A/N: More squick. Skip to the dialogue if you want to avoid (most of) it.
Will curls into a tight ball on the not uncomfortable couch in Jack's office, grateful that he isn't on his feet any longer. His stomach hurts so badly when he stands. It hurts now that he's pressing his knees against his chest, too, but marginally less so.
If the cramping and nausea would just die down a bit more, he could slip into sleep. He's got to sleep after the strain of the last hour. Jack's going to have to understand that or wake him up – probably the latter – but Will knows his body isn't going to let him stay awake once he feels just a little less awful.
But the cramping in his stomach and gut is unrelenting. He breathes in quick, harsh gasps. It's as though someone is slicing him open from navel to ribs and pouring lye into the wounds.
Will knows, having heard about people getting sick after eating raw oysters when he was growing up, that it's supposed to be this bad. However, knowing it and experiencing it are two very different things. He hasn't been this miserably ill since he was a child.
Worse, it's happening when he's needed more than ever. He knows – knows – that they won't catch the Ripper this time. That he won't contribute anything meaningful to the case. But that's no reason not to try. He's driven, too, by a mix of curiosity and self-doubt. He wants to know more; he thinks he's missed something. If he could just get rid of his poisoned guts and sleep for a while…
His stomach threatens again and he heaves fruitlessly into the trash can Jack left for him, gripping the couch with all his strength. This has got to stop.
He digs nails into his palms again, trying to focus his attention on something else. He can feel the stinging cuts he left earlier as he makes a new set.
His bowels gurgle and cramp, and he has no choice but to push himself up, ignoring the way his head swims when he moves, and stagger down the hall to the men's room.
At least Jack's office is close by. At least he has the room to himself again. He's in no mood to be thankful for anything, but these half-formed thoughts come to him and he doesn't have the energy to swat them away.
There's something deeply disconcerting about an entirely liquid shit. As he hugs his unhappy intestines and grits his teeth against the cramping, Will wonders how much of anything he has left to expel. He recalls a set of three crime scenes he worked when he was in homicide: Warren Henry Slocum, a gastroenterologist and sloppy psychopath, removed his victims to condemned buildings in the small Rust Belt towns outside Pittsburgh and decorated the walls with their intestines. Twenty-four feet, nineteen feet, twenty-two feet of small intestine. Five feet of large intestine. A lot of space for a lot of volume.
He remembers the smell of gastric juices from the stomach, bile from the liver and gall bladder, and shit from the intestines, and his stomach summersaults. He gags and coughs and retches to no avail. Just as well. After three days of work without changing his clothes, his pants and underwear are dirty enough without him puking on them.
When the retching subsides, he takes a shuddering breath and frees an arm from his midsection so he can rest his head in the palm of his hand. Salt from the sweat on his forehead stings the cuts. He needs to lie down, but the urge to dump his organs into the toilet hasn't abated.
Alone in the bathroom, locked away from others' scrutiny, he lets tears run down his face again. Soon, he's going to start praying to a God he isn't sure exists. For now, he does his best to channel all of the stress, frustration, and exhaustion of the past week into hot, free-flowing tears. His chest constricts and his breath hitches. He sounds as mournful as his dogs' faces look when he leaves for work.
Will's gut cramps suddenly, interrupting his focus on his emotional wounds, and in a moment of rage, he slams his fist against the side of the stall. It hurts in a good, satisfying way; it's pain he controls. He smacks the stall again, more weakly this time, his arm shaking as he holds it in place. Another cramp makes him moan. He wipes his face perfunctorily with the sleeve of his dirty shirt and folds his arm back over his gut.
At least no one will know he's been crying, he thinks, as the emotional outpouring ceases. For all that he's no better off physically, it feels good to release those pent-up emotions. Good but tiring. Exhausting. He needs very badly to lie down and sleep.
Finally, the terrible, pressing urge passes. He feels hollow, entirely used up as he cleans himself, holding the stall door for support, and flushes the mess away.
At the sink, he washes his hands and splashes water on his face, running a rough paper towel across over-grown stubble. His reflection in the mirror looks red and splotchy where it isn't fish-belly white. His eyes are red, too: burst capillaries from lack of sleep and painful emesis.
