Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Since Will’s been alone, he hasn’t had a single headache. That dull pain had followed him for so long he'd forgotten what comfort felt like until the ache had finally disappeared. There was no buzzing, no constant fear.

Until now, that is.

He wakes up one week before he’s scheduled to be picked up from the tiny island he’s stationed on with a splitting headache, worse than he remembers ever having before. That’s the thing about pain, years of built up numbing crumble under only a few short moments of comfort. In just this month of solitude he’s gone back to being vulnerable.

He works through it anyway. If he could work before he came to this rock, he can work now.

He doesn’t have time much to focus on the pain, anyway. It is a blessed oblivion that he has built on this rock, now marred by the throbbing in his skull. Alone, he works dawn to dusk, shoveling coal, hauling oil barrels, fixing the roof, mopping the floor. All his days are monotonous task after monotonous task and it is blissful. He thinks of nothing at all but the next menial labour he must pursue.

Even in the night, he must man the light from dusk to dawn, with time only for a few dreamless hours of rest after losing his mind in that spinning beacon.

It is the best job he’s ever had, he thinks.

Solitude is all he ever craved, and he has long since done away with his only obstacle to just that.

But the pain leaks in through the cracks in the fortress of his mind. The throbbing at the edges of his vision slowly corrupts the haven he has found here.

It’s midday when he takes the dory out to fish. It’s an attempt to relax himself, to sink back into that blankness and ignore the throbbing in his skull. He’s only been out for around fifteen minutes when he sees an impossibly huge floating mass.

Agitated gulls are swarming it, a huge dark cluster near half the size of the rock he lives on. The air seems to grow colder as he floats closer, the water surrounding it darker than the rest.

Curiosity gets the best of him. He begins rowing towards it.

As he gets closer, he can see the bones floating in the water, coming off the mass like the tendrils of a hurricane. The smell is awful, like rotting flesh, and he worries vaguely about sharks. The mass reveals itself to be a giant cluster of wood, presumably from a ship, broken planks splayed and pointing skyward. It’s all quite dramatic, especially since the bones Will had passed earlier are more plentiful here, all of them too splintered for him to determine their origin. On the raft floats a man, splayed out on his back, legs and arms akimbo. It is curiosity more than relief that drives Will to push through the debris.

For a moment he thinks the man might be dead, that the sea saw fit to bring death to Will’s door once more, but when he leans over the side and presses his fingers to his cool throat, he feels a shallow pulse.

The man’s clothes are in tatters, soaking wet and practically falling off him. He has blood and salt caked on almost every inch of him, seaweed and kelp tangled in his salt and pepper hair.

Gently, Will gets his arm beneath the man and hauls him into the small boat. His face is hot to the touch, almost feverish. He whips the kelp from his face and looks over his form, noting the shallow rise and fall of his chest as evidence of the life still present within him.

He looks formidable, in a way. His otherworldly features evoke memories of the tales Will heard told by drunken and swaying sailors on the docks he’d worked in his youth. Tales of sirens, half-human, half-fish creatures from the sea that would lure men in with their pretty faces and sung promises before drowning and eating them. This man’s strong jaw and jutting lips fit the description of uncanny beauty those sailors parroted almost too perfectly.

Will is somewhat tempted to throw him back out to sea, to continue basking in his beautiful solitude. Whatever strange story this man carries is not something Will wants nor cares to deal with.

But something about the man calls to him. Somewhere in his too soft looking hair, in the heat of his skin, in the way he still looks guarded even in an unconscious state, there is something that resonates. And then he is simply too curious to hear the man’s voice to throw him out to sea.

So, he sits back and begins the task of rowing back to the small island. Once there, he gets his arms beneath the man’s shoulders and pulls him back to the cabin.

The man is bigger than Will, but it’s not a long walk and Will has built up considerable muscle in his time here, so it’s no more of a strain than any of his other chores.

He tries his best not to jostle the man too much, as he doesn’t know how extensive his wounds are, but he is much too big for Will to carry, so dragging along the ground is really his only option. It’s a surprise when the man doesn’t so much as stir when Will heaves him over the rocky patch that frames the small beach.

When the man doesn’t even sniffle after Will accidentally drops him in the doorway to the shack, he begins to worry if this was even worth it. If the man is so close to death that he’s dragged a practical corpse into his living space.

Regardless, he’s done so much he decides he may as well finish his task, dragging the man the last few yards before hefting him onto the second bed.

Will is not a doctor by any means, but men often got hurt in his days working in the boatyards, he knows how to treat wounds.
He gets to work shucking the man of what’s left of his clothes, not really registering the nudity, too busy checking him for broken bones and signs of infection.

There are various big, ugly bruises along his body, not much to be done about those aside from ice, which he does not have much of. No way of freezing water all the way out here, where it gets cold, just not quite cold enough. They are unlikely to lead to infection regardless, so he lets them lie.

Along the man’s chest there are several shallow streaks of red, almost like claw marks. They are caked in sand and sea water, so instead of worrying about their cause, he brings a bucket of water from the basin and sets to work cleaning them. None are deep enough to require stitches, but when he’s done he wraps a bandage around the man’s torso just in case.
The rest of him is fairly clean of markings, which is relief enough for Will. The man’s extended unconscious state might imply a concussion, but there is nothing to be done about that until he wakes.

Will takes a rag and cleans the man’s face, removing the salt and sand caked around his eyes, pulling the debris from his hair. It is alarmingly tender, and when finished the man looks almost soft, several years seemingly stripped from his elegantly wrinkled face.

He hurries to the dresser at the foot of the bed, rushes the task of redressing him.

With nothing to do now but wait, Will returns to his duties. Many of his outdoor chores had already been completed when he’d left on the dory, so he does a quick check around the island before returning inside to better keep an eye on the man.

Somewhere between the mopping and the cleaning of dishes, the man on the bed begins to stir. As if waking from any normal slumber, he makes a small sound, then shifts before sitting straight up in bed.

Will does not meet his eyes, staunchly focusing on the man’s nose. They stare at each other a moment before Will speaks.

“You’re awake.”

“That I am.” His voice is heavily accented and slightly slurred from sleep, but otherwise clear. Will is relieved he speaks English, smiling a bit at the smooth, ambiguously forgein accent. The sound of it alone might have been worth the trouble of saving him.
“May I ask where I am?”

Will huffs, sets down the cup he’s washing. “Lighthouse. Off the coast of Maryland. I took the dory out to do some fishin’, found you floatin’ on a raft of bones, awful beat up.”

The man nods. “I was a physician on a voyage, I believe the ship was damaged by a whale while I was below deck. I have no way of knowing if anyone else survived.”

If Will thinks it’s at all suspicious that the man got out of that with so little damage, or that he was found in such an ominous manner, it is nothing more than a passing thought before he turns back to his dishes. “A crew’ll be here in a week to take me back to the mainland, you can stay ‘n rest here ‘til they come.”

“Thank you for your kindness.” The man says, and Will hears shuffling as he stands and limps to the small kitchen. “Do you think I could trouble you for some water?”

Will takes the cup he has just finished washing and pumps water from the spigot into it. Without looking at the man, he shoves it into his hands.

“Thank you.” He drinks hungrily, draining the cup before bringing it back to the spout and refilling it.

