Chapter Text
With what he and Hannibal had promised one another, Will had expected to feel elated. They would be free. Two men of Icarus were to share a pair of wings and dive into the unknown instead of into the sun. The unknown was to become as familiar to them as the fog when it lifts from the morning landscape, beautiful in its vastness. Their wings would tear when they hit the rocks, but the pain would spur them on because at least they were feeling something.
Feeling his bones crunch against the rock and his lungs fill with liquid salt as they meet a wall of water is not as poetic a thought as he hoped it would be.
Hannibal's wing tears first. He'd tilted himself to take the brunt, landing just beside the shore with his back to the outcropping. His body thuds against the shallow layer of sand and seawater with a wet crunching sound, as if his lung walls collided at the moment of impact. He doesn't react quickly enough to grab onto something, and the waves mercilessly drag them into the rocks. Water rushes to fill the space where their bodies had just been, forcing them further downward; Will is lost in the movement – his body is thrown into a jutting rock, his ribs crack, and he screams. Air roils in a plume from his straining mouth. The wound in his cheek splits further, once occupying only a quarter's length, but in his scream, in which water carries no sound, his cheek tears completely. The salt blinds him, and his entire face feels as though it is on fire – Hannibal is not there. He grasps hysterically through the black and bloody water – Hannibal is not there.
Will's wing rips off at the joint.
His hands meet a solid weight, and the reserve in his lungs is exhaled to find the surface again. He grips Hannibal's sweater so tightly he worries his knuckles have broken. Hannibal is who takes him to air.
They'd planned this. They had whispered promises of elevation to one another as they stepped into new clothes with fresh hair and newly-acquired apprehension. Hannibal hadn't bothered to put music on. It was as though the quiet was delicate, prone to shatter.
They cannot hear each other over the surf. There is a shout to move in one direction or another, but by whom? Neither is sure. One demands to get closer to shore or away from the rocks, their legs kicking, but they are barely able to get a hold of the water's power. The waves are their own symphony.
Will had nicked his finger on the knife Hannibal gifted him to use; he was to help prepare a quick salad for dinner, and slicing cherry tomatoes into halves was the task he'd been currently assigned. His right hand had never been the same since Florence, but it was still his dominant hand, and, working at Hannibal's shoulder, his stubbornness was his only weapon. It had been a mistake. His fingers weakly gripped the knife's handle, shook at any mote of pressure impressed onto the cutting board, and sent the blade off course. As blood seeped into the seam of his mouth, he nursed the wound, watching Hannibal take over.
He doesn't know how they make it onto shore. Salt cakes his eyelashes when his head breaks the water – he doesn't know how long he has been above water – half dragged and swimming with only one arm, Will's hands find sand instead of rock, and he hikes Hannibal into the sweet embrace of land before tugging himself – his arm gives, and he crushes the wounded thing under his collarbone. As he cries out, Hannibal drags him over the sand.
Before dinner, when the vegetables had been chopped to Hannibal's standard, he retired to the sitting room – and Will followed. He wasn't sure why he followed. They sat on either side of Hannibal's couch. The cushions were stiff with disuse. Stray dust scattered through the sunset's light, flickering like glitter, having been released when Hannibal tore the plastic sheets off the furniture. They stared into an unlit fireplace, unified in the quiet they seemed to consciously hold between them. It did not seem like a malicious silence. Somewhere in the dimming light, Hannibal's fingers found and felt the fabric of Will's shirt. Will said nothing. His tongue was paralyzed whenever he would try – like some elusive snake had wound its way into his mouth and injected numbing venom. What would he have said? Hannibal was surely only congratulating himself on the fit of Will's shirt, having chosen a perfect cut on the neckline and sleeve. Not reminding himself that Will was still there.
The night bleeds like ink into their eyes; they cannot see each other, so they must feel. Will's back meets sand that has not yet lost its warmth after sunset. His hands drag across what he thinks is a stomach, and Hannibal, who maneuvers above him on all fours, groans when Will presses into the lacerated flesh of the gunshot wound. Hannibal lands with another thud atop him. They lay chest-to-chest in the sand. Hannibal coughs up seawater, pulling himself away so as not to get it on Will's face, and Will tries to breathe – his injured cheek sucks inward with every breath, how shallow it may be, as his ribs strain agonizingly. He keeps a deathly grip on Hannibal's sweater. It's soaked with seawater and blood. They never stop holding on.
There was a property Northwest of the shore, a few miles away, but depending on their injuries, they could make it relatively quickly. At least, that was what Hannibal said. He'd sauntered with an unearned bravado as he spoke, tapping wine bottles as he read labels and guessed Will's palate after three years of separation. "People have survived falls from greater heights," he'd mused. Frowning, Will begrudgingly accepted it. His muscles flexed at the thought, a preemptive attempt to protect his body from impact, even if it hadn't happened yet.
Hannibal can barely stand. He is the one who drags them onto their feet, but he keeps one leg hitched above the sand like a limping dog; Will holds him up, their shoulders slot atop one another. Struggling to stay upright, they choose, seemingly as a collective, to focus all their energy on keeping the other moving. One step, then another, then a trip, and then to rise again. They leave a trail of blood behind them that washes away with the surf.
They would have everything they would need, Hannibal had told him. He had medical supplies in every cupboard and cabinet and drawer and shelf – everything short of a surgeon's table. It would be easiest to clean up in the master bathroom. Will had asked him how he could think so far ahead; Hannibal replied that he used a combination of preparation, calculation, probability, and hope.
It's easy to break into the house; the door is unlocked, practically greeting them with flowers and chocolates. First, it appears to them like a cabin, reminiscent of a hunter's lodge – but the rooms with tile are retrofitted and built with modern appliances. For a modern master bathroom, the tub is cramped. Gasping, fighting for energy, Will sets Hannibal down first. Hannibal murmurs something about a first-aid kit in the cabinet, shutting the toilet seat beside him from where he settles atop the drain. Will drops the kit on the toilet seat and dumps as many towels as he can gather within arm's reach into Hannibal's lap. He steps over the lip of the tub and practically falls into it, dragging blood and seawater down like the swath of a paintbrush.
