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

[doggo]

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.

No you didn't just...

Seriously, I'm so very attracted to this character, and your writing is so good, and you're making the poor thing so exquisitely sick! Oh my GOD I just wanna hug and cuddle the porr sniffly stuffy thing endlessly. Gah. Talk about an awwwgasm.

This fic is brilliant, thank you so much!!!

will need to draw him... just... need to....

[Dusty15]

Draw him Pig, oh please oh pleaseeee!

Will Graham is seriously the saddest poor little thing in the world. Every time I see the show I just want to put him in a sleeping bag and lock him up in a room and hug him.

[Bruyere]

I keep trying to compose a comment that could adequately express how much I am enjoying this fic but I can't so I am resorting to this smiley ->

I loved Alana trying to help Will and him, eventually letting her.

Is it wrong I want to see Will be weird on Sudafed? Damnit Will why do you suffer so well?

[doggo]

Will Graham is seriously the saddest poor little thing in the world.

Yes, even if I started watching this series for Mads Mikkelsen ( ), Will just stole my heart right away. Not only because Hugh Dancy is pretty, but ohmigod the slightly sad expression that's almost constantly on his face. I just want to hug him and pet his hair and tell him it's more than ok to cry a little bit.

(and yes, I will have to, this fic has forced my hand... ohmigod, had to just read it again the moment I opened this topic. Have I already mentioned this fic pushes all my fetish-buttons too? Soooo much snotty misery... )

[evermissing]

Yikes, I hadn't realized it had been so long since I updated/replied to comments! Sorry, I just got totally sidetracked by life. Anyway, responses to comments here, more story in the next post.

kestrel, Angelike, lexilovessneezes, HoneyBunny, [anyone else I may have missed]: So happy that you're liking it! Thanks so much for letting me know.

MusicaDiabolos: Oh god, I KNOW, how can it be another whole YEAR? Clearly people are just going to have to write a lot of fic to tide us over.

Also! The part about speech mimicry was inspired by a reference in the book; I wasn't even aware we had information about deleted scenes! What was in it?

Garnet: about having Harris lines stuck in your head--me too! I especially love, love, love his introduction to Red Dragon, that first "meeting" with Hannibal, and how you can see where so much of Will's character comes from (and how the writers of the show have obviously taken that intro to heart, too).

Oh, also, I've been holding off on reading any fic whatsoever while I find my groove, but I think I've got a strong enough sense of what I'm doing now (between this story and another, more general-audience one) that I'm ready to plunge in. Going to read your stories tonight, and I'm really psyched.

Bruyere: about the car line-- that's what I had in mind with that bit, too. It's one of my favorite images from both the book and the show. I've been rereading the book lately, and I keep running across little details that ended up, sometimes in slightly different form, in the show. It's fascinating.

Oh, and Will is weird on Sudafed in this next section I'm posting. As someone who gets weird on Sudafed, I feel a little sorry for him.

Dusty15:

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!

RIGHT. THERE. WITH. YOU. I can't even watch the show when anyone else is in the house with me, because of the undignified noises I make at Will's suffering multiple times every episode.

iety:

Usually I'm so torn between enjoying Will's suffering and being very concerned for him

This exactly. I sort of almost feel bad writing him into this situation… but not quite.

novusluna: Aww, this was such a great comment to get. I actually haven't done any kind of writing--not fictional, anyway--in several years, for a variety of complicated life reasons, and getting back into it, through experimenting with some stuff for Hannibal fandom, has been both really thrilling and really frightening. I feel like I don't remember how to do this! How do sentences work! So I really, really appreciated hearing that you like the writing itself, too. Thanks a lot.

Also, no Hannibal in the installment I'm about to post, alas, but he'll finally show up in the part after that. His reaction is definitely one of the main reasons I wanted to write this story in the first place.

pig: AAHHHHH DRAW HIM PLEASE

[MusicaDiabolos]

MusicaDiabolos: Oh god, I KNOW, how can it be another whole YEAR? Clearly people are just going to have to write a lot of fic to tide us over.

Also! The part about speech mimicry was inspired by a reference in the book; I wasn't even aware we had information about deleted scenes! What was in it?

Just something I read on tumblr...some line in the pilot, the scene between Jack and Hannibal where they discuss Will, and Hannibal asks Jack if Will sometimes imitates speech patterns. There was supposed to be a cut away of Will talking to a teenage witness and somewhat imitating her speech patterns. I suppose it is somewhat referenced in later episodes, when Will "loses it" and speaks like the killer (e.g. when they are in the morgue and he channels Tobias Budge).

If you continue to update this, I will love you forever

[evermissing]

Okay, somewhat delayed next installment! This one's a little on the shorter side and not particularly sneezy, but it's kind of a transitional bit, and I wanted to at least post something here to prove that I'm still working on this story. I promise, I'll make up for it with the next section.

(Also, let's be honest, I also just wanted an excuse to write Will being Weird On Sudafed. )

***

As soon as Alana leaves, he tears into the first pack of tissues with a kind of savage abandon. And the tea does feel better on his throat than coffee would have, he has to admit that. But the Sudafed he stares at suspiciously and leaves untouched for a while. In all honesty, he can't even remember anymore which decongestant it is that makes him loopy and high, which one sends him into a unpleasant dizzy trance, and which one gets him so wired he can't sleep for days. He resolved to stop playing roulette with all of them the last time he was sick, and intended to just tough it out drug-free from then on.

After an hour of rapid-fire sneezing attacks, plus a constantly running nose and congestion so complete it's like he has cotton balls in his ears (he didn't even know you could have both at once), he's beginning to rethink that resolution. He's given up even pretending to prepare for the lecture, since he barely has time to do anything between managing his symptoms and making trips to the bathroom for more toilet paper; he's already gone through all three packs of tissues. When an unexpected sneeze makes him spill the last of his cold tea into his lap, he picks up the Sudafed box resolutely.

"Bottobs up," he says, and tosses back half the recommended dosage.

By the time Alana raps on his doorframe some vaguely endless amount of time later, he's much less stuffy, and also completely useless.

"Hey?" she calls from the door.

He's bent so low over his lecture notes, trying to get his eyes to focus on the words, that his nose is practically touching the paper.. He looks up at her woozily--raising his head slowly, so the world stays more or less on the correct axis--and quotes with some asperity, "'Don't worry, it should be non-drowsy.'"

She smiles. "Not doing so well?"

He puts an elbow on the desk, props his head up with one hand, and gives her a bleary glare.

"You sound better, anyway," she observes.

"You knew this would happen," he says. "You…" He tries to think of the verb. "You benched me on purpose."

She ventures a little farther into the room, still with the hint of a smile. "I thought it might. And I thought it might do you some good to be benched for a bit."

In answer to that, he simply groans, and turns his face into his palm.

"Sorry," she says. "I thought you might've been exaggerating a little, too. Do you feel nauseated at all? Dizzy? Confused?"

He thinks about it. "Not really. Just… uhh… slowed down. A lot. A little unreal. I don't know. I told you I'm weird with this. I--" He stands up, for no clear reason, and the room goes aslant on him, the floor tilting toward him, the ceiling flying away. He leans with both hands on the desk and shakes his head, his knees wobbling. "Okay. A little dizzy."

"Sit down," Alana tells him. He complies. She comes the rest of the way over and stands looking down at him. "I just want to see if you have a fever, okay?"

"I wouldn't touch me," he says. "I'm kind of… untouchable… what's the word… unclean caste…" and then her hand lightly tests his forehead. He closes his eyes for a second and just waits, uncomfortable, defenseless.

"You feel all right," says Alana, removing her hand.

He opens his eyes and gives her a half-smile. "No, I really don't." She laughs, and, heartened by this successful exchange, he asks, "What, uh… what time is it?"

"Around ten-thirty."

He starts trying to organize his notes into something that might pass for order, which is hard when he can't even keep himself in order.

"Will," says Alana. He doesn't look at her, too busy concentrating. "Will. I'm subbing in for your lecture."

