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It’s the warmth of the bed that brings him to reality. Briefly, he considers that nothing bad has happened, that he’s waking up the morning before his first session with Hannibal Lecter, that his headaches are stress related, that everything is going to be fine. Lord, he prays for that, even as the ache starts to settle in his bones, and all of the memories of the last weeks come flooding back. A rough night of sleep, anything at all. He doesn’t believe in God anymore, not really, but if he opens his eyes and everything is as it was two years ago, he might consider something divine exists, even if that something typically ignores him.
The bed doesn’t smell like him anymore though. It doesn’t smell like anything, really, just stale. Unused. As he breathes in, eyes scrunched closed (which sends dull aches through every bit of his face), he finds that the house no longer smells like dog shampoo, or fish, or motor oil. Despite being closed up, all of the scents have faded into nothing. They aren’t stagnant, they aren’t distant, they’re just gone.
He sits up slowly. His body aches in places he didn’t know it could, or rather, places he was unaware of until now, were injured. By Hannibal’s hand or otherwise, he doesn’t know, but he does know that whatever medicine he was given before has worn off and no mixture of ibuprofen and tylenol is going to touch this. There’s no prescription pain medicine either, he chewed through those like tic tacs.
All of the lights are off, but milky morning light shines through the windows enough that he can take stock of himself.
The clothes are his, comfortably so. Despite his aches, he feels mostly whole and well taken care of. Despite the staleness of his bed, he can tell the sheets have been freshly changed, and he’s been washed. As a rule, he tries not to feel too pulpy at the thought of Hannibal taking his time bathing him, fixing the bed for him, assessing his wounds, and changing him. These kindnesses do not begin to balance out all of the hurt.
The door opens softly, more morning light streams in, and then it’s shut. Hannibal walks through the house with ease, as if nothing has happened, as if nothing has changed. They’re always changing though, always adapting. Two pieces moving in tandem, but he’s tired of that. Will has grown tired of the instability of their relationship, of his life. He had enough of that as a child.
Hannibal sits in a chair he’s moved next to the bed. He’s watched Will sleep, and the thought of that heats up in his belly. So good, but so revolting.
His face is speckled with cuts, new and old. It’s the first thing Will notices, and the first thing he tries to forget. If Hannibal isn’t human, if he’s this mythical beast that haunts his dreams, that kills and devours without reason, this will all be a lot easier. He has the anger, it’s sharpened, he just needs to spear him.
Scooting back against the wall, Will forces himself to face Hannibal head on. There can be no other way, he knows.
Hannibal stares at him, tired. “Do we talk about teacups and time and the rules of disorder?”
If he could laugh, he would. The idea of talking about that right now doesn’t feel right, but he can’t deny either of them the sick pleasure. “The teacup’s broken. It’s never going to gather itself back together again.”
Hannibal’s lips part. “Not even in your mind? Your memory palace is building, it’s – full of new things. It shares some rooms with my own. I’ve discovered you there. Victorious.”
“When it comes to you and me,” he takes a shaky breath, “there can be no decisive victory.”
“We are a zero sum game,” Hannibal agrees.
He looks away, he has to. His eyes find the floor, the dog beds that haven’t been used in months. There he should see his dogs, there should be new dogs that he’s saved, but there’s nothing. This house is nothing. Empty and cold. Them, whatever this is, has zapped everything out of these walls. He knows that for the rest of his life, he won’t be able to be here without thinking of everything that has transpired between them.
Something has to change. No more games, no more serial killers, no more chasing each other. He’s tired, throbbing under his ribs in a way that hasn’t come from one of his many physical ailments. Hannibal is waiting, patient at ever (but isn’t that one of his greatest strengths? His patience?) for Will to do or say something.
A part of him wishes that he could stand, that he could wrap his arms around his throat and strangle the life out of him, but he can’t. Burying Hannibal in his backyard, wasting the whole of him, excites him more than he cares to admit, but he can’t.
“I miss my dogs. I’m not gonna miss you.” He sighs out, lungs burning. “I’m not gonna find you. I’m not going to look for you. I don’t want to know where you are or what you do. I don’t want to think about you anymore.”
