The pill bottle rattled with a welcome familiarity as Will shook out two Tylenol in to his palm, bringing them to his mouth and dry swallowing them with practiced ease. The aspirin he had been taking had ceased to even pretend at effectiveness and he figured that these were the last route open to him before he had to seriously consider getting an actual prescription for something stronger. It wasn't an option that appealed to him.
"I do not believe paracetamol will be much use for this," Hannibal stated, brows drawn slightly as he finished whatever he was doing at his desk. "Thankfully, I have a small amount of Lidocaine for occasions such as these,"
"Headache," Will offered by way of explanation, resisting the strong urge to press the heels of his hands against his eyes as he simultaneously hoped Hannibal would forgive the curt nature of his answer and gave thanks for the fact that the room was lit by nothing but two soft lamps. Whilst they were omnipresent, this one had intensified as he had silently appraised the litany of bruises revealed in the bathroom as he had carefully stripped the other man of his three-piece armour until he was sat in nothing but black, silken boxers. Despite Hannibal's assertion that it was unnecessary, Will had gently applied salve to the worst of the dozen purpling marks across his torso before tending to the bloody wound just above his knee, his mind a haze of half-formed re-creations and imaginings as his hands mapped the damage inflicted. Currently sat at his desk, the darkening mark across Hannibal's collarbone clearly visible beneath the collar of his silk robe was a constant reminder to Will of his failings.
The older man slowly rose, picking up a stainless steel tray from his ink blotter and negotiating his limp to carefully carry it towards where Will was perched on the dark red chaise-longue that adorned the far wall of his private office. Depositing it on the small table he had already moved into position at its head, Hannibal urged Will to turn and lie back with a guiding hand on his shoulder, pressing him down into unsurprising softness before sitting on the edge of the chaise and drawing the table even nearer. Will eyed the needles within the tray with just a touch of trepidation.
"Try not to look so worried, Will,"
Will let his gaze drift to Hannibal, watched the older man assess his tools. He licked his lips.
"I trust you,"
There were several measures of quiet certainty to the statement, enough to prompt Lecter to pause infinitesimally in his preparations given that certainty was something they both knew Will was desperately lacking in all other areas of his life. What surprised Will was how comfortable that certainty felt despite its foreign nature, the sudden realisation that someone had actually managed to earn his complete, unwavering trust for the first time in his entire life; it was as frightening as it was liberating and Graham resolved not to consider it too closely just yet. The clear warmth and affection and pride that crossed Hannibal's features as he resumed organising the supplies needed to stitch Will back together soothed the younger man enough for him to settle more fully into the cushions at his back.
Placing a square sheet of blue surgical paper against the back of the chaise beside Will's shoulder, with a deft touch Hannibal gently bent and manoeuvred the younger man's arm until his hand was resting upon it. Apparently satisfied with the positioning, he then adjusted the antique desk lamp he'd moved to the table so that the light would squarely illuminate the damaged flesh he was to work on, and for the second time set about removing the dressing from Will's hand. The profiler closed his eyes as Hannibal made his final preparations, the sound of latex gloves being donned and the quiet clink of items on the tray being utilised loud in the otherwise quiet room. Sure fingers moved over his wounds and then stretched the skin taut, and he sensed the other man lean in towards him.
"You'll feel a sharp scratch," Hannibal informed him, tone one of clinical detachment.
Will exhaled as he felt the pain of the hypodermic entering his palm but otherwise remained silent and still as he waited for the discomfort of Hannibal's ministrations to pass and numbness to take over. The odd sensation of local anaesthetic taking effect slowly spread through his hand and wrist in increments until he could feel nothing as the doctor worked, a quiet rustling eventually prefacing the even stranger sensation of tugging and pulling that told him Hannibal had begun to suture. He'd had wounds requiring stitches before, but he'd never found the physical feelings of someone manipulating his flesh easy to tolerate without descending in to remembered scenes of death and carnage, imagining himself as whichever victim from his myriad cases had sported a similar injury to the one being treated on him. He managed for almost a full two minutes before, as if on cue, Will swallowed against a rising tide of nausea, turning his head towards the wall and running his free hand over his face. There was a pause in the sensations in response, one of only slight hesitation, and then Hannibal's voice, soft and low, reached his ears.
