Notes: My first fic for Hannibal; I've been a fan since Season 1 was airing but I was intimidated by writing for it because of the show's complex dialogue and characters... so you may find that Hannibal and Will talk a little too much like regular human beings in this, but I hope you can bear with it. I think I've always had a rather sparse writing style which probably doesn't lend itself well to Hannibal. Oh well? Still worth a shot, I suppose.
Honestly I don't really know where this came from. It was partly inspired by a great Fullmetal Alchemist fic called Crash by Sevlow. I've borrowed its title, too, which will stay unless I can come up with a better one. This fic will likely have at least some character, plot and/or medical inaccuracies. I wasn't going for realism but it's possible I'll be making edits in the future.
Where am I?
Hannibal Lecter opened his eyes, but only blackness greeted him. Or perhaps they were still closed. It was difficult to tell. For a moment, Hannibal wondered if he was dead, but dismissed the notion when he noticed the pain slowly but steadily blossoming in his upper body. It began as an unpleasant numbness that was turning into something else entirely - a ferocious, gnawing agony that was radiating from somewhere under the right clavicle. So, he was injured. The memory of the drive came trickling back into his still-disoriented brain. The truck. The crash. Of course.
His eyes were adjusting to the night. He could make out the steering wheel in front of him, as well as what was left of the dashboard and windshield. Judging by the wreckage, the truck had met Hannibal's Bentley nearly head-on, although the destruction was milder than Hannibal would have expected from a collision of this sort. He hadn't been driving too fast; perhaps it was also the case with the truck. However, unfortunately for him, the truck had been carrying a stack of metal poles, which were now in a disarray - 'disarray' meaning 'jutting through the windshield and every which way'. Hannibal supposed that one of them may have to do with the discomfort he was currently feeling, and as per usual, he had assumed correctly.
Hannibal sighed. This was troublesome indeed.
It was difficult to gauge the full extent of the damage to his body. He was all but immobilized by the pole pinning him to his seat like some insect in a museum collection, and it was far too dark to see anything clearly. The pain was immense and distracting, though not incapacitating - at least, not for Hannibal. He had his ways of dealing with mere physical pain, but he couldn't ignore the obvious looming threat of shock and blood loss. Perhaps a few of his ribs could be bruised or fractured; minor lacerations were a given. Were all his limbs intact? Thankfully, it seemed so.
Having finished assessing his situation, Hannibal gingerly turned his head towards Will, ignoring the ache shooting through his neck as he did so. The younger man was still unconscious, the side of his face slightly bloody and leg oddly wedged in a space between his seat and the car door. He didn't seem to be seriously hurt.
So very troublesome.
"Will?" Hannibal tried calling him several times to no avail. His voice cracked and was unsteady; he barely recognized the sound of it as his own. Hannibal was somewhat concerned; he hoped Will had nothing more than a mild concussion. An experimental shift in his seat told him that it was impossible for him to reach Will in his current state - at least, not without getting the pole out of him.
There was little he could do to treat himself at this moment. His clothes were in the way of allowing any proper dressing and with one functional arm, it was near impossible to tear away the damp fabric. Attempting to move the pole on his own would be unwise - it was keeping the wound sealed, at least for now. Besides, he sadly had to acknowledge that his free hand was nowhere near steady enough to do more good than harm - the visibility was also poor.
Hannibal let out his breath in a low whistle, and laid his head back on the headrest, letting his eyes close.
I may as well get some rest.
He had gotten very little sleep in the past few days, mostly due to assisting with the FBI and his... groceries. He didn't regret it, for his fridge and pantry were satisfyingly stocked again, but he couldn't help but wonder if he would have been able to swerve to avoid the truck if he had been in peak working condition.
There is little point in dwelling. What had already happened was irreversible.
Hannibal slept.
A familiar voice jerked Hannibal out from the comfortable depths of unconsciousness. He forced his eyes open and turned to find Will, his face looking strangely pale and ghostly in the dimness, making the crimson of the blood on it stand out brightly. Will's features were arranged in a deep frown.