Hannibal looks away. He’s shadowed by the morning light now, but Will doesn’t miss the slow, shake of his breath. It comes out soft, uncontrolled.
Then, Hannibal sets him with a look, neither angry or sad, but something worse than either. “You delight in wickedness and then berate yourself for the delight.”
“You delight. I tolerate.” His throat hurts. His lungs hurt. He’s finding it hard to locate a part of his body that doesn't hurt. “I don’t have your appetite.” His throat tightens up. Of everything he could do or say, nothing will ever suffice. Nothing, he believes, will ever truly get through to Hannibal about the gravity of this. “Goodbye, Hannibal.”
Despite the heater being on, the room chills. They’re both sinners, but Will can’t help but feel righteous. Hannibal is wounded, his lips part like he might speak, but nothing comes out. Not even a goodbye.
Will, careful as he ever is when around Hannibal – which is never enough – watches him stand. He collects his things, which Will only sees for a moment. A journal, a pencil. There’s something in it, but he can’t make it out.
It doesn’t matter. Whatever Hannibal could be writing, drawing, or otherwise is of no concern to him. He wants to return to his life, the life he knew far before he met Hannibal Lecter, where the desires he has are shoved deep into his gut, and his dogs occupy all of his time. Back when things were simple, when he knew what he wanted to be, rather than melted into what he is.
If he thinks about everything too hard, he might fold. He’s a raw, exposed nerve, easily sent into convulsions.
There’s a tremor in Hannibal, a strange sight like electricity in the winter. Will’s eyes scan over this movement; he watches it shiver from his shoulders to his hands. His grip on his journal and pencil are tight enough to bleach his knuckles, blurring up to the tips. As if Hannibal isn’t in control of himself.
There’s a sound, a hitch of breath. Will’s eyes snap up from his hands to his face, and in the grey morning light, sees just the glistening of tears, pooling at his chin to drop. (The rest of his face is hidden from him, and he prefers it that way.) Only a few tears, but it’s enough to stop him, whether in anger or in confusion, he doesn’t know.
“Dr. Lecter,” He says before he can stop himself.
Hannibal pauses, but it’s not an easy sort of motion. He can tell that it takes something serious in him to pause his exit. That he has, or has not, accepted his rejection but has decided he needs to remove himself from the situation currently.
“Yes, Will?” He asks. His voice is still from years of practice, but he does not turn to look at him.
Will debates his next action. Not because he forgives Hannibal, but because something in him coils up uncomfortably seeing him cry. He’s seen it before, but he believes his own chafed feelings might be doing something to him. Making him susceptible to the feelings of others–but when isn’t he? Something about these tears make his stomach churn.
“I need you to be honest,” He says firmly this time. He has no idea what he’s doing, Hannibal should leave. He should leave and never look back, free Will of this torment and in turn, free himself, but neither of them are moving. “How did you get me home?”
Hannibal stands, collecting himself. His hand leaves the door, but the tears thicken. They choke him, making his accent curl around each word. “I carried you.”
Such a simple answer. Not at all what he expected to hear.
Will’s jaw tenses. “Oh.”
There is no other way he could have brought him home, he supposes. Although, he’s sure there were plenty of cars at the Verger farm, plenty that could have gotten them here much faster than carrying him through the snow. Maybe he couldn’t get to them, or maybe he was worried about being followed. Worse than that, the idea of Hannibal carrying him all the way here makes his heart lurch in his chest. Hard enough that he thinks he might be having a heart attack.
He’s raw, that’s all, but he can’t stop himself. He should’ve let him go, he shouldn’t have looked at him, but the tears–he’s not a strong man. Not when it comes to seeing anything cry.
“Are you tired?” He asks, the words come out like an accusation. Of course, he’s tired. He carried Will through the night after whatever Mason Verger had inflicted upon him.
Hannibal turns then. The tears thicken, glittering in his eyes. He’s a pretty crier, Will’s thought that before, but crying because of Will’s rejection makes it all the more appealing to him. “I am one of those rare creatures that don’t require much sleep.”
Will tongues his molars. He tastes blood there, the hint of a man’s cheek, the taste of anesthesia. Hannibal washed him, dressed him, laid him in bed, but hadn’t brushed his teeth. Odd.
