As-yet-untitled Hannibal fic, part I (Will Graham)

[evermissing]

Hi, guys!

I'm a long-time lurker, but this is actually my first post here and my first active engagement with the sneeze fetish community, so I'm kind of a little nervous. Bear with me.

This is also my first sneeze-fic, though I've written plenty of general fanfiction before. Something about NBC's Hannibal, and Hugh Dancy's Will Graham especially, just got to me, and this started happening. (Eventually I'm going to go looking for more Hannibal fic here--pleeease tell me there is some--but I don't want to read any before I get into the rhythm of this and find my own voice for it, if that makes sense.)

I never post works in progress, but... that's what this is, I guess, and it's pretty first-draft-y. I'm going to keep working on it, though, and hopefully I'll stay inspired.

No title as of yet; sick Will Graham, with an eventual appearance by Hannibal; no real spoilers for the show or particular episodes you need to have seen (and I'm not fully caught up myself, so please don't spoil me past 1x09 "Trou Normand"). Significantly less graphic than canon, at least so far. No actual sneezing in this part, but some slow buildup.

Hope somebody enjoys it!

***

It starts, innocuously enough, as a sore throat. Will's coming off an intense week of advising the local FBI field office on a string of murders in Boulder City, Nevada (if he lived that close to Vegas, he'd probably snap too), and when he gets off the plane at Dulles, he keeps telling himself that it could be a million different things. He's just tired, worn out from the case, completely disoriented by the time difference and the nonstop overnight flight he booked so he wouldn't have to spend another night in a hotel. All that dry air in Nevada and then on the plane was a shock to his humidity-acclimated system. Maybe he ate something spicy. He thinks about it and can't actually remember what the last thing he ate was.

But in the back of his mind he knows. Every plane is a Petri dish, and cross-country ones are the worst, with all those isolated regional bugs meeting and circulating in the rarefied air. By the time he's gotten through a quick debriefing with Jack and dashed off to make his first of two afternoon lectures at the Academy, there's an uncomfortable pressure gathering in his head and light is starting to hurt his eyes. It never fails. He rarely gets sick--he recognizes how miraculous this is, given his lifestyle--but when he does, it's always in the immediate aftermath of something strenuous, that letdown after the adrenaline. And when he does, it's like whatever super-virus got through his defenses is doing double time to make up for all those other disappointed germs.

During the lecture his throat starts to tickle. He goes on gamely, but when he starts getting hoarse, he decides, fuck it, they can have a discussion-based class today. His students don't seem to know what to do; Will Graham always lectures. Some of them are probably here because they don't want to talk, a plight with which he has some sympathy. But they muddle through it, all of them, including Will, a little awkwardly.

Afterward Alana sees him in the hallway and comes over to discuss some of the Nevada details. A few minutes into the conversation, she stops and says, "Wait, weren't you still there last night?"

"Yeah," says Will, becoming aware that he's rubbing at his throat, trying to massage away that sandpaper feeling. Self-consciously, he puts his hand in his pocket. "I caught a red-eye."

Alana looks him in the eye and asks, "Have you been home yet?"

He glances away. "I have lectures."

"You could've asked somebody else to take them," she says. "I would've taken them."

He shrugs. He's not in the mood to spar with Alana, even if she's trying to be nice to him, which she always is. He's starting to feel a maddening, persistent, deep inner-ear itch that signals worse to come.

"It's fine," he says shortly. "I asked Dr. Lecter to feed the dogs. Quantico's closer to the airport anyway."

She looks at him more closely. "Are you all right, Will? You sound a little… off."

"I am a little off," he says, trying to be flippant, but it comes out a little more testily than he'd intended.

Alana holds up her hands. "Okay. Sorry." After a moment more of studying him, she asks, "Do you want me to take your second lecture? I can come up with something to talk at them about, and you can go home and sleep it off."

"There's nothing to sleep off." Actually, a part of him desperately wants to say yes. He misses the dogs; his eyes ache with exhaustion and his stomach is still empty; he feels like shit, and he knows it's going to get shittier. But he's irritated--not at Alana, not really, but at this betrayal by his body, this inconvenient, sloppy slab of meat. All at once he overhears his own metaphor, and thinks: Stop thinking, Graham. Stop thinking. Stop thinking like them.