"Will. How are you feeling?" His voice somehow sounded worse than he remembered.
"Oh, for god's sake..." Will choked out a bark of laughter that bordered on hysterical. "I'm fine. But you - you -"
It was still dark, but Will had turned on the somehow-functional dome light. Hannibal glanced down and noted where the pole had pierced him through the suit, going in at the deltoid and possibly emerging at the back. At this angle, perhaps the scapula would have been spared; his lungs and heart were definitely intact.
He checked his watch. He had slept for a bit less than half an hour.
Finally, Hannibal said, "It isn't fatal."
Will retorted, "Don't treat me as an idiot, Dr. Lecter. You do know what I do for a living, don't you? There are several words I'd use to describe being impaled by a metal pole and 'just a flesh wound' aren't among them." Hannibal didn't reply. Will exhaled, shaking visibly. "Does it hurt?"
"As much as one would expect an injury of this sort to," Hannibal answered, letting a wince flit across his features. "Blood loss is my main concern, but it seems the foreign body is keeping it in check for the time being." Even as he said this, he felt the strain of the longer sentence he had just uttered - his breathing was beginning to quicken, and he forced it back into regulation.
"If you say so..." Will still looked dubious, but he dropped the topic. Hesitantly, he said, "Do... do you want me to do anything?"
"It would be best not to touch the wound for now. The pole seems secure and there is little bleeding." Hannibal added, "I apologize. I should have driven more carefully."
"Don't be ridiculous. Even I could tell that trucker was in the wrong lane." Will's jaw clenched.
The pair felt silent for a moment. Hannibal wasn't one to envision his own death often, and a car accident was low on his list of likely causes of his demise, considering the situations he quite often found himself in. He had mapped out such possibilities before, of course, but preparing for an incident like this was never a priority. Still, he was equipped for whatever may happen, and this was no exception. Even if it would be a tad anti-climactic if he met his end here...
Ah, but Will... Will Graham's fate he had pondered far more than his own, its opaqueness and his ability to influence it being far more interesting to Hannibal. His life would certainly lose some of its colour without Will in it. Either way, it would be a terrible waste indeed if either one of them were to die inside this car. Hannibal intended to prevent this from happening, but he had to admit that he was frustratingly debilitated by his wound.
"Do you happen to have a phone with you?" He said at last.
"Yes... but I don't know where it is now. It must have gotten tossed around in the crash..."
"I suppose our priority should be finding it, then." Hannibal murmured; Will nodded, slowly. "Can you move?" His eyes traveled to Will's trapped leg.
In response, Will grunted as he squirmed in his seat. "I'm not sure. My leg's stuck - I think the ankle might be twisted or broken. If I can just -" There was a rustling noise, and his breath escaped his lips in a hiss.
Injecting concern into his voice, Hannibal said, "Will. Don't strain yourself."
"I'm fine, Dr. Lecter. You, on the other hand..." Will trailed off and bent down over his leg, mouth set in a hard, determined line. "I have to get out. If I can't find my phone, there might be something in the truck that could help us. Maybe the driver's alive." Unbeknownst to Will, Hannibal's lips twisted at that - he was quite certain that the stupid bastard had been driving under influence. He was definitely going on Hannibal's list of future meals - if he wasn't a sorry lump of ruined flesh already, that was. Will continued, "We can't just sit and wait for highway patrol - who knows when they'll come by here."
It annoyed him, but Hannibal judged himself to be near-helpless at the moment. Will could help them both, negating the need for Hannibal to tear himself open any further.
The younger man was working at his leg again, panting from the exertion. Hannibal shifted in his seat, trying to ease the strain from his rather awkward position, but all it achieved was a sudden spasm in his shoulder that managed to take his breath away. Will didn't notice; Hannibal left him at his task, and calmed his racing heartbeat - an action he was quite practiced at. With his left hand, he touched where the pole entered him, his fingers coming away reddened. Blood. It was a familiar sight in his line of work - both previous and current - but he rarely had to see his own. One could say that he almost enjoyed it, as it reminded him of his own mortality, among other things.
