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My fucking face hurts.
Will doesn’t realize that he said the words until he hears something resembling a snort from nearby.
Hannibal?
He moves what little of himself that he can, that isn’t frozen or in pain (which isn’t much, granted). Face First in the wet shore sand, yes, Hannibal Lecter is next to him. Will can just make out the smirk on the man’s face. Or is that a grimace?
“Shut up,” Will knows he says that aloud, at least.
Hannibal chuckles. Then he grunts, and suddenly he’s closer, rolling over onto his back to face the sky with Will. The sun is just climbing into the sky, and together, they have the opportunity to watch it rise amidst beautiful, reaching hues of purple and orange and pink. Will tries to laugh and coughs instead, spitting out some residual ocean water. The salt of it stings the inside of his cheek where he’d been stabbed.
“We’ll die if we stay here,” Hannibal remarks.
Will turns onto his good cheek to face the man. He looks nothing like Will remembers from their sessions, where he sat prim, every part of him meticulously in place. Now, ruffled, windswept, ocean-swept, he lay there, bullet wound and all, staring into Will’s eyes with a gentleness that is naked and new.
“That’s what I was trying to do,” He whispers.
Hannibal shuts his eyes, opens them, and then smiles at Will. He’s practically glowing with happiness, and Will doesn’t know how he feels about it. He tries to study his own emotions and he can only determine that he’s amazed that they are alive.
“I won’t lie,” Hannibal spoke softly. “I wouldn’t mind if we still died. So long as you stay by my side.”
Will can feel his mind wandering, melting away into darkness. Before he fades into unconsciousness, he finds himself returning the smile. Then he sank as he had into the Chesapeake bay.
But he wasn’t alone.
*
Will wakes up warm and bandaged. There’s the taste of blood in his mouth, and also the tang of something chemical. He opens one eye and squints at the dimly lit room, grateful that it’s not a hospital. No beeping machinery. It’s all still so fresh in his mind, as is the irony that Hannibal is the one with the wound in his stomach this time.
Hannibal, who lays next to him, in the same bed. The blankets are drawn to their shoulders. There’s a fan whirring on the ceiling. In the distance, Will can hear dishes and silverware clacking. Beneath that, he can hear the house creaking, and the sound of rain beating against the curtained window to his right. He’s impossibly warm but not hot, he feels amazing, high on some sort of painkiller. His cheek doesn’t feel like a knife just stabbed into it.
“You’re awake,” Hannibal’s voice is hoarse. His hand twitches near Will’s, their pinky fingers brushing.
“You are too,” Will faces him again, like he did on the shore. He feels like he’s laying on a cloud. “Since we’re stating the obvious.”
A huff of breath that shakes the bed slightly. Their fingers press together. Will shuts his eyes, still facing his bedmate, and offers a tired smile.
“How is your fucking face?” Hannibal asks.
“It’s fucking fine,” Will answers. He drifts, dozing. When he pulls himself into consciousness, he clasps Hannibal’s hands in his fully.
Hannibal.
Together, they sleep, safe and warm. The bitter cold of the ocean and the shoreside is forgotten, replaced by the warmth of their bed, the closeness between them. Identical smiles are on their faces when Chiyoh checks on them.
She doesn’t smile. Inside, though, she is grateful. She has done her part, after all.
She closes the door behind her and walks away.