"Will," Hannibal says; he helps Will sit upright, sharing heaving breaths – all they can do is hold onto one another, their fingers clasped desperately around forearms and their bodies shuddering. "Breathe, Will."
He takes in teaspoons of air through his teeth. The salt lights every wound he has on fire; pain blazes over his skin, and he can't think – no words longer come to him for thought, only sensations. He is only minutely aware of Hannibal tugging his shirt open. Fingers break through his belt buckle, rending the fabric open underneath. His chest spasms against the bathroom's cold air, and for a moment, he is helpless to do anything. His own hands find Hannibal's sweater, his body working on instinct to mirror whatever he sees.
When they shed their clothes, Will finds that his teeth are shattering. Another strike of wordless thought causes him to wrap his arms around his chest and attempt to pull his knees together. A part of him registers their mutual nakedness, but he is not aware enough to be embarrassed. Only a whisper of terrible cold guides his actions. Although his skin warms where Hannibal clutches onto his upper arms.
"Focus, Will," Hannibal says, but Will doesn't register the words; his mind is too busy clawing through the torment that obscures any logical thought – Near-delirious, he scans down Hannibal's now bare torso. Hannibal is littered with lacerations, and he imagines his own body is much the same if Hannibal's widened eyes tell him anything. He lunges when he sees the bullet wound again; it's a small puncture, but it's bleeding, red, and painful, and keeping Hannibal stuck in place against the wall.
Hannibal has his own focus. Despite himself, he mirrors Will, stooping as Will haphazardly grabs a towel to press to his abdomen; he murmurs a near-intelligible scold and takes the thing from his hand.
"Hannibal–"
"Your subclavian artery has been cut; if I don't stop the bleeding now, you will have only minutes to live," he says; he sounds more like an ER doctor than he does Hannibal. His fingertips track Will's forearm, calling him down with tenderness despite the frenzied look in his eyes. The soft touches switch quickly. Hannibal catches him just beneath his deltoid and ignores his argument–
"You're also bleeding–"
Hannibal says with staunch conviction, "I'm going to put pressure on the wound," and with only that warning, he drives Will onto his back. Will, having only a second to react, weakly slaps a hand into Hannibal's chest, trying to shove him away when he presses the towel down onto Will's clavicle.
Bone grinds against bone – long-healed scar tissue threatens to tear in a gravelly crunch as Hannibal traps the joint between porcelain and the pressure of his entire body weight.
All Will can do is scream.
The sound rips his throat open as the agony consumes him entirely. A dull ache becomes a searing, roiling burst – he writhes and sobs and drives his knuckles into Hannibal's ribcage in a futile attempt to escape. The pressure is cruel and unrelenting. Hannibal's face is tensely focused, but he whispers near-silent apologies down like drips of water; Will can't comprehend them through the blood rushing in his ears.
Hannibal's own body weeps blood. It trickles from his back, down his sides, every river meeting at the line of his stomach.
"Hannibal," Will chokes out; he reaches to grasp Hannibal's shoulder, but his hand slips. Crimson paints his palm. "You're bleeding out!"
Hannibal shakes his head profusely – he deems the wound sufficiently clotted and removes the towel. Thickened blood drools down Will's shoulder and makes him shudder when it curls to his nape.
When Hannibal makes for the first aid kit atop the toilet, his back reveals itself, drenched in crimson; gashes run down the skin; they split the Verger brand into ribbons like a great beast had torn its claws down over him. Will gasps throatily at the sight – but in a swift motion, Hannibal dumps the kit onto his stomach and takes the suture supplies with shaking hands.
He says, "Your shoulder needs to be sutured," as he wipes the wound clean a final time. His heavy hand causes Will to thrash and cry out – he holds him down with patience.
It's then that Will realizes Hannibal isn't on all fours. He half-hovers over Will's abdomen, balancing all of his weight on one bruising knee. The muscles in his stomach twitch with the effort of holding him upright – one whole side of the muscle wall puckers and roils under the skin, as if unknowing how to function around the gaping gunshot.
Trembling, he begins to stitch, piercing the needle into Will's skin with forceps. It sets his shoulder alight. He feebly bats against Hannibal's side, to which Hannibal says tersely, "Stop fighting me, Will."
He rasps, "It hurts!" like a child.
Steady surgeon's hands suture his wound closed, Hannibal's eyes holding the same measured detachment as he takes in sharp breaths through his nose to ease his tremor. His ribs spasm in time with his breath. He says, "Just take deep breaths. It will be alright."
Will's ribs stutter and struggle to lift – sucking in air through his teeth, the bones groan like old creaking wood underneath his skin. He stammers, "I can't – I can't breathe."
"If you can talk, you can breathe," Hannibal speaks evenly, though the ends of his sentences waver. "Keep talking; tell me what you feel and where."
"My – my chest, my ribs – augh!" A cry leaves him as Hannibal presses his palms to either side of his ribcage; the right side flares with purple-red agony.
"Your ribs are broken," he says immediately, "The lung might be collapsed. I need to set them."
Will shakes his head hard enough that he thinks he is going to rip his skull off his neck; he sets his hand to the pocket of Hannibal's shoulder and pushes him back. "You're bleeding, Hannibal; I need to make it stop."
Maybe because he doesn't have the strength to hold himself upright any longer, Hannibal becomes malleable, tipping as Will lunges forward. The movement sets his body alight again, and he fights off another cry, focusing on making Hannibal sit. Hannibal does so with a grimace, his ribs stuttering when he processes the raw sting of his shredded back against cold porcelain.
Will moves the first aid kit to his lap, snatching the forceps and sutures from his hands. He urges, "What do I need to do for your stomach?"
"You – you need to flush the wound," says Hannibal, having already placed a hand in a feeble attempt to stifle the bleeding. The rivers of red now listlessly run down his shoulders and arms into the drain he tries not to put his full weight on. He sets his head back against the wall. "The shower head will work. It will be easiest to flush it through the entry side."
