilty, the nearly bare Doctor had a vague look about him as though he had been slapped, though he continued to pull at the dressings until they were fully removed. 

 Will couldn’t drag his eyes away from the red, puckered wound, the surrounding skin flushed and delicate. He wondered if their ability to survive apparently everything thrown at them was some sort of cruel cosmic joke, yet he couldn’t stop the deep pang of gratitude sitting in his gut that this man was sitting in the room with him, there and alive. Hannibal hadn’t just survived the Dragon, he had survived Will. 

 Losing his patience, he took long strides from the countertop and over to the table, grabbing the fresh dressings before Hannibal could take the chance, and fixed him with a determined look. “You’re struggling, let me help you.” 

 A quick, pale hand shot out and seized Will’s wrist, squeezing hard as long, unkempt nails wrapped around the appendage. Hannibal gawked at him, his lips pressed into a thin frown, his breathing audible from the exertion. 

 “Ow, fuck— Hannibal, let go ,” Will demanded in a low voice, it was painfully reminiscent of telling off a dog with something clenched in its jaw. Hannibal released his grip, but not before snatching the dressings out of Will’s grasp with his other hand. “Okay, you know what, you want to be stubborn? Fine, do it yourself.” 

 He found himself skulking out of the room, internally cursing at how much he suddenly felt like a bad-tempered child, but as soon as Will escaped into the small study his mood was brought down even further by a low grumbling in his belly. Of course, Hannibal had to be in the one room where food was. 

 Unwilling to succumb to his needs over the sudden overwhelming desire to be as stubborn as the other man in the house, Will tried to distract himself by studying the books lined up along one of the walls. He dragged his finger across dark, dusty spines before settling on a copy of Whitman’s ‘Drum-Taps’. 

 He slumped down onto the dark green sofa that once held Hannibal’s unconscious form, and allowed himself to slip into the distraction of poetry, replacing bubbling irritation and anxiety with the sufferings of war amidst the faint scent of antiseptic. 

 

---

 

 Will wasn’t sure when he had managed to drop off mid-sentence, but clearly the exhaustion of healing still hadn’t left him as he snorted awake with a start, book tumbling off of his chest and landing on the floor with a dull thud. He groaned and rubbed at his eyes and was immediately hit with the reminding ache of an empty stomach. 

 Dragging himself up and into the kitchen, he could see that it was now devoid of Hannibal and medical supplies, as though the man had never been there at all. A part of him hated the relief that washed over him with that fact; if this was happening, if this was going to be his life for the foreseeable, he needed for them to be able to coexist comfortably, despite how unrealistic of a goal that seemed. 

 He started to rifle through cupboards until he came across a loaf of bread and some butter, something plain like toast seemed like it would be easy on his stomach—their stomachs. He wandered through into the bedroom, trying to step lightly as though his presence might trigger a conflict. 

 Hannibal was on the bed, lying on top of the duvet with his back straight up against the headboard, one hand resting lightly over his wound. He was at least dressed this time and, much to Will’s amusement, wearing what looked to be a loose, short-sleeved button-up shirt where he had given up with the buttons halfway and a pair of loose shorts. They must have been the easiest garments for him to clamber into with his failing mobility. Something was endearing about how utterly alien he looked, and Will’s inspection was met with an unsurprising frown. 

 “You look—” Will bit his tongue, taken aback by the tickle of a laugh building in his chest that he tried to swallow down as Hannibal’s eyes pierced him with an outright murderous expression. He did not doubt that the man could probably slaughter him with any item in the room, but it was hard to feel threatened when he looked so out of sorts. “— Comfortable . You look comfortable.” 

 Will stepped forward until he was standing at the foot of the bed, desperately trying not to let the glee bubbling up in him show on his face, but that little break in the tension had been sorely needed. “Have you eaten?” He asked, trying to sound as casual and unassuming as possible, even as Hannibal averted his gaze to look at the floor. 

