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: It's neither Venice nor Milan, but the hotel is private and Will needs medical attention.

Author's Notes: I am so, so sorry. SO SORRY. I didn't mean to get so far behind, but between wedding planning (we're hitting the one month away point and I have obviously forgotten EVERYTHING. The neuroses have gone into overdrive. Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh) and report cards (ohmygoshohmygosh) I haven't had time to pen anything. GAH.

There's more dialogue from Hannibal (the book and movie) in this chapter. Sorry for that too :(

Thank you, dear readers and reviewers, who kept at me to continue. Your messages were so helpful, and I feel awful that I gave anyone the impression this story was being abandoned. Almost an entire month has gone by. I'm sorry! Please enjoy.

Six

The ebb and flow of Will's breath lengthens and deepens like an outgoing tide. Despite his trepidations (or his trepidations about trepidations, as is so often the case), he sleeps, head turned to the window so only his frayed mess of curls is visible.

Hannibal takes advantage. Well, more advantage. Will's understanding of Italian is clearly limited. His conception of geography can't be much stronger. Hannibal travels north then, sadly past Venice, and ends up in Susegana. One night, he promises himself. One night, a vehicle switch, and then they will head across the border toward…wherever Hannibal pleases.

The bed and breakfast is on the outskirts amidst rolling hills and a profound view of the city. Hannibal's stayed here before, is momentarily pained by it not being Florence, but knows it to match his tastes perfectly. Better still, there are no landmarks nearby. The staff don't ask questions. No television. In Will's eyes, their accommodation is another beautiful, ancient building seemingly in the middle of the nowhere Italy. Will could try and describe it for Jack, but even the head of the behavioural sciences unit would have trouble placing it.

He leaves Will sleeping in the car while he arranges for a room, while he cleans out the car in preparation for its abandonment, while he plots the elimination of another guest for blowing smoke in his face on his walk to the lobby. All the things Will wouldn't want to see him doing. All the things he will no doubt ask about when he wakes and Hannibal will only be too happy to reveal to him.

It's always fun to watch Will's mind wander through the bloody possibilities. Almost better than watching Will enact them.

Almost.

One last advantage before waking him: Hannibal checks his vitals. Will's far too pale, unsurprising, and there's the salty scent of heat rising from his skin. His dressings need changing. Antibiotics need administering. "Will?" Hannibal withdraws his hand. "Will, can you hear me?"
"Where are we?"

The doctor smiles. He has missed Will. "I've rented a room for the night. Can you walk?"

Will nods, but he's not sure that's true. His eyes are barely open. "You may have to haul me through the front door."

"I did suggest to the staff that you were inebriated. You certainly look it."

"Did they ask about the bruises on your face?"

"They did. I told them they were your doing. Liquor does not agree with your normally passive constitution."

"You do not agree with my normally passive constitution," Will rubs his eyes. He's finally waking up. The pain from his back makes his lips go into a taut line.

Hannibal holds out his arm, "I would park closer, but I don't want anyone to recognize the vehicle."

"You're swapping."

"Later. Are you hungry?"

"That depends. Are you cooking?"

"Not for what passes as a kitchenette in our room."

"Then yes, I'm famished," Will takes hold of Hannibal's arm and rises from the vehicle. He collapses against the back door almost immediately. His left leg isn't supporting his weight. The pain makes his breath come in quick gasps. He gets a shade paler from the change in altitude.

His eyes close and he begins shivering. Hannibal thinks he's going to pass out again. Instead, Will insists – as best as his quavering voice can manage, "Take me with you when you change vehicles."

"So you can report to Jack Crawford?" Hannibal doesn't bother to laugh. "No, Will. I think you'll stay here."

"I don't think I can make it to the door."

"You'll make it," Hannibal buttons Will's jacket and straightens his collar. Neither makes him look as presentable as the space demands, a fact Will picks up on.

"I look rude," he notes bitterly.

Hannibal knows when he's being goaded into a fight, but the barb doesn't bristle him in the slightest. "You've looked rude before," Hannibal says, "but I've always found your rudeness to be one of your more charming personality traits, aftershave notwithstanding."

Will's shivering quiets somewhat when he's pressed against Hannibal's side again, though the good doctor does end up hauling him through the front door. The walk depletes whatever reserves of strength remained in his body, and as dismayed as Hannibal is to be seen dragging Will over the threshold, he's happy the former profiler is so pliable for the moment. He may not even have to sedate Will before leaving to arrange for new transportation.

The constant looks from hotel staff prompt Will to break his silence. "Any one of them could recognize you," he taunts, "could recognize me. How many dishevelled Americans pass through this part of the country, do you think?"

Hannibal ignores his question and poses another, more important one, "What is it you think Jack Crawford will do if we are captured? I followed the course of your disgrace and public shaming."

