Calling in a Favor - (Hannibal Fic - M - 2/2 )

[Garnet]

Hi guys, had another slow day at work so uh... guess what I did all day. MusicaDiabolos mentioned wanting to see some Will H/C and I need to practice writing him more. He's an entertainingly snarky little jerk. So here's the first, Will-centric chapter of a two-parter (maybe more, I haven't decided). Expect Hannibal to be victimized in the next bit Enjoy!

***

Will Graham is not a graceful invalid. He's not even an agreeable invalid, despite that he'd sensed it coming. At the first, dreadfully familiar tightness of a cold setting up behind his eyes, he'd dragged himself to bed with the foreboding air of a man destined for the gallows. The precautionary rest doesn't do him any great favors, because the following morning when he wakes, it's to a head full of sludge and a raw ache in his throat. He wishes it were the flu, so he'd be too feverish and preoccupied to care about the general pall of unwellness and discomfort that settles over him. But there's no small mercies to look forward to with a headcold.

He's vaguely aware of the idea that some men get looked after when they're sick, plied with cool hands to their forehead and hot soups that speak of a throwback to their childhood. That was never a part of Will's childhood, so he can't say that he misses it, exactly, but he still thinks that this is a poor time to be stricken with a chronic case of bacheloritis. The best kind of cold comfort he can dig up in his kitchen is a dusty can of Campbell's in the back of one cupboard. The canned dog food actually looks more appetizing.

Eventually, he decides that a day of boredom, bad dreams, and loneliness is a worse fate than working when he's sick, and he goes to in to work anyway.

He makes it through the first lecture on a heavy shot of Dayquil, pausing in mid-speech only a few times to sneeze into the crook of an arm, or excuse himself for a much-needed noseblow. It's embarrassing, but still better than being home alone. Shortly after the first class of the day, however, either the medication begins to wear off, or exhaustion is catching up with him. Will initially plans on dragging himself to the deli down the road to see if they sell hot soup. Hell, he'll even take microwave stuff at this point. Instead, he ends up folded at his desk, head in his arms and a steady mountain of spent tissues piling up in the trash beneath.

He doesn't hear Alana come in until she clears her throat from a few feet away. Groggily, Will lifts his head, then checks to ensure that he didn't fall asleep and leave a puddle of drool in his wake. Or worse, that his next class has filed in without his notice. But for once, they're alone together. Will is barely well enough to notice this, much less appreciate the fact as he turns a haggard glance up to Dr. Bloom. He's sure that he's looked better.

"Uh. Hi."

Alana doesn't touch him, but she does pucker her brow and make a sympathetic noise in her throat, and that feels kind of nice anyway.

"Jesus, Will, you look horrible."

Well, it did feel nice.

"Thagks," he grunts, and drops his head back down with a thick sniffle.

"You should be in bed," Alana continues, as she steps forward and begins carelessly plucking used tissues off of Will's desk and relocating them to the trashcan. That gets his attention more quickly, and he hastily moves to intercept her.

"Ugh, stop, stop. That's disgusting, let me..."

He clears the rest off with a sweep of his arm, then slumps back to rub his fingertips to either side of his nose, massaging his sinuses. Now Alana is looking at him with a shred of pity, and that's even worse. He grumbles, and starts to fumble for a clean tissue. There's a delicate, gathering prickle somewhere in the far back of his nose. He can tell already it's going to be disastrous, and he'd really rather not let Alana see that. He wishes she would go away.

"Would you call of the rest of your lectures for the day? Please?" Dr. Bloom sighs.

Will avoids her plea and crushes a rumpled ball of white up under his nose. "Mm. What brings you by, did Jack send you?"

"No, I --..." Alana starts and stops, mouth quirked somewhere between annoyance and knowing amusement. "Maybe, but nevermind that. I'll take care of it."

"You don't have to protect me." Maybe if he's short enough, she'll leave on her own.

Alana makes a dismissive gesture. "I'm not. You've just been through the wringer lately, with all these cases. It was bound to catch up with you eventually."

Will wrinkles his nose tightly behind the tissue carnation and puts his head down, scrabbling half-heartedly for a response. Before he can come up with one, Alana leans her hip into her desk with a sigh.

"Can I at least get you anything?"

He mulls that over reluctantly for a tickling moment, then gives her a bleary look from beneath a fringe of hair.

"Do you know how to make soup?"

Alana pauses, thrown. "Soup? What kind of soup?"

"I don't know." Will sniffs, grimacing to buy himself some time. "Chicked? Is thad... is thad whad you're supposed to-..."

Yeah, this is happening. He sits back hard and crumples over his own lap, loosing a catastrophic, "Ughck-- KSSSCHH!" into the tissue. It spares him the worst of the indignity, thank God, but he still feels heat rising from his collar in the aftermath, and keeps his eyes pointedly averted to his desk. "S'cuse be."

