Will's head begins to clear after Hannibal leaves to greet the doctor. Hannibal's methods have been effective: he's less feverish and more aware now. And his body is more relaxed than it's been in a long time.
However, the low hum of unsatisfied desire makes him wish he had a few minutes alone so he could take care of himself. He'd gotten half-hard when Hannibal was massaging him – he's getting there again just thinking of it. Hannibal's hands on his skin. The fact that Hannibal seemed to be enjoying it, too. He took his time. Even through the haze of pleasure, Will could tell Hannibal relished the feel of skin on skin.
His body recalls so much. He wouldn't need more than a minute.
But there's the problem of the mess. And Hannibal and the doctor will return at any moment.
Embarrassment, combined with thoughts of Jack, lower his heart rate and breathing. Blood leaves his cock but settles close by, ready to return at a moment's notice.
Often anxious about seeming vulnerable in front of others, Will dreads interacting with this doctor. However, the elegant navy sheets Hannibal ordered make him feel like a king. The grey and white duvet, much nicer than anything Will has ever owned, completes the masculine palette.
In these bedclothes, he has control.
Being clean and clothed helps, too. He feels presentable. Better than that. Like a king holding court.
Hannibal has done this for him.
Blood moves south and Will takes a deep breath to steady himself. It's all he can do not to be swept away again.
He focuses his mind on the sheets and the sense of control he feels. It comes from the color, yes, but more from his not having awoken terrified in them yet. They won't look so friendly soon. They'll show the dog hair, too.
The dogs. Where are the dogs?
He realizes he hasn't heard them since he woke up. Hannibal must have put them outside. The early winter has been so mild that the dogs would be fine out there all night. He'd prefer them inside, though.
The thought of them being cold chills him. A shiver works its way up his spine. He feels much better than he did when he woke up, but he's still miserable.
Getting cold now. Let the dogs not be cold. Not be huddled next to each other to keep warm. Not that.
He reaches for the duvet and pulls it up to his chest in awkward bunches, shivering again.
When Hannibal returns with the doctor, he's almost grateful for the distraction from his disjointed thoughts.
He wants to blurt out a question about the dogs – cold, chilled – but Hannibal would not appreciate it, so he doesn't do it. It's odd, having to consider another person so thoroughly when making decisions.
The doctor is an unremarkable woman in her fifties who enjoys the small fortune she earns paying house calls at night to the wealthy denizens of the D.C. suburbs. Mundane. Will pays little attention to her.
He answers her questions in succinct whispers, uncomfortable talking about his body. She places cold hands on his neck to check his lymph nodes, then sticks instruments in his ears and throat. She's in his space; he forces himself not to shrink into the pillows. A cold stethoscope chills his chest and back as she checks his breathing. An impossibly long, thin swab pokes his throat and he gags and coughs, his eyes watering with the pain in his throat.
He can take no more and is ready to say as much when she pulls back and says she's finished.
Good. He wouldn't react well to any more intrusions.
The only thing that gets him through the examination is Hannibal's critical appraisal of her work and the kind, soft eyes he has for Will. Hannibal doesn't like her touching him, either.
Possessive?
Of course. Hannibal is a possessive man.
Will longs for Hannibal's hands to touch him again. He wouldn't mind being possessed by him. More than that. Despite his strong independent streak, he would welcome it.
A flush creeps up his chest and into his cheeks. He's grateful for the thick comforter hiding the jerks of his cock. He really needs a few minutes alone.
Will forces himself to pay attention to the doctor. Strep throat, she thinks. It's been going around the sprawl of government offices outside the Beltway. Bacterial culture to confirm. Is he allergic to penicillin?
He shakes his head, and she describes what she's prescribing. Will half-listens. He can't take his eyes off of Hannibal.
She mistakes Will's examination of Hannibal for deference to the man and begins talking to him instead of Will. Just as well.
When she finishes, Hannibal addresses Will.
"Could I get you to drink some water, Will?" he asks politely. "You have had so little today."
Will doesn't need to hear the words. He's been thirsty since he woke up. His tongue threatens to stick to the roof of his mouth. Water would be heavenly, but the mere thought of swallowing makes his sore throat hurt worse.
"Maybe some," Will whispers.
"Your throat hurts too much?" Hannibal asks.
Nodding his head, he feels like a sick child talking to a benign adult. It's infantilizing and he should be offended, but trusting someone this much comforts him deeply.
He listens as Hannibal asks about arranging an IV.
