Hannibal's hand is light on his shoulder - the good one, my god the other is going to be a mess. He'll be lucky to raise his arm after this. No more houses with high shelves. He chuckles - stupid, that hurts like hell and yeah, his face, his face. How had he ignored it at the time? He's not ignoring it now, that's for sure, stinging with salt water, stiff with cold. He can feel the ragged edges of it catching and dragging on one another. God.
Hannibal. He pushes up with his good arm, lifts himself up enough to twist and look and there it is, a thick square of gauze taped to Hannibal's belly, already wet through with red around the tape.
Hannibal's mouth does something tiny, complicated. Not pleased, but not displeased either. He used to think he knew what every little movement of that face meant to telegraph but he's tired, so tired, and he's out of practice. And Hannibal, Hannibal has changed. He almost laughs again, a habit, but he stifles it. It would hurt. It would be bitter.
"It will keep," and Hannibal's quiet, a quick flick of his eyes downward to his wound, corners of his mouth curling just enough to reassure. He raises a syringe, a small one - the needle's a delicate butterfly, probably meant for pediatrics. "Your cheek needs seeing to. I will apply a local anesthetic."
It's almost a question. There is a question in his eyes, at least. That much he can still read.
Hannibal's lips press thin when Will doesn't respond. "I preferred to wake you, before I administer it," he says like it's a gift, and it is. Will doesn't want to laugh. He frowns, though, he can't help it, and Hannibal flinches, minute, a mere crinkle at the corner of his eyes.
"No," and Will's voice is forceful even as it hurts to shape the vowel. The creases deepen and he wants to erase them because, "it's not that. It isn't. Just…" It hurts something fierce, the effort required to shuffle himself table side but it's not far, just a little. Just so his knee bumps up against Hannibal's leg so Will can feel him there, at least. Present.
He wants to say more but it hurts and the hurt is gone from Hannibal's face. The look there now is very soft, and another day Will would touch it, say something. Do something. Today, he just relaxes back and manages, "Ok. Do it."
Hannibal takes him at his word, leans over him and his hand is gentle around Will's jaw. Holding him stable. The sting of the needle hardly registers.
Just as he'd feared, he drifts. At least his knee is warm.