“Careful, that cisterns the only freshwater we got.”

Finally, the man comes up for air, gasping. “Apologies, I don’t quite know how long I’ve been without water. Do you by any chance know the date?”

“March 14th.”

He hums, but does not use that information to elaborate on his experience, which comes as a relief to Will. “Not much for talking, are you?” he says instead.

“Not particularly. You should rest, I’ve duties to attend to.” He returns to washing, his neck tingling under the weight of the man’s eyes fixed on him, but he doesn’t look back up. Eventually, he hears footsteps padding back to the beds.

His headache is back. He hadn’t noticed it’d been gone.

***

He spends the rest of the afternoon tending to the light before nightfall, cleaning the outer windows of the chamber, trimming the wick and refilling the kerosine. When he finally returns, rubbing his temple, the man is sitting in the kitchen, pots on the stove and a delicious smell permeating the room.

The man nods at him, a vaguely pained expression on his face.

“Did you cook?” Will asks, walking to the stove and lifting the lid to examine the contents. It’s a soup of some sort, and it smells fantastic.

“I hope it wasn’t an imposition, but I made use of your rations. Part of my duties on that ship were to cook, I’ve been told I’m fairly good at it.”

Will snorts softly, knowing false humility when he hears it. “No imposition at all. I never eat my meals proper.”

“Then I’m glad to provide after you so graciously saved me.” He tries to resist turning to face the man at that, doesn’t want to see the look of gratitude on his face. When he does turn, the man is looking at him, but not with gratitude. There is an intentness, a piercing interest Will cannot determine the name to.

“Yeah, well, don’t go thankin’ me too soon. Best wait til’ we’re off this rock.”

The man makes a soft hum at that, then looks to the pot. “If you don’t mind, it should be about ready, but I’m afraid I quite exhausted myself in the act of making it, if you would be so kind as to serve.”

Obediently, he gets two bowls from the cabinet and ladles soup into them, then sets them on the table as he sits across from the man. Spooning it into his mouth, he is not surprised to find that it is, in fact, fairly good. He hums in approval, raising his head to see the man looking at him with that same look on his face. He says nothing, does not meet the man’s eyes.

“I was under the impression that lighthouse keepers typically operate in pairs.”

Will does not react. His movements remain steady as he lifts another spoonful of broth to his lips. “They do. Usually. But I like the solitude. And I’m perfectly capable of manning the light by myself.”

“No wonder your supplies are so plentiful, you must hardly have time to eat.”

“Not much appetite. I’m perfectly healthy.”

The man does not respond to that, simply allows them to eat in silence, which Will appreciates.

After dinner, Will washes the dishes while the man rests. Before he’d returned to his bed, he’d told Will that he was fairly certain he had a cracked rib or two, and that all that could be done with the supplies they had was rest, so Will let him.

Will lets the man know about the extra clothes in the dresser and tells him not to expect him back until morning before leaving to take up his post at the top of the tower. He only pushes slightly for Will to sleep before retiring.

The rest of the night is uneventful, Will losing himself in that shining light as he so often does, trying to make out the shapes at the center. Occasionally, he convinces himself there is a face in there, watching, beckoning ships away from their doom.

Day breaks after what feels like no time at all. Only the reappearance of his splitting headache and the bone-deep exhaustion weighing him down are evidence of the long night.

He finds his way down the stairs and into the tiny cabin somehow, collapsing and passing out immediately once in bed, still in his work clothes.

Dreams are scarce, ever since his solitude was secured, but now they are present but intangible. Amorphous, just as the center of the light. He sees the suggestion of faces, hears the outline of a song, and then he’s awakening to the smell of something on the stove.

He is also underneath the blankets, and his shoes are gone.

It seems he has drug a housewife from the sea.

Padding into the kitchen, he doesn’t see the man sitting at the table or standing at the stove, but he doesn’t give him a second thought as he scoops whatever delicious smelling broth is in it into a bowl and eats. There is bread from his stores on the counter, he tears a piece off and dips it in.

The man walks back in when Will has a bite halfway to his mouth. He smirks slightly, but Will doesn’t look at his eyes and can’t accurately gauge his emotion.

“I’m glad you’re eating. Did you sleep well? I took it upon myself to clean up a bit so you would have more time to rest.”

“Ain’t you supposed to be the one restin’? Can’t imagine doin’ my job for me is too good for your rib.”

“I did nothing too strenuous, I’m sure whatever toll it will take on me to pick up some slack for the next week will be nothing compared to the toll it has taken on you, doing it all on your own for so long.”

Will snorts, doesn’t reply.

But the man also does not stop. He seems to get the picture that Will’s not fond of talking, but he just… does everything unprompted. Will’s duties for the day are fulfilled, slower than usual, as he can’t seem to shake the exhaustion that followed him down from the light that morning, and his hard work is rewarded by cooked crab. It’s perfectly seasoned, filling him up and helping him to shake his sleepiness.

They don’t talk much, and that suits Will just fine, allowing him to shake all thoughts of the comfort the man’s presence brings once he’s alone with the lantern.

He doesn’t remember coming back down that morning when he wakes at midday, but there is a faint melody niggling at the back of his mind, one that he can’t shake, even as he follows the smell of food into the kitchen, or attends to his chores.

A storm’s approaching, and he can’t afford the distraction, but he finds himself humming it as he shovels coal, and he bends several nails while reinforcing the roof, trying to catch the notes from his mind.

“Is your head bothering you?” the man asks over supper. Will’s expression had been downcast, head resting on one of his hands as he ate slowly.

“What? Well, yeah, but that’s nothin’ outta ordinary, I just got this song stuck in my head is all, I’m tryina figure out where I heard it.”

The man looks vaguely amused at this, responding: “How does it go?”

“It’s not got words, but it’s sorta like…” he hums the soft, lilting melody as best he can in his gruff and tone-deaf voice. He looks up when he’s done, accidentally meeting the man’s eyes for what must be the first time. His expression is shockingly sharp, looking at Will with keen, predatory interest. There is a monster behind those dark eyes, and Will is at once terrified and enthralled.

He looks away.

He is already stationed at the light when he realizes he never found out if the man knew the music’s origin.

The waves are heavy and vengeful tonight. There will surely be rain before dawn, and judging by the change of wind the past couple days, the storm’s sure to linger.

Losing himself in the light is harder tonight. He can’t shake the man’s eyes from his mind. They were such a dark brown, almost black. And he can’t stop seeing them in the center of the light, piercing him as the flame has so many times before.

When he descends the tower at dawn, he looks out to the thrashing sea and wonders, for perhaps the first time, how the man had really gotten into that pile of bones.

Chapter Text

Large, rough hands coax Will awake. It’s dark, he must have slept late. He is distracted from the panic that sleeping in would normally cause by those hands pulling at his clothes, forcing him out of bed. Squinting, he tries to figure out who, or what it is, but it’s too dark in the room to make out anything more than a dark silhouette.

He throws the blankets off, allows himself to be led out of the cabin. It is brighter outside, by the light of the moon and the spinning beacon above. The waves are still and calm, practically demure. There’s a shy beauty in the way it sparkles in the moonlight.

