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

[Dusty15]

I'm so sorry about your stolen stuff, Evermissing! What a huge pain! I hope things get better soon and that you settle into your new place <3

This chapter was INCREDIBLE. Damn..that opening!

"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.

Ahh I LOVED it. Poor, poor miserable Will!! *comes with lots of blankets and snuggles*

[Bruyere]

Really sorry to hear about that evermissing It sounds like a nightmare to have to sort out. Hope your new place is lovely and you're all settled in now.

I love how you've continued the theme of water in this and especially this bit:

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.

And God, I feel so badly for poor Will in this section.

I loved this too:

Will actually shrinks back a little, unsettled to see Hannibal in such a submissive-seeming pose.

and Hannibal taking charge at the end of this section and Will being aware that he's more submissive than usual to Hannibal but not really being able to do anything about it. I love the way you write their dynamic.

[Glimmer]

this.fic.is.my.favourite.on.the.site. NO QUESTION!! please continue this is wonderfully perfect in every way!!!!

[evermissing]

I owe some replies to feedback, but for the time being, I'm going to post because I have actually FINISHED THIS STORY.

The ending coda is a little bit different from the rest, but hopefully it works anyway. Thank you guys so much for all of the encouragement along the way! Enjoy.

***

Will glares daggers at Hannibal's retreating back--or he would, if that were possible with his eyes filling with tears and his face contorting.

"Heh-esshh!" He buries his face in his hands, but the itch won't leave him alone even for a moment, so he gropes for a tissue just in time. "Heh-etchhh! I'm so done with thi-hih-isssht!"

It goes on like that for several minutes, until he reaches out and finds the Kleenex box empty. He freezes in that position, one hand on the box, the other holding his last disintegrating tissue to his face, mind racing. He has no idea where Hannibal keeps the stock of tissues--isn't even sure that he hasn't, in fact, run through that whole stock tonight. There's the client bathroom, but he seems to remember that it's kept locked after-hours.

He allows himself one last desperate, barely controlled double into the remnants of the tissue, throws it away, and steels himself for the task at hand: waiting for Hannibal's return. It can't take that long, he thinks; not even the Pierces will be able to resist a full-frontal assault of Lecter charm for long. And this is mind over matter. He should be good at this.

He tries to think about something--anything--other than how much he still needs to sneeze. He does mental long division until he starts losing track of the decimal points. He goes step by painstaking step through the tying of a favorite fly, rotating it in his head, following every loop and knot. But gradually he notices himself starting to think about the featheriness of all those flies, the way they lightly skim over the surface of the water, just the barest friction…

So he stops thinking about that and closes his eyes. He's trying not to sniffle constantly, since that only makes it worse. His throat feels simultaneously scratchy and full of cotton, but he doesn't dare clear it or cough, for fear of upsetting this delicate equilibrium. Resisting the urge to scrub at his face, instead he catches the bridge of his nose between thumb and middle finger, one at the corner of each eye, and squeezes. There are supposed to be pressure points that can help in this kind of situation, but he doesn't know where they actually are. He raises his glasses a little and presses his forefinger between his eyes, at the top of the bridge of his nose, where he imagines the tickle is centered.

Obviously that's not the right spot, or he's doing it wrong, or thinking about it too much aggravates it--"The power of suggestion," he hears Hannibal say in his head--because the itch intensifies so much that he shudders and half-rises, as if he can leave the sensation behind. Focusing his attention this way has had the effect of blowing on a heap of embers--rather than extinguishing them, it coaxes them into full flame.

His skin is practically crawling now, and he's shivering again, though whether it's strain or chills he can't tell. Almost of its own accord, his free hand drifts up, and he wedges a knuckle under his sore nose and curls the rest of the fist loosely over his mouth.

He's so utterly intent on clinging to the precipice that when he opens his eyes at the sound of the door closing, he has no idea if Hannibal just got back or has been, what, standing in the doorway for the last few minutes? Which is a crazy idea.

Will knows he looks ridiculous. He lets go of the bridge of his nose, but there's no way he can take the other hand away from his face without crumbling. Struggling for composure, he shades his eyes from the light as he looks up beseechingly at Hannibal, who seems to be carrying some kind of tray, though it doesn't look like food.

