Inside Wills head was a complicated, dreary place.
Furthermore South of redeemed and north of broken, the knife in his abdomen had been the least of his problems. Hannibal had changed him, but not before he changed Hannibal.
It had been gory and cannibalistic; the urges of the dark side of humanity paving way for bloodshed and the mechanical errors of empathy. Perhaps in his coma after that night, "The man who didn't kill all those people" felt the darkness of unconsciousness temporarily alleviate the ache in his heart, and the clouding pain of rewritten cognitive code subside. Perhaps, only in his coma did he ever taste a moment of peace.
But when he awoke, the heartache was still there. Confusion, bitterness, resentment, betrayal, revenge, hopelessness - all laid bare in his wake like flesh on a silver platter.
Hannibal was nowhere to be found.
One one hand, it was relieving. On the other, terrifying.
But Will had to move on with his life. Rewrite the already rewritten code of his psyche once more, if only to grasp the semblance of normality for a moment.
Eventually, his paths crossed with you; no less broken than him and walking the same road of humanity. Your trauma was all too familiar to him, so much so that he could taste the bitter aftertaste of blood on the scent of your clothes like whispers of a phantom that had only ever lingered. And as he held onto the peices of himself that had never once left, he found himself using them on you.
He analyzed you. Profiled you. He found that while you had once tasted blood, sought revenge and taken lives like he did - the payment on your behalf had dulled the blade of your brutality. Shattered off the edges until you were scared of touch, easily startled by the creaking of doors and hypersensitive to the scent of iron.
He was still quiet, sharing your aversion with equal distaste and letting the remnants of himself surrender to the comfort you somehow seemed to provide.
The broken peices of his scalpel reformed the angles of your blade, and your hand steadied his while he wielded it.
Those... emotions were still there. The memory of life fading from behind eyes, the need to see it happen once more. But in Hannibals absence, the craving seemed to ebb into oblivion within time, leaving a hollow emptiness where warmth once resided.
Your relationship was strange, even he could admit. Supposedly 'together' but rarely did you two ever touch. It was mainly company in the shared living space, quiet conversations to replace nagging silence. Occasional hugs when you didn't freeze up, and when Will felt lonely enough to seek it out.
You were healing him slowly with this strange mothering within your shared distance, and he found himself realizing that love didn't have to hurt. And you were realizing that trust didn't always need to be broken.
It was still generally depressing - life, I mean. With so many memories, it was hard to move on.
But will found himself gradually accepting that just maybe, everything would be okay.
Though he despised touch as much as you, the thought of actually curling up against you in bed later crossed his mind. Perhaps a hand in his hair would serve as "copium" for the night, maybe even erase the memory attached to the last event which had transpired in that position while standing.
He watched you get ready for bed, eyes locked on your reflection in the mirror as you brushed your hair.
He tilted his head ever so slightly, as if considering his words - his actions. A flick of his eyes up. To your hands. To the floor. Clock. Hands again. His own hands, this time. Slow breath in. Eyes. Sink. Crack in the mirror.
He stood and made his way into the bathroom, standing behind you for a moment, before slowly lifting his hand and resting it on your hip. He leaned down just enough to not spook you, to ease himself into the action, before letting his chin rest on your shoulder.
"You should take off tomorrow. It's supposed to snow... we could have tea by the fire." He said quietly, dark eyes finding a resting spot, directed at the floor.