He is also alone. Who or whatever was leading him has vanished, leaving him to take in the dark of the sea, the stillness of the small island interrupted only by the rhythmic rotations of light.

Then he can hear that melody. The one that has been haunting him. The one that beats in tune with the turns of the light above.

It gets louder towards the small beach, so he follows it. There is a shape, out on the ocean, a flickering light growing steadily closer. He gets so fixated on it that he does not notice that there is something underfoot until he hears the third crunch.

Looking down in shock, he sees the small beach is absolutely littered with bones. The ones from that floating wreck must have washed up, as they are all shattered and fractured, too damaged to determine any of their origins. The smell of meat that had wafted off them on the ocean is gone, however. The bones are sucked clean.

When he looks back up the man is standing before him in the surf. He is wearing nothing but a long black robe, lined with pearls. His skin is soaked in a dark liquid that Will cannot identify.

Before he has the chance to speak, the man reaches out his hand, cups Will’s face tenderly. His hands are ice.
Despite himself, he leans into the touch, matting his beard with whatever stains the man’s hands. They are a healing balm to his own overheated and sweat-soaked skin.

“Who are you?” he murmurs, pressing his cheek into the man’s palm. He is met with silence.

When he looks back up, the man’s face has shifted, and it is not the man anymore.

Crying out, Will jumps back, stumbling as his feet fall unsteadily against the bones. The man who is now a different man reaches out to him as he scrambles away, but he trips on the uneven ground. He is falling.

And then he is waking in his bed, in the cabin. The now familiar aching of his skull and the smell of something cooking in the kitchen greeting him like a warm embrace.

Groaning softly, he turns jerkily to throw himself out of bed. When he turns his head his eyes are met by the dark gaze of the man, who is sitting on the other bed, staring at Will intently.

“Christ!” he curses, nearly tumbling from the cot, just barely managing to get his feet under him to steady himself. The jostling has inflamed his headache, so he brings his hands to his temples. “D’you always watch me sleep?”

The man cocks his head before replying. “No. But you seemed particularly distressed this morning.”

“Strange dreams. I’ve always had ‘em, just not in a while. Not since I’ve been here.”

“The same with your headaches?”

“Yeah.”

“What about your fever?”

“‘Scuse me?”

“You were overheated this morning, threw off your blankets despite the cold. I took the liberty of gauging your temperature, it’s much higher than is healthy. Perhaps you should consider resting these last two days.”

Will’s nose wrinkles at the knowledge that the man had been touching him while he slept, but he supposes that’s where the feeling of hands had come from in his dreams. Perhaps where the man’s face had come from as well.

“I’ve worked through worse than a fever. I’ll be fine.” He pushes himself off the bed, feet finding his shoes as he walks into the kitchen.

“What harm could two days of rest do?” The man follows behind him.

“Lots. I don’t do my job, people die. Besides, we’re off here soon, workin’ a little longer ain’t gonna kill me.”

“You could allow me to help, to do more than simply cook for you.”

“Why would you do that? Ain’t you got a cracked rib?”

“Yes, however-”

“No. You don’t owe me jack shit for pullin’ you outta there. Now I know you must be hurtin’ from all this standin’, just let me do my damn job.”

The man doesn’t press further, just steps past Will to serve his food for him. He presses the bowl into Will’s hands, his own lingering for slightly longer than necessary. He gazes at Will while Will looks at the dish.

***

It storms the whole day, the beat of the rain in tune with the throbbing in his skull. He’s forced to dig a coat out of the dresser the man has been taking clothes from to layer on top of his own.

He is working in the shed, shoveling coal, when he sees something sticking out from behind the furnace. At first he thinks it may be a part broken off, but it’s too round, too thick. He sets down the shovel and closes the grate, making his way around the furnace.

It’s a rusted piece of metal, shoved way back there, and it takes Will a good amount of effort to pull it free, wincing when it makes an awful screeching noise as it runs along the metal and stone.

What he thought was a bit of scrap metal turns out to be a figurine of some sort, a rusted likeness of a mermaid. He runs his thumbs over her rough surface, her once detailed face rubbed indecipherable. Her chest is nude, but the coppery-brown lumps are hardly titillating.

It must have belonged to his partner. He’d worked in the shed a lot, and Will had heard him mention sirens once or twice.

The thought reminds him that it may be time to broach a certain subject with his new companion, so he slips the figurine into his pocket and gets to work finishing with the coal.

The man has not asked about the extra clothes or rations beyond what he said on that first night, about Will’s solitude. Will might have done well to make mention of the disappearance of his partner then, but it had been pushed so far back in his mind.

Regardless, the crew would be back within the next two days, and of course Will has already changed the log book to match his story, but it doesn’t feel like enough. A better explanation might be to say he went out to look for survivors and didn’t return. His reports stretch into the time the man had joined him, and he doesn’t know if he trusts the man to not mention Will’s solitude. Although, he could double his alibi, alter the pages that stretch into their time together, convince the man to tell the story that needs to be told.

At dinner, he and the man sit in silence for a long time. Will breaks it out of necessity over desire for conversation. “I’m worried about Clark.”

“Pardon?” the man says, zeroing in on Will.

“My partner. When I found you he went out on the dory to look for more survivors. Ain't seen ‘im since.”

The man’s face barely changes, but Will sees the furrowing of his brow, the slight tilt to his head. “You had me believe you were alone here.”

“Clark was troubled, always a bit odd. He wasn’t much company. I think the solitude out ‘ere weighed on ‘im, dug him deep. He’d come down after his shift at the light talkin’ tales of sirens n’ the like, beautiful women he saw in the flame. It was alright, for a while, he was still workin’, but he started talkin’... violent. ‘Said he wanted to bash the girls’ heads dead on the rocks. Real disturbin’. Killed a sea bird not a week ago. Then when I found you, he got real mad, raving about sirens sinkin’ ships n’ drownin’ sailors. When he rowed out I’m not sure if it was to look for survivors or sirens. When he didn’t come back that first night, I assumed he went back to the mainland, you know, to get help n’ whatnot. But there’s been no sign of ‘im.”

He considers placing the figurine on the table as evidence of Clark’s obsession, but once he’s wrapped his hand around it in his pocket he decides against it.

“He killed a gull?” The man looks more curious than disturbed at what Will said.

“Sure did. I told ‘im it’s bad luck, but he wouldn’t listen. ‘Said they were spies.”

“They’re said to carry the souls of men who’ve died at sea, perhaps he was not far off.”

“Makes sense. There were swarms of gulls where I found you, coulda been the remnants of your damned crew.”

The man nods sagely. “Perhaps.”

They sit in silence for a moment, both contemplating this mad man’s fate, before the man speaks, his expression changing minutely into something Will recognizes as epiphany.

“You say he took the dory?”

“Yeah. It’s a piece of crap, anything coulda happened. I got my logbook detailin’ everything’ that happened n’ all, but I’m worried they’re gonna screw things up for me about it.”

“There is documentation of me being on the ship I was employed on, and I’m sure other remnants of the wreck have been found. I would be a reliable source in corroborating your innocence, if that is what you’re getting at.”

Will stiffens. It had been what he was getting at, of course it was. He just didn’t think he was being that transparent.