"I'b, uh… cou-huh! Could you…" He trails off as his body starts to jerk into a buildup he can't defer any longer.

Hannibal watches him with one eyebrow slightly raised, his expression unreadable. He just seems to be waiting. Will thinks that if Hannibal preemptively blesses him one more time, he might scream; but Hannibal seems to have taken in the situation at a glance, and after that odd moment of stasis, he sets the tray down on a chair, goes over to his desk, and produces a box of Kleenex from one of the drawers.

As Hannibal comes back and hands him the box, Will breathes a sigh of relief and relaxes, just incrementally, his tense resistance. That does it. He registers with dismay that it's a new box, unopened, and he's scrabbling one-handed with the cardboard flap when the wave crests. Dropping the box to the couch, he angles his body away from Hannibal--who's still standing there, as if expecting something in return--and sneezes all over his clenched fist.

"Hehh-ECKTCHOOO!"

Luckily (by some definitions of "luck"), at this point his head is so stuffed up that it's not messy, but he's still utterly, cringingly embarrassed. Worse, he knows he's off on another fit, and he still hasn't gotten the box of Kleenex open.

"--'Scuse buh-utchuh! HUH-choo!" Defeated, he raises an arm across his face and starts in on the good old shoulder-sneezes again.

Eventually he feels Hannibal take the box from the couch beside him, and in a moment a neatly folded sheaf of tissues is eased into his unoccupied hand.

He emerges from the protection of his shoulder just long enough to convey gratitude--which means he opens his streaming eyes, focuses on Hannibal's unperturbed face for the space of an inhale or two, and gasps, "Thaah-huh-ekkktchoo. HEH-TCCHOO! Thags," before he whips a tissue up to his face and gives himself over completely.

It's like a full-blown allergy attack, only worse, because the trigger is inside him and can't be escaped. Periodically he lifts his head and shakes it, as though that moth clear out the irritant, but of course it does no good, and tends to make him even dizzier than the shortage of oxygen does.

The fit is exhausting, and as it goes on, with increasing frequency he fails to fully contain the sneezes. Hannibal continues to pass him tissues as needed, but it's becoming clear that this might go on for a while, every outburst just further trauma to his hyper-sensitized sinuses.

"Will," says Hannibal.

"Hgggnnt!" Will raises his head slightly. "S-sorr-hetchoo!"

"Come with me," says Hannibal.

Will would have said he was incapable of standing upright at this point, much less getting anywhere under his own steam, but Hannibal's tone brooks no argument. Hannibal takes up the tray and Will shambles after him across the room and to the client bathroom, which Hannibal unlocks.

"Sit," Hannibal tells him, pointing at the closed lid of the toilet. Feeling like an idiot, but also fully prepared to relinquish control of the situation, Will does as he's told. Of course every surface even in Hannibal's bathroom is pristine, although a housekeeper never seems to be in evidence.

At first Will thinks Hannibal has brought him here to give him a private place to fall apart, a door to shut to preserve the last of his dignity. The thought is both relieving and a little desolate--to be abandoned to this. But when he hears the door close, he looks up from a rapid triple--eyes watering, head spinning--and Hannibal's still there.

Wordlessly, Hannibal turns on the tap, full blast and blisteringly hot. The room fills with steam, fogging up the mirror--a mercy, since Will still has no desire to catch a glimpse of himself in this state--and Will's glasses, which he fumbles off into his lap.

"Turn around," Hannibal instructs. Will complies, so that he's facing the toilet tank, on top of which Hannibal has deposited his tray. Its centerpiece is a mug of some unidentifiable hot liquid.

Will objects. "I cad't--uh-essh! Eshoo! I cad't drig--"

"Lean forward," Hannibal cuts in smoothly, "and breathe through your nose."

Will wants to point out that if he could do that, he wouldn't really be having this problem in the first place, but he knows he won't be able to express a coherent thought. So, again, he does what he's told: he braces his hands on either side of the mug, lowers his head, and snuffles pitifully at it.

The makeshift sauna does its work quickly, and although he's still sneezing with the same wrenching need, Will can feel his sinuses opening up, the congestion loosening. His nose starts to run like--well, like the faucet, and he begins to have intervals of coughing too, as the mucus in his chest starts to shift and his breath catches froggily in his throat. His ears pop, and then again, at the pressure change.

