hannigram | gorged, drowned, plucked, and roasted

24.

Some words linked together work like a spell - one that only talks to a person at a time and only in a precise moment.
Tonight, one of those spells comes to Hannibal as he carries Will through the night. Before he knows it, his lips are silently shaping the magic concoction, again and again; words God knows from where.
Hannibal knows it, though; a song Will listened to in Florence while working on the exhibition. Hannibal didn't pay attention then; he just reminded himself that his friend had earned the right to pick the music once in a while - and that his oblivious humming was too cute to intervene, anyway.

And I believe in some kind of path
that we can walk down, me and you

The simple verse forces into Hannibal's mind now of all moments and keeps him company as he traverses darkness. He is still whispering it as flashing lights and sirens rapidly pass by.

Wolf's Trap is even more dusty and desolate than before. Hannibal lays Will on the bare mattress and fetches a couple of blankets from a shabby chest.
He washes his arms and face at the kitchen sink, staining a cloth with red as he wipes himself dry. A wet towel does the job for Will. Hannibal profits from the cleaning to check him for wounds that might require intervention, finding none.
He's aware he should take care of the throbbing burning over his own shoulder, but it's almost out of reach, and he's too tired anyway.
As a last effort, Hannibal rummages into Will's wardrobe for fresh clothes; a loose, dark sweater he quickly pulls on and a flannel shirt he leaves on a chair for his friend to really feel at home when he wakes up.

Then, he sits at Will's side with his back against the wall, emptied.
The moon is still high out of the window; there's still time. He wraps Will in the blanket, places a hand over his shoulder and listens to his breathing.

So, in the end, he thinks while drowsing, it's me that wears his clothes.

'Will?'

The sun is not there yet, but the black of the night sky has already begun to fade into blue.

Hannibal caresses his hair. 'Time to leave.'

Will's eyes open to something hard to believe; home, Hannibal in it, and no porcine allegories in sight. He squints as he tries to take it all in.

'It's good not to be tied up.' Will stretches with satisfaction and at lengthy, tangling in his blanket. 'And it's even better to still have a face.'

'What a curse a pretty one can be.'

'Has its perks, though.'

Will smirks, and Hannibal risks forgetting what he was going to say.

'I would gladly flirt with you until noon, Will, but I reckon we should definitely be going.'

Will looks out of the window, apparently unimpressed by this hurry. 'Most beautiful dawn I've ever seen.'

Hannibal doesn't even have to look outside to agree. They might actually have time for coffee, but they better use it to plan ahead instead. 'I can get you out of country. From there, it is up to you.'

'What would you do if it was up to you, instead?'

'I would walk with you some more. And I would keep it quiet. Just for a little while.'

'This is not something I expected you to say... The keep quiet part, I mean.'

Will's grin is so compelling Hannibal leans in and brushes it with his lips. 'I infer that you had no doubts I wanted to stick with you. And that you believe I have grown soft.'