A muttered curse from Will made Hannibal look away from his hand and back to his right. "Will - "
With a final jerk and a muffled cry, Will's leg came free. He had leaned back in his seat to catch his breath, his chest heaving and forehead slick with sweat. "I-I'm fine," he said unsteadily before Hannibal could inquire. "Let me just... okay, I'm fine." He seemed to have regained his composure, admirably quickly. Hannibal couldn't help but let a smile briefly curl the corners of his mouth. Will was strong.
Will spent several minutes rummaging around his seat as best as he could with the limited light and mobility. It was futile. The phone was nowhere within sight nor reach. He was as thorough as he could be; nothing. The pain in his leg was doing nothing to make his search easier, and a pounding headache was making itself apparent to him. There was some blood coming from a cut on his brow, and Will assumed that he probably had a concussion.
"I can't find it." He looked back to Hannibal, who was gazing off into the darkness with an almost bizarre calm. It was as if it was another one of their therapy sessions, except for the pole jutting out from Hannibal's suit, he supposed.
"That... is troublesome." Hannibal sounded as if he was discussing the weather. Will vaguely wondered if he was going into shock. He hoped not.
"You don't have one on you?"
"I seem to have misplaced mine as well, and I don't think I should move. I am also beginning to question if there would be phone service here." Hannibal answered smoothly, but his words were beginning to sound slurred at the edges, his accent emerging more strongly than usual.
"Damn it..." Will muttered, his fist clenched. "I'll have to go look for something in the truck. A phone could still be helpful."
"That seems like our best course of action."
Will's stomach was knotted tight with worry. The sensation seemed to overpower all else, including the throbbing in his head and leg, the aches prodding at him all over. Hannibal's injury was bad, as far as he could see, and they needed help soon. He had managed to crawl out of the wreck that was once an elegant Bentley - it hadn't been hard once he wrenched his leg free. The pain had made his eyes water and he confirmed that his ankle was badly swollen, but he could finally move.
"I'm out, Dr. Lecter. I'll be back soon," he called.
Dragging himself into an upright position, Will surveyed the wreckage, or at least what he could see of it in the headlights that were functioning. The car had taken the worst of the crash; the truck was a pickup - badly dented but still intact. The massive stack of poles it had been carrying - perhaps about ten feet long each - seemed to be everywhere, a tangled mess of iron. Slowly, he traced one back to the Bentley with his eyes, where it had punched straight through the windshield, Hannibal and his leather driver's seat.
Hannibal Lecter could easily die right here.
The realization dawned on him like a punch to the gut, and Will felt sick.
Despite having seen far worse in his illustrious career with the FBI, Will felt absolutely sick.
He collected himself. Taking a deep breath, Will began to navigate through the wreck and towards where he could make out the front of the truck. His bad leg made the process a laborious one but he pressed on, teeth gritted.
"Hello?" Will called out. No response. He limped closer to the truck, wrenched open the dented door, and hoisted himself up into the driver's seat.
The truck driver was most certainly dead. Will grimaced and peered at him more closely - wide, glassy eyes, and mouth hanging open slackly with a trail of blood and saliva coming from it, the whole head twisted at a rather horrific angle. The stench of alcohol hit Will forcefully in the face when he leaned in. He swallowed, but felt a sort of grim satisfaction at the same time. If it weren't for you, we'd still be on our merry way to Wolf Trap. He was hardly disturbed by the thoughts he was having about the dead man.
