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A black sea gurgles and churns like boiling tar, the waves on its surface like small hands reaching, reaching, grabbing at Will’s body and fusing to him, pulling him under.
He can’t breathe, and suddenly the sea turns red, turns to blood, and none of it’s his. Will can hear the screams bubbling out of it, foreign, and his own voice has congealed in his throat.
He listens harder and he suddenly realizes that these voices are not foreign. He recognizes them. On some level he knows them; knows he caused their screaming.
Everything is too hot, too suffocating, he’s drowning, he’s dying. There’s glass surrounding him now, suspended in the murk, and he can see his flesh melting off.
He opens what’s left of his mouth, and the voices rush in like knives, shredding him to pieces.
________
Will wakes, shuddering, gasping for air, sitting upright so fast he retches into his hands a bit. His head spins, and he recognizes the feeling of being cold and hot all at once, soaked in sweat.
He slides out of bed, paces a bit, and then pauses, glancing back to the figure occupying the other side of the mattress.
Will sees Hannibal looking at him in the dark, the ghost of a raised eyebrow on his sleep-clouded face. Will isn’t sure what Hannibal thinks of these dreams, and the fact that Will still has them. He could see them as mere curiosities at best, strange ties to who Will used to be, or deep-seated betrayals at worst, a sign of cracks in his loyalty. Hannibal makes no move to beckon Will back to bed; Will would not have complied, anyway. He’s much too wired.
Will knows that far down in his subconscious there is still something that rebels against this life he has chosen; that he’s not really as much like Hannibal as he appears during the waking hours. There’s something in him that’s repulsed by all of this, a voice that has been sedated, strapped to a gurney and fed empty platitudes like a twentieth century mental patient. It’s only at night that it thrashes, creates a fuzz and a mess, and sometimes it breaks free.
It will claw its way, feral and shouting, to the front of Will’s dreams and curdle them, so they’re left as grotesque and sickening as it is. Will is left sweat-soaked and awake in their indistinct shadows.
He strips off his t-shirt and makes his way to the porch. He used to find Abigail out here often, and they would sit in silent understanding. She sleeps much better now. Once in a blue moon she’ll sip her tea, lean on the railing, but Will can no longer tell if it’s out of habit or reasons similar to his.
It makes him wonder, sometimes, how well he’s really cut out for all of this. He would never want anything else, not now, but it’s something to think about, if having this life will eventually destroy him. He will never leave it, so either he will mentally survive or he will not, and he’s thought about this enough to realize he is fine with either outcome. If a full mental break is to happen, at least it will be predated by happiness. It’s a far better deal than any of his previous mental breaks.
Will knew exactly what he was getting into. He’d only thought he was slightly more equipped for it.
Will stands outside for the better part of an hour, the city asleep below him. The wall clock reads 3:30 AM when he ambles back into the kitchen, sleep pulling at him like the moon pulls the tide - gentle but insistent.
Hannibal had changed the sheets, Will notices, when he crawls back into bed, laid out a new shirt for him.
He doesn’t put it on, instead choosing to worm his way into Hannibal’s grip, relaxing immediately when Hannibal wraps warm arms around Will’s torso. Will sighs into his shoulder, falling asleep to a slight press of Hannibal’s lips to his head, and a hand smoothing his hair.
It’s a dreamless sleep, the kind experienced by those too mentally worn out to fabricate anything other than endless black.
___________
Will is groggy the next day; he’d slept soundly after his nightmare, but those kinds of dreams have a nasty, lingering effect. They leave Will unsettled and anxious, jittering deep in his bones, almost impossible to shake out. It’s these days where Will is suddenly glad he no longer has a job to get to.
In his old life, he used to force a calm façade over himself and hope it didn’t crack, biding his time until he was home or he stopped wanting to jump out of his skin. Now, with a big empty apartment in front of him, he can just wait it out, pacing in incessant, erratic shapes.
It’s late afternoon when Will realizes he’s been staring at the window, wishing he could throw himself out of it. He needs air, he’s suffocating, and if a fall from this height was not actually fatal Will isn’t sure he would have been able to stop himself from jumping.
Will makes a beeline for the door instead, stopping by the fridge to grab some leftover meat and shrugging his coat over his shoulders on his way to the lobby.