Hannibal is watching him closely, and as Will starts to crumple into a series of tired, wet, run-together sneezes that work through the stack of tissues with alarming speed, Hannibal seems to make a decision. He opens the door wide again and switches the tap to cold.

"Come and rinse your face. " Will gives him a dubious, halfway-to-sneezing expression, and Hannibal says, "At this point, this paroxysm"--only Hannibal could make this disgusting meltdown sound so contained and clinical--"is doing you no good." Will snorts a laugh at that, which of course breaks into a rattling round of sneezes, like an artillery burst. Hannibal waits, then says, "Your respiratory tract is completely inflamed. A shock to the the system will do you good."

So Will goes to the sink and leans his face into the stream, trying to flush his sinuses. At first it's even more unpleasant--the water runs into his stinging eyes, up his nose and into the back of his throat, and he hangs there spluttering and snorting it in and then sneezing it back out. But gradually, the cool water begins to feel good, soothing, against his swollen eyes and feverish skin, his raw nose and chapped lips, the ache in his throat and the fire in his nasal passages. When he sits back to catch his breath, he still has to sneeze, but the desperation, the sense of the attack as a perpetual-motion, is ebbing.

"A little better?" asks Hannibal. Will nods, blowing his nose thoroughly on a piece of toilet paper, and Hannibal turns off the water. He hands Will the mug full of now-lukewarm green liquid.

"What is this?"

"Nettle tea. It's a natural antihistamine." Off Will's raised eyebrows, Hannibal points out, "In any case, you won't be able to taste it."

Will has to bow to that logic. He gives himself a moment to get a few urgent sneezes out of his system, turning his face aside and letting them go, then drinks the tea. Hannibal is right; it has no flavor for him.

When he finishes, Hannibal retrieves the mug from him, takes up the tray again, and says, "Come back into the office with me."

Ensconced on the couch again, Will leans back into the cushions and sighs. "Thank you."

"I am your doctor," says Hannibal. He steeples his hands in his lap. "Bless you."

Will laughs out loud at that, wiping his nose. That elicits a sort of surprised chuckle from Hannibal, as if only Will's reaction revealed to him that he'd said something potentially funny.

"Would you like to go to the bedroom now?" asks Hannibal.

"Um." Will stares at the floor, shivering. Now that he has a chance to take stock, he feels fully how tired he is. Just the word "bedroom" makes him yawn. But he forces himself to look up, directly into Hannibal's eyes. "Thanks. But if it's not too much trouble… I'd feel better in here."

Hannibal's mouth twitches. "I'm not concerned about your 'contaminating' another room," he says. "If that's your reservation."

Will shakes his head. "No. I mean, that too, but…" An abrupt sneeze, like an aftershock, conveniently covers his hesitation. "Hkkkt! 'Scuse me. I actually just… this room is most comfortable for me." He prays that Hannibal isn't about to go all shrinky on him now and make him spell it out: this room is theirs; this room feels safest.

"Hmm," Hannibal says. He's studying Will's face closely. There's something almost pleased in his expression, almost…. satisfied? "Of course. Whatever is most comfortable for you. I'll bring some bedclothes for you. But first, as your doctor, I have a few more prescriptions for the night." He nudges forward the tray on the table between them.

Will looks at it, surprised to see that Hannibal is speaking literally: there's a neat little row of pharmaceuticals there, one plastic cap full of viscous red liquid and three pills.

Will shifts. Tentatively, he says, "That seems… I mean, isn't that kind of a lot of drugs?"

Hannibal eyes him, as if considering something.

"You have quite a lot of symptoms," he points out mildly.

Will honks into a tissue, self-conscious. "Yeah. I'm, uh. I'm really sorry about all thih-hih-htttch! All this. I wouldn't have come and imposed on you if I'd realized it was going to escalate this fast." He tries to follow the thought--it seems significant--but his temperature is starting to climb again, and he's getting foggy and disconnected. "It was just… really fast. Right?" Hannibal doesn't answer. "I'm feeling pretty hot," Will admits. "That's weird, too. I don't usually--isshoo!" His reflexes slowed, he gets the tissue up too late. "Sorry. I don't usually get this kind of a fever with a cold. Is something wrong?" The feeling of dread comes on him suddenly, a cold certainty, something is wrong something is wrong something is WRONG WITH YOU--

"Will," Hannibal says. "You're not making sense."

