An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Will/Hannibal
~3k
Teen and up
A quiet moment following their first kill after the Great Red Dragon, as Will tends to Hannibal’s wounds and comes to terms with the changes he’s undergone in the past months…
AN: I had the honour of pinch-hitting for @thesmartbluebox for the @hannigramholidayexchange. They wanted Dark!Will, the aesthetics of the show, and the differences in their lifestyles, and I tried to blend that all together in this scene. I hope this makes up for the dreadfully long wait they had to receive it!
The heavens are an aging bruise on the drive home. Pale ivory blue sky mottled in swollen plum and steel shadowed clouds. Will takes all the curves too fast, cresting every hill with enough speed to make his stomach drop. Sickly light brims over the mountain line and tumbles through the dips, dazzles over the surface of the lake, and caresses the gentle rise of the valley.
Backlit and cast in black, the cypress and juniper trees demarking the edge of their property bend and sway with the cloak of night still clinging to spindling needles. Their very own Greek chorus, blank-faced and observant, and the wild wind of the impending storm cuts through them with a riotous roar of judgement.
In juxtaposition, the home is startlingly still and silent when the door falls closed behind them. The scent of petrichor turns coppery on the stale air, mingled sweat and blood over the lingering traces of the fine cologne Hannibal had purchased for Will and insisted he wear. Musk with ambergris, cashmere, and vetiver. Pretentious, Will isn’t going to argue that point, but oddly comforting, with the salty hints of ocean water and the soothing cool mint.
Wind-chilled skin prickles with sweat, and Will sheds his jacket on the way through the foyer. He hisses at the movement; it pulls at the muscles of his shoulder and upper back, the old hurt, that knotty-stiff pain at the join of bursa and tendon.
“Fuck.” He needs a drink, even with the malbec they shared over dinner burning acidic in the back of his throat, and winds his way into the kitchen.
Hannibal trails behind him. His normal gait has been interrupted by a limp, and Will’s weary mind finds patterns in the shuffling thud of his tread on the runner in the hall. So wrapped up in it that he feels a dip in his stomach like missing the last step at the landing of a stairway when Hannibal stops on the threshold. “You should allow me to tend to your wounds.”