"Will?" When he refocuses on her, Alana's very close to touching his arm, but she doesn't. She waits for permission. He remembers that he likes her.

He arranges the muscles of his face into a kind of grin, but doesn't look at her hand. "It's just one more lecture. Then I'll go home and see the dogs and sleep. Okay?"

"Okay," she says. She doesn't touch him. "Okay. Welcome back. Have a good class."

This time at least he has a strategy, and introduces a topic for discussion right at the top of the class period. The students all eye him warily, but seem more prepared than the last bunch. Probably the gossip has already reached them: "Graham had us talk today. No, seriously, Will Graham." For once he appreciates the rumor mill.

Periodically he takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. The irritation that started in his throat and ears has spread; his eyes burn, and the roof of his mouth. His nose gets in on the act and, inevitably, starts to run, and he stands there at the podium trying to wipe it surreptitiously with the back of his hand and still listen to what the trainees are saying. He has no idea what they're saying. One of them could out himself as the Chesapeake Ripper right now in the middle of the lecture hall, could barbecue the whole class on the spot, and FBI Special Investigator Will Graham would be too distracted by his losing battle against sniffling like a snotty five-year-old.

At the ten-minute break partway through, he goes to the bathroom. Not the one across the corridor from the lecture hall, but one farther off, where none of the trainees are likely to venture. In a stall he grabs a wad of toilet paper and blows his nose thoroughly, but nothing relieves the tickling, and his nose is running again almost as soon as he flushes the toilet paper. His breath is hitching periodically now, but there's no release. He groans and blows again, flushes and blows, and repeats the procedure until he has to go back to class.

He sticks it out through most of the rest of the period, even though the overheard lights are really starting to bother him, making him squint and tear up. The urge to scrub at his nose every five seconds is almost unbearable, but he resists as much as he can, which means doing it only every ten seconds or so. Finally, in a natural pause in the trainees' back-and-forth--they actually seem to be getting into the spirit of the thing, which is unfathomable to him--he clears his throat and says, "I think thad's--" Fuck. "A good place to break for today." He breathes through his mouth, chooses his words carefully. "Have the rest of the day off."

He heads for the bathroom and spends about fifteen minutes just trying to clear his nose enough to breathe. When he finally slides into his car, he lets go a quavery, itchy, but relieved sigh. The drive home is usually relatively painless, under a hour if he makes good time. He can't wait for privacy, a blisteringly steamy shower, the dogs lashing his legs with their tails, and all the toilet paper in the whole damn house.

[kestrel]

Squee! Hooray for Will Graham torture! Exactly what I was looking for today. This is wonderfully written and in-character, can't wait for the next part!

[MusicaDiabolos]

Oh my goodness thank you for this! There is a distressing lack of Hannibal fic on this site, so glad to see another Will fan Hugh Dancy is so dang beautiful, he is made for h/c fics. This show is crazy popular on tumblr now, so hopefully it will catch on for a few people here as well. Enjoy the rest of season 1, it's amazing!

[Garnet]

Wow, you are a fantastic writer! I like your "voice" very much, it flows nicely. Almost reminds me of Harris's writing. I love the imagery of him rubbing at his throat, and this line:

But he's irritated--not at Alana, not really, but at this betrayal by his body, this inconvenient, sloppy slab of meat. All at once he overhears his own metaphor, and thinks: Stop thinking, Graham. Stop thinking. Stop thinking like them.

Definitely looking forward to more of this.

_{And yes, there are a couple of Hannibal fics and art floating around (I know I contributed a few), but I'm hopeful that more people jump on board with it.}

Edited June 22, 2013 by Garnet

[AngelEyes]

I very much like this! All the wonderfully in depth build up has me itching for more! Great writing, please continue!

[tma]

<br />Hugh Dancy is so dang beautiful, he is made for h/c fics<br />

Yes!! I'm not a Hannibal fan *I'm a wuss But... Hugh = Mmmmmm!!!