Which of course terrifies Will even more. He grips the nearest arm of the couch with both hands and holds on, feeling the current of panic tugging at him, threatening to carry him away. He desperately needs an anchor, even a rope thrown out to him.

What he has is Hannibal, who says, "Nothing is wrong. You're simply overworked and over-stressed. Your system is traumatized. It's normal to break down under these conditions." He pauses. "I can speak to Jack Crawford for you, if you like."

"No," Will chokes out. He can't even imagine what Hannibal would tell Jack about him. "That's not necessary." He focuses on his breathing: in through the nose (as best he can), out through the mouth. He's not going to panic. He can't be irrational. "The drugs will help?"

"You'll be able to sleep," says Hannibal. "Deeply. I imagine that's an appealing prospect."

Will nods, absently wiping his nose on the back of a wrist. He holds out his other hand. "Okay."

Rather than giving him the whole tray, Hannibal picks up one of the pills and places it in Will's palm. "I believe very strongly in informed consent, in medical treatment as elsewhere." He nods at the pill. "Acetaminophen and diphenydramine for the fever, the headache, and the congestion." Will shakes his head uncomprehendingly, and Hannibal smiles. "In laymen's terms, Tylenol P.M."

Will nods, his eyes riveted on Hannibal's face. He tosses back the Tylenol; he's gotten to be an old hand at dry-swallowing pills.

Next Hannibal proffers the red liquid. "Dextromethorphan--Robitussin--for your chest and the cough."

Will takes it, glad for once of his clogged nose--if you aren't already feeling sick, he thinks, the smell of cough syrup is enough to get you there. He toasts Hannibal sardonically with the cap. "Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood…" He gulps it down.

Hannibal makes a small noise in the back of his throat. Impossible to tell if it's amusement or disapproval. And really, once Will says it, he doesn't find it funny at all. It's too near the mark. There's already something ritualistic about this exchange, and while Will finds it comforting, lightening--as a ritual should be--he has the uneasy sense that if he were thinking more clearly, he might feel otherwise.

He coughs a little on the Robitussin, ironically, and Hannibal gives him a moment.

"All right?" Will nods, and Hannibal drops the second pill into his hand. "Trazodone--Desyrel--for the insomnia."

Will has tried just about every over-the-counter sleep aid known to man, to no avail, but he's always shied away from asking for a prescription. He doesn't think it would look right; he worries about the Bureau's perception of his mental state enough as it is. Not to mention that he just isn''t that big a fan of going to doctors in general.

Or wasn't, before Hannibal.

But all he asks is "This isn't the one that causes sleepwalking, is it?"

Hannibal shakes his head. "Ambien. No. I think I know your constitution better than that, Will." He closes Will's hand around the pill.

"Heh-nngggxt!" Will buries the sneeze in the tissue he's had waiting for it for the last few minutes. Hannibal's still holding him by the other hand, but before Will can extricate himself, the tickle mischievously flares up again. "Hnnggggxt! Huh-EPSSST!"

"Gesundheit," says Hannibal as Will wearily blows his nose and wipes his eyes. He feels Hannibal touch his face again, the long fingers traveling up his jawline to the side of his forehead, smoothing back his damp unruly hair. Will shivers and moans; Hannibal's skin feels much colder now than he remembers it being earlier.

"Now you're going to tell me you can detect a person's temperature within a hundredth of a degree, aren't you?" quips Will. But he stays quite still, eyes closed, Hannibal holding him fast and firm in both hands, one on his head and other on his wrist.

"You need the sleep, Will," says Hannibal quietly. "Your fever's spiking again."

Will groans a little. "Believe me, I know." Hannibal releases his hand, and Will regards the trazodone for a moment. Then he says, "Down the hatch," and swallows it.

He's blowing his burning nose yet again when Hannibal offers him the last pill. Will's already reaching for it when Hannibal says, "Diazepam."

Will's hand hangs between them in midair for a second. "Diazepam?" He tries to clear his head enough to think, and it comes to him. "Valium?"

