Author's Note- This fic assumes a (mostly) happy future for my beloved Will and Alana, one that is Hannibal-free and full of cakes made of rainbows and smiles, which we all eat and be happy. I will most likely ignore the events of Red Dragon, or perhaps my Hanni-loving heart will turn cold later on. Who knows? As for now, sit back and enjoy the fluff :)

PS- feedback warms my frozen heart.

Alana has nightmares of drowning. Lying flat on her back in the pouring rain, unable to stop it from filling her lungs. Of her own blood rising in her throat, gushing through her mouth so fast she can barely register its metallic taste, dripping backwards into her lungs and finishing her off.

She has nightmares of broken glass; huge shards and tiny slivers. Piercing her back, stabbing her front, glittering as it falls through the air. It lands in her eyes and blinds her, it lands in her open mouth and embeds itself in her tongue, shreds her esophagus to ribbons on its way down.

She has nightmares of falling, of teenage hands; their innocence long gone as they hit her chest in slow motion, push her into a gracefully slow fall. A fall that never ends, that never grants her the simple grace of a myoclonic jerk to free her from the nightmare, but that keeps her stomach in a never-ending lurch.

It doesn't matter when or where she falls asleep-and she has tried everything in her power to stymie their flow, from her couch to her desk-the nightmare comes as soon as the REM cycle begins. For a while, she tries power napping in short spurts to avoid reaching REM, but her body quickly tires from this and ignores her alarm, plunging her right back into the issue she was trying so hard to avoid.

When she awakes gasping, she always thinks of Will. Of how he would understand. How he would offer his own quiet brand of comfort, and how she wishes she could cozy up at his place with his dogs and Will Graham acting as a space heater. She hasn't seen him since the hospital. His own injuries, though far more severe than hers, were a quick fix compared to the delicate work it took to heal her insides and her broken bones. She remembers him coming into her room, her asking him questions to discern what was and wasn't real through her painkiller-induced haze. She learned of Abby's and Jack's survival, of Will's intestines spilling to the floor. She'd asked, almost shyly, if she could touch his scar to know that that tidbit was real. With equal shyness, he had closed the door to her room, lifted his shirt and allowed her fingers to touch the gauze protecting his sutures from contaminants. "The stitches come out next week." He'd said, watching her fingers slide up and down the place held together by medical-grade string. He'd taken her hand when she started to cry. He took his own free one to wipe the tears from her face, and whispered to her reassuringly until she fell back into dreams made horribly vivid by the influence of the painkillers.

She wanted that Will now, as she lay on her side in bed, too scared to close her eyes. She wanted him more than ever after this one, where ribbons of his intestines streamed around her as she fell, his blood showing her like the rain. He was just a phone call away, but she couldn't bring herself to tap the buttons that would summon Will in a heartbeat.

Instead she rose from bed. Autopilot mode on, she dressed herself and took her keys, got in the car and drove. She couldn't stand it, and she couldn't trust herself to not lie on the phone and say it was a mistake. "Sorry, Will, I meant to call for Chinese." She would have lied, and ignoring his protests that no Chinese place was open at three in the morning, that something was wrong and he could be there or she could come to him, she would have hung up and let it be. She knew this because she had done it twice already, and then ignored the ringing phone when he called back.

A light was on at Will's when she pulled up. She could not avoid him now, not with his dogs' cacophony of barking at the sound of her car. He was at the door before she could even ring the bell, a gun in his hand.

"Alana." He said, dropping the gun to his side. "I'm sorry, I'm just a little..."

"Paranoid?" She finished for him. He nodded.

"Come in." She stepped into the house and was immediately greeted by Will's furry housemates, all vying for her attention. "They never forget a hand that feeds them." She smiled at that, scratching Winston behind the ears. Oh, how he had caused her trouble all that time poor Will was locked away, making her chase him here every time he managed to slip through her grasp.

"Came to pick up your Chinese food in person?" Her head snapped up at Will's sudden breaking of the silence. A blush crept up her cheeks in spite of herself. "It's okay, Alana. I know. I have them too. About me, about you, about Abby and Jack. About Beverly, about...about him too."

"Tonight was the first time it wasn't just about me." He remains silent on the couch, allowing her to lead the conversation. She continues to play with Winston for a few moments before she continues. "They're always just about me. About drowning in the rain, or in my own blood. About glass. And falling, almost always falling. But tonight..." She trails off again, turning her attention to the dog. "Tonight it was about you. And I knew they were getting worse. And I couldn't pretend I was okay, and just awake, ordering Chinese food from some mythical place that's both open and delivering in the middle of the night."

"You needed someone be there with you through it." She nods, not looking up from the dogs. Another person, the kind you find in romantic fiction tales or movies, would have stood from the couch and scooped her into his arms. Not Will. That was what she liked about this impromptu arrangement, that he would sit there on the couch, watching her give Winston a belly rub, waiting until she was ready to take whatever the next step was.

"Can I touch your scar?" She asks, surprised at her own sudden boldness. He nods, letting her come sit next to him and raise his shirt. "It's silly, I know, but I just..." She touches the raised pinkish line on his belly. "I think I just need to make damn sure that all of you is where it's supposed to be, and that it's not going anywhere."

"Nightmares can be one of the most disorienting experiences." He says softly, watching her fingertips trace the line. She nods, blinking back tears.

"Can I stay tonight?"

"You can stay as long as you need. Whenever you need." She nods, and lays her head against his shoulder so he won't see her cry. He doesn't let her know he knows she is crying, though his entire being calls out to comfort her. "Just do me a favor." He says, after a while.

"What?" She raises her tear streaked head, and sniffles.

"Next time you mistakenly call me instead of food delivery, at least make it Domino's. I hear there's a 24-hour one near you." He's smiling, and she gives a feeble laugh, letting herself be comforted by his embrace.