“Well, good.” He nods, taking another bite of his soup. The man looks vaguely amused, though Will can’t for the life of him figure out why.

It puts him at unease, so he finishes his meal and quickly moves to do the dishes. The man is still relatively weak, and retires to his bed almost immediately.

They say nothing further to each other as Will finishes cleaning up and leaves the cabin.

Ascending the tower stairs is more effort than usual, tiredness and that pounding pressure in his skull weighing him down.
Getting to the light feels unusually like a Pyrrhic victory, since he knows in a little while he will have to descend and complete the feat once more, but for now he takes his seat in front of the light.

It is pulsing with life tonight, drawing Will closer. Despite the heat of the glass, he can’t help but press his hand to it, to feel the vibrations within.

After what feels like seconds but could have just as well been hours, he realizes he recognizes the pace at which the lantern is buzzing. It’s that same melody, that haunting tune that has been stuck inside him for so long.

Shocked from his stupor, he yanks his hand back. His palm is red and scorched. It stings like nothing he’s ever felt and he screams, raw and hungry and pathetic.

And then he wakes up, his vocal cords raw, on the platform around the light, the rain pounding the glass panels surrounding him. He must have fallen asleep. After an examination he finds his hand unburned, but tingling with pins and needles.

Footsteps are pounding up the stairs, and the man is bursting through the grate in the floor and falling at Will’s side.

“Are you okay?” he asks. He looks almost frantic, protective. Will meets his eyes and sees genuine worry there.

“I-yeah, I’m fine. Fell asleep at my post, had a nightmare.” He glances nervously back to the light, remembers his knowledge that he was burning and still reaching out. He shudders.

The man nods, sits back, wincing slightly.

“Are you hurt?” Will asks, reaching for him.

He shakes his head. “I merely strained myself a bit too hard in my haste to make the climb. I am fine.”

“No, no, I’m not gonna-” Will gets up and offers his hand out to the man. “Lemme help you.”

“Don’t you need to remain at your post?”

“Nothing disastrous is going to happen in the time it takes me to help you back downstairs.” And if he’s honest, Will is not eager to be alone with the lantern again so soon after his dream. The small room feels damp with sweat and fever, and he needs to take a walk.

So he is relieved when the man finally takes his hand, allowing himself to be hoisted and supported by Will.

It feels almost nice, being this close to another human. He does not want to think about the last time he was embraced. He simply allows himself to enjoy the warmth of the man’s side.

Once he has secured the man in bed, he goes to return to the tower, but instead decides to take care of one last thing before resigning himself to the night of solitude.

He makes his way to the small boathouse on the far side of the island. There, he takes the figurine out of his pocket and places it in the dory, then pushes them out to sea together. They are lost almost immediately in the thrashing waves.

He stands there until he can bear it no more, finally putting his head down and returning to his post.

His head still hurts, and he is still so very tired, but he finds he can’t relax enough to even nod off. There is an edge to the light tonight, he thinks, something that hadn’t been there before. It makes him uneasy.

The rain is so loud, it blocks out everything, all sights and sounds besides him and the light. Even when dawn comes, the clouds are so dense he hardly notices the change.

When he finally sleeps he dreams of burning.

***

The man wakes him up a little past midday.

“You seemed to cling to sleep so I took the liberty of waking you,” he says, Will blinking up at him blearily. “I’ve prepared our breakfast if you would like to join me.”

Will nods sleepily and pulls himself out of bed.

“You seem more tired than usual,” the man observes, walking into the kitchen. “Did you have trouble sleeping after last night’s incident?”

“What incident?” Will asks, rubbing his back and rolling his eyes as he pulls on his day clothes. He’s got a knot in his lower back that he knows is gonna drive him mad. “Nightmares ain’t an incident.”

“Waking up screaming is, though.”

“I dreamt she burnt me, ‘s all,” he says, not looking at the man as he pours a couple fingers of whiskey into a mug.

“Dreamt who burnt you?”

“The light. She was… callin’ to me, I guess.”

“Was it singing that melody you mentioned to me two nights ago?”

Will stares at him. “Thought you was a doctor, not a philosopher.”

“Physicians study the mind as well as the brain. I was employed on that ship for my mental support as much as my surgical and culinary know-how.”

“What didn’t you do on that ship, seems you could’ve made a one-man crew.”

“Perhaps if I had, the boat wouldn’t have sunk.”

That shocks a laugh out of Will, for the first time in what feels like forever. It evokes a soft smile from the man, stirring something unrecognizable in Will’s stomach.

“Yeah, well, we’re off here tomorrow, you can start your solo voyage then.”

“After the experience I’ve had, I’ve found the appeal of solitude of the waves has greatly lessened.”

Something about his tone of voice makes Will flush and he quickly looks away, staring studiously at his mug. “How’d y’all get sunk anyway? Just occurred that I never asked.”

“You never asked my name either,” the man says, humor evident in his tone. “But it is a rudeness I forgive, on the basis that you’ve been doing two men’s jobs, all the while worrying for your partner.”

Will snorts, knowing that his lack of curiosity was in perfect character for him. If only he knew, he muses. He does not ask the man’s name.

“It was a whaling ship. We were meant to be out there for two years, but it had been less than one when I was below decks preparing a meal and one of them spotted a whale. It was not one of my duties to help them take those beautiful creatures to their doom, so I stayed where I was. But someone must have made a mistake, because before I knew it there was the sound of wood splintering and I was thrown into the wall. When I next awoke it was to the sight of you.”

“Some story, Doc. My very own Robinson Crusoe.”

The man’s nose doesn’t quite wrinkle at that, but his distaste is obvious in his eyes. “I’ve never been much for the great American literature you all are so fond of. I find it quite vulgar.”

Taking another sip from his mug, Will just shakes his head.

“You should eat. Whiskey is not enough to get you through our final day.” He hands a plate to Will, his posture making it evident that he would not take “no” for an answer here.

So Will acquiesces, taking the plate and digging in. He lets out a small noise in pleasure. “Damn, as strange as it sounds, I may miss this cookin’ back home.”

The man just keeps smiling his little half smile as he watches Will eat. It’s not as disconcerting as it was at the beginning of the week. The man genuinely just wants confirmation that Will is being nourished.

“Food has been the catalyst for so much of our conversation,” he suddenly says, breaking the easy silence. “We don’t speak unless we are eating. It is the bedrock on which we lay the foundations of our relationship.”

“We don’t have a relationship. I don’t even know your name.”

“You may know it, if you asked. It is not something I am deliberately keeping from you.” The “you are keeping it from yourself” goes unsaid.

Will leans back in his chair, deliberating. His eyes track the man’s hand as he elegantly spears a piece of fish and raises it to his lips in a distinctly European manner.

“Fine then,” he relents, leaning forward again. “What’s your name?”

“Hannibal Lecter.”

That is nearly too much for Will, a loud, startled laugh escaping his mouth. “No, seriously, what’s your name?”

The man looks just the slightest bit disgruntled. “I do not know what you think I would have to gain from lying to you now, I assure you that is my given name.”

Will sits back, still grinning. “A week of buildup for that was almost worth it, I think.”

“May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, now that you have so artfully humiliated me?” The words are sharp, but there’s a tenderness in his tone.