"I have it--" He pauses, wrinkles his nose in irritation, and waits a few seconds. Nothing seems immediately forthcoming. "Uh, I have it pre--hnnnnxggt!" Even through the Sudafed, his reflexes for this have gotten sharp--he turns and stifles the sneeze efficiently in his shoulder. After a deep exhale, he finishes the thought: "Prepared." He goes back to the roll of toilet paper. "I'd almost started hoping I was going to get a break from this."

"Bless you," says Alana. "You still sound better, but you really don't seem all that prepared to me. Look, I thought something was going on with you yesterday, so last night I drew up a lecture outline. I've got plenty of material."

"It's my class," Will says, realizing he sounds more than a little petulant. But who wouldn't, sitting here drugged silly and still holding a wad of damp toilet paper to his nose? "Heh-tchhht."

"Bless you. If you don't hand it over to me for your own sake, do it for them. I keep hearing whispers in the hallways that Will Graham's finally gone and lost it for good, he's asking trainees to talk. Take pity. You're traumatizing them."

Will just neatens the stack of papers between his hands.

Alana sighs. "So what are you teaching them today?"

He looks up at her and blinks. He figures he has a decent chance of swinging in the dark and hitting it. After all, he does this for a living.

"Um. Psycho…paths."

"Your top page there says childhood sexual abuse."

"Oh, well, also that... too. As well."

"Right," says Alana briskly. "I'm going to go talk to your trainees about psychological testing, you're going to get some sleep in here, and when I get out, I'm going to find somebody who can give you a ride home."

"Glad we cleared that up," says Will muzzily. The mere mention of sleep is almost hypnotic, utterly persuasive, but he struggles to keep holding Alana's gaze. "I could've done it fine if you hadn't slipped me mind-altering substances. D'you know that they started regulating pseudo… pseudoedaphine--"

"Pseudoephedrine."

"--pseudoedraphine under the PATRIOT Act? The PATRIOT Act, Alana." That's when he's knows he's gone, when he just casually calls her "Alana" like that.

"Yes, I know," says Alana patiently. "I even have a medical degree. Goodnight, Will."

"Break a leg. Try making 'em talk, it's pretty funny." He waits until she leaves the office, closing the door with a soft click behind her, before he plants his face against the cool surface of his desk. He sleeps almost immediately.

[MusicaDiabolos]

Bahahahahahahaha yay, it was like my wish came true the moment I commented on the thread again So adorable!

[Dusty15]

Oh my god. This fic is EVERYTHING I ever want in fics! Willllll <3 I'm melting with love! Sleeping on his desk? STAWP IT EVERMISSING, I CAN'T TAKE ANYMORE LOVELINESS! <3

[evermissing]

MusicaDiabolos:

some line in the pilot, the scene between Jack and Hannibal where they discuss Will, and Hannibal asks Jack if Will sometimes imitates speech patterns. There was supposed to be a cut away of Will talking to a teenage witness and somewhat imitating her speech patterns.

...I am so, so disappointed that this didn't make the final cut. And yay, happy you liked this bit!

Dusty15: This is so cool to hear, because I've never written sneezefic before, and my goal, coming into this story, was just to try to write exactly the kind of thing that I'd want to read. So I'm really glad that we apparently we want to read the same kinds of things.

[Bruyere]

I'm enjoying this fic so much!

"Oh, well, also that... too. As well."

Haha! Oh poor Will. I love how you write him slowed down and a little bit loopy.

And Alana caring for Will as well = <3

I finished the book last week (week before last? IDK, Recently anyway) and like you said I love seeing all the ways they've taken little bits from the novel and spun them or used them to fit their slightly different narrative.

[evermissing]

A real update this time! And Hannibal himself, finally.

***

What Will forgot, of course, is what his sleep is like on Sudafed. It's heavy and uninterrupted, which would be a blessing except that the deeper he goes--and he's in deep, between the medication and the lingering jet lag and last night's ordeal--the easier it is to fully inhabit and invest in the dreams, and the harder it is to swim back up. They're more incoherent and fragmentary than usual, just bursts of awful lucidity like repressed memories, or like the gas that escapes from a drowned corpse, fetid pockets that gather and bubble, buoyed up with decay, to the surface. Or maybe that's part of the dream itself, a submerged, decomposing body that he kneels above as if on a sheet of ice, and then it opens its fogged eyes and is him, his reflection, which he plunges into with a shock of cold and recognition.

He comes awake not all at once but sluggishly, by degrees, one sense unthawing at a time. He can feel his heart pounding and the clammy sweat coating his skin, but he can't open his eyes right away; when he does, his body is paralyzed for what seems like a very long time. For a moment he's still convinced that he broke through the ice and is now a staring frozen floater forever. The fear, for a few heartbeats, is beyond words.

Finally he sits up, shuddering. He gives an experimental sniff--nothing. His entire head is clogged.

"Ohhh god," he groans, putting his face in his hands, feeling his sinuses protest. Speaking seems to loosen something in his chest that he hadn't realized was taut, and he starts to cough jarringly, hackingly, with the faintest sound of phlegm behind it. Robitussin, that's something else he'll need to get. Or does he have a bad reaction to that, too? He can't remember.

He sniffs again and rears back, taking in a quick gasp at the tickle that emerges fully formed at the back of his nose, so focused and abrasive that it almost feels like pain. Then he pitches forward into his conveniently waiting hands.

"HETCH-chmmph!"

The last vestiges of Sudafed are keeping him from being snotty--yet--but this is still an unpleasant position to be in. He waits, eyes closed, eyebrows lifted, hands over the lower half of his face, and tries to remember where he stashed the latest roll of toilet paper. He opens his eyes to look, blinking through irritated tears, but then helplessly squints up again. If possible, the need to sneeze is almost more intense the second time.

"HA-tcch-CHOO!" He tries and fails to stifle that one fully, and actually whimpers when it's over. In no possible universe is this fair or just.

Miraculously, the itch recedes, and he heads to the bathroom to refresh and restock. That's how the afternoon goes--shuttling between his office and the bathroom. The people in neighboring offices would probably think he had an intestinal flu if they couldn't hear his partially muffled sneezes at intervals in the hallway. Mercifully, although someone occasionally calls an expression of sympathy, no one comes out to see him or knocks on his door.

It's getting on toward evening, and while he's too proud to abandon the pretense of doing work and go find Alana, he is a little annoyed, maybe even hurt, that she seems to have disappeared. He really would kind of like to leave now, before he goes disastrously downhill again.

He's half-dozing over some papers, chin in hand, when he hears his door open.

He jerks upright and irritably says, "Uh, id's gederally codsidered polide to"--he has half a second to see Hannibal on the threshold, one hand still on the doorknob, and then the glare of the desk lamp between them makes his breath hitch and his vision blur--"kno-hah-huh… HUHGNNNNNNNXT!"

Sudden as the explosion is, he isn't unprepared. He's taken to keeping a ball of toilet paper in one hand just to save time, so as he builds up, he clamps that hand firmly across his nose and mouth, holding his glasses in place with his index finger; braces his other hand against the top of the desk; and lowers his head. Even so, the force of the sneeze nearly throws him forward onto the desk, and sets his mug, pens, and various other loose objects to rattling.

There's a pause as he snuffles into the toilet paper, face burning, head still down. Then Hannibal mildly says: "Good evening."

It's such a refreshing change from everyone else's responses, from the chorus of "Bless you!"s that follows him down the hall every time he treks to the bathroom, that Will sits back and laughs hoarsely. His throat is raw, his stuffed-up ears still ringing, from the force of the sneeze.

"Evedig," he replies when he can speak again. He drops the used toilet paper into his overwhelming wastebasket, tears off some more, and tries to wipe his runny nose as discreetly as possible. "Uh, sorry, excuse be," he says belatedly.

"Gesundheit," says Hannibal, equally belated, which makes Will start laughing and coughing again. He takes off his glasses, massages the bridge of his nose, and dries his eyes.

