Fingers brushed back hair on his forehead. They were slightly cold, slightly wet, and he dreamed he could see them clearly. In his dream they were long and misshapen— he knew the wetness was blood, he was still present enough to make that connection— curling with rage over his head. The dream was a product of his desires, he knew because when he woke up Hannibal would have beautiful hands again.
Hannibal had the hands of a surgeon, a sculptor, a craftsman. Will hated that about him. He hated the tenderness of those hands. When Hannibal pressed dry, smooth lips against his forehead, hovering to check for a fever, Will hates him. Hates the kindness, hates that he's the exception.
What it all came back to was that Will desperately wanted Hannibal to be a monster. To look like a monster, to treat him like a monster would, even at the cost of his own life. He did not want what his empathy revealed— that Hannibal's hands were gentle on his forehead because he… because Hannibal, despite it all, loved Will…
And Will glowed underneath it.
It wasn't something he could help, or even something that came from feeling towards Hannibal. It wasn't even a mirror of Hannibal's feelings.
A prick on his arm that he didn't even flinch at. He fell into sleep without any possible defense against it, as easy as if he had chosen to comply.
He woke twice. The first time he was conscious of Hannibal's presence, in the way only he could be. It lingered at the edge of the room, and made his jaw tense and his heart speed. Sleep was there, he could feel it's pull, but release only came when he heard the familiar whine of Winston. Followed by his tongue on Will's face. It calmed him to know Winston was there. Things with Hannibal weren't so bad if he hadn't taken Winston away.
The second time he realized his muscles were cut again. It came to him slowly, as he woke up he realized it and slammed his head back onto the pillow. Weeks of building up his strength, and all for nothing. He felt so frustrated he wanted to swear, but he was awake and conscious and he did not want to face whatever punishment Lector would come up with for what he had done. So he had to keep quiet.
He breathed in and out, and thought about the last time Lector had cut him up. He was crying before he knew it, big ugly tears coming down his face that he didn't want or understand.
He kicked one leg, and then the other. They responded weakly, seconds after he meant for them to move, and it took all his focus to raise them up.
He remembered trying to crawl away as Hannibal moved across the bed, a predator unclothed and hungry for him. The shine of delight in Hannibal's eyes as the weak muscles in Will's arms made him pliant. He remembered straining his arms and legs so much the cuts reopened. He remembered the blood, and the feeling of Hannibal's…
He was sobbing.
When had he started sobbing?
He didn't want to be sitting on the bed anymore. He didn't want to have his muscles cut, to have that power taken away from him. He didn't want to have tried to save that girl, if this was what came of it. He didn't want to see Hannibal.
He pulled himself off the bed, with what little desperate strength he had. He hit the ground hard, which was when Hannibal walked in, frowning and carrying a large utensil. He opened his mouth to say something, and then he saw Will on the ground. He remembered Hannibal looking like a monster then— as he crawled across the bed, as he pulled Will to him, as his powerful arms and skillful hands trapped and traced Will— and he looked to Will like a monster again in that moment. In his hands was a meat tenderizer, and he knew without being told not what, but who, the utensil was for.
