Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of the Dino de Laurentiis Company and its related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
Summary: Will lost his opportunity to implicate Hannibal at Mason's farm. He doesn't intend to let that happen again at his own home.
Hannibal, as usual, has other plans. Spoilers for "Tome-Wan". One-short.
Author's Notes: A brief exchange between doctor and patient here. I'm confident in the episode Hannibal and Will simply cleaned up the crime scene, and I may still write that fic. I may also write a smutty version too. Alas, this will have to do for now. Enjoy!
Blood in the Water
The smell of blood is a welcome cradle. Will regresses: violence has the effect on him. Three pendulum swings plasters an ecstatic grin on Mason's face, all too childlike for the kind of monster he truly is, and Hannibal paces the living room, humming self-satisfiedly. Then the knife dips under Mason's cheek; his hand steers the blade with surprising acuity. A flap of skin falls onto his shoulder, and he cackles from his stomach to the tips of his mangy hair.
Muscle memory no longer tugs on Will's features. He remembers contempt, repulsion, and disgust, but he no longer waits for the familiar pangs of revulsion to form in his gut. There is a dense fog between him and standard human emotions. Will lives Hannibal, breathes Hannibal, takes his propaganda for truth, so as the doctor wraps his fingers around Mason's face and twists, Will knows only anticipation and excitement. Seeing is knowing, knowing is power, or so he has told himself. No longer the unreliable narrator in his own book: now Will perceives the abyss with stunning clarity, and the abyss stares back with glee.
He doesn't hear the snap of bone so much as feel it. His body, strung taut, goes lax, as limp as Mason's but with something stronger than death. Will is at peace in the sudden still quiet and the coy half-smirk on Hannibal's face when he finds Mason's pulse. The blood pooling in the doctor's stare is warm swaddling. Will is wrapped up in a devil's womb; he's descended to the depths of hell and is finally, mercifully home.
Hannibal doesn't tarnish Will with his Mason-covered hand, but Will feels him probing the lump on his head nevertheless. "I did not intend to leave you behind," he admits, "but time was of the essence, and your injuries were minor."
"I'm fine," Will lies. He is actually better than fine. Mason's unmaking has calmed the storm inside him. The fragments Margot sent ascattering have settled, clearing the waters in Will's imagination. He casts a line over a crystalline river. Even though he wears Hannibal's face now, his own reflection stares back from under the rippling waves.
"How is your head?"
Will hasn't thought about it. He's been so busy trying to get home that he forgot about the blow he received at the farm. The skin throbs with pressure. His vision blurs out of focus and leaves him stricken with déjà vu. He was reeling at the farm from his failing senses. The only evidence Hannibal has killed anyone exists in an overexposed blur of memory and a painful fade to black.
He looks to Mason, the blood on Hannibal's cuffs, and must call Jack.
"Hurts," he admits with a nod. Don't leave me.
Hannibal stares straight through him and perceives only the parts he helped cultivate. He stalks off to the kitchen in search of some ice.
Will searches for his cell phone under the pretense of preparing a drink.
"As a physician, I would advise against whiskey," Hannibal returns with a glass of water, "Although I cannot find any aspirin."
"I don't take aspirin anymore," Will replies, taking a long pull on the water. The distinction, "Not since Randall Tier," isn't necessary; Hannibal has monitored Will's physical health since the murder and found him much improved. "What did you give to Mason?"
He's never had to consider dialogue so carefully before. Every utterance is a move on a chess board. They are slowly progressing towards checkmate, and thus far, Hannibal appears unaware. "A mixture of psychedelic compounds," the doctor admits, gazing at the brutal aftermath slumped in Will's arm chair. "Enchanting and terrifying, according to Mason. It was enough to amplify his awareness while undermining his cognition."
The same could be said for what Hannibal did to Will. What he does to everyone. Will finishes the water and pours himself two fingers of whiskey. His cell phone is still nowhere to be found, and his landline has no doubt been disconnected. Hannibal is endeared to him but no fool. "Your modus operandi," Will gestures to the other empty glass. "Would you like a drink, Doctor?"
Hannibal inspects the bottle. Margot's tastes are to his standards, "Please."
They clink glasses – to the desecration of Mason – and drink. Will is easing the glass from his lips when a chill overcomes the lump on the back of his head. He glances over to find Hannibal pressing ice against the wound. "Your pupils were equal and reactive at the scene," the doctor comments. "Your neck will be stiff tomorrow, but you should suffer no ill effects."
Will stares at the glass in his hand. He considers how quickly he could shatter it and stab Hannibal in the throat. In every fantasy, the doctor overpowers him before he can try. Will takes another sip to dull his nerves. He has already lost enough evidence tonight; he can't afford to lose more from brash miscalculations.
"What will you do with him?" the question easily passes for casual interest, not as an unfiled report for Jack. Will's design is budding and requires refinement. He wants to know Mason's fate in order to determine his own.
"Exactly what he would do to me," Hannibal says with a glance to his handiwork. "I intend to feed Mason to his pigs."
Seems like a waste after paralyzing him, but Will realizes that Hannibal isn't speaking literally. The pigs are providing him with the perfect alibi. "He can be an apology to Margot," Hannibal continues, "and to you, for the loss of the fetus."
"The fetus wasn't lost," Will has to finish his whiskey on that. His head spins, and he can finally face the conversation. "Margot's organs were reaped. She was desecrated."
"As has Mason," Hannibal wraps his hand around Will's bicep, a gentle restraint. Will's swaying on his feet. He glances towards the doctor, vision lagging. Alcohol was, perhaps, not the wisest decision. Where is his cell phone?