Alana sighs again, though she doesn't sound half as disgusted as Will expected her to. "Bless you. That's some cold, Will." From the corner of his field of vision, he can see her hand start to stretch towards him. He braces himself for the moment of bewildering contact, but she must change her mind halfway there, because her arm drops again, and she refolds them both across her chest. He pretends not to be disappointed.

"I'm a terrible cook," she confesses, smiling with self-deprecating apology. "I think I'd end up making you sicker. But if you go home early, I can call in a favor. How does that sound?"

Will blinks uncertainly. "I... what kind of fav--" The effort of speech tickles his palette, and without warning he's doubling forward again, decimating the rest of his tissues. "Ugk-... KZSSSCH!" Alana blesses him, and is kind enough to feign interest with the slide still up on the projection wall while he puts himself back to order.

"Just get some rest and trust me," she promises, when he's recovered. Will has by now run out of energy to protest, and bed is sounding better and better, even if it does come with its compliment of gruesome dreams. Maybe if he takes enough meds to knock himself out...

"Okay, okay."

This time, Alana brushes a hand over his hair, thoughtlessly smoothing it back into place. She draws back quickly, looking almost embarrassed, while Will is still processing this in mute surprise. Dr. Bloom excuses herself hastily afterwards.

***

Will doesn't think much of her promise, but he cancels his remaining lectures for the day, drives back to Wolf Trap, feeds the dogs and lets them do their business, then sinks into an old armchair and promptly stares off into space for an hour and a half. He's not really thinking, but he's not really not thinking, instead occupying some bleary space between the waking world and the sleeping, stirring himself only when he feels the prickling warning of a sneeze approaching. He's not always fast enough to get a tissue up, so a few of the dogs get unexpected showers anyway.

It's late afternoon when there's a sharp knock at his door, breaking the monotony of sniffling and listening to the dogs pant and snore. Will stays put for a few seconds, blinking groggily back to a state where he can interact with another human being, then reluctantly heaves himself up and goes to the door.

Hannibal is waiting on his front porch, a small canvas bag dangling from his fingertips. Will feels like he should be annoyed by the unannounced visit, but he's dropped in on Hannibal too many times for too many silly reasons for it to be a fair assessment. Besides, he feels too ill to care, and just stares blankly back as the doctor sweeps a look over him, head to toe. A tiny thought sizzles to life in the back of his head.

"Alana sent you."

"Yes, she did." Hannibal puts up a hand in silent request, and without thinking Will leans in slightly, letting him complete the circuit of palm to brow. Hannibal's hands are long and thin, and his palm dry and blissfully cool against Will's sweaty brow. He switches to the tendoned back of one hand, gauging his temperature from both sides, then makes a soft clucking noise with with his tongue. "Bed," he orders. Will sighs in sleepy agreement.

He steps back to hold the door open for him, then drifts petulantly towards the couch. He doesn't want to be sequestered in a hot bedroom, but he doesn't mind stretching out with his head on one arm of the sofa and feet hooked over the other end. Will has trained his dogs not to jump, though he can still hear the excited click of nails and snuffle of noses as the pack greets Hannibal. The doctor responds to them in a few murmured words from a language Will doesn't recognize, then sets his bag down and washes his hands. They don't speak, and Will doesn't sleep, but he settles back into the drowsy space of inattention, and listens to Hannibal move around the kitchen.

He's tried sleeping with a fan on, and CD's of white noise, running water, jungle birds. Anything to wrap his mind in a comfortable bubble of not giving a damn, as he falls asleep. So far, nothing has quelled the night sweats and the constant parade of gory hallucinations, but distantly, Will wishes he had a tape recorder within easy reach. There's something strangely soothing about the soft clink of pans on the burner, the silvery whisper of a knife dicing through greens, and the subtle backdrop of Hannibal's humming. He knows he's more asleep than awake when the tune starts to sound more like Stairway to Heaven than the classical music Hannibal seems to favor.

"Hgck--KISSCHH!"

Will wakes himself up with a sneeze some time later. He doesn't remember drifting off, but after fumbling for a tissue and clearing out the freshly-loosened congestion, he gets a heavenly whiff of something savory drifting from the kitchen. He groans without meaning to.

"Gesundheit," Hannibal's voice offers. The doctor reappears over the back of the couch, head tilted as he looks down at Will and unrolls his tightly bundled sleeves from the elbows. "Are you hungry?"

Will's stomach answers for him with a comedically timed growl at the thought. Swallowing, he palms his shirt free of wrinkles, then gets to his feet. "Starving."