“Ah, don’t be so sensitive. No one’s got that kinda name where I’m from. I can’t possibly hope to measure up.”

“There is no contest, please. I would simply like to know the name of the man who has rescued me.”

“Fine, fine.” Will splays his hands in front of his chest in mock defeat. “‘Name’s Hobbs. Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

The man, Hannibal, looks thoughtful, then offers his hand. “Lovely to meet you, Garrett Jacob Hobbs.”

Will grins good-naturedly. “And I you, Hannibal Lecter.”

Chapter Text

After that morning’s exchange, Will’s good mood doesn’t last. Hannibal does the dishes then rests some more after standing with Will so long. The man seems unable to sit down until Will has, and Will doesn’t like to get too comfortable at the table before starting his day.

Alone again, Will has to prepare things for the next keepers, and is back and forth across the entire island all day. His headache is throbbing, so intense that he can focus on nothing else. The rain is pounding, unforgivably loud against the coat he wears to keep himself somewhat dry.

That, combined with his growing dread at the knowledge that he will return home tomorrow, and the growing ball of fear and anxiety at the thought of standing watch at the light again, makes him feel as though there’s an animal pacing back and forth inside his head, clawing and pounding at the walls of his skull.

As if all that wasn’t enough, there is a goddamn knot in his back that he can’t ignore, because every time he bends over it sends shoots of aching pain across his body. One thing he will not miss about this place is that lumpy mattress.

There is no safe haven from the aching restlessness, so when he is finally finished and slumped on his cot, he welcomes the whiskey pressed into his hand.

He takes a long swig, letting it sit on his tongue for a while, before swallowing and sitting up, back twinging. “You know, you’d make a better housewife than M- most of the women I know,” he falters.

The man smiles, turning his head to look at Will from his place by the stove.

“I do not know how I should take that, Mr. Hobbs.”

“All I mean is you- you know-” He takes another drink, waving absently. “I’m fucking this up, ain’t I?” He’s scratching his beard when he suddenly remembers his dream and lets it drop.

Hannibal hums softly. “Perhaps a little.”

When they sit down to eat, Will pours them each four more fingers. He holds his glass aloft, requesting a toast, and Hannibal indulges him.

“To life, death, and the sea. May she spare us from her grasp another day.”

Will smirks, tapping his cup to Hannibal’s, with an “AYE!” shouted in unison. He drains his cup immediately, then slams it down on the table to pour another.

“Are we celebrating our imminent liberation tonight, Hobbs?” he asks, amused.

“Somethin’ like that,” Will mutters, taking a swig.

“Where will you go, when we return?”

Will sniffs. “You’re gonna needa get me way drunker than this if you want my tragic backstory, Doctor.”

“Then please, allow me,” he says, holding aloft the bottle in offering. It throws Will into a laughing fit and damn, he might’ve drunk those glasses a bit too fast, but he’d love to be as numb as possible when he goes up to the light tonight. He drinks what Hannibal pours for him.

He slams the mug down on the table after the second refill. “Tell me what your plan is after we get offa here,” he demands.

Hannibal looks vaguely amused as he splashes a finger or two into his own mug. “I will return to my home, open my practice back up if it suits me. If it doesn’t, I may take a trip to my homeland. But what of you? I hope I am not impolite to presume you were not born into the abundance of wealth and choices I was.”

“Truth’s not impolite, ‘s just the truth,” Will replied, leaning back to watch Hannibal drink. “I got some debts to pay off, a woman to marry. ‘S all pretty lined up for me.”

“You never mentioned a fiancée,” said Hannibal, looking back at Will intently.

“Not much to mention. She’s sweet, deserves a lot more than me, but I made my bed, I gotta lie in it.”

“A child?”

“There will be, in three months ‘r so. This job was meant to help me clear up some debts before the wedding, ‘swell as a bachelor party of sorts.”

“One last moment of freedom?”

“Solitude’s a better word, I think.”

“But you were not alone. You had Clark, and then me.”

Will’s eyes narrow. What’s this guy getting at? “Like I said, Clark wasn’t much company. I avoided ‘im as much as I could.”

“Of course.” Hannibal reaches for Will’s mug once more, pouring the last of the bottle into it. When had they drunk so much? Will doesn’t think he’s overly impaired but…

He starts humming, a work song he’d heard on the docks so often in his youth.

“What’s that?” Hannibal asks, looking at him curiously. “That’s not the melody you had stuck in your mind before, is it?”

Will shakes his head. “Nah, it’s a-it’s a drinking song the sailors on the docks used to sing, it went like-”

***

Will’s not sure how much time’s passed, nor how much whiskey’s been drunk.

Hannibal’d helped him remember some of the verses to the drinking song, said he’d heard the men on his ship singing it before.

And then Will wanted to remember the dance that the drunken sailors would challenge each other with on the cobblestones streets after the bars had closed. The game was who could do it the longest without falling or misstepping. Somehow Will had convinced Hannibal to participate with him, the much more sober man staying standing far longer than Will.

But each time Will stumbled, he found himself steadied by the strong, stable frame of the man he’d pulled from the sea.

“Doesn’t your rib hurt?” Will murmurs, as he leans heavily on Hannibal as the man leads him to the bed.

“I find the pleasure of your inebriation to be well worth whatever aches and pains accompany them,” Hannibal replies with a fondness Will can’t possibly hope to decipher in his state. Hannibal bends slightly, helping Will onto his cot, but realization strikes him halfway down.

“Fuck, the light,” he groans, pushing Hannibal away to stand himself back up. “I can’t leave her unattended all night.” He manages to stand on his own, swaying only slightly.

Hannibal reaches out to him. “Hobbs, I must insist you-” Will shakes his arm off and starts walking to the front door, steadying himself on the wall. He can hear the wind whistling and the rain beating against the cabin, and dreads walking into the coming storm, but like he said. If he doesn’t do his job, people die.

At the door, which rattles under the force of the wind and rain, Will once again finds hands on his waist, pulling him straight. “At least allow me to help you up those stairs,” a husky, accented voice insists in Will’s ear, causing him to shudder. He nods.

Those hands wrap around Will’s stomach, then up his waist to throw one of his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders. He immediately sags into the embrace.

He doesn’t speak as they make their way to the lighthouse, spray from the thrashing waves pelting against them, nor as Hannibal helps him find his footing on the creaking stairs. It all feels like a mirror image of the night before, when Will had helped Hannibal down the stairs after his nightmare, at the thought of which he holds on a little bit tighter to Hannibal, his form a beacon of warmth in the freezing cold.

It has the effect of sobering Will slightly, enough that he could probably have completed the ascent on his own, but he can’t find the strength to let go of the man. It stabilizes him, chases thoughts of the mainland away.

Hannibal opens the trap door and helps Will to his seat, and Will is once again faced with that darkness at the center of the light. He’s no longer convinced it’s just his imagination, it seems so solid, so dynamic. When Hannibal sets him down and tries to walk away, Will holds on. “Stay.” Hannibal looks at him and Will feels like he may have made a mistake. His eyes are so dark, so irresistibly, dangerously deep, and Will may be caught between two pits, both of them searing hot. “Make sure I don’t fall asleep.”

Hannibal nods and sits down. Will curls back into him.