"Your back?" His hand tracks Hannibal's side as if to tug him onto his stomach; though he's determined, his muscles have progressively weakened, and Hannibal doesn't allow himself to move. He groans in affirmation.
Humming an 'okay', Will skims through each layer of the first aid kit – he sets the bandages and gauze on the toilet lid, grunting as he leans forward; an array of needles meet him when he removes the last layer, and he slurs, "What are these?" while running his fingers over the glass to try and read the labels.
Hannibal squints to see, and through heavy breaths, he says, "Five of them are morphine, and five are epinephrine."
"Adrenaline?" Will thrusts his head up.
Scanning the labored lift of Hannibal's chest and meeting his eyes at the same time, Will watches him nod imperceptibly.
Exhaustion has already begun to seep into Will's bones; he needs to stay awake.
"Give me one of those," demanding it, Will blinks away the urge to sleep and reaches haphazardly over the lip of the tub, grabbing a discarded belt. Whose it was is not his concern.
Hannibal hesitates. His eyes flick from Will to the needles and back.
"Hannibal," Will shouts. Vibrations rattle his ribs; he groans, drops the belt, presses a hand to his bruise, and shuts his eyes tight to ride the waves of pain, aching deeply and burning like fire set anew.
"I'm going to give you morphine," Hannibal says definitively, to which Will shakes his head, spitting:
"No, you need it."
He takes the first needle from the line. "You won't be able to work if you're in pain."
"Stop fucking arguing with me, Hannibal!" Another shout leaves Will's throat, scratching it raw; he doesn't dampen his words even when his ribs flare with every breath. "We don't have time to argue. You're going to die!"
With a deep sigh, Hannibal obeys. He puts the needle on the lip and uncaps the second after plucking it from the kit; "Adrenaline," he says, feeling for the vein along Will's inner elbow. They don't bother to work the belt around; Will hisses at the press of the needle, flexing his fist.
Electricity shoots through him as the drug floods his system – Hannibal couldn't have administered more than what would be in an EpiPen, but his fingertips buzz with the onslaught of artificial adrenaline. The pain dulls enough for him to focus – as if blinking awake. Once Hannibal removes the needle, he springs into action, ignoring the droplet of blood forming in his inner elbow.
"Rinse the wound, stitch, bandage," Will repeats to himself, not bothering to look at Hannibal for approval.
Hannibal's breathing is heavier now. His eyes flutter, and his head dips for a moment before he forces himself awake. There's so much blood. He looks like he'd showered in it.
"Give me your arm," Will finds himself demanding. "Which do you need? Both?"
Lightly, Hannibal shakes his head. He says, "I am much more resilient than you believe me to be."
"Do you not understand what's going on?"
"I understand perfectly, Will." Hannibal looks much like he did when he was presented before Dolarhyde, a hand clamped around his abdomen, and his face beginning to pale. "You are dying. I am dying. We are trying not to die."
"I'm not letting you die," Will affirms, the new energy sharpening his voice; he gestures for Hannibal to come forward. "You can't save yourself – not this time. Let me help you. Give me your arm."
Although it seems Hannibal obeys, he doesn't seem to register the command; he makes no effort to move; his eyelids flutter again. Lightly, Will slaps his cheek.
"Hey," he rasps. Hannibal rouses at once and forces his eyes open, seemingly having caught himself. "Wake up. Stay awake, you bastard."
For a moment, Will is stuck on which needle to grab. He can tell by the soft twitching of his cheek and his attempt to keep his lips closed over his teeth that Hannibal is experiencing his own waves of agony, ebbing from the gashes in his back and washing over him like saltwater. The pain will keep him awake. It's a cruel thought, but Will rationalizes it silently to himself as he takes a syringe of epinephrine and jabs it into the already bulging veins of Hannibal's inner elbow; he has barely a huff to show for it. The pain must be so widespread that a prick of a needle doesn't even register.
Will administers a little over a milliliter, stopping when he sees Hannibal practically come back to life, taking in a gasping breath just as he had. He sighs out quickly.
They work together to get Hannibal onto his stomach. He shifts first onto his left hip, and when Will sets a stabilizing hand on his right, he rips it away with a hiss and then an apology.
Hannibal slowly lowers, every muscle flexing in protest; he anchors a hand around the neck of the faucet, setting his head against it and keeping himself on his elbows. He sets his legs flat across the floor of the tub, just barely curling in on himself but still forcing Will to shift and make room. Will becomes acutely aware of both their nakedness, but the thought is consumed by crimson.
He can't help but breathe out, "Oh my God," aghast, his mind flooding with panic as he sees the wreckage of Hannibal's back. The skin is shredded, with a handful of deep gashes still readily bleeding, wherein inflamed muscle flexes. The bullet wound is horrifically angry; it is clean, but the saltwater must have irritated it to become a festering, reddened thing. Wounds litter the back of his thighs and his rear. His right leg tips inward, limp, into the pocket of the other knee, refusing to be set straight. A bruise has begun to form over a swollen mass on that same hip, deep red. Small branches of blood claw underneath the skin and spread up his side. All of it is drowning in crimson. Beads drip from his shoulders, down the crests of his hips, down his arms, down his legs – he doesn't know how Hannibal is alive.
Shaking himself aware, Will wrestles with the kit – he sets it on the floor outside the bathtub, grabbing only the essentials. He throws the towel carelessly over the tub's lip.
"Use cold water," Hannibal says, glancing over his shoulder as Will attempts to stand.
Will jostles the shower head free, just barely able to reach it from the crouch his body allows him. "Won't that send you into shock?"
"It will give me something to focus on."
Giving an unsure, wordless murmur, Will turns on the faucet – he makes sure to switch fast enough that the water doesn't splash over Hannibal and cause him undue pain. Quickly, he fiddles with the settings to create a widespread, light spray.
The moment he draws the water onto Hannibal's back, he begins to gag. Seawater and blood pour from his stomach and into the drain. The expulsion, so violent it bulges veins in his neck, causes him to groan agonizingly. Between each lurch of his stomach, he pants and fights each spasm of his throat. Will suddenly understands why he'd perched himself over the drain.