Will frowned. Perhaps the truck... with effort, he pulled the body of the driver out, letting him drop with a wet thump to the road. A search of the man's body yielded nothing but a cell phone that refused to turn on, keys, a box of cigarettes and a miserably thin wallet. Will took the man's place in the driver's seat, ignoring the blood sticking to his clothes. The fuel tank was half-full, the dashboard largely undamaged. Will tried the radio but it too stayed silent, making him grind his molars in frustration. After a moment's thought, he gingerly put his foot on the accelerator and applied pressure - there was the rumbling of engines and Will felt the vehicle respond. He then took his foot away, put the gear shift into parking and lowered himself back out of the truck.
The return trip to the Bentley was quicker. He pulled himself back into the car and settled in the passenger seat once again, squeezing his eyes shut against the twinging in his leg. Opening them again, Will licked his chapped lips. "There was a cell inside but it was dead... the truck radio's not working either." His mouth twisted in distaste. "The driver's dead. He was definitely drinking."
Hannibal turned to look at him, slowly, blinking blearily. At last, all that he uttered was a soft sigh. "That's not good."
Will almost wanted to laugh. No shit. "We have to find a way to get out of here," he said, aware that this was also a rather obvious statement.
"Yes."
Will's mind went back to the truck. "What if we..." he began to say, but trailed off. "Never mind." Will shook his head, immediately regretting it when a wave of nausea overtook him; he somehow managed to fight down the urge to throw up all over the wrecked dashboard.
"Will." A note of dubiousness had entered Hannibal's hoarse voice.
"No, really."
"If you say so."
"So... now what?" Will said quietly.
"Wait?" Hannibal murmured.
Will just nodded; there was nothing else they could do for now - or so he told himself.
An indeterminable amount of time had passed, Hannibal not seeing the purpose in checking his watch again.
He knew that he was beginning to fade.
There was only so much agony a human body could take for a prolonged period of time. Two hours since the crash, forty-five minutes since he regained consciousness. Too long... Black blotches were creeping into the corners of his vision and as much as he attempted to steady it, his breathing was becoming much more uneven.
He tried to estimate how much blood he'd lost. He could feel it leaving him in small amounts, but leaving him all the same. It seemed like ages since Will had made his little venture to the truck... Everything was cold and still, occasional sounds of Will from beside him punctuating the silence. Hannibal found himself shivering, which did nothing to alleviate the pain pounding steadily at his chest.
He retreated into his mind. He revisited pleasant memories; some recent and others more distant, some blood-soaked, some not. He imagined himself skinning the accursed trucker with a scalpel then cutting his abdominal cavity open, removing his organs - or at least those fit to consume, so not the swollen liver - all while he was still alive. Screaming. Yes, there would be lots of screaming... His physical discomforts were becoming more and more distant, almost numb. Still, he was exhausted, and at the moment he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and let the unconsciousness take him again. He wondered if it would be rude to worry Will further in such a manner.
Perhaps.
He'd conserve his energy, he decided, but he mustn't lose himself - not yet. But for once, he was finding it a challenge to make his body obey him. Even Hannibal Lecter had his limits.
Will's throbbing headache was growing more vicious, and of all things, he was hungry. He felt like a fool. Hannibal seemed to be drifting again, lids drooping, face ashen and coated with a fine layer of perspiration. He looked so infuriatingly calm, but Will could tell how difficult breathing was becoming for him, each one forming a faint mist in the air - time was running out. Perhaps for both of them; it was so cold, Will thought.
"Will," Hannibal was nearly incomprehensible now, his voice no more than a low noise in his throat. "Will."
"Yes, Dr. Lecter?" Will tried not to betray his anxiety, but he was sure he'd failed, especially after noticing how Hannibal barely seemed to be able to focus on his face.
Hannibal swallowed. Even that movement looked laboured. "The truck. Functional?"
"I - I don't know." Will cursed inwardly. "I'll go look."
"Don't have to." Of course Hannibal would pick up on it so quickly, even when sitting in the cold and dark, skewered by a pole.
"I don't know what you're - " At the look of amusement on Hannibal's face, Will relented. "All right, all right. But you also know I'm not going to leave you here and drive off in that piece of junk."