Besides prof. type (/ lecturer) plus glasses.... *shifty grin*

I'm loving this!! <3 <3

[TheCakeIsAlive]

Ooh, that is rather wonderful. Thank you so much for sharing! Can't wait to see where you take this.

[Bruyere]

This is fabulous. You have a great voice for Will.

Looking forward to reading more!

[queenie]

Will is the perfect character for this, and you've really got him down. I hope for more soon!

[evermissing]

Hey, guys, thanks for all the feedback! The next installment is pending, but I just wanted to respond to everybody's awesome comments first.

kestrel: Every day is a good day for Will Graham torture. Glad you're enjoying it.

MusicaDiabolos:

Hugh Dancy is so dang beautiful, he is made for h/c fics.

IT'S SO TRUE. I'm also thrilled to see another Will fan here! I mean, I love Hannibal too, but Will. WILL.

Garnet: I'm really flattered by the comparison to Harris's writing. I've always been a fan of the novel versions of both Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, and I'm just starting a reread of Red Dragon (my long-time favorite), so it's nice to hear that I'm not wildly off the mark. I'm definitely looking forward to reading your fic. Mind giving me a few links?

AngelEyes: More below! Thanks.

tma: YES. We are on the same page re: both Hugh Dancy and academic types with glasses. (Oh god I am so into Hugh Dancy and how he always gets cast in these Beautifully Tortured roles.) Also, I promise that this story never gets as graphic as the show.

TheCakeIsALie: Thanks for commenting! The next installment is... well, next.

Bruyere: Aww, thank you. I loooove Will Graham--on the show, in the book, and in at least one of the film versions--so writing him is intimidating, but a lot of fun.

queenie: He really is, isn't he? I hope you like the next bit.

[evermissing]

Somehow, he gets out of Quantico and some distance up I-95 before it starts.

The first sneeze catches him completely off guard. The glare of the setting sun through the windshield hits him full in the eyes, and he winces. But he's felt on the brink of sneezing for hours now, so even when his chest hitches and he takes an involuntary deep breath, he's expecting another false alarm. He keeps his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road.

"Huh... huh-EP-SHOOO!"

The force of it snaps him forward so violently and at such an acute angle that his forehead meets the top of the steering wheel. He swears and looks up again instantly, eyes and nose streaming, to make sure that he's still in control, the car's still in its lane. He has half a second to be somewhat impressed with himself--his hands haven't even moved--and then realizes he's not done.

"H-heh…heh-kmmpsh. ECH-kssssh."

He turns his head and buries the double in his shoulder, a controlled explosion that shakes his whole body. Sniffling, blinking away tears, he glances up again--incredibly, he's right where he should be--and hurriedly wipes his nose with his sleeve.

This is where he recognizes his first mistake: he neglected to bring along a stash of toilet paper or to buy a pack of tissues before he got on the highway. Saying a silent prayer, he reaches for the glove compartment.

"--eh-KMMPH-shoo."

Instinctively he tries to stifle it against his outstretched arm, although with limited success. Braced with with one hand on the dash, he waits for a moment, breathing heavily, to see if any more sneezes are imminent. Then he checks the compartment. Nothing. Flashlight, maps of Virginia and Maryland, a collection of artifacts that probably haven't seen the light of day in years. Not even a piece of paper, which at this point he would be desperate enough to use.

"Fuck," he growls, or tries to, but it comes out sounding like an undignified whimper. He doesn't know why he's even concerned about the appearance of dignity right now.

His nose is running steadily now, his sinuses and palate tingling almost unbearably. Head turned slightly, fingers clenched around the wheel, he stifles another quick, itchy double as he tries to think what to do. He can't be that far from home at this point--he's somewhere near Annandale, by his reckoning, so less than twenty miles to go.

He coughs experimentally, hoping to ease the tickle, but that just sets him off again, worse than before.

"HETCH-choo! Heh… hep-shoo. Ekh-CHOO!" In the lull afforded by a prolonged inhale between sneezes, he takes the opportunity to turn into his shoulder again. His head bobs with the rapidity of it: "Heh-mmph-- heh-mmph-- heh-kmmph-- HUH-kmmmph."