He settles at the kitchen table that sees so precious little traffic, apart from as a convenient place to collect mail. Hannibal has cleared it off, and serves him a reassuringly generous portion of soup in a large, shallow bowl. Will wasn't sure entirely what to expect from him, but he's not disappointed by the sharp tang of ginger and garlic rising up from the artful arrangement of chicken breast, snap peas, and various other brightly colored vegetables simmering in a thin, cream-colored broth.

"What is this?" He murmurs, fetching up a spoon and gathering a little bit of everything.

"Would you like a title or the ingredients?"

"Umn," Will mumbles around a heavenly mouthful that brings with it a distinctly Thai flavor, at once savory and a little bit sweet, with enough spice to immediately open up his sinuses. "Ginger and lemon and... is this curry? I thought I hated curry paste."

"Perhaps you hate curry paste in poorly prepared dishes," Hannibal suggests mildly, earning a snort of amusement from Will as he plows through another savoring bite.

"Hah, maybe. This is great, in any case."

Will eats contentedly as Hannibal cleans up the kitchen. He's glad to see a large tupperware of leftovers get packed up and put into the fridge with reheating instructions taped to the lid. As addictive as the soup is, Will skips too many meals to be used to eating a normal one, and he starts to slow down towards the last few bites. Faithfully, he cleans up the last few drops, and then pushes the bowl away and crashes his head down onto his arms, groaning.

"Bed," Hannibal reminds him again, as he relocates the bowl to the sink. This time, Will slouches agreeably towards the bedroom, and changes into boxers and a t-shirt while he can still hear the doctor shuffling quietly around in the living room. Hannibal warns him with a knock before he steps into the bedroom, and sets down a glass of water and two gel cap pills that Will recognizes from his own cabinet. He watches him blearily from beneath the covers, and grunts when he feels the weight of one of the smaller mutts launch itself up onto the bed.

"Thank you, for doing this. I'm not so great at taking care of myself."

A flicker of a smile chases itself across Hannibal's features. "I may have noticed."

"I hope you don't catch this."

Hannibal tests his brow again, then straightens up again when Will's eyes have fluttered indulgently shut. "I wouldn't worry about it. Get some rest, Will."

Will waits until he hears the front door shut and the doctor's car start up in the drive, before surrendering himself to a deep and blessedly dreamless sleep.

Edited June 25, 2013 by Garnet

[MusicaDiabolos]

OH MY GOD I was just about to go to bed when I found this!

I have. NO. WORDS.

...

Okay, some words. Mainly about you being a goddess. Because this is so perfect, you have all the characters just right! Especially Will's sensitivity to touch, his snarkiness/self-deprecating...ness. Anyways. GORGEOUS. Love you forever, mwah! <3

[Tarkus]

I love you. Just gettin that out the way.

EVERYTHING IS PERFECT!!!! Can't wait for part 2. Mmmmmm

Also, why can't I have a slow day at work? This is unfair, somehow...

Edited May 23, 2013 by catmuffinz

[Elle]

ASDFGHJKL This is perfect. I can't even. I just. *flails* I love it. I love sick Will. I love hurt/comfort and how you've written it here. Thanks for awesome Hannibal feels.

[hiyou9]

I'm a recent Hannibal convert, and this story is leaving me torn between, "Augh, No, Will, don't let him in your house! He's a cannibal, Will!" and, "THIS IS SO CUTE I WANT TO DIE!" Leaning more towards the latter, mostly because you got the characters so very right. Looooooove this!

[iety]

Aww, this is so sweet:3c and the creepy undertones Hannibal brings into the mix makes it even better.

[Glimmer]

Ugh I love this show way too much this was perfect thank you!! and those sneezes! so great!

[Garnet]

Hey folks, here's another tidbit. I ran out of steam a bit, I may continue with a bit of uh... "fluff", or as fluffy as you can really get with these kinds of characters. Or I may just leave it here. Either way, have some role reversal, and enjoy! And thank you so much for the lovely comments, I read and my heart goes three sizes with every one 8)

***

Three days later, Hannibal cancels their evening appointment with less than twelve hours of notice. Less than six, really, as Will looks up from the text and checks the time in surprise. He's feeling considerably more human since their last visit, a fact that he attributes to a nearly comatose level of sleep, and mass quantities of curried chicken soup. Seriously, he almost cried when the last few drops drained out of the tupperware the night before.

Will has had his psychiatrist's phone number for some months, and not for any of the obvious reasons, but hasn't had much occasion to use it outside of a few cases. Hannibal does phone calls, and he does e-mails, but generally disdains the abbreviated art of texting. So he chews on this one for the better part of the afternoon, but by the end of his last lecture has decided that it's not any of his business. He and Hannibal are professional colleagues, tentative friends at best, there's no need to check in on his every...