“Why don’t you… come sleep. You’ll need your rest before you go,” He grits out. “Just for an hour or two.”
“Jack Crawford will be coming soon,” He says.
“Jack doesn’t know we’re here,” Will argues.
Alana may have called him, but that doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t know where Hannibal would’ve taken Will, nor can they be sure they ever made it. For all they know, the FBI is looking for two bodies in the snow.
“You told me to leave.” Hannibal’s walks over though. He won’t deny himself the pleasure of sleeping in bed next to Will, not now, not if it’s the last time.
Yes, he did. He told him, and then he wanted to know things. That’s how it always is with them though. He always wants to know more, and Hannibal always wants to tell him. He’ll promise himself he’s done, but what does done look like for them?
He has thought. First, he thought he would die, that Mason would wear his face, but now, now he isn’t so sure. He wants there to be nothing, to send him off, but his heart keeps thumping badly. Turning in his chest, pumping so hard his ears swoosh with blood. Hannibal’s tears take up all of his mind.
“I’m not like you.” He doesn’t know what he means by that. Hannibal would, he thinks, give him the opportunity to sleep. Still, he has to say something. “I’m not cruel.”
Hannibal looks at him, eyes narrow, as if he’d like to refute that statement. He can’t, there are still fat tears building in his eyes, and his lip is quivering, so anything he says will come out pathetically. Instead, he removes his coat that certainly isn’t his own and lays down, not on his back like Will expects, but on his side, facing away from him, toward the window.
Good, Will thinks. It’s better that way. He doesn’t need to look at him. He’s allowing this because he’s a good man, a kind man. He doesn’t need to look at Hannibal and see him for what he is; less than mythical and closer to man.
Will closes his eyes, but doesn’t slump down into the comfort of his stale sheets. He sits there, listening to the rare chirping of birds. The emptiness of his house, the quietness, feels wrong to him. He’s lived in this house, called it home, since he was 28, and at 35, he feels like he’s a stranger here. Without the noise, without the scents, this is just a building that has been contaminated by their back and forth game.
Before Hannibal, and after Hannibal.
A stuttering breath pulls him from his thoughts, one that is so quickly stamped out that he thinks he imagined it.
Slowly, he blinks, tilting his face to look at Hannibal. His shoulders, against everything in Hannibal that is perfectly controlled, jump from the force of his silent tears.
“Dr. Lecter,” He whispers, voice giving out at the end.
He should ignore him. It would be easier if he just ignored him.
Hannibal stills as best he can. He’s so beat down, so exposed. They’re the same in that way – and only that way, Will reminds himself. They’re good at doing that to each other, the ruining, that is. Taking each other apart by words alone. Hannibal’s lived eight months without him though, it’s hard to imagine this is what does it to him. That this isn’t some sort of manipulation.
Will hesitantly reaches for him, the same way he might a skittish dog. He rests his hand on his biceps, squeezes. “Hannibal.”
He clears his throat, but it doesn’t help. His voice is wet. “Yes, Will?”
“Why are you crying?” He asks, softer than he means to be.
The question lingers there for a second. He knows exactly why he’s crying, there’s no reason to ask, but he does anyway. Just like there was no reason to give him a spot in his bed for an hour or two. These are all things Hannibal does not deserve, and yet he’s giving them.
Hannibal clears his throat again. “I’m exhausted.”
“I thought you didn’t require much sleep?” Will asks pointedly.
Hannibal shifts onto his back; Will’s hand slides with his arm, and he places it on his chest. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, eyelashes stuck together. “Being separated from you – you said before, can we survive it?”
“We could,” He says, but he doesn’t know if he really believes that. He wants to try, or he thinks he does. Watching Hannibal’s lip tremble and his eyes fill with tears that he can’t control makes knowing that hard.
The tears break, rolling down into Hannibal’s hair. Will sinks his teeth into his cheek until blood heats his tongue, waiting patiently, like maybe he’ll stop crying.
He doesn’t though. Hannibal lays there, dark eyes staring at nothing, as tears soak his face, his hair, the pillow beneath his head. His chest heaves, broken air coming in and out of him.
“Don’t–don’t cry,” He tries weakly. The words sound hurt even to his own ears.