He wants to pull away – see if he can clean the wounds with just a towel, but Hannibal glances over his shoulder after a fresh wave of nausea, and in the brief silence they share, Will again understands Hannibal's design in this. "I'm alright," he says without words, "Keep going."
Will focuses on the bullet wound. His face crinkles with every writhing movement Hannibal makes in fighting against his instincts to get away. The skin churns like a horse's back in reaction to a fly, unable to shift as one whole body. His own back begins to flare, feeling phantom lacerations flay the skin and burn with the onslaught of water. For a moment, he worries when the water crawls down to Hannibal's neck as he lays his head low, retching, that the sensation would remind him of the waves. He fights off a mirrored swell of nausea.
He stops the shower when Hannibal's back is mostly clean; at this point, Hannibal is vomiting nothing – his entire body is shaking, and he struggles to keep his hold on the faucet, eventually setting his forehead down just beside the drain.
"Still bleeding," Will hisses to no one.
"You may need to pack the wound," responds Hannibal, voice raspy and raw.
"It's – it's all bleeding." He wipes nervous sweat from his brow. For a moment, all he can do is look. Thousands of solutions form in his head, and he can't choose just one. Blood wells from an infinite number of wounds. The major sources of bleeding are the gunshot and the gashes, in a set of three, still weeping crimson; the smaller scratches should have coagulated on their own, but in minutes, Hannibal's back is painted red again.
"Will." Hannibal laboriously lifts his head and watches him from over his shoulder. His voice is fond, forcefully so, as he instructs, "Focus. Take one of our shirts and pack the wound. Use as much pressure as you can. Put your knee down on it and focus on the lacerations. Suture them closed."
Mindless, Will does as he's told – grabs his button-down. Although he isn't sure how to pack a wound, his vague memories as an officer tell him to work the shirt into the hole with his thumb and forefinger. Hannibal doesn't restrict himself – doesn't hide the pain; he openly gags. Nothing but saliva leaves his mouth. That's good, no internal bleeding, Will tells himself. When he can't get any more fabric in, he ushers Hannibal to lie flat and presses his knee to the bundle, first tentatively, then, with a hum of wounded, strangled encouragement, sets his weight down. Hannibal groans but doesn't fight. His grasp on the faucet turns white.
Will grabs the forceps and the sutures, struggling to capture the thread with a barely functioning hand. The adrenaline affords him some use of his arm, but he knows he won't have the privilege for long; he can feel his tortured bones grinding with every movement.
Hannibal instructs him on how to suture as he starts on the shallowest one; the cut barely has clean edges to hold onto. Will drives the hook into the skin, through the trench, and up out of the other side. With every tie, he tears the thread with his teeth. There is no time for sanitation.
Hannibal's hand releases the faucet and drags down the porcelain as he gives in to the overwhelming, raw stinging. With every prick of the needle, he flinches. The idea that Hannibal's pain can overwhelm his self-control in such a way horrifies Will, who has begun to feel each pass through his skin.
Hannibal had also grown silent. He pants but makes no noise. That is more concerning than anything else.
Reacting in kind, starting a set of sutures on the second gash, Will asks ardently, "Do you need another shot?"
"Morphine, please." He doesn't expect Hannibal's response to be so immediate; he practically coughs it out alongside a lurch of bile.
As quickly as he can, Will finishes the stitch he'd started. "Why didn't you ask for it when I asked you the first time?" He plucks a syringe of morphine to replace the forceps in his left hand.
"My body's reaction to overwhelming pain is to purge everything I've eaten in an attempt to relieve it. I've swallowed much seawater. It was in my best interest to get as much as I could out of my system," Hannibal explains – his voice hitches every few words to calm a gag as his throat still acts on reflex, contracting and heaving. "It would behoove you to try as well. Dehydration from seawater sets in quickly and becomes deadly in just as little time."
Will doesn't answer. Some sort of anger stirs in him – a kneejerk reaction to being deceived, even if it did benefit Hannibal greatly. He doesn't set any time aside to truly process it – swiftly, he injects the morphine into Hannibal's rear like he'd seen nurses do to sedate unruly patients. He figures the medication will take more quickly that way; he especially hopes that it will soothe his hip, even just for a moment.
After the initial shock of the injection, Hannibal slowly relaxes.
"Is that enough?" he asks, holding the syringe primed between his fingers and thumb like a mad scientist.
"Yes, Will; you did well."
Haphazardly, Will sorts their needles on the lid of the toilet. He's tempted to slap himself into focus. Hannibal is still bleeding. Spotting the trail river down his back is what gets Will back to work.
"Do I take the shirt out?" he asks upon closing the last stitch.
Hannibal shakes his head. "No. Not right now; removing the shirt will dislodge any blood clots."
"I don't even know if it's stopped bleeding."
"It should have clotted by now, but it would be unwise to undo your work to check." When Will removes his knee, he huffs in relief and murmurs, "Apply gauze to both sides, tape it down, and wrap everything in bandages."
Will does as he's told. Once again, he works under Hannibal's careful, pained instruction – he occasionally deviates, mopping up what blood seeps through the sutures; the towel is now as red as the floor of the tub, which Hannibal tries desperately not to touch. It gives Will a pocket to feed the bandage through. He wraps Hannibal from the waist to the upper chest, working it over his shoulders like a crude tank top.
"Okay." Will pats the bandages. "Okay," he repeats, more calmly, as he sets his forehead on the less damaged of Hannibal's shoulders; exhaustion begins to overtake him. It's a tempting mistress. He breathes out through ballooned cheeks.
He has to keep going. He tracks his good hand down Hannibal's side, finding the swollen mass that has overridden his hip bone. Hannibal winces openly, reaching to shoo him away when he asks:
"Is it broken?"
Instead, Hannibal's hand comes to rest atop Will's, fingers curling to create a barrier between his palm and the inflamed skin. "I haven't been able to tell," he relents.
Will doesn't fall for the attempt to draw him away from the wound. He pries Hannibal's hand off. "Does it need to be set?"
"I would rather it not be."
