Actions

Work Header

Weary Creatures

Chapter Text

In curious circumstances, Will blindly found the bathroom floor, slamming into it so abruptly that the whole boat seemed to shake from the impact. Burning up as he was, the cool linoleum tiling did little to soothe the fevered heat of his skin as he dragged his heaving belly across its smooth surface, twitching and shuddering.

He felt acutely vulnerable in this moment, unlike anything he had felt since he was a young boy. Even with plastic tubing splitting his throat down the middle, he at least had the courtesy of delirium to cloud the sensation.

No, not since he was eight, when he had been bedridden for two weeks with a fever that refused to break. His father had begrudgingly stayed home to take care of him once it persisted, during a time when they could scarcely afford to eat. A trip to the doctors was out of the question. In their house, everything was treatable with cold baths and aspirin.

Now, shockingly high on painkillers, Will would give anything for someone to dump a bucket of ice water over him. Even the toilet water looked tempting enough to consider shoving his sweaty hands into until it was violently dyed red by a hot stream of vomit, the blood vessels in his eyes bursting at the force of the expulsion. There was so much of it that he struggled not to choke, the acidity burning its way up his throat. He felt like was on fire from the inside out.

"Of all people, I would have never pegged you as the type to get seasick."

Will's scathing retort was promptly cut of by a fresh torrent of blood streaked puke. He only hoped that the look on his face spoke for him before it twisted in pain and ducked back under the toilet seat. It wouldn't do any good to dirty the bathroom anymore than he already was, knowing who was currently watching him.

Before long, Will felt long fingers thread through the damp curls tickling the back of his neck, his touch disappearing for just a moment before reappearing to pull the back the hair stuck to his forehead. Choking on his own vomit wasn't quite enough to distract him from the way those hands dragged along his hot scalp, holding his hair out of the way with uncharacteristic benevolence. Clearly Will wasn't the only one off his head on drugs.

"You swallowed a lot of seawater. The salt has irritated your stomach lining - you'd do best to empty yourself completely." Hannibal's voice echoed ever so slightly off of the linoleum, reaching Will's ears as though he was filling the entire room, his words coming from all directions at once. Another shudder wracked his body.

The tone of his voice was admonishing, though slurred, and Will felt eight all over again, listening to his Dad chiding him for sweating through all of their sheets with his sickness.

"Working on it." He eventually managed, though his next gag produced only a mouthful of bile. As if his body was proving him once again that it only worked against him when it was in Hannibal's best interest.

Hannibal's touch disappeared suddenly and his voice filled the room once more, but any blood Will still had in him was now roaring in his ears and he was suddenly very preoccupied with staying upright. He felt more than heard the wet slap of his palms against ceramic as he grabbed the sides of the toilet, desperately trying to find purchase as the floor swayed violently underneath him. He hoped it was just the blood loss and not their boat being wrecked by a storm.

After what felt like hours, those strong hands returned to cup his forehead and ease his head up from where he was slumped, and Will's bloodshot eyes immediately were captivated by the tall glass of water being handed to him.

Will watched a fat bead of condensation roll down its side, growing heavier as it slipped down before being stopped in its tracks by Hannibal's ring finger, melting into the space between the glass. It was practically erotic.

"Drink, Will." He didn't have to be told twice.

...

Time passed lazily as Will dutifully drank his way through the glass of water, then a second, then, after some persuasion, a third. No longer delirious with nausea, Will was infinitely grateful to be as doped up as he was; the hard bathroom floor would have no doubt proved painful to sit on for an extended period of time otherwise. Instead, in combination with the adrenaline still pumping through him, any pain he was experiencing felt very far away.

It was still only the night after the fall. He had been conscious enough to remember being dragged out of the water by his legs, and the searing pain of his cheek wound being cleaned wrenched him out of unconsciousness long enough to register Chiyoh bent over his body like a benevolent goddess before the darkness enveloped him once more. He was sure if he cared to listen, he would hear her feather light footsteps on the deck above them. If she had heard Will's misery, she didn't care to check on him. No doubt because he was already being taken care of.

Hannibal's cock had remained rock hard within the confines of his silk trousers for at least twenty minutes now. Every time he ferried Will's glass back and forth to the sink, Will expected him to turn around and for something to have changed. It didn't. Will took another slow sip of his fourth glass, and wondered whether it had started to become painful for him.

He wondered how a man could sustain an erection so soon after being shot in the stomach, or if it was something else Hannibal was above being affected by. He wondered what he had done to trigger such a reaction from him, retching over the toilet as he was just moments ago. Perhaps it was his boxers, which were so drenched through with sweat that they were practically translucent and still clinging to his thighs. Or the perverted way he gagged and coughed around his own vomit, as Hannibal envisioned his cock in its place.

Who could've guessed the man was such a sadist.

"You should eat something, if you're able to keep it down. I can have Chiyoh make you some broth for now, something easy on your stomach." Hannibal broke the silence, and Will didn't attempt to conceal how his eyes shot up directly from his crotch. The way he was content to ignore the crude jut of his own cock had Will stifling the urge to laugh at its absurdity.

"You look awful." He said instead, which was not entirely untrue. Shirtless as he was, Will could see the tender map of bruising across the man's chest, blues and purples bleeding into each other like a morbid watercolor across his skin. With his back turned to the bathroom mirror, it was clear enough that it had suffered the worst of the damage. Shortly after the bullet wound, of course, though that was neatly hidden behind tape and gauze, which was steadily turning pink with drainage. Will was surprised he was even able to stand.

The corner of Hannibal's mouth twitched.

"No more than you." Was his simple reply. Of course, he was right.