Neither speak for a long time, Will staring into the light as he always does, each rotation a rebirth of sorts.

“Hannibal?” he says, after lord knows how long.

“Yes?”

“‘M name’s not Hobbs. ‘S not even Garrett.”

“Jacob, then?”

Will shakes his head. “‘S William. Will. Graham.”

“Who is Garrett Jacob Hobbs, then, Will?”

“Nobody, anymore.”

“Tell me.”

“Hobbs… he was a steel worker, I knew ‘im on a job up in Minnesota. He ‘ad this daughter, Abigail, n’ I just… I got this way of knowin’ people. I know when there’s somethin’ wrong. Yuh see, there was all these girls gone missin’ up there, seven already gone by the time I met the man. A week or so after I get up there, his daughter come to meet ‘im, and I look into her eyes and I jus’... I knew he was the one responsible. That night, I saw ‘im n’ his girl leavin’ their house, n’ somethin’... somethin’ snapped, I guess. Next I knew I was on top of him, beatin’ ‘im over n’ over with this rock, ‘n his girl’s starin’ at me, horrified, n’ I tell ‘er to run, to get away from ‘im and she knew. She knew this was ‘er chance. I ain’t ever seen ‘er since, I assume she’s doin’ alright for ‘erself. Him, though? There was this man with a squeaky clean reputation, no one ‘ad any evidence of his crimes, ‘n he was dead. Will Graham, yuh see, he’s got a record, unstable is what they tell me. Garrett Jacob Hobbs? Nothin’. So I went on into his place n’ started packin’.”

Hannibal is quiet for a long time. Will stares straight forward, timing the rotation of the light in his mind.

And then a hand brushes across his forehead, pushing his curls from his face. Will turns his head up, meeting Hannibal’s eyes. “Dear Will,” he murmurs, his hand stroking over his cheek. “That’s the longest you’ve spoken to me without lying.”

Will gapes up at him, unable to tear his eyes away or reject the man’s hand as it traces along the scruff of his jaw.

“Why did you tell me this?”

That gives him pause.

“Because I… I trust you, you know?”

“Do you?” Hannibal asks, and Will feels his head turn, so he moves to meet the man’s gaze.

“I- yeah,” he says, and it feels as though he’s not looked away from the light. “You’re…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t trust you,” he says, laughing softly.

“Then why spill the beans, Will? What’s to stop me from telling the people that come tomorrow what you’ve done? Does your fiancée know about this?”

She doesn’t. She knows Will as Garrett, and she always will. But Will doesn’t say that. Will stares at the man before him. “I… I never told anyone that. I was s’posed to take it to my grave.” He stands suddenly, pushing Hannibal back bodily. “You… you told me to tell you, you-” the light washes over him and he looks back and forth from it to Hannibal several times. A shiver runs up his spine, and he goes rigid. “It’s you.”

“Will?”

Will falls backwards, pressing himself against the glass outer wall of the chamber. There is something… in the light. The darkness, the one at the center, it’s growing, leaking out and corrupting the yellowness around it.

He is peripherally aware of Hannibal walking towards him, trying to calm him, but he can’t look away. Tendrils of inky black, like octopus tentacles, are twisting around the base of the light, curling up around the glass. They seem to be… not quite reaching for Will, but drawn to him.

Hannibal repeats his name but he edges away. It’s fixated on Will, it wants to expose him. Hannibal has nothing to hide, it will only hurt him. “Stay away Hannibal, it’s-” He sways. The platform beneath him feels shaky and unstable. He presses further back, away from the searching darkness.

Will’s never been a praying man, but he feels in his bones the only thing that can save him now is a higher power of some sort.

He might say something, might call out, but it is lost in the low din of the light in his ears.

***

The melody is thrumming, oppressive. It’s not just in his ears, it’s in the tips of his fingers, the soles of his feet. He is afraid to open his eyes, scared that if he does it will be in his mind, clanging around like a trapped bird. The scalding heat of the air around him must be coming from the music, so intense it defies one singular sensation.

It’s barely even a melody anymore, just loud, siren-like humming. It has an air of distance, despite it’s deafening volume, like a foghorn, miles and miles away.

Someone’s whispering in his ear, but it’s too quiet below the din. He keeps his eyes shut, resisting the urge to look.

Something cold wraps itself around his hands, his waist, distressingly cold in the heat surrounding him. The buzzing in his ear grows more insistent. It brushes against the bare skin of his side, sending a shiver throughout his entire body and shocking his eyes wide open.

The pounding melody goes silent.

Standing before him is the man- Hannibal, his eyes completely black pools. He is a beacon of darkness, like the dark holes in one’s vision after looking at the sun. Still shrouded in shadow despite where they stand, in the center of a blinding, burning light. He’s dressed again in nothing but a black cloak, streaks of dark… something covering his body.

Looking up and down the man’s form, he sees the ends of the man’s cloak are swirling in an almost lifelike manner, freezing black tentacles winding up Will’s legs and hips. He’s too cold, he can’t be Hannibal. Hannibal is warm, practically a furnace. He burns to touch. This man is ice in Will’s veins, is the chill at the back of his neck.

There is a soft smile on the man’s face, as he gazes down at Will, who, despite the cold emanating off of him, leans forward. Those rough hands are on Will’s side, pressed to his cheek, pulling him into the man’s embrace.

Despite all of this, Will is not afraid. He feels calm, not trapped, comfortable, not cold.

“Stay with me,” the man who looks like Hannibal whispers into his hair.

That makes Will freeze. He can’t stay here. The light, Hannibal, the darkness at the center, he can’t- he tries to pull away, then, but the grip around him tightens.

“Stay.” His voice is loud, not, booming. The same echo to it as the melody from before. Will struggles against him, but his legs are tangled, fused together like that siren figurine. He loses his balance and falls forward, only to be caught by the man who is much, much too cold to be Hannibal.

The man who, once his arms are all the way around Will, pitches backwards, pulling them off the top of the lighthouse and into the thrashing waves below.

Chapter Text

He wakes with freezing water in his lungs. Gasping and coughing and grasping at his throat he falls from his cot, bracing himself on all fours on the floor, trying desperately to clear his lungs, to expel whatever has worked its way inside of him.

It’s there, he knows it is, he can feel it sloshing around in his organs, so close to bursting from his mouth and nose and ears, if he just keeps heaving he can get it out, he can be healthy again, he can be alone. But then hands are wrapping around him and he knows it’s the man from his dream he knows it, trying to pull him over, to keep him from getting clean.

He thrashes and struggles against the man, trying to crawl away, to reach something he can stick down his throat to get it out of him, but the hands hold him firm against someone’s chest, they speak smoothly in Will’s ear and although he is too far gone to decipher their words, he finds himself soothed, if only slightly.

“Breathe, Will, you had a nightmare,” Hannibal’s voice says into his ear. The soft tone, spoken in Hannibal’s low, accented voice, calms Will enough to take his first deep breath since he awoke.

Gasping sobs leave his lips, inhaling and exhaling raggedly, but he’s breathing. Hannibal’s hand rubs slow, soothing circles on Will’s back, the other coming up to frame the back of his head. Will turns, pressing his face into the man’s neck, his steady pulse helping him to calm himself.