Limp hands jut out amidst the mushrooms, a needle embedded in a vein to deliver dextrose so that the mushrooms might thrive. The woman buried in the pharmacist's car. The stink of her diabetic body beneath the clean smell of dirt. Hands grab him from behind. They belong to Garrett Jacob Hobbs, riddled with bullet holes but still alive. Abigail darts toward him. Her hand is slick with her own blood, her eyes filled with hatred. The knife she holds is ready to sever his genitals from his body. She reaches for him –
And he returns to reality again. It's odd that his mind doesn't allow her to castrate him. He doesn't know why and, at the moment, doesn't care. He's shaking too badly. Shaking like he always does. Too much adrenaline, pumping through his veins – don't think of veins – think of –
He looks at Hannibal, expecting them both to be staring at him.
But they aren't. They're talking to each other. When he can hear again over the roar of his blood, Hannibal is talking about codeine. Saying that acetaminophen hasn't helped Will much since he took it and the antibiotic won't reduce his pain right away, but that Will needs to eat something so the antibiotic won't make him sick, yet Hannibal doubts he can get Will to eat without stronger pain medication.
The conversation runs together in his head.
Hannibal has held her attention, but when Hannibal looks at him, Will knows Hannibal witnessed his episode. Will sees no judgment in his face. Just a slight unhappiness for the things Will sees, the things he has to see to make intuitive leaps. Sympathy.
Warmth rushes over him. Adrenaline fades, replaced by a buoyant, happy spirit he's felt so rarely in his life.
Hannibal's care for him is much more than platonic; that much is clear now. Will has both suspected and hoped that Hannibal might feel something for him, but he hasn't entertained such ideas.
It's not so much that he lacks self-esteem; he could find someone if he tried. Maybe.
He's just not sure this incredibly attractive, neatly appointed, suave and sophisticated man might want him for who he is. Despite the evidence to the contrary, it seems impossible.
Will hardly notices when the doctor leaves; his eyes follow Hannibal out of the room.
He's not sure he can do this. It's a terrible risk. And he so enjoys Hannibal's company. Why give that up when it's easier to pine secretly while he's around Hannibal and masturbate like a fourteen-year-old later?
No. He can't make the first move. He needs something overtly sexual from Hannibal. A kiss. A hand grabbing his ass.
He stops those thoughts. Not right now.
And even if something happened, Will fails miserably at relationships.
No. He can't do this.
When Hannibal returns, he immediately notices the change in Will's mood.
"Talk of the IV upset you," he observes.
That seems like the safer topic now. Will pursues it.
"Bad memories," he whispers.
Hannibal sits on the bed near Will's legs. It's a friendly distance – not too close but pleasant all the same.
"Not just of mushrooms?" Hannibal inquires.
Will grimaces. His scar. Of course.
"It was a bad time," Will says, his eyes fixed on the duvet.
"It still haunts you." It's not a question his time.
"Not as much lately." Will's eyes dart toward Hannibal but don't stay.
"Jack has given you more recent ghosts," Hannibal observes.
They both know it. Will wonders why Hannibal, who chooses words as carefully as he does meals, says it aloud.
Will offers a half-shrug and changes the subject.
"I like this a lot," he says, spreading a hand out on the duvet. "It's soft." He looks into Hannibal's eyes. "Thank you."
Hannibal smiles knowingly. He pats Will's leg just above the knee.
"It suits you," he says and stands. "I have to run an errand, but I will be back soon." He nods at the glass of water on the bedside table. "Try to have some."
Will glances at the water and nods slightly. He stares openly at Hannibal's ass as Hannibal leaves the room. Hannibal has touched him so much in the last half hour, but he has hardly laid a hand on Hannibal.
That's going to change, he resolves, and begins to imagine the contours of Hannibal's body.
Hannibal returns from a nearby pharmacy with Tylenol 3 and amoxicillin. A medical supply store will deliver the IV solution and paraphernalia in twenty minutes.
He imagines sliding the needle into the median cubital vein of Will's left arm. He will exert the exact amount of pressure needed to seat the needle and no more. An expert touch is required.
Later, when the bag is empty, he will withdraw the needle and set it aside to be tasted. He envisions dark, venous blood welling up from the puncture site, drop by drop, before he can staunch it. Delectable.
Will's eyes are closed but he is not asleep. Hannibal scents ejaculate in the air, a thick, distilled aroma indicative of days of celibacy. He grins wolfishly to himself. He is the sole cause of Will's relaxed posture and the smell of sex. One day he will taste that viscous fluid, too.
Hannibal rustles the paper bag as he removes the medicines. Will opens his eyes slowly; Hannibal sees in them the lingering shine of post-coital contentment. He meets Will's gaze with a smile, and says nothing until Will blinks and the shine fades.
Hannibal offers Will the water glass, still full, and a single tablet.
"Tylenol with codeine," he explains. "You'll feel much better soon. Then you can eat and take what you really need." He shakes the bottle of amoxicillin.
Will gazes unhappily at the pill before swallowing it with a gulp of water. He grimaces and hands the water back to Hannibal.
"How long until it works?" he whispers.
