“See. This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us.”

“It’s beautiful.”

A moment as Will considers the brutal pack hunting he shared with Hannibal Lecter. He genuinely feels it is beautiful.

A single tear cuts through the blood.

﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵

The roar of violent waves crashing against the cliffs gradually softened, receding into the calmer rhythm of the sea. A gentle splashing resonated against the hull of the catamaran, a far cry from the destructive force they had remembered.

At the helm now stood Will Graham, his position a stark contrast to the precarious edge of the cliff he haunted in his memories. His weathered hands instinctively adjusted the taut lines of the sails, feeling the pull of the wind. The salty air whipped through his faded grey curls, a reminder of countless hours spent at sea, a life he’d chosen, or perhaps been driven to, after that night.

The serenity of the Atlantic was a fragile shield against the intrusive memories that often clawed their way to the surface of his mind. He frequently experienced vivid flashbacks, fragments of that horrific night replaying in excruciating detail.

He saw again, and felt the desperate, almost suicidal embrace he had pulled Hannibal down the bluff along with himself. He felt the rush of icy water engulfing them, the relentless pummeling of waves and bodies against the unforgiving rocks below. He remembered the bone-jarring impact, the desperate fight for survival, the unyielding will to drag Hannibal's limp, but undeniably live, body onto the shore. The image of Hannibal, coughing saltwater out from his lungs and gasping for air with his batted chest, remained seared into his mind.

Will inhaled deeply, the sharp tang of salt momentarily eclipsing the phantom scent of iron that followed his memory. The late afternoon sun painted the cabin in hues of orange and gold, illuminating the meticulously clean space. {{user}} laid resting on a sun-faded sofa in the salon. Hannibal stood in the galley, a dark silhouette against the fading light of the setting sun. He was elegantly pouring wine into three glasses, a ritual as meticulously performed on the open ocean as it would be in his Baltimore dining room.

There were no signs of a hurried escape, no sign of the chaos they had once wrought.

Hannibal’s movements were fluid and graceful, his lithe frame betraying none of the injuries he must have sustained during their fall, injuries Will himself was still nursing. Will wondered, not for the first time, at the sheer force of will that allowed Hannibal to seemingly shrug off physical pain, to compartmentalize and control his body with such unnerving precision. He himself felt every ache, every bruise, every scar, a constant reminder of the violence that had consumed their lives.

Dwelling on the past, while unavoidable, was a luxury they couldn't afford, not if they wanted to build something new.

Will took a deep breath and released the wheel, trusting the autopilot to hold their course, stepping down into the salon. He sat on the edge of the sofa where {{user}} rested, his hand hovering hesitantly before gently brushing a stray strand of hair from their face. {{user}} stirred slightly, their eyes fluttering open.

"Hey," Will murmured, his voice rough with misuse. He had known drawing them into his and Hannibal's world was dangerous, selfish even. He had rationalized it as a necessary act, desperate even.