 He furrowed his brow a little at that, “Are you seriously not talking to me?” When Will didn’t receive a response, he moved down to the side of the bed to try and catch the older man’s eye, standing beside him. “I appreciate that I tried to kill us, but if we’re going to be stuck here for a while you’re going to have to get over whatever this childish grudge is. If you decide that you’re going to kill me or leave or whatever the fuck it is that escaped serial killer convicts do, that’s fine, but until then I need you to stop this.” 

 Hannibal’s eyes rose almost cautiously to meet Will’s unimpressed expression, a strange softness to them that made him feel like he was standing on uneven ground. Hannibal raised a hand briefly, as though he wanted to reach out to touch Will’s own, but it faltered and fell back down to rest upon his stomach. 

 “Hannibal…” Will took a deep breath, struggling to believe that this was a question that he was legitimately having to ask, “Is it that you don’t want to talk to me, or that you can’t talk to me?” Trying to mimic the failed movement, Will lightly pressed his fingers against Hannibal’s wrist but the psychiatrist withdrew his hand at such speed it was as though he had been burned. 

 Will found himself gritting his teeth together, any previous mirth sapped from his body, even as the older man leant away with an almost frightened look taking over his features. ‘ How can Hannibal Lecter, of all people, possibly be scared ? ’

 “Right. Well,” he began to turn away, “I’m going to make us some toast. You need to eat. So. Be an asshole if you want, but I’m not getting shot by Chiyoh again because you decided you’d rather pout and waste away than behave like an adult.” 

 For the second time that day, Will was storming out of a room. 

 

---

 

 He honestly hadn’t expected Hannibal to join him, but he figured that hunger must have been as good a motivation as any to at least temporarily end the man’s stubbornness. The way that he shuffled into the room with small, wary steps as he held an arm over his abdomen made Will’s chest ache. It wasn’t sympathy exactly, but something more complicated welling inside him. 

 Will gestured to the plate opposite him on the table; two simple, buttered slices of white toast. “There’s coffee as well, let me get you a cup.” 

 He noticed Hannibal start to make his way towards the kitchen counter and immediately held a hand out towards him in warning, “I swear to God, if you don’t sit down and let me get you some coffee you’re going to end up wearing it.” 

 There was that murderous expression again, and it caused Will’s lip to tug in an uncontrollable hint of a smile and the older man gave a quick nod of recognition and instead sat down awkwardly at the table. 

 He was starting to slowly recognise what those complex feelings were; he was beginning to enjoy the unexpected position of authority that he found himself in, but beneath that was an intense layer of fear that he needed to bury if they were going to survive each other’s company. Hannibal was supposed to be the person in control, always five steps ahead; not some feeble, traumatised shell. Even with all of their betrayal and time apart, Will couldn’t stomach the idea that Hannibal was unable to provide him with a source of stability. So it was his turn to be the paddle, even if it was just poor play-acting. 

 “I hope you’re going to be able to cope with the bare essentials because Chiyoh hasn’t really left us with anything for you to indulge in fine dining,” he spoke again as he placed down a cup of instant coffee next to Hannibal’s plate, taking a little smug enjoyment in the way that his nostrils flared with distaste. “Though I don’t think you’re going to be in a state to cook for a while anyway. I don’t think you should be standing for any long periods of time, but I’d like to think that my cooking is at least a step above prison food.” 

 Hannibal gave him an almost appraising, doubtful glance, which Will returned with a roll of his eyes. He may not have been Lecter levels of cuisine, but he was a good cook. He made a mental note to himself to have a rummage around the freezer in case they’d been left any fish. 

 Will took a surprising amount of satisfaction in seeing the man taking dainty nibbles of his toast; it was clear that his body had a lot of catching up to do in terms of sustenance, and whilst the thought of needing to provide care for Hannibal Lecter was frankly terrifying, it would provide him with something to focus on. 

 It was going to be a long winter. 

Chapter 3

Summary:

“I’m going to pick all of those bottles up, and then I’m going to help you shower, and you’re not going to say a fucking word about it."