He rinses his mouth out again, wishing he could swallow some of the cool water but knowing it would only come back up. Maybe he should, though, he thinks. It's less of a strain to have something to choke and cough on. But his stomach rolls at the idea and he spits the water out.
Numb and hollow, he works his way back to Jack's office and the comfort of the couch. He curls into a ball again and stares blankly at Jack's desk, doing his best to think about nothing while his body is momentarily calm.
Ten minutes later, the nausea and cramps are back in full force and he's trembling with pain, sweating and shivering and wishing he had a blanket.
Jack barges into the office and stops in front of Will.
"You're sure this was something you ate?" he barks.
"Pretty sure," Will grumbles.
Jack seems even more livid than he was earlier. Will doesn't try to figure out why. He's too spent to block Jack's anger and frustration; he simply doesn't care if he picks up Jack's emotions and throws them back at the man.
Jack starts pacing.
"He's smart enough to know you're working the case and how to get to you."
Will looks up incredulously, lifting his head slightly.
"You think the Ripper poisoned me?" he asks.
Bad idea to move his head. He puts it back down and closes his eyes.
"Why not just kill me," he adds miserably.
"You know the answer to that," Jack patronizes. "You were out with colleagues in a busy area. No opportunity."
"Why would he risk getting caught? How would he know what I ordered? We know he doesn't work that kind of job," Will observes. "It's not worth it to him to put me out of commission. He's going to kill again anyway and – "
Will stops abruptly as his stomach turns. He swallows heavily and concentrates on not throwing up.
Jack's impatience manifests in the frustrated tapping of his foot on the carpet and the quick swishes of his suit.
"Okay," Jack concedes, not satisfied but understanding that he can't push Will any further right now."Dr. Bloom will be here soon to take a look at you."
Will doesn't respond, his attention focused on willing his stomach to stop churning.
"He's going to take the next one soon," Jack says. "I need you here."
Will swallows again and the feeling passes. He relaxes slightly and closes his eyes, relieved that he hasn't puked in front of Jack. Yet.
"Believe me, Jack," Will says tiredly, "I'd much rather be working for you right now."
Before Jack can respond, Will hears the door open again. Alana. She greets Jack and he hears her stop in her tracks when she gets a look at him. He can imagine the silent exchange between the two of them: Alana's expression worried and sympathetic, Jack's consternated and falsely sympathetic.
He keeps his eyes closed and his breathing steady. He doesn't need to see how they see him.
"You're looking rough, Will," Alana ventures.
Her perfume is a nice change from the stink of sweat and illness permeating his body and clothes. He focuses on it. It intensifies as she moves closer, taking in his pallor, his shivering, his sweat.
"Tell me how this started," she coaxes.
Jack shifts his weight impatiently in the background.
Will keeps his eyes closed, not wanting to see the pity and sympathy in her face. He loathes other people's pity.
"I ate a bad oyster at lunch," he explains. "I was – violently sick," he swallows uncomfortably and makes himself breathe, "for about an hour before Jack brought me here. Then again after he left. I'm not as sick now, but the cramps and nausea are –" he flinches, "intense. Talking is making it worse."
He clenches his teeth tightly as his stomach roils.
He hears Alana move closer and opens his eyes. She wants to rest a hand on his forehead. Why? Oh. He closes his eyes again and shivers when the back of her cool hand touches his damp forehead.
"You've got a fever," she says quietly. "And chills?"
She brushes his shoulder lightly. His skin crawls. He doesn't want to be touched.
"Yeah," he confirms, the shivers multiplying.
He can feel the sympathy pouring off of her. She means well, but it's intrusive and he wishes she'd stop or go away.
"Will, you belong in a hospital," Alana says. "More people die from the bacteria in raw oysters than of any other food-borne pathogen. It's the same type of bacteria that causes cholera. You're more than just a little sick."
He can hear in her choice of words that Jack told her he was "just a little sick." Will knows she's speaking more to Jack than him. But he doesn't want to be hospitalized. Not that. It's too close to confinement; too many strangers would impinge on him with their cold