Hannibal cocks his head ever so slightly and doesn't answer. Will snatches his hand back.

"No," he says. "No. No, I don't need a sedative."

"It will help with the sleep," says Hannibal, utterly reasonable and assured.

"So will the Tylenol and the trazodone. There's nothing wrong with my… with my nerves--"

"Your pulse just now would beg to differ." Hannibal spreads his hands, as if offering up the evidence. "You seem quite anxious to me tonight. Disproportionately so."

Despite his best attempts to stay calm, Will can feel his breathing quicken. He doesn't trust himself to speak. Hannibal is looking at him as if he can hear Will's heart accelerating.

"You said this room is most comfortable for you," says Hannibal, pressing the advantage. "Your instincts, in that case, were correct. You are perfectly safe here. Don't be ruled by this anxiety. It's a misfiring signal in your brain." Will coughs softly, his throat tight. Hannibal holds the pill out in his open palm and says, "Look at me, Will. Do you trust me?"

Will looks at him, shivering and yawning helplessly. He starting to feel the soporific effects of all the other drugs at once, and Hannibal's voice surrounds him and lifts him, weightless, like a buoy.

"I--" He starts to yawn again, but as his jaw drops a sort of buzzing prickle starts in his inner ear and invades his sinuses. "Ugh-ksschoo! Heh…" It's still itching like crazy, but he maintains blurry eye contact with Hannibal. "Heh-esssh!"

"Gesundheit," says Hannibal softly.

"HUH-essssh!" The relief from Hannibal's bathroom treatment is already beginning to fade. "God-- da… ugh-ktchoo! Huh…" Sniffling, Will holds out his hand. "Okay. Okay. I…" His nose twitches maddeningly, and he presses the heel of his other hand to his nose for a second. "Ugh. I bean, if I dod't trust you at this point, I guhhh… I guess I'm in trouble, right?" He laughs half-heartedly. "Kssshoo! Hih-ih-isshoo-ISSHHOO! Heh…"

Hannibal clicks his tongue. "The Tylenol should start working for you shortly." He gives Will the Valium. "If you aren't asleep first."

Once he sees Will take the pill, Hannibal goes out--during which time Will buries his face in a mass of tissues and tries to expel as many torturous, hitching sneezes as possible--and by the time Hannibal returns, he actually is starting to feel sort of drowsy and relaxed. Hannibal has brought him sheets, a blanket, a pillow, and a fresh box of tissues. The sheets feel like silk, the comforter practically looks like a museum piece, but Will's too woozy and grateful, crashing too hard, to object to such luxury.

As Will settles into the couch, Hannibal says, "I still have some paperwork to complete tonight." Will tries to say something disjointed, but Hannibal holds up a hand. "No more apologies. I would have been up with this even if you hadn't come. I was working in the next room, but if it won't disturb you, I might continue in here."

Will nods as Hannibal takes a seat at the desk.

"Whad are you workig od?"

Hannibal favors him with a fleeting smile. "No one you know."

Will's tongue is thick in his mouth. His limbs feel like someone else's, and his eyes are out of focus. Pleasantly, though, none of it frightens him. It's the closest to safe he's felt in years.

"I thig I'b goig to fall asleep," he says wonderingly, marveling at it.

"Very good," says Hannibal. "I'll just be here."

Will lies in a warm, heavy trance for a little while, at the edge of the circle of light cast by Hannibal's work lamp. The measured scratching of Hannibal's pen and the rustling of papers lull him like the sound of the sea, and it's impossible to pinpoint when his stupor becomes true sleep.

*

There's a slight change in Will's breathing when he finally goes under, and only then does Hannibal set down the file and finally study him openly.

Will's face is still flushed with heat and the exertion of the last few hours, but Hannibal can detect the pallor beneath. The skin under his eyes, which move sluggishly beneath their lids, is puffy and bruise-dark with sleep deprivation. Sweat has tightened the curls at his temples and on the back of his neck. He lies with one arm awkwardly tucked under him, the other hanging off the edge of the couch; his congested snoring is soft but continuous, and he sleeps open-mouthed, the breath whistling in his chest. A few times his nose wrinkles, he takes a sharp inhale, and his body jerks in a kind of unconscious half-sneeze, but as he goes deeper, even that reflex fades away.