The anger is still there, simmering under his skin. He wants to ask him why he thinks he can cry, after everything he’s done, but he can’t. The words stick to his throat. All he can do is watch as Hannibal tries to stop crying and fails. The way his body shudders and shakes, like a child.
Will rubs against his chest the way he imagines people–lovers–do. A slow back and forth motion, feeling his heart thump and his lungs work under each bit of skin.
“Don’t cry.” Hannibal’s emotions sink into him. He’s too vulnerable right now for large shows of emotions too, it makes him weak. “Please, don’t cry.”
He’s going to lose his resolve, and he supposes he already has. Letting him in his bed of all things, that may have damned him. Now the touching, the cooing.
There’s something painful about seeing him cry. He can’t parse whether it’s because of his disorder or because Hannibal shouldn’t be crying like this, but it curls up under his ribs anyway, makes him sick, makes him gag. Hannibal’s chest keeps stuttering, he just keeps crying, like he can’t stop, like maybe he’s never been able to stop. Or has never had the space to cry like this.
Did he when he was a child? He can’t see that. He can’t see there ever being a time he was allowed to by others or himself.
He presses his hand over his sternum. “It’s okay. Things are going to be fine. Okay?”
He shouldn’t be comforting him, he shouldn’t be saying any of this to him. Something in him demands it though, and now that he’s started it, he can’t stop it. He keeps telling himself to stop, to take his hand away, to cuss at him, anything, but it doesn’t work. Just as quickly as he started to rub against his chest, he finds himself scooting down to lay next to him.
Hannibal turns into him, like he knows what he’s supposed to do. Will wraps his arms around him tightly, breathes in the scent of soap. He stares out of the window, the anger simmers, but the comfort of the body against him keeps him at bay. The control he has over this situation warms him.
Against him, Hannibal shakes. This loss of control cannot feel good to him, it must hurt all the way into his teeth. That hurt doesn’t stop him though. He grabs Will’s shirt, holds it so tight Will thinks he can feel his fingernails in his back.
“Shh, shh,” He shushes against his ear. Hannibal trembles, sobbing. He rubs a hand over his back, between his shoulders, and does not stop when he hears a sharp intake of breath. “You don’t have to cry.”
He shouldn’t be crying, but he is. Hannibal Lecter is falling apart in Will’s bed, in his arms. This is reckless, this is vulnerable, and he’s giving all of it to Will.
So, Will takes it. Swallows down this show of vulnerability, and tries to soothe Hannibal in all the ways neither of them have ever been. Promising him things he’s not sure he means, holding him, smearing his lips across his cheek. It does work, he thinks, at least some, because Hannibal’s shaking slows, his hands relax, and he breathes again.
“I need to get my dogs,” He mumbles, lips still pressed close to his ear.
Hannibal stiffens, then goes slack. The tears don’t stop, they can’t, but he seems to collect himself. Or rather, he becomes dejected by the whole thing. “Of course.”
Will chews his lip. He can’t believe he’s doing this. He can’t believe he’s letting Hannibal get to him like this. “I want you to… meet me somewhere.” Hannibal pulls back to look at him, to see if it’s a lie. Will wonders the same. “There’s… a motel in Kentucky my father and I used to stay in. It’s still open. I have a truck in the barn. I’m going to write the address for you. Go there. We’ll meet and–go to the border.”
Finally, Will removes himself from Hannibal. The loss of his heat makes him shiver, but he doesn’t stop himself. He moves, he needs to, and finds one of the napkins he never used in the kitchen, and then a half dried up pen.
Being away from Hannibal is a good thing, he thinks. He needs the space. Quick, but neat, he writes the address down. Sometimes he still stays at this motel, when he wants to feel particularly close to the ideal of his father. They always stayed there when he was doing good, when the pills and the alcohol weren’t weighing them down.
Hannibal watches him carefully. Will glances up, sees his puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. He’d kill him right now he thinks. They would kill each other. “What?”
“I’ll change my mind if you question it,” Will snaps, and then softens. “Just… listen to me. For once.”
“I do listen to you,” Hannibal says, climbing out of the bed. “I am now, Will. Allow me to prove to you–“
Will shoves the napkin at his chest. “No grandiose declarations. Shave your head in the bathroom. They don’t know what clothes you’re in so you won’t have to worry about that for now.” He takes his glasses, one of the old pairs he keeps in his nightstand, and hands them over. “I’ll be there.”