With indignance, he says, "I don't think I'm going to give you a choice," as he dips his head to watch the bruise; it spreads before his eyes, a sick, purple thing that seeks to consume all of Hannibal's flesh.
"Your cheek still needs to be stitched," Hannibal murmurs.
"Stop it. Get on your side." Will gives him room to move, sliding into his end of the tub as he begins to maneuver onto his side, surprisingly without fussing. With every movement, his muscles seethe. Pushed past their limit, past his exhaustion, he imagines tiny tears in the muscles as they attempt and fail to pull themselves taut; his body is trying to protect itself, but he doesn't allow himself to pause or wince.
Thankfully, though scowling, Hannibal allows Will to wrestle him onto his side. His hip is horribly swollen. Will thumbs the area; it's indistinguishable what is bone out of place and what's angry, knotted muscle, and he says as much aloud:
"I can't tell if it's broken or just dislocated," Will says, flustered.
"Based on the pain, I would predict it is both broken and dislocated." Hannibal's body lurches in a horrid retch as Will presses onto something distinctly more solid than the rest of the mass. He whispers 'sorry', and Hannibal shakes his head.
When he feels it again, Hannibal barely reacts. His head is tucked into his elbow.
"Come back, Hannibal," Will says, "Don't retreat. I need you here." He takes a moment to massage his shoulder.
Hannibal stirs, humming indistinctly.
Will thumbs down Hannibal's lower back, watching for any sort of reaction. He can feel the power of Hannibal's pained breathing, ribcage stretching beyond its normal limits, oxygen flooding tortured muscles. Right above the muscle of his rear, he stops when Hannibal sucks in a breath. The bone under his thumb shifts independently from the rest of his hip. Hannibal gags again.
Will doesn't need to tell him that his theory is correct. He puts him onto his back.
"Put your knee on the hip to anchor it, grasp under mine, and pull," Hannibal says agonizingly. He tries to concentrate, finding Will's hand towel with wandering, bruised hands, and he watches Will adjust with distant eyes.
He wraps his good hand around Hannibal's thigh as he kneels. Without the control of the complete socket, his leg might as well have been a corpse's; the flesh of his thigh pools in Will's grasp like putty, limp and lacerated. Blood stains the underside; sick purple stains continue to wander and spread beneath the skin.
Will's knee hovers just above the crest of his hip. He watches Hannibal's stomach twitch apprehensively, bracing for pain. He props the leg on his shoulder for leverage. Hannibal groans. Will groans in response, the muscles in his neck straining against the stitches and against the weight of the limb. The warm underside of Hannibal's leg dresses his shoulder, and it feels sickly instead of assuring.
Hannibal's face churns painfully, and a worried expression paints Will's face almost blood red. It is as though Hannibal plucks the fear from his mind. He examines it carefully, then says with gentleness, "Don't worry about hurting me, Will. It's alright." He coos, "Count down if you need to, for my sake and yours."
Will adjusts again – does his best to hook his other hand into the bend of Hannibal's knee while Hannibal busies himself by placing the hand towel in his mouth. His hands rest across his collar like he's already settled into a coffin. He is unusually calm. He's retreated.
"Hannibal," Will calls, and Hannibal gives him his best attempt at a reassuring smile. They share a brief nod. He takes a shuddering breath. Then, he begins, "Three..., two..."
Hannibal shuts his eyes; Will sets his knee down and heaves upward. The bone suspends in abused muscle and cartilage until it sets with a sickening pop. Will knows Hannibal has not retreated when he jerks, then restrains himself, groaning into the towel as his leg is slowly let down. Will's own shoulder aches in unison with his heartbeat.
He scans over Hannibal's body, looking for any more obvious wounds, as Hannibal incrementally sits up – pulls himself against the wall, and gives Will room to settle down. Instead, he asks, exasperated:
"What do I do about your hip?"
Hannibal removes the towel. He dabs the sweat off his face. He pants. Will can see his abdomen roiling underneath the bandages, where his right hip pitches lower than the other. "Without tools to remove the fragment, there's not much we can do," he says.
He shifts this way and that, flinching against the tortured joint. After a moment, he settles with a grunt and opens his arms. They shake in the air.
"Come here," his gesture says.
Will cannot resist. Sighing, he sprawls forward, setting his uninjured cheek against Hannibal's collar, as Hannibal tucks him beneath his chin and delicately wraps his arms around his middle. Will hisses when the fingertips brush the growing bruise on his ribs.
The epinephrine is wearing off; his eyelids grow heavy. Then, Hannibal reaches for something out of his sight. He only has time to quirk an eyebrow before the hand towel, tightly bundled is shoved between his teeth – his cheek wrinkles and twitches in the wrong places in reaction, two halves of the masseter muscle moving independently from one another. His molars scream, and his gums sting. Before he can react, to do anything to help himself, Hannibal begins to feel through his scapula, scanning; he whispers an apology he doesn't mean, knowing Will has no power to pull away as he presses onto the bruise.
His broken ribs shift beneath the skin, detached and floating in fragments and torn cartilage like branches pushing into gravel – Hannibal's fingertips pour down them. Will groans into the towel, a begging cry for mercy, but he knows that Hannibal won't stop.
"I'm going to set your ribs. Four are broken; three of those are dislocated." Hannibal murmurs, "I need to know how to treat you based on how you react."
Will groans as if to argue, but Hannibal cuts him short – he says, "Giving you morphine will do nothing to stop the pain. I'm sorry, but it's necessary."
He shakes his head viciously. His frantic mind tells him to elbow Hannibal in the stomach to get free, but that might be all it would take to kill him. Hannibal stays firm against any attempt he makes to escape. He jolts briefly as Hannibal's fingertips press into the first rib; his breathing grows ragged.
"Three..., two...," Hannibal murmurs. Again, Will shakes his head. Then he jerks – and Will screams.
The bone sets into place with a crack, then a crunch; a wave of excruciating, crippling pain stabs into his chest. It drowns him. The cut on his cheek splits further with the contortion of his face, searing; he forces himself to quiet – forces his face into neutrality, and his jaw clenches so hard he's afraid of shattering his teeth. Limp against Hannibal's chest, he allows his hair to be pet as Hannibal presses his nose to it, seemingly in lieu of a kiss, whispering soft, comforting nothings. He murmurs delicate "I have to"s that don't sound like anything at all through the blood in Will's ears.