~

Will's peaceful acceptance begins to be disturbed by an unexpected tension.

Notes:

We're back, baby.

I've been having some issues with writer's block lately so I was really struggling with this chapter, but then I hit a point of figuring out how to steer it in the direction I wanted and now I'm feeling pretty optimistic.

It's getting a little saucy.

It's not beta'd so please forgive any errors <33 Comments are my lifeblood, thank you for your support.

28/07 Update: Hey folks, just a heads up that this fic is likely to be slow with updating. Despite having it all planned out, I'm really struggling with it for some reason, so I'll get it done but it may take a lot longer than planned. Apologies!

 On their second day of full consciousness, Will was taken by surprise by a looming serial killer crowding him back against the kitchen table until he finally relented to the silent, ominous and still quite sickly pale figure by sitting down in a chair. Given that Hannibal had once again permitted him to provide him with plain buttered toast and cheap coffee, he figured it was only fair that he succumbed to his bizarre, silently communicated demands. 

 “Alright, Jesus, I’m sitting. What do you want?” He huffed a little as the older man stared at him with an intensely studious eye, before promptly turning on the spot and leaving the room. Will simply sat, baffled, before reaching over to slowly steal an abandoned piece of toast from Hannibal’s plate. 

 He paused mid-chew, crumb-laden fingers not-so-casually placing the toast back down as Hannibal reappeared with a selection of first aid items clutched in his arms, eyes narrowing accusingly as the brunette shrugged and swallowed. It quickly became apparent that, despite his injuries, Hannibal was confirming a suspicion that had been lurking in the back of Will’s mind ever since he observed his injured face in the bathroom mirror; that his stitches were well past due to come out. 

 So that was how Will Graham found himself bracing the sides of the small wooden chair with a white-knuckled grip, hissing between his teeth as stitches were tugged out of his cheek. Despite a neat suturing job, the skin had become irritated from their prolonged presence, and the removal process felt like having thick, stubborn splinters prized out of his flesh. 

 He flinched with each pull and was unable to glance up at the face hovering so close to his own. Hannibal’s expression was one of deep concentration, brows furrowed and mouth pulled into a tight frown, he practically radiated displeasure at the incorrect medical care. ‘ Well if you’d just died like you were supposed to, we wouldn’t be in this situation ,’ Will couldn’t help but think, though it was swiftly followed by a nauseating flash of guilt. 

 “Are you done?” He asked as he risked a quick look at the Doctor surveying his cheek. Hannibal sat back in his own chair before retrieving a moistened paper towel to gently dab at Will’s face, the material blossoming with little pinpricks of red. He gave a curt nod, but as Will went to stand up he was pushed back down by a surprisingly strong hand gripping at his uninjured shoulder. 

 Hannibal briefly shot him an almost dark expression, which was even more successful in pinning Will in place than the fingers digging into his muscle. He reached towards his neatly arranged little set of supplies on the kitchen table to retrieve a plastic tub of antiseptic cream and wasted no time in collecting a small amount on the tip of his index finger. 

 Will didn’t know where to look, so he ended up awkwardly trying to avert his gaze over Hannibal’s shoulder, making a completely useless but suitably distracting mental inventory of every item in the kitchen. Silver, two-slice toaster. Old-fashioned stove kettle with brown stains. Scratched wooden chopping board. Incomplete knife block that Hannibal would probably rather throw out the door than use for preparing food. Hannibal’s breath close to his jaw. The glass jar of instant coffee he left on the countertop. Hannibal’s fingertip pressing into the stinging flesh of his healing wound. 

 He gasped so loudly that it caused the other man to flinch; Will hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath, and he was rather grateful that it must have come across as though the gasp was due to the pain in his cheek and not because he was struggling to cope with Hannibal touching him in a way that felt peculiarly sensual. 

 “Sorry, I— uh, it just hurt a little,” he mumbled self-consciously, meeting dark amber eyes for only a moment. Whether Hannibal intuited the truth or not he wasn’t certain, but he pulled away and left him to his own devices regardless, shuffling away with his weak little steps to no doubt return the medical supplies to their designated space in the bathroom.

