Will knows he's dreaming. He sometimes does, particularly when the odd details of an unsolved case stick like putty in his mind. But knowing that he's dreaming never minimizes the terror.
He's dreaming that he's Hobbs again. Not just slashing Abigail's throat – though that's the worst of it – but murdering, butchering, and eating each of the girls. His imagination conjures tastes for their hearts, kidneys, and livers. Blood he doesn't have to imagine. He licks drops from his lips and gnaws like an animal on pancreas.
The part of him that's Hobbs revels in the tastes. The part of him that knows it's a dream is disgusted. Even as he eats, he wants to vomit.
Now the dream shifts to his own murder of Hobbs. The primal thrill of shooting to kill. Elation and disgust: killing Hobbs only to become him and slit Abigail's throat. Her blood splatters on his lips and he licks them again. She tastes exquisite.
He drops her and the dream shifts again. He's stalking one of the other girls now, thrilled by the impending murder. Will her creamy flesh taste like cream?
He's Hobbs again, grabbing Abigail and biting into her neck with the blade. This action recurs most often. Each time, he screams inwardly.
Suddenly, she looks up at him and speaks. "Will."
He's more horrified than he usually is in his dreams. He drops her and backs into Hobbs' body.
"No, you're not –"
"Will," she repeats, her sharp eyes meeting his.
"No, you can't be –"
His heart is going to beat itself out of his chest. Blood spurts from Abigail's nicked jugular as she rises with the knife. He can taste her blood again and he's screaming, crawfishing into Hobbs without a second thought.
Hobbs grabs him and holds him in place as Abigail yanks at his pants and spouts a venomous racial slur and reaches for his –
"Will!"
His eyes snap open and Hannibal's face swims into focus. Terror races through Will, adrenaline scorching his veins. His head and throat throb mercilessly, and he feels tears running down his face. More sweat than usual, too, like he's taken a bath in his own juices. He clenches his teeth against the bile that rises when he thinks of juices. Blood and organs. He swallows painfully.
"There you are," Hannibal soothes. Will sees concern in his eyes. "You're all right. You were having a nightmare."
For a moment, all Will can do is stare at Hannibal, his heart racing, his body heavy with heat and pain and terror. He's in his house. In his bed. Yet another nightmare clings to him.
Hannibal is in his house, too. Why is Hannibal in house?
Hannibal's eyes bore into him, turning quizzical as though he's wondering if Will is really awake. Hannibal wants a response.
Will nods – and immediately wishes he hadn't as pain crashes through his head. Where are his aspirin? Before he can move, he feels Hannibal's hand in his hair. The soft but firm strokes ease his fear.
As his breathing slows, he realizes a wet towel is wrapped around his neck. His feet feel cool and wet, too.
"What's going on?" he croaks, squeezing his eyes shut at the pain of speaking.
He vaguely remembers waking up around noon, bathed in sweat as usual, but hurting and dull in body and mind. He got up for towels and a drink of water, realized that he had some kind of nasty virus or infection, and took his phone to bed with him, planning to call a doctor.
He wants to ask if he called Hannibal – he doesn't remember – but it hurts too much to talk.
"You'll ill, I'm afraid," Hannibal says.
Will nods fractionally, trying to convey that he knows.
"High fever. I placed towels around your head, neck, and feet to bring it down. You need to take these."
Two white tablets stand out against the bronze of Hannibal's palm. Will holds out his hand for the pills and Hannibal helps him sit up. He grimaces at the thought of swallowing but forces himself to take the medicine. A rough groan escapes him and he winces.
"Good," Hannibal coos. "You will feel better soon."
Will slumps down on the damp towels he'd put on the bed earlier and allows Hannibal to replace the wet towel around his neck. It does feel good. Cool.
He wants to thank Hannibal or ask him questions or something – never mind that it hurts to talk – because above all he does not want to fall asleep again. Dreams lurk just under the surface of his consciousness, still too real.
"You dreamt of Hobbs again." It has the slight rise of a question, but it's a statement.
