Chapter Text
"The fountains of the deep and the floodgates of the sky were stopped, and the rain from heaven was restrained." - Genesis, 8:2
The fall from the cliff had ravaged them. They owed their survival to Chiyoh who, as always, was somehow in the right place at the right time. Will couldn't remember dragging his broken body up on deck, but he must have done it. He couldn't remember much of anything from those early days, save for the crash of waves against the hull that, in reality, were probably much smaller than they felt. To Will and Hannibal though, it seemed God was trying to upend their vulnerable vessel along with their stomachs, eyeballs rattling in their sockets as they were tossed to' and fro'—like the Almighty had sent the Flood to finish what gravity and the Great Red Dragon could not.
Through it all, Will clung to the warm anchor of Hannibal's body. He couldn't recall specifics. Not Hannibal's words, not his voice; just the all-encompassing heat of him, pressed against Will in the too-small bed crammed into the cabin. It felt like they were the last two people in the world, huddled in a hellish version of Noah's Ark.
Anyone who witnessed them wrapped up in the sheets might have mistaken them for lovers, but that wasn't the case. Their physical condition wasn't suited to that kind of intimacy: their skin slick from drug-induced night sweats, frozen in position to avoid putting pressure on their wounds, when just getting out of bed felt like climbing Everest. Will wasn't even sure where he was half the time. The morphine in his blood twisted reality into ungodly shapes, convincing him they were still falling from the cliffside every time the cabin floor tilted. The spectre of Garrett Jacob Hobbs that once haunted the halls of Will's memory palace was gone—exorcised by greater demons. In his dreams Will stumbled down old corridors that once led to safety: back to Wolf Trap, where sweet Molly, Walter, and his loyal dogs used to be; to simpler times spent in boatyards with dad. Now, they led only to dead ends.
Once more trapped in the mazes of his mind, Will's fists pounded fruitlessly as the walls began to narrow, the rotting floor falling away to reveal gaping holes as he fled. From the depths came a guttural roar; a primal, reptilian beast that Will thought he'd slain with Hannibal in their dance of flashing silver and bloody teeth, souls bared beneath the light of the moon. William Blake's infamous paintings flashed past as Will ran, flinching from the shriek of mirrors shattering, shards of glass and broken teacups crunching beneath his feet. His back hurt, weighed down by leathery wings coated in blood where they'd ripped through his skin, the wound in his cheek freshly torn open, leaving a red trail.
He pretended not to notice how the paintings had changed. How the Woman Clothed in Sun had disappeared, and the Dragon now loomed over a frighteningly familiar man instead. In the broken mirrors, Hannibal's jagged reflection confronted Will: limp and pale, soaked to the bone (cause of death: suffocation by drowning), with shards of glass in place of eyes. The flicker of an old video reel cast sickening scenes, as crime scene photos cascaded from the heavens. Whole families murdered, the women brutalised and desecrated in death.
Will kept his head down, kept running; told himself it wasn't real, just another nightmare he couldn't wake up from. Tried not to see… but the recording played on, projected on the wall at every angle, reflected in the broken mirrors that held Hannibal's deathly visage. The Great Red Dragon sat crouched over his corpse, a beast of coiled muscle and pulsing desire, poised to devour him.
I considered this outcome. I almost chose it.
Will cringed, covering his ears as animalistic sounds filled the air, a soundtrack of horrors he couldn't block out. There was no demon in the mirror now, just himself reflected in the shards; hunched between Hannibal's legs, feeling the press of clammy skin and the pulseless, unresponsive muscles absent pumping blood, melding with the strength of the Dragon—
A tortured whimper filled the cabin. Will's fingers dug into the mattress, his eyes open but unseeing, hostage to the host of chemicals tampering with his internal gauge. Begging to be dragged out of his own head… That was, until he met with the warm, solid body beside him. Not the carnal puppet of a corpse.
Relief, quiet and broken, clawed its way up Will's throat. He pressed blindly closer to the source of life, a compass finding north.
That's right… he wasn't the Dragon. The Dragon would never be welcome aboard the Ark, because the Dragon was the only one of his kind. God would force him to endure the Flood alone, and sit upon his throne of bones when the waters finally receded.
Will Graham was not alone. In such terrifying times of slippage, there was only one constant—one need—that made sense. Touch. Warmth. Because if he could feel warmth, it meant Hannibal was still alive.
I know who I am, Will prayed, holding onto his other half for dear life.