Hannibal hadn't expected tonight, but his improvisations have been as effective as any plan he could have laid. He hasn't yet decided what to do with Will tomorrow. If Hannibal wakes him, he's likely to refuse any offer to stay and rest in a real bed under Hannibal's supervision. But he could sleep in drugged serenity for quite a long time like this; perhaps Hannibal will cancel his morning appointments and keep Will right here. Hannibal could assume responsibility for his treatment, keep him from other doctors. He could watch Will this way as long as he likes--utterly in thrall to an overexerted body, utterly vulnerable.

Hannibal closes his eyes for a moment and tests the air. The clean, familiar scents of his office: tasteful cologne, old books and leather, the slightest whiff of a glass of very good Rioja from earlier this evening. And then the fascinating overlay of Will, which changes the chemistry of the room: an odor of sweat and the musk of his hair, not unpleasant; a faint dogginess; the animal reek of his fear, even asleep; and beneath it all, the sweet, dark, ripe smell of the fever. It's stronger now than usual, the simmer gathering toward boil, and Hannibal savors its subtler notes.

Someday perhaps he'll tell Will about the smell. How it's reminiscent of fermentation. Of rich black soil, fertile rot and fungus. The kind of growth that flowers in the absence of light and oxygen. He'll tell Will how he smells like one of those corpses colonized by mushrooms: an ideal nursery for whatever seeds one might want to sow.

Hannibal recites quietly to Will, across the room:

"That corpse you planted last year in your garden,

Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?

Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?

Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,

Or with his nails he'll dig it up again."

Will whimpers a little in his sleep, and it turns into a cough, the phlegm rattling in his chest. Hannibal waits to see if intervention will be necessary, and in a little while Will quiets again, his chin tucked against his chest, though his eyes flicker more rapidly under their lids now.

Hannibal is certain that Will is under completely, but interested to see that the nightmares persist even through the stupefaction of the drugs--and strangely gratified by how hard Will fights for consciousness. No one else truly appreciates this about Will Graham, Hannibal thinks, except possibly Jack Crawford. There's a core of resilience in him, an ability to absorb an overload of pain--his own and others'--and keep coming back for more. Crawford sees this talent as a means to an end--Crawford is pragmatic, but devoid of artistry. For Hannibal, Will is an end in himself. Not the only possible end, but one that is more than sufficiently interesting.

Hannibal looks down at the paperwork sitting on his desk. Open before him is Will's official file, the information accessible to Crawford and the FBI. Hannibal's notes are precise and meticulous. They cover formal weekly sessions, and nothing else. Will's true file, of course, is Hannibal's alone, and he has never written any of it down.

Is it starve a fever, feed a cold? Will wanted to know. The opposite, Hannibal will tell him. We are feeding the fever, fueling it. But slowly. This headcold is just kindling, prelude to the conflagration to come. It can't come to a head before Hannibal is sure that Will's trust is absolute.

It's disappointing to know that he must let Will go tomorrow, release him again to the ministrations and influences of others. But Hannibal has long been familiar with the unique pleasures of delayed gratification. He can watch and wait.

He is, after all, playing a very, very long game.

***

[Garnet]

Yaaay you finished it! Man, I wish I had time to give it a blow by blow, but while I'm on my way out the door, this part might have been my favorite <3 Poor Will, breaking my goddamned heart waiting for tissues, uuugh. I love how he's so wiped out but still vaaaguely suspicious about Hannibal's intents, like requiring the metered list of the pills and refusing to stray outside the office "safe" space. Especially the panicked train of thought that there's something wrong with him beyond a headcold. Very fitting.

And I love the shift to Hannibal's POV, you seem like you have a very strong grasp of his character, I like the way you write him :q It fits Harris's style when writing from his perspective nicely.

Edited September 23, 2013 by Garnet

[Bruyere]

Oh this was so, so good. And the epilogue fits so well with canon and Hannibal's whole "Oh are your hurt? Here let me make it better worse for you" thing. Which reminds me of the thing about the soup that Hannibal made for Will. I don't know if it was ever confirmed or denied by Bryan Fuller but there was some speculation online that the specific ingredients in that soup would have been contra-indicated to someone with an autoimmune disease which does seem to fit with Hannibal's methods. Anyway.

