Work Text:
Will Graham was a simple man.
He had simple ways and pleasures, more liable to find contentment in the cradle of silence and loyal, furry companions than in the often overwhelming lap of luxury.
He believed in spending the time he wasn’t stuck behind other people’s eyes slowly and quietly. Opting for easy, comforting pastimes that did not demand brainpower or socialization, like fishing.
His other interests, such as boat repairing and fly-crafting, made for a welcome exertion of his muscles and mobility that often exhausted him enough to let him crash into unconsciousness much faster than he was usually able to. Fishing, though,with its ample gaps of waiting time, allowed for the more elusive phenomenon of complete mind blankness to grace his ailing psyche.
One of his favorite types of fishing, born of a coastal-flavored upbringing spent more on the deck of a boat or plainly in the open water than on solid ground, was open water fishing. There was a thrill of risk that the creeks and rivers, while more relaxing, could not recreate, and Will, claustrophobic inside his own mind-clipped-toothed Will, relished with a voracity carefully concealed until there were several miles of water between him and proper civilization.
Of course, this particular type of fishing required a boat or similar vessel that could guarantee a certain degree of safety and haul Will and his equipment all the way out into the blue and all the way back with his catch without leaving him to the elements.
Will, used to boatyards filled with perfectly good boats with unsuspecting, uncaring, rich owners that surely would not notice if, after fixing it, good ol’ Beau Graham took their boat out “to test it” (and even more surely would not notice a tiny, blue-eyed stowaway). had always had a vessel in hand, and was no stranger to “making do” with whatever challenges the weather or the equipment could throw at him.
This, while understandable, did not fully explain how Will Graham, empath, FBI special agent, Quantico professor, former NOLA PD, found himself on a unicorn floatie being carted around the open sea by a shark, half mindedly tugging on his fishing rod, and feeling perfectly at peace while he sipped on a lukewarm beer, cool as a cucumber.
It was a lovely day, the cool ocean water kept him from suffering under the sunlight, and he had resolved to enjoy the weather as long as he could before a shadow fell upon his closed eyes, making him wrinkle his nose in disgruntlement
A yacht, by the sound of it, probably filled to the brim with rich snobs that would ogle at him for a bit before, at best, leaving him alone, or at worst, calling the coast guard.
Will resolves to ignore them entirely, mentally urging the shark (a black tip, the least of his worries at the moment, even though a part of his mind fears for the state of its mouth on account of the hook lodged in it) to haul him away faster, preferably in the direction of the shore.
“DOCTOR LECTER! HE’S NOT MOVING!” screams Jack Crawford.
“For fucks sake” thinks Will Graham, and gives a weak tug to the line, half to dissuade Jack from jumping over board to check he, and more importantly his brain, had not in fact left the mortal coil, and half to urge the shark to haul ass.
“Will? Can you hear me?” says no other than Doctor Alana Bloom, as professional and kind-sounding as usual but decidedly concerned as Will refuses to open his eyes for a few more seconds, trying to prepare himself for the utter tomfoolery he senses to be afoot.
And then the shark decides to surface, flailing, causing Will’s loyal steed to capsize.
“For fucks sake” thinks Will Graham, losing his grip on the fishing rod to try and remain afloat.
Aboard the ship, screaming begins.
The next events occur in rapid succession, somehow the shark manages to cut the line,someone screams Will’s name, and then a rope is snug under his armpits and he's being hauled on board with frightening speed, before being enveloped by the linen covered arms of none other than Doctor Hannibal Lecter.
Will refuses to open his eyes, this situation must for sure be a product of his fucked up brain, maybe he’s finally overdosed on aspirin and this is God’s way of punishing him one last time, by making him go through one last excruciating social situation.
“He needs mouth to mouth! Stand aside everyone, I’m an expert!” says Frederick Chilton.
Will yanks himself from the good doctor’s embrace, jerking to a sitting position against the man’s chest when Hannibal won’t let go of him.
“I’m fine! Everything’s fine.”
He takes in the scene in front of him, Alana, Jack, Frederick and about ten unknown old people that reek of dollar bills all stare at him with a wide arrange of emotions flitting about their slightly red faces, and Will decides right then and there that Davy Jones’s locker is a much preferable location than whatever the hell he’s stumbled into, so he subtly attempts to shuffle closer to the edge of the deck, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that whatever awaits under the blue is much better than what is unfolding up top.
“You’ll allow me my doubts, Dear Will, considering we stumbled upon you in the middle of the ocean, with no vessel to speak of, or way back.”