Ah, to hell with it. Will watches the last of the FBI's future best and brightest file out of the lecture room, then thumbs in the familiar contact. He counts the rings until it goes to voicemail, and is surprised when Hannibal picks up on the last one.

"Doctor?"

"Hello, Will. Is everything alright?"

It takes him a moment to recognize the voice on the other end. The thickness of sleep and congestion have done no favors to Hannibal's accent, and the usual soft, rounded resonance is gone. No wonder he cancelled his appointments for the day, his clients would be lucky to understand one word in three. "I was about to ask you the same question, but I think I already have my answer."

There's a brief, muffled sound of Hannibal clearing his throat, as if behind the cover of a hand. "I'm afraid I wasn't so invulnerable to that cold as I'd hoped."

Will cringes, feeling a delicate needling of guilt. "My fault, I'm sorry."

"I doubt it was on purpose, Will. Don't apologize."

Will shifts uncomfortably, leaning one bony hip to the back of his chair as he mills around his desk. "Can I... bring you anything? I mean, do you need...?" God, he's so bad at this.

Hannibal clears his throat roughly, again against the audible buffer of one palm. "No need to trouble yourself. I'll see you in a few days."

"Uh, sure. Bye, feel better."

Hannibal cuts out abruptly, leaving Will staring aimlessly into space, with his phone pressing indents into his palm.

Will drives to the doctor's house anyway, after finishing up his grading for the day and dodging Jack Crawford's calls and cronies all the way to the supermarket. He lingers for an uncomfortable few moments on the front step, shoring up the courage to knock. He spends all day looking at mutilated corpses and reliving grisly murders as if they'd been by his own hand, but social situations are... problematic. He reminds himself that he's dropped by for far more impulsive reasons than this, and rings the door chime instead.

He doesn't expect Hannibal to answer on the first try. After the third lengthy pause, he turns to head back towards his car, and nearly jumps out of his skin when the front door comes abruptly open.

Will is pretty sure he looked like a slovenly, unshaven mess when he was sick, but he shouldn't be surprised that Hannibal has elevated it to a perfectly Victorian artform. His features are more sallow and drawn than normal, with hair a tousled and finger-combed fringe instead of its usual neat sidesweep, but he still looks more like a tragic and languishing artist than he does a man who's spent the morning hacking and sneezing into a tissue.

No, no wait, there's a noticeable flush around the doctor's elegantly arched nostrils. He's definitely spent all morning sneezing and hacking into a tissue.

Will thrusts the paper bag in his hands out between them, as if it were a hostage exchange. "Sorry, I won't stay. I just wanted to check in."

Hannibal looks at the crumpled sack, then back up at Will as he begins to pat his pockets down for a handkerchief. He's wearing a soft white button-down shirt, but for a man who's rarely seen without a three-piece Burberry, a hint of clavicle seems like a wanton flash of skin.

"What's this?"

"Eggs."

Hannibal blinks steadily. "Eggs," he repeats, and angles his head slightly to favor Will with one eye, questioning.

"My neighbor raises hens, they're fresh. I'd stopped to pick up soup but... it was canned, I thought you probably wouldn't appreciate it so much. And you definitely don't want to try my cooking."

Hannibal parts his lips to respond, but the bemused expression translates to one of open irritation, and he quickly diverts himself into the crook of an arm as he turns from the open doorway.

"--hrr'RRSSHoo!"

Will grimaces at the hard compression of his throat, but opts not to scold him for it. He's the cop, not the doctor.

"Bless."

Hannibal recovers slowly, but takes the bag from him with a rustle of paper. "Very practical, Will, thank you. Come in, please, though I can't promise that I make very good company at the moment."

Will needs no more formal invitation than this, ducking past the open door and politely ignoring the hitching, sleeve-muffled "hh-RFSSH!" that sounds off behind him.

"You should be resting, not entertaining," he can't help but comment with a backwards glance over one shoulder, because that's at least one irrefutable fact he knows about being sick.

"I'm not entertaining. I'm about to make soup, and have a conversation with you while I do so."

It's a solid plan, and Will is glad that at least some people know how to take care of themselves while ill, so he follows Hannibal to the kitchen. He hasn't seen altogether much of the house, but this room is the most inviting so far, with tall, sunny windows balancing out the intimidating black lacquer and stainless steel of professional-grade equipment.

Hannibal is one part unnerving, and one part engaging, and Will never knows where the line will be drawn, scuffed out and retraced during their talks. Sometimes he lets the doctor pry deep enough into his head that the temptation to tuck and run very nearly manifests itself physically. Sometimes he's almost ill with his brain full of broken glass. Sometimes they just talk about Abigail, which brings with it a good, but confusing kind of ache, sometimes it's about cases. Occasionally they just shoot the shit, inasmuch as Hannibal is capable of doing so.