The next one stalls, and much as he'd like to just sit here with his face hidden and his sneezing somewhat quenched, he comes up again, gasping for air, and focuses on the road. He actually manages to drive for a few miles along the Beltway like this, squinting, panting against the itch that builds but never quite crests. He hardly dares move, much less breathe through his nose, for fear of upsetting some kind of delicate equilibrium, but occasionally he can't resist swiping at his nose with his sleeve. His throat is already aching from the effort of suppressing all those sneezes.

Finally he sees his exit up ahead. And this is where he recognizes his second mistake.

He's used to leaving work at bizarre hours, when few sane people are still out on the highway; he rarely works anything resembling a nine-to-five day. At one a.m., say, the route between Quantico and Wolf Trap is sparsely populated, just a few cars drifting along like lighted buoys on an immense black swell of sea. Under those circumstances, the speed limit doesn't really mean much either. On more than one occasion he's clocked his drive home at under half an hour.

Now, as he crawls up the Beltway toward his exit, the parallel line he's been driving relative to DC veers westward, and he hits the rush-hour tsunami of commuters leaving the city. As he slows to a standstill, he can see the red taillights of cars stretching to the horizon towards Tysons Corner. That's at least five miles of stop-and-go traffic.

"Oh, you've got to be shi--"

As if on cue, the tickle slithers back down from his sinuses and throat, and after a few agonizing seconds of suspension he pitches forward in surrender: "--shi-hih-ih-ih… ISHOO! Heh, huhh… UKH-shoo. Heh-shoo-- h-huh-KSCHOOO! --shitting me. Uggggh." He groans and, freed of the responsibility of serious driving for a while, rests his head against the steering wheel and sniffles freely. With his face tilted down, he can already feel the ominous settling of increased sinus pressure. Oh, this is going to be a delightful one.

And that's the way the rest of the drive proceeds. Traffic will crawl along for a little while while he struggles to stay in control, and then they'll come to a stop and he'll launch into another volley of sneezes. Once or twice, before he turns back to the road, blinking gingerly and wiping his nose, he'll see a driver in the next lane staring across at him. You'd think they'd never seen someone dying of the plague, or something.

His nose is finally starting to settle down as he makes it into Wolf Trap forty-five minutes later, which just figures. The first thing he does when he gets into the house is tear a handful of paper towels off the roll in the kitchen, rest his elbows on the counter and his head in his hands, and blow his nose thankfully. The dogs cluster around him, heads cocked, tails waving.

"Okay," he says, a little out of breath. "I dow, you're right, I'b sorry. Ready for sobe dinner?" The tails go into overdrive.

Once they've all been seen to, he goes into the bathroom. Avoiding the mirror--he has no interest in finding out if he looks as rotten as he feels--he gets into the shower. He's used to stripping off wet clothes, but still he grimaces at the sodden wreck of his shirt. Lacking a biohazard bag, he just slings it into the laundry hamper.

The shower loosens up the congestion considerably, although with the unfortunate side effect of also loosening his temporary grip on control. Twice he has to lean against the tiled wall to keep his balance through a wrenching, whole-body series of sneezes. It's when he steps back under the water the second time and closes his eyes tiredly that he has one of those sudden moments of shower revelation.

He's supposed to have an appointment with Hannibal tomorrow night.

A few minutes later, still damp-haired and shivering in boxers and a T-shirt, he sits on the edge of the tub and dials Hannibal's number. He gets voicemail, as expected, and when he hears the tone he's thankful that he doesn't sound quite so stuffed up and pathetic as before. He doesn't need to be caught on permanent record like that.

"Dr. Lecter," he says, "it's Will Graham. We're supposed to have ad appoind--" He expels his breath in a frustrated sigh, cups his hand over the receiver, and quickly blows his nose on a square of toilet paper. "We're supposed to have an appointment tomorrow evening, but I think I'm going to have to cancel on you. I--"

"Will?" And it's Hannibal's voice live on the line.

