FOUND: A Hannigram Devil AU REWRITTEN

Chapter Fifteen

Will slept deeply for the first time in days. In his dreams, he traveled with the starlings as one of them. He stood in the rain, letting the cool drops soak him to the bone. A warm meal sat in his stomach, his tongue numb from ice-cold water. A campfire warmed his insides. He stuck his hand out and let his hand touch the flame, a slight burn spreading across his fingertips. 

Waking up was bittersweet. For a moment, he'd allowed himself to believe that his job was done, but peace was not yet his.

When he opened his eyes, his face was buried in white. He blinked a few times, and the scenery came into focus: he lay on his side on a fluffy pillow, draped with warm cream-colored blankets. The fabric softly brushed his nearly naked body, his bare chest and legs that were only covered with boxers. His hands were folded by his head, and the wounds on his fingertips were gone. His skin was smooth and intact as if it had never been picked at.

He'd awoken in a large, beautiful bedroom. The curtains were drawn, hiding him from the night. Across the room, a fire crackled in a gas fireplace, making the dark room golden. The walls were paneled with dark wood, and paintings hung near the bed. Two leather chairs and a coffee table sat in front of the fireplace and cast shadows throughout the room. 

"Hello?" He called out softly, afraid to disturb the room. His voice rasped. "Hannibal?"

Hurried footsteps sounded through the hallway, and a comforting face appeared in the doorway. Will relaxed.

"You're up." Hannibal had shed his jacket. He belonged in this room; it was comforting, lush, and luxurious, just like him. Hannibal had brought him home.

Will slowly propped himself up. He'd regained most of his strength; his pain had subsided, and now he was merely fatigued. A damp towel lay on his singed stomach.

"You fixed my hands." He tried to remember the last time his skin had been clean; he'd torn them open as a young boy, and he'd never given them the chance to heal.

Hannibal's eyes flickered with confusion. "Oh, yes. You kept picking at them. Do you not remember that?"

"No. What..." he rubbed his head, "what happened? How did we get here?"

Hannibal entered, forehead creasing. "I brought you here. You were awake not too long ago. You showered. I gave you something to eat, a lot of water. You don't remember any of it?"

Panicked, Will shook his head. "No. No, I don't remember that. Why don't I remember?"

"You were probably in shock. It makes sense now; you didn't say a word the entire time." He came to stand by the bed. "You've been asleep another hour now."

Will flushed. The remnants of the food's savory aroma lingered in the room. More than gratitude, he felt dread; Hannibal's meals weren't to be trusted. "You fed me? It wasn't—"

"It was chicken soup. Nothing out of the ordinary."

He knew him well. Will's face couldn't get any hotter. "I...I don't know what to say. Thank you." The unspoken questions hung in the air. What the hell Hannibal did Hannibal want with him? Why was he going to all these lengths to take care of him if he didn't want something in return? Was he resting in the belly of the beast right now, laying in the trap he'd set?

"It only takes a few minutes to make. Already had all of the ingredients." Hannibal paused, face falling slightly. "I was going to make it for Abigail."

Will bowed his head and looked away. They had a moment of silence. 

"How's your wound?" Hannibal stepped over to the bed, looking down on him.