Will still hasn't got him talking about sports or the weather.

"The same kind of soup? I think that stuff was my cure-all, moreso than the drugs."

"Normally I would not greatly recommend homeopathic medicine," Hannibal admits, "But good food can cure many ailments. In any case, no, this soup is based on a different key ingredient."

"And that is?"

"Fresh eggs."

Will allows himself a smirk as he roams the inside edge of Hannibal's horseshoe-shaped counter space.

"You'll have to teach me some of your secrets, some time. Hard to go back to bachelor food when I've been spoiled on this."

Hannibal glances at him as he herds together an assortment of ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinets.

"I can teach you now."

Will stalls out as he calls his bluff. "Oh, you mean... right now? I'm..." Hannibal looks at him plainly as his argument falters and falls apart, until finally Will holds up both hands in defeat. "Alright, alright. I'll try not to set anything on fire or poison you. What do I do first?"

"Wash your hands. I'll be right back."

"Hey, what about your hands!" Will calls after him as he sheds his coat and rolls his sleeves to his elbows. "You're the sick one, here."

Hannibal passes him a furtive smile from the doorway. "That is why you're cooking, and I'm instructing."

He returns a few moments later, brandishing a handkerchief that's not quite as nice as the ones he keeps in his breast pocket. It's applied in small dabs beneath each nostril from time to time, keeping the doctor in check as he paces leisurely back and forth. Will has watched enough Hell's Kitchen reruns on sleepless nights that he's prepared for the worst, but Hannibal is a surprisingly patient instructor, standing a measured distance away with wrists clasped loosely behind his back. He doesn't bat an eye as Will mangles the chicken instead of shredding it, and gets more starch on the counter than he does neatly whisked into a bowl of water.

He has no idea what he expected Hannibal Lecter to be like with a cold, what tiny and mundane little gestures of the sick that he would mysteriously supersede. He's not sure whether it's bewildering or reassuring to see that the doctor needs to tend his nose with the same beleaguered frequency, that he has the same sleepy cast to his eyes and continues to clear his throat behind the handkerchief when he thinks Will is otherwise preoccupied. Will notices, though, he perceives the constant, repetitive bob of Hannibal's throat as he swallows, as if trying to compulsively scratch an inner ear itch that Will knows too well. He seems constitutionally opposed to sniffling, however, as if some behaviors are still too impolite for even casual company. Will wonders how long that's going to hold out, because he's sure that he sounded like a clogged sink when Hannibal dropped in on him a few days earlier.

Will has steady hands when he's at peace, but they're made for tinkering in the guts of cars and repairing boat motors, not manipulating the razor thinness of newly sharpened blades. There's a hasty interception with the vegetable cutting technique at last, a visible wince in place as Hannibal circles the counter to put a hand on his wrist.

"Your knife skills...need some improvement. You'll lose a finger like that. Here."

Will clenches his jaw slightly at the sudden nearness of Hannibal, some primitive, lizard part of his brain ringing with alarm bells. It's been a long time since he's wholly trusted his own mind, so he ignores the absurd part of him that's yelling predator and focuses on the situation objectively. Hannibal's hand on his, the corded sinew of his forearm matched against his own as he guides the knife in smooth, gliding strokes through the scallions. He doesn't mind being touched, when he knows it's coming.

"Don't chop them like you're using a hatchet. Fold your fingertips in, like this, and guide the blade with your knuckles. Move it in an elliptical motion... yes, good."

"Does it really make that much of a difference?" Will gripes quietly, but lets the tension slowly out of his wrist and matches Hannibal's motion. The roll of the knife feels more like turning a crank this way, more mechanical and natural, but it's a clumsy effort to move the fingers of the opposite hand properly out of the way.

Hannibal is obviously trying not to look too pained at the remark.

"A uniform cut allows for even cooking. But more than that, it's a component of the finished meal, like a key brushstroke in a painting. By itself, not very interesting, but you would notice its absence."

Will lets this thought settle in his head, chewing it over, savoring it as the knife adopts the same soft, repetitive slicing sound he remembers. It's relaxing, almost meditative. He shows him how to shave fresh ginger off into similar paper-thin wafers.

"Better," Hannibal approves quietly. "Keep the--..." A sudden delicate, tape-recorder warp curls his voice, letting him get out a breathy 'ess'cuse' before he suddenly turns away, overcome by an unexpected prickle of irritation.

It's a miracle that Will doesn't lop off anything vital as he turns to watch Lecter hastily snap the handkerchief free from a pocket, fumbling it open into a ready spread between both hands.

"--hh'RRSSH!" His sleek head dips fitfully towards the fabric, he barely makes it in time. "--hh'RRSSH!"