Hannibal takes the napkin into the palm of his hand, glances over the writing, takes the glasses, and then slips away to the bathroom.
While he shaves his head, Will sits on the bed, his bed. After this, he’ll never know this bed again. He’ll never know the quiet security of what this house has brought him. Goodbye, Wolf Trap, he supposes he’s saying. He’ll see it one day again, he hopes, but it won’t be any time soon.
It isn’t too long after he’s sat that Hannibal comes back to retrieve his coat. He’s mastered the art of new identities, he’d wager. Will stands and takes the keys from the dish with the rest of his keys, the ones he won’t be needing anymore. He doesn’t want to pass them over to him, but he doesn’t have a choice. (He does, but he’s already made this decision. Going back and forth would just prove that he’s fickle, and that’s a flaw he doesn’t quite like within himself.) This is their future, and he’s kept Hannibal here too long to change it now. He held him, soothed him, and made things better. If he backtracks now, Hannibal will certainly kill him.
Will stares at him, taking in the strangeness of Hannibal like this. Glasses, a buzz, he doesn’t look like himself at all, and Will hates it. Begrudgingly, he hands the keys over. When they fall into his palm, Will wraps his fingers around his hand, crushing the keys. He pulls him close, feels his warmth, and hopes he’s made the right choice.
“Goodbye, Hannibal,” He whispers against his cheek as then pulls away.
There’s a cord of doubt in Hannibal’s eyes. “Goodbye, Will.”
This time, he doesn’t stop him as he goes. He walks to one of the windows and waits to see the truck leaving out of his drive. He wonders how he would’ve left otherwise. If he’d have trapezed through the woods somewhere far away, end up in someone’s yard and steal their car. He’s too recognizable to walk the road, and if he thinks about it enough, car theft within 50 miles of here would be picked up by the FBI immediately. Whatever it is, he’d have to run, fast and hard, and get far away before Will called Jack.
The truck crunches up his drive, snow giving way for the tires. Hannibal doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, goes straight down and takes the left away from the city, and then he’s gone. Maybe forever, maybe for the next two days. He stands there after too, watching, waiting. The sun brightens up the morning and he still stands there, as if ignoring this situation will fix it. As if taking in his snow covered yard might take away the feeling of Hannibal shaking in his arms.
Finally, when his stomach starts to gnaw at itself, he calls Jack. Removing himself from the window is hard, but he manages. This has to be done before he can get his dogs – and he can’t really get them all, can he? It’ll be difficult to take his entire pack from Virginia to Kentucky to Canada, wherever they end up in Canada. (Hannibal has a house there. He’s sure.) They won’t get the attention they all deserve on the trip, and Buster gets car sick.
So, he can take one, and the rest will have to be rehomed. One or two will stay with Alana, he’s sure, but the others – what if the people they go to don’t care for them properly? None of them would understand this. They’ve been abandoned for months now. Can they fathom seeing Will and then losing him again? All of that anger comes back, boiling up in him. How dare he? How dare Hannibal?
They were his family first. He shouldn’t have to pick.
Still, he calls Jack. He can’t stop himself, and they’d come here eventually anyway. It would look bad if he never called. It would look like he has things to hide. The phone rings in his ear, and when Jack answers, he tells him a story.
Hannibal brought him home, left him here. He’s just woken up and he has no clue where he is. There’s no sign of him anywhere in the house, or in the yard.
This doesn’t stop them from coming, although he knew that before he called. They’re going to look through his house, his barn, his sheds. They’ll search every nook and cranny to ensure that Hannibal isn’t hiding somewhere. There must be some disbelief that he’d leave Will so willingly, that he wouldn’t steal him away – but if he intended to do that, he could’ve. Will couldn’t have fought him in the state he’s in. Still, they’ll think it anyway. When Will disappears, people will say that Hannibal took him like a thief in the night. That he’s a victim, and they’ll theorize that Hannibal has eaten him, or sold his bits on the dark web, or something else outlandish.
