shrike (to your sharp and glorious thorn)

by coffeeinrain

Summary:

Will begins to notice a change in Hannibal's behavior post-fall. He's become something akin to a fretting housewife.

Chapter 1

It’s been nearly two months since the fall from the cliff.

Hannibal’s recovery has been nothing short of stagnant; grueling and slow. He’s well-educated in the medical field. He’s aware that a bullet wound, not even including the fall from the cliff, requires a longer recovery than the severity of Will’s knife wounds.

It shouldn’t surprise Hannibal. The fact that Will is nearly fully recovered by now, except for the noticeable scar along the fragile skin of his cheek, and the flare up of an ache in his shoulder if he strains himself.

It shouldn’t surprise Hannibal, but it does because his own body isn’t faring any better than it was two weeks ago. Maybe it’s partially his own doing. He knows deep down that it most certainly is. Though, it isn’t something he wants to admit, not even to himself.

He knows that Will is beginning to catch on, and it only makes him that much more desperate to hide it. But hiding the dark circles beneath his eyes and the increasing fatigue that seems to weigh down his body, slowing his movements with each passing day, is becoming nearly impossible. He knows that he’s pushing his body well past its limits. Especially during these last two weeks, now that he’s finally able to make it down the stairs without Will’s assistance. But he can’t stop himself, not even when his aching body protests against it.

It’s become a ritual at this point.

Waking up at the crack of dawn, fretting over a cup of coffee until it’s to Will’s desired sweetness; half a teaspoon of sugar and a splash of cream. His hands have always been steady in the kitchen, but it doesn’t ease the apprehension that ripples through his entire body each time he cracks an egg. He’s successfully cracked eggs countless times before, but his eyes still scan the bowl each morning, searching for any possible trace of a shell left behind. His familiarity within the kitchen doesn’t ease the tension in his shoulders as he whisks together the eggs, salt, pepper, cheese, and freshly sliced pieces of sausage. His eyes don't stray once he pours the mixture into a well-oiled pan. His feet remain firmly planted on the floor, unmoving until he eventually plates the omelet, and places it onto the dining table, along with Will’s cup of coffee. He doesn’t allow himself to relax even after Will takes his first bite.

He can’t relax when his mind consistently fixates on the fine dusting of crumbs that litter the table after each meal, the slight wrinkling of the tablecloth that he straightens out each time he spots it, or the droplets of water that cling to the edges of the kitchen sink and its surrounding granite countertops.

He can’t stop. Not when this is the only way he can possibly be enough for Will in his current state. Not when it’s the only way he knows how to possibly be enough for Will right now. By providing nourishment and a clean environment. He knows that it’s not nearly enough in retrospect, but he’s desperate to try, because Will is quickly becoming accustomed to it.

He’s fairly certain Will is already accustomed to this. The presence of another to provide a warm meal and a spotless house. Hannibal knows Will must’ve had at least something close to it over the last few years with his wife and stepchild — an environment where Will could feel comfortable and safe. He knows that at one point, he might’ve been that person in Will’s life. A comforting presence. But not now. He hasn’t been anything close to that for the longest time, but he’s trying his hardest to make up for it.

He’s trying his hardest, despite the glaring signs that his body can’t take much more of this. The throbbing ache within his still tender side and the increasing fatigue that sets in when he overworks himself, which is slowly becoming an everyday occurrence. He’s trying his hardest because he’s never been enough for Will before, and in his current state, he knows with absolute certainty that he’s not. 

Not like this.

Merely a burden, easily weakened and fatigued.

If he has to push himself just a little more, he will. Because he’s never been enough for anyone and he’s never felt the need to be.

Never before Will.

But he needs to be enough right now, because he knows that Will has already had this. A family. A stable environment. Someone else to fill the vacancy of himself and Abigail. He knows he can’t possibly give Will a child, biologically speaking, and he’s certain that it’s not something Will would ever want. At least, not with him. He’s already ruined his only possible chance at that.

He knows Will could never view him in the same vein as Molly.

As someone capable of gentleness or love.

As someone who could possibly want to experience gentleness, love, and to simply be cherished in return.

It’s all he’s ever wanted from Will and these last three years spent in isolation have more than confirmed it. A touch of gentleness, no matter how light. Genuine and without any lingering traces of bitterness left in its wake. The barest hint that he could experience first-hand what it’s like to truly be loved. That he’s human enough for such a thing in Will’s eyes, despite what the countless tabloids and news articles label him to be.

Unfeeling; emotionally catatonic.

He knows he doesn’t deserve it, not from Will. He knows, but it doesn’t lessen the ache that’s lived in his chest, buried deep within the cavity of his brittle heart for the last three years. It doesn’t lessen the hurt. The undeniable fact that while he’s needed Will for the past three years, Will hasn’t needed him at all. Will hasn’t wanted him because there’s someone else far more capable, who could be more than enough for Will.

Someone that he’s never been capable of being. Not since he was a child. Open. Trusting. Untainted. Naive to the horrors that await behind the shadows. He wonders if he could’ve been that in another life. If it could’ve possibly allowed him to be enough for Will. Someone who’s never tasted the flesh and blood of another. Someone who’s never experienced the last shreds of humanity ripped from their grasp before even being fully conscious of what that meant—and what it would inevitably entail.

He pushes himself because it’s the only sense of control that he physically has at the moment. It doesn’t lessen the ache in his heart, the fact that someone else has filled the gap he’s left in Will’s life. Essentially replacing him. It doesn’t ease the worry in his mind because he knows that he’s dispensable. Easily replaceable in regard to Will.

Even though Will is physically here, a tangible presence, it doesn’t prevent the weekly nightmares which plague him. Nightmares of waking up to an eerily silent house and a vacant bedroom just across the hall. Nightmares of falling from the cliff alone, before being engulfed by the frigid and merciless sea—while Will simply lives on without him.

In his nightmares, Will doesn’t harbor an ounce of remorse. Not for leaving. Not for allowing him to drown alone. In his nightmares, Will doesn’t harbor an ounce of warmth. At least, not for him.

Despite his futile attempt at regaining some semblance of his past self, it doesn’t lessen the desperation, fear and uncertainty that grips his heart each time Will leaves the house. It doesn’t lessen the flood of relief when the audible twist of the front door’s handle reaches his ears. It doesn’t lessen the recurring thought that this might be the final time Will steps past the threshold of the foyer.

His uncertainty only worsens, because while he’s been slowly recovering, Will has already found a job at a local boatyard. It’s not as if Will needs to work. Not when Hannibal is more than financially capable of providing for his needs and wants. Will insists that it’s simply to keep up appearances. To not draw any suspicion into their new lives.

Will insists that’s the reason, but it doesn’t ease the doubt or wariness that grips Hannibal’s entire being. Because it’s his biggest fear — and he hasn’t felt true, blatant fear in a long time — that Will is beginning to regret this. He doesn’t blame Will for becoming restless. Or bored, even.