It’s windy out, and the leftover winter chill bites at his face as he walks. The days are hit and miss now, some warm, some not. Will shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers wrapping around the thinly sliced cutlets covered in plastic.
He walks back streets, in a way that suggests he has a specific destination, but the precise location of this destination is not always constant.
Will turns down a familiar alley, sees nothing, and moves on to the next, and the next, until there’s the rustling of trash behind him, a padding of feet, and suddenly there’s a wet nose and warm breath shoving itself at his pocket.
Will smiles down at the stray, calm washing over him.
She’s a sad looking thing, and she’s been here for a while. Her coat is a mottled brown, some natural coloring, mostly dirt. She’s gotten heavier though, ever since Will found her.
Will sits down on the grimy alley cobble and pushes his hands into the dog’s fur. She clambers into his lap, knocking him over, and Will laughs, loud and sincere. If there is one aspect of his old life that Will does miss, it’s his dogs. There aren’t many strays in this city. He’s almost brought this one home several times.
Usually after he’s had a nightmare.
Will takes the meat out of his pocket and she eats with a fervor. Will watches her, stroking her head. He doesn’t want to leave her out here, not this time. So he doesn’t.
She makes a mess of the master bath and leaves footprints on more than a few rugs, and Will calls her Maggie.
Will grins when, later, Hannibal eyes him with a knowing look, and then sighs, bits of exasperated fondness curling at the edges of his breath. He pats Maggie on the head, and kisses Will on the cheek.
He holds an arm around Will’s waist as they watch Abigail play with Maggie on the floor, both girls excited and equally smitten.
____________
Will hears Abigail screaming, an ear piercing sound of fear and agony.
He runs down the hallway, opening door after door to find her. But the hallway keeps getting longer, darker, and more twisted, and behind each door is a grotesque face. They reach for him, the faces, each one getting closer to sinking their teeth into Will’s neck than the last.
The floor becomes sticky, and Will can hardly walk. He still tries to run, but the soles of his feet adhere to the wood and rip off, piece by piece. Will leaves a trail of skin and bloody footprints.
When he finds Abigail, what feels like eons later, he’s exhausted, and there’s a deep seated pain radiating through his body. Her voice is ringing in his ears. Her screams have died, the last one a garbled version of his name.
The final room in this vile hall, her room, is ugly and indistinct. It’s empty except for her. Abigail is crumpled in the middle of the floor, bleeding out from the neck, and she stares at him, wide-eyed and panicked.
Will looks down and he sees blood, on his hands and his shirt, and he’s holding the knife. Abigail dies gasping by his hand, betrayed and terrified.
____________
Abigail hears Maggie padding down the hallway, and she knows Will must be too.
Sleep had left her, for the moment, so she stands and exits her room. She finds the balcony doors open, and Will sitting on the concrete, stroking Maggie absently.
She sits down next to him, hands him tea and takes over petting while he drinks, her own mug steaming softly beside her.
It’s been a few weeks since Maggie joined them. It’s been around the same amount of time since Abigail has last heard Will frenetically awake in the small hours.
Maggie is a lovely dog, calm or excited when the situation calls for it. She curls on her side now, resting her head in Will’s lap and draping her tail over Abigail’s.
Will and Abigail drink their tea together over the sleeping city, waiting for the calm surrounding them to seep under their skin. They say nothing; they never do.
Abigail returns to her room before Will, leaving him with a kiss on the head and taking his empty mug to the sink. Their dog remains on his lap, sound asleep.
She walks back into the kitchen hours later, grabbing breakfast before class, and spots Will, still outside, in the morning chill. He has not moved, and he has not slept.
Abigail brings him a blanket, worry coiling in her gut.
_____________
Abigail sits on Concetta’s bed, crosslegged and watching her friend spin in her chair. Classes are done for the day. Concetta’s quaint stone building is on the way to Abigail’s apartment, so Abigail will stop in most days, and pass a few hours in Concetta’s company. Concetta is as close a friend as Abigail is able to have, and the hours she spends with her are happy ones.
Today, though, Abigail is fidgety, uncomfortable, glancing at the wall clock and playing with her hair.
“What is up with you today Abby? You are very much…. not calm.” Concetta breaks the silence suddenly and stares at her, stopping her chair’s circular motion with her foot. She uses English, when she’s in her home with Abigail. Her parent’s don’t understand, and her little brother is only just learning. They could talk about whatever they wanted this way, she’d said once.