When he begins to count down again, Will is too weak to fight, but he screams his condemnation.
By the third rib, Will blacks out. The world goes dark, and he falls limp, and he only has a moment to fear the possibility of death before he wakes again to the pinch of a needle in his inner elbow. Slowly, his body calms – he may even say he isn't feeling any pain, but rather the anticipation of pain, as his ribs strain and work numbly through gravel to breathe, and his shoulder loses all feeling.
"Hello," Hannibal's nearly relieved greeting pulls him back to reality. Will wheezes a responding hum, clenching his teeth around the towel when he realizes it's still there. Hannibal quietly explains, "I neglected to suture your cheek; your screaming would have torn open the stitches." Then, he removes the towel.
The moment his tongue is free, Will shouts, "Fuck you."
Hannibal embraces him around the shoulders as if his touch is a salve; it is. "You wouldn't have let me relocate your ribs of your own volition, Will. It was a terrible deception but a necessary one," he coos.
Despite his reignited urge to punch Hannibal in the stomach, he goes practically limp, saying weakly, "You betrayed me."
"I will not apologize." He takes a moment to nuzzle Will's hair, then, like a doctor, he directs, "I need you to turn your back to me and lean forward."
Wobbling in his ascent, Will does, turning, wrestling his legs underneath himself and struggling to keep his spine at a slant – Hannibal holds him up with a hand against his heart; his fingers dig into the flesh with care. Will pants; his ribs allow only an inch of movement, stiffening quickly as possible to allow scar tissue to develop.
Hannibal instructs, "Take deep breaths, as deep as you can," as he presses his ear to Will's back.
Doing as he's told, gasping in a breath that sucks his cheek against his teeth, and he tries not to think about the flex of Hannibal's chest against his skin.
"Again." Hannibal switches to the other side. "Your lungs are intact. Thank you for letting me check," he says softly into his ear.
For the moment, all they can do is breathe. Their frenzy calms into an almost repugnant silence. Will's heart screams with every pulse of blood. His muscles seethe. His eyes flutter. He sways absently in the air, then, as if suddenly remembering something, asks Hannibal with a slur, "Are- are we done?"
Hannibal says, "Your cheek."
"Right." He taps the wound with a finger and is somehow surprised when it comes back red. He gestures vaguely to the pile of needles on the bathtub's edge. "Another shot, give it."
"Will, you need to rest. Let me–"
He shakes his head. "If I stop now, my body is going to give out on me. I can't do that."
"If you stop before you go beyond your limits, your body will not shut down entirely." Hannibal's other hand is a warm weight on his uninjured shoulder, but he doesn't fall for the affection – a guise to calm the risen prickles on his back. Hannibal has captured him like this, a hand on his heart and the other over his shoulder blade.
Will nearly shouts, "Unless you can guarantee that I won't die the moment I close my eyes, then you're going to give me another shot."
"You don't need adrenaline for stitches, Will."
He pants like a dog. He vaguely recalls the bedroom they had to pass to get to the bathtub. Through the bathroom's open door, he stares at what of the bed he can see. Finally, he confesses, "I want to get you a pillow."
Hannibal sighs deeply. His cheek settles against Will's nape. He retracts after a moment.
"Turn towards me," he says.
Will hums, forgets his instructions, then remembers, humming again. Facing Hannibal is akin to slogging through a vat of honey. His body sways in place like a flower in a gentle breeze, weak, exhausted. Hannibal brings the suture needle to his face; he works patiently, making himself a foundation for Will to calm.
A prick. A pull through the split cheek. Will only feels the sensation of needle and thread, but the lack of pain might as well have been a lullaby.
"It's a small walk," he tries to negotiate.
"Shh. Don't speak." Hannibal presses his finger against Will's mouth, physically hushing him. Another prick. "I worry you may not survive a small walk."
Will wants to reply, but Hannibal's hand hovers near his uninjured cheek as a threat. From the corner of his lips, nearly to his ear, lines a long, ugly ladder of stitches. His face awkwardly tightens there, misaligned, and therefore confused about how to contort the muscles into an expression. He sits with his bottom lip lax like a bear.
"Please," he slurs. "Let me get something. I'm cold."
Hannibal tidies the suture kit. He carefully examines the amount of thread they have to use, counts the pads of gauze, and refuses to meet Will's eyes. When Will reaches for the syringe on the tub's lip, a hand grasps him so tightly he cries out.
Hannibal holds him there; his wrist is trapped between porcelain and bloodied skin. He watches Hannibal sigh again, deeper this time, wheezing somewhat.
"I am concerned about your sense of self-preservation," he says. He tries to laugh. A weak little thing that falls out of his mouth like a broken tooth.
Will ripostes, "Look at what we just did and tell me we have a healthy idea of what's good for us," and Hannibal's hand twitches.
He pauses, visibly thinking, and relents. His hand rolls underneath Will's wrist and brings him closer by the elbow. Will wants to smile at the small grimace on the other man's face; an admission of his victory, with too much ego to truly admit it.
"Be careful," Hannibal instructs with importance as he draws the needle from the tub's lip. "Take your time."
"I'll be fine." Will dismisses him, waving vaguely, and, as artificial adrenaline surges through his veins, the world sharpens around him. The drug lubricates his aching joints and burning muscles. His heart beats like he's a deer who'd barely dodged a speeding car.
Without the sense to cover himself with a towel, he takes one step out of the tub, then another, then another. His knees rattle in their sockets.
His body allows him to make it to the bed. The plush mattress calls to him like a siren to a sailor, but he refuses to sit, refuses even to set his hand down as he grabs what he can: two pillows and a comforter that stains red the moment he gathers it to his chest. The bedroom's air is cold, sweetly cold. It smells of old, damp wood. The mattress looks so comfortable. Will sways on his feet. He can sense the stench of blood from the door behind him, and his lip curls; he imagines Hannibal doing the same if he had the awareness to find disgust at their situation. Hannibal. He whispers a prayer to an ear hidden in the shadows and turns back.
