He simply could not say no to the man after he'd obviously made an effort. Couldn't deny him. When you are in someone else's house one can't simply say no to home-made food when the cook is present. It is simply terribly rude.

So Hannibal had just sat on his chair, there on Will's table and accepted the food with a small smile and much gratitude. After eating, he had even complimented Graham's (obviously lacking) culinary skills. He ate everything politely while chatting with Will, partly to distract himself from the terrible food. Eating everything so perfectly cooked everyday made you notice the flaws in everyone else's food much clearly. And hate them. But Will was looking at him with puppy blue eyes and he had to pretend that he liked it. And he was nothing if not a good actor.

Will had invited the doctor after a very long day in the field in which the psychiatrist had been especially helpful. Besides, he'd eaten food prepared by Lecter (all exquisite meals since that first day when he brought breakfast to his house) and he wanted to return the favor somehow. Not that anything he did could be compared to the meals that Lecter, chef extraordinaire, had prepared but it was the gesture that counted, right?

When they arrived home Will left his guest with the dogs and went to the kitchen, where he found with horror that he had almost no food to make a proper dinner. Yes, he could always call a restaurant and order something, but then the gesture would be lost. He wanted to do something nice for the man, something special that said thank you. And food was perfect because A) Lecter loved it B) you didn't have to say embarrassing words or make much eye contact. It was a social thing without having to be social. No, he'd have to do something with what he had at home.

A while later, Will emerged from the kitchen with several dishes. One could see in his eyes how proud he was of that disaster. Hannibal did his best to smile too, despite himself. There was a salad that consisted mainly in olives, sweet corn and pieces of carrots with a very vinegar-y dressing. Sadly, that was the best part of dinner. Then there were overcooked chicken fillet drowned in tomato sauce (from a can found by miracle in one of the cupboards of the kitchen) and an ice cream cake that had been sitting on his refrigerator for a while. After serving it, Will realized that the cake had been there forever and he hadn't checked the expiration date. But frozen stuff doesn't go off, right?

Will had been terribly insecure about the dinner but Lecter had eaten everything as if it were good and even complemented him on the dinner.

"It was all delicious, Will. Thank you, again, for such a delightful evening."

"Glad you like it. It –it was nothing."

"Next one in my place." Hannibal said, glad this culinary nightmare was over.

"Yeah, sure."

And so they said good-bye.

It wasn't even dawn when Hannibal woke up and barely had time to reach the bathroom before throwing up a big part of the dinner on the toilet. And then some more. And some more. He spent a while breathing heavily, too tired even to move, slumped on the bathroom floor with his head against the wall, eyes closed.

Hannibal was sweaty, his throat felt sore and his stomach was on fire.

Damn Will Graham.

Damn his politeness.

He hated being sick. To no end, he hated it.

It was undignified, it was inelegant, it was unhygienic, it was disgusting. And it prevented him from doing everything else, prevented him from living almost. As best as he could, he picked himself up from the bathroom floor and brushed his teeth. He saw himself in the mirror and saw he'd gone three or four shades paler. Great. Just great. Hoping to have expelled all evil and to be as good as new the next day, he went to bed. And found, to his dismay that he couldn't sleep thanks to his stomach jumping and turning and making him run to the toilet every now and then.

Why was this happening? This things shouldn't have to him.

He wanted it to be over, but time passed painfully slowly.

When morning came, he tried to get up, go to the shower, prepare for the day – but the room started spinning and he barely made to the living room. He fell on the couch unceremoniously and held his stomach. This was not him. He was graceful and elegant and sophisticated and he… had to go and throw up. Again. His stomach was killing him.

Oh, how Hannibal hated that awful tomato sauce right now. And the cake. He only wanted to go back in time and see the food melt in a roar of fire and smoke. How could such insignificant things cause such great damage? He hated them. How could something as wonderful as food become so vile? He tried to distract himself with books, with music but couldn't concentrate on anything.

He was just there, thrown in the couch dressed only in his very expensive silk pajamas, wishing he didn't have internal organs. After a while he gathered enough strength to get a blanket to cover himself. Some moments he was cold, others he felt on fire. And he couldn't even keep a glass of water down.

For the first time in a long while, he heated himself.

And his body, that stupid body that refused to work properly.

He canceled his patients of the day (with a horrible voice) and called Crawford too, to warn him that he was indisposed and wouldn't be able to provide much help that day and probably the next one. Then he went back to wallowing in his misery on his couch.

Life felt terrible.

The hours came and went and Hannibal tried to sleep.

He had a nightmare and then went to the bathroom. Again.

When he was already getting ready to slowly go back to dying in his couch again, there was a knock on the door. Well, he wasn't in the mood for anyone. But whoever it was , they were insistent. Very insistent.

So Hannibal went to open the door.

It was Will, looking scruffy as usual but more apologetic than ever.

"Hey, can I come in?"

Hannibal wasn't loving the idea of having someone see him like this but didn't have any idea of how to kick out Graham in a nice way. In any way, really. Not his best thinking day. He opened the door and went back to his couch and his blanket. The world was so cold outside.

"So, Will, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I heard that you were sick. Figured it was probably my fault because some of the food had been opened for ages and… I'm sorry, really."

Will couldn't even look at the man. Elegant composed Dr. Lecter looked nothing like himself. He was terribly pale, sweaty hair was plastered to his forehead, a hand clutching his stomach and there were dark shadows under his eyes. The eyes were strangely shiny, which contrasted with the paleness his skin had gotten. Way to go, Will. You invite the man for dinner and nearly kill him.

"How come you're not sick?" They had eaten the same things, shouldn't Graham be suffering with him instead looking so damn healthy?

"I guess my body is more used to food in bad condition. I'm sorry, honestly, I should have been more careful."

"Do not beat yourself up about it, Will. We all make mistakes."

And suddenly, he didn't feel so bad.

The next couple of hours Will tried to make it up to Hannibal for poisoning him. He made tea. He brought some more blankets and a cold wet hand towel for Lecter's forehead. He apologized frequently and intensely, specially after Hannibal's visits to the bathroom. Then the psychiatrist asked him to sit with him and distract him for a bit and Will complied. He talked about the last case, about people they both knew like Crawford and Alana, he talked until the doctor, utterly exhausted, fell asleep in that very sofa. His head fell on Will's shoulder and for once Will didn't mind the human contact.

As he heard the labored breathing of the man, Will felt a bit less bad about poisoning the man.

And Hannibal felt a bit less bad about being sick.