"I had thought you'd be at home today," says Hannibal, once Will has control of himself again.

"Well, the bore fool you."

"Evidently."

Will starts cleaning his glasses, just for something to do with his hands, and studies Hannibal covertly. The doctor is dressed slightly more formally than usual in an extremely well-cut suit, carrying a file folder under one arm. His sleek hair shines in the light from the hall. Will imagines that the contrast between them must be even more striking than usual, and wonders, not for the first time, what keeps Hannibal interested in him.

Hannibal's still standing in the doorway, hands clasped behind him, scanning the office. "Did Jack Crawford need you to come in today?"

Will shakes his head. "Jag's id Washigtod-- ugh, sorry." Hannibal inclines his head graciously, and just as graciously doesn't look as Will blows his nose for the ten-millionth time today. "Jack's in Washington. I had a lecture today. Well, I did until Alana Bloom got to me. Now I'm just… waitig for a ride hobe, I guess." He sighs at the brevity of that break from congestion and tears off yet another piece of toilet paper. His nose is starting to really hurt, on top of everything else.

"I spoke to Dr. Bloom," says Hannibal. "Apparently she's been telling all comers that you're not in today."

Will blows his nose, to little effect. "Oh." That explains his total isolation, the lack of adventurous trainees turning up for office hours (sometimes he thinks they do it on dares), that one woman from down the hall who wants to flirt with him. "How did you slip past the gadekeeber, thed?"

Hannibal looks at him directly for the first time. "I told her that as your doctor I take a personal and professional interest in your health."

"Oh," Will says again, stupidly. "Well. Thad's very good, very believable."

Hannibal almost looks amused at that. "May I come in?"

"Oh, uh, yes, of course. Sorry, I dod't have ad extra chair. Nod many visitors id here. No haz-mat suits, either." He tries to enunciate as clearly as possible, unsure of how comprehensible his speech is at this point.

Hannibal shrugs this off. "How are you?" Not "How are you feeling?", as most people would ask. Will appreciates this particularly from a shrink.

"Id's nod thad bad," he lies gamely, then laughs and adds, "Mouth-breathig aside."

"Are you feverish?"

"Is your interest in my health personal or professional, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal blinks at this. "I see no reason that it can't be both."

Will recognizes that the muddiness of these waters, the… imprecision of their relationship, isn't part of standard psychiatric practice either. But he nods, accepting it.

"No fever yed," he answers. He knows he probably has that to look forward to later tonight.

"But you are experiencing chills?" Off Will's confused expression, Hannibal says, "You seem to be shivering."

Once Hannibal mentions it, Will becomes aware that it's true. Here it is the middle of a Virginia summer, and he's sitting in long sleeves in his office shaking and covered in gooseflesh. He can't quite leave behind that deep-down chill of the dream, tenacious as permafrost.

He could let Hannibal think it's just chills, but he feels compelled to be honest: "No. Id's… I was dreabig, earlier."

Hannibal takes this in with a nod, as if it's a perfectly reasonable explanation, and doesn't insist on details.

Will gathers another anticipatory wad of toilet paper. "Uh, nod to be rude, bud wha-hah-- 'scuse be-- hah, h-huh-kmmph-kkmmph HA-tchh." He groans, face buried. "I'b sorry." He blows his nose, hard, which loosens some congestion but doesn't touch the tickle. "What are you--ESH-shhh--sorry--what are you doing here, if you expected me to be at home today?"

"I had some files I thought might be of interest." Will hears him set the folder on the table. "I had intended to leave them here for you."

Will doesn't look up from the toilet paper. "You came all the way down here for that? Don't you h-have a fax machine? Or an ih-hih-httch. Sorry, an Internet connection?" He blows his nose again. He's aware that he's being obnoxious, but worn out and embarrassed as he is, he doesn't care that much.

"This was just a slight detour," says Hannibal. "I had dinner with a friend in Washington."

"Huh." They're about an hour's drive out from DC. Will eventually looks up, wiping his nose absently, but can't tell from Hannibal's face if that's a lie or not. "Thanks. I'll look through them at home. I'm starting to think I might as well just drive myself."

"Dr. Bloom mentioned that when I saw her," says Hannibal. "She had an evening lecture, and said… 'I'm having trouble finding volunteers to sit in an enclosed space with Will for an hour.'"

Will laughs, then winces and coughs a little. Now he's starting to have a constant tickle in his throat, too. "I think that'd be the case even if I didn't have the super-plague. I'm just about over the Sudafed. I can drive."

"I told her that I would take you," says Hannibal smoothly.

"I, um." Will pauses, and can't really think of a good reason why not. He's not exactly on the way to Baltimore, but it's the same general direction. And he's too tired for much more verbal sparring. "Well, okay. If you're going my way anyway."

"Actually," says Hannibal, "since you are, in fact, out and about today"--Will makes a wry face at him; not exactly "out and about"--"I thought you might want to reinstate your appointment."

Brow furrowed, Will asks, "Here?"

"In my office, as usual."

Will rubs his itching eyes. "Isn't it a little late?"

Hannibal rolls up a sleeve and glances at his watch. Will doesn't even think he knows anyone else who still uses a wristwatch, much less an elegant analog one like Hannibal's.

"Not much later than our usual time. As you know, I keep late hours. And I would guess you won't be getting to sleep early tonight, regardless."

Will sniffles and wipes his nose. "You'd be right."

He weighs it in his head. On one hand, the Sudafed is definitely wearing off, and he doesn't know how long he has before he starts feeling markedly worse. And there's an uneasiness, too, a feeling of exposure. It doesn't make sense--Hannibal has certainly already seen him more emotionally vulnerable than anyone else, yet something about being physically weak in his presence sets Will slightly on edge. On the other hand, if he goes home now, that's just another few hours of lying in the dark sneezing his head off and failing to sleep. And weeks when he doesn't see Hannibal, for whatever reason, tend to feel more unbalanced than weeks when he does. Plus, Hannibal is a doctor, after all, a professional. Will probably couldn't find better company at the moment.

So he says quietly, almost surprising himself, "I'd like that." He stands, clears his throat with a frown, and sniffles again.

Hannibal favors him with a small smile. "I'll get the car."

Will holds up a hand, meaning to delay him. Hannibal obligingly stays where he is, one eyebrow barely raised, but Will's signal to wait changes meaning in midair, as something about the shift in position reignites the burn that's been smoldering in his sinuses for the last minute or two. He's defenseless against it; his eyes snap shut. The itch is brutally nonspecific--eyes, nose, throat, inner ear--but refuses to peak.

After nearly a minute, he scrubs at the side of his nose with a knuckle, gingerly at first and then with more force. "Heh… huh." More toilet paper. "Hehh!" Reaching out for it is enough of an interruption to his private struggle that he remembers Hannibal. He opens his watering eyes: Hannibal's still in the same spot, waiting and watching with no hint of impatience. Will's face heats up. "Sorry, I'll be-ee-eh… done id a secod…." Please, he adds silently.

"I have nowhere else to be for the rest of the evening," says Hannibal, almost formally. Then he adds, in a gentler voice, "Gesundheit."

Will's head snaps forward as if on command. "EKH-tcccchoo!" He doesn't quite manage to catch it, but he's going for small victories now: he sighs in relief when there's no followup. "Sorry, sorry." He wipes his eyes. "Thad was a good trick."

"The power of suggestion," says Hannibal, smiling again.

"I was godda say… if we're lookig ad a drive thad log--" He blows his nose. "Sorry. I've been told I sound like I'm speaking another language whed I'b like this."

"You're quite understandable to me."

Will snickers. "Thad may the nicest thig sobeone's said to me id years. Ehh-tshhh." Another blow. "If we're looking at a drive that long, I don't want to make you share a car with me. Remember what people are saying about me and enclosed spaces. I can follow you."

"Are you alert enough to drive?"

"I'm fine. I just needed a ride when I was drugged up." Will gathers up his things. "So, wait. Did you come here to give me files, to give me a ride, or to give me another shot at an appointment?"