Abigail starts, breaking her eyes away from an indistinct spot on the far wall, and lets go of her hair. Concern scratches at her stomach, and she is itching to get home.
“Sorry.” She doesn’t offer an explanation, only folds her hands in her lap.
She always worries about leaving Will after one of his dreams. He never looks good the next day, always drawn, always strung up the highest he can go. Abigail used to have a lot more of those dreams; she knows the persisting effects they have, and that being alone with them is fairly unpleasant.
This particular dream had seemed especially awful.
In the wee hours and in the mornings, Will has Abigail to help push the skittering aftermath away, contain it in a jar almost bursting its lid. He also has Hannibal - Abigail always notices the increase in lingering, tender touches on mornings after, the way Will leans into them like he’s desperate - but Hannibal inevitably leaves for the University, and she must leave for school.
Abigail knows that as soon as he’s alone, it all comes back, overflowing like spiders. She’s had her own fair share of spider-filled days.
Will now, at least, has Maggie to help stamp them out.
“What is getting to you?”
Abigail shakes her head, startled again; she’d gone off following her trails of concern, leaving this room only to have her friend’s voice snap her back for the second time.
She scratches her arm, trying to focus and find words. “I’m just distracted I guess. Worried…about-”
Abigail stops. She can’t say why she’s worried, she never can. Concetta is staring, concerned and waiting, and Abigail says the first thing she can think of.
“Maggie’s sick. My dad’s taking her to the vet. I haven’t heard anything back.”
Concetta nods, understanding. She clamors over to the bed and sits next to Abigail, hanging on her arm.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine Abigaille! She was on her own for a while, yes? Dealt with all kinds of things before you found her. She’s strong!” Concetta smiles, rubbing Abigail’s hand with her own.
Abigail’s worry leaves her slowly at the words. Will is the same. He had been alone, for much longer stretches of time, and he had survived.
Later, she unlocks her front door with a call to Will in the darkening apartment. There’s no answer, and there’s no Maggie to greet her either.
Abigail finds them both on the couch, out like a light and covered in the blanket, and she smiles.
____________
Will wakes to a smile. It’s not a pleasant one.
It’s on his lower abdomen, splitting him open like a rotten log, spilling his guts everywhere. Somehow, he is still alive, and he can still stand, and there’s something pulling him forward. The pain is excruciating, but he cannot stop moving.
There’s a figure, and he recognizes the lines of it’s back. He would know it anywhere, everywhere, and for all time. He would know that form always.
Hannibal rounds on him, smile soft and hand bloody, holding a curved knife. There’s entrails stuck around his mouth, and he beckons Will closer. Will feels the ghost of the blade slicing him, hears strange laugher and feels a predatory, satisfied smile against his lips. Still, Will almost relaxes at the sight; it’s his immediate response, now, when he sees Hannibal.
But Hannibal is twisting and warping and his skin is full of holes. He grows large antlers and leaks black, out of every orifice, until he is nothing but ink. He takes this form, and takes several steps towards Will, and Will can no longer move.
Will should be afraid. But he cannot find it in him, even holding his bowels and knowing the creature before him is the culprit. He welcomes this creature, because it is familiar, and Will’s surroundings are not. They are foggy and indistinct.
It is going to kill him; Will is going to die a brutal, painful death. He will be shredded and eaten and there is a small voice inside him growing louder, screaming in fear, but it’s housed in his abdomen. And his abdomen is leaking everything at this moment.
Still, the fear manages to dig in it’s claws, to cripple his vocal chords, one by one, while something else fights to calm him down. Will gurgles with the conflict, stumbling.
He won’t last much longer.
As quickly as the wendigo appeared it is gone, sucked back in and replaced by a concerned face and a clean hand, with no visible knife. Hannibal walks towards him, mouthing Will’s name, catching him before he collapses.
Hannibal cradles his face, but the fear is consuming Will now. It’s raking at what’s left of his insides, and Will feels the sudden weight of a knife in his hand. He watches in a different kind of horror as his arm is raised, and his hand plunges the knife into Hannibal’s back, between his shoulder blades.
The blade exits and reenters Hannibal’s flesh again, and again, until there is nothing left of his back and there is no life in his eyes.
That other, instinctual fear releases it’s hold the second Hannibal drops, and Will drops with him, frantically grabbing at his face, his arms. But Hannibal is gone, and Will is alone, and he is still dying.