He lays flat on the bed. His body sinks slowly into the mattress. He feels Hannibal’s presence like a phantom limb, crying into him, like Will is the one that has sliced him open more than once, or put an ear down his throat, or murdered Abigail in front of him. Tomorrow, he decides while he waits. He’ll get one of the dogs tomorrow.
It’s record time that Jack and the FBI make it to his house. Speeding, he’s sure, even in the snow. In his head, he imagines them on motorized sleds, forcing their way through the cold night to get here. They want Hannibal more than the FBI has wanted anyone in a long time; they hope he isn’t too far away, but he’s had hours now. He could be anywhere, heading straight for where Will told him to go, or not. Perhaps he’s headed toward Canada instead, or on a plane to South America. That thought irks him, because Hannibal might leave. Might go somewhere else, somewhere safer, somewhere without Will’s teetering rage. It wouldn’t be the first time he left him, but if he does that, it’ll be the last.
He stands when he hears the cars, the people. He’d like to lay there longer, to be devoured by the mattress and his thoughts, but he can’t. He takes a jacket that smells too much like moth balls, his glasses, and steps out onto his porch. Snowflakes swirl around in the air and he feels a quiet sort of relief that Hannibal isn’t in the woods somewhere. He’s warm, in the truck, or maybe the motel by now. He can see him hating it, he can already hear him complaining to Will about the sort of establishment he sent him to.
SWAT goes in to clear the house without asking, but he doesn’t care. They won’t find anything there, he’s barely here as is.
“He’s gone, Jack,” He says, coming to stand on the far end of the porch. It’s not difficult to lie to him, especially since half of it is the truth.
Jack and a few agents look at him, as if expecting him to come down and greet them, but he doesn’t. He stands his ground, the wind chilling him to his aching bones. He needs rest. He needs to decide what he’s going to do in the morning.
This rejection doesn’t satisfy, but he knew that when he decided not to come down the steps. It isn’t personal, he wants to say, but Jack wouldn’t understand, especially since Will barely understands himself.
How could he begin to explain that the feeling of Hannibal shaking in his arms hurts him. That thinking about how he sobbed against him disarmed him.
“He left you here alone?” Jack calls up to him.
Not exactly, but he might as well have. The tears on his shirt are dried, his hair is down the drain, and the entire house is empty. There’s no trace of Hannibal, no trace of them.
“I’m not worth the risk of freedom,” He answers, because it sounds good. Isn’t that what he accused Will of trying to take before?
Jack huffs a quick, smart laugh, “Enough to bring you home first.”
Will purses his lips. “He likes to play with his food. Maybe it isn’t today, but he’ll come back.”
“And finish you off?” Jack asks.
Will hesitates. He would, if he left when he first time him to. “He’d never leave a pig un-slaughtered.”
He’d want Will in every way before he actually ate him, he thinks. Romantically, sexually, emotionally. He’d want to feel Will inside of him in every way, not just as a meal. Jack doesn’t exactly understand that though, and Will has understood it and ignored it for a very long time.
The two SWAT agents come out, calling a Clear! Jack glowers, but there’s nothing here. Nothing to be picked through, to look at, to claim is Hannibal’s, to point them in the right direction. They’ll expect him to be hitting an airport, or to be over the ocean by now, but Jack will wait. He’ll always wait.
“If you see him–“
“I’ll let you know.” Will tries to sound tired, and he is. He doesn’t want them poking and prodding him for more information, and he imagines they’ll want to. Not tonight though. After the fallout. “If I live to do it.”
“Will you choose to be his prize pig?” Jack tilts his eyes, and he can’t see his eyes, but he imagines he squints.
Will chews on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t believe I’ll have a choice, but if anyone is his prize, it’s me.”
That’s true, but no one has ever known Hannibal like he has, held him like he has, soothed away his tears like he has. He doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to give up this life he has, or the life he wants back but he’s doing it – because Hannibal cried in his arms.
He turns on his heel, ready to hide back in the house. To take the last sleep in his bed before he commits to this new life. Maybe he’ll give Hannibal hell along the way, maybe he’ll make them truly even, but it’ll be the life he’s chosen. Not from the moment he let Hannibal into his bed, but the moment he wrapped his arms around him. He is not a strong man. He doesn’t know exactly what he feels for Hannibal, but he knows that it’s enough, even with all the anger.