It's strange to see Lecter look anything less than methodical. Desperate is so vast a jump that Will has to set the knife down and angle his body away from the cutting board to stare.

"Gesundheit."

Hannibal picks his head up blearily, catching Will with a wet-eyed look. He starts to reply again, but has to immediately clutch the fabric back flush to his face, nodding with an ill-muffled, "--HEHRSSHue!"

It takes a few moments to collect himself this time, before offering an almost begrudging, "Forgive me."

Will lets a shoulder lift and fall. "What's to forgive? Everyone gets sick, doctor."

Hannibal finally allows himself a sharp, tic-ing sniffle, and an audible sigh afterwards. "So they do."

The doctor might seem to carry himself with an almost limitless degree of patience and aplomb, but Will can see where the veneer is starting to thread with cracks, and he's not about to go poking fingertips into whatever Lecter is harboring beneath. They can save that for their sessions. Or never.

"Bed," he draws on their previous visit with a knowing, sideways glance, trying for a little levity. He's aware that Hannibal has a sense of humor, even if he only becomes aware of it a few belated seconds after a scathing pun has been woven into a sentence.

"Soup," is the dismissive response, with a wave to the half-rendered ingredients. Dammit. Not getting out of that one so easily. But Hannibal already has a pre-prepared stock neatly labelled in the fridge, and the rest of the dish isn't precisely difficult or labor intensive. He suspects that the doctor may well have chosen the easiest recipe he could think of, on the sudden whim of Will's suggestion. Baby steps, he can appreciate baby steps.

He still maneuvers the rice wine into the broth very carefully, half convinced that the entire stovetop is going to go up in a tower of flames at any moment. He's pretty sure a similar fate befell Hannibal's eyebrows.

He's also very careful with the white pepper that the little shreds of chicken get dredged through, for entirely different reasons. Dr. Lecter with a cold is almost too much for his brain to process, he's not sure he's prepared to deal with the sight of him in the middle of a sneezing fit. It would be like watching him eat a fast food burrito. It's just too weird.

The finishing touches end up being the fun part, though, when the cornstarch mixture turns the simmering stock glossy and smooth, and Hannibal shows him how to drizzle in beaten eggs so that they cook in thin, ragged sheets. Actually, he has to cut him off after four, because otherwise Will would happily dilute it until it's more egg than broth.

"You realize I'm not going to remember half of what we just did," Will reminds him as Hannibal takes care of the plating -- that's a lesson for an entirely different time. Snap peas on the side, and tiny dollars of crisp, candied ginger. That's much more clever than that handful of saltines Will probably would have gone with.

"Mm," Hannibal makes a noncommittal sound. "I will write you the recipe, and count your fingers the next time we meet."

"Ha ha," Will enunciates dryly, but takes the bowl he's handed with pleasure. "Can we eat here?"

"At the counter?"

"Your dining room creeps the hell out of me," Will confesses with a bluntness that earns a quick breath of laughter from Hannibal. That must count for something. "It's like eating in a void."

"Such is the intent. But yes, here is fine."

This is how they end up wiling away the early evening, watching the grey light slowly fade through the windows as spoons click and coast through savory broth. Even with Hannibal's vigilance for his technique and timing, Will is decidedly pleased with his results. Maybe he'll wean himself off of peanut butter sandwiches and instant chili. Slowly. Some day.

Edited May 25, 2013 by Garnet

[Tarkus]

This. Is. Wonderful.

I can't... this is so great. To quote VoOs in your other ficlet, I feel spoiled. Everything is just so damn perfect. The dialogue, their conversations, their unconventional relationship. All of it is captured so perfectly in your fics. I wanna cry, seriously

I will be reading and rereading this as extensively as I have been "Little Ship on the Bottle". I was going to bed before I read this. but now I believe I will be up reading another hour or so

This is as wonderful as always. Thank you again for gracing us with such lovely ficcage!!

[hiyou9]

...I SHOULD NOT FIND THIS PRECIOUS, BUT I STILL DO. Augh, so many conflicting feels! But in the best possible way, of course

[SneezyHolmes]

Thankyou! I've been looking for a fic where hannibal gets sick, good fic!

[42686]

this is too perfect! hannibal's sneezing is just... ugh same with will's

you're an amazing writer!

[MusicaDiabolos]

This is so great I hope you feel inspired to write more Will fics in the future!

[Mercury]

There’re so many lovely little character details here, and you write both Will and Hannibal perfectly. The contrast between them is beautiful too.

