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Title: Die Another Day
Pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham
Author's Note: One-shot.
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the lovely Hannibal Lecter or Will Graham, unfortunately, just borrowing them for a while. Please do not sue.
***This wouldn't be the day he died. It couldn't be.
Will raised a trembling hand in front of his face, surprised to find that there was no blood. He'd thought there would be blood; he was sure that when the stag had charged at him, the horns had pointed directly at his heart, that they would pierce his body.
There was no stag. There were no horns. There was no blood, he told himself. It had only been a dream. A very vivid dream, but a dream nonetheless.
He was dreaming more and more about the stag lately -- and in every dream, he thought it had killed him, or was going to. He had been prepared to die, closing his eyes and not running from the inevitable. It had almost felt as though death would be a relief.
The dreams were more and more disturbing, more realistic each night. Tonight, there had been something about the latest dream that had caught his attention, though he hadn't pieced together just what had raced through his mind until this very moment.
The eyes of the stag had been Hannibal's eyes.
Those eyes had glittered at him with such knowledge -- not only of who he was and of what his ultimate fate would be, but of what he and Hannibal had done together, what they continued to do nearly every night. Those eyes had been so knowing, so sly.
Those eyes hadn't been the eyes of an animal bent on his destruction. They had been the eyes of his lover, just before Hannibal thrust into him and made him come.
Those eyes had spoken to him. Not literally, of course. But he was sure that when that dark, steady gaze had met his, he'd heard Hannibal's voice in his head, clearly, for just a few seconds, before it was gone again and he was searching for it on the wind.
"You will die another day, Will Graham. That is my design. That is your destiny."
He'd heard that voice in his head, as loudly as if Hannibal was standing right beside him, whispering those words into his ear. It had been Hannibal's voice; he was sure of that. He knew that voice, knew it as well as knew his own.
He knew the voice and the eyes; he knew the touch of Hannibal's hands, the feel of his body, how it felt to have Hannibal enter him, fill him, take him. He knew so much about Hannibal Lecter, but he didn't know the important things. The things that Hannibal always kept hidden away.
He didn't know why he always felt that Hannibal had an ulterior motive. He didn't know why he never quite felt safe with the man who was his lover.
He needed to know why. He needed to know why merely the thought of Hannibal always made a thrill of fear twine with the desire he felt for the other man. He needed to know why Hannibal could engender both the greatest desire and the greatest fear in his heart.
Until he knew those answers, he would never truly know Hannibal.
Will looked around him, feeling dazed and confused. Why was he out here in the woods? He knew where he was; his house was only a few hundred feet away, and he could see the welcoming light in the living room. He wasn't wandering around lost in a place he didn't know.
But he had lost time. And he had that horribly disoriented feeling, as though he had been stumbling through a netherworld that he had no memory of.
He'd done it again. He'd lost time, and he had no idea what he might have done in that time. He could have died, and he wouldn't have known it, because he'd have been in that strange fugue state. He would never have come back to himself, to reality.
What did he do during those times? Where did he go? What did he see? Will raised his trembling hands in front of his face again, surprised that there wasn't blood on them. He could have sworn that he'd seen the stag, and that blood had been gleaming on its horns.
He had been so sure that was his blood. But maybe it hadn't been. Maybe he hadn't even seen the stag. He had been told often enough that it didn't exist, that it was a figment of his imagination, a metaphor for so many other things in his life.
There was no stag. There was no blood. He had been dreaming again.
Dreaming on his feet? He wanted to scoff at the idea, but he knew that he did it every time he had one of his sleepwalking episodes. It wasn't anything to laugh at.
He dreamed about his own death all the time. That was nothing new. But now, for some reason, it seemed so much closer than it had before, looming behind him, in front of him, all around him. He could almost smell death in the air, sense it by his side.
Taking a deep breath, Will turned back towards his house, his footsteps dragging. He didn't know how he had gotten out here, or why he was here. He only knew that he had to get back into the safety of his own home, and lock himself inside for the rest of the night.
Not that it would help if his body decided to sleepwalk again, he thought with a sigh. No matter what he did, it was as though his mind was set against him, trying to defeat any move he made to bring himself back into what he considered sanity. It was as though his mind wanted to destroy him.
If that was the case, maybe he wouldn't die another day. Maybe it was already his time.
Will scrubbed a hand over his face, then through his hair, pushing that thought away. He needed to talk to Hannibal about this. He needed to tell him about the dream, about his fears; he needed to pour everything out, and see what Hannibal thought about it.
For some reason, he couldn't help feeling that Hannibal would be the solution. Just talking to his lover would make him feel better, more settled, more centered.
They'd do more than talk. He didn't doubt that for a moment. He might go to Hannibal's house with the best intentions; he might believe that he was going to do no more than talk. But they would end up in bed, and he would be screaming Hannibal's name by the time they were done.
He didn't mind that. There were times when he felt that was what he'd been born for, to be Hannibal Lecter's lover. He was never more completely himself and aware of who he was than when he was in Hannibal's bed, with Hannibal thrusting into him, their bodies joined.
That was the only time he was absolutely free.
He needed to feel that freedom again. He wanted it with a ferocity that he could taste. He needed to be with Hannibal -- not to talk, and not hours from now. He needed to be there now. He needed Hannibal inside him, all over him, becoming a part of him.
As Will moved back towards the house, his steps became firmer, less hesitant, less of a stumble and more of a determined stride. He would go in, take a shower, and then call Hannibal. It didn't matter how late it was. He would tell his lover that he needed to see him.
He'd tell Hannibal about the sleepwalking, tell him that he needed to be there and not here. Tell him that he needed to be in Hannibal's bed tonight.
He would plead if he had to. He would beg. Anything to get this foreboding feeling of death out of his mind, and to be where he felt he belonged.
He would have to wait to die another day. It wasn't time. Not yet.
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