Will nods carefully, wondering if he'd been screaming here as he was in the dream. He doesn't ask. Doesn't want to know.
Lids droop over eyes that feel like someone has peeled off their protective layer, leaving them raw and weeping.
Nails through his wrists, the prick of thorns crowning his head, Hobbs holding him, a knife slashing toward his –
Hannibal's hand on his cheek brings him back.
"Forgive me, Will. I do not wish to keep you from sleep. But you have said the dreams stay close just after you wake, and you were quite distressed only moments ago. I would not want you to fall back into them."
Will takes a shuddering breath and reaches up to squeeze Hannibal's hand: Yes, thank you.
"If you feel able, I have prepared a warm bath for you. Another way to lower your temperature."
Will tries to concentrate on Hannibal's face so he can read the intention and emotion there. He sees care, concern, and something more, but he can't make out what.
He exhales sleepily and gives Hannibal's hand a weak squeeze. Anything to stay awake.
Hannibal smiles. "I will return in a moment."
Will watches him leave, noticing for the first time that he is without his jacket and vest, and has rolled up the sleeves of his expensive shirt.
Strong, svelte Hannibal Lecter has rolled up his sleeves to help scruffy, possibly insane Will Graham into a warm bath. Something like a caged bird flutters in Will's chest. He feels lightheaded in a way that has nothing to do with illness.
Normally, Will can block out his surroundings without trying – a combination of natural introversion and practiced concentration. Now, though, he's hyper aware of his body. His sweaty body. Dried sweat and fear saturate the air. He hasn't bathed in two – no, three – days, first caught up in the case, then too ill to bother.
And now handsome Hannibal Lecter is going to give him a bath.
A bath? Will hasn't had a bath in years. Not since he needed to soak his stab wound to keep infection at bay.
His stomach sinks. The scar. Two inches on the back of his shoulder. He has not thought about it much lately, but now he can feel the stinging pressure of the blade driving into him again. Panic and shock rise, threatening to trap him inside the memory.
He takes a deep breath and pushes the sensations and aside.
Another thought brushes against his mind: Hannibal will see.
Will possesses enough of his faculties to be embarrassed about his scar and by the general notion of Hannibal seeing him more unclothed than he is now, but too few to know what to do about it.
But, he realizes, neither is he all that bothered by the embarrassment, even though it's Hannibal who will be looking. Hannibal, about whom he's had intense sexual fantasies.
It's not like him. He chalks it up to the fever. He can't blame the fever for the arousal he feels, though. It's been there for weeks now. And fever or not, he has no idea what to do about it.
He's just grateful his body isn't reacting much to what he feels. Hannibal seeing his scar is one thing; an erection would be too much.
He's nearly panting at the reel flickering in his head. Hannibal looking. Hannibal liking what he sees. Hannibal's hands on his body, strong and knowledgeable and deliberate.
He slows his breathing and suddenly realizes, to his horror, that he's swooning like a preteen girl. Swooning.
But it's Hannibal. How can one not swoon?
As if summoned, Hannibal appears in the doorway again.
"Still awake," he says approvingly.
Will nods and makes himself think of Jack. He must calm down. Jack barking orders in his face. Will makes himself breathe. Calm. Yes.
He pushes himself up and the room spins. He can hear himself gasping. The world rushes in like he's having a panic attack. A few more seconds and he'll pass out. God, not this.
Then Hannibal's arm is under him. Strong. So strong. Hannibal is sitting next to him.
"Careful. You've not eaten in two days."
Will breathes in Hannibal's sophisticated, exotic scent and feels the dizziness dissipate. He really should be embarrassed by the man of his fantasies seeing him so weak, but all he can do is lie against Hannibal and enjoy his proximity.
"I worry that movement will try you too much."
Will hears his tone: no bath. He shakes his head. No. He cannot lie down. He'll fall asleep and dream. He'd rather weather the strange non-awkwardness of a moment like this than return to his nightmares.