And this is mind over matter. He should be good at this.

Oh Will. And I love how he is actually partially successful at this and how it sort of ties in with the point that Hannibal makes later about his core of resilience.

this paroxysm"--only Hannibal could make this disgusting meltdown sound so contained and clinical-

Loved this line.

Sorry. I don't usually get this kind of a fever with a cold. Is something wrong?" The feeling of dread comes on him suddenly, a cold certainty, something is wrong something is wrong something is WRONG WITH YOU--

"Will," Hannibal says. "You're not making sense."

Which of course terrifies Will even more. He grips the nearest arm of the couch with both hands and holds on, feeling the current of panic tugging at him, threatening to carry him away. He desperately needs an anchor, even a rope thrown out to him.

What he has is Hannibal, who says, "Nothing is wrong.

Argh. You are the worst at helping, Hannibal. But also, this is so good and just how I imagine it would go on the show.

And Will being most comfortable in Hannibal's office and falling asleep while Hannibal's doing paperwork. It's oddly domestic and sweet and yet so wrong.

Hannibal's epilogue is perfect.

Someday perhaps he'll tell Will about the smell. How it's reminiscent of fermentation. Of rich black soil, fertile rot and fungus. The kind of growth that flowers in the absence of light and oxygen. He'll tell Will how he smells like one of those corpses colonized by mushrooms: an ideal nursery for whatever seeds one might want to sow.

This is so reminiscent of the creepy mushroom episode (everything is people D: )

And I loved Hannibal quoting the TS Eliot poem to Will particularly after Will had been quoting when he took the pills off Hannibal.

Is it starve a fever, feed a cold? Will wanted to know. The opposite, Hannibal will tell him. We are feeding the fever, fueling it. But slowly. This headcold is just kindling, prelude to the conflagration to come. It can't come to a head before Hannibal is sure that Will's trust is absolute. ...

He is, after all, playing a very, very long game.

The absolute WORST. But, oh, such a perfectly creepy end to such an amazing story!

[Dusty15]

GOD DAMN this story is GOOD! I just want to SHOUT IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS! Sheesh, Evermissing!! I wish I could do a detailed play-by-play but I'd end up quoting EVERY LINE. So I'll just say SHIT THIS STORY IS ONE OF MY ALL TIME FAVOURITES aughhh WILL GRAHAM! <3

I need to go lie down.

[MusicaDiabolos]

Hooray you finished it!!!!! So much love for this story, I hope you are inspired to write many more FOR ALL HANNIBAL FANS: DVD released today in the US and Canada!

[evermissing]

HOLY SHIT I NEVER RESPONDED TO THIS AWESOME FINAL FEEDBACK UUUUGH

Garnet: SO glad you liked the Hannibal coda! I wasn't sure about it, because (1) HOW DO YOU BELIEVABLY WRITE OUT OF HANNIBAL'S BRAIN EVEN BRIEFLY?, and (2) it felt really different in tone and focus to me. But it felt like it needed to be in there in some way regardless.

Bruyere:

Which reminds me of the thing about the soup that Hannibal made for Will. I don't know if it was ever confirmed or denied by Bryan Fuller but there was some speculation online that the specific ingredients in that soup would have been contra-indicated to someone with an autoimmune disease which does seem to fit with Hannibal's methods.

!!! I hadn't heard about this! (I'm mostly ignorant of online Hannibal fandom-at-large because, pathetically, my emotions about the story [here and also in various versions of Red Dragon] are too intense and personal to be able to accommodate too much in the way of interpretations that don't feel right to me.) But clearly I need to look into this more. Thanks for the heads-up!

Argh. You are the worst at helping, Hannibal. But also, this is so good and just how I imagine it would go on the show.

It's soooo hard to find that balance in their relationship, isn't it? Hannibal has to at least SEEM genuinely invested in Will's welfare, if only to deflect suspicion from himself; but increasingly he actually is invested, in a completely fucked-up way that is nonetheless the closest thing to intimacy and mutual respect he's ever had; but he also has an endgame in mind, and if he hurts Will in the process, that's probably acceptable collateral damage.

This is so reminiscent of the creepy mushroom episode (everything is people D:

Invoking that episode* was one of my goals in this scene, so it's awesome that you recognized it.