This isn’t what he pictured his life with Will to become; bordering on stagnant. He doesn’t blame Will, but it doesn’t lessen his increasing fear that this may be the first sign of many that Will is beginning to pull away.

---

Today is Will’s first day and he’s been gone for only a few hours, but it feels as if it’s been much longer than that.

It finally seems to rear its head, the deep-seated exhaustion that’s seeped into Hannibal’s bones. It’s there in the unsteadiness of his fingers, which are usually so precise, the sluggish speed of his movements, the heaviness of his eyelids, and the slow blinks in between that don’t seem to do much more than provide a comforting wash of darkness over his bleary, fatigued eyes.

He’s spent most of his time in the kitchen today, once he’d finished the final load of laundry. A pitcher of sweet tea is currently cooling in the fridge, while a pot of gumbo — containing bone broth, onions, celery, green and red bell peppers, and chicken — simmers on the stovetop. A side of white rice rests in the rice cooker, set to low, adjacent to the coffee pot across the counter. The rice cooker was Will’s idea, and even though he was reluctant when Will brought it home a month ago, he’s grateful for the convenience that it provides. He won’t have to stay on his feet any longer than necessary.

He’s in desperate need of a break, though he continues to push himself—because this needs to be perfect. He’s confident in his cooking skills, but his baking skills aren’t nearly up to par. An apple pie seems simple enough to make, although the recipe he’s following is anything but simplistic.

The task at hand is a tedious one, tucking each thinly sliced piece of apple against one another until it resembles the shape of a blooming rose, layered atop the pie’s crust. His hands are unsteady, unusually so, and he knows that it’s due to the ever-present fatigue, even if he doesn’t want to acknowledge it just yet. It takes more than a few unsuccessful attempts before his fingers finally seem to begin cooperating with his tired, muddled brain.

After gently placing the pan on the wire rack of the preheated oven, he endures the arduous task of cleaning the rest of the kitchen. It doesn’t take him long, wiping down the counters with a clean cloth after washing the dishes, but it only aggravates the lingering tenderness in his side.

By the time he finally allows himself to sit down at the dining room table, merely a short distance from the kitchen, he doesn’t fight past the fatigue that’s settled into his body. He can’t, not when he’s overworked himself more than he should’ve.

It’s more than apparent, in the loosening give of his posture as he rests his head against his arms, folded along the wooden surface of the table. A dull ache has been steadily building within his head, thrumming along the sides of his temples, and settling deep behind his eyes.

He allows his eyelids to fall shut for a brief moment as the tension in his shoulders begins to relent, even if only slightly.

Chapter 2

Notes:

Translation:

Prašau, Atleisk Man

Please, Forgive Me

At least, Hannibal believes that it’s only been a brief moment as he slowly breaches the surface of consciousness, head resting heavily against his arms. His head continues to ache, an unrelenting pressure, as if it’s been stuffed with cotton, and his mouth is unbearably dry.

A continuous, nearly deafening ringing sound reaches his ears as the unmistakable smell of smoke enters his airways, stifling the breath in his lungs with each inhale. His eyes, bleary and heavy-lidded, fly open before his mind can process anything else besides the scent of a charred sweetness, slightly bitter as it reaches the back of his throat.

He lurches out of his chair, so suddenly that its legs must surely scrape against the floorboards, though the grating sound goes unnoticed to his ears. The rest of the world is currently being drowned out by the hammering of his heart and the smoke detector. On unsteady legs, he hurries out of the dining room, blinking past a curtain of fatigue, before taking in a choked breath as he enters the kitchen.

A sudden gathering of tears burn his eyes, and it’s not only due to the smoke that’s permeating the air, heavy and stifling. His body’s reaction is involuntary, hoarse coughs rushing past his throat as he attempts to breathe through the cloud of smoke. It’s funneling out of the oven’s vents, charcoal gray, and emanating heat.

With near frantic hands, he turns off the oven, grabbing an oven mitt before pulling open the oven door. A plume of smoke engulfs the room — hot against his face, chest, and arms — as he reaches in blindly, past the thick cloud that leaves his lungs straining, searching for the metal pan containing the burnt pie.

He knows that it’s ruined; the scent alone is telling enough. The sight of it manages to pull the last ragged breaths from his increasingly dry throat.

What was once a lightly golden and layered center, with its raised floral edges a freshly flushed red, is now stiff and visibly charred, lacking any previous warmth of color. It looks as if it’ll crumble beneath the weight of a softened breath. After setting it down onto the stovetop, the current state of the kitchen only amplifies the growing sense of dread within his chest.

His heart feels ashen, along with this unsalvageable, scorched attempt at a wordless plea for Will to see that he’s trying.

He needs Will to realize that he’s still capable of being what he once was, despite the grueling recovery that’s taken it’s toll on his body. That he’s capable of being what Will once had during these last three years without him. He’s certain that he’s not, especially after this, but he’s been trying his hardest to be just that.

Simply, enough.

He knows that he won’t be able to handle Will’s disappointment. Not after he’s tried so hard to be something along the lines of what Will must want. What Will obviously wanted with someone else. Someone decidedly not him. A complete antithesis to himself. Someone who could provide Will with a family, which he can’t possibly do. Not physically or biologically speaking. Like her. He knows he can’t possibly be her, but he wishes that he could be, if only for Will.

He knows he can’t salvage this. He can’t hide the evidence of his failure from Will. Not when it’s this thick in the air, surely reaching the closest rooms of the house — the foyer and adjoining dining room. He unlatches the locks along the windows, bordering the kitchen and dining room, with trembling fingers. With a shuddering breath, he opens each one to air out the stifling atmosphere in the kitchen.

Tears continue spilling down his overheated cheeks, melding with a thin layer of sweat. He knows that it’s not solely due to the uncomfortable sting in his eyes from the lingering traces of smoke. It’s a combination of exhaustion, the sore state of his fatigue-ridden body, and the heavy pit settled deep within his stomach.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He hasn’t burnt anything in nearly two decades, and this is the worst possible circumstance for it to occur.

He tries to swallow it back down, the rising sob that’s building within his chest. Each thick swallow feels unnaturally rough, as grating as sandpaper, around the growing lump in his throat. He tries to breathe past it, along with the shuddering gasp that leaves his straining lungs, but he’s unsuccessful.

It breaches past his sore throat a few moments later, as he clings to the edge of the counter with trembling hands, desperate for a source of stability. The smoke detector is still blaring, overbearingly loud, and he needs it to stop.

He needs everything to stop. The persistent ache within his body, the pounding of his heart and the uncertainty that grips it, along with the deep-seated exhaustion that never seems to relent.

It feels as if the world comes to a complete halt a few moments later. He can barely hear anything else once the faint, but audible twist of the front door’s handle reaches his ears, the sharp click as it closes a few beats later.

