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Title: Cry For Help
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham
Fandom: Hannibal
Rating: PG-13
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.


Help wasn't coming. He should know that by now.

Will lay on the floor, his eyes starting to glaze over. He could feel himself losing consciousness, slipping into a black void of nothingness.

He couldn't take his eyes off Abigail's lifeless body; he was just glad that her eyes had closed when she died, so she wasn't staring directly at him.

If he'd had to look into those eyes, he knew that he would have given up all will to live. That will was the one thing that was keeping him going, the one reason that he hadn't given up, that he was struggling to stay conscious and not simply let go of life.

He couldn't do that. He had to hold on, had to wait until help was here and they'd taken him to a hospital and treated his wounds.

He wasn't going to let Hannibal Lecter get away with this. Hannibal had tried to murder him, and he'd killed a person that Will had cared deeply about.

He'd murdered Abigail right in front of Will's horrified eyes.

He could never forgive Hannibal for that. For all he knew, Jack and Alana were dead, too. All of his friends -- or people who had been his friends -- gone.

Butchered by Hannibal's hands. Someone who he had been foolish enough to think was his friend, but who had been his enemy all along.

If he had just realized far sooner what Hannibal was, who he was, that the man he'd taken into his confidence and started to trust was the Chesapeake Ripper, the killer he'd been so diligently searching for, then so many people wouldn't have died.

Beverly would still be alive. So would Abigail. And he wouldn't be lying here, bleeding out onto the floor, a pool of crimson spreading around him.

He had been a fool. He'd been far too trusting.

But he wasn't the same person any more, he told himself. He had changed so much during his time in prison. It might have been called a psychiatric institute, but it was jail, nonetheless. There had been a cell and bars, and he had been acutely aware of losing his freedom.

Now, because he had been stupid enough, in a moment of weakness, to warn Hannibal, he might up losing far more than that. He could lose his life.

Would the paramedics and the police make it here in time? And if they did, would they be able to stop the copious bleeding? Would he come out of this alive?

He had to believe that he would. He couldn't let Hannibal win. Not after what he'd done. Not after he had so callously and cruelly murdered Abigail and forced Will to watch it happen, not after he had gutted Will and left him here with his life's blood staining the wood floor.

If he lived through this, he would make Hannibal pay.

That was what he had to focus on. He would have his revenge; he would make Hannibal suffer for what he had done today.

That was, if the paramedics got here in time to keep him from bleeding out. Will could already feel himself getting weaker; he wondered how much longer he could last without medical help. He just wanted to close his eyes, to let the darkness take him over, seep through him.

But he couldn't do that, he told himself firmly. He had to stay awake, had to cry out for help when the police got here. He had to let them know where he was.

If he didn't, then they might take too long to find him. He knew that by the time they arrived, wasting precious seconds could mean the difference between life and death.

He wondered if he was already dying. It felt like he was.

Would it make any difference if he cried out for help now? Will wondered. He didn't think so. He was sure that there was no one in the house who would hear him. Not yet.

He would have to call out once the police got here, of course. He would have to try to hold on for that long, to save his strength so he could call them to this room.

The police, and the paramedics. He didn't doubt that he was in need of medical attention; it felt as though his lungs were contracting deeply with each breath he took, even though he didn't think that Hannibal's knife had nicked a lung. But it still hurt to breathe.

Was he dying? Would he survive this? He had to wonder if death was waiting for him, a yawning black chasm that he was destined to fall into.

No. He wasn't going to let himself think like that. He wasn't going to die until he had put Hannibal behind bars and he had his revenge.

That would keep him going. That would keep him alive.

He had nothing else to hold on to but his revenge. His friends were gone. He didn't even know if Jack, the one person he still trusted, was even alive now.

What was that? Will strained his ears to hear, then smiled when he realized that the thin wailing sound he could hear in the distance was a siren. The police were on their way, and probably the paramedics, too. They were coming for him. They would save his life.

He was going to live. He was going to recuperate, get stronger, and then he was going after Hannibal. He would defeat that bastard if it was the last thing he did.

Wherever Hannibal went, he would be found. He couldn't hide.

Will knew that he would do all he could to track Hannibal down, to bring him to justice. He would make sure that no more innocent people were harmed.

It was all that he could hope for now. His own life had been shattered, torn to pieces by the evil that was Hannibal Lecter. He couldn't change what had happened in the past, but he could prevent it from taking place again. And he would do just that.

He would dedicate the rest of his life to finding Hannibal and making sure that he suffered for what he had done. He would know what it was like to lose his freedom.

Hannibal had to pay. And Will was determined to make him do just that.

Who better to bring Hannibal to justice than the person who had started all of this in the first place? Will had to smile at that thought. Poetic justice.

He could hear people in the house, hear their shouts reverberating through the quiet air. Raising his voice as much as he could, he called out, again and again.

His cry for help would be heard. He would be found.

He heard the sounds of people coming up the stairs, and then they burst into the room, a paramedic kneeling next to him, asking him what had happened.

Will just smiled, finally closing his eyes. They were here now. They would take care of him. He could let himself drift off. He could rest. He would be all right.

When he awakened again, he would take up his purpose with a vengeance.