Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Hannibal makes a stop on their way out of the city. Will is not happy about it.

Author's Notes: I am so happy that people are enjoying this fic! It's certainly helping me cope with the long stretch between now and the third season (which can't come fast enough, what with all the amazing news about it). I feel like I should mention that I am borrowing bits and pieces from the Hannibal novel, including Pazzi's wife. Apologies if this is spoiler-y.

Cheers, everyone! Enjoy!

Three

Will berates himself for not keeping a better handle on his gunshot wound. For letting his cell phone get destroyed. For not having a gun (he tries to blame Jack for that and fails, miserably). He imagines calling Hannibal's bluff there on the street instead of caving to the doctor's design. Again.

Then he realizes that gunshot wound or no, the second he started following Hannibal today they were bound to end up in this car together. Theirs is a dance of fate ruled by just enough luck to appear random.

He is shaken out of his reverie gently. Hannibal doesn't tear his eyes from the road even as he retracts his hand from Will's shoulder. "Are you conscious?"

Will is also careful not to take his eyes from the road, "Yes."

"You'll keep me informed about your condition: confusion, weakness, or any agitation."

"The bleeding's slowed."

"Possibly because you don't have much blood left to lose."

"I'm fine."

"For now."

"Where are we going?"

Hannibal indulges him, "We're paying a quick visit on our way out of the city. Just long enough to administer to your wound and perhaps have a quick bite."

Will stirs. Adrenaline hits his bloodstream like liquid nitrogen. "No," he declares. "No, we are not stopping for a bite. Stop here. That looks like a pharmacy."

"That's a corner store."

He grumbles and then adds, "Just find a pharmacy."

"We don't need a pharmacy," Hannibal replies casually. "I'm confident our stop will have everything we need."

"You mean your meal will have everything we need. Let's not mince words as well as people, Hannibal."

The good doctor smiles. He casts his first glance at Will since getting into the car. "You're looking pale."

"I'm fine," but he says it too forcefully. Hannibal knows he's not. Worse, Will now knows he's not. He can hear the desperation in his voice, the thread of this is a terrible idea and what the hell am I doing constricting his tone into a tight, crackly knot. The pain isn't as terrible as it should be, especially with constant pressure. His thoughts are beginning to fizzle.

"Tell me," Hannibal prompts him.

"I think I'm going into shock."

"Hmm," the car accelerates up a hill. Will closes his eyes and lets himself drift. He's shaken back into awareness again by Hannibal. "Stay with me, Will."

He opts for the direct approach. About the only thought keeping him going right now: "You're going to kill someone."

"I'm not going to kill you," Hannibal slows to a more respectable speed and pulls around a corner. The houses on the hill are more of Florence's ancient opulence, modernized just enough to remain standing. They're warm and glowing in the afternoon sun. Will lets them raise his temperature back to normal. "I hardly think you'll begrudge me Inspector Pazzi though."

"Hannibal."

He parks discretely, hiding his vehicle behind an overflowing garden Will assumes is out of sight from Pazzi's home. They are at Pazzi's home aren't they? There to raid the medicine cabinet and Pazzi's own flesh. Will has to gather his thoughts before saying more. The loss of momentum has left him spinning. "Hannibal, I already said I'd go with you."

"Are you proposing a trade, Will? Your life for Inspector Pazzi's?"

"No. I'm proposing that we get the hell out of Florence before Jack Crawford, former head of the FBI's Behavioural Sciences Unit, accurately deduces that you're targeting the Inspector who just fired on you in broad daylight." The logic is air tight on that one. Will's still not surprised when Hannibal exits the car after engaging in one of his patented blank stares. The trunk opens, then slams shut again. Will barely catches himself when his door opens.

Hannibal carries a medical kit in one hand and helps Will up with the other, slinging one of Will's arms over his shoulder before the younger man can protest. Hannibal clamps then clamps his hand down on Will's wound before walking. He continues their conversation as if Will isn't just dangling off his shoulder. "Inspector Pazzi is not going to allow Jack Crawford to arrest me, not with Mason's reward. His house is the last place Crawford will be allowed to search."

The tugging on his side is unbearable. Will's vision blanks out into red and white and brown. He digs his heels into the ground and covers for his weakness by focusing on his own moral outrage. "I am not going to be an accomplice," he stammers. When his vision returns, Will finds Hannibal staring at him blankly. He stares right back. "I'm also not going to be an accessory."

Hannibal doesn't move, but his expression does change to one of intrigue. "And yet here you are," he says, adjusting Will's grip on his shoulders.

Will glares at the pathway, at the forest, at the hollow-eyed villa in his path. Inspector Pazzi lives in a house fit for murder. It's like he picked it specifically because a cannibal could butcher him discretely within. "Yes," he comments glumly, "here I am."

"You'll behave yourself then?"

"I'm not going to let you kill the man," Will has to stop one more time to get his bearings. His side is in agony, and his shoe squeaks from the blood collecting in his sock. Hannibal has to take on more of his weight before they can continue. He seems only too happy to: lethargy means Will won't be able to put up much of a fight in Pazzi's defence.

By the time they reach the door, Will's mouth has gone dry and his head is filled with cotton. He sags heavily against Hannibal's side. The doorbell chimes dully behind the door.

Will can't quite muster the venom the moment deserves, "He's not going to be home yet."

Hannibal doesn't reply. He just flicks the corners of his lips up in a smile that only the devil can see.

The door opens revealing a statuesque brunette. She is horrified by the sight of Will, then sympathetic, and then horrified again.

After a hurried exchange of Italian pleasantries, the woman pulls the door wife open and ushers both Hannibal and Will inside.

Will tries to find the words that will communicate the danger she's in, but he speaks about as much Italian as she does English, which is to say none at all. Still, he has to try. "Whatever he told you, he's lying," Will gestures to to get his point across. "Get out now. Call the Polizia! Polizia!" She nods to him and repeats the word in what he thinks at first is agreement.

Hannibal disabuses him of that notion. "I told her you were delirious," he says, then continues speaking in Italian. The women converses with him as she walks them into the foyer and points them toward the other rooms in the house.

Will watches in horror as she closes the door behind them.

Happy reading!