To illustrate his point, Will tries to sit up again, straining with the effort. Hannibal's arm around his shoulder supports him until they're sitting so very close to each other. God, he smells good. Will's gaze slides over to Hannibal.
"I'm okay," he whispers.
He isn't, but he trusts Hannibal to keep him from falling. Hannibal concedes.
Slowly, carefully, Hannibal helps Will stand. Will feels like a staggering drunk leaning into a sober person as they cross the bedroom and enter the bathroom.
When he sees the bath, Will suddenly realizes that he's wearing nothing but his grey boxers. He balks. In his overheated state, he hadn't connected a bath with being naked. As much as he wants to be naked with Hannibal, he doesn't want Hannibal to see him naked now.
Hannibal lowers him onto the lid of the toilet and crouches so they're nearly eye-to-eye.
"You worry about removing your shorts," Hannibal says matter-of-factly. Always so perceptive. Something that Will can't make out gleams in Hannibal's eye. "There is no need. You see how I have arranged the curtain?"
Will does see. It's more than half-closed. Anyone entering the room would not be able to see below his stomach.
Gratitude tinged with disappointment washes over him. Hannibal thinks of everything.
"I will help you in. Once I am certain you are safe, I will check on you in ten minutes. I wish to change your sheets."
The last sentence sounds like a request.
"I don't have extra sheets," Will whispers, perplexed.
Hannibal colors – flushes? Will isn't certain.
"I have taken the liberty of ordering a set. I hope you do not mind."
Will shakes his head. He does not mind. But for a moment, he's confounded. Then he remembers that one can get anything delivered at any time of day or night this close to the ultra-wealthy suburbs of Tyson's Corner and McLean.
"The doctor should arrive in thirty minutes. Ample time for you to enjoy the effects of the bath, dress, and return to bed."
Hannibal does think of everything. Except… "But you're a doctor."
A mix of pity and amusement crosses Hannibal's features. "Do not worry, Will."
And so he doesn't. He hasn't got the brain power or energy for it. And as embarrassing as the situation is, it's also nice to have Hannibal take such good care of him. Perhaps Hannibal sees something in him.
The thought flutters from his grasp as Hannibal helps him move to the half-full tub. He sighs contentedly. At Hannibal's urging, Will scoots down until his stomach is covered. There's enough water to buoy his body and it's just the right temperature to feel delicious against his hot skin.
"Better?"
Will smiles. "Much."
Lecter places a washcloth in Will's hand.
"I will return soon."
Will closes his aching eyes and does his best to focus his mind. Hannibal has bought things for him. He's called a doctor to help. Because… because Hannibal lacks something another doctor has. Lab access. A prescription pad. Something.
And because Hannibal sees something in him that makes this enterprise worth his time. Will's chest constricts and his stomach bottoms out at the thought. He should be thrilled. Instead, he feels the creep of panic.
Maybe it's because right now Hannibal is changing Will's filthy sheets. A sneer pulls at his face. That's how Hannibal reacts: disgusted by the unkempt state of the house, by the dogs.
Normally, Will doesn't care what anyone thinks of him. He grew out of that long ago. But Hannibal is so very, very different.
The dogs? Where are the dogs?
Hannibal won't have done anything to them. He doesn't like animals, but he won't hurt Will's dogs, if only because of they're Will's.
No, not the dogs now. He has inhabited Hannibal too fully for distractions.
He sees Hannibal standing before his bed, stripping off dirty sheets and replacing them with new, no doubt expensive linens. High thread count Egyptian cotton in a masculine shade. He's certain of this.
Hannibal, who so carefully selects his food, will have brought something to eat, too.
Dinner! He forgot about dinner! That's it. Hannibal is here because Will missed dinner.
He groans inwardly. Bad enough to be incapacitated in front of him. He's made this mistake, too.
The thought flies away almost as soon as it forms.
As easy as it is for him to envision Hannibal's actions right now, he struggles to grasp what Hannibal thinks of him. There's interest, sure. Curiosity. Kindness. Care. A refreshing lack of judgment. Almost certainly more. One doesn't drive a colleague seven hours to his house simply because of care.
