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Will wakes in an unfamiliar room. The pillow beneath his head is wonderfully soft, and the silken sheets a blessing on his skin. For a moment he lays there, staring in disbelief at the truth reflected in the mirror on the ceiling.
He's alive. After throwing himself off a God-forsaken cliff, he's somehow still alive.
A part of him wants to smash something in righteous anger; another part wants to leap for joy, but Will can do neither. Every bone in his body hurts. His shoulder is bandaged, and there is gauze on his cheek where Dolarhyde's knife went through him. Having checked himself over, Will assesses his surroundings. The curtains are drawn and it's dark outside, so he fumbles for the bedside lamp. The light switches on. The bed in which he rests is kingsize, the bedframe made of carved mahogany. There is a marble fireplace topped with ornaments, and classic paintings on the wall. The opulence surrounding Will is achingly familiar, and it fills him with both hope and dread.
Then, there comes a knock at the door.
Will stares, nonplussed, because who would be so polite to knock on the door of an unconscious patient? Maybe the Devil has realised hell is one sinner short, and has come to collect.
In a way, Will is right.
The door opens, and he wants to laugh, cry, and scream his lungs out in frustration. Standing in the doorway, looking worse for wear but very much alive, is Hannibal Lecter.
The man steps inside with quiet purpose, closes the door, and turns to greet him.
"Hello Will," Hannibal murmurs. Will feels a lump form in his throat. He never thought he would hear it again- that intelligent, oh-so-calm voice that spoke in riddles of broken teacups and time; of murder and righteous chaos. Hannibal inclines his head, appraising him. His eyes glitter with something dark, almost smiling. "Is it good to see me?"
Will leans back against the pillow with his eyes closed, mouth twitching with a thousand words unsaid. He used to know the answer to that question. Seeing Hannibal Lecter is never 'good' in the moral sense of the word... but now, in the personal sense?
Yes. A thousand times, yes.
He won't say it aloud though. Instead, Will settles on:
"We shouldn't have survived." His words are filled with bitterness and awe in equal parts. They were supposed to fall together, their sins washed away by the ocean waves. The perfect design. Instead here they stand, freshly risen, like a mockery of the second coming. Hannibal seems to read his thoughts. Nothing new there.
"And yet here we are, by the grace of God, and more than a little assistance from Chiyoh."
Chiyoh.
Will is exasperated by his own short-sightedness. God isn't the only one who inspires faithful disciples. Chiyoh would have been keeping close watch on her master. After witnessing their bloody confrontation with Dolarhyde, she must have rescued them down by the shore and taken them to one of Hannibal's apparently endless number of safehouses.
Hannibal crosses the room and settles next to Will on the bed. He goes on to recount a comprehensive list of Will's injuries. Apparently, he's been slipping in and out of consciousness for the past week. By rights, he shouldn't be breathing.
"You gave me quite the scare, Will." Hannibal reaches out and grips Will's hand, squeezing gently. Will stares, as if his arm does not belong to him. He's seen this before, hasn't he? Abigail Hobbs laying comatose in hospital with Hannibal keeping vigil at her bedside, holding her hand; a performance of kindness and protection, disguising possessive intent. Will wonders if this gesture too is one big performance. Perhaps Hannibal is about to reach under his feather pillow and whip out a bone saw. Except, there's nobody here to perform for, is there? There is no FBI, no Alana Bloom, no Jack Crawford. It's just the two of them, alone in the dark. All questions about Hannibal's intent are silenced in his mind, when the man brushes his lips lightly over Will's knuckles, as if he is the most precious thing in existence. He looks Will dead in the eye. "One might be tempted to call this a miracle."
Will laughs hoarsely. Hannibal's touch is feather light, and his fingers smooth against Will's callouses. To the rest of the world, the hands of Hannibal Lecter are stained with blood, yet these are unquestioningly the hands of a gentleman; a scholar, musician, artist. Will is the only one to appreciate the duality. The only one allowed to see. Hannibal would call it a rare gift. Will calls it a questionable privilege.
"You're saying that our survival is part of God's design?"
"Is our survival really any more cruel and arbitrary than the collapse of a church roof during prayer?" Hannibal gives him a faint smile. Will cannot disagree. His lips quirk upwards at the corner in betrayal.
They sit like that for a minute, both silently coming to terms. Will does not retract his hand. He could, if he wanted to. There is no strength in Hannibal's grip right now, but when his fingers twitch, Will can feel the underlying threat running through the man like a live current. The truth is always there, just below the surface.
"So then, the question begs... what now?" Hannibal prompts.
Will considers his options. There are a myriad of ways he could try once more to end it- end them- but if he's honest with himself, he knows it is nothing more than a thought experiment. Going over the cliff was the culmination of his becoming; a bargain to God to take them both and put a stop to it, because if he ever resurfaced from the deep, Will knew that he would be a new man. A changed man.
God made His choice, and now here Will lies; newly baptised, broken beyond repair, and in bed with the Devil.
Will's fingers curl around Hannibal's.
"Now, we live." There is a cold certainty in his answer. Hannibal studies him a moment.
"God had His chance?"
Will holds his gaze and nods. Hannibal smiles properly for the first time, and goes to retrieve a wine bottle and two glasses from the adjacent cabinet. As usual, he makes a show of popping the cork, taking in the scent, and pouring. Will can't help but feel a lick of fondness, watching the old routine play out. Hannibal's fingers brush against his, lingering a second too long, as he passes over the wine glass. Will notices, and realises that he doesn't mind it.
"To life, then." Hannibal raises his glass in toast. His words are soft and his eyes are hungry. "And all it entails."
Will looks into the crimson liquid in his glass. He is reminded of Dolarhyde's blood spilling over his hands, leaning against Hannibal in ecstasy and resignation, the two of them practically breathing the same breath. Will feels the ache inside him, sharp and keen. He meets Hannibal halfway and drinks deep.
"And all that it entails."