[ win ] – for the sender’s muse to place a hand on the receiver’s neck and rest their forehead against the receiver’s own for a close congrats or excitement at something. shock. @stagborne
It all happened outside the pharmacy. Hannibal witnessed the thunderclap of gunfires, how it spooked the horses nearby and sent townsfolk lunging into the nearest shelter. They were not unfamiliar sorts; the town had seen a steady influx of such men since the arrival of the new lawman, and every week seemed to bring a fresh dispute between order and chaos, each side eager to prove their claim to the territory. This lawman had become close friends with only a handful; Hannibal included. Another was a city girl who wished to have a different life away from the hustle and bustle that the city provided.
Hannibal saw it all as if time had slowed. Alana, caught in the crossfire, lurched backward as the second volley exploded outwards. She staggered, hands splayed at her abdomen, and then collapsed against the wooden planks. Hannibal rushed out the door and to her side, to see her wide eyes stare at him; animalistic. Blood bubbled at her lips as she tried to speak, and Hannibal, kneeling beside her, placed a gloved hand gently on her shoulder. Will was quick to join her side, though Hannibal knew this wouldn’t end well for him. Will knelt, trembling, and reached for Alana’s hand, but she was already slipping away, her grip slackening by the second.
“Will,” Hannibal said, shifting to kneel closer. “Will, look at me,” he commanded, the cadence of his words slicing through the numb haze settling over the lawman. Blood from Alana soaked into the knees of their trousers, pooling in the dirt beneath them. Hannibal removed Alana’s limp hand from Will’s grasp. Instantly, Will brought it to Hannibal’s neck, gripping in any way or form to clutch onto the reality of what had happened.
Will’s eyes darted up, unfocused at first, then snapping into clarity as Hannibal’s voice anchored him. The tremors that wracked Will’s body were more than the aftershock of adrenaline; they were the convulsions of a heart in freefall, a mind teetering on the edge of animal panic. Hannibal knew the signs well; he had seen it in patients, in soldiers, and in the mirror on certain lonely mornings. He pressed his forehead to Will’s, focusing on feral blues.
“You are going into shock,” he murmured; the words were tender. His hand steadied the trembling in Will’s throat, fingers splayed to maximize the reassuring pressure. “Listen to my voice, follow it.” Hannibal could feel the pulse hammering beneath Will’s skin, wild and frantic, and he modulated his own breathing to coax Will’s into rhythm.
The world outside the two of them receded: the stampede of boots, the wails of the wounded, the frantic shouts of townsfolk rallying to subdue the remaining outlaw. Hannibal exhaled, slowly, and waited for Will to do the same. When at last Will’s breathing matched his own, Hannibal allowed himself a quiet satisfaction. “Good,” he said, the faintest smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. “You’re still with me.”
He kept his hand at Will’s nape, thumb tracing slow circles as if Will were a feverish child and not a grown man who had just watched a friend die. Hannibal’s other hand moved to close Alana’s eyes, pressing her lids shut with the gentleness of a mortician. God knows he’s been one as of late.