"About twenty minutes. Perhaps sooner. It will make you sleepy, and I'm sorry to say that your dreams might be more vivid, but it is necessary."
Will nods impassively. Hannibal sits next to him again and places a hand on his knee.
"The IV will arrive soon."
Will looks away uncomfortably.
"It is also necessary. May I see your hand?"
Curiosity brims in Will's eyes as he offers his hand. Hannibal pinches the still-feverish skin and holds it for a few seconds, then releases it. He watches Will's fascination as his skin retains its tented shape.
"That's a sign of moderate to severe dehydration," Hannibal explains. "Closer to severe than moderate now. Dr. Magnusson wanted to hospitalize you."
At Will's confused expression, Hannibal continues. "You weren't with us for that part of the discussion."
Understanding dawns in Will's eyes; his jaw twitches with discomfort.
"I regret that it bothers you," Hannibal says sympathetically, his hand returning to Will's knee, "but as you can see, you need it."
Will nods. Hannibal senses another quiet moment growing between them, but a knock at the door cuts it short.
When Hannibal returns, Will's expression is more worried than he'd expected. He had thought Will's anxiety was tied to the recent case. Interesting.
Hannibal isn't at all sorry that something deeper is bothering Will.
Will tenses visibly as Hannibal unpacks the supplies. Hannibal stops and looks at him. Will's entire body has gone rigid.
"Very bad memories," Will whispers, his eyes fixed on the empty space in front of him.
Panic rises in his face. He begins to hyperventilate and shake. His eyes are open, but he's seeing something else.
Hannibal puts a knee on the bed and takes Will's hand immediately.
"Breathe, Will," he coaxes, "breathe. It's okay. I'm here."
Will can't hear him. He's too far gone, his chest heaving and body trembling.
Carefully, experimentally, Hannibal places an arm around Will's shoulder. This much tactile sensation when Will is not just in a dark place but having a panic attack won't be tolerated unless Will trusts him on an unconscious level.
Will shies away like a frightened horse. The move would be more violent if he weren't weakened by illness.
Hannibal removes his arm but stays close, still holding Will's hand and speaking calmly to him. He rubs light circles on Will's back, giving him enough space to feel comfortable.
"It's okay," he soothes. "You're okay."
Will's body shudders convulsively beneath Hannibal's hand. He's breathing so intensely that he'll pass out in a few minutes if he doesn't calm down. Hannibal keeps talking in soft, quiet tones, making his voice a tranquilizer.
Hannibal thinks as he tries to calm Will. Will's trauma goes so much deeper than he'd surmised. His work will have to be more thorough in light of this new development. He imagines Will as a block of marble hewn into the rough shape of a man. With hammer and chisel, rasp and grinder, he shall shape Will into a masterpiece.
Abruptly, the shaking intensifies and then stops, as if brought to a crescendo before sounding a final note.
Will takes shuddering breaths; Hannibal can feel him trying to calm himself. He leans back against the pillows; he has returned from the dark place.
"Better now," Hannibal says and strokes Will's hair.
The tension leaves Will's muscles and he slumps toward Hannibal.
So he has made progress, Hannibal muses, as Will lets Hannibal extend his arm again and stroke Will's shoulder.
Hannibal inhales the scent of pure fear emanating from Will. Water has not diluted it very much: only a hint of sweat covers Will's body. He badly needs the fluids waiting at the foot of the bed.
"G-god, I h-h-hate t-this," Will says. He snorts with frustration and rubs a hand over his face. "And now I'm st-tuttering."
Hannibal draws him closer until he's holding Will.
"Did you stutter as a child?" Hannibal asks.
"N-no," Will answers. "Only when this h-happens."
Hannibal senses rather than sees the tears rolling down Will's face.
"Then you do not stutter," Hannibal replies.
Will's breathing catches on a laugh, amused that Hannibal points out what he already knows about speech disorders.
"There, that's better," Hannibal says jovially.
He hears Will take a deep, cleansing breath of agreement.
"I am sorry, my dear Will," Hannibal apologizes. "If I had known…"
"I didn't know it was going to happen either," Will answers.
For the first time, he's not whispering or speaking painfully. Good timing.
"Ah, it just kicked in," Will confirms, slumping further down on the bed and into Hannibal.
"Okay, let's lie down completely," Hannibal says as he reluctantly moves out from under Will.
Will scoots down the bed until he's lying on his side in a crooked diagonal, facing Hannibal. Hannibal thinks he can't be comfortable, but Will has deliberately extended his left arm and draped his right arm over his eyes.
"It's easier if I can't see it," Will explains.
He clenches and unclenches his fist, trying to help raise the veins. Admirable.
"You've been hurt in this way before," Hannibal offers, studying Will's veins as he arranges supplies.
"Mmm," Will hums. "Medical care in the deep south is not so good."
