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Title: I've Got You
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham
Fandom: Hannibal
Rating: PG-13
Table: writers_choice
Prompt: #422, I've got you
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.


Hannibal. He had to get to Hannibal.

Will didn't know how long he'd been walking, or where he had been before he'd snapped out of the trance he had been in. He'd somehow lost time again, without any idea of what he'd been doing for the last several hours, or where he might have been.

All he knew was that the had to get to Hannibal's house, to talk to his lover. If he could find Hannibal, then he would be safe.

Hannibal would help him hide from what was inside his mind.

He didn't want to touch whatever was there, whatever he might have done when he'd lost time. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to consider the acts he could have committed. He just wanted to get to Hannibal and lose himself in his lover's arms.

Or course, Hannibal would want to know what had happened -- but Will couldn't tell him that. He didn't know the answer to that question himself.

When had he started running? He didn't remember when he'd moved from walking to running as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

He was gasping for breath, stumbling, turning the last corner to Hannibal's house and nearly falling.

But he didn't fall. He somehow managed to stay on his feet, but his pace didn't slow. He ran down the street, then bounded up the front steps and leaned against the front door, panting, trying to catch his breath, wishing that he could remember something, anything.

But nothing came to mind. All he could remember was walking -- running? -- down the street. Nothing before that; everything he might have done was a blur.

There was nothing in his mind but the need to get to Hannibal.

He was here, Will told himself. He was safe. Hannibal was in the house, just behind that door. All he had to do was raise his hand to knock, and then Hannibal would come to the door, usher him inside, and take him into the office to sit down.

What he really wanted was for Hannibal to take him into those strong arms, stroke his hair, and soothe him. He wanted Hannibal to tell him that everything was going to be all right, that he wasn't losing his mind, that he was normal and that nothing was happening to him.

It would be a lie, of course. And he would know that it was a lie. He wasn't normal. He wasn't all right, and everything was a mess.

But he needed that lie. He needed to hear that he wasn't going completely off the rails.

Only Hannibal could give him that lie and make him believe it. He needed to be close to Hannibal, needed to hear that reassuring voice, even if he knew that whatever Hannibal would say to him wasn't going to be anything more than platitudes.

No. Hannibal wouldn't do that. He wouldn't mouth untruths; he would be honest with Will, and tell him that he was slowly going insane. Maybe that was what he needed to hear, rather than burying his head in the sand and trying to ignore what was happening to him.

That was the problem. He didn't know what was happening to him. He didn't think anyone knew -- which meant that no one could help him, not even Hannibal.

But he still needed to be close to the other man, even if he couldn't help.

He needed the comfort of Hannibal's arms, of knowing that his lover was near. Maybe all it would take was a night in Hannibal's bed -- first the exhausting sex that always seemed to happen whenever they were alone together, and then sleep.

Whatever awaited him behind that door, even if Hannibal was annoyed with him, it had to be better than what he faced out here -- standing in the dark, more alone than he'd ever been.

Raising one trembling hand, he knocked at the door, once, then twice. When he didn't hear footsteps inside, he swallowed his rising panic and knocked again.

There. Someone was coming to the door, he could hear the slow, measured steps. It could only be Hannibal; no one else would be in that house at this time of night. It wasn't horribly late -- at least, he didn't think so. But it was after dark, and no patients would be here at this hour.

He could hear the bolt being drawn back, see the knob turning. In just a few moments, Hannibal would be there, standing right in front of him.

What would he say? How would he explain this? Was there any explanation?

No, there wasn't. He couldn't give Hannibal one single clear, rational reason that he was here, standing on his front porch in the dark, shivering with cold and drenched with sweat, still gasping for breath. He must look like a crazy person, an escapee from a mental institution.

He could only hope that Hannibal would somehow instinctively understand why he was here, and that he'd be ushered inside to warm and sanity, not turned away with annoyance and scorn. Will almost held his breath as the door slowly opened.

"Will! What are you doing here at this time of night?"

Hannibal didn't sound annoyed, but he did sound surprised. Will couldn't blame him for that; if their positions had been reversed, he would have been astounded to find someone in the condition he was in on the other side of that door.

"I-I lost t-time," he managed to stammer, his gaze riveted on Hannibal's face. "I d-don't know what happened. Please .... I n-need ..... I need ...."

He didn't know what he needed, other than to be near Hannibal, to feel those warm, strong arms around him, comforting him and giving him reassurance. All he could do was stand here, as though he was rooted to the spot, waiting for Hannibal to reach for him.

Hannibal did just that, stepping out onto the porch and wrapping his arms around Will.

"You need to come inside and get warm," he said, his voice authoritative. "It will be a small miracle if you don't catch pneumonia, running about in the cold like this." His voice wasn't exactly warm, but his arms were, and Will burrowed into that touch.

"H-help me," he managed to whisper. "I need help. I-I don't know what's wrong with m-me. It's like .... like my m-mind if on fire and I c-can't stop it from burning ...."

He shook his head, not knowing how to describe what he felt. Hannibal led him inside; he took a few halting, stumbling steps into the foyer, then stood there trembling as Hannibal closed and bolted the door behind them before sliding an arm around his waist again.

"I've got you," he said, his voice calm and soothing. "There nothing to be afraid of, Will. You're safe here. I've got you now. Nothing to worry about."

How he so desperately wanted to believe those words!

But somehow, he didn't think that the world would ever be safe for him again, not until he found out just what was wrong with him. Even Hannibal's arms would only be a temporary refuge; he had to find out what was pounding away at his brain, making him feel so .... disconnected.

The only way to do that would be to get inside his head. And that thought was even more terrifying to him than whatever it was that seemed to be taking him apart piece by piece.

Hannibal was leading him slowly into his office, holding him as though he was a fragile, breakable piece of porcelain. Will clutched at him, afraid that if he didn't, he would fall over his own feet.

"I've got you," Hannibal repeated, his tone soothing. "Calm down, Will. It's all right now."

Will hoped that was true. He wanted to believe that everything was going to be all right. He wanted that to be true with all of his heart and soul. But something in the back of his fevered mind told him that this bewildering odyssey into darkness was only beginning.