“Hannibal, I-” he gasps, shivering as he comes back into reality. “There’s somethin’ evil up there, somethin’... dark.”

“This is not the first time dreams have followed you into the waking world, Will, you must draw the line between this world and theirs.”

Will pushes off him at that, moving to sit beside him instead of on top of the man. His back still aches as he leans heavily on him.

“It didn’t follow me, it… showed me. It showed me the truth. It’s doing this to me, making me hurt, keeping me from sleep.”

“What do you see in the light, Will?”

“I see… I see the sea.” He takes a shuddering breath. “I know it wants me. It don’t want me to go back.”

“Does it want to hurt you?” Hannibal asks softly.

“No. At least, it don’t wanna do anythin’ it sees as hurtin’ me. It… it sees somethin’ in me. Its light has cast itself upon my insides and discovered somethin’ even I ain’t ever seen.” Will feels overheated, even in the stark cold of the wind-whipped cabin. He can’t keep his voice from wavering, can’t stop his hand from clenching in what must be a painful grip on Hannibal’s thigh.

“Will. Will, it’s okay,” his voice soothes. “The ferry will be here today, you needn’t face the light again, calm yourself.”

“What will you tell them?” he whispers.

“I can help you tell the version of events you want to be told, if you ask me to, Will. You have given me a great gift by taking me in here, and I would readily indulge in any lies you asked me to.”

Will sighs. Anxiety floods him at the thought of returning home, but he also knows a life of strained normalcy is preferable to one more night of that light looking right back at him.

“The waves are too choppy. Ain’t nothing gettin’ here today,” he says, in an effort to distract himself.

“It’s stopped raining, though.”

“Don’t matter. Those waves’ll thrash forever after a storm like what we just had.”

“I wouldn’t speak too soon, Will.” Is his only answer. Will is discomfited but doesn’t reply.

They sit like that, on the floor, Will leaning against Hannibal for a long time.

He must have dozed off at some point, because suddenly he is being awoken by Hannibal climbing to his feet. He offers Will a hand.

“We should get up, pack our things. They will be here soon.”

Will nods, takes it.

***

He’s packing his roll when he feels the lump in his mattress. There’s a slit, one he doesn’t remember being there before, cotton sticking out of it. Knowing this might lead to the source of his increased back pain, he digs into the hole, his fingers brushing against something rough and cool to the touch. He knows immediately what it is.

Retracting his hand from the slit, he is horrified to find the mermaid figurine clutched in his shaking palm.

Unable to tear his eyes away from it, Will runs his fingers over the faded divots of its tail, the slim curve of its stomach, the gentle curls of its hair. It couldn’t be here, he’d thrown it into the dory. He’d thrown the dory to the mercy of the sea.

Hannibal’s voice calls him, so, swallowing down his creeping fear, he tucks the figurine into his pocket and follows him.

***

The ferry doesn’t come.

Of course, it doesn’t come. Will doesn’t know how he expected anything different. Something wants him here. It won’t let him off ‘til it’s good and ready. The figurine sits heavy in his pocket, like an anchor to this place.

In some ways it’s a relief. His admission to Hannibal weighs on his soul, yet he still somehow feels lighter. Returning home to face the lies he’s told feels almost evil in the face of what he’s now openly admitted to.

He still feels dirty.

Confessions don’t make one clean, they only serve to uncover more filth.

Will stands out there until nightfall. Hannibal goes in at some point, but Will pays him no mind, just staring out at the sea.

Only when the mist draws in, and Will’s mind forms a figure, coming forth through the fog, does Will turn and head inside.

The chill of the outside air doesn’t hit him until he walks into the only slightly warmer cabin. Even without the rain, it’s freezing and there’s a nasty wind blowing. With this kinda luck there’ll be another storm soon, locking them out here for lord knows how long.

Hannibal’s in the kitchen, where Will has come to expect him.

“I’m not too worried about supplies,” he says, not turning to face Will when he enters. “They were plentiful only a week ago, and I’d say if we’re careful we can last another month out here.”

Will doesn’t verbally respond, just nods and heads back to his cot. There’s a nasty draft coming through the quarters, the storm must’ve knocked some shingles loose. More work for him, then.

He lays down on his side, facing the wall, and slips the mermaid out of his pocket. There’s really not much to her, just the outline of a female form. Faceless, except for a bump of her nose and vague indents for her eyes. Someone had rubbed the girl’s face clean off.

He finds himself feeling badly for her, being carried and molested by Clark for god knows how long. Until Will freed her. Perhaps that’s why she’s come back to him, she’s connected to him now.

She’s his.

Will slides her under his pillow before going to join Hannibal at the dinner table.

“Must you still tend to the light, even after your service is done?” Hannibal asks at the end of their long, silent dinner.

“Sure do.”

“Even as it scares you so? Causes you to wake in screaming tremors?”

“Don’t change the fact that it's my job. I don’t do it, people die. Simple as that.”

“But look what it does to you, you wake screaming, you suffer from these paranoias. I believe us to be friends, Will. I don’t care about the lives you may save in the unlikely scenario that something does go wrong, I care about your life.”

Despite himself, Will feels heat blossom on his cheeks, and not the feverish kind. “It won’t be for much longer. I can keep looking, for now.”

***

It’s dark when he gets up to the light. They have oil to last a lifetime, so the light shouldn’t be out.

But it’s pitch dark up there.

He stumbles out of the light chamber, trying to catch the light of the moon on the balcony.

A woman’s voice calls out from behind him and he turns too quickly, stumbling over a soft body. He falls to the floor, only to come face to face with Molly beneath him. Her blonde hair splayed out in silky smooth curls behind her, the bare swell of her breast beneath his palms.

She draws a cool hand slowly over his waist, up his chest and neck, before cupping his face. When she opens her mouth, that low melody comes out.

His eyes, half-lidded, take in the sight of her beneath him, cushioned on a bed of kelp and pearls, and transfixed, he leans in.

His lips are centimeters away from hers when a large, freezing cold hand grasps him on the shoulder. He jerks away from the woman, only to be bathed in light as the dark, cold man who looks like Hannibal stands above him, his eyes spilling over with lantern light.

Burning light from the man’s eyes washes over him, and it is both scalding and purifying.

And then his eyes are jerking open in the atrium of the lighthouse, the mermaid figure clasped so tightly in his palm it hurts.

The half erection in his pants makes him wonder if perhaps he is possessed.

A demon has infected his unconscious mind, maybe whatever is haunting the light, making him crave and feel and act irrationally. That must be it. He is damned.

He thinks of Hannibal, stranded on this island with a man possessed. He had thought he was being rescued, but Will had inadvertently thrown him to the sharks.

Briefly, he considers asking Hannibal to kill him, to write a note to whoever comes detailing the scale of his corruption so that Hannibal may be safe from him. But he will not do that. His companion is good, doting, would not survive taking a life directly.

Curled on his side, he clutches the mermaid to his chest.

He can’t let himself be a danger to the man. He can worry about caging Molly to him once he gets back to the mainland, if whatever wants him here ever lets him. He’s doubtful.

The rest of the night is spent softly repeating what tasks he needs to complete tomorrow in order to ensure their continued survival. The work will keep him busy, keep him from thinking of that cold man in his dreams wrapping his arms around Will.