Inside the house, the empty house, the house full of everything that is his that he’s about to lose, he strips to his boxers. The FBI vans haven’t begun to pull out of his yard, but he doesn’t care. He has bruises in places he doesn’t remember hurting, so he takes a mix of ibuprofen and tylenol that does nothing, spots that tingle under his fingers, and crawls into the bed. Under the fresh sheets. It’s still stale, with no hints of himself or Hannibal, but it has started to gain the lingering stench of sweat. Not that the sweat does anything but make him nauseous.
Distantly, he hears the vans going back up his driveway. Displeasure will be evident tomorrow, but he won’t be there to see it. The FBI would never want to work with him again, not that it matters, and he doesn’t want to begin to think of the aftermath of them losing Hannibal – again. He wonders how that’ll work for Jack.
He presses his face into a pillow, and closes his eyes, forcing himself into a fitful sleep.
(If he wakes up more than once with the feeling of a body against him, shaking, he pretends he doesn’t. He pretends he’s just having the same sort of nightmares he always does.)
The next morning he showers, changes, and packs a singular bag in such a clinical fashion that if someone came in, they wouldn’t realize he owns this house. It might be better if he brought nothing, but he doesn’t have it in his heart to leave everything behind. He takes the little boxes with his past dog’s ashes in them, three books, two changes of clothes, and the bottle of whiskey he keeps hidden. He spent too much money on that thing to leave it behind.
The last things he grabs are cash, and his two guns, the pistol and shot gun respectively. He’s been putting away the cash for rainy days. He’s sure Hannibal has access to plenty of money, but it never hurts. Besides, the less of a trail they leave, the better. The pistol is hitched at his side, and the shut gun thrown over his shoulder to be hidden away with his bag. He has to remind himself to grab the bullet boxes too; it wouldn’t be good to forget those. He doesn’t want to have to buy more soon, if he can help it.
Once he’s as packed as he can be, he puts the bag and gun into the trunk of his car, which will be left at the motel, and just stares at his house. One day it’ll be a blurry memory, lost to all the other houses he’ll have lived in with Hannibal. That they’ll have fought in, butchered in, and are in. But it’ll always be the best. The one that was his home, his first real home.
When he’s sure he’s memorized the whole of the house, he gets into his car. It takes him three or four minutes to crank it up, but once he does, he’s easing down his drive and turning to follow behind Hannibal.
He stops at a diner 30 minutes out, orders a black coffee and a sausage and egg breakfast sandwich to go. The waitress gives him a packet of hot sauce to go with it. He devours it quickly, and stops next at the first pharmacy he sees and makes a, albeit necessary, bad decision. He buys hair bleach, a pack of razors, and a bottle of over the counter naproxen.
The older woman at the register looks at his choices, but doesn’t look at his face. He’s too banged up, he thinks, she doesn’t want to seem rude by staring.
“You should buy something sweet for your wife,” She offers through a wheezy voice. Too many cigarettes over the years, he’d have to guess.
Will takes a breath. “My wife wouldn’t like a candy bar.”
“Suit yourself,” She says, and finishes out his transaction.
His last stop should be to see Alana, who he’s sure doesn’t want to see him. Not now, after everything, and the longer he sits with it, the more he realizes going to her now would spike suspicion. He can’t take them all, and she knows better than anyone that he wouldn’t take his pick and leave the rest to be rehomed. One dog? That isn’t the Will Graham she knows, and really, she probably expected him to show up as soon as he was up.
He sits in the pharmacy parking lot, hands on his steering wheel, staring at one of the white washed brick walls. He can’t have his dogs, he can’t have his house, he can’t have anything.
There are tears burning at his eyes, in his nose, up in his lungs, and they hurt. They hurt so bad, but there’s no use crying about the life he can’t have anymore. This is his choice, he made it. He can still feel Hannibal in his ears, and can still hear how he sounds when he sobs. Those things don’t leave a man.
He backs out of the parking spot, and presses in the address to his GPS.
It snows for most of his drive, so much so that it takes him two hours longer to get there. Although, it doesn’t matter, he never told Hannibal when he’d meet him. It does give him time to think about his choices. The feeling of Hannibal crying in his arms is enough to sway him – he shouldn’t have let him know that, not yet, but it’s too late now.