Hannibal holds the door for him. "I thought any of the above might be helpful."

Will switches off the lights as they leave the office. He feels a little lightheaded and breathless and sore all over, if he's being completely honest with himself, but nothing he can't handle.

"Oh! Hang on a minute." He leaves Hannibal in the hall and makes one last bathroom visit. He resists the urge to look in the mirror; no matter how terrible he looks, there's nothing he can do about it, and Hannibal has already seen him. He rejoins Hannibal with a fresh roll of toilet paper under his arm. "All right."

Hannibal gives him an odd look. "I do have copious tissues in my office."

"Hmm? I know that." It takes Will a moment to understand Hannibal's point. "Oh, this." He tears off a few pieces and tucks them in his pocket for easy access. "This is just for the ride over."

[MusicaDiabolos]

Hooray, update!! Oh, Hannibal, you sly...person. I'm guessing he is fascinated by seeing Will so physically vulnerable, and wants to continue his observation in private....

He is so awful. I LOVE IT.

[shingetsu]

Oh, Hanni, Hanni, Hanni, you lying little....liar, you are as obvious as Will is oblivious. To be fair, Will is sick, so free pass for not noticing. But awww!!! Will's all gross and cute. I just want to wrap him in blankets and give him chicken soup. Something tells me that's Hannibal's job now. Now Will is physically vulnerable and well as emotionally. That's going to be one hell of a therapy session. Hope Will doesn't run out of tissues...who am I kidding, I hope he does :DDD Hannibal's personality is so well written. In fact, everyone's personality is well written that I could tell who they are even without their names. you've got a really good handle on these characters and this story is definitely ranking somewhere near the top on my favorite fic list.

[Bruyere]

Then he adds, in a gentler voice, "Gesundheit."

Will's head snaps forward as if on command. "EKH-tcccchoo!" He doesn't quite manage to catch it, but he's going for small victories now: he sighs in relief when there's no followup. "Sorry, sorry." He wipes his eyes. "Thad was a good trick."

"The power of suggestion," says Hannibal, smiling again.

Ohhhhhh, this is so good.

And I loved the description at the start of Will and his dreams and the frozen body. Especially because water always seems to be such a massive part of his dreams/nightmares on the show.

Have I mentioned how much I'm enjoying this fic?! Because I absolutely love it!

[Dusty15]

Ahhh! You're a very good writer, evermissing! I can't believe this is your debut fic on here!!

The descriptions of the dream at the beginning are awesome. Will's vulnerability factor is OUT OF CONTROL *swoon*. You've got his dynamic with Hannibal down so very well!

I loved this bit:

"HA-tcch-CHOO!" He tries and fails to stifle that one fully, and actually whimpers when it's over. In no possible universe is this fair or just.

Poor sweet Will <3

[evermissing]

Next section! I know it's a little delayed, but, uh, this week I finally watched the last four(!) episodes of the show. Seriously, I hadn't seen them before! I actually felt emotionally unprepared to watch them until recently. And then I had a lot of intense feelings about how the season played out and needed to take a break from thinking about it. But now I'm back on the horse.

(Can I just say: oh my GOD, y'all, I have never before in my life seen a show so perfectly geared toward h/c fans. I mean, seriously. Those last four episodes are just gift-wrapped. addsldldfklkdkgh)

Responses to everybody's great comments in a bit. And now, more story.

***

The sun has fully set by the time they arrive at Hannibal's house. Will rolls into park behind Hannibal and then sits in the dark for a moment, leaning back against the seat's headrest, eyes closed. He's really starting to feel like death, but anyway they're here now, and honestly he can probably use all the therapy he can get at this point.

He tells himself he'll get out of the car in one minute, just one more minute. And then there's a tap on the window by his head, and he opens his eyes to see Hannibal. He looks at the clock--he's only been dozing for a few minutes, but it still feels incredibly impolite.

Hannibal steps back when he swings the door open, then quickly moves forward again and grips Will by the upper arm as he half-falls out of his seat, dizzy and weak-kneed.

"It's okay," Will pants, "my legs just fell asleep, I have low blood pressure, I--"

He whirls around, trying to jerk his arm out of Hannibal's grasp, and stumblingly catches himself against the side of the car. "Ih-hehh-ISSHOO!" The sneeze bends him over at the waist, and it's only the anchor of Hannibal's steady hand that keeps him from falling over.

"Id's okay," Will says. Hannibal waits a moment longer, evaluating Will's sense of balance, before releasing his arm so that he can rummage in the car for toilet paper. "Sorry." Will blows his nose.

When he glances up, Hannibal's looking at him searchingly.

"You sound worse than when we left," he says.

Will shakes his head. "I'm fine," he insists, hoping Hannibal doesn't detect his slight shiver, despite his coat and the warm summer night. "I just want to sit down."

Hannibal leads him into the house--not through the patients' entrance, but through the front door. Of course Will has been here on at least nominally non-therapeutic business before--dinners, professional consultations--and has free use of the front door whenever he wants it. But it's a new experience to enter this way, as a--what? friend? colleague?--and walk through Hannibal's meticulous home and into the office through the inner door, and somewhere in that short walk to be transformed into a patient. It feels almost illicit, as though he's seeing the inner workings of something, and he's not sure if he's flattered or unsettled by it.

Will's not normally a fan of sitting on the couch; it just seems too on the nose. But tonight he lowers himself onto it gratefully, all of his muscles aching. He'd much rather keep his coat on but knows it would look strange, so he surrenders it when Hannibal holds out a hand. While Hannibal goes to hang it up for him, he pulls the last of the toilet paper out of his pocket and sneezes into it, quickly, quietly, but with enough bottled-up intensity that his whole body trembles. "Heh-nxxst. H-heh-ngggt." When Hannibal returns and sits down, Will finishes blowing his nose and locates the wastebasket.

"Um, can I just--" He gestures at it vaguely. Hannibal cocks his head. Will flushes in embarrassment and says, "Can I just keep it over here by me? I don't want to pile used tissues on your floor, but I don't want to have to get up every two minutes, either."

Hannibal says, "Of course," and goes to get it.

"Oh, I mean, I could get it myself--" but inwardly Will's quite happy to stay right where he is. Hannibal sets the wastebasket on the floor in front of him and returns to his own chair.

Then that subtle shift happens, that moment when the room somehow officially becomes secure and secret, and Will's the sole focus of that bright, roving intelligence for at least the next fifty minutes. Usually there's a sort of thrill in that, but tonight Will just feels self-conscious, grubby and haggard and toxic. He sniffles and rubs his eyes.

Hannibal says, "Tell me about Boulder City."

"I put the case down for Jack. Pretty cut-and-dried." Will grimaces. "No pun intended." The killer had been tanning his victims' skins.

"Was Jack pleased?"

Will shrugs. "I'm sure." He can feel his head pounding along with his heart; he's got the mother of all sinus headaches. "Hag od," he says, noticing with dismay how his voice already sounds throatier and more congested, dropping into a lower register than normal. He goes to get the aspirin bottle from his coat pocket, and ends up bringing the whole coat back with him. Spreading it across his knees, he dry-swallows a few pills and coughs, deep from the chest. Then he leans forward again, blinking, and says, "Sorry, uh… whad were you sayig?"

"Was Jack pleased," says Hannibal, but without interrogative inflection, simply repeating the words as though his mind is elsewhere. Will's trying to think of something interesting enough to regain his attention when Hannibal reaches out and slides the Kleenex box over to Will's side of the low table.

Will looks up confusedly, wondering for an excruciating second if his nose is visibly running and Hannibal is trying to tell him without causing undue embarrassment. Then he feels his nostrils flare and grabs wildly for a tissue.