His grip on the counter tightens at the sound of Will’s approaching footsteps, the granite edges digging painfully into the skin of his palms. Only, the pain doesn’t fully register, because he’s far too focused on attempting to stifle another sob as Will’s footsteps falter, stalling just before the threshold of the kitchen’s entrance.

That brief moment of hesitation, which is beginning to feel more and more like an eternity, is all it takes for Hannibal’s resolve to crack. His back is to Will, and maybe it’s better this way. That Will is unable to see his face right now. His eyes clench shut, but the tightened skin of his eyelids isn’t enough to cease the stream of tears that continue to spill down his cheeks.

If this is the last image that he has in regard to Will’s presence, he’s certain that a comforting wash of darkness would be less devastating than possibly seeing a trace of disappointment on Will’s face. It would be less agonizing than possibly witnessing Will’s retreating form.

He attempts to choke out Will’s name, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but his vocal cords feel far too dry and raw, clogged with tears. The lingering wetness should soothe his sore throat, but it doesn’t. It only makes it that much more difficult to speak.

The thickness of his tongue doesn’t help, either. It feels unnaturally heavy, resting in his mouth. As if an apology in the form of every language that he knows is currently weighing it down.

His mouth is moving before he’s even aware of it, and the language that registers in his mind only brings more tears to his eyes. It’s a language that he hasn’t spoken in four decades. He’s never felt the need to and he hasn’t been physically capable of it until now.

“Prašau, atleisk man,” Hannibal whispers, and it’s a near painful thing, the rawness at which those words leave his throat. The same last words that left his mouth after his sister was ripped roughly from his hands. Only this time, instead of a hoarse and desperate scream, it’s form is barely louder than the wavering breath that leaves his lips.

It leaves his throat aching all the same, that choked plea.

He knows that it’s not nearly loud enough for Will to hear, but he tries anyway, even if each word catches roughly in the back of his throat. He tries because it’s the only thing that he’s capable of doing—begging for forgiveness.

It’s the one thing he’s capable of that’s even remotely acceptable. Though, it’s just barely verging on acceptability. It’s still wrong, not quite right, because Will can’t possibly begin to understand him. He knows that, distantly, but it’s all that he can manage at the moment.

No one else has mattered as much as his sister. Not until Will. It’s as if every single instinct in his body has kicked into overdrive, because he can’t lose Will again. Not when he’s only just gotten Will back.

Though it wouldn’t be in the same circumstance as losing his sister, losing Will permanently would leave his heart just as shattered, barren, and lifeless as that brutal winter. It would leave his entire being just as empty, starving for a touch of warmth, and off-balance.

The unsteadiness of his legs is hauntingly fitting.

If his legs eventually give out, he’s fairly certain that the surface beneath him will be cold, unforgiving, and wet from his tears. Just like the frigid snow that blanketed the earth’s floor, as piercing as shards of glass beneath his knees, merely three years ago.

He finds out a few moments later, because this futile clutch for balance isn’t nearly enough, and he’s sinking to his knees before he’s even fully conscious of the sudden movement. The floor, just as he expected, is cold and unforgiving beneath him. Fatigue has long since settled into his bones, and his only reprieve is the hard surface of the kitchen’s island behind him.

Leaning back against it is uncomfortable, but it’s enough to keep him upright when he’s incapable of such a feat at the moment. Even if it’s simply to curl up against it, it offers stability, something that he doesn’t currently possess.

The sound that comes out of his mouth is uncharacteristically rasped and it feels like shards of glass, piercing his throat when he attempts to speak. Desperation clings to his words, choked and raw. It’s fitting—the broken state of his voice, because he feels as if he’s on the verge of shattering along with it.

With each word that leaves his mouth, it’s beginning to feel as if he already has.

Chapter 3

Will realizes the instant he steps through the front door, a hand clasped around the handle, that something isn’t right.

The distinctive scent of smoke fills the air, which is worrying in and of itself. The incessant ringing of the smoke detector only adds to the building sense of dread within his chest.

He’s moving before he’s consciously aware of it, because he’s never known Hannibal to burn anything throughout the entirety of their relationship. With an unsteady hand, he turns off the smoke detector, but the ensuing silence only adds to his worry.

The lingering scent of smoke only grows stronger as Will rounds the corner, pausing at the threshold of the kitchen’s entrance. He braces himself, cautiously stepping forward, but the sight that awaits him still manages to catch him off guard.

The kitchen is in near perfect condition just as it always is. Except for the stifling edge that clings to the air. It’s evident that something was baked, well past done, because it sits on the stovetop in Will’s direct line of sight. It’s most likely a pie, if the thick crust is anything to go by. It’s textured and it makes his heart ache, knowing that Hannibal felt the need to turn something as simple as a pie into an elaborate recipe.

Despite the fact that it’s burnt beyond repair, charred and void of any color, Will can make out the distinctive shapes layered along the top. Blooming roses, nestled against one another, fill its center. As if this were the beginnings of a garden instead of a simple dessert. The gesture is unbelievably sweet, even though it would most likely taste like ash in Will’s mouth.

A pot rests on the right back burner of the stove, nearly filled to the brim. Will would recognize its contents in an instant, despite the light layer of steam covering the lid. He wasn’t expecting this—a two course meal of southern comforts—on his arrival home.

He wasn’t expecting anything close to this because he knows that Hannibal is still healing, albeit slower than he expected. But Hannibal has been pushing himself, far more than he should be during these last two weeks. It shouldn’t be surprising, the fact that something like this has finally occurred.

It shouldn’t be surprising, but it is.

Especially when a choked sound reaches Will’s ears, pulling his attention away from the stove. It takes him a moment to discern what exactly it is, but once it dawns on him, that recurring sound pierces right through his heart. Hannibal is nowhere in sight, but Will would recognize the sound of his voice at any given moment, despite its wrecked state.

The kitchen is spacious, with an island countertop on the far side of the room. Will makes his way over quickly, blowing caution to the wind, because he’s never heard Hannibal sound this distressed, this undone.

Hannibal’s voice is hoarse, cracking on every other word. The words that fall from his mouth, fast and noticeably slurred are the same recurring pattern—in a language that certainly isn’t English. There’s a rawness to his tone, desperation clinging to his words, and it makes Will’s heart ache.

It sounds as if Hannibal is pleading for something, which Will can’t possibly figure out in light of the language barrier. But he’s determined to try, even if it ends up taking all night. As Will rounds the corner, he has to take a steadying breath. Slowly, he kneels down in front of Hannibal, who looks entirely unrecognizable at the moment.

Hannibal’s posture is noticeably hunched, and he’s leaning heavily against the wall of the counter—as if every trace of energy has left his body, but he’s trying his hardest to remain upright. His eyes are currently shut, eyelids puffy and tightly clenched, while a steady stream of tears spill down his flushed cheeks, dripping onto the apron cinched along his waist.