Will freezes. It's probably nine or ten at night by now, and he's pretty sure that shrinks never answer their phones like this. Even ones, like Hannibal, who don't have secretaries. Did Hannibal actually give Will his home number? Does he have an answering machine, does he screen his calls? (If so, Will experiences a fleeting, ridiculous moment of warmth to think that Hannibal picks up for him.)

"Um," he says. "Um, I'm sorry, it's late, I didn't think you'd answer."

"Not at all," says Hannibal. "I'm something of a night owl myself. Are you well?"

"What? Oh, I'm fine. Uh, just a secod--" Again he covers the receiver with one hand, and sneezes abruptly into the side of his other fist. "Eh-kssh!" He exhales, grabs more toilet paper, and tries to clear his head. Finally he holds the phone to his ear again and says, "Sorry, one of the dogs was… barking.…" There's a slight echo in the connection, so that he can literally hear how stupid he sounds. "Actually, I'm not exactly fine."

"Can I help?" asks Hannibal, utterly direct and utterly disarming.

Will laughs a little and says, "I'm not that kind of not-fine. I just think I'm--" This time he's prepared; he has the roll of toilet paper in his lap; it's becoming a reflex: cover receiver, stifle sneeze, blow nose, continue as before. It takes under ten seconds, which he hopes is plausible as a normal conversational gap. "I thig I'b cobing dowd with sobethig." The congestion is starting to get away from him again.

"It certainly sounds that way," observes Hannibal dryly.

Will puts the phone down and honks unproductively into a piece of toilet paper.

"Sorry," he says, back on the line. "Like I said. I realize you've god a--" He's pretty sure that his current rendition of "cancellation policy" would be well-nigh unintelligible. "I should've called you earlier thad this, but it didn't even cross by bind until just dow."

"I understand," says Hannibal. There's a sort of smile in his voice. "There are always extenuating circumstances, for which the policy can be waived."

Again, Will is pretty sure that this isn't exactly standard operating for a psychiatrist, but he's not going to argue the point.

"Okay," he says, too flustered to acknowledge the favor outright. "I'll see you in a week, thed?"

"Feel free to call sooner if you need."

"Okay," Will says again. He's too busy to think of something cleverer; he can feel another sneeze creeping up on him.

"Goodnight, Will."

He's relieved to hear the connection break on Hannibal's end. Setting the phone on the floor, he tears off a long strip of toilet paper, bunches it in both hands, presses his face into it, and waits, breathing raggedly. He doesn't have to wait long.

"Heh-NGGGHT! Goddamnit!" He's starting to get hoarse.

Of course, along with forgetting to pick up tissues, he forgot to buy any kind of decongestant, which means it could be a long night. He goes to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a scotch. Tossing it back is an unusual sensation: the usual slight, pleasant burn, but no flavor at all. He realizes he hasn't had any dinner, but can't think of anything that he could even taste at this point, much less enjoy.

The scotch is starting to do its work as he crawls into bed. In the dark, he feels one of the dogs jump up beside him. Usually he's strict on the subject of Dogs On The Furniture--only when you're invited, is his policy--but as Hannibal said, under certain circumstances most policies can be waived. The dog, whichever one it is, curls up in the crook of his knees. He's thinking about Boulder City, and Garrett Jacob Hobbs, and the Ripper, and how with any luck he'll fall asleep before the next round of sneezes overtakes him; and then, gradually, miraculously, he does.

[kestrel]

Just what I needed to see after an annoying day at work! Hooray for more adorable Will torture! Keep up the fantastic writing, you're doing great!

[MusicaDiabolos]

Hooray, I am so glad you continued. Ugh, can't believe I have to wait a whole freaking year to see Hugh Dancy on my TV again. You write him so well And slightly creepy Hannibal! (even though Will doesn't see it that way) Love it <3

[Angelike]

Wow thats soo hot! :<

[Garnet]

Garnet: I'm really flattered by the comparison to Harris's writing. I've always been a fan of the novel versions of both Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs, and I'm just starting a reread of Red Dragon (my long-time favorite), so it's nice to hear that I'm not wildly off the mark. I'm definitely looking forward to reading your fic. Mind giving me a few links?

