The knock startled Will out of a fraught sleep. The dogs began to bark. Several ran out the doggy door in the kitchen to race around to the front porch.

At the door's window, through the drawn shade, Will saw two silhouettes and knew exactly who it was standing outside.

"Dammit," he groaned as Doctors Bloom and Lecter waited at his door.

The sounds of excited yips from his dogs, and human murmurs as the two psychiatrists greeted his pack.

"Will?" Alana asked, knocking again. "We need to talk to you."

Will stood, then suddenly light headed had to grab at the wall.

"Just a moment," he called.

At least this time he was wearing pants. Will was grateful that he kept no mirrors outside of the bathroom as he ran his hands over sweat-damp hair.

Well, he was supposed to be sick. He was sick.

He went to the door. Reached for the knob. His hand shook like a dowser's wand. He couldn't touch it. Couldn't open it. Couldn't invite the rush in, the rush away. The drawing out of himself through every pore as everything else poured in.

His shoulders started to shake. A small sound of denial, slight and cough-like, lodged and repeated in his throat.

He stumbled back, allowed himself to fall into the sofa again. Seated, but slumped against the cushions, he called out.

"Come in." He let himself rest against the sofa back. He'd said he had the flu. He probably looked it, with the remainder of his night sweats stale on his body, the tremble and weakness from not being able to eat.

He didn't have to play at being sick.

"It's open, come in," Will called again, glad to see Alana's piercing eyes as she followed his invitation, even as he hated Jack Crawford, and both Doctors, for intruding.

Dr. Bloom wrinkled her nose slightly, then masked the reaction to the stale air. Hannibal took it a step farther, of course he did, not only wrinkling his nose but leaving the door open behind him. A slight tightening of his eyes showed Will exactly how his fussy therapist felt about the smells of Will's illness.

"Sorry for the smell," Will said, trying to keep his eyes off the open door, trying to ignore the panicked voice, screaming in his head to close it, just close it, close it now!

"I'm not feeling well," Will said, prying his eyes of the door. "I haven't been up to cleaning."

Or eating. Or leaving.

Will stifled a panicked laugh.

"Jack said you had the flu." Alana's voice was flat. She cleared a pile of books off a chair opposite him and sat. "You look like hell."

Will closed his eyes and scrubbed his face. "I feel like hell." It was easy to admit this part.

Hannibal's striking, inscrutable eyes roved the room, lighting several times on Will before moving on.

It was odd how he kept his coat on.

"Can," Will had to clear his throat against the tightness of panic, struggling to keep his voice level. "Can you close the door please?"

He didn't have to fake the shiver.

"Certainly. I suppose you have a fever," Dr. Lecter said. He closed the door. "I wanted to air out the stale humors, even though we know they can't harm us, still fresh air is a small pleasure we may share."

Will took off his glasses, set them on the end table. God, he was so tired. How long would they stay? What did they want?

Will pinched his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, and asked.

"Why are you here, again?"

He could feel the weight of their gazes, Hannibal's especially. Will kept his eyes closed and let his head fall against the cushion again. "Does Jack not believe me about being sick?"

"No, it's not that," Bloom began to murmur.

Hannibal cut her off. "Perhaps he doesn't believe that you are sick with the flu."

There it was. Will had to smile, appreciative as always of Lecter's forthrightness.

"So, what. Your job is to make sure I'm good enough? Rested? You here to feed me, Dr. Lecter? Build me up, so I can go back out there?"

The words, tinged with hostility, were out before Will could consider what he'd just given away. He opened his eyes and hastily put his glasses back on.

"You can tell Jack, yes, I'm sick. Yes, I'll get better. Yes, I'll get back in the saddle."

"I'm not going to tell Jack that, unless I'm certain it's true." Alana, ever protective.

Will felt Hannibal's gaze on him again. Will made his eyes look at Hannibal's smooth brow, at the top of his left ear, at his collar. Will's gaze pin-balling because he had to appear to look, at least a little.

"What is it, Will?" Hannibal asked, his eyes unrelenting. "What is making you unwell?"

How like the good doctor, to label it "unwell" – the absence of 'well,' instead of the presence of derangement, or mental or physical illness.

Anger surged through Will, even as he recognized it as unjust, he felt the need to respond to it, to lash out, even slightly. To make them leave.

"I'm sick. I'll get better. I think it's time you both leave, and you can tell Jack I don't need any home health services checking up on me, and I don't need any meals on wheels."

Jack Crawford, always treating him like Lecter had said: like a fragile teacup. Like a broken animal, while remaining unrelenting of his use of him.

"That's the second time you've mentioned food, Will," Lecter said, in the imperturbable voice. "Are you hungry?"

And like a perspective drawing, like a staircase that first telescopes away from you, then back towards you, Will saw it.

Lecter knew.

"I need to rest. I need you to go. Both of you."

Alana stood up, reluctant but respectful of his wish. Of this boundary. His autonomy.

Hannibal, who had never sat nor removed his heavy coat, who had never taken his eyes of Will, even though he was an intensely courteous man, and polite social rules dictate that one not stare, Hannibal, moved closer to where Will sprawled on the sofa. He was a mere step or two away, his presence looming.

Will made himself glance into Hannibal's eyes. What he saw there raised gooseflesh. Knowledge. Will wasn't a mongoose, he was a mouse, and Hannibal was a cat ready to pounce.

Will glanced away, shook his head. His diseased mind was playing tricks on him. It wasn't the alertness of a predator he saw in Hannibal's gaze, it was the supreme intelligence of a diagnostician sensing the crux of a problem.

"I'm not assured that you are well, Will," Hannibal said. "And I'm not prepared to parrot lies to Agent Crawford about your state."

"It didn't stop you before," Will spat.

Hannibal's face remained, as it usually was to Will, avid and serene. "Ah, but then I was acting in accord with my conscience. If I go now, I will be betraying myself and my own instincts."

Will let out a tight, disbelieving laugh. "Are you not hearing me? I don't care what you feel, and I don't care what Jack Crawford thinks. I want you to leave. Leave my house. Now. Perhaps you need help being shown the door."

In anger and embarrassment, Will surged up out of the chair. He took one step before the weakness attacked. Before his vision blurred, and the floor pitched violently under his feet. His vision tunneled, as his blood roared in his ears. Reeling, Will fought to stand.

"Easy. I have you." Lecter's voice, reassuring, as his powerful, perfectly manicured hand grasped under Will's arm, offering support and strength.

Will met Lecter's gaze. Saw and felt the in-rush of emotions, conflicting, complex, illusory. Love. Fascination. Hunger. Something dark and powerful. Joy. Anger. Protectiveness. Love. Hunger.

Hunger, most of all.

God he was losing it. He was projecting his own hunger for food onto Lecter.

Will tried to pull his arm away. The pads of Lecter's fingers pressed more firmly into his biceps.

"I'm fine," Will gasped. He took a step forward, and then the strength left his legs. As he fell, he felt Hannibal's arms go around him. Felt the strange sensation of being caught up in the other man's embrace.

His vision blurring, consciousness leaving in a rush of heaviness that pervaded his bones, Will fell.

Hannibal held him. Murmured reassurances in his ear. Inhaled deeply of his neck.

No, Will imagined that part, surely.

Will passed out.