Will Gayham

It's a travesty we never got Season 4...

[hannibal-lectern]

Will Graham loungewear

[hannibal-lectern]

The yacht cabin opens out into something functional and comfortable. The fisherman’s getaway, perhaps. A comfy mancave where he could sprawl out and enjoy the elements in peace. I flop down on a seat next to a table, everything bolted down in defiance of the sea’s cadence.

We discard our soggy clothes, neither of us conscious about our nudity around the other. Why bother with modesty? We killed a man together; we’re practically merged. My body is his, his is mine. Hannibal tends to my wounds with the meagre first-aid supplies onboard. He improvises with a sewing kit and does a good job of closing my wounds. After, he talks me through removing the bullet in his side and patching him up. I’m a decent study, albeit the end result is sloppy. He seems pleased in the way one is of a novice; props for trying. We raid the fisherman’s kitchen, sharing bread and cheese and ham. Hannibal won’t drink the wine: it’s ‘worthless piss’, apparently.

I can feel our ordeal starting to weigh on my eyes and mind. Adrenaline betrays me at long last. Hannibal’s keen gaze tells me he can see my exhaustion. We both look toward the bed at the back of the cabin. Not quite a single, but clearly meant for the comfort of one man…

“Ah. Only one bed,” Hannibal smiles at me, mirth glittering in his eyes like sunshine on water, “A timeless trope.” I roll my eyes and climb in, he follows. Our bodies press tight together. A perfect fit. Sleep comes quickly as my body surrenders to pain and Hypnos’ coaxing.

— The Hannigram fic I’ll never write

[hannibal-lectern]

The waves toss me back and forth, like I’m the object of a child’s game. I’m helpless as I flail against the spray and cry out for help. This is my design. The archetypal damsel in distress, an irresistible lure for a would-be hero on his modest yacht. The boatman sees me, panics, thinks I’m in grave peril. I’m not, he is. He hauls me over the edge of the boat like today’s fresh catch. He doesn’t see Hannibal climbing in from the other side–– in an instant strong arms are wrapped around the fisherman’s neck and a sickening crack fills the air; barely audible over the roar of the ocean. He gives me a little wink as he lays the body down, “This will make fine rations for our voyage,” he says as he grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet.

–– the Hannigram fic I'l never write.