"What-- ETCH-shoooo!" The sneeze is messy, desperate, and uncovered, and he manages to quell the urge to just curl up in the fetal position and die of shame, if only because the urge to keep sneezing is stronger. This time he gets the tissue up in time. "Hep-tttcccch! Huh…" He waits, eyes half-lidded. "Huh-huhhuhHTTTCH. Ugh, I'b sorry." Finished for the moment, he lowers the tissue and gives Hannibal a dazed, abashed, watery smile. "Sometimes your instincts are almost superhuman."

"Simple powers of observation," says Hannibal.

"Thad's like sayig whad I do relies od 'simple powers of observation,'" Will counters. The effect of the snappy comeback is somewhat lessened by the interjection of a nose-blow. "I wouldn't call either of us simple."

Hannibal smiles slightly. After a moment, he says, "Please don't feel that you can't wear your coat on my account."

Will hesitates. "Is it… is it cold in here?"

"Not particularly."

Will nods resignedly. "I'm a little chilly," he admits, and pulls on the coat.

"You appear to be shivering again."

After an awkward moment, Will says, "Boulder City. Um. I'm honestly kind of hazy on it now. Sometimes this all just…" He pauses. "It sounds heartless to say."

Hannibal eyes him wryly and says, "It doesn't seem to me that heartlessness is one of your primary problems, Will."

"Sobetibes id all blurs together. I bean--" Will blows his nose. "'Scuse me. I mean, death's the great equalizer, isn't it? Everybody's the same afterwards. The condition of the bodies, what's done postmortem, all those elaborate tableaux that killers are so fond of, they're all just… trappings. When you're dead you're dead."

"Philosophical tonight," observes Hannibal neutrally.

"A subber cold would bake--" Will stops, his nose tingling. Then it recedes, and he sniffs sharply in frustration. "A summer cold would make anyone cynical." He closes his eyes, presses lightly on his sinuses, and winces. "Do you ever find that to be the case in here? Does everyone's existential suffering start to run together and become… boring?"

"Not everyone's," says Hannibal, even and precise.

They make eye contact briefly; Will's the one to break it. Pretending to yawn, he works his jaw against the constant, aggravating tickle in his inner ear. He takes another tissue and blows his nose again, which only seems to fan the flame. "In Boulder Cidy, there was--fugk, I'b sorry--" and he launches into another wet, weary fit. "Uh… uggh-gnnnxt! Uh-gnnxt. H-huh-HEP-chhhh. Hep-chhhh. HEP-chhh. Uhh. I'b s-sorr--" Halfway through the apology he realizes it's not over, and turns away slightly, trying at least to spare Hannibal the sight of his graceless fit. "Huh-nggggt. Heh… HETCH-tchh httttch hi-hi-HIH-TCCCHUH!"

Hannibal silently hands him several more tissues.

"Thagk you." Will doesn't speak again for a few moments as he catches his breath and tries to clean himself up. Finally he says, "'scuse be. I'b so sorry."

Hannibal regards him almost with amusement. "As I feel no obligation to bless you every time you sneeze"--Will snorts stuffily at that, at the impossibility of it--"you shouldn't feel an obligation to apologize to me every time."

Will suddenly turns away again, but it proves to be a false alarm. He rubs his nose with a clean, soft tissue. Hannibal's supplies are much better than his toilet paper, he has to admit.

"Sor--" he starts to say, then stops himself. "Hard nod to. Id jusd feels rude."

"I assure you," says Hannibal, "I don't take it personally."

Will starts to laugh, then sucks in an abrupt deep inhale. His resistance is starting to break down, and he releases several breathless sneezes into his lap while he fumbles with the tissues. When he exhales shakily in the wake of the last one, it catches in his throat and he starts to cough. It takes him a minute or two to break out of the cycle of sneezing triggering coughing triggering more sneezing. When he does, he's wheezing slightly, his chest heaving.

"Will." Will squints up painfully, and Hannibal says, "You sound quite ill. You have some chest congestion. Are you well enough to continue?"

Will shivers and sneezes wetly before he can answer. "I-- eh-- ishhshooo." Hannibal passes him another tissue. "Baybe nod. I cad't eved-- hetch-chhh!--keeb tragk of where we are id the codversatiod. I'b sorry. I didn't thig id would ged this bad this early." He blows his nose. "Plus, I'b makig your office idto a viral hot zode. By the ed of the week, every crazy person id Baltimore is goig to soud like this." He glances over at Hannibal. "Oh, cobe od, thad was a li-hih-HGGGT. A little funny."

"You weren't concerned about infecting people at the Academy when you went in today."

"Well, as we dow, I dod't exactly socialize ad work." Will shivers again and starts shrugging off his jacket.

Hannibal raises his eyebrows. "I'm going to exercise my privilege as your doctor," he says, "and declare you unfit to continue this session."

"I feel like-- esh-shh esh-shh ESH-SHOO." He'd been going to make a snarky comment about Hannibal's Official Proclamation, but stops feeling up to the effort after that rapid-fire triple. "Actually, I guess thad's a pretty good demodstratiod of whad I feel like."

Hannibal doesn't smile. "Are you taking anything for this?"

"Uhh, I had sob Sudafed before. --I've always thought they did a great job namig thad drug, dod't you? No batter how congested you are, you cad always say 'Sudafed.'"

"Will--"

"No, no, I cad't take ady right dow. I'd ged pulled over for a DUI like thad." He snaps his fingers. "Sudafed knogs me right od by a-HAH-chhuh. On my ass." He takes a few tissues and sits back against the couch cushions, his stomach muscles tense and sore from the wrenching fits. Wiping his nose, he adds, "Buch like this does, actually."

Hannibal frowns slightly, but all he says is "Have you eaten?"

"I've beed known to." The more passive and helpless he feels here, the stronger his self-protective tendency toward sarcasm becomes. Hannibal gives him a look, and he says, "Okay, okay. Nod id a while." To his credit, Hannibal doesn't patronize him and ask how long "a while" is, which is good because Will's not at all clear on that himself. "I'b nod sure I've ever felt less hungry id by life, though. I dod't thigk I could taste enough to really appreciate whadever you might have id your kitchen. Is-- ih-ish-shh. Uhh, for God's sake," he snarls, but he's too enervated to put much heat into it. "Is-- ISH-SHUH." Just about all the fight has been kicked out of him for today. Taking another tissue, he tries a third time. "Does the sayig go 'Starve a fever, feed a cold,' or is id the other way aroud? I bean, you're the one with ad M.D. here; you tell be. Are they mutually exclusive?"

"In my experience," Hannibal says quite seriously, "adages aside, starvation is rarely the best strategy." He tilts his head. "Do you think you have a fever?"

Will sighs, coughs, and admits, "Probably. I-- huhh-- hag od--" Sighing, he sits forward, braces his elbows resolutely on his knees, crumples a handful of tissues in his hands, and steeples them over his nose and mouth. His head bobs jarringly with the sneezes and his sinuses protest the entire time, but he contains them all. "Ish! Uh-ish! Uh-ish! Eh-shuh! Etch-shuh!" He slumps back against the cushions again, and Hannibal executes the now-familiar, unremarked transfer of more clean tissues. From behind a wad of them, Will says, "I was sayig, I tend to rud fevers ad night whed I catch sobethig like this."

Hannibal nods. "A fairly normal immune response."

Will, blowing his nose, starts to laugh tiredly. "I thigk thad's the first tibe id here you've ever called adythig about me 'fairly dorbal.'" He shivers, sneezes, wipes his nose, and throws away the tissue. "Essssh. Adyway, I'b sure id's just a low-grade one." He looks up to see Hannibal watching him so intently that it makes him squirm a little. "Whad?"

"I would say you have at least a moderate fever," says Hannibal. Will doesn't ask how he knows, just shrugs apathetically and rests his throbbing face in his hands. But his sinuses protest the change in position, and he shudders as the sneeze rises and rips through him. "H-h-huh-ESSSSH!" He's still quaking as he reaches out blindly for more tissues.

"Are you cold?" asks Hannibal.