"Will - "
"You can't move. I'm staying."
"You're being... illogical." Hannibal had to pause for breath. "Exposure will endanger you... your leg..."
"And you're a fucking human shish kebab right now." Will was losing patience, despite himself. "I'm much better off than you. I'll be fine." Fuck this headache.
"Which means you... better condition to go."
"No, I'm not going to leave you alone here. You very well know that it's highly unlikely that I'll return in time."
"I don't want... you to die here."
"Looks like our feelings are mutual, then." Will growled. After a moment's consideration, he said, "If I'm going, so are you."
"How." It was hardly a question. Hannibal was a former surgeon. He had a better grasp of the situation than Will ever could.
"Well - " Will closed his mouth. His eyes went to the pole. So did Hannibal's.
"Will. That could kill me." Tiredly, Hannibal raised an eyebrow.
Will had first aid training. Even he knew the risks all too well. "Exactly. You're not going anywhere, neither am I."
"Pull it out," Hannibal said abruptly only moments later, the tone of his voice unchanged.
"What?" Will blinked, not fully processing what he thought he had just heard.
"Take me with you."
You've got to be joking. "You said so yourself, that thing could be the only thing keeping you alive - "
"Don't have... much longer anyway," Hannibal rasped out.
Fuck it. Will hated that he could see Hannibal's logic. If he survived the pole being removed, he would have a better chance of getting help sooner than if he was still stuck inside the car. Against his better judgement, Will caved. "Okay, fine." He turned in his seat to face Hannibal, and shrugged off his jacket, gathering it up into a ball. He barely felt the throbbing in his leg any more; Hannibal's situation was so much more dire. "Dr. Lecter, are you sure about this - "
There was an affirmative noise in response from the psychiatrist, his eyes half-closed but still regarding Will through the hair falling over his face. Will sucked in a breath through his nose and shut his lids. Opened them again. He flexed his fingers and gingerly, he reached for the pole. His eyes flickered up to meet Hannibal's again. "This might not work out all that well. Dr. Lecter - I'm sorry."
Hannibal said quietly, "Pull slowly. Move little as possible." He added with a faint smile, "Not your fault."
"Ready?" Somehow, Will kept his voice from wavering.
"Ready." Hannibal whispered.
Will tightened his grip on the metal.
Hannibal let the scream rip through his throat. There was little point in keeping himself composed, but he wasn't sure whether he could have even if he tried. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt pain like this, but perhaps his already-weakened mind and body were worsening the experience. Tears involuntarily sprang to his eyes, blinding him, and the roaring of the blood in his ears seemed to drown out even his own voice - and Will's.
The profiler was saying something to him but he could barely think, much less decipher those words. Hannibal chided himself for his loss of control. He needed to be stronger than this. The walls of his mind needed to be impenetrable. This was hardly adequate.
It was Will Graham. Will was rooting him in the present when he should be sealed away in the palace of his mind, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Hannibal decided to savour every detail of this moment he could without completely burning himself. He was already too close to the flame to escape unscathed - his wings were already singed.
Through a haze, he could feel the accursed pole sliding out of him, inch by inch. The metal felt freezing cold and white-hot all at once. Somehow he grew accustomed to the sensation of it, and he let his cries die into less... animal noises. Such exquisite pain. He couldn't stop from trembling violently, however, and he found that his free hand was gripping Will's arm crushingly tight, again not entirely of his own command. He would most definitely leave bruises behind. Will was still talking to him, desperately soothing, and Hannibal wondered what he could possibly be saying in a circumstance like this. He let himself fill in the gaps between the words he managed to catch.
Will had impressed him once again. Lying about the truck, being both willing and able to cause Hannibal excruciating pain if it meant not abandoning him - and with little prodding, at that. How fascinating. Will alone had the power to save them both - or just himself, or neither. Hannibal had been looking forward to seeing how the agent would proceed, and he was not disappointed.