They die by each others hands, and Will tries to scream, tries to cry, but the only sound that reaches his ears is laughter.
____________
Hannibal feels the other side of the bed jump, and suddenly his back is exposed to cold air. The sheets next to him are damp, and he hears Will breathing heavily. Maggie jumps off the foot of the bed and trots to Will’s side.
It’s another nightmare. Hannibal recognizes that the frequency of them has decreased drastically since their arrival in Florence, but is also well aware that there are parts of Will that object to his current lifestyle, and those parts have chosen dreams as an outlet.
Hannibal had worked hard to pull Will’s darker sections out in front, smothering most of the rest. Some still remained, but Hannibal has no problem with this. They are dominant, and they are fading. This had been the first nightmare in six weeks. He most likely will always have these dreams, these remnants, but Will’s loyalties and intentions have never been clearer. Nighttime fabrications of his mind only shake him up, never apart. Soon they may barely shake him at all.
Hannibal has no problem, only mild concern for the state Will tends to work himself into in the aftermath.
Hannibal waits to feel the weight of the mattress shift, signaling Will has left the bed, but it does not come. Instead the room is perfectly still, and through the dark Will’s breath comes in wild, shallow gasps.
He’s hyperventilating.
Hannibal turns over and lifts himself up onto his elbow, looking up at Will in the bruised blue of the small hours.
He’s soaked, and his hands are shaking, clutching frantically at his stomach, ignoring Maggie’s nudging head completely. At Hannibal’s movement Will’s eyes snap towards him, afraid and desperate.
Will grabs at him, clutching his arms, his hands, resting a few fingers on the pulse in his neck, as if making sure Hannibal is still real, still here, still alive.
Hannibal grabs onto Will’s arms, sits up, and steadies him. There are tears forming in the corners of his eyes now.
This is not normal; Will is never so brutally affected, he’s never come this close to falling to pieces from a mere dream, and Hannibal wonders what Will must have seen behind his eyelids.
He reaches for Hannibal’s face, pulling his head forward. Will kisses him like he’s in pain, hard and pleading and leaking small drops of relief, eyes screwed shut and fingers scrabbling at the hair on the base of his neck.
Hannibal wraps his arms around Will’s torso, tucks his faces into his shoulder and places a soothing hand on the back of his head, holding him there until his breathing evens out and sleep overtakes him.
Hannibal does not sleep. Instead he watches Will.
__________
“The University can survive a day without me, I’m sure.” Hannibal speaks firmly, but, as always, politely, into the phone. He motions for Maggie to sit, and smooths a hand across her head.
“Dr. Fell, the presentations are in less than a week - ”
Hannibal’s voice hardens more. His answer had been made clear several times.
“My husband is ill. You will have to work without me, for today. I apologize,” he states, a final time, hanging up immediately after and leaving his study. He closes the door behind him, blocking out the ringer.
Will is still sleeping.
He’d woken up four more times in a panic throughout the course of the night, like his brain was throwing him aftershocks of a devastating quake. Each time Hannibal had soothed him, coaxed him back to sleep, but it was fitful and Will’s face held none of the peace that unconsciousness should bring.
Hannibal walks softly into their bedroom, sits down on the bed beside Will, and hovers a hand over his head a moment, deliberating. Normally Hannibal leaves Will to his own devices, more or less, when these dreams haunt him, because he can handle himself.
This time, at least, that assumption is wrong.
Will stirs when Hannibal’s hand runs through his hair, blinking blearily up at him. Will turns over slowly, sitting up as if in a stupor, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He takes Hannibal’s hand and holds it loosely in his lap.
“You should be at work.” Will’s voice is rumpled and crusted, wedged deep in his throat. He caps his answer with a wide yawn.
Hannibal smiles. “The University will not come crashing down with one day of my absence.”
Will chuckles, and it’s a good sound to hear. “Are you sure about that, Dr. Fell?”
“I am sure. Now, what would you like for breakfast?”
__________
“It was about you,” Will blurts around a bite of breakfast sausage, putting his fork down. Hannibal had been side-eying him all morning, like he was waiting for something.
Will knew he would never ask directly, just wait silently for Will to offer the information on his own. Hannibal has this way about him, though, that makes Will want to tell him everything. It’s the same air that has surrounded him since the beginning; since Will started seeing him as a psychiatrist, then as something more.