It occurs to Will that he's starting to impose on Hannibal in a real way--not only did he waste a session that had already been rescheduled, but now he's just sitting here in Hannibal's office in the middle of the night, shedding particles of pitiless virus everywhere and expecting the doctor to take care of him. But he feels so weak and miserable and adrift that even the idea of leaving makes him cling all the harder to the rope that Hannibal's throwing him.

"N-no," he says, shivering convulsively, and gives a hoarse, bitter snicker at the sound of his chattering teeth. "No, I'b really nod. I just cad't s-s-stop sh-shaking. Etch-shuh! Esh-uh!"

Through the sound of his sneezes, he hears Hannibal stand and walk away. Then his footsteps return, and he sets something down on the table. Will feels clean tissues being pressed into his free hand.

"Th-thagks," he says, wiping his nose. Finally he unclenches his body and opens his eyes. There's a new box of tissues on the table--Will would be mortified that he's already used up an entire box of Hannibal's tissues if he felt just a little less horrible--and Hannibal himself is still standing beside the couch. Will clenches right back up again, although for a different reason.

They're not quite making physical contact, but Will can feel the shifting air pressure between them, the solidity of flesh close by, and the faint, dry, reliable heat that Hannibal gives off. If he could breathe through his nose, he would probably even be able to smell the different notes in one of Hannibal's extraordinarily subtle colognes. There's a kind of strange electricity in the room, almost a taste, like ozone or copper. Will has the fleeting sense of an animal presence here with them--the stag, he conjectures momentarily, but no, and he thinks about a metaphor he's heard Hannibal use, anxiety as a lion on the prowl, but that's not it either. It's utterly purposeful and controlled and cold, not mammalian. It knows when there's blood in the water. But it's infinitely patient.

Shaken, Will moves his head woozily to look at Hannibal. "I feel--"

"You're quite warm," says Hannibal, and though he must be feeling it radiating off of Will's body, Will has the uncanny impression that he smells it, too.

"Heh… h-h-HSSSSH!" Another shivery sneeze breaks Will's concentration, and when he sits up straight again, he can't quite remember what it was that he felt.

"Shall I turn down the thermostat?" asks Hannibal.

"No, no, id's fide," says Will, still hazy. He passes a hand before his face, then squints up and says, "Actually, if we could baybe just bake id a little less bright id here… by eyes kide of bother me whed I have a cold…."

"I'm concerned that you may have more than a cold," Hannibal says, but he leaves Will's side, and in a moment the light in the room is lower.

Then they're quiet together in the dim room for a while, a silence interrupted only by the near-constant sound of Will's soft sniffling. He dozes restlessly, in and out of sleep, and wakes himself with a spasm of coughing some time later.

When he opens his eyes, Hannibal's still sitting in the exact same position, looking quite comfortable. Watching him. But Will can't imagine that he isn't incredibly bored and resentful about this long imposition on his time.

"I'b sorry," he says. He stands up, hugging his coat around him. He tries to smile. "I've been here bore thad by allotted fifty binutes, haved't I?"

Hannibal doesn't stand up to say goodbye, which is an unusual breach of etiquette for him. "You have no allotted time," he says.

Will sways a little on his feet. "I'b godda go hobe and… and see a-HAH-- aboud the dogs… huh-HESSSHOO!"

"I think you should take something," says Hannibal.

"Is thad your professiodal op-- ah-ESSSSH!" He wipes his nose on his sleeve; he's beyond social niceties now. "Eh-shooo! I told you, I cad't take the Sudafed till I ged hobe."

"That is not an acceptable solution," says Hannibal firmly. "Will, you are unfit to drive at the moment, with or without medication." Will is silent, fighting back another sneeze. "If you really do want my professional opinion, you sh--"

"H-heh… heh-chhhhhgnt." This one Will clumsily stifles against the back of his hand. "Sorry."

"Gesundheit. You should stay here until you're in better shape."

Will's starting to get a little lightheaded from the renewed attack of sneezing, so he lets himself drop back down onto the couch. "I dod't wand to impose."

"You wouldn't be. I have a guest bedroom."

Will looks up at him blearily, trying to keep his thoughts in order. "Is thad where Abigail sleeps, whed she's here?"

"She has her own space when she visits. I have more than one extra room."

Shaking his head, Will says, "I cad't stay over. There are the dogs. And I dod't wand to… to codtabinade adother… huhhh, God, how cad I sti-hih! still have to…" He grabs a tissue and leans into it expectantly, his eyes slitted. "I don't… wand to spread this crap through your eh-edtire house"--he can feel his voice getting breathier, and rushes to finish --"I've already sdeezed ah! all over your office AHH-shuhhhh! 'scuse be-hee ih-ISH-shhht, huh-ISSSHT." He exhales shakily, painfully. "Sorry. Sorry. I'b sorry for sayig 'Sorry.' Bud this is humiliatig." He blows his nose, not because it really helps anymore but because it gives him time to think. "If I could jusd baybe… take a little Sudafed and sleep id off in here for ad hour or two, I thigk I'll be fide to drive. I jusd deed to ged back id thad window where the doziness is wearig off but I'b nod-- heh-etch-shhh. " He snorts, or tries to. "Nod doig thad every five secods, either."

Hannibal looks at him thoughtfully for a while. He seems to be weighing something complicated in his head.

"Very well," he says. Will sighs in relief and lets his drooping head rest against the arm of the couch. He closes his eyes. "I'll turn down the thermostat for you. And bring another box of tissues."

Will laughs thickly. "Have you ever had adybody else id here use ub three boxes of your tissues id a single sittig?" Sniffling, he adds, "Honestly, given a choice, I thigk I'd rather have a sobbig breakdowd id here thad this."

There's no answer, and then Will starts with a gasp when he feels Hannibal reach into his coat pocket. He opens his eyes. Hannibal's holding the Sudafed out to him.

Grudgingly, Will takes another half-dose. That should put him out for a little while, and then he'll get up and drive back to Wolf Trap in the welcome darkness of the wee hours, let the dogs out, and collapse into his own bed. In the meantime, again he rests his head against the couch arm and closes his eyes.

"Thagks," he says. "I'b sorry aboud this. I'll odly sleep a few hours, I promise--all I ever do--and thed you cad disinfect everythig id the bordig."

"Of course," says Hannibal. Through his eyelids, Will can tell when he turns off the last light.

[Garnet]

Man, I adore how you write Hannibal. It's very in-character, the way that he's invested in Will's situation but with a vagueness that suggests it's more for his own observation than genuine affection or is it. I love that duality, especially with the almost flippant dismissal he accepts Will's rambling and sarcasm.

These lines stood out to me in particular:

Usually there's a sort of thrill in that, but tonight Will just feels self-conscious, grubby and haggard and toxic.

Aw, Will. That he feels 'toxic' just breaks my heart and makes me want to hug him into a thousand pieces.

"You're quite warm," says Hannibal, and though he must be feeling it radiating off of Will's body, Will has the uncanny impression that he smells it, too.

Nnnh love this subtle little nod to Hannibal's seeming ability to bloodhound out the odors of different illnesses and symptoms. I know you're more of a Will person, but man I would love to see your take on the doctor's suffering :q

[MusicaDiabolos]

(Can I just say: oh my GOD, y'all, I have never before in my life seen a show so perfectly geared toward h/c fans. I mean, seriously. Those last four episodes are just gift-wrapped. addsldldfklkdkgh)

I know, right? As soon as episode 11 came up, I was just like...what am I even watching? Pushes all the right buttons As does your story! Poor Will is such a mess (in both this and the show) that it's a constant battle of whether I want to cuddle him with blankets or...um...climb him like a tree...

[Dusty15]

Poor Will is such a mess (in both this and the show) that it's a constant battle of whether I want to cuddle him with blankets or...um...climb him like a tree...

Can't you climb him like a tree and wrap up in blankets after? ;-P

EVERMISSING, YOU PERFECT POSTER, YOU! <3 Ahh this is so satisfying to all my H/C feels.