He couldn't have said exactly when it ended. The pole came free with a final yank from Will, making a scraping noise as it was set aside, grinding against the remains of the car. Hannibal somehow hardly noticed; he was directing most of his energy on holding onto his consciousness. Will was pressing his jacket to the wound, trying to bind it, seeming to only intensify the pain there - but Hannibal held still. The bleeding would be bad enough as it was.
Then, as if from a great distance away, he heard Will plead with him to get up.
Hannibal was so tired.
"Yes," he said, or thought he did.
He remembered very little after that.
When Hannibal awoke from his drug-induced slumber, he immediately recognized that he was in the hospital. The scents, the sounds and the sights were all very familiar to him, but he was not used to experiencing them from the point of view of the bed. Alana was sitting in his room in the chair next to him, reading. Intensely relieved, she immediately called Jack - and Will. She told him about how Will dragged him out of the car and to the truck. Hannibal couldn't recall much of it. Mostly pain and breathless words of encouragement from Will. How Will had managed to haul Hannibal a dozen meters over with a broken ankle was anyone's guess. He had kept pressure on the wound but Hannibal still lost a great deal of blood - according to Alana the doctors said it was a miracle he was alive.
No, not a miracle, thought Hannibal. He had fought hard for survival, like he did always.
"Don't scare us like that ever again, Hannibal," she said to him before she left, squeezing his hand.
He smiled and squeezed back. "I'll try."
Will had been discharged two days before. He had a concussion and that broken ankle, along with a collection of minor bruises and lacerations, but he had emerged otherwise intact. Hannibal found nothing unexpected reading through his own prognosis. He would stay hospitalized for a while longer to recover his strength, but the wound itself, although serious, was far from fatal. Mostly muscle damage, regrettably made much more severe by the foreign body being pulled out. Nothing that wouldn't heal over time.
Though, pity about the Bentley.
Hannibal was eating some of the Belgian chocolates Alana had given him, a pleasant distraction from the steady throbbing of his wound that had become his constant companion, which he vastly preferred over a morphine-induced fog over his eyes. He heard the clacking of the crutches from down the hall far before he saw Will. A soft knock later, he came in. His right foot was encased in a cast up to the shin and there was a band-aid adorning his bruised forehead, but he looked decent for the most part, considering.
"Would you like a chocolate?" Hannibal offered.
Will declined and sat in the chair, placing his crutches against the wall. He simply looked at Hannibal - and his bandages, no doubt - for a long moment before finally saying,"Dr. Lecter... I'm sorry I put you through that."
"You know that wasn't your fault, Will."
His brow was deeply furrowed. "You could have died."
"It was my choice. I was fully aware of the risk."
"I suppose we were out of options by then," sighed Will, sounding defeated.
Hannibal nodded. "You saved me."
Glancing up at that, the younger man said, "It was your idea, as you said. The last thing I wanted to do was tear you open further."
It was true that ultimately, it was Hannibal who had chosen to take the gamble with his life. The odds of survival after getting himself out of the car had been more favourable than if he had not - with the added benefit of also increasing Will's chances of not ending up as a frozen corpse. Will was the one who had facilitated the situation, however, by refusing to leave alone. Everything had proceeded quite pleasingly. Hannibal had much he wished to discuss concerning their ordeal together, but decided that it could wait until their next therapy session, whenever that was to be. So he said instead, "Enough about the accident. I would like to make us dinner after I am discharged."
Will allowed a small but genuine smile. "That sounds good." A pause. "I'm glad you made it."
"Likewise. Perhaps you have suggestions for the menu?" Hannibal wondered if the drunken truck driver would have had decent meat on him at least. Why did it matter? He would be in a morgue by now, anyway. What a sad waste of perfectly fine cuts. No, no use in dwelling. Hannibal hoped the meat he had stocked up on prior to the accident hadn't spoiled yet; inconveniently, it would likely be a while before he could hunt again.
He would also have to look into purchasing a new car.