Hannibal doesn’t need to ask. If it it of any import, Will eventually tells him.
This seems of import.
Hannibal stops cooking at his words and turns off the stove, sliding the omelet off the griddle and onto a plate. He turns to look at Will, saying nothing but it’s his silence that urges Will to continue.
“You….. tried to kill me. In my dream you wanted to eat me.”
Hannibal leans on the other side of the island, crossing his arms in front of himself and resting his elbows on the counter.
“Do you believe that is the most likely course of action, Will? Does that frighten you?”
Hannibal doesn’t confirm or deny any intentions of consumption, and to someone other than Will this might have been a source of great concern. But this does not frighten him; Hannibal could kill him right now and still, Will would not regret a single one of his choices - except, maybe, not leaving with his family sooner.
In any case, Will knows Hannibal has no plans of eating him. Will holds a different place in Hannibal’s life; he is not a meal, he is a companion, a love.
The only way those plans would change is if Will breaks that love, throws it away somehow. This is the exact opposite of Will’s plan - he wants to hoard it, hold it so close to his chest it welds to him. And over the course of this new life and his cycle of dreams Will has come to the conclusion that whatever Hannibal thinks of these nightmares, they are not loyalty-betraying offenses, so he might as well talk about them.
He supposes he never has before because, more than being concerned about Hannibal’s stance on them, he was somewhat ashamed. Disappointed in his lack of mental strength.
Will looks up from Maggie’s sleeping form against his stool. Hannibal is still waiting for his answer.
“No,” and it’s a completely honest response. Again, Hannibal waits for him to continue.
“It….was the end. The end of the dream. I was dying, I was fine with that. But something in me….something was not,” Will speaks slow, and halting, with shaky breaths and a hands that keep smoothing over his thighs, in an attempt to steady themselves.
“I….I killed you. I killed you myself. Like I killed Abigail, in a dream, several weeks ago.”
Will inhales, pauses for a long time. His voice is not steady. “That…. that is what frightens me.”
Hannibal folds his hands in front of him. “Do you want to kill me, Will? Would you want to, eventually?”
Will’s eyes snap back to Hannibal’s, and something frightened but determined fires up in them. His whole body rejects the idea; it’s unthinkable, that he would want that, that he would want to destroy the one thing in his life that gives him peace. That makes him feel like he is not on the outside of everything. Will has killed many people, now. But he could never kill who he loves.
But the very thing in him that rejoices in violence, in murder, does not discriminate. And therein lies his greatest fear.
“Never.”
“Are you afraid you will, anyway?”
It’s a fear that has always whispered itself to Will, muttering lists of everyone he has ever cared about and how he will eventually destroy all of them. It has never been spoken so plainly, and suddenly it is that much more real, ripped out and laid in front of him.
His family will die, and it will be he who kills them.
Something inside him cracks, and there must be some kind of outward indication of this because almost immediately Will feels Hannibal’s warmth at his side, a hand cradling his face and a kiss against scalp. A cheek rests there, on his head, until the room around him stops falling apart and reality settles back to how it should be.
Hannibal’s voice floats into his ears like it’s being slowed by cotten, fuzzy and muffled and far away.
“You are not an animal, Will. Animals kill on instinct and have no deeper control, no sense of loyalty. You have control. You have the ability to choose. And you have always chosen your family. You are incapable of choosing anything else.”
Will closes his eyes and inhales, twisting his fists into the front of Hannibal’s shirt.
They stay this way for an hour, before Will nods and his lips make a path to Hannibal’s, moving slowly up his neck on their way.
They retire to their bed, and Will clutches every inch of Hannibal to him, fingers tight enough to bruise, whispering never into his skin.
____________
They hunt as a family, that night. The three of them walk the streets, lovely and dangerous.
Will’s fingers are laced through Hannibal’s, his other arm being held at the elbow by Abigail. Will’s never known a stronger bond than what he feels between all them, at this moment.
He is afraid, he will always be afraid, but for now fear no longer consumes him.
They draw their weapons, they slaughter their prey, and they make a meal together; a loving family of monsters. Hiding behind their their charisma and their happiness and their dog, they rule the streets silently, behind the scenes, apex predators hiding in the brush.
Will dreams of them, that night. But he dreams of them happy, and alive, and growing old with him in this city.