Archive of Our Own ^beta

Unresponsive. Molly was in an unresponsive state. A coma. She was dwarfed by the machines that kept her alive. Will sat at her bedside, silent. He held her limp hand in his and kissed her wedding ring. It wasn’t extravagant or particularly eye-catching. It was noticeable enough to be liked. No one ever gushed over it, much like how no one ever gushed over Molly’s choice of second husband. The ring was fine. Will was fine. Their marriage was fine. Will thought about Molly’s cooking. He thought about the casseroles and the stews. The food was fine. He thought about their sex life, and how he knew they were both trying to replace someone else. He thought about how she avoided his scars. How she flinched when she first saw them. He thought about how they had only ever had sex, not intimacy. He thought about Hannibal. How could he not? This was all of his fault, really. Will knew that it was Hannibal who sent Dolarhyde after Molly and Walter. Will felt selfish. His wife might never wake up, and he was thinking about Hannibal. 

Walter got away unscathed. Physically, that is. Will sat next to him in the waiting room in silence. The poor boy looked so scared. He had already lost his father. Neither of them knew what was going to happen to Molly. Will couldn’t let Wally lose another parent. He needed to step up, right? That was his job. He had to look after Wally, show both him and Molly what a good father he could be. Will was a good father. He thought about Hannibal. Would he have been a good father? Of course not, Will wants to tell himself. Hannibal threw tantrums whenever something didn’t go his way. But he had given Will the opportunity to be a father. Abigail. Will looked over at Wally, who had puffy, red eyes and a trembling lip, and saw the same scared kid he found in that kitchen, years ago. 

Will didn’t pray. He hadn’t prayed in years, not since those sticky Louisiana nights at his fathers bedside. But he saw the prayer room. All hospitals had one, Will knew that. But that one seemed…different. Brighter. He stepped inside. There were several other people in the room, all in their own corners. All wanting to be alone. Will sat in a pew, still as uncomfortable as the ones back home, and tried to pray. He asked for help. For safety. For forgiveness. He thought about Hannibal. Will looked at the people who prayed alongside him. Would Hannibal have found it funny if the roof fell on them all? Would he discuss the irony and God’s cruel hand? 

The doctors said they didn't know when Molly would wake up. Will didn't know what to do. When (if) she woke up, things would be different. Their marriage would be irreparable. It was Will's fault, wasn't it? He was dangerous. Molly's mother had taken Walter home, just for a few nights. Will looked at his wife. He tried to be upset. To be angry. He wanted to sob at her bedside and yell at the doctors and nurses. He had every right to act like that. But he didn’t feel any of those things. He just felt tired. Will was upset when Hannibal had betrayed him. Angry when he woke up in hospital without the man at his side. He had a decision to make. For his sanity. For Molly’s safety. He kissed her on the forehead. He had made up his mind. He left. 

Will felt the gentle waves lap against his legs. Hannibal rested on top of him, cheek to chest. Moving hurt. The sand beneath him was cool and soft, a distraction from his burning wounds. His hand was intertwined with Hannibal’s now tattered shirt. Nothing felt real. Hannibal looked as bewildered as Will. 

“You chose me,” Hannibal murmured. Will was taken aback. Of course he had chosen Hannibal. Was there ever another option? 

“I’ll always choose you.” 

Molly woke up from her coma after two months. Her husband was gone, her son was traumatised, and her life would never be the same. But, life went on. She took Wally to therapy and she stayed home more. Walking was hard. She didn’t like the cane. It made her feel old. But nothing else had changed. Her co-workers were just as annoying as they used to be. Wally still had the same drama at school. Her mother still berated her for marrying Will (however justified it was, his leaving was still a sore spot). She was still followed by the scent of his cheap cologne. 

One day, six months after Molly had woken up, a letter arrived. She took note of the international stamp, and address written in familiar, scratchy handwriting. There was no return address. She opened the letter. On it were four words. I’m sorry. Forgive me. Molly didn’t have the strength to get out of bed, let alone forgive. She crumpled up the letter and threw it in the fireplace. Maybe she could just forget instead.