It’s a comforting wash of light blue, and Will doesn’t miss the fact that it nearly mirrors the shade of his own eyes.

It provides a stark contrast to the flushed state of Hannibal’s tear-stained cheeks, making the severity of his disheveled appearance that much more apparent. Certain areas of the fabric are a noticeable shade darker than the rest, soaked through with tears. His hair is un-styled, messy strands framing his forehead, as if he’s been running his fingers through it incessantly.

Hannibal is still attempting to choke out an unfamiliar pattern of words, as if he’s desperate for Will to hear them. To hear him . As if he needs more than anything for Will to hear that he’s trying, even if he can’t manage to utter a single word in English.

Will hears it, the blatant desperation in that pleading tone, and it pierces right through his heart. It’s all he needs to hear. He doesn’t have to comprehend the words to understand their meaning. Will knows, without a doubt, that Hannibal needs him right now.

“Hey,” Will says softly, settling a cautious hand on Hannibal’s shoulder. It takes a moment for Hannibal to register the touch, but once he does, it’s as if he completely shatters beneath the weight of Will’s hand, despite its lightness. The stream of foreign words have ceased, but the gut-wrenching sobs that take their place are even more agonizing on Will’s heart.

Hannibal can’t help but reach for it with a trembling hand—the slightest chance that Will is still here. Real and warm beneath his grasp.

Will feels completely out of his element, witnessing Hannibal like this. But he knows that he needs to do something as he inches closer to Hannibal’s shaking frame. Especially when an unsteady hand reaches out for him, hesitant as it brushes against his own.

”Come here, it’s alright,” Will whispers, pulling Hannibal against his chest. Hannibal is pliant, eerily slack in his hold, and it catches Will off guard. But the utter lack of resistance doesn't last for long, because Hannibal shifts a moment later, tucking a dampened cheek into the crook of Will's neck.

It's done so hesitantly that it makes Will's heart clench in his chest, and the choked words that follow it nearly shatter his heart completely.

“Prašau, atleisk man,” Hannibal sobs, the hoarse words muffled against Will’s neck. Will can just barely make out the painfully familiar sentence, but it sounds even more broken than before, if at all possible.

It’s noticeably thick on Hannibal’s tongue, and Will is certain that it’s not only due to the current tears clogging his throat. It sounds as if he’s not entirely used to forming the vowels, the lilted syllables of each word. As if they're nearly foreign to his own ears—as well as Will’s.

“I can’t understand you, sweetheart,” Will whispers, smoothing a gentle hand down Hannibal’s heaving back.

It only seems to make Hannibal that much more desperate. It’s evident in the noticeable tremble in his voice and the tightening of the white-knuckled grip on Will’s shirt. As if he can’t help but cling to it—the gentle tone against his ear and the whispered words beneath it—the reassurance that Will is still here.

“Prašau, atleisk man,” Hannibal pleads, with a further press against Will’s chest. “Prašau.”

“Hannibal,” Will whispers, pulling Hannibal further into his lap, despite the fact that Hannibal is already flush against his chest.

If it offers Hannibal another ounce of reassurance, Will would do just that. Even if it’s beginning to feel uncomfortable—the increased heat from Hannibal’s tear-stained cheek pressing into his collarbone, the relentless stream of tears that continue to soak through his shirt, and the shuddering breaths that puff warmly against his neck.

There are noticeable traces of white in Hannibal’s hair, which smells slightly sweetened as Will leans down, pressing a reassuring kiss against the crown of his head. “I can’t make any of this better if I don’t know what’s wrong,” Will says softly, carding a gentle hand through Hannibal’s hair, smoothing back the loosened strands, dislodging the flecks of flour and sugar.

A hiccuping breath falls from Hannibal’s mouth, warm against Will’s neck. Will can feel it, the noticeable tremble in Hannibal’s parted lips, along with the nearly palpable hesitation that blankets a hitching breath before he speaks. As if he’s trying to remember what it feels like for the foreign words—translated into English—to roll off of his tongue.

When they reach Will’s ears, they sound uncharacteristically thick, slightly muddled as they fall from Hannibal’s lips.

“Please, forgive me, Will,” Hannibal chokes out, the words hoarse and humid against Will’s skin. “I’m so sorry.” His voice sounds utterly ruined and it reminds Will of the audible cracks along a burning flame, the last lingering traces of a fire’s edge—that brittle whisper. It leaves Will’s heart aching, knowing that it’s not solely an apology for the burnt pie resting on the stove.

His next words sear right through Will’s heart until all that remains in its wake is the thinnest layer—left unbearably tender and raw.

“I know that I’m not her, Will, and I can’t possibly give you what she’s capable of,” Hannibal whispers brokenly. “What you so obviously seemed to want. I’ll never be able to offer you that. Normalcy and a quiet life; a child. Not in the same way that she can.”

Will is at a complete loss for words, mouth slightly agape. An instinctive protest rests on his tongue, but he swallows it back down, knowing that it wouldn’t offer Hannibal any reassurance. He can’t muster the amount of courage that it would it take to lie, even if it would possibly lessen the hurt in Hannibal’s voice.

Will can’t lie and risk tarnishing this clean slate—their new life, bare of any lingering bitterness and mistrust. He can’t risk ruining the only thing that he has left—the only person that has ever sincerely mattered. The one person who has ever truly seen him, allowed him to flourish, and simply be.

Will can’t risk that and he doesn’t want to.

Not when Hannibal looks and sounds this fragile, as if one wrong word out of Will’s mouth would shatter him completely. Not when they’ve only just begun living, breathing in the same air once more after spending these last three years apart. Will can’t possibly offer that blatant form of denial because at some point in his life, he had wanted that.

Simplicity; a wife and a child. Even before meeting Hannibal.

Or at least, he tried to convince himself of that.

Will knows that he needs to say something as the silence stretches on, because it’s nearly tangible—the apprehension that’s clinging to Hannibal. It’s there—in the increasing tension in his shoulders, the rough swallow of his raw throat, and the minuscule movement as he attempts to pull himself out of Will’s hold.

The attempt is weak, bordering on hesitant, and Will is certain that it’s not only due to Hannibal’s exhaustion. It doesn’t take more than a gentle hand on Hannibal’s back, the slightest amount of pressure, until he’s settled against Will’s chest once more.

Swallowing thickly around the growing lump in his throat, Will attempts to keep his voice steady. “Is that what all of this is about?" Will asks, unable to stop the waver that bleeds into his words.

“I know that I’m not her. I can’t be that for you, but I’ve been trying,” Hannibal rasps, nestling a tear-stained cheek deeper against the noticeable jut of Wiil’s collarbone. “Please, know that I’m trying, Will—for you.”