His knees give out the moment he reaches the tile. What he'd gathered cushions his fall, but his shoulder hits linoleum as he collapses onto the ground, gasping in surprise. His muscles give underneath him, his joints lock into place, and with every attempt he makes to gather himself, his body screams and tightens in protest. No, not tightens – his body refuses him. Panic replaces whatever epinephrine is left in his system, but he cannot gather strength from it, just fear.
Hannibal braces on the lips of the tub. He surges forward like an animal, and Will cries;–
"Don't – Don't," he fights out, "Don't get up."
As if it challenges every instinct Hannibal has, he lowers. "Are you alright?" he asks. Terror colors his voice; it is an unfamiliar sound from his mouth. It tastes like blood. The wound in his cheek drips onto the tile as he trembles.
"I can't– " Will's muscles burn and seethe and ache and refuse to listen when he tells them to move. He sets his cheek down. It stings like he's been stabbed all over again. The confession leaves him in a near-sob, "I can't move."
"Just breathe, Will."
He tries. He can't. He hiccups in time with his heartbeat; terrified tears burn his cheeks and join the developing pool of blood around his face.
Hannibal breathes deeply, forcing his ribs to calm. "Your mind sets parameters to keep you from overusing your muscles; given the amount of epinephrine in your system, you have been able to temporarily ignore those parameters. Your muscles have shredded themselves to allow you to continue functioning beyond your physical limit. You've pushed yourself too far, and your body is shutting down."
Eyelids fluttering, Will tries again to shift; the pain cuts through the morphine. Thousands of needles stab into his neck as he tries to lift his head. He groans with the onset.
"I warned you, Will. I warned you of the consequences, and still, you denied me," Hannibal says lowly.
"I'm sorry." The words fall out of his mouth; he begins to wheeze, taking in teaspoons of air. Freezing cold tile shocks his ribs with every stretching breathe.
Will can barely see Hannibal's expression, but he shifts to try anyway. A hot tear drips off his nose.
"You will die if you continue to ignore your limits." Hannibal reaches over the lip to grab his hand. Will can just barely capture his fingertips, heaving his arm with a grunt, then a pained sob; he pinches what he can keep of Will's hand, murmuring, "Stay, please; I beg of you, Will. Just stay still and breathe."
"...I feel like I'm dying," Will whispers. Hannibal doesn't respond, but he squeezes the pads of his fingers. The other hand grazes his knuckles, encasing him in blood-stained warmth.
Every inch of muscle screams – he puts all of his focus on filling his lungs with air and keeping his eyes open. His jaw grows slack, and he lays his other hand limp on the tile, trying to let the cold stir him awake. Pain flares in waves; agony consumes him, then recedes; he lays for fifteen minutes – thirty minutes – an hour? He doesn't know. The only sign that he is still alive to Hannibal is the tears rivering down the side of his face and the occasional gasp when he remembers to breathe.
Silence. Breathing. Blood. He has to get to Hannibal.
"Will–"
He tears his hand from Hannibal's grip and forces his good arm underneath himself. Pain shocks him, his muscles fizzling like an exposed electric wire. Thousands upon thousands of needles stab into his body, like knives, like spears. It overcomes any other sensation and fills his head with a terrified buzzing.
Hannibal might be saying something. He might be shouting – might be trying to grab his arms to keep him still. He lifts with a cry.
He begins to crawl.
One knee pushes him forward, then the other. It is a bastardized version of an army crawl, as he uses his elbow as an anchor.
He can't think – he can barely move, and all he knows is that he has to. Not just for the sheets or for the security of closing a curtain around them, but because he needs to be near Hannibal. He needs him. It would just be enough to be able to bring their palms together.
Hannibal grasps the hook of his elbow and pulls him in, bringing him up by the armpit once he's close enough so his head doesn't hit the tub. Will almost gets lost in the motion, grunting. He plants his chin on the porcelain lip.
Rubbing Will's back, Hannibal grabs what he can of the bedding and puts it into his lap, like he was preparing a cushion. Will can just barely get onto his knees when Hannibal hauls him into the tub, and he lands on the comforter. His head crashes onto what would be Hannibal's thigh, something between a cry and a groan splitting his face.
Shushing him quietly, Hannibal gathers the hand towel and the suture supplies. He's holding his jaw taut. Pain consumes his eyes. Will isn't aware enough to try to move off the injured leg. His own legs curl pathetically in an attempt to gather all of himself into the tub's belly. Tears soak the cushion beneath him.
A hand on his shoulder. Hannibal maneuvers him onto his back – he leaves a sickly red stain where his shoulder arcs from it. The stitches have ripped open. His face is bleeding profusely. Some sutures tore through the skin where his mouth wrinkles, needing to be replaced. Air moves freely between the flaps of skin that used to stand for his cheek. His heart thuds in his skull, adrenaline still surging. All he can do is cry softly to himself as Hannibal tenderly wipes him down.
He barely registers when Hannibal begins with his cheek. Hannibal cuts the torn threads, which appear and disappear in the corner of his eye. He squeezes something like superglue in their place, pinching both ends of the wound together. The skin is too damaged to restitch, but the stabbing was clean enough to allow this approach. A burning sensation follows, and Hannibal says something about not trying to taste it.
"Speak to me, Will," Hannibal murmurs, like anything louder than a whisper would hurt his ears. "Are you able to move?"
Will pauses, then nods, absently feeling his hands wander to cover his chest; his legs lie folded limply to the side, stretching his hips painfully. He feels far too exposed.
As he draws away, Hannibal's hands begin to shake. "Where do you still feel pain?" he asks.
"Everywhere," Will whispers.
"Can you tell me how many tiles are on the ceiling?" A washcloth rubs his temple and jaw down harshly, urging him to relax his face. Hannibal then tends to his shoulder wound– he taps him on the shoulder opposite, speaking with importance, "Stay awake, Will. Stay with me."
Will blinks back into existence. He tries to breathe; the teaspoons of air are barely enough to keep him awake. His eyelids weigh down, and he watches the world through his eyelashes.