 Will felt as though he had to catch his breath as he realised his pulse had increased, he could practically feel the throb of blood beneath the skin of his cheek. Even mute and injured, Hannibal still somehow maintained the ability to knock him off of steady ground and leave him in a state of bemused uncertainty, and he couldn’t help but feel a sting of resentment at the fact. 

 “I’m going out,” he called, taking himself by surprise as the thought had barely a chance to form in his head before the words slipped out of his mouth. There was no reply, of course. He recalled Chiyoh’s warnings about the area, but the knowledge that there was nowhere really to go didn’t deter him, he just needed a reprieve. 

 He slipped on his shoes, determinedly ignoring the faint dull marks left from spilt blood, pulled on an oversized coat that was hung up on one of the small wooden hooks by the door, and whisked himself out of the cabin before he could consider whether or not he was making a wise decision. 

 The relief was immense and immediate, his lungs filling with harsh, brisk air. There was almost an aching sense of reminiscence of his previous lives, surrounded by winter wilderness, but there was a stillness that felt distinctly unfamiliar. The only sound, aside from the odd echoing cracks of debris disturbed by unseen animals, was the soft crunching of snow beneath Will’s shoes as he stepped away from the cabin. 

 He moved towards the tracks left over from what must have been the vehicle Chiyoh had used, and sure enough, there was no sign of any roads. There were no paths, no barriers, just an endless maze of tall, looming trees suspended in powder and ice. He knew that going out too far wasn’t the best call, but just being out in the fresh air, bitterly cold as it may have been, was a welcome break. 

 He walked around the perimeter of the cabin, scanning for anything that might be more interesting than just more mounds of snow, but wasn’t especially surprised to see that it really was just nothing but a quiet, frozen landscape. The sky was clear at least, soft sunlight reflecting off of the pale ground below to create an almost dreamlike atmosphere, the frigid unreality of their afterlife. 

 Calloused fingers ran along the flaking wooden carcass of the building as he stepped around it, taking in the shape and structure of his new refuge. He wondered how Hannibal was taking their environment, the musty abandoned remnants of someone else’s life; curiously that was more interesting to him than who must have owned the cabin originally. Other people didn’t seem to register so much in his mind anymore, they didn’t seem worth the consideration. 

 With that thought he found himself absent-mindedly turning his wedding ring again, spinning the metal that was warmed by the lingering heat of his body temperature that was slowly draining amidst the harsh winter air. He tried to allow himself a moment of grief for all that he had lost but found only a hollow shell for feelings that simply weren’t there when he tried to reach for them. His love for the woman he had married hadn’t left him, it was part of his DNA now, but it was a faint lingering echo. 

 He thought he should be angry, consumed by loss, frustrated with the life stolen from him but the reality was that he gave it up of his own free will. Sure, he had been manipulated and driven to make choices that were less than ideal (that was an understatement), but no one had forced his hand. The day that Hannibal sacrificed his freedom had secured the inevitability of their future, that it was a matter of ‘when’ and not ‘if’ they would be reunited. 

 That it happened with melodramatic bloodshed was almost laughably predictable. 

 His acceptance of their bond should have been unsettling, but the truth was that even in their current circumstances he found himself able to breathe more freely than he had in years. It was no doubt a calm before a storm, this strange peace between them, but his body welcomed it so surely that it was hard to hold his mind accountable for not feeling more fraught with concern. 

 If death would have been a release from all those years of pain and tension, why couldn’t another chance at life be that way too? He wanted that so dearly, just to be able to finally give in and accept their inescapable, inseparable union. It would come with terms and conditions, there were things to discuss, but in the meantime, he figured that he was owed a genuine period of convalescence. 

 Of course, it was only natural that as soon as he began to think about this sense of serenity and acceptance, Will was startled back into the present as he peered over towards a window and was alerted by a knocking sound. He quickly recognised the frosted glass as being that of the bathroom, and his stomach lurched at the mental image of a weakened Hannibal falling and reopening his wounds. 