He is a fantastic writer, isn't he? I still have a few vivid sentences from Red Dragon and Hannibal that pop into my head every now and then, because the word choice was just so elegantly perfect. Also, this bit! Aw, aw Will. I love that he is completely without supplies and incapable of taking care of himself, but just kind of blusters through it anyway. Being a weirdly flattered that Hannibal picks up for him also made me smile, even if it's such a tiny detail.

And since you asked, here's my content

[Bruyere]

just a few cars drifting along like lighted buoys on an immense black swell of sea.

Lovely line, I'm reading Red Dragon for the first time + it reminds me of the way Harris describes the house, a line I think they used in the show. And as an image, it must be must be so calming and reassuring to Will.

(If so, Will experiences a fleeting, ridiculous moment of warmth to think that Hannibal picks up for him.)

Nopenopenopenopenope. Oh Will.

Loved this update! Wonderful sneezes too!

[Dusty15]

Ooooh my goodness! JUST WHAT I WAS HOPING FOR! I just started watching this show (I'm 6 episodes in) and Will Graham is the ultimate h/c fic subject. I mean, I basically spend every episode wanting to bundle him in a blanket, tuck him in bed, and hold him tight! I'm sure I'll write a fic or two about him eventually!

This is so well written and so very very delicious (in a fetishy way and not a Hannibal way! hehe)

Can't wait for more

[Lexi]

That was great.

[evermissing]

Hey, guys: third installment! Thank you all so much for the feedback; I appreciate it more than you can imagine. I'm going to try to respond to individual comments later, but for now it's almost 1:30 a.m. and I have to be up in two hours for work, so... I'm gonna post and run.

***

He sleeps for a few hours, which is becoming all he can really expect at any given time, even when he's not sick. He'd put the current roll of toilet paper on the floor nearby when he got into bed, but by around 2:00 a.m. he's surrendered to the inevitable and moved it into bed with him, beside the pillow. That way he doesn't even have to open his eyes to sneeze: when the urge hits, all he has to do it reach out and grab another piece. When he finishes the first roll, he grabs another from the closet--he'll have to buy some in bulk tomorrow, which is really today--and an old brown paper grocery bag from the kitchen. This he stations on the floor right next to the bed, so that he can just drop used toilet paper right in. He's pretty proud of the efficiency of his system.

When he starts seeing pale light through the window blinds, he gives up and gets out of bed. A few of the dogs lift their heads; someone whines.

"Sorry," he says. "I dow. I'b gonna go to work. You guys cad ged sobe sleep thed."

Until just now, he'd had no particular plans for the day, but as soon as he says it, for some reason it sounds like a good idea. Getting out of the house. Fresh air and sunlight. Being proactive. It seems like a healthy decision, the sort of decision a stable, self-aware person would make.

He starts to doubt this within the first five minutes on the road. The bug has definitely made itself at home in his sinuses overnight--his whole face aches with it--and he's coughing more, too. That would be just fantastic, if it decided to settle in his lungs. But now that he's moving, the easiest choice seems to be to just continue, to submit to the compelling logic of inertia. He can make the drive from Wolf Trap to Quantico on autopilot, after all.

When he arrives, he sits in the car for a few minutes, taking stock. It's around eight o'clock. He's got a lecture at eleven; he thinks it's on personality disorders. The pockets of his jacket and pants are full of toilet paper, and there's a bathroom just down the hall from his office. It's not that big a deal. He's had much worse days. But at the moment, hiding in his office until the lecture and then spending two hours at the center of attention in a room full of people while trying not to sneeze, cough, or sniffle every ten seconds… that sounds pretty grim, too. He thinks enviously of the dogs, asleep again on the floor by now; blows his nose; takes a resolute breath that triggers some deep, chesty hacking; and goes to work.

He's so focused on his private misery that he almost runs into Alana, who arrives at the Academy door at the same moment he does. Not for the first time, he wishes his glasses were tinted--that it wouldn't be too weird, even for him, to just wear sunglasses every time he has to interact with another human being--and frantically tries to find somewhere to look that's not her face. He steps back and holds the door open for her.