This partnership of sorts they've fallen into after Hobbs comforts and challenges Will as much as it fills in the pieces of the puzzle he hasn't seen yet. Hannibal completes him in ways that go well beyond lust and into territory uncharted. Territory not even on the map.
Fear prickles down his spine. It's one thing to be intense at work, but Will is intense at home, too. Obsessive. For all his imagination, he can't picture a home life with Hannibal. Even if that's what this feels like right now.
Fevered musings. That's all these are. He's getting so far ahead of himself that he'll never catch up. He'll only let fear in, and when fear enters, he stumbles and becomes rude. He must not be rude to Hannibal.
But fear is entering right now. He can't tamp it down. His eyes close of their own volition and he falls into a vague dream of disembodied teeth tearing into teen girls' organs.
Hannibal does wrinkle his nose when he changes the sheets. Not at the scent of sweat, fever, and musk, but at the smell of dog. Filthy animals, dogs. They share Will's bed from time to time. Dog hair rises and catches in the air like dust motes when Hannibal strips the sheets.
He is not sure himself why he does this. Only that he wants more of Will Graham. Shy, awkward, intense Will Graham who is too embarrassed to remove his shorts before stepping into a bath. He has less sexual experience than most men his age. But he is attentive and astute: highly trainable.
Helping Will through this illness allows Hannibal not only to satiate his desire to touch Will but also to cultivate the trust that has grown between them. This trust is a living thing. It must be nurtured with care until it is strong enough to bear something more than friendship.
And then there's the scar on the back of Will's shoulder. He can still feel the knot of raised flesh he touched when he helped Will out of bed and into the bath.
A viper struck his mongoose.
To Hannibal's practiced eye, the scar tells of a stab wound that compromised the teres major and minor muscles and part of the deltoid. Tough, working muscles. The shoulder is not a choice cut.
He can taste the pain and fear Will felt. The blood. Salty and coppery with a bitter finish when fresh. His mouth waters. He wants to bite into that scar and taste Will's past.
Tumescence strains against his tailored trousers. He will take himself in hand soon and fantasize about biting and licking that scar as he thrusts into Will from behind. Will can take it rough, Hannibal is certain. Will may like it rough.
Hannibal takes a deep, calming breath, and turns his attention to the task of dressing the bed in navy. Maroon had been his first choice, but it would not do for Will to wake up in a sea of red.
Will dreams about blood often.
Engorgement again. He must stop these thoughts. With his self-control, such a thing is easily done.
When he returns to the bathroom, Will's head is awkwardly slumped to the side. Sleeping. Hannibal peeks but can see little more than an outline swathed in cheap grey cotton.
He crouches and runs a hand through Will's hair. Still matted. He has not washed himself. Excellent.
Will breathes in deeply and opens his eyes a fraction, already smiling like a lover waking up after a luxurious afternoon romp.
"It is dangerous to fall asleep in the bath," Hannibal states.
"Didn't mean to," Will replies, his voice raspy and husky at the same time. He winces and swallows carefully.
"The doctor will arrive soon," Hannibal says as Will lifts a wet, wrinkled hand and rubs his face.
Hannibal touches his hair again. "You have not washed."
Will looks from him to the washcloth and remembrance ghosts across his features.
"Fell asleep," he whispers. He lifts the wet cloth with an uncoordinated arm and drops it on his chest. He closes his eyes; the effort is too much for him.
His eyes snap open when Hannibal takes the cloth and begins gently washing his chest.
Will's gaze bores into him. "You don't have to do this," he whispers.
Hannibal merely smiles. "You'll feel better when you're clean," he replies, admiring Will's chest as he dips the cloth in the water and makes another pass.
"I feel better already," Will rasps. "The pills. This. Much better."
Underneath the thanks, Hannibal hears Will's reservations. He must address them.
