Hannibal woke to dusk, to a series of sensations. The taste of blood in his mouth. The pain in his abdomen from the Dragon’s bullet. Cool fingers against his pulse, as they had been every time he awoke.
Will was curled up awkwardly in a chair at the side of the bed, fast asleep, holding Hannibal’s wrist in a death grip. Not that he was ever averse to being touched by Will-it had happened so rarely-but Hannibal was beginning to worry he would lose the use of that hand permanently if Will didn’t release it at some stage. He flexed his fingers experimentally, and Will stirred.
“Are you alright?” Will’s voice was rough and he looked exhausted.
“Yes.” Hannibal said. “Come to bed.”
Will looked at the bed dubiously. “I’ll jostle you.”
“You won’t.” Hannibal tugged at his wrist, and Will’s grip loosened a fraction.
Hannibal shifted over and Will crawled onto the bed, draping his arm over Hannibal’s chest, his breath warm against the back of Hannibal’s neck. After a moment, he lifted his head.
“Hannibal? Are you in pain?” Will said as Hannibal blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision.
He was standing outside Will’s house in Wolf Trap, heartsick and feeling old for the first time in his life. He was in prison, yearning for his beloved and drowning in tedium. He was carrying a crying girl through snow that threatened to engulf them.
He was lying in bed with Will Graham’s hand on his heart.
“No.” Hannibal said and took a deep breath. “Not anymore.”