"Thanks," she says brightly. "Good morning." How Alana Bloom can be so friendly and fresh-faced and put-together at this hour is beyond him.

He follows her in, watching his shoes, and croaks, "Bordig."

He doesn't even have to see her face; the shift in the air is perceptible, almost physical. A little bit of surprised concern, and a little bit of--is it?--satisfaction. That I-told-you-so reflex.

"Look, sobetibes I'b a little hoarse in the bordigs," he says defensively.

"Oh, pull the other one, Will."

His skin fairly prickles with discomfort. They're standing in the middle of the hall, and he can tell that if he tries to walk away, she'll reach out and stop him.

"Okay," he concedes, finally. "Yeah. Id's really nod as bad as id souds, though."

"Well, it sounds terrible," she says. "Really. Turn around, get back in your car, and go home."

"I have a class. Personality disorders, or 'It tages one to dow one,' at eleved. Id'll be a bard-burder."

"Will," she says. "You can't give a lecture. You're barely even speaking English at this point."

"A bard-burder," he says, willfully missing the point. "Ad agricultural buildig aflame. A--"

The sneeze comes on him all at once, wet and violent, and he barely has time to twist away from her, much less fumble in his pockets for something to contain it.

"HETCHSHOO. Ugh, god, I'b sorry." Gasping a little, he pulls out some toilet paper and holds it to his face with both hands.

"Bless--"

"ECH-chhhxt."

She waits for a moment. "Are you done?" As he nods into the toilet paper, she says quietly, "Bless you."

He still can't make eye contact, but he can feel the sympathy radiating off her in waves now. He imagines he can also feel a little bit of repulsion, but he's not completely sure whether that's her or him. He's always had this problem sometimes in social intercourse, the boundaries of identity blurring, but it's still disconcerting--possibly even more so with people in everyday life than with psychopaths. At least doing it with psychopaths is professionally sanctioned. With everybody else, it just feels vaguely grimy and invasive, like he's a voyeur who can't help himself.

To diffuse Alana's pity, he says, "Well, to be fair, I had id cobing."

"You sort of did," she agrees, with a hint of a laugh. "But that doesn't mean you have to suffer any more than necessary with it."

He shrugs, sniffles, and blows his nose; crumples the paper into a pocket, pulls out some more, and blows again. The congestion recedes a little. He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes.

"I'm kind of tired," he admits, glancing at her nakedly. "I don't want a debate."

She holds his gaze for an awkwardly long time, then sighs and asks, "Can I at least get you anything?"

He recognizes that his asking her for something would make her feel better. "Um. Coffee?"

"Sure," she says. "In your office?"

"Sure," he says. "In maybe fifteen minutes?"

That understanding reached, he takes off. He's caught himself starting to slip into that bad habit where he takes on someone else's speech patterns, mimics their cadences. Sometimes it just happens when he's overstimulated. People tend to think he's doing it in mockery and on purpose.

Safe in the bathroom, he empties his pockets of used toilet paper and replenishes his supply. He sneezes again and cringes as it echoes against the gleaming tiled walls. There's no such thing as privacy here; no place to hide, out here in the world.

In his office, he starts paging through his half-assed lecture notes for the day. Alana doesn't come and doesn't come, and he starts to relax, assuming she's been diverted to something more important. He lets himself cough, blows his nose almost constantly. When he starts in on a sneezing fit, it's almost a relief not to have to fight it, although he stifles it almost soundlessly in the toilet paper.

"Heh-nght. Heh-nggght. Hep-phssh. Uh… uh-eshxt. ETCH-chuh. Uhhh…"

It's then that he hears Alana's heels in the hallway.

He blows his nose the best he can in five seconds and straightens in his chair. When Alana appears in the doorway, he's still harboring a faint hope that he can hold this off long enough to deal with her and send her on her way. With an effort, he grins at her and says, as rapidly as possible, "Fifteen minutes, huh?"

"Sorry," she says, smiling back.

His eyes start to narrow of their own volition, and his breath catches. He wasn't ready to stop when she arrived, and now his sinuses are driving him crazy. This isn't going to work.