As Dr Lecter speaks calmly, his hands are anything but, pressing against Will’s throat, his wrists, his forehead, turning him around to check his pupils quickly before Will bats him away.
“It was all under control, I would have found my way back eventually. Or the coast guard would have caught wind of my little voyage.”
“You were floating adrift in open water with only a brightly colored flotation device as a vessel, if one might even call it that, being lugged about by a predator of the deep. you’ll surely forgive me my doubts.”
Will’s eyes catch on a patch of freckles on the little hollow right under the good doctor’s hand, he latches onto its existence with all his might to avoid actually saying the snarky reply about predators of the shallow that is attempting to spill from his lips
“No, I don’t think I will.” he mutters instead.
Will swears he hears the rumble of something underneath the doctor’s damp linen shirt (laughter? angry growling? indigestion?) before he’s effectively lifted up in a bridal carry, and carted off to a ridiculously white lounge chair under a ridiculously white parasol and gently deposited on his back, to his immortal mortification.
“Will Graham, FBI profiler and lady in distress” Will thinks, half delirious, as he stares into the deep maroon eyes of the predator lugging him about, who looks much too pleased with himself, if Will may say so.
“He probably needs fluids, we can’t rule out heat stroke” says Alana, her voice popping the lurid bubble that Dr Lecter and Will so often find themselves confined to.
“Read my mind, Doctor Bloom. Here!” Says Chilton, and proceeds to invade Will’s field of vision with a big ol’ glass of bubbly that Will gratefully accepts and downs before the good doctor can snatch it out of his hands, not willing to handle this situation sober.
“The goal is to hydrate the patient, Dr Chilton!” Alana says, bordering on pissed off.
“He seems alright to me” says Dr Bedelia DuMaurier, and tilts her wine glass at Will, who wonders how he hadn’t noticed her particular brand of nonchalance permeating the air.
She wraps an arm around Alana’s waist while she continues to lecture Chilton about proper procedure, serene and unflappable as a lush can be.
While they argue, Dr Lecter presses the cool neck of a water bottle to Will’s chapped mouth, his eyebrows (non existent as they are) set into a clear nonverbal order to drink before he decides to make him.
Will, suddenly struck with the realization that Dr Hannibal Lecter is exactly the type of freak to keep fluids and an IV line on his first aid line up, obeys.
As he does, he takes note of the other people on the boat; a handful of prissy new money types huddle together away from their little impromptu display.
Jack (wearing a flowered shirt what the fuck-) stands a little ways from them, next to his wife, Bella, who is doing her best to ignore how her spouse is turning increasingly more red every second Dr Lecter spends with his hands on Jack’s most prized bloodhound, who is literally drinking from the doctors hand.
Will closes his eyes and swallows the cool water, missing the way Dr Lecter’s eyes track the movement of his throat.
It takes a couple minutes before the many medical professionals on board decide on a verdict, but after much deliberation and prodding of the subject, Will is deemed no more delirious than usual.
Dr Lecter, of course, doesn’t let up on him anyway, and the setting sun sees Will in all his unshaved, wet white t-shirt plastered to his chest glory, sitting on the same ridiculous lounge chair with his eyes closed.
“Maybe if I move very slowly, they won't notice me swipe away a life saver.” he thinks halfheartedly, nursing another water bottle against the side of his neck, pleasingly cool against his sun warmed skin.
He can feel a slight sunburn blossoming on the bridge of his nose.
“I presume you neglected to apply sun protection when you left for your voyage?”
Will opens his eyes a sliver, runs his hand down his face to wake himself up and lets it settle over his mouth to hide his grimace when the touch pulls at his reddening skin.
“Not really, no.” he groans.
Dr Lecter looks at him with a strange mix of disapproval and fondness.
“Very unadvised move on your part, Dear Will, skin cancer is one of the highest silent killers in the world” he says.
As if it's Will’s fault that his family line carries as much melanin as it does serotonin output and the sun seems to have the same vendetta against him the rest of the world seems to have.
Before Will has the time to retort something cutting that’s bound to make him the next chunk of flesh on the grill that Jack is currently waging holy war on, Dr Lecter crowds his personal space.
Will, who really should be used to this by now, closes his eyes.
The expected choke-hold, stabbing or other nefarious maneuver Wills brain has cooked up in the span of two seconds never comes, just a soothing, cooling sensation on the bridge of his nose and high on his cheeks, almost under his eyes.
“There, much better.”
When one sense goes, the other ones become amplified. It is a simple matter of compensating, to assure survival at all costs, even in the direst of the circumstances. This had been in one of Will’s psych classes, hell, hes taught this rule himself to oodles of fresh faced FBI hopefuls in the last handful of years.