I ADORE this part:

""Uhh, I had sob Sudafed before. --I've always thought they did a great job namig thad drug, dod't you? No batter how congested you are, you cad always say 'Sudafed.'"

Hahah brilliant.

[evermissing]

Responses to comments on the previous section:

MusicaDiabolos: You guessed right!

novusluna: Your comment made me so happy. Both Will and Hannibal have such specific voices that they're a little intimidating, so it's great to hear that you thought both of them sounded right. Also:

But awww!!! Will's all gross and cute. I just want to wrap him in blankets and give him chicken soup. Something tells me that's Hannibal's job now.

We are so on the same wavelength.

Bruyere: Haha, thanks, that power-of-suggestion bit maaay have been my favorite part of that section too. Glad it worked for somebody else.

And I loved the description at the start of Will and his dreams and the frozen body. Especially because water always seems to be such a massive part of his dreams/nightmares on the show.

Yay! That's what I was trying to allude to, so I'm glad it came across.

Dusty15: Awwww, thank you! It may be my debut here, but I definitely learned from some of the best by lurking around here for a while. As a fellow sucker for Will-vulnerability, I'm thrilled that I could write something you liked.

[evermissing]

Aaand responses to comments on this newest section.

Garnet:

Man, I adore how you write Hannibal. It's very in-character, the way that he's invested in Will's situation but with a vagueness that suggests it's more for his own observation than genuine affection or is it. I love that duality

Oh, god, YES. This is a big part of why I have such mixed feelings about the way that season 1 ended. Because on one hand, what Hannibal does to Will is so incredibly, manipulatively horrible… but on the other, I think I spent most of the season half-hoping that, somehow, Hannibal's maybe-partially-genuine affection would outweigh his psychopathic lack of empathy and objectification of other people. Because there was a part of me that kind of wanted them to save each other. And as you said, Hannibal's just observing Will for his own edification/amusement… OR IS HE.

I know you're more of a Will person, but man I would love to see your take on the doctor's suffering :q

I've actually been thinking about this a lot. I'm so fascinated by Hannibal too; it's just that I don't think I have nearly as good a grasp on him as I do on Will. (And I know that other people are already writing Hannibal so well--you here, and a close friend of mine elsewhere in fandom, etc.) But it's tempting….

MusicaDiabolos:

As soon as episode 11 came up, I was just like...what am I even watching?

THIS. YES. That's almost exactly what I found myself thinking after I finished watching the season. Did that just actually happen? DID MY ENTIRE SQUISHY VULNERABLE UNFILTERED ID JUST GET AIRED ON NETWORK TELEVISION? It still feels kind of unreal. jndgjkgdjkgd. I'm really kind of stupidly relieved that I'm not the only one who felt this way about it.

it's a constant battle of whether I want to cuddle him with blankets or...um...climb him like a tree...

Hahaha, ohhhh, I resemble this remark sooo much.

Dusty15: I'm so psyched that you liked this section, thanks. More coming ASAP!

[Bruyere]

@Evermissing I've just realized that my previos 'Ohh this is good' comment was supposed to have a second part (I'm going to blame this fic eating my brain for the fact that I forgot it) because I wanted to say that the reason I love Hannibal's command so much is that it works. Particularly when Alana's mention of sleep is only 'almost' hypnotic to Will earlier.

Anyway, I loved this update.

Hannibal knowing that Will is going to sneeze even before he does and passing him the tissues and this little gem:

"I wouldn't call either of us simple."

Hannibal smiles slightly.

huhhh, God, how cad I sti-hih! still have to…

*Dies and is dead*

[evermissing]

Sooo, it's been a while since I updated this (or checked the forum at all, sadly), mainly because I just moved to a new apartment in a really last-minute way AND THEN had my bag stolen, which contained not only all of my money and credit/debit cards and IDs, etc, but also the notebook that I've been doing almost all of my writing in. (auuuugh.)

Anyway, I'm working on reconstructing what I lost, but here's what I'd already managed to transcribe to my laptop from the notebook. This section doesn't come to a natural scene break like the others because, y'know, I lost the rest of what I had written, but at least I finished the sentence?

More as soon as I can rewrite it. For the time being, I just wanted to distract myself from the chaos that is my life by posting what I have.

***

"Will," someone is saying in an undersea voice, thick and distorted. He swims up a little ways toward the sound, but he can't get his bearings, doesn't know if up is really up or if he's only taking himself deeper. The water is frigid and clammy against his skin, but he seems to emanate heat like a pulse or a charge, one that sets all the hair on his body on end and broadcasts a clear distress signal to any predator in the vicinity.

"Will," says Hannibal, but when Will opens his eyes everything's still blurred and wavering, and he thinks--But this isn't the surface after all--and sucks in a lungful of nothingness. It's like opening his mouth into a vacuum.

Then Hannibal, who's apparently holding him upright by both elbows, actually shakes him, hard. Will's head rocks back, his teeth seem to rattle in his gums, and he nearly swallows his tongue in shock, but it does the trick. He blinks a few times and his vision begins to clear.

He's in Hannibal's waiting room. Hannibal's carefully trying to maneuver him into a chair, but he resists, looking around wildly. He has no idea how he got here, but there's a lump of dread in his stomach--that he did something unforgivable and, naturally, came to tell Hannibal first.

"Will," says Hannibal again. Will focuses on his face for a moment, but can't stay with it. "You were asleep in the office. Do you remember?"

"How did I--" Will starts to say, his voice a croak, and dissolves into a coughing fit. Funnily enough, that helps a little bit--the reminder that he has a body, that he's here sick in Hannibal's house.

Hannibal waits for him to finish, then says, "You were on your way out. I heard a noise in the office and came in, fortunately. Baltimore is a somewhat more hazardous location than Wolf Trap to sleep-walk in the middle of the night."

Will's still darting glances around the room, breathing heavily, heart pounding. Hannibal suddenly snaps his fingers in the air between them, a loud, startling report at close range. Will jumps and looks at him.

"I need you to try to concentrate," Hannibal tells him. "Do you know where you are?"

"Your waiting room," says Will, struggling to maintain eye contact. He's not sure when the last time he was really awake was, how long he's been dreaming, how much of what he thinks he remembers is a febrile delusion.

"Good," says Hannibal. "Sit down."

Will doesn't move.

"I assure you, you're no longer asleep. I didn't want to have to wake you here, but you seemed quite agitated and I was concerned that you might become… erratic."

Will knows that by "erratic" Hannibal means "violent," and that does it. He can practically feel himself slip off the edge of something, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheer face of his terror before he plummets into endless space. His vision whites out in a burst of stars; his diaphragm is paralyzed, and he's taking short, gasping breaths that never reach his lungs. He can hear himself making an awful drowning noise, far away.

"You're having a panic attack, Will," Hannibal is saying, and Will snaps, "Well, I know that," this isn't his first rodeo, but of course he can't actually speak and the retort dies in his closed-up throat.

Then it's just time out of time for a while, a high, buzzing drone in his ears. Numb, he can't tell how long it's been when he opens his eyes and finds himself in the office again, back on the couch, with Hannibal sitting across from him and watching him gravely.

Will has to swallow a few times before he can say anything. "I, uhh… did I pass out?"

"More or less," says Hannibal.

Will grimaces. "Shit. Sorry."

"How's your breathing?"

With effort, Will takes a experimental inhale. It hurts like hell, and his chest feels tight and constricted. "It'll do," he says. "It's okay. I'm sorry. I was just… disoriented for a second."

For the first time, he notices that his nose is running. Sniffling, he grabs a tissue. Sudafed, he remembers. He's had some Sudafed. He groans and rests his pounding head in his hands.

"I'm really… kind of confused," he admits. "And cold." His teeth are starting to chatter again.

"I think y--"

"Huh-ESSSH!" Will sneezes unexpectedly, messily, into his sleeve.

Hannibal passes him the tissue box without comment. "I think you have a high fever," he continues, as if there's been no interruption.

"Huh. I-- heh-essssh." Will considers this blearily from the depths of his tissue. "I fee-ee-eh! I feel like shit."