*The first time I saw The Mushroom Episode, I went around telling people that in terms of sheer creative body horror, it was one of the most disturbing things I'd ever seen on screen. And I pride (probably not quite the right verb) myself on having seen some REALLY GROSS and probably morally indefensible movies without flinching. But the other week my sister came to visit and I made her mainline the whole season of Hannibal over the course of about three nights, and she--a crappy horror aficionado--said the same thing without any prompting from me. I mean, we both watched THE HUMAN CENTIPEDE together of our free well. We know whereof we speak.

[/tangent, I apologize.]

Finally-- I am so gratified that you recognized the Eliot! I find that to be one of the most hair-raising segments of a generally hair-raising poem.

[evermissing]

Dusty15: Seriously, you don't even understand how much I appreciate this comment. I've just been (re)reading and LOVING a lot of Hannibal h/c fics, so I'm pretty pumped to think that this story worked even half as well for you. So much of it was so STRAIGHT FROM MY ID that I wasn't sure anybody else would get it.

MusicalDiabolos: yaaay, I'm glad you liked it! And I totally had the Hannibal DVD set pre-ordered for months, so I got it as soon as it came out. I love it beyond words.

And a general response to everyone who's commented on this story in the last... yikes, five months or so, apparently: thank you so, so much. When I started this I hadn't produced any fictional prose of any kind in about three years, and wasn't sure I would ever be able to again; i started writing this story before I'd even finished S1; it got a little derailed by developments later in the season, and my LIFE got derailed by developments later in the year; but I managed to finish it anyway, which meant a lot to me. It's not the best writing I've ever done, but I FINISHED it, and some people liked it at least enough to comment on it, and that... really helped. So thank you, all of you. I owe y'all.

[Kildre]

Okay, so I'm super late to this thread, but I really wanted to comment on this fic. There are so many things I could quote from it, but I worry I'd just end up quoting the whole thing. Fabulously written, a great story, and you absolutely nailed the voices of the characters. Also, I'm really appreciative because this is actually the fanfic that made me realize I have this kink, so thanks for that! XD It was a pleasant surprise to find so much Hannibal fanfiction here!

[evermissing]

Kildre: There is no such thing as late feedback; it's aaall good.

I'm glad to hear this worked for you, and also totally, stupidly thrilled to have helped you come to this realization! Welcome! There is quite a lot of Hannibal fic (and art!) here, and it's all great. I haven't been here that long myself, but the community has been really awesome so far. I'm really psyched to see another fan here (and if you write/draw/whatever, you should DEFINITELY feel free to add to the cache? )

[thethingof]

I've only just found this, but wow. WOW. Best fanfic I have ever read, so nicely paced and descriptive, I read it from beginning to end without stopping.

And can we agree that Hannibal is the best show on TV right now??

[FlutterPhi]

Hi!

So I have no idea if you're still active, given that this written 4 years ago, but I just had to tell you this is my favorite sneezefic ever. It's fantastically written, not only in terms of the yummy parts, but the characterization and overall voice. This is so completely believably in Will's perspective, from his snark to his unique ability to inspire exasperation and the swaddle him blankets in everyone around him. I love how much Hannibal is having a field day with sneezy absolute trainwreck Will falling right into his lap. 

On 9/23/2013 at 7:31 AM, evermissing said:

he has no idea if Hannibal just got back or has been, what, standing in the doorway for the last few minutes? Which is a crazy idea.

He totally was omfg. He stood there watching Will's agonizing internal battle and probably would have stayed there indefinitely if Will wouldn't have caught on sooner later. Amazing

I don't know exactly what's ok outside of the adult board, but let's just say this fic has made me very happy, many, many times. If you're out there, I'm an illustrator and I would love to trade you fetish art of any character you want for more hannibal fic. I more or less have all of it memorized at this point (Springtime in Ohio is another personal favorite OH BOY do I need to leave you a detailed review on that one) 

I couldn't probably go on for a lot longer but I need to go to bed, so just THANK YOU for writing this it's wonderful

[Nella]

I don't find male sneezes hot in any way so I really only came here to enjoy the story, and you really did deliver! You portrayed my autistic fave so well omg