What he means to say is that, with his eyes closed, the rest of his senses, aware of the predator standing before him, have gone absolutely haywire.
The scent of the cooling agent in the aftersun lotion isn’t quite as pungent as the type Will’s dad would slather him with on the worst days of summer, but it still makes Will’s eyes prickle a bit. Underneath,Will can smell the faintest trace of glycerin on the Doctor’s skin “figures he’d choose a scentless sunblock, the absolute dandy” he thinks as he catches it. He can feel the heat of the setting sun still warming the air around him, and feel the pressure of Hannibal’s breath (clean, ever so slightly alcoholic) against his mouth.
Will doesn’t move, not when the boat sways in the current, not when Chilton’s laughter (too squeaky even though he’s obviously attempting to make it deeper) rings like a gunshot, not even when Hannibal moves his hand to the back of Will’s head, and grips on to the curly, salt crusted hair there.
Dr Lecter keeps him there, tethered, moored, still even in the open sea. Will gets the distinct impression that Jack could start mauling art patrons for his grilling crusade and they would remain exactly as they are even through the carnage.
“I tried to invite you, you know, but could not reach you” Hannibal murmurs.
“I can be hard to find” Will answers.
“Not when you don’t want to be” is the whisper back.
“Hm” Will clutches his eyes closed tighter.
“I must admit I enjoy the sight of you out here, it is as if you come to life, even on that ghastly, dangerous thing you decided to venture out on, you looked more relaxed than I have ever seen you” The velvet whisper of Hannibal’s voice blows like wind against Will’s mouth.
He’s suddenly starving.
“I thought you wanted me to worry less” He says back.
“Not when you stop worrying about your safety, Dear Will. Never then.”
Sounds of clanging metal reach them as Jack’s battle rages on.
“Shouldn’t you go check on your guests?” Will asks, getting dangerously close to intoxicated.
“Wouldn’t want to crowd the grill” Hannibal answers, Will can almost taste his smirk.
“The problem is” Will thinks, absentmindedly, as Hannibal tightens his grip ever so slightly “that the grill is crowded enough”
Whatever carnage could ensue here today would most likely be caused by the monster holding him so tenderly, and Will, sun warm, perfectly sober, would let him.
Join him, even. if he’s honest with himself.
Will thinks about Frederick Chilton, of all things. about the gnarly scars under his slightly sweaty linen shirt, about the flesh on the grill and the flesh under the sun and huge ,antlered creatures and stolen daughters and so much blood clotting and drying under the unforgiving sky.
Will stands abruptly, losing a few dark strands to Hannibal’s startled grip.
“I feel better, thanks. I’m gonna go see if Jack needs any help.”
“Nonsense, I’m sure Uncle Jack can deal with a few choice cuts by himself”
“I’d be concerned he’d handle himself a little too well” says Will, and steps away from the shade, blinking in the sunlight on his way to the banister on starboard.
The sight of the blue sea (strikingly, almost too blue) snaps him out of it, the sea spray wakes him from whatever drunken haze the heat had put him in, and kickstarts his brain back to the severity of the situation.
He is on a boat surrounded by snobs, psychiatrists, fbi agents with personal grudges, and Hannibal Lecter.
He looks half heartedly at the sea, hoping to see the stirrings of his shark steed.
If he’s going to be eaten, he’d prefer a natural predator to one that would season him before eating him.
Out the corner of his eye, he notices Jack wander over to him, no wonder about to grill him about whatever had transpired under the parasol,
He braces himself, but then, he sees it.
There, bobbing atop the waves, bright white and pink and miraculously still inflated, was Will’s unicorn floatie.
And behind it, so much closer than he had realized before, land.
Will hoists himself over the banister, swings his legs over, and dives off the deck.
Someone yelps.
Will hits the water smiling, and starts swimming as fast as his newly invigorated body will allow him to catch the floatie before it bobs out of his reach.
Miraculously, he grabs it, still as firm as it was when he left port so many lifetimes ago, and hoists himself up into it, almost giggling.
And starts swimming.
Much later, when he makes it home and his dogs lick at his salty skin, Will catches the barest whiff of the cooling lotion, somehow still on his skin.
Altough exhausted, sleep takes its sweet time coming, and Will tosses and turns his aching muscles, burning even in the cool of night.
The next morning, ignoring the messages on his phone, Will finds a box outside his door.
It contains cooling lotion, a tupperware of grilled meat, and bones.
"For the sea dogs" a card reads.