Then, there’s the matter of his dogs. They’ll never understand what’s happened, and Alana will absolutely find them good homes, but they must feel so abandoned by him, and they are. He’s abandoning them again for Hannibal, and that’s hard for him to swallow.
The motel is just as run down as it always is. A single floor building that hasn’t had an update since 1994. There are two cars parked out in front of rooms, and one truck. The asphalt is cracked everywhere, with dead grass pushing through. No one’s outside, but who would be in the cold like this? Besides, all the rooms are smoker friendly, according to the sign that has said that his whole life. (He should’ve bought a pack of cigarettes too, now that he thinks about it.)
He parks next to the truck, and Hannibal greets him at the door. He’s been waiting, worried. Will stares at him, his packed bag in one hang, the pharmacy bag in the other. (He’ll get the shot gun and bullets before they leave.) He hates the way he looks, head shaved, the shadow of a beard starting to form.
“Do you regret your choices, Will?” He asks once they’re face to face.
He holds out a hand to take his bag, and Will gives it over.
“I don’t know yet,” Will tells him as he comes in.
The room is exactly like he remembers them being, although there’s a sharp scent of disinfectant now. Hannibal must have taken it upon himself to clean.
There’s one bed, stripped down with a new blanket laid over the mattress, an old television, a little table with the newest edition to the room – a mini fridge. On the table he sees that Hannibal has ordered himself food, and eaten it all. He’s survived off of gas station food and three coffees, personally, and the lingering scent of taken out makes his stomach growl.
“Where are the dogs?” Hannibal asks as he shuts the door.
Will looks away, holding the pharmacy bag tighter. “I felt that Alana would be… suspicious of my intentions. I couldn’t bring them all, so I can’t have any of them.”
Hannibal hesitates, and then sets Will’s bag on the bed. “I can have Chiyoh acquire them, once we’re settled. I don’t believe that will be a hard task for her.”
That softens him. “Okay. Thank you.”
Will sets the other bag on the table, and forces himself to breath. He needs to shave, bleach his hair, and take more medicine. He needs something stronger, actually, but he doesn’t say that. That’s something they’ll have to worry about later, when they’re in Canada, and they have the time to care about his aches and pains.
He stares at the food, which is just the usual diner selection, sans fries. Next to them is the Bible from that is usually unused in the nightstand.
“Feeling religious?” He asks as a halfhearted joke, throat tight.
Hannibal breathes a laugh, “I felt the need to read. It was what was available, but I was raised Catholic so it isn’t as expansive as I am used to.”
Will nods. “I brought a few books. You can borrow one.”
Finally, he turns from the table and finds himself sitting by Hannibal. Looking closer at him, it looks like he’s been crying more. Probably because he feels safe to do so, away from prying eyes.
Without allowing himself to think, he leans in. Hannibal doesn’t move, sitting as still as possible like Will might run if he does. The feeling of Hannibal’s lips against his is warm, lingering. It reminds him too much of the first time he kissed someone, so he moves, just enough, and Hannibal responds in kind. Something in him stirs, and he doesn’t know if it’s the feelings he’s been squashing or something sexual. Maybe both. Carefully, he pulls away.
Neither of them know what they’re doing, and both, he realizes, are waiting for the other to strike, as if this is some game. It always has been, but this, right now, is real. Even if that knowledge makes his stomach twist.
“I need to… figure out how I feel about you, how we go from here” Will whispers, but he did like that, and will do it again. He wants to do it right now. “When we’re settled. Don’t cry anymore. I’m with you.”
Hannibal nods slowly, as if not expecting to hear it. (He’ll certainly push, he’s always been good at that, but for now he isn’t, so Will takes what he’s been given. The promise of his dogs, and at least a few days without Hannibal pushing for more.) Will kisses him again, once more, much faster than the first time. A promise of sorts. That he’s here, that he’s not going to leave in the morning, that he wants him.
Will places a hand on his thigh, gives it a quick squeeze, and stands. He’s going to hate this new look of his, but it only has to last until things cool down.
“We’ll stay here tonight, and then we’ll leave in the truck,” Will decides, “I’ll drive.”