Hannibal held the dampened cloth against Will's skin when his body abruptly tensed up and he scrambled backwards, falling out of the bed, and pushing his back into the wall, making him as far away from Hannibal as he could be. Abandoning the cloth on the bedside table, Hannibal approached with stillness and perspicacity so as not to startle Will, gently whispering quiet, calming words.
"I can never save her." Seeing Hannibal stalking toward him, Will cowards into the corner but yells, "You took her." His voice lowers, as if so only he could hear. "I couldn't save her." The tears took over, his eyes glued to the threshold of the room, seeing a ghost image from his unconsciousness.
Hannibal enveloped Will tightly, cautious of his now reopened shoulder injury, blood soaking into the fabric, holding him as he mourned the daughter they both lost and perhaps, mourning the pieces of himself that he left behind at the FBI van crash and by the seaside cliff. He'll likely never fit those pieces back into himself. Once the teacup breaks, it'll never put itself back together. Time does not reverse. It cannot be undone. Not now, not anymore. What we've done is too permanent, endless, everlasting. The events in play have already been set into motion. Will is not the teacup, he's the mongoose, the danger, the being that sets off warnings when one is alone. He is leaving the innocent and small parts of himself behind and for one so empathic, it is right for him to grieve what he is leaving in the past, who he is leaving in the past.
Time slides around them. Will looks up, glancing at the window, watching the sun descend behind the trees. He clears his throat, still sounding like he's been screaming.
"How long has it been?"
"Come back to the bed. Let me redress your shoulder." Hesitantly, he follows and waits for an answer before letting Hannibal touch the cut. Sighing, Hannibal gives in and answers the question.
"It's only been two days. You needed rest." Helping Will out of the shirt, Hannibal took the cloth he'd used to wash away the sweat covering Will's face to clean away the blood that's flowing from the cut and has since dried from how long it has been since it opened again. Hannibal took a moment to appreciate how calm this moment was with the two of them in it together. They reflected each other, the aftermath of their violence, the memories from the Great Red Dragon, Will giving in to his darker tendencies. His eyes flickered over features as his hand holding the cloth continued to wipe away the dried blood. Eyes met eyes, memories met memories, connection clicked, the dance resumed.
"Let's get this over with, Hannibal." Will grumbled, words tight, his expression not matching his voice, his words. As he applied a new dressing, Hannibal kept his smile hidden when he taped the sides and nodded when he was done, tossing a new shirt on the sheets.
"The bleeding should stop soon."
"Great. Give me a minute and I'll um… meet you out there."
"Europe is an option but locations are limited based on my past." Hannibal turns away from the atlas, open on the table, and contemplates out the window as the choices before him are scarce. "South America is a possibility as well." Will looked at the colors of the oceans and the continents, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration.
"Why not just go to the Cayman Islands and change our names?" he grumbled. Hannibal froze, ice standing in the sun.
"What was that?"
"We could go to the Cayman Islands…"
"Not the Cayman Islands." Hannibal pointed next to it on the atlas. "Here," he said. "Cuba."