 His feet moved faster than his brain could assess the situation, throwing open the front door and treading snow across the dark old carpets of the house, dark wet stains left in his wake. He burst into the bathroom with a loud bang and it took a moment for his senses to calm and take in the scene before him, everything clouded with the hot mist of the shower. 

 Hannibal had not, in fact, stumbled to his demise or dramatically reenacted their fall into the Atlantic in the shallow puddle of water at the bottom of the shower cubicle. What he had managed to do was slip enough to scatter the entire shelf of cleaning products onto the floor, and stood staring wild-eyed at Will, naked as the day he was born, one hand gripping at his uncovered but neatly healing bullet wound. 

 “I—” Will gaped, his entire face beginning to closely resemble a pomegranate as he faced the increasingly enraged-looking cannibal, “—I heard a noise, I thought you might have hurt yourself.” It was as he said that, that he noticed the slight flush on Hannibal’s cheeks, which clearly wasn’t from his nudity as the man didn’t have an ounce of shame in his entire body. He was panting lightly, body crumpled over as he held on to his side. 

 “...Do you need help?” Will asked with a distinct note of caution as he began to realise that the act of cleaning himself must have taken more energy and mobility than Hannibal currently possessed, especially after having spent the morning taking care of Will’s own medical issues. 

 The older man looked positively affronted by the suggestion and that alone gave Will his answer. Stubborn refusal for any sort of help had started to become a clear signifier of when Hannibal was in need of assistance but struggling with the loss of authority over their situation, unaccustomed to not being the person in control of every possible moment. Will was smirking before he even realised it, and he held up a single finger as if to say, ‘One moment please.’ 

 He slipped out of the room and pulled off the heavy jacket still weighing down on him, and clumsily stripped down to his underwear. There was a muted sensation of embarrassment as he did so, but the opportunity to force Hannibal into accepting his help was simply too irresistible for him to care. 

 “I’m going to pick all of those bottles up, and then I’m going to help you shower, and you’re not going to say a fucking word about it,” Will announced as he re-entered the bathroom in his boxers, his chin held high as he pointedly avoided looking at the parts of Hannibal’s body that he had yet to see clearly, even as Hannibal himself seemed to take in Will’s mostly undressed form with an unabashed sense of appraisal. 

 ‘Not that you’re saying a word about anything,’ he thought to himself with a note of bitterness, still uncertain as to the truth of Hannibal’s refusal to speak. 

 He shuffled into the small shower and began to clean up the mess Hannibal had clattered about, refusing to acknowledge the way in which the psychiatrist didn’t move aside in the small space to make the task easier, as if silently daring him to be humiliated by his nudity. ‘ You’re not the only one who can be a stubborn asshole, Hannibal .’

 With everything placed neatly back on the shelf, Will manhandled Hannibal to face away from him, ignoring the scowl that crossed the man’s face. The reality of the situation gave him a faint sense of ill-ease; if Hannibal was truly well, there was simply no way that he would have been allowing someone to manoeuvre him. Whilst part of him enjoyed the unfamiliar feeling of power, Hannibal’s weakness was deeply unnerving. 

 He had his little flashes of strength but they must have taken so much willpower and energy to muster. Had the circumstances been different, Will could imagine the ensuing fight; the clarity of a mental image of Hannibal refusing to be moved and effectively pinning Will up against the glass of the cubicle was shocking and stirred something in him that he wasn’t quite ready to digest. It made him thankful for the boxers, sodden with shower water, obscuring any subconscious little twitches from blood travelling where he didn’t want it to. 

 Instead, he focused on the task at hand, but in truth, it didn’t make for a very helpful distraction. He began to work shampoo into Hannibal’s hair, still on the shorter side from his time in the BSHCI, and he could feel the tension draining from the older man’s body. The way that he leaned his scalp closer, pressing back into Will’s fingers, caused him to swallow hard. 