"Is the headache worse?" asks Hannibal.

Will nods, head still down, face buried. "It's not great."

After a moment, he hears Hannibal stand and approach.

"Raise your head for a moment."

Will complies, wincing at the accompanying throb in his sinuses. He peers tiredly at Hannibal and waits, shivering, too muzzy and heavy to initiate anything.

Hannibal looks into his face for a moment, then slowly extends a hand, keeping it always in Will's line of sight. Will appreciates the consideration: it means that when Hannibal touches a palm to Will's forehead, it doesn't alarm or confuse him as much as it could have.

Will closes his eyes and, with a sense of relief, all but nestles into the cool, firm pressure. For a second he feels utterly passive, utterly freed of responsibility for anything.

Then Hannibal makes a small noise in the back of his throat and withdraws his hand.

"That bad, huh?" Will opens his eyes with a woozy half-smile.

"Can you cough for me?" asks Hannibal.

Will gives him a baleful look and sniffs. "I can. I'd really rather not." He rubs his sore throat reflexively.

"Hmm," says Hannibal. "I'm going to palpate your lymph nodes."

"That sounds like a euphemism," Will observes, and when Hannibal doesn't rise to the bait, he adds snarkily, "I'd say it's a pretty good bet that they're swollen." But he still tilts his head back a little to give Hannibal easier access.

Which is a mistake. His sinuses prickle at the shift, and his eyelashes flutter against the direct lamplight. As Hannibal cups his chin and hooks a thumb on either side of his jaw, Will wrinkles his nose and runs his tongue across the roof of his mouth, trying to allay the tickle. But that immediately makes it even worse--his eyes well up and he draws in an involuntary gasp at the intensity of the sensation. His throat jumps spasmodically against Hannibal's palm as he struggle to contain himself.

"Huhhh, 'scuse me--" he begins desperately, then dispenses with politeness just in time to duck away from Hannibal and bury the sneeze in his shoulder. "Heh-gnnnnxtt!"

He reemerges as quickly as he can, sniffling and swiping at his eyes. Hannibal is still standing in front of him, hands extended patiently.

"Sorry," says Will, for about the zillionth time today. His palate itches appallingly. "Think the Sudafed might be wearing off."

"All right?" asks Hannibal, and when Will nods, he reaches out and tips Will's head back again.

This time the effect is almost instantaneous, and as Will's breathing catches, Hannibal smoothly withdraws his hands again and leaves Will to it.

"Heh-NGGGGTT!" In such close proximity, Will barely has time to pinch his nose viciously closed and cup his hand over the lower half of his face. His head bobs forward with another insistent stifled sneeze. "Huh-tcchuh!"

Hannibal passes him a few tissues, which he accepts gratefully with his free hand.

"Thags," he says raspily, then sighs, clears his throat, and blows his nose. He flicks an apologetic look up at Hannibal over his barricade of tissues. "I'm not sure this is going to work."

In answer, Hannibal kneels beside the chair to just below eye level with Will. Will actually shrinks back a little, unsettled to see Hannibal in such a submissive-seeming pose.

"Better?" asks Hannibal, reaching up a third time and probing Will's tender lymph nodes. Will winces but nods, trying not to sniffle. After a moment, Hannibal says, "Cough, please," and before Will can refuse again, he slides one thumb into the hollow at the base of Will's throat and jabs.

Will shoots him a glare of outraged betrayal before turning aside and collapsing into a paroxysm of coughing. Again he feels the tightness in his chest, like a belt around his lungs, and his vision starts to whiten at the edges. He puts a hand flat on his diaphragm and tries to breathe around the pain the way he would with a stitch in his side.

Eventually it subsides, and he sits there with his chest heaving, winded and wheezing unmistakably. Hannibal stands back, looking almost a little smug.

"Let me guess," says Will when he can speak again. "Eshh-hhgnnt." He's starting to feel as though he needs to sneeze constantly, but he's trying to stagger them so as to avoid a full-on fit. "Huh-ngggggt. Your verdict is: I'm sick."

Hannibal favors him with a smile. "That would be my diagnosis, yes."

Will shivers, triggering a shuddering sneeze. "H-hih-eh-ESSHH!" He fetches yet another tissue and burrows his raw nose into it, trying to control his breathing. "Sorry, I'd say the Sudafed's puh… pretty buch fidished. 'Scuse be."

He blows his noise as the congestion closes in on him again. The headache is incredibly bad, a hot vise squeezing his skull, and every sneeze and nose-blow is another turn of the screws. He's shaking harder, although increasingly he can also detect the fever in an abstract way, almost as though this overheated, sweat-soaked body isn't his.

"S-sorry. I-- huh!" He loses track of his train of thought and ducks his head with a moan, fighting the burn in his eyes and nose. He feels as clogged mentally as he does physically.

"I'll show you to the guest bedroom," says Hannibal, as if it's a foregone conclusion. And Will does, in fact, recognize that there's no way he's driving himself home tonight. But he keeps being visited by the nagging worry that there's something he's forgetting to factor in.

"The dogs," he says, and that's enough motivation to actually propel him to his feet. He sees Hannibal reach out as if to restrain him, but it's unnecessary; all the blood rushes out of his head as he stands, and he finds himself half-collapsing back onto the couch. For a moment his control slips, and he sneezes a harsh triple into the crook of his elbow. "Hnnnggt--huh-ngggt--huhESSHHST!"

"I don't think you'll be tending to them tonight," Hannibal observes mildly.

Will soundlessly stifles another sneeze, the pressure of which makes his ears pop, and expels a long, hitching exhale. "They have to be led oud," he says miserably. "They ha-hah-haved't beed fed." He's overwhelmed, not for the first time, by the horrible suspicion that often plagues him in moments of greatest vulnerability--that at times he's barely able to take care of himself, so what makes him think he's up to being responsible for the welfare of seven other living beings?

Hannibal, ever-pragmatic, asks, "Is there anyone who's cared for them when you've been away before?"

Will knows that "before" means "before I was in the picture," but he's too tired to work out if there's a hint of possessiveness in it. God, he needs to sneeze; it's never-ending.

"Sobe of the deighbors dowd the road," he says. "The Pierces. They're dog people. They have a dobermad."

He's so congested that he doesn't even recognize his own voice, but blowing his nose at this point would only constitute more irritation. Ever since this started up again, every stifle seems to have only increased the pressure in his head, so that, unbelievably, the more he sneezes the more he has to sneeze. It's like an echo chamber in his sinuses, and the reverberations keep on spreading.

Hannibal holds out a hand. "Do you have their phone number?"

Will automatically reaches into his coat pocket and passes his cell phone to Hannibal. He's aware that he's being much more compliant and suggestible than is normal for him, but Hannibal--gently authoritative, calm and reasonable, sure of himself and of Will's acquiescence--is hard to resist in this state.

Which is why it takes Will a moment to object: "Oh, you cad't call theb now. Id's… god dows whad tibe id is." He rubs his nose, faking a cough to give himself an excuse to clamp a forceful hand over his flaring nostrils. "I dod't thigk they eved like be very buh… very buch. Jusd the dogs."

"I'm confident they'll understand if your doctor calls to say you're delayed due to illness," Hannibal points out, making for the door into the main house. "Particularly if they're fond of the dogs."

Will shakes his head, distracted, battling the itch insidiously trickling down his nose. "You've dever med the Pierces. They're nod"--he'd been going to say, They're not like you and me, but he doesn't really know anyone much like himself or like Hannibal--"they're nod big givers. They wod't eved buy Girl Scoud cookies frob the kih…hih… the kid with a speech ibpedibed."

"I can be quite persuasive," says Hannibal, halfway out of the room. Over his shoulder, he calls back, "Gesundheit."

[MusicaDiabolos]

Oh my goodness, what a terrible situation! I hope everything works out for you! Thank you so much for posting in spite of all that, this is a lovely chapter and I can't wait to see how Will's story progresses :