"I'm not surprised," Hannibal replies, donning gloves. "I am going to begin. Do you want to hear what I will do?"
"Mmn, no," Will groans. "Just do it."
"Okay. But let me say that I promise you will not feel it."
"Of course you're good at this," Will says, his speech slightly slurred now. "You're good at everything."
"You make me blush," Hannibal jokes.
Expertly, he ties a tourniquet to Will's arm, probes the vein, and with great satisfaction, plunges the needle home. He wishes he could linger, but Will needs the reassurance of a quick procedure. He tapes the needle in place and begins to connect tubes.
"You're right," Will breathes. "I didn't feel it."
The corners of Hannibal's mouth turn up in a smile. This unexpected turn affords an excellent opportunity to secure more of Will's trust.
Will shivers as the fluid runs into his arm. Hannibal re-arranges the sheets and comforter around his body, then returns to Will's left side to sit next to him again.
"I know you are sleepy," he says quietly, "but you must eat so you can take the medicine."
Will hums in ascent, his arm still draped over his eyes.
"I brought a meal, but I can prepare some broth if you prefer."
Will moves his arm so he can look at Hannibal. A combination of post-panic attack exhaustion, fever, and the opiate clouds his eyes with a thick haze.
"You cooked tonight, didn't you."
Hannibal inclines his head in a yes.
"I want what you made," Will slurs as his eyes fall shut.
Pleased with this answer, Hannibal goes to Will's disused kitchen and warms the meat.
When he returns with two immaculately plated dinners of dove breast in a sauce of Médoc with a salad of endive and radicchio with asiago and walnuts, he expects Will to be asleep.
Instead, Will speaks from his odd position on the bed. "That smells amazing."
Hannibal watches him snarl at the IV as he pushes himself up so he can sit against the wall.
Will accepts the plate Hannibal hands him it with hungry eyes.
"I feel like I'm insulting your cooking, eating like this," he says of the plate in his lap.
"You worry too much, Will," Hannibal replies, slicing into the little birds. "Just enjoy."
Will's lips twitch in a smile. "I don't think I've had this before," he says, observing Hannibal's method of cutting the meat.
"It's dove," Hannibal replies.
"The symbol of peace or the game bird?"
Hannibal watches him take his first bite. Will closes his eyes as the rich meat married expertly with the full-bodied red bursts in his mouth. He moans appreciatively.
"I'm glad you like it," Hannibal says. "One of my patients is an avid dove hunter. He knows I appreciate fine meats and brings me these little gifts."
"Like a cat," Will adds mischievously.
"Mmm, cats do not leave shot pellets in their gifts, I think. Watch out for them."
Will grins and they finish their meal in affable silence.
Only for Will, Hannibal muses, will he dine on a treat like this while sitting on a bed with his plate in his lap. Only Will's company negates the barbarism of such poor manners.
Hannibal takes Will's plate and sets it aside with his own. He hands Will the glass of water and a dose of antibiotic, encouraging him to drink. Hannibal takes up the glass of Médoc he brought for himself and settles back on the bed.
"I guess I should tell you about it," Will says, swirling the water in the glass as though it's wine. "Since you're my psychiatrist. Sort of."
Will's eyes are clearer than they've been since he woke but remain rimmed with the opiate.
"I am happy to listen," Hannibal answers.
Will sighs and shifts his gaze to the duvet.
"It happened when I was a cop in New Orleans. I was out with a clumsy rookie. We tracked a suspect into a warehouse. He was calling in back-up when – "
Will pauses. His jaw works back and forth. He glances up at Hannibal and back down again.
"I had a shot. I should have taken it, but I didn't. He got away."
Will sighs and rubs a hand across his forehead.
"We found him again when he rushed out of the shadows and stuck a hunting knife in my back. That clumsy kid was so damn clumsy he tripped and the suspect got away again. They caught him later, after he killed another person."
He looks up at Hannibal, his eyes fierce.
"I should have taken the shot. But I was afraid I'd miss and kill him. I didn't want to kill him."
Will's jaw clenches and his Adam's apple bobs. The little ticks of nervousness and fear – and sometimes anger.
His mind has gone to Hobbs again. Hannibal knows Will has kept much of the story from him. He is not ready to talk about it yet.
"You did not miss when you shot Stammets," Hannibal points out.
"But I could have wounded Hobbs if – " Will glares at his shoulder as he rolls it.
"You did what had to be done."
Will nods but remains troubled, his eyes on the duvet again.
They sit together quietly until Will's eyelids droop and his head bows toward his chest.
Hannibal stands and collects the plates.
"You should sleep," he says.
Will blinks up at him, then slides down the bed so he can lie down properly.
Hannibal washes the dishes and pours himself another glass of wine.
He settles on the bed again to watch Will sleep. He savors the wine and waits until he can withdraw the needle and taste Will's blood as though it were a digestif.