“You’re right. You can’t be her,” Will says, softening his voice. The gentle tone doesn’t prevent the noticeable flinch that flickers across Hannibal’s face. A moment later, Will cups Hannibal’s jaw, lifting it gently. The sight of Hannibal’s face is jarring. His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, matching the flushed state of his nose and dampened cheeks. “That’s the entire point of this—why we’re here. Don’t you understand that? I’ve chosen you. Not her.”

It’s evident that Hannibal doesn’t understand, or at the very least, he doesn’t believe Will’s words. It’s there—in the glimmer of doubt within his red-rimmed eyes, the lingering hesitancy in his tearful gaze, unable to meet Will’s eyes, and the brittle edge coating his words.

“You haven’t chosen me, Will. You’re simply settling. For three years, you didn’t think about me. You didn’t look for me. I needed you, but you didn’t need me—not when you had her,” Hannibal says, his voice raw and wavering. “You’ve never wanted me—not as I am. How could I possibly be enough for you right now?”

The sheer thought of Hannibal being replaceable is nearly comical. Although, it's really not, Will thinks.

The wording isn't quite right because the hollow space within Will’s heart—the lack of Hannibal's presence in his life during these last three years—has been indescribable. Hannibal hasn't been replaced, because it's simply not possible for anyone else to fill that empty gap left within Will's heart.

It's not possible and it simply never will be, but Hannibal doesn't seem to understand that.

“Do you really believe that? That I spent these last three years without needing you or giving you a single thought?” Will asks, his tone firm, but gentle. “That you’re not enough for me?”

The silence alone should be telling enough. It should be, but it’s not.

“Tell me why you would possibly think that,” Will murmurs quietly, attempting to meet Hannibal’s gaze.

The attempt is futile, nearly impossible, with the swollen state of Hannibal’s eyes that fall shut a moment later, as if he can’t bear to have Will’s eyes on him. Hannibal’s mouth opens in an aborted attempt to speak, only to close a moment later.

As if he’s afraid to utter the words; to speak them into existence.

Will can feel it, the hesitation blanketing each word that’s breathed against his skin, spilling from a trembling mouth.

“I’ve never been enough for you before, Will. For three years, you didn’t want me because you had someone else to fill that void in your life,” Hannibal whispers hoarsely, voice thick with tears. “A space that I could never fill—not like her. But I’ve been trying to be that for you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be—enough. I know that I’m not. Especially not like this, but I’ve been trying.”

Those words shatter Will’s heart completely, and coupled with the broken state of Hannibal’s voice, Will is certain that his heart won’t be mendable by tomorrow morning.

“Is that why you’ve been so tired lately? You’ve been trying to be some version of her that you think I would want?” Will asks quietly, smoothing a gentle hand down Hannibal’s side. The nearly imperceptible nod against his chest breaks his heart even further. “I don’t want you to be her or anyone else for that matter. I need you to understand that. You’re more than enough just as you are, sweetheart. I promise.”

Gently, Will cradles Hannibal’s flushed and tear-stained face, leaning down to place a gentle kiss against his forehead. It’s light, a barely-there pressure against skin, but that simple touch pulls a choked breath from Hannibal’s trembling lips.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers hoarsely, unable to stop himself from leaning into the warm press of Will’s mouth. He can’t stop any of it—the tightening grip on Will’s shirt that’s steadily becoming wrinkled beneath his grasp or the steady stream of tears that continue to spill down his cheeks.

It’s the first hint of warmth that Hannibal has felt in three years and he desperately needs it. The soothing heat against his aching body—the physical reassurance that Will is still truly here. He tries to swallow it back down, the rising sob that’s building within his chest, but he can’t.

Not when he’s needed this for so long.

Not when he finally has some semblance of it.

It’s abrupt and it catches Will off guard, the suddenness at which Hannibal’s face crumples beneath his palms, along with the hoarse sob that fills the air.

“Let me get you off the floor, sweetheart. It’s alright,” Will murmurs, pulling back before settling his hands beneath Hannibal’s armpits. Gently, Will guides Hannibal to his feet, which are unsteady, slightly off-balance with fatigue, before pulling him close a moment later.

“You don’t have to try so hard for me. Don’t you understand that? You already have me,” Will says softly, guiding Hannibal’s head to rest against his shoulder. It shouldn’t surprise him, the tightening grip on his shirt, and the humid breaths that puff warmly against the collar of his shirt. But it still manages to feel like a knife to his heart—the desperation that’s radiating off of Hannibal’s entire being. “I’m not going anywhere. I couldn’t ask for anything more than this—with you by my side.”

Will can feel it, the instant Hannibal slumps forward, leaning heavily against his chest. Will isn’t sure if it’s due to relief or exhaustion, but he’s certain that it only worsens the ache within his heart, the simple fact that Hannibal seems so desperate for reassurance. Will wonders how long Hannibal has needed this—a gentle touch and a softened voice against his ear.

It’s evident that he’s needed this for some time.

It’s clear in the trembling fingers that clutch the curls at the nape of Will’s neck, hesitant and slow. It’s clear in the further press against Will’s chest, as if he’s afraid that Will is somehow going to slip through his fingers. It’s clear in the broken whisper of Will’s name, muffled against the fabric of Will’s shirt as it falls from a trembling mouth.

A wave of guilt washes over Will, sudden and cold. He realizes that it’s most likely been needed for the last three years, while he’s had the constant reassurance of a wife and a child. Will knows that Hannibal has never had that—a genuine and stable connection to humanity.

At the very least, not since he was a child.

Not since meeting Will.

These last three years have more than confirmed it. Hannibal has gone so long without it—an ounce of reassurance, a touch of gentleness—that he doesn’t know how to react to it, how to handle it, or even ask for it, despite the fact that he desperately seems to need it.

“I’m right here, I promise,” Will whispers against Hannibal’s ear, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the outer shell. A shuddering gasp falls from Hannibal’s mouth, and the growing flush on the highest point of a tear-stained cheekbone catches Will's eye. It shouldn’t be that jarring, such a chaste touch, but it seems to undo Hannibal completely.

It shouldn’t be surprising, the undeniable fact that Hannibal is touch-starved after spending three years in isolation, but it still manages to break Will’s heart. Even more so when Hannibal seems to melt beneath Will’s touch a moment later.

“If this is some form of self-punishment for everything that’s happened between us or an attempt to prove yourself to me—I want it to stop. You don’t have to work yourself to death,” Will says softly, cupping Hannibal’s cheek, thumbing through the path of tears. “Don’t even try to deny it. If I’d known it was for this reason, I would’ve stopped you sooner. I just thought that you were becoming restless, and it made sense, knowing that you haven’t had this much freedom in a long time.”

Hannibal’s eyes are currently shut, but it doesn’t cease the fresh gathering of tears, clinging to his dampened lashes before rolling down a flushed cheek, only to soak the pads of Will’s fingers a moment later. Hannibal swallows roughly, and the sound of it alone nearly makes Will’s own throat ache in return. It only worsens when Hannibal speaks a few moments later.