"Depuis qu'Amour cruel empoisonna premièrement de son feu ma poitrine, toujours brûlai de sa fureur divine, qui un seul jour mon coeur n'abandonna."
Eyes still closed, Will turned his head back towards the older man and forced himself to listen carefully to the lilting inflection of the words. He had studied French in school, could still speak some, but this was well beyond his comprehension, the only thing clearly translated being a breathtakingly earnest reverence as Hannibal continued to speak, although there was a vague familiarity nagging in his chest.
"Quelque travail, dont assez me donna, quelque menace et prochaine ruine, quelque penser de mort qui tout termine, de rien mon coeur ardent ne s'étonna."
The tugging in his hand faded into insignificance as Hannibal slowly continued his recital, words and tone cocooning Will in warmth even if the meaning was lost on him. Whatever the words translated to, it was Hannibal's voice itself that played the biggest part in easing his discomfort, and not for the first time. Will freely admitted that alongside the older man's handsome features and veiled strength, his voice was perhaps one of his most attractive characteristics, with the power to both soothe and arouse as the situation required. The quiet rumble of a lazy 'good morning' in his ear was one of the most seductive things Will had ever heard, accent thick and enticing, or the low, rough quality it took on in the heat of passion as Hannibal thrust into him, told him to come for him. When his world tilted on its axis, as it was wont to do, and fear and panic - or another person entirely - threatened to consume him, Hannibal's voice was a balm to his soul, a beacon, a lifeline. Sometimes it took a while, but Will could always use it to bring himself back, ground himself as much as possible in the present. In himself.
"Tant plus qu'Amour nous vient fort assaillir, plus il nous fait nos forces recueillir, et toujours frais en ses combats fait être; mais ce n'est pas qu'en rien nous favorise, cil qui des Dieux et des hommes méprise, mais pour plus fort contre les forts paraître."
"Louise Labe," Will murmured when Hannibal finally went quiet, the name materialising out of nowhere from a long lost memory of a lesson on classical French literature from his senior year. Opening his eyes, he was treated to one of Hannibal's broader smiles, the doctor cutting the surplus thread from the second, now neatly closed, laceration.
"Yes," Hannibal confirmed, using gauze to gently clean away the pin pricks of blood punctuating the two rows of perfect sutures.
"She wrote sonnets," Will recalled, "But I don't know the translation,"
"It was her fourth sonnet, it tells of an uncontrollable desire that even the thought of death could not dampen," The older man explained as he expertly wrapped Will's hand. "It seemed…appropriate,"
Task finally complete, Hannibal pulled off his gloves before reaching out to cup the younger man's cheek, leaning in with a quiet all done and bestowing a soft, lingering kiss on his lips. He was just moving to pull away again when Will surged forward to follow his retreat and slid his good hand into Hannibal's hair, drawing him back down to kiss him more soundly, more thoroughly. It was when the older man moved to brace his hands on either side of Will's head to lean into the embrace that he pulled up short, the skin around his eyes tightening in pain. Will's face shifted remorsefully.
"Sorry, I didn't - " he started, only to trail off. Hannibal shook his head, ran his thumb over the swell of Will's bottom lip as he carefully straightened again and thoughtfully considered him.
"Much though food is far from my mind this evening, I believe we should eat and we would both benefit from some rest. It's been a trying day,"
Food was the last thing on Will's mind, but he acknowledged the wisdom of the other man's words and an idea formed in response, a tentative first step towards penance.
"Do you trust me, Hannibal?"
Hannibal tilted his head slightly, curiosity clear as he wondered where Will's train of thought had taken him.
"Completely," he admitted without hesitation, without even a hint of doubt.
Will didn't smile, the answer a blow to the gut given the day's events, but it wouldn't deter him from his chosen course of action.
"Then, I'm cooking,"