Hannibal continues speaking; Will can't help but lean into him. His consciousness is expanding and contracting at odd angles. The scent of blood is making him ill. One of the dogs presses their wet muzzle into his hands and sends a shiver down his spine. Hannibal adjusts the ice pack on the back of Will's head in response, "I have merely redirected his cruelty onto a more suitable candidate."
"Dr. Lecter…"
"Will."
His jaw goes slack. Hannibal's empty whiskey glass sits next to his. Will swallows hard against the metallic taste left from the water to no avail. His knees shake, sending a hundred messages to his brain that he doesn't have the strength to hold himself up much longer. He's shutting down and taking the whole case against Hannibal with him. He needs to call Jack.
"I need to…"
The rest of the words die on his tongue. Hannibal removes the ice pack from his head and wraps an arm around his back. Will's weight falls more and more onto the good doctor. "What do you need, Will?"
As if he's expecting an answer, something damning. Will swallows the truth back into the depths of his soul. "I need to sit down," he musters. Hannibal catches him when his knees buckle.
"I thought we had agreed to be honest with one another, Doctor," his tone approaches accusing and then declines.
"Yes, we had. Are you being honest with me, Will?"
The bed comes out of nowhere. Will sinks into the mattress like a stone. Only Hannibal's arms keep him above the water. The doctor holds his face within inches of his. Blood binds them. Will wraps himself in the comforting dark of Hannibal's personality. The doctor's suggestion backfires. Instead of admitting his duplicitousness, Will is able to fall directly back into his ironclad impression of Hannibal. "I am," he says, eyelids drooping. "I am being honest with you."
Hannibal smiles. He catches Will's head when his neck gives out. His head spins him further into Hannibal's hands. The doctor's long fingers creep soothingly through his hair. He begins to unzip Will's jacket, to unravel his scarf. "You and Mason made quite a pair today."
"We are the fruits of your labour."
The room is cold without his jacket. Will can't help but shiver. He forces his eyes to open and stares into the great red hole where Mason's face used to be. Hannibal gently eases him onto the bed and leaves him for several long moments.
His cell phone is on the night table. Right where Lecter left it.
The moment is too perfect. Will's impaired just enough to align himself with his better nature. Hannibal's back is turned. Jack's number is probably already punched in, just to make Will's betrayal easier to orchestrate. Everything he needs to get Hannibal is right in the house at this very moment, which is precisely why the phone is in his reach. Precisely why he cannot risk contacting Jack, even with the whole case depending on Hannibal being caught in the act.
Will uses the last of his strength to glare at Hannibal. The whole incident is a test of his loyalties, and no matter what he chooses, Hannibal wins.
He gives into the rolling torpor of his mind just in time for Hannibal to turn back around.
The doctor's hands are surprisingly gentle in their ministrations. He could break Will, right here right now, easier than he broke Mason. The touch isn't at all menacing though. It occurs to Will – as he passively observes Hannibal removing his boots, his socks; he even helps the good doctor changes his shirt – that he isn't afraid anymore. He is no longer at odds with his imagination. Better still, Will has found a companion for the dark journey ahead, someone who fearlessly embraces brutal impulses with dignity. Hannibal understands him, and he, in turn, understands Hannibal. The symbiosis is what he finds so comforting, not the blood.
As a result, Will's impulse to phone Jack vanishes, even if he's forced to endure the most awry conclusion to an admittedly half-witted plan that he could have considered. He is going to wake up tomorrow and just hope that Jack gets in touch with the Vergers before Hannibal can conspire an alibi with Margot. Will can collect stool samples from the dogs, find traces of Mason on his chair, something, anything to salvage the night.
For now though, he doesn't have the heart to stop. Hannibal is the closest he has ever coming to knowing himself, to understanding an authentic part of his own being. Now, together, in the dark, the boundaries between them are blurring. He is safer with Hannibal than he is with himself, knowing full well the doctor is too enamoured to do away with him. Will has passed the test and succumbed. He's impaired just enough to reveal anything damning, but what Hannibal doesn't know, can't know, is the only damning parts of Will Graham are the ones the good doctor is helping to create.
Sleep pulls on him sharply. Fighting hurts. Every inch of him slumps in exhaustion. The dogs return to his hands. Will brushes his palm against the blood on their muzzle and makes a fist. Mason Verger was here: the blood will corroborate with even the fragments that Mason can report.
Hannibal tugs the blankets over him. Will spends his last seconds of consciousness trying to figure out how he came to be redressed.
"Don't worry about the dogs, Will," Hannibal gestures them away. He rubs the back of Will's hand, not the least bit suspicious of the blood contained in his fist. "I'll see to them."
Will turns over in sleep, burying his fist under his chest protectively. Hannibal considers the change in position with polite concern, but he is distracted by a knock on the door.
Reality warbles in and out of Will's awareness. Through the small cracks in his eyelids, Will watches as a long shadow enters from the outside. Hannibal exchanges social niceties with her, and after a pause to admire Mason, Margot approaches Will.
"Is he alright?" Margot asks softly.
"He's fine," Hannibal sounds a little offended that she would even ask.
"What did you do to him?"
"Administered a mild sedative."
"Why?"
The ghost of a smirk crosses Hannibal's features. "I was curious what he would do."
Darkness.
The chair is gone when Will wakes, as are the bloodstains on his dogs' chins. They swarm the bed when he rises, all of them seeking reassurance after the previous night. Will hesitates before reaching for them to check his palms for blood.
Hannibal has cleaned them both.
Happy reading!