“I am sorry, Will,” Hannibal whispers, his voice raw and choked. His vocal cords sound shredded and he can barely manage to get the words out, but Will can tell that he’s trying. “I know I don’t deserve you. Not after everything I’ve done, but I—I’ve missed you so much.”

Will opens his mouth to speak, but Hannibal’s next words only seem to make the ache within his heart that much more painful. Will knows, without a doubt, that his heart won’t be the same by tomorrow morning. Not when Hannibal’s next words reach his ears, so rasped and small that Will nearly misses them completely.

“I promise that I’m trying, Will, to be good for you,” Hannibal whispers hoarsely. “Like her.”

Will clears his throat, swallowing around the increasing lump in his throat, but his words still manage to sound uncharacteristically rough. “I know, and you have been,” Will says, softening his voice. “You’ve been so good, you know that?”

A fresh stream of tears slip out from beneath Hannibal’s tightly clenched eyelids, the skin swollen and wrinkled, and Will barely has enough time to brace himself for the wrecked state of Hannibal’s voice.

“No, I haven’t. This was supposed to be perfect for you, but I ruined it,” Hannibal rasps, shaking his head. The movement unfurls the loose hair tucked behind his ear, and the slightly disheveled strands that frame his face, flushed and tear-stained, make his appearance that much more jarring. He looks overwhelmingly fragile, with his face tucked against Will’s neck, nearly hidden. “I’ve just been so tired, Will. But I can be better—I promise.”

Will can’t bear it, the desperation in Hannibal’s voice and the tightening grip on his shirt. As if Hannibal needs him to know, despite the fact that it’s clear enough in the dark circles beneath Hannibal’s red-rimmed eyes, unshed with tears.

“You really think a burnt pie—of all things—is the worst thing that you could possibly do to me?” Will asks gently, only to regret it a moment later. It’s unmistakable, the flinch that flickers across Hannibal’s face. With a cautious movement, Will settles his hand beneath Hannibal’s jaw. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Hannibal doesn’t resist it, the light pressure of a gentle hand, guiding his face away from the comforting refuge of Will’s wrinkled shirt. He’s never been able to fully resist Will. Not entirely, even if he desperately wanted to.

It breaks Will’s heart, the noticeable press of a soaked cheek, nestling deeper against his palm. “I don’t need you to be anymore than this for me, okay?” Will whispers softly, stroking the dampened skin beneath his fingertips. He knows that Hannibal most likely hasn’t had this in the last three years—a simple touch.

It only becomes more apparent when Will leans in a moment later, pressing a gentle kiss to Hannibal’s warm, plush mouth. A startled gasp leaves Hannibal’s lips, slightly salted and damp from lingering traces of tears. It’s fitting, Will thinks, the small puff of salted air against his skin.

The sensation is eerily similar to the first inhale after emerging from beneath the roiling waves of the merciless sea, nearly two months ago.

Hannibal’s mouth is nearly slack, unmoving beneath his. But Will can feel it—the noticeable tremble in the hand that’s currently grasping his shirt, and the hesitancy in the fingers that clutch the curls at the nape of his neck, tightly clenched as if it were a lifeline.

It’s as if Hannibal is uncertain of whether or not he’s allowed to have this. To desperately need this. The tangible reassurance of Will, real and warm beneath his grasp. All Will can do is guide him forward with a gentle hand cradling his warming cheek, and hope that it’s enough.

It seems to be, merely a moment later.

The shuddering breath that leaves Hannibal’s lungs, ghosting over Will’s face only makes it that much more evident. It’s only a chaste, light brush of warmth against a salted and trembling mouth, but Hannibal seems to melt against it. Soft and pliant, as undeniably fragile as the near-gentle give of freshly melted wax, beneath that genuine touch of tenderness.

Of reassurance that he’s more than enough in Will's eyes.

The pads of Will’s fingers are becoming increasingly damp, and he knows what to expect when he eventually pulls back, but the sight still manages to catch him off guard. Hannibal’s face is even more flushed than before, overly warm beneath Will’s touch. The hesitant flutter of swollen eyelids, and the glassy stare that lies beneath it, brimming with an overwhelming amount of apprehension, pierces right through his heart.

Will can’t resist leaning in once more, brushing a reassuring kiss against Hannibal’s forehead, because he looks as if he needs it—any ounce of reassurance that Will is willing to provide. Hannibal’s eyelids flutter shut at the unexpected touch, and it only seems to make the starkness of the dark circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes that much more noticeable beneath the kitchen’s lighting.

“Are you alright?” Will asks, carding a hand through Hannibal’s hair, who gives a wordless nod in return. It’s unnerving, the current sight of Hannibal, left speechless and unmoving, except for the minuscule tilt of his head. As if he’s waiting for the floor to slip out from beneath him—to wake up back in his cell.

Alone.

Without an ounce of reassurance or a touch of gentleness, despite how desperately he still seems to need it.

“Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll bring out dinner? You’ve done more than enough today,” Will says softly, settling his hands on Hannibal’s waist to untie the apron. Will doesn’t miss the noticeable hitch in Hannibal’s breathing, the slight intake of breath. It’s as if he’s still not entirely used to it just yet—the gentle warmth of Will’s hands.

A simple touch, a barely-there brush of fingertips over clothed skin.

It shouldn’t be surprising, the fact that Hannibal seems to need it just as much as anyone else. Will doesn’t know how to cope with that thought, realizing that Hannibal has most likely gone without it for far longer than these last three years.

It’s evident when Will thinks back to the fleeting touches against his shoulder or a guiding hand along his back, as if Hannibal couldn’t help but reach out. It’s as if Hannibal couldn’t physically stop himself from needing it, some form of constant touch, while within Will’s presence.

Once the apron slips loosely from Hannibal’s waist, Will sees it—the glimmer of uncertainty within Hannibal’s eyes, still slightly glassy and puffy.

“I’ll be right behind you, I promise,” Will murmurs, stroking a hand down Hannibal’s side. It makes Will’s heart ache, the noticeable way that Hannibal seems to melt beneath any form of touch, despite how insignificant it may seem in retrospect. “You can go relax. It’s alright.”

Hannibal lingers for a brief moment, hesitating, as if he simply doesn’t know how to relax. Not when he still seems so on edge. It’s as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself, now that he’s not working himself to the bone for Will’s approval—to prove that he could possibly be enough.

“Come on, go rest. I’ve got this, sweetheart,” Will says, softening his voice.

Will isn’t entirely sure what does it—the gentle tone or the reassuring kiss against Hannibal’s tear-stained cheek. But it seems to soften the edges of uncertainty still clinging to Hannibal. It’s visible in the barest amount of tension that leaves his shoulders and the slight steadiness regained in his footing.

