We Grow Accustomed To The Dark

Chapter 9

"He is a weapon, a killer. Do not forget it. You can use a spear as a walking stick, but that will not change its nature."
― Madeline Miller, the Song of Achilles

***

The sound was muffled and on the edge of his consciousness. Hannibal pushed it away, trying to allow sleep to once more pull him under, but another louder and less dampened noise dragged him all the way to the surface.

Hannibal's eyes flickered open in the dark room and rested on Will who was squirming about, head thrashing from side to side. Another whimper left the boy and Hannibal sat up fully, reaching out to turn on the bedside table lamp before looking over the man who was tangled up in silk sheets, shirt damp with sweat. Will's curls clung to his head and his hand was fisted into the bed.

"No," Will muttered out in a broken voice. "No."

Another nightmare.

Hannibal hadn't realized how many a single person could have until he had met Will. He also hadn't realized how vivid nightmares truly could be until he met Will. Will was always a first. Will was always unpredictable. Will was always special. His night terrors were no different.

Hannibal reached out a hand and brushed it through Will's sweaty curls, body radiating heat so strongly that Hannibal didn't even need to touch the profiler to feel it. His fever was back in full strength and Hannibal sighed, both sides of his mind tugging on him. One telling him to help Will and the other telling him to sit and observe exactly what would happen if he just left Will as he was.

If this had been anyone else in the world, Hannibal would have stood by as an innocent bystander and let the fever take its course. He would watch as the heat slowly burned the man alive from the inside out. Take note as an infinitely brilliant mind turned itself into a puddled, irreparable mess. If this had been anyone else. Alana, Jack, Donald, Franklyn, especially Franklyn, or even Bedelia would have fallen victim to Hannibal's little study. He would have happily done nothing, but this wasn't Alana or Jack or Donald, thankfully it wasn't Franklyn, and it undoubtedly wasn't Bedelia.

This was Will. His Will. The Will who had ungracefully barged his way into Hannibal's life with coffee drowned lungs, wonderfully dissected hands, musically poisoned swans and betraying spineless galleries. The same Will who wore fake glasses and only made eye contact with him. The same Will who was Jack's perfectly crafted lure for Hannibal and god did that hurt.

It cut so deeply. It ached like a phantom limb, a limb that Hannibal was going to have to remove eventually just as he had done when he was younger. He needed the pain. He welcomed it. It would only make all of this easier, but like everything else, it could wait until morning.

"Will," he called out, hand still brushing through Will's curls. "Will, wake up."

Will's eyes snapped open, darting about the room and Hannibal watched as his breathing came in large gulps as if he had been trapped underwater. His chest rose and fell rapidly and he licked at his lips before sitting up and shoving away Hannibal's hand.

"Don't touch me," Will hissed, pushing himself from the bed and to his feet.

Hannibal watched in a stunned silence as Will limped his way to the bathroom and slammed the door, leaving a sweaty imprint in the sheets. Out of all of the nightmares that he had sat through with Will, none of them were met with that amount of hostility. Will had curled up against Hannibal and silently cried himself back to sleep each time.

Hannibal got from his bed and made his way over to the bathroom door, looking down at the light that was pouring out from under the door and across the shadowed hardwood floor. He was about to knock when there was a retching sound from the other side of the wood, followed by coughing.