"I got some extra supplies," Alana says. "Are you feeling--"

"Sorry," Will gasps, and he's off again. "HEP-shhh. H-heh-tccch. Heh..."

"Bless you."

"No-- huh…" He holds up a hand, palm toward her. "Still-- huh-pttch HUH-chuh-- have to-- ahsssch. Ah-chxtt. Heh-uh-chhhh." He pauses and takes a deep breath, trying to reach at least a temporary stopping point, then shakes his head in irritation. "Heh-kmph. Heh-kmmmph. Ah-huhETCH-schhhh!" His glasses have been slipping progressively lower on his nose throughout, and he's too busy clenching the soaked bunch of toilet paper in both hands to do anything about it. With the last sneeze, he jerks forward and sends them flying onto the floor.

"Bless you," says Alana after a long pause. It's such an insufficient response to the explosion that he almost laughs, and senses that she's tempted, too.

He spends a while blowing his nose, too embarrassed and exhausted to even attempt appropriate interaction for a while. When he finally sits back in his chair and fixes his gaze on the opposite wall, he sees Alana stoop down and pick up his glasses.

"Oh. If I were you, I'b nod sure I'd touch adythig I've cobe idto--" He sneezes once more, but it's just an aftershock. "Ehh-shh! --I've cobe idto contagt with id the last forty-eighd hours."

"I'll survive," she says. She crosses the room and puts his glasses on the desk. "Will."

He sighs wretchedly; she wants him to look at her. "Yeah," he says, giving her a flicker of the eyes.

She starts to speak, then seems to reconsider. Finally she asks, gently, "Where'd you pick this doozie up?"

"Uhh… sobewhere betweed Boulder City and Dulles, I'b guessig."

She clicks her tongue sympathetically. "Oh, those plane viruses are the worst."

He huffs a laugh and says, "Yeah."

"I brought you some tea," she says. He starts to object. "Tea's better for a cold than coffee. And some other things." On the desk beside his glasses she sets a steaming cup, three travel packs of tissues, and a box of Sudafed.

He eyes them warily. "I'b a little… weird with Sudafed."

"It should be non-drowsy."

"By experience suggesds otherwise."

"It's pseudoephedrine."

"Fide," he says. "Fide." It takes him a second, and then he remembers: "Thagks."

As he takes a sip of the tea, Alana says, "Listen. Your lecture's at eleven, right? Why don't I come by around ten or so, and you can tell me then if you feel up to it. If you do, then have at it. If not, I can step in."

He sets the cup down and coughs once. She frowns.

"Okay," he says, half-annoyed, grudgingly grateful. He blows his nose again, hard, easing the stuffiness. "God, whatever it takes to get you to leave me alone so I can sneeze in peace."

"Are you not done?" she asks, and the note of genuine surprise in her voice makes him chuckle and cough some more.

"Well, you know me," he says. He puts his head in his hands and massages his throbbing sinuses. His nose starts running again. "I dod't do adythig halfway."

[kestrel]

It's so nice coming home to this fic! Keep it up, you're still doing great!

[MusicaDiabolos]

Hooray!!!! Will and Alana <3 Loved the bit about mimicking speech cadences too, guess you heard about that deleted bit from the pilot?

[iety]

Usually I'm so torn between enjoying Will's suffering and being very concerned for him, but this...this I am definitely enjoying :3ccc

[HoneyBunny]

Wow. I'm speechless.

...

Wait! I found one word for your fic: brilliant.

[Dusty15]

Oh my god this is SO GOOD. It pushes every single one of my fetishy buttons.... *swoon* *THUD!* *Dusty hits the floor in delight*.

[shingetsu]

I NEEDED a Hannibal sneeze fic like you wouldn't believe. But this is so. much. more. I am absolutely flabbergasted at the way Will's empathy disorder was described."but he's not completely sure whether that's her or him. He's always had this problem sometimes in social intercourse, the boundaries of identity blurring," I had to pause and just think for almost a minute before I could go on. And the sneezing is simply delicious! It's like you added all my favorite things together and stirred. Haha! ;P As much as I enjoyed Alana's and Will's interactions, I can't wait to see Hannibal's reaction.