I also adore how you spell each of their sneezes, so true to character and absolutely sexy. I hope you find the motivation to write a fluffy little continuation, but if not then I am still very grateful that this fic exists exactly as it does

[AngelEyes]

SQUEEE!!! Loved the line about watching Hannibel having a sneezing fit would be like watching him eat a fast food burrito. Brilliant metaphor! You do these characters so well I actually read them in their voices and accents! Delightful!

[Bruyere]

Yeah, so this fic would be the reason I started watching the show!

Love the way you write Hannibal and Will's relationship.

[evermissing]

Oh. my. god.

So, actual detailed feedback is going to have to wait till tomorrow, when hopefully I won't be so tipsy and sleep-deprived, but I just wanted to let you know immediately how much I loved this story. Like, this is exactly the kind of thing that I've been craving almost as soon as I started watching the show. THANK YOU. Wow.

[evermissing]

Yeah, okay, so, I'm in love with this story.

I really really like Mads Mikkelsen on the show, but for the most part, Will is the character who causes me to make undignified noises at the screen about every five minutes… and yet I loved both parts of this story equally, regardless of who was the focus. You write them both so well, and so distinctly. I particularly like how, true to type, Will is sort of terrible at taking care of himself, while Hannibal somehow manages to seem almost completely in control even when he's sick--teaching Will how to cook, awwwww.

Things that especially made me go !!!:

He makes it through the first lecture on a heavy shot of Dayquil, pausing in mid-speech only a few times to sneeze into the crook of an arm, or excuse himself for a much-needed noseblow. It's embarrassing, but still better than being home alone.

God, I wish this lecture were on the show.

Alana doesn't touch him, but she does pucker her brow and make a sympathetic noise in her throat, and that feels kind of nice anyway.

"Jesus, Will, you look horrible."

Well, it did feel nice.

You write the Alana-Will dynamic perfectly here. It feels spot on--Will craving tenderness but not knowing how to ask her for it.

He mulls that over reluctantly for a tickling moment, then gives her a bleary look from beneath a fringe of hair.

"Do you know how to make soup?"

Alana pauses, thrown. "Soup? What kind of soup?"

"I don't know." Will sniffs, grimacing to buy himself some time. "Chicked? Is thad... is thad whad you're supposed to-..."

This whole bit. saasdkadskld;

"Yes, she did." Hannibal puts up a hand in silent request, and without thinking Will leans in slightly, letting him complete the circuit of palm to brow. Hannibal's hands are long and thin, and his palm dry and blissfully cool against Will's sweaty brow. He switches to the tendoned back of one hand, gauging his temperature from both sides, then makes a soft clucking noise with with his tongue. "Bed," he orders. Will sighs in sleepy agreement.

Guuuuh. Everything about this just pushes alllll my buttons. Also, "the tendoned back of his hand" is such a great little specific detail.

The doctor responds to them in a few murmured words from a language Will doesn't recognize

I don't know why I love this line so much, but I do. The fact that Hannibal not only bothers to speak to the dogs, but actually speaks in a different language to them.

As addictive as the soup is, Will skips too many meals to be used to eating a normal one, and he starts to slow down towards the last few bites.

Awwww, WILL.

More comments on the next part! I actually have to get some work done today before I allow myself to indulge again.

[evermissing]

Okay, so, part II.

Will has had his psychiatrist's phone number for some months, and not for any of the obvious reasons, but hasn't had much occasion to use it outside of a few cases.

I'm such a fan of how much this says about their unconventional patient-therapist relationship. Will doesn't tend to contact Hannibal out of sessions "for any of the obvious reasons"--only, y'know, when he's either working a case or having a total break with reality.

It takes him a moment to recognize the voice on the other end. The thickness of sleep and congestion have done no favors to Hannibal's accent, and the usual soft, rounded resonance is gone. No wonder he cancelled his appointments for the day, his clients would be lucky to understand one word in three.

ugggggh I love this.

He spends all day looking at mutilated corpses and reliving grisly murders as if they'd been by his own hand, but social situations are... problematic.

This--and really all of the interactions you write between Will and Hannibal--is such a perfect little summation of Will's difficulty with just... acting like a person. Like Hannibal, sometimes he's just wearing a person suit.

Will is pretty sure he looked like a slovenly, unshaven mess when he was sick, but he shouldn't be surprised that Hannibal has elevated it to a perfectly Victorian artform. His features are more sallow and drawn than normal, with hair a tousled and finger-combed fringe instead of its usual neat sidesweep, but he still looks more like a tragic and languishing artist than he does a man who's spent the morning hacking and sneezing into a tissue.

<3 <3 <3 YES. This is such a smart distinction.

He's wearing a soft white button-down shirt, but for a man who's rarely seen without a three-piece Burberry, a hint of clavicle seems like a wanton flash of skin.

You have totally just nailed why I have moments of being really attracted to Hannibal. Those moments where the self-control, the perfect image, just slightly slip.