He puts a hand on Will's ribs and follows them backwards to the sheath of his spine. Will puts a wet hand on Hannibal's shoulder and together, they ease Will up to a sitting position. Hannibal begins washing his back, eyes fixed on the scar.
"This is a strange situation," he observes casually. It's what Will wants to hear.
Will's snort of agreement contracts so many lithe, gorgeous muscles. Hannibal forces the hand with the cloth not to stop when he feels the movement.
"But it's not like you to miss an appointment. You looked so ill this morning. I had to come check."
Will nods his acceptance. Acceptance: that's what Hannibal wants. He dips the cloth again and squeezes water onto Will's right shoulder. Rivulets cascade down the scar.
"I will turn on the shower so you can wash your hair?" He must secure permission to secure trust.
Will nods again and soon his curls are plastered to his head. This time Hannibal does not ask; he does not have to. He moves the shower head, picks up the shampoo, and runs his fingers along the plates of Will's skull.
Placing his thumbs on the sphenoidal fontanelle, he massages the frontal and sagittal sutures that separate the frontal and parietal bones. Beneath his sensitive fingers lives all that is Will Graham.
Hannibal sweeps his thumbs down to the occipital bone and lovingly caresses the top of Will's neck. He increases the pressure and Will moans hoarsely.
Satisfaction fills Hannibal. He wants Will exactly like this in this moment.
He extends the massage to Will's neck and shoulders, closing his eyes as his right thumb strokes the scar.
Will has gone nearly limp in response to Hannibal's ministrations. As he moves back to Will's hair, Hannibal glances again around Will's torso to his groin. To his delight, a ridge has formed beneath the cotton. His own penis responds with a jerk and his breath hitches in his chest. Will cannot hear it over the sound of the shower.
Hannibal could do this for hours, slowly disassembling this troubled genius.
But not today.
Reluctantly, he moves the shower head again so he can wash the shampoo from Will's hair. He indulges in another two minutes of scalp massage before turning the spray off and reaching between Will's feet to unplug the drain.
With an economy of motion, he picks up the towel he has placed nearby and gently dries Will's wet hair. He takes his time before moving on to Will's shoulders and back, and reaching forward for his chest.
By the time the water has drained from the tub, Will is dry from the waist up. Hannibal places a fresh towel in Will's lap and looks into his face.
Bliss.
Yes.
He watches Will, absorbing every detail of his slack face. Lost in pleasure.
Eventually, Will takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. Ecstasy clouds his gaze. Hannibal sees gratitude and lust, too. For a man who dislikes eye contact, there is nothing shy about Will Graham right now.
After a moment, Will comes back to himself. Pleasure fades, replaced by lazy contentment. Hannibal doesn't notice the embarrassment he saw earlier. Will holds his gaze.
Hannibal allows the moment to last as long as possible before he speaks.
"I brought fresh clothes." His eyes shift to a neatly folded shirt and shorts on the toilet lid. "Would you like help?"
Fear. Panic. They're subtle, contained by lassitude, but Hannibal has his answer. He smiles cordially.
"I will wait outside. Perhaps you should change where you are and allow me to help you stand?"
Will's eyes flash agreement as he unfolds the fresh towel.
Just outside the door, Hannibal listens to the movement of wet fabric as Will slides the shorts off. He hears the sweep of the towel as Will dries his legs. His thighs. His groin and butt. Then the rustle of cotton as Will slips on the shirt and the squeak of dry flesh in the tub as he works into the shorts.
It's a pity. But Hannibal expected this. He's playing a long game.
He gives Will an additional moment so he won't think Hannibal has been listening. Will is more awake when Hannibal re-enters the room, but his eyes are still glazed with happiness.
Wordlessly, he helps Will return to bed, encouraging him to sit up against the pillows Hannibal has arranged.
A knock at the door forestalls what would surely be an awkward conversation.
"That will be our doctor," Hannibal says.
The disappointment in Will's eyes goes right to Hannibal's groin. Will wanted this to last longer. Exactly as Hannibal had planned.
Yes.