Though, it still lingers, the traces of hesitation within his retreating form. As if he’s not expecting to see Will, merely a few moments later. As if he still doesn’t believe that he could possibly be enough for Will—like this.

It’s even more noticeable after Will plates the food and settles down onto the couch beside him. That in and of itself is telling enough of the situation at hand; the fact that Hannibal is willing to eat on the couch. Hannibal’s posture is rigid, and even though it always has been, it’s much more pronounced tonight.

The fact that Hannibal doesn’t take a single bite until after Will begins eating doesn’t go unnoticed by Will. It’s as if Hannibal is waiting for something, and whether it’s for permission or approval, Will isn’t sure. But Will knows that Hannibal needs it, even if he doesn’t dare to ask for it.

“You did really good,” Will says, choosing his words carefully. Dinner is good—just as it always is—but that isn’t what’s important.

What’s important is the fact that once Will utters those four simple words, Hannibal looks as if he’s finally able to begin breathing again. His relief is palpable, filling the small gap of space between them, and it breaks Will’s heart.

It very nearly causes Will to lose his appetite, but he continues eating, determined to scrape the plate clean until there’s nothing left. Because he’s absolutely certain that he can’t bear to witness another flicker of hurt or uncertainty within Hannibal’s red-rimmed eyes.

Not after today, and definitely not anytime soon.

Realization dawns on Will as he watches Hannibal consume the next few bites. The miniscule trace of a wince flickers across Hannibal’s face with each ensuing mouthful, catching Will’s eye. “Is it bothering you? Your side?” Will asks, not bothering to hide the concern that floods his tone.

The answering nod in return only seems to worsen the blooming pit of guilt, settling deep within the confines of Will’s chest, right below his heart. It must be visible, the crease of worry in Will’s face, because Hannibal pauses a moment later, fingers clasped around the spoon.

As if he’s waiting to be reprimanded.

Hannibal doesn’t move an inch when Will leans forward into his space, but the momentary twitch of his fingers, the tightening grip on the edge of the plate, is undeniable. It’s as if he’s waiting to have his food taken away. It’s clear enough in the increasing tremble of his hand, the slight resistance as Will pries the plate from his grasp, that he's expecting something along those lines to happen.

As if it’s happened before.

Will doesn’t want to linger on that thought; the mere possibility that it likely has happened before. Though, he can’t help but wonder what these last three years have truly entailed, while he’s simply been blissfully unaware of it all—the full extent of Hannibal’s isolation.

“Come here,” Will urges softly, wrapping a gentle hand around Hannibal’s waist, careful not to aggravate the tender area in his side. Hannibal tenses beneath the touch, as if he’s still acclimating to it, and Will allows him a moment to adjust before pulling him close, keeping the pressure light.

It’s not a command, but merely an offering of respite, which Hannibal clearly seems to need. It’s evident once he finally settles against Will’s side, though the tension in his shoulders remains. It’s as if he’s still uncertain of whether or not he’s allowed to have this—Will’s unwavering reassurance.

“You can relax. It’s alright,” Will murmurs, allowing Hannibal to lean heavily against him. “Let me help you.” It’s easy enough to bear Hannibal’s full weight. Despite what the structure of the three-piece suits seemed to portray, in reality, Hannibal truly isn’t that much larger than him.

With a steady hand, Will raises a spoonful to Hannibal’s mouth, slowly guiding it past his lips. “Is that better?” Will asks, his heart aching at Hannibal’s hesitant nod.

Hannibal must’ve been straining himself during these last two weeks, especially today. The flare up of tenderness in his side only confirms it. Will can’t help but feel guilty, realizing that it's gone unnoticed in its entirety up until now.

This newfound knowledge causes a sudden surge of protectiveness to bloom within Will’s chest, and despite the fact that it’s partially his own doing for not noticing it sooner, he’s determined to rectify it in any way that he can. Even if it’s as simple as guiding another spoonful into Hannibal’s mouth until the plate is empty, Will would do just that.

It’s not nearly enough, and Will knows that, but it’s a starting point.

It's a small shred for Hannibal to cling to—the knowledge that he can be taken care of in return. That he’s human enough for such a thing in Will’s eyes, despite never having asked for it. He obviously needs it, and Will doesn’t want to think about how long he’s gone without it.

It’s clear that Hannibal isn’t used to it—a genuine act of gentleness. It’s evident in the glassy sheen within his slightly puffy eyes, as if Will’s done much more than simply guide a spoon into his mouth.

Will can’t resist reaching out to catch it, the stray tear that escapes the rim of Hannibal’s left eye, wiping it away with a gentle brush of a thumb. He can’t resist leaning in, in an attempt to catch the whispered words that are nearly indiscernible, just barely reaching his ears.

“Am I truly enough for you like this, Will? Even if I can’t be her—physically or otherwise?” Hannibal asks, his voice barely louder than a brittle whisper. “If I can’t give you what she can?” It pierces right through Will’s heart.

“None of that matters to me. None of it,” Will says, his tone gentle, but firm. Hannibal is already flush against his side, but it’s simply not enough. Will doesn’t waste another moment, pulling Hannibal into his lap. It breaks his heart, the hesitancy as Hannibal leans in, tucking a dampening cheek into the crook of his neck.

Hannibal’s face is nearly hidden from view, but the uncomfortable strain in Will’s neck goes unnoticed. Nothing else matters at the moment. The only thing that truly matters is tucked against his chest, clutching a small fistful of his shirt as if it were a lifeline, and choking out a stream of words that shatter his heart completely.

“I wish I could be that for you,” Hannibal whispers, his voice muffled and hoarse against the collar of Will’s shirt. Fresh tears cling to his eyelashes, only to seep into the fabric of Will’s shirt a moment later.

With a gentle hand, Will cups Hannibal’s damp cheek, slightly flushed and warm beneath his palm. It’s nearly instant, the moment Hannibal seems to melt beneath his touch—a simple brush of fingers, wiping through a path of tears.

“I don’t need you to be that for me, sweetheart. You’re more than enough just as you are. You always have been,” Will says softly, leaning down to place a reassuring kiss against Hannibal’s temple. “I promise.”

That simple touch, merely a warm press of lips against skin, seems to pull the last ragged breaths from Hannibal’s lungs. Will braces himself, because he knows, with absolute certainty, that he won’t be handle it if Hannibal’s face crumples once more tonight. He braces himself, but instead of a hoarse sob, only a choked breath falls from Hannibal’s mouth.

Though it’s not nearly any easier for Will to witness.

It’s still hoarse, the edges noticeably rasped in its finality, puffing warmly against Will’s collarbone. It’s as if every trace of energy has left Hannibal’s body, and it’s more than apparent in the slow drag of a tear-stained cheek, nestling deeper against Will’s neck.

“Get some sleep,” Will whispers, smoothing back the stray strands that frame Hannibal’s forehead. “I’ll be right here when you wake up. I promise.”