He hiccups, "Hurts." The needle pierces his shoulder, and he tries not to cry again.
"I know, Will. I know. Focus on the ceiling. Tell me how many tiles you see."
His body burns. The world crumbles and bleeds around him. Something soft and tender inside his heart cracks, and he whispers, "St–stop."
Hannibal's hands are a frenzy in the corner of his eyes, drawing and withdrawing and tying the thread until he is satisfied. The glue is applied there, too. Will can feel it burn almost pleasantly. Pleasant compared to everything else. Then, he wraps Will's shoulder in light gauze, done in the interest of keeping him still. "I'm trying to distract you from the pain."
"Not working. S-Sh," Will pleads. He tries again to say– "Shot."
His prayer is answered. Hannibal retrieves the syringe with a sigh, its soft yellow color a clue, and Will mirrors his breath, sinking with relief. A prick in his opposite elbow, and he calms; the pain becomes a buzzing background noise.
"Alright," Hannibal says, more to himself. A hand envelopes Will's forehead. His fingers curl through Will's hair, wiping sweat and blood and salt away. He announces, softer, "Alright... We're done. Everything is tended to. Rest."
As if given permission, Will goes limp. His muscles give, and his mouth rests open awkwardly as his body fills in the grooves of Hannibal's beneath the comforter. Hannibal presses his fingers into his jugular. He counts his pulse.
Will blinks slowly at the ceiling. He musters his dwindling strength to whisper, "I don't want to sleep. Close my eyes."
"I know. I don't either." Another pass through his hair. "I fear for your longevity, Will," he murmurs. "And mine. Although our most severe wounds are treated, we have both lost much blood. We may have internal injuries, broken arteries..." Another pass. Hannibal is attempting to soothe him to sleep. He forces his eyes open; the only way he can rebel. The other man stares down at him severely, impressing wisdom: "But there is nothing else we can do now except let nature take its course. What she decides is mercy will depend on the extent of our injuries."
Hannibal's hands shake as they cross over one another on their journeys through Will's hair, attempting to comfort himself as well, seeking it in the salt-caked locks. "If we survive the night, Will, what we have experienced here will be a very light punishment compared to what we will endure."
Will blinks again. Every attempt to move is torture. "If."
"If," he agrees. "I don't mean to scare you. It's important to be realistic about our circumstances. To manage our expectations."
"I know." His voice is barely there. He thinks he could mouth his responses, and Hannibal would still understand. Grunting, Will decides to lift his head – the release of pressure from Hannibal's hip causes him to groan, but before he can set himself back down, a hand braces his nape; then Hannibal takes his shoulders and forces him upright.
They work together to lay him down on his side of the tub. Hannibal endures Will's sickly pawing as he turns him against the bathtub's opposite end, battling against both weakened arms and Will's inability to maneuver himself in any helpful way. They pause when he's against the wall. Will can barely hold himself upright. He falls against the tub and groans. More shuffling to get him on his back.
Their legs slot between one another. Sprawling one leg over Hannibal's left thigh, it acts as a cushion for his wounded right leg. Hannibal's left foot is tucked just under his rear. Will's right is tucked under his. Will lies limp as the other man wrangles the comforter free, too weak to assist.
As Hannibal unfurls the comforter over their laps, Will weakly kneads the bedding, trying to settle more comfortably. Pillows find their places atop the bathtub's lip and as Hannibal's seat cushion. Will doesn't want to lie his head down yet. He teeters in midair. The tub finds every bruise on his body. Its porcelain has long grown warm where he lies, but whenever he shifts, cold shocks him and makes him want to cry.
"I'm scared." He kicks himself for sounding so much like a child.
Hannibal murmurs, "I know." His abdomen twitches underneath the bedding; pain must radiate through him no matter how he sits. All he can do is concentrate on his breathing. He plucks the thought from Will's mind. "You're scared that you're not going to wake up once you fall asleep."
Will doesn't respond for a long while. His lack of response is almost a response in itself, but eventually, he whispers, "Yes."
"I wish I could ease your fear."
Will grabs his hand. For a moment, he seems to do it just for affection, but he presses two fingers to Hannibal's wrist. In understanding, Hannibal does the same. His pulse is so quick – far too faint; Will drifts his thumb along the flesh of his hand.
Hannibal bundles his hands together with his own; a mass of bloodied fingers and palms hovers in the air between them. Hannibal closes his eyes and mutters something to himself. His lips twitch in the absence of verbal speech. Warmth envelops him from all sides; his hands surrounding him, his legs heavy upon his own; a man so close to death is still burning bright enough to make a bead of sweat meander down Will's side.
With something close to a chuckle, a quick little breath coughing out of him, he murmurs, "Asking God for a favor?"
And Hannibal spares him the first smile he's seen all night. He nods.
Finally, Will puts his head down. The pillow embraces his cheek, and immediately, he is overcome with the urge to sleep. He doesn't want to sleep. He tracks each line of each bandage that twists around Hannibal's abdomen. Blood has yet to soak through.
Hannibal returns one of his hands, seemingly claiming the other for himself. Their palms soak in the heat of each other, fingers pressed into wrists to watch heartbeats.
When Will murmurs, "...I'm sorry," Hannibal shakes his head and squeezes his hand.
"You've nothing to apologize for. This was a joint decision. Rest. Go to sleep."
With the softest protesting hum, Will's eyes flicker and flutter closed.
They lie with only their breaths and the echo of their heartbeats against one another's fingertips as a lullaby.
There is still pain. A dull, distant, aching thing that lingers in the back of Will's mind, watching over his shoulder and whispering reminders that it's still there. The cut on his finger still stings. He forces himself not to scan and pick out what still hurts – every breath is a chore. He can hear Hannibal's soft wheezing as he himself settles into troubled dreams. His pulse is still faint, but it's there. Will focuses on that. The soft rise and fall of the comforter when he breathes, the weight of Hannibal's hand in his palm, the warmth of their entangled legs.
They are alive.
Will tells himself that. He is alive. Hannibal is alive. They are alive.