Chapter Text
Will Graham is dreaming.
Sometimes, from beneath weighted eyelids, he catches glimpses of things he believes to be real: a blurred kaleidoscope of images. Chocolate dark eyes watching him with a strange mixture of concern and resentment. A bowl of soup, cupped by slender fingers. A Cupid's bow mouth which curves in encouragement as he allows himself to be spoon-fed. A woman's voice - low, exotic - crooning words of comfort when he cries out in the dark.
Sometimes, in a feverish state of partial awareness, he finds himself reliving moments: crouching, his shaking hands pressing down on the torn windpipe of a young girl; sitting, bloodied and bruised, ridiculously and inexplicably happy, in the shadow of Botticelli's Primavera; plunging, down towards an inky black ocean, cradled by strong arms. These memories he surfaces from smiling, face anointed with tears.
Sometimes slender arms, surprisingly strong, lift him, pushing his feet to the floor. Force him to move, small shuffling steps that steal his breath and draw soft noises of protest from his throat as that oddly familiar alto voice raps out brusque orders: 'Lift your arms,' 'Stand,' 'Walk,' 'Sit,' 'Lie down.'
Then there are the times he needs to withdraw from the pain he knows his body is experiencing, despite feeling disconnected from that bruised, battered shell. His default escape has always been his river, mind submerging easily into the cool flowing water as he escapes whatever is troubling him, but there comes a point when even that gentle paradise isn't enough to beat back the intense physical pangs. And so he seeks retreat instead in a borrowed sanctuary: Byzantine mosaics, Norman architecture and a graven skull at the foot of the altar.
Sunlight floods the empty chapel through a myriad of stained glass, warming the slatted wooden chairs. Will takes a seat in the front pew, crosses one leg over the other and folds his hands neatly into his lap as he closes his eyes and lifts his head to bathe in the golden silence. He senses that he has company before the tiny creak of muscles impacting wood and he knows that Hannibal now sits beside him. Whether Will has conjured his image or whether their memory palaces have merged, allowing each to seek the other in their moment of greatest need, he cannot tell. It is enough that Hannibal is here. And a tiny smile plays about his lips.
But right now Will is dreaming.
He's standing on his front porch at Wolf Trap, staring out across the darkening fields, dressed in a tuxedo. He knows he's dreaming because he sold the Wolf Trap house shortly before he and Molly married and relocated to Maine, and he doesn't own a tux. But no matter. He checks his watch; it's a little after seven. At this rate, they're going to miss the first act. Right on cue, the squeak of the front door as it's pushed open by a firm hand.
He opens his mouth to speak but finds that he can't. Frowning, he tries again, but his lips are glued together and he has to work really hard to peel them apart. Eventually, he manages to squeeze out a few rusty syllables: 'Ha - Ha - nnibal.'
A sharp inhalation and then a voice - accented, male, different from the one he's become accustomed to hearing every day. This voice he knows as well as his own and it evokes a unique response: a slow, sweet ache that starts in his belly and curls long tendrils up and up to squeeze his battered heart and constrict his throat. He hears it often in his dreams.
'Lie still please, Will.'
Will releases a long sigh. He struggles to open his eyes and becomes aware of himself and his surroundings in increments, pieces of a puzzle slotting together with each slow breath. He's wearing pyjama bottoms, lying in the same large bed he seems to have occupied for aeons, and there's an IV butterfly in the back of his hand. He lifts his arm experimentally and grimaces as pain shoots up his bandaged right side.
'Easy, Will. If you move too much, you risk further injury.' A gentle admonishment.
Will turns his head gingerly, wincing as the stitches in his cheek catch on the brushed pillowcase. At the same time he registers the sensation of smooth skin against soft cotton and details from another shredded memory filter into his consciousness: scented foam, a glinting straight razor, swift strokes wielded by a steady hand. Will blinks and the memory evaporates. He focuses instead on the source of the voice.
Hannibal sits in a winged high-back armchair, face obscured by shadows, fingers laced together across his stomach. His appearance is starkly formal, as of old: hair swept to the side, grey slacks, eggshell button-down, russet tie and grey vest. Remote and slightly forbidding. Will wonders hazily whether he could have dreamed Hannibal getting shot, no sign of injury immediately apparent.
'We survived, then.' His voice is husky from disuse and slightly slurred.
'Yes, we survived.' Hannibal tilts his head, tone expressionless. 'Does that upset you?'
Will's not sure how he feels. Actually, right now he doesn't feel much of anything. He’s floating in a cloud of couldn't-give-a-shit and he's pretty sure that's mostly down to the IV drip. He doesn't ask what's in it.
'I'm... surprised. It was a long drop.' He matches Hannibal's neutral tone, enunciating carefully to minimise the slurring.
Blinking away his initial bleariness, Will notes with dispassion the grey-tinged pallor of Hannibal's complexion and the careful way he holds himself. Ah, not one of his dreams then.
Hannibal leans forward, pupils glinting red in the reflected glow of the ceiling lamp.
'The teacup came together, Will. For us, it seems, it always does.' And he smiles, a darkling thing.