Will grimaces at the hard compression of his throat, but opts not to scold him for it. He's the cop, not the doctor.

LOVE THIS.

Will is glad that at least some people know how to take care of themselves while ill

Haha, such a good bit of characterization for both of them.

Sometimes he's almost ill with his brain full of broken glass.

Fabulous line.

Will has watched enough Hell's Kitchen reruns on sleepless nights that he's prepared for the worst

I love this kind of detail, not least because ME TOO.

He has no idea what he expected Hannibal Lecter to be like with a cold, what tiny and mundane little gestures of the sick that he would mysteriously supersede. He's not sure whether it's bewildering or reassuring to see that the doctor needs to tend his nose with the same beleaguered frequency, that he has the same sleepy cast to his eyes and continues to clear his throat behind the handkerchief when he thinks Will is otherwise preoccupied.

God, this is SO GOOD. It's what I'm really starting to appreciate as I read more of your writing--how, beyond being really compelling h/c, it's just really compelling characterization/extrapolation from the show. I love how Will has this idealized version of Hannibal in his head (as, perhaps, is necessarily in a psychotherapeutic relationship), and how it's both intriguing and unsettling for him to see it contradicted.

Will clenches his jaw slightly at the sudden nearness of Hannibal, some primitive, lizard part of his brain ringing with alarm bells. It's been a long time since he's wholly trusted his own mind, so he ignores the absurd part of him that's yelling predator and focuses on the situation objectively.

dasdsalk; eflkggklklhh AUUUUGH. YES THIS. I think we see little flashes of Will feeling this reluctance even early in the show--like, the way he reacts to Hannibal smelling him--and then overcoming them because he thinks, well, maybe this is just how normal people, or normal therapists and patients, relate. Because he has no standard to measure against.

A sudden delicate, tape-recorder warp curls his voice

Fabulous turn of phrase.

It's strange to see Lecter look anything less than methodical. Desperate is so vast a jump that Will has to set the knife down and angle his body away from the cutting board to stare.

Heeee. I UNDERSTAND THE IMPULSE, WILL.

He's also very careful with the white pepper that the little shreds of chicken get dredged through, for entirely different reasons. Dr. Lecter with a cold is almost too much for his brain to process, he's not sure he's prepared to deal with the sight of him in the middle of a sneezing fit. It would be like watching him eat a fast food burrito. It's just too weird.

As I think other people have already commented, this is totally brilliant. Will's not prepared--at least not yet--to see any vulnerability in Hannibal. So he just chooses to avoid it.

"Your dining room creeps the hell out of me," Will confesses with a bluntness that earns a quick breath of laughter from Hannibal. That must count for something. "It's like eating in a void."

I feel like I'm starting to repeat myself now, but uggh, yes. I can see this as a scene / hear it in Will's voice.

Anyway. I'm sorry if my overly detailed feedback over the last day or so has been weird or excessive, but I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoy your writing, especially in this fandom.

[Dusty15]

AUGH! SO SO SO glad this got bumped up because I skipped it the first time around since I hadn't yet seen the show. PERFECT! <3 Love the dynamics and you've got their voices down so well! Ahhh Will *swoon*

[Garnet]

Oh my god, ever, you totally made my night, haha! Detailed blow-by-blows are really awesome on art, I get them so rarely but they're always fun, but having them done on my spastic writing is still new and delighting to me. I love getting stuff deconstructed, and picking apart other people's stuff for my favorite lines.

And yes, character studies and slice-of-life kind of stories are definitely my favorite kind of fics, there's usually so much plot in the source material that I find it interesting what the characters do or say in their casual moments. Obviously this doesn't beget long, sweeping story arcs or anything, but I find them weirdly compelling in their own right.

And I'm glad you could appreciate the Hannibal bits. I've been smitten with the character since reading the books in high school, but the show just set off my HUG WILL HUG WILL ALL THE TIME alarm bells like crazy and now I don't even know who I want to bone and/or torture the most. There are worst predicaments to have.

Thank you to everyone who's commented, you are all lovely and make my day <3

[Salamander]

"Yes, she did." Hannibal puts up a hand in silent request, and without thinking Will leans in slightly, letting him complete the circuit of palm to brow. Hannibal's hands are long and thin, and his palm dry and blissfully cool against Will's sweaty brow. He switches to the tendoned back of one hand, gauging his temperature from both sides, then makes a soft clucking noise with with his tongue. "Bed," he orders. Will sighs in sleepy agreement.

I'm with Evermissing. This. Oh holy mother of fetish fic, THIS. I don't even watch the show and this fic had me reading with my mouth open. Hannibal's care taking is so perfect. Really gentle, really kind but still masculine, understated, unfussy. LOVE.