 He rubbed his fingertips against the nape of Hannibal’s neck, massaging against what was once a lightly olive-hued skin but now stood as a pale column of flesh from injury and lack of sunlight. He was aware that his touches were not exactly clinical or efficient, but he realised with a greatly overwhelming sensation that he had never been given this kind of access before and was uncontrollably relishing it. It was always Hannibal touching, guiding, manipulating; whether Will was conscious or not. 

 Will was so intensely focused on the task that even under the sound of the water thrashing against their skin he could hear the small sigh that escaped Hannibal’s lips, and he forced himself to rinse the shampoo from the man’s hair before the entire act became too much . 

 Then he realised he had committed himself to washing Hannibal. Skin against skin, forced into close proximity. He had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment, steeling himself, before dispensing a dollop of cheap drug store shower gel into his palm. ‘This is fine, I can do this. I’m not even attracted to men, this is just Hannibal, I know Hannibal, this is fine.’ That was the problem, this was not just a man, this was Hannibal Lecter. 

 For all of their shared intimacy, a lot of which had deeply altered the very tissue of his physical make-up, and reworked the wires of his brain, it seemed absolutely ridiculous to be embarrassed by the thought of just washing the man. Yet here he was, rubbing delicate circles across the taut muscles of Hannibal’s shoulder blades, their bodies so close that lather was leaking onto his own chest, and Will could hardly breathe. 

 He tried to be swift and efficient, running his hands down the small of Hannibal’s back before moving across to his chest, but each new movement seemed to cause the older man to hitch his breath or lean into the touch and Will felt horrifically dizzy. He was torn between trying to get it over with, and desperately wanting to explore that powerful body rendered fragile by their bloody consummation. 

 His finger clumsily brushed across Hannibal’s wound, causing him to hiss air through his teeth and fold forward, incidentally bumping his rear backwards against Will’s body. Will sputtered out an apology, withdrawing his hands with lightning speed and stumbling backwards as much as the space would allow. 

 “I—” he started, light-headed and struggling to cope with his body’s act of betrayal as blood rushed between his legs, unable to tell if it was the contact or the act of causing Hannibal pain that caused him excitement, “—I hope that helped, I uh, I’m going to go, I have to go— get started on lunch, I’ll make us some lunch.” 

 He fumbled his way out of the shower, soap still clinging to his skin, as he grabbed at a towel and practically launched himself into the bedroom, breathing so hard and fast that for a moment he thought he might pass out. ‘ Fuck, fuck, fuck, ’ he cursed repeatedly in his head, roughly drying his body and reaching for his clothes, awkwardly trying to pull the soaked boxers down his legs. 

 He felt slightly sick as he got dressed, painfully aware of how obvious his reaction must have been. The man could smell cancer on people, there’s no way he wouldn’t have noticed his pet obsession getting hard behind him in the shower. He wanted to laugh, it hardly seemed like it should have been surprising, Hannibal was practically woven into his very core; why should just another form of intimacy be a shock? But it just reminded him that they were reaching a point where there’d be nothing left for him to keep to himself, that even his sexuality would be something that they had to share in their conjoined existence, and instead, it made him want to sob. 

 On some level, he knew that it was inevitable but even with his acceptance he couldn’t stop the resentment bubbling beneath his skin at the fact, that eventually there would be nothing they wouldn’t share. So when he made his way into the kitchen, instead of looking to plan out a meal, he searched through the cupboards for anything that might bring him some sense of relief, just a moment of escapism. 

 Then he finally found it, the unopened bottle of whiskey. 

Notes:

If you want to annoy me, you can find me on most social media as @felix_f_fern or Fanfaron on Tumblr.

I also host a Hannibal podcast! Where I get two of my Hannibal virgin friends to watch an episode each week and discuss it with me, and I provide trivia, script info, etc. It's very silly and fun
Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/3xDOWV1AhUEYYvFTbwLAPj
We're also on YouTube, Podbean, Amazon Music, etc. and use the handle @HannibalPod on Twitter and Tumblr