Will grimaces. Hannibal has pulled on his stitches almost accidently. "Enthusiastically?" he wonders aloud.

"At first," he so enjoys being honest with Will. "I was angry that you betrayed me in Baltimore. The slander levelled at you by the American news outlets brought me a petty sort of satisfaction. I especially liked the photos of you from the hospital."

"You liked seeing Freddie Lounds betray me."

"It was my only consolation for not phoning you to declare that I told you so."

"You didn't tell me so."

"Then why did you pretend to kill her, hm?"

"I didn't want to give you the pleasure of actually killing her," Will hisses as they pass around a corner. His legs get tangled, but Hannibal presses forward with them dragging on the hardwood. Will's stitches aren't in threat of being broken yet.

"And spared yourself the misery of being Tattle Crime's banner for months."

Will heaves a shuddering breath. "I didn't know about that."

"It was tasteless," Hannibal concedes.

"Freddie Lounds is tasteless."

Silence is the welcome sound of their agreement. Will breaks it with a question of practicality. "You didn't book us on the second floor," he can't hide the begging quality of his voice. Will doesn't want to climb stairs in his condition.

"The thought did cross my mind," Hannibal admits. "I can always restitch your back."

"Ah, but you can't punish me either if I'm dead."

Hannibal slows down suddenly, as if the thought has just occurred to him, which oddly, it has. He doesn't know why it didn't occur to him before. He's hurting Will out of habit, not out of malice. "I'm not trying to punish you," he somehow makes it sound like he's always known. He checks Will's eyes to see if the former profiler senses his deception, but Will seems too relieved by their more comfortable pace to notice. Hannibal has to give himself away, is compelled to. This is Will after all. "I'm not trying to punish you anymore."

The eye contact is brief, but they're both so aware, so present, that it seems to last a lot longer. Hannibal only speaks again when Will looks away. "I forgave you in Baltimore. I didn't want to forgive you, but I did."

He leans Will against the stone wall beside their door as he reaches for the key. The room smells of clean linen and countryside, with just a hint of ozone from the industry beyond. Hannibal wishes again he'd had more time to plan his escape. They could have stayed in Venice or Milan, somewhere opulent instead of merely acceptable.

Still, the hotel is private, the room locks securely, and the phone was easy to disconnect.

Will waits until Hannibal lays out a towel on the bed before sitting. Getting blood on the sheets serves no one. Hannibal already had his medical kit open at the foot of the bed and is pulling on gloves as Will strips his jacket and shirt for the second time that day.

Redness and irritation are visible around the edges of the gauze. Hannibal's disappointment must be audible, since Will responds with, "This is going to hurt more, isn't it?"

"There are early signs of infection," Hannibal observes. "I may have to remove the stitches to clean the wound."

"So much for not punishing me."

"This isn't punishment. This is mercy."

"Spoken like a psychopath."

"Spoken like a doctor," Hannibal counters, "but I see your point." He peels the gauze from Will's back. Yes, he will have to remove the stitches and irrigate the skin. There may be fragments of Pazzi's bullet stuck in Will's skin.

He reaches for his kit, digs around until he finds a fresh needle and the vial of midazolam. Will catches him in the corner of his eye, knows, but says nothing. Hannibal's curiosity is piqued. "You do trust me, don't you, Will."

It really ought to be a question instead of a statement of fact. Even Will senses that. He grips the mattress and wonders aloud, "What more could you possibly do to me?"

Hannibal waits until the needle is in Will's arm before answering, "Plenty, Will. Plenty."

Honesty is a beautiful thing.

The drug washes through Will. His shaking transforms into swaying. Hannibal has to hold him upright as he begins to cut through the sutures. Puss emerges through the open flaps of skin. Will's head comes to rest in the crook of Hannibal's arm.

"I forgive you too, Hannibal," he mutters.

Hannibal tries to not give himself away, but his hand still shakes. He pretends not to have heard. "What was that?"
Will adjusts his head drowsily. "I forgive you too. Forgave you a long time ago, I think. I didn't want to either. I just…did."

"Forgiveness is funny that way."

Will's head bobs to nod, then drops against Hannibal again. Warmth radiates up through the doctor's arm. He can't keep working, has to stop and just hold Will in an awkward, backwards hug. "Forgiveness was easier than hating you. I'm still not sure how that happens. I…I really hated you."
"Past tense," Hannibal purrs. "What changed?"

Will mutters something unintelligible. Hannibal shakes him. "Will," he asks, "what changed? You said you stopped hating me. Why?"

"Because I was alone," Will replies softly, sadly, "and I think I hated that more."

Hannibal rubs a hand between Will's shoulderblades, up his neck. The gesture eases the last of the tension from the former profiler's body. Hannibal lays him gently onto the bed, and before Will's eyes close, reassures him, "You're not alone anymore."

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