Will knows that it’s not nearly enough, wrapping a blanket tightly around Hannibal’s shoulders, and a whispered promise of reassurance. It doesn’t feel like Will is doing nearly enough, but it seems to be a moment later.

That much becomes evident in the softened breaths, puffing warmly against his neck, and the comforting weight as Hannibal burrows deeper against his chest.

---

For the first night in nearly a month, Hannibal doesn’t dream. His sleep isn’t plagued by nightmares.

Nightmares of Will’s wrath, and eventually landing into the merciless sea below, cold and alone. Nightmares of waking up to an empty room across the hall, barren of any trace of Will.

He simply sleeps, allowing his fatigue-ridden body to finally rest, cradled within the harboring warmth of Will’s arms. A tangible reminder of unwavering reassurance, that in Will’s eyes, he’s more than enough.

 

Chapter 4

Summary:

Hannibal wakes up in Will's arms.

Hannibal’s lashes twitch—once, twice, cheek resting over Will’s chest. Fingertips are trailing up and down Hannibal’s side—slow, steady, inspiring warmth. 

He must be dreaming. He must be.

Blinking right now seems impossible. Moving, even more. Dreading the mere thought of ruining this moment, Hannibal remains as still as possible, or at least tries, because Will believes these touches are being offered in secret. Maybe, if Hannibal moves too quickly, Will might come to the realization this isn’t a desirable life after all. Particularly, with him, an over-emotional shell of what he once was; someone he himself no longer recognizes; but someone Will seems capable of tolerating, accepting. 

A thought that seems too good to be true, even after being kissed, even after receiving words of reassurance. 

He stirs for only a moment, breathing out something close to a whimper, because the pressure and scrape of denim—Will’s jeans—digging into the bullet wound is uncomfortable. Rough. Insistent. Far too close. He shifts without cracking open either eyelid, sleep-warm and slow-moving, one leg folding over the top of Will’s thigh—a movement lacking much thought for consequence, simply seeking comfort and wanting to relieve the ache on the still-tender-area. During the millisecond it takes to settle, Will’s touch falters, fingers pausing seconds later. 

Hovering. As if debating on retreating.

Hannibal freezes, chest tightening with something rancid—unshakable. He’s made a mistake. He wants to take it all back: gentle, rhythmic touches in place of comfort—comfort that does not bring relief if it means a loss of warmth, the loss of a soothing weight from work-worn fingers stroking each rib on their way down. He does not move, even though the mounting urge to nuzzle against Will’s neck is strong, ever-growing. He sucks in a barely-there-breath through the nose, and waits. Feigning sleep is easy. Natural. Though when it comes to Will, Hannibal becomes restless—with the desire to curl closer, to ask for those touches to please resume, to say it does not need to last long, only long enough, only for a single breath—and such a minimal amount of affection would be enough to last him for a lifetime. 

Breath evening out, Hannibal’s limbs remain loose and lax. His fingers, hands, arms, thighs—and within a few moments, warm fingers begin moving again. They curl protectively around Hannibal's waist, slowly rubbing up and down. The warmth makes him want to melt against Will's chest, and burrow even closer. He wants to, but shouldn't. Doing so would be greedy. He's already ruined Will's dessert. He cannot ask for more. 

Thankfully, Will's touch does not cease nor pause again. It remains steady. Hannibal, on the other hand, is feeling close to breaking—eyes beginning to sting with devastating warmth, chest tightening, lungs struggling to latch around a wail—something small, wet, and pitiful. Eventually, a teardrop slips out, splattering onto Will's shirt. Hannibal cringes, body tensing—because Will must know now. That he is awake. That he is desperate for touch. That he is unable to mask the way it unravels him, being held close. His breathing unevens, turning into a trembling exhale. He swallows, wet and rough, throat burning. 

Anything but this, Hannibal thinks as Will's fingers slow once again and pause underneath the crest of rib. They'll stop. Then retreat. He's certain. He flinches one moment later, when warm lips press against one temple, a soft and lingering weight—meant to soothe and ground. 

"You're all right, sugar."

 

Chapter 5

Summary:

During one early morning when they're sailing to another safe-house, Hannibal ends up regressing.

Will's learned quite a few things over the course of the last week.

Hannibal is incredibly touch-starved. Hannibal is prone to falling into bouts of age-regression, and those moments can end up being either incredibly heart-wrenching or incredibly heart-melting.

Today, Will experiences both sides. The sweet and clingy. The tentative and melancholic. 

Today, while holding a steaming mug of coffee, Will does not utter anything more than, "c'mere, sweetheart," when Hannibal steps on deck with glassy, slow-blinking eyes and an unsteady gait, the hatch door already open—for moments such as these. He pats one knee in reassurance, arm stretching out in case little Hannibal needs a stabilizing hand to remain upright on occasions which are few and far between, but enough to be a reminder: little Hannibal needs more assistance, more attention, more patience, more comfort from Will. He's more than willing to provide, setting down the mug on a nearby table—clasping sleep-warm fingers in one's own, guiding little Hannibal to sit down beside him.

Gaze settling on Hannibal, Will catches sight of a pink tongue peeking out, sweeping over soft, rosy lips. There is a warmth unfurling, spreading through Will's torso. He smiles, softly. "Do you want a sip?" He doesn't need to ask or watch for a responsive nod, fingers already reaching for the mug and bringing the porcelain rim to Hannibal's awaiting lips—other hand settling underneath Hannibal's chin, an anchor. Holding his sweet boy steady. Making sure there is no spillage slipping through the corners of Hannibal's open mouth. Listening to those soft, throat-clicking gulps. The coffee is cooled down, not warm enough to scald, but Will is always protective of little Hannibal. "Drink it slow, sweetheart." His fingers catch small, brown droplets, beading off Hannibal's chin like pellets of rain.

These are the moments Will's learned to cherish. Being needed. Being able to witness this new, almost shy side of Hannibal. Little Hannibal does not speak much, and Will is always left to wonder if the lack of words is due to a language barrier—obviously, this version of Hannibal is able to comprehend basic English words, but there are sometimes moments of prolonged silence, as if little Hannibal's brain is trying to translate or roughly comprehend what's being said. He leans back once finished, slowly curling up on the seat next to Will, movements tentative. 

Will's smile never wavers—not for a single second. He wipes away the leftover moisture from one hand, setting down the empty mug.

Birds are flying overhead, their far-stretching wings casting shadows over the crystal-clear water—and much like any other time spent at sea, a tranquil sense of freedom swims through Will's veins—a quiet calm, one that makes breathing easier, one that lightens the pressure of bruised ribs inside a battered chest. Here, sitting on the water-resistant sofa underneath the rising sun, with Hannibal's cheek resting on one thigh, fingers twining through seasalt-scented strands—soft silvers and gilded grays—life is finally as it should be.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Apricity