That morning Dr. Lecter was not feeling so good.
His mind seemed to be foggy, the world confusing. There was a sensation of general malaise he couldn't shake off. He wanted to go back to bed but he knew he had to face the rest of the day. And he simply didn't want to. Everybody had limits, even him. There was a limit to all of it, all the cleanliness and perfection, all the elegance, all the perfectly arranged… well, everything. Perfectly arranged murders, perfectly arranged meals, perfectly arranged manipulation. Because he was a perfect man.
But that day he wasn't feeling perfect.
Part of him wished he was just like Will Graham and could wander about in his underwear and crawl back to a badly made bed. And even had stray dogs around.
That's how bad he felt.
But he had many things to do, things that could not be left behind for too long, and since he worked alone almost always, there was nobody in whom he could delegate. Not that he would delegate if there was someone, but still. He had to go and meet patients and do the indecent amount of paperwork running his own business meant. Without forgetting Will and Crawford and the BAU and everything on that end.
And he just felt so bad.
Nevertheless, he prepared himself as he usually did.
He had a lighter breakfast than usual, consisting only in coffee and orange juice, because he simply didn't think he could manage anything solid. The suit, the cologne, the perfectly combed hair. Yes, he had some uncomely shadows under his eyes and looked paler than usual but was looking still pretty good. Much better than he felt, no doubt.
And so he went to his consult, where he talked with very boring people until it was time to eat, but he didn't feel like eating anything (again) so he simply sat on his desk, with his head resting on the cold surface, taking in the cold, forgetting the rest of the world, listening to a concert of piano. He closed his eyes, trying to fight this feeling of unease, of alien cold, of generalized hurt. Trying to use the music as a medicine. No such luck.
He hadn't even realized the door wasn't properly closed.
Will knew he probably could do this by himself, go to the crime scene, figure out the causes, the way of thinking of the man who'd done this… But he wasn't up to doing it. At least, not alone. He'd rather have the presence of someone who could bring him back if he got too close, or too far. That someone, someone who knew his darkest corners and was not shocked by them, was Hannibal Lecter. So he asked Crawford to bring the man but he was not answering his calls. Then, Will decided to go directly to the consult to retrieve the man. But he did not expect to the find him like he did.
The door of the consult was half open and there was music inside, so he knew there was someone there. Will expected to find the good Doctor standing elegantly in one of his suits, or maybe sat uptight in his desk chair, going through some documents. But he wasn't.
When Will came in he found Dr. Lecter slumped on his desk, head against the wood, eyes closed, hands moving with the rhythm of the piano that was playing. He'd never seen the man looking like that, so…. Not perfect. But it was a nice image in a way, showed Will that the column that was his psychiatrist was also human. After a minute of silent watching Will finally cleared his throat to make his presence known.
The Doctor was back to his composed self in a matter of seconds.
"Will? I was not expecting you. Is something amiss?"
"No, it's just that Crawford wants me at a crime scene and I was hoping… maybe you could come too? If you don't have patients or anything."
"As it happens, I was going to devout this evening to paperwork, so I could indeed come with you."
And maybe going away for a while, being on the field and being presented with a new would distract him from how shitty he was feeling. Because it hadn't got better – only worse. He said nothing of this to Will, of course, it was a matter of little importance and Will was troubled enough as it was. He was going to face demons out there in the fields, Hannibal doubted he'd concerned about how he felt. Will drove and Hannibal almost fell asleep on the way, despite himself.
When they got out of the car, he felt strangely cold. And kept feeling that way while they were on the scene. Cold and unable to properly focus. His head hurt. His joints ached. He made some very obvious observations and responded when Will or Crawford asked something. But he just wasn't so into it.
It was a mid-evening when he started feeling even worse.
"…and…"said Will's voice. He wasn't even listening anymore. "Dr. Lecter? Hello?"
"Sorry. You were saying something?"
"Are you all right? You're looking quite pale there."
Now not only he was feeling like shit, he was looking like that, too. Great. Just great.
"Yes, yes, I am merely a bit cold."
"Cold?"
It was not too cold that evening. Comparing with the past weeks, this day had been exceptionally warm. And that was when he understood what combined the paleness and the cold feeling, maybe even explain a bit his odd behavior from before. Without thinking too much about it, he placed his hand on the Doctor's forehead.
"Gosh, you're burning up."
"Am I?"
He didn't feel like that. Not one bit.
"Jack, do you need us anymore?" Will shouted. It's been an ugly day and this is an excuse as good as any to go back home again. Forget about the monsters.
"What's the hurry?"
"Dr. Lecter's sick. I'm going to drive him home."
Hannibal didn't complain. The idea of going home seemed the best option at the moment. And he was happy Will is driving him, because he was feeling a tad too sleepy to drive safely. Once they were in the car, Graham informed him he was taking him to his house.
"It's much closer and I know the way much better, so I thought it would be… be better, you know. If you don't mind, of course. And that way I can be around to help.. or something… You really shouldn't be alone with that fever. "
Hannibal cracked a half smile.
"I assure I can take care of myself, Will. But it would rude of me not to accept such a kind offer of hospitality, wouldn't it? I will go, thank you, Will."
Will nodded, relatively happy. He felt a bit bad for dragging the psychiatrist to a crime scene when he was obviously quite sick. This way, he could make up for him a bit. Hannibal fell asleep in the ride, and Will could hear the psychiatrist's head banging against the glass window with each bump. Looking most unlike himself the usually so in-control doctor.
When they arrived Will instructed the groggy doctor where to sit on his couch (the bed had a terrible smell of sweat, he should probably change the sheets) and went to make some soup and look for some comfy clothes for the sick man. Trying to be a good host. Possibly failing.
They ate the soup as if they were some old friends, they even discussed the weather.
The dogs were surprisingly fond of Hannibal.
Will later handed his an oversized merchandising white tee and some pyjama bottoms.
"I know it's not your usual style, but you'll be more comfortable."
"Thank you, Will. Just do not tell anyone I wore these, all right?"
After having changed the sheets, Hannibal lay in the bed and it felt like heaven. True heaven.
Will insisted on taking his temperature and worried that he should a call medical help when the thermometer read 102,3. It was higher than he'd anticipated. But Hannibal told him he just needed some rest and Will let him sleep.
Some hours later, unable to sleep, Will went back to the room where his guest was in an uneasy feverish slumber. It had been very long since the last time he had some time over at his house.
Not exactly a bad sensation.
The next morning Hannibal was still too warm, still feeling like shit and Will decided it was his turn to play doctor. He put cold rags on Hannibal's forehead. Made more soup. Entertained him when he was bored. They figured it was just probably an infection – nothing too important, seeing how the fever never reached dangerous levels. Will became also a kind of secretary and cancelled or postponed the doctor's appointments, talked with whoever he had to talk.
When Hannibal got a bit better, they played chess.
Part of Will wanted to stay like that forever, wanted the doctor to be sick forever so he'd have him always around.
But eventually he got better and left, not before thanking Will intensely for his help. Told him he would put together a feast to thank him.
Will decided he would check on the doctor's health more often from then on.
Just to see if he could help.
A/N: If not specified otherwise, imagine this stuff happens about the middle of season one, around the Budge incident or something like that.
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