The work kept him protected from the light for two months before this, it can do it for a little longer.

***

The cabin is freezing cold. The storm definitely knocked multiple boards loose, and parts of the floor are soaked from early morning drizzle when Will returns from the tower.

He knows he should sleep first, but the memory of that light on him, of Molly’s likeness beneath his hands, fills him with dread of what he might see when he next closes his eyes.

Hannibal is already shifting in his bed, and Will knows he will soon wake regardless, so uncaring of the noise he makes, he begins gathering his supplies.

“Should you not rest?” Hannibal’s voice calls, just as Will is walking out the door. It makes him jump, jostling the mermaid out of his pocket.

It clatters to the ground, the metal making a terribly loud noise against the hard floor.

Immediately, Will drops all the tools he’s carrying and falls to the ground, frantically scooping it up and shoving it into his pocket.

When he looks back up Hannibal is standing at the foot of his bed, staring at him. His eyes are impossibly dark, staring straight into his soul as he sits on his knees on the floor, tools scattered around him.

And somehow he just knows. Knows that Hannibal knows what is in his pocket. Knows what it means. Maybe even better than Will does.

“Shit, you scared me,” Will grumbles, trying to shake off the prickling at the back of his neck.

“I can see that. My apologies.” He looks WIll over as he picks his tools back up. “Where are you going?”

“Storm knocked out some o’ the roof tiles or somethin’. I’m gonna go out n’ fix ‘em.”

“Have you slept?”

“Nah.”

Hannibal looks as if he is going to insist on his rest, but Will is already walking out the door.

There are several broken tiles across the roof, it takes about four hours to fix them all. The work is methodical, removing and replacing large parts of the roof.

The entire time, he never sees Hannibal exit the cabin. He catches glimpses of him through the windows and through gaps in the roof, but his back is always turned, working diligently in the kitchen.

It starts to make Will worry, how much time Hannibal is putting into cooking. How much effort his companion is putting into feeding the beast he’s trapped with. Will thinks he might tell Hannibal to be more conservative with Will’s rations, to starve himself so that at least one of them may get out alive.

The food should be given to he who is most deserving, and he is certainly not Will. Although, now that he thinks about it, when was the last time Will even saw Hannibal eat with him? It occurs to Will that there is always food on Hannibal’s plate when they sit down together, but he’s never actually seen Hannibal take a bite. And Hannibal always does the dishes, so Will’s never noticed if there was food left on his plate.

He contemplates this as he sets up his ladder in the last spot he needs to reach. When he climbs the ladder, he finds he can see Hannibal working in the kitchen through a small hole in the shingles.

The man’s back is turned, so Will allows himself to observe him as he works. His shoulders are broad, strong. Not the product of an idle life. He has the body of a dancer, his powerful upper back meeting his steady legs in an almost slender waist, as if his lower body doesn’t quite fit him. He moves carefully, not a single tremor or misstep. Calculated.

Artificial.

Definitely not the movement of a man with a broken rib.

Will glances to the ground at Hannibal’s feet and, for just a second, his shadow is that of the tall, inhuman, nebulous man in Will’s dreams.

He gasps, and Hannibal’s head turns sharply. Will’s eyes meet the dark, seething maroon of Hannibal’s for half a breath before Will is scrambling back down the ladder and running toward the furnace shed.

He leans against the wall, breathing heavily as he struggles to catch his breath, wiped out after running just a short distance.

After a few minutes, it becomes clear that Hannibal hasn’t followed behind him. It doesn’t matter whether he is there or not, though, because Will cannot shake the image of him from his mind.

It isn’t until his breathing calms that he realizes how hard he is. He curses, hits the wall he’s leaning against weakly. The devil truly must be inside him.

But he cannot seem to shake it. Each time he blinks, images of sirens, of cold, soft skin beneath him, of the depth of those eyes, flash across his eyelids. He is aching. And he has so long before Hannibal calls him to eat and no way to fill that time with work. His obsessive diligence in the beginning of his stay on the island is leaving him idle now.

So he slumps onto the stool in the corner and slips the figurine out of his pocket. He runs his fingers over her form for a few moments before palming himself through his trousers. His hands are shaking as he undoes his belt one-handed, clutching the mermaid too tightly with his left and digging into his pants with his right.

It occurs to him too late that this is the hand he dreamt he burned on the light.

He closes his eyes at the same time his hand wraps around his throbbing cock. He exhales roughly at the feeling, an involuntary exclamation falling from his lips.

He gasps, stroking himself too quickly, movements too jerky, but he is unable to stop once he’s begun.

The mermaid’s metal edges are digging into his hand. The hand that holds it is either damp with sweat or blood, but he cannot open his eyes to check.

Behind closed eyes he can see Molly as she appeared in his dream, beneath him, nude, scales covering her torso, gills pulsing on her lovely neck. He can almost feel the slide of his cock against her damp, cool tail as he grinds against her, grunting.

A moan falls from his mouth, drawn out and lingering on his lips as he feels her quiver beneath him.

It’s too hot in this room, with the fire going, he feels as if he’s being burned alive. The smoldering rash left on his palm by the lamp spreads up his arm and over his shoulders.

Molly is so cold beneath him, her skin so soothing to his boiling skin. He runs his hand everywhere he can reach, his other speeding up. But then his hand gets caught in… something.

His eyes snap open and he looks down into the eyes of the man that looks like Hannibal. A broken noise, halfway between a shriek and a moan, comes out of his mouth without his consent. His arm too seems to be out of his right mind’s control, speeding up on his leaking cock.

The man’s hands grasp his thighs, and Will is unable to look away from his barnacle-encrusted face, even as several long, damp… somethings touch his back and wrap themselves around his torso and arms.

Will is making broken noise after broken noise, knowing they are of pleasure and not being in sound enough mind to wish otherwise.

When one of the man’s hands moves up his thigh, making contact with Will’s dick, he comes with a strangled yell, his eyes blacking out in pleasure.

Very slowly, his senses come back to him, only to find himself spread eagle on the floor of the shed, the mermaid figurine still grasped in his hand. A small trickle of blood is running down the side of his palm from how tightly he must have been clutching it.

With a snarl, he throws it to the ground and smashes it with one of the many hammers hanging on the wall.

He doesn’t know how long he hits it for, but when he finally drops the hammer and falls to his knees in exhaustion, it is in tiny, unidentifiable pieces. He stares at it, heaving, for several minutes, before the door slowly begins to open.

Frantically, Will tucks himself back in and does up his pants before Hannibal steps inside.

It is Hannibal, but he doesn’t enter. He just stays standing in the doorway, looking over Will’s disheveled form and the state of the room. Once his once-over is done, he closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

“Were you working?” he asks, then.

Will nods, looking incredibly conspicuous, knelt over the crushed statue, hammer cast aside next to him. His release is hidden from view behind the stool, thank the lord. But can Hannibal truly not tell? He shudders with the memory of the man beneath him, encrusted with barnacles as if they were jewels. The image is so strong, Will cannot imagine Hannibal did not feel it too.

“Dinner is ready whenever you would like to take a rest, dear Will.” And with that, he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Silently, Will collapses to the floor.