Chapter Text
Will has never been in tune with himself physically. He can sometimes register straightforward or particularly unpleasant sensations, but most of the time, he just feels a vague sense of discomfort until it gets bad enough to pinpoint what’s wrong.
Even knowing this about himself hasn’t solved the problem. He gets too focused on a case, his classes, his dogs, that he doesn’t even notice if he’s hungry or sick or dehydrated. There’s a myriad of medications sitting on his bathroom sink at home that are supposed to help with this kind of thing. His memory, lack of energy, lack of focus. But he’s lucky if he’s taken half of the pills by the time the pharmacy calls him for a refill.
His students usually notice something is off before he does. He hears snippets of hushed conversations as one class leaves and the next files in. Watch out. He’s in a bad mood today, they whisper. It should make him angry to have such a reputation, but the warnings do make his classes go more smoothly. No irrelevant, prodding questions or hanging back after class to discuss the lecture. And it forces him to take stock of himself. To try and figure out what’s wrong before it gets any worse. Sometimes, he even succeeds.
Other times, it’s Jack who tips him off. He’s less subtle—a hand gripping hard on his shoulder, telling him not to lose focus. Slamming his laptop shut and ordering him to get something from the vending machine before he passes out. Steering him away from a crime scene and into the back of a fancy black sedan so he can “pull himself together.” Will tries to see this as Jack’s personal brand of kindness, rather than irritation at having to essentially babysit a 35 year old man.
But ever since he began his sessions with Dr. Lecter, it rarely reaches that point. He’s infuriatingly perceptive, instantly knowing if Will skips a meal or hasn’t slept well the moment he lays eyes on him. He never pushes the issue like Jack does, and he usually never even mentions it out loud, preferring to simply solve the problem as unobtrusively as possible. So unobtrusively, in fact, that it’s taken Will weeks to even figure out he’s doing it.
He’ll sometimes push a sandwich into Will’s hands as soon as he sits down for their session, claiming he made too much for his own lunch. Or he’ll turn the lights down low and speak softly, easing the headache Will didn’t know he had. Leaving out little items to fidget with, once he realized how Will relaxes when his hands are busy. When it became clear to Will that all of this was intentional, he did his best to avoid it. It always makes him feel inept. Childish. But if he looks past the brambles and thorns of his distaste for being coddled, it does make him feel seen in a way he's never experienced. His entire adult life has been lonesome. It's hard to turn away someone who cares.
This evening, Hannibal gives him the briefest once-over when he takes his coat at the beginning of their session, inhaling deeply. Then, casually as ever, asks if he’s had dinner.
“I have wild mushroom soup and some lovely steaks at home,” He says, smoothing the wrinkles out of Will’s coat before hanging it on the rack. “More than enough for two people, and a terrible waste to reheat.”
Will did, indeed, skip lunch. He'd fallen asleep at his desk, in fact, and can still feel the crick in his neck from it now. “Thank you, Doctor," he says, “but I'm exhausted. I should get home straight after our session.”
He means to lie out of defiance, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he feels suddenly bone-tired. He slumps into the plush leather sofa and rubs at his eyes. Hannibal's office is warm, and the couch is comfortable. It's certainly more comfortable than his pull-out bed. His eyes drift shut, just for a moment.
“Of course, Will,” he says easily, then hesitates. Will looks up at him through his fingers. Hannibal rarely hesitates.
“I don’t mean to push,” he says, “but it would worry me greatly for you to drive home in such a condition. The commute is a long one, and the roads can be dangerous at this time of year.”
“I’ll be fine. I didn’t sleep well last night, but I rarely do. And I’m a careful driver.”
“Being overtired is only one concern. You also have a fever.”
“What? I do not,” Will says, immediately embarrassed over how petulant he sounds.
Hannibal raises his brows, looking as though he's trying to choose his words very carefully. “You are flushed, shaky, and covered in goosebumps.”
“I-” Will pauses. He takes in the pounding of his head, the slight blur in his vision, the prickly, oversensitive skin. The soreness in his throat that, until now, he assumed was from the dry winter air.
“Oh,” he says, and clears his throat. Yeah, that hurts. “I’m sick?”
“It appears so.”
Hannibal crosses the room, filling up a glass with water and handing it over to him. Will takes a long gulp and, upon feeling the instant relief, downs nearly half the glass at once.
“Easy does it,” Hannibal says. “You’ll upset your stomach if you drink too fast.”
Will sets the glass down and rubs his sweaty palms on his slacks.
“I should get home before it gets any worse. I’m sorry to have wasted your time. I know I'm your last session—you could have gone home an hour ago.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “Your company is always welcome, however briefly.”
Will downs the rest of his water and stands, uneasy on his feet. His mind is only slightly foggy, and he’s sure he’s driven under worse conditions. He even slept last night, however little.
“Will,” Hannibal says as Will turns towards the door, stopping him in his tracks. “Won’t you stay the night in my guest room? While I’m certain you’ll feel much better in the morning, I would feel personally responsible if anything were to happen to you tonight.”
“I have to take care of the dogs.”
“You have someone who lets them out and feeds them while you are at work or away on trips, do you not?”
“It’s too short notice for me to call them out there. It’ll be dark soon."
“Then I insist, if nothing else, you let me drive you home.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he says lamely, rubbing at his temples.
“I am trying to look out for your safety and wellbeing.”
“You’re trying to coddle me like a child.”
“I certainly don’t think of you as a child.”
Hannibal looks genuinely offended at the notion. Will sighs, frustrated. It would be pointless to continue fighting. And, if he’s being honest, he has no real desire to make the hour-long drive back to Wolf Trap.
“Fine. But if you drive me home, you’ll need to bring me back here tomorrow to get my car.” It's a truly pathetic ultimatum. Hannibal was obviously already planning on doing so—he wouldn't leave Will stranded. Hannibal smiles, relieved, and stands to gather his things.
“Excellent. We will need to stop at my home first, but I will try and make it as brief as possible.”
He holds Will’s coat out for him, and his arms are already halfway through the sleeves before he realizes he should have just taken it from his hands rather than allow Hannibal to dress him. But The doctor is unaffected, smoothing down the shoulders and arms of his coat before putting on his own. Will clenches his jaw, relieved that the fever hides his flush.
*
The brief stop at Hannibal’s house ends up taking nearly twenty minutes. Will insists upon waiting in the car, and Hannibal insists upon leaving the keys in the ignition and the heat blasting. The radio plays some soft classical piano, with the volume turned down so low that he can only make out the high notes. The neighborhood is quiet and dark, and the car smells like Hannibal’s subtle aftershave.
Will doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up with the road moving beneath him. He sits up and rubs his eyes, massaging out a crick in his neck from the awkward position.
“Ah, you’re awake,” Hannibal says, eyes never leaving the road. “I’d hoped you would be able to rest more during the drive. How are you feeling?”
“I feel okay,” Will says. The lie is obvious from his croaky voice, which had sounded fine before he’d fallen asleep. If anything, his nap only made things worse. His eyes feel heavy, his throat dry. A tickle in his chest begs him to cough, but he holds it back, knowing that once he starts, he won’t be able to stop.
They’ve already gotten off the interstate, and it appears they’re driving along the small, country highway leading into Wolf Trap. Hannibal taps a black thermos that sits in the cup holder between them.
“I brewed you an herbal tea. It will help with your sore throat and soothe any muscle aches.”
“I don’t have muscle aches,” Will mumbles, taking the lid from the thermos.
“I’m happy to hear that. Perhaps it’s only a cold instead of the flu.”
He inhales the steam. The tea smells of ginger, clove, honey, and some other spice that he can’t quite place, but that makes his mouth water. He takes a few delicate sips, mindful of the temperature, and lets out a small, pleased hum when it soothes his throat.
“Thank you,” he says. “It does help.” Hannibal smiles.
The rest of the drive goes quickly. Despite the dark and fog and his lack of familiarity with the area, Hannibal drives confidently, never once asking for directions. Will relaxes back into his seat, and he’s almost asleep again when the gravel driveway crunches under the tires.
It’s just beginning to rain when they get out of the car. Hannibal grabs a small duffel bag and a cooler from the backseat, and he even slings Will’s work bag over his own shoulder.
“What’s all that?” Will asks. “I thought you were only dropping me off.”
“I’ve brought ingredients to make dinner, as well as some medication and other first-aid supplies. It would be remiss of me to simply leave you here like an unwanted stray. I’m a doctor, after all.”
“I can cook for myself, you know.” It isn't a lie. If left to his own devices, Will can feed himself. He has a freezer full of fish and a cabinet full of canned goods. He manages.
“It isn’t my intention to imply that you can’t. The food would not be nearly as fresh if cooked tomorrow. And, as I said before, it’s more than enough for two people.”
Will sighs. At a certain point, he supposes it's more difficult for both of them if he continues to refuse.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Hannibal's reprimand was gentle, if it could even be called a reprimand at all, but Will feels embarrassingly close to tears. Being sick always made him emotional as a child, but he thought he’d outgrown that. He blinks away the heat behind his eyes.
Hannibal softens. “It’s alright. I know how illness can make one irritable.” He shuts the car door. “Especially when one is already predisposed to that sort of behavior.”
“Are you calling me an asshole?” His voice comes out mercifully clear.
“Of course not. Perhaps just… prickly.”
He walks towards the house. “Come, Will. Your dogs will be pleased to see you, I’m sure.”
Will unlocks the door and lets his pack outside, all of them crowding around him and sniffing curiously at Hannibal’s ankles. He’s suddenly thankful that he took the time to train them not to jump. He’d never live down the embarrassment if one of them damaged Hannibal’s expensive suit.
Will crouches down to pet Max, who noses cautiously at his hand. He’s the most emotionally intelligent of his pack, always aware when something isn’t quite right. Something Border Collies are inherently good at, he’s read. He licks at Will’s fingers before dashing outside.
Hannibal follows him inside. “Leave the door open,” Will tells him. “For the dogs.”
He frowns. “It's freezing.”
“They’ll just be a minute.”
He goes into the kitchen and picks up the dogs’ food and water dishes, rinsing them out before filling them. Hannibal unpacks his cooler, poking through the contents of his refrigerator.
“It’s good that I’ve come,” he says. “You have nothing of substance here.”
“I’m not particularly hungry.”
Hannibal only hums, disinterested, and begins looking through the cupboards at Will’s cooking utensils. He feels a stab of shame at the thought of a debonair chef seeing the state of his kitchen, but quickly expels the thought. Hannibal was the one who insisted upon coming, so he has no right to complain.
“A balanced diet is vital to good health, particularly when you have no appetite,” Hannibal says, pulling out a wok and a small stock pot. “Is your stomach upset?”
Will thinks carefully before answering. “I don’t think so,” he says, “but the idea of anything heavy doesn’t sound appealing.”
“I will omit the cream from the soup, then,” Hannibal nods. He rakes his eyes over Will’s dark button-down and cotton dress pants. “I’ll get started on this while you change.”
“You want me to dress up for dinner in my own home?” There’s the petulance again. Will grimaces.
“Of course not. You aren’t well. I’d like you to wear something more comfortable.” Thank God. The seams of Will's slacks have been bothering him all day, and the collar of his shirt was itchy enough that he almost considered throwing the damn thing away.
Will takes mental stock of his clean laundry, trying to remember if he has any clean sweatpants. Or any sweatpants period. He normally just sleeps in boxers to stave off the worst of his night sweats.
“I’ll see if I have anything,” he says.
His bedroom is mostly used for laundry these days, ever since he’s started sleeping on the pull-out couch in the living room. His clean clothes are laid out on the bed to prevent wrinkling, the dirty ones piled in the laundry basket on the floor. He forgoes both piles and instead sifts through his seldom-used dresser.
At the bottom of one of the drawers, he finds a pair of forgotten green flannel pants with the tags still on. They were a gift from several Christmases ago, though he can’t even remember who they were from. He changes into them quickly, throwing on a threadbare t-shirt and forgoing socks altogether.
The fabric scrapes uncomfortably against his fevered skin as he undresses, and he feels the prickle of goosebumps as he’s exposed to the cool air of the bedroom. He shivers, rubbing himself down with his hands to ease the sensation. It doesn’t help.
He grabs an extra blanket from the linen closet, something heavy and warm. Usually, he sleeps with only a sheet or nothing at all, but a chill is beginning to work its way through him.
Back downstairs, he sees that the dogs have made it back inside. After a quick headcount, he shuts the front door and flicks on the space heater in front of the fireplace. It’s too much hassle to keep up with cleaning and maintaining the fireplace itself, but the stone mantle helps keep the heat in. Sometimes, when he isn’t feeling his best, he’ll curl up on the carpet in front of it and let the dogs pile on top of him, but he would never do that in front of Hannibal.
He hovers for a moment in the doorway leading to the kitchen, listening to the soft sound of a wooden spoon scraping against the sides of a pot, and weighs his options. Watching Hannibal cook is always interesting, but making his presence known could also lead to being poked and prodded, having his temperature checked and having medication thrust upon him.
Ultimately, he decides to settle into an armchair in the living room with his copy of Watership Down. The book itself isn’t exactly comforting, but he’s read it enough times that it requires little concentration. His eyes move over the words quickly, and soon enough he’s immersed in the story of Fiver and Hazel, feet curled beneath him and blanket over his shoulders.
Within half an hour, he’s almost entirely forgotten about Hannibal, having tuned out the sounds coming from the kitchen in his concentration. So when someone clears their throat only a few feet from his chair, he jumps, slamming the book closed in surprise. He's usually so overly aware of others in his space that he's rarely startled.
“I apologize if I scared you,” Hannibal says gently. “Dinner is ready. I’ve decided to just make a beef and mushroom stew, as it might be easier to eat with a poor appetite. Are you feeling up to eating at the table, or would you prefer that I bring your food here?”
He places the book on the coffee table and stands. “The table is fine. Lead the way.”