Coming to. Coming back. Surfacing.
Not that he had been swimming; he had already drowned. He'd been down on the bottom of a lake, somewhere deep and unknown, for so long. So long, he couldn't remember anything else – because there was nothing else to remember. One with the earth, the mud, the worms and the fish that nibbled and tugged, the long-tendriled vines that – still wrapped around his limbs. Resisting.
When his eyes drifted open, of their own accord, everything was too bright. Gray and black and white; soft blobs. Out of focus. Wrong.
"Let me go," he said. "Let me go back."
Dr. Lecter heard the soft squeak escape Will's lips. He was trying to speak. Hannibal hadn't missed the way Will's eyes had cracked open, so wildly unfocused; the way his limbs jerked ever-so-slightly against the restraints with what little strength the drugs allowed him. A surge of excitement jolted at Lecter's heart, easily hidden but no less intense. Days – weeks – really, months of preparation had gone into this moment, if one thought about it. And oh, Hannibal had.
Finally, it was time to have his fun.
"Will." Hannibal's tone was urgent. "Will, wake up. You've been very ill."
Will's head moved slightly. His lips parted. He moaned; Hannibal drank in the sound.
It was the sound of a man whose memory was returning.
Dr. Lecter pressed the first trigger. Will's eyes flew open, and this time they were anything but unfocused.
"Alana," he moaned. His eyes drifted closed, his brow furrowed. Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed. Then Dr. Lecter pressed the second trigger, and Will screamed.
"WHERE IS SHE?"
"Will." Dr. Lecter made sure his voice contained just the right amount of aggrieved hesitation. "Will, you know what happened. You were there."
Unbidden, a series of sensations and images flooded Will – packed together, yet out of order; a deck of cards he was powerless to reshuffle. The shock of cold, of himself oozing into the snow. The look of triumph on Dr. Gideon's face. The sound of shattering glass. Trying to wrestle the gun back away from Garrett Jacob Hobbs; instead, feeling himself melt, pouring over Hobbs as well. A single shot ringing out; a second shot, moments later, Will couldn't be quite sure he heard over the ringing in his ears. The gun, so small and black, so hugely important – the only solid object in the entire world. Alana crumpling, folding, like … a hand of cards.
The brightness of Alana's eyes in his dimly-lit classroom. "A doctor who treats herself has a fool for a patient." The almost-complete darkness of the closet. The clacking of her heels on the floor. The real, true blackness that came over his vision at the point of climax, while his muscles jerked and spasmed, out of his control, a mockery of a seizure. The sharp edges that suddenly didn't matter. The harsh, hellish white light peeking through the crack under the door, threatening to expose. Her gentle voice straining to be silent. The way her head tilted to one side while she explained away her lack of regret. The smell of her hair when she gave in and embraced him. The smell of her hair when he knelt between her legs. Her hand over his mouth, just for a reminder when, without knowing, he began to vocalize. The way she looked at him after, the not-quite-pity in her eyes, knowing she was picking up a stray but unable to resist the pull at her heart. Knowing she could not refrain from giving comfort, no matter how temporary, to a thing so helpless as Will Graham had become.
The gleam of her casket, reminding Will of the stock of a rifle. The burnished wood the same color as her hair.
"Dr. Lecter," he moaned. "Dr. Lecter, was it real?"
"Will," Hannibal began, allowing some gentleness to creep into his tone, "as I said before, you've been very ill. You were present when she was shot, but you had a very high fever. You were in the hospital." He watched Will's fuzzy, pain-filled mind searching for memories of a hospital room, knowing Will wouldn't find anything.
"What did they do with Garrett Jacob Hobbs?"
Dr. Lecter knew Will meant to say "with Dr. Gideon". Will was aware that to the rest of the world, Hobbs was dead. But the beauty of the chemicals Lecter was using, was that the subject would speak of what they saw in their minds, rather than editing to suit the listener.
"Dr. Gideon is dead as well," replied Dr. Lecter quietly. "He didn't survive your bullet, any more than Alana survived his."
Will had a fleeting thought that they were both his bullets. If he hadn't been there – with his gun –
"Alana would have died anyway," Dr. Lecter continued. "Dr. Gideon was there to kill her."
Suddenly, Will's hospital bed was breathing, pulsing. It would swallow him up. He had to get out! "Dr. Lecter, let me go. I can't stay here." Will tried not to show his terror, but of course, he failed; he stood no chance against the chemicals racing through his blood. Hannibal fed on Will's fear like a tiger devouring a lamb. One taste of that fear was more precious than a thousand of the hearts he had stopped. "Where am I? This isn't the hospital."
"The restraints are for your own protection," Hannibal replied soothingly. "You're in my home. You were discharged into my care as soon as it was safe."
"Protection from what? From my own delusions?" Will snarled. "I don't need protecting, Dr. Lecter. I know she's dead. I'm not going to hurt myself. I'm not going to – to …"
He couldn't go any further. Couldn't say that when the first spadeful of earth fell, he heard it hit from inside Alana's casket. That his heart was still down there, under the ground, decaying with her, slowly. That he wished someone had set it on fire instead. But that he also knew it was not his fate to follow her yet.
But Hannibal heard what Will didn't say. And Hannibal waited. He watched Will's face crumple. Disorientation, helpless rage, despair had had their moments… and now, now came the break.
When the first tears coursed down Will's cheeks, Dr. Lecter hastened to his side. He cradled Will's head in his hands and contorted his own features into an expression of sympathy. But while ostensibly using his handkerchief to dry Will's face, he was careful to catch one of those glistening tears in his fingers. Then, of course, when he dropped the handkerchief on the floor, he had a reason to be out of Will's line of sight. He excused his clumsiness and bent down to retrieve it, smugly glad that Will could not see his face now. His only regret was that he had only a moment to savor this unique taste: sweet-hot water and bitter salt. Liquid pain. Will's pain. He stood back up slowly.
As soon as he noticed that Will was no longer pulling against the wrist restraints, Dr. Lecter loosened them. He took Will's hands in his own and leaned as close to Will as he dared. Will's eyes, dark with sorrow, red with blood, focused on Hannibal's. There was no tinge of fear in Will's scent now. The fevered sweetness was there, but reduced, muted by the smell of his tears. Hannibal's heart sped up. If Will only knew how close he was… how close he was to death, in so many ways. Only he wasn't. Because Will Graham was so much more interesting alive than dead.
"Will, she's gone," Hannibal murmured to distract himself. He allowed his mouth to draw in, his eyes to close briefly as if in sorrow. "You must concentrate on getting well."
"Getting well," Will mused. He pointedly broke eye contact with Dr. Lecter, twisting his head the opposite way. "So that… what? So I can help Jack Crawford catch more killers?" His mouth twisted in a smile. "So this can happen again? Fail to catch one, just one, in time, and watch more of my friends die?"
"No one's making you do anything," Hannibal reassured him. "You don't have to go near the FBI again. You could – "
"I know what Jack is saying," Will spat. "What are the odds of this happening again? Compared to the lives I could save?" He laughed bitterly, then choked on a sob. "There are no odds, Doctor." He looked back at Dr. Lecter. "It will never happen again, because there will never be another her." He drew in a shaky breath. "What more do I have to lose? She was never mine in the first place."
He lowered his head into his hands and wept.
Once he was sure Will wasn't going to attempt to pull out his IV, Hannibal quietly stepped back from the hospital bed and turned away. He was having trouble mastering himself. He reminded himself he had to be patient. Will would be hung up on this loss for a while. Not to mention, Will's distress was entirely Hannibal's fault. But Hannibal couldn't help wondering: if it had been Hannibal instead of Alana, would Will have mourned him this way? Would he have mourned him at all?
"Where are you going?" Will's voice held just a touch of panic. A rush of warmth filled Hannibal's breast at the sound. Will did care for him. Will wanted him there.
Dr. Lecter quickly turned back to his patient. "I was just going to give you some privacy. You've been through quite a shock, Will." And you don't know the half of it, he thought.
"Don't – don't go, Dr. Lecter." Hannibal studied Will's face: tear-streaked, swollen, exhausted. Why had he wasted time wondering whether Will cared? Will needed him; Will was entirely dependent on him for treatment, sustenance, and – most importantly – information about the outside world. Will Graham was his. And he would remain so until Dr. Lecter saw fit to release him.
"I'm going to give you something to help you relax." Dr. Lecter prepped a syringe and uncapped the access point of Will's IV. He could feel the heat of Will's body through the thin hospital gown. As he performed the injection, he heard Will half-whisper, "Dr. Lecter?"
"Yes?" His response was almost too quick. He recapped the IV and adjusted Will's gown, careful not to look Will in the face.
"I mean it. Will you stay with me?" Will's voice was shaking. "I don't want to be alone again. Not right now."
"Nor will you have to," Hannibal soothed. He met Will's eyes briefly and smiled. "I have an endless supply of books for a reason. They kept me company until you woke." He paused. "Would you like me to read to you?"
Nothing could have prepared him for Will's reaction. Will gasped, his face like that of a man who had just been punched – hard. Hannibal's eyes shifted to the IV site, fearing an adverse drug reaction, but before he made another move he glanced back at Will's face. Noticed the unfocused quality of his gaze. Saw that Will was not looking at him, but through him. Remembering something.
And Hannibal waited.
Will recovered quickly. "Y-yes. I'd like that very much."
"Very well," Hannibal replied smoothly, pretending not to have noticed Will's break in composure. Soon enough, he reminded himself, he would find out what it was about. "Unless you're hungry?"
Will looked thoughtful. "I am, actually. Starving, now that you mention it."
Hannibal smiled. "It's been quite a while since you had solid food. Perhaps we should start you with something liquid?"
"More of your chicken soup?" A ghost of the old Will was back, teasing him.
"Just the broth first, I'm afraid," Hannibal replied, inclining his head briefly in apology. "But don't worry. If your stomach proves able to handle it, you'll graduate to the entire recipe soon enough."
"Thank you, Dr. Lecter," Will sighed. He lay back in the hospital bed and closed his eyes.
As Hannibal made his way back from the kitchen with swift strides, he saw that Will was already asleep again – one effect of the latest drug he'd given Will. He carefully covered the bowl of broth and set it on a side table.
Ignoring the stack of books beside his chair, he focused again on Will's sleeping face, on the rhythm of his heart, listening to each inhale and exhale. It was only then that he noticed that the sun had set. Hannibal and Will now dwelt in shadow in the tiny room, breathless on the edge of true night.
And as night fell, the perfect black circles of Hannibal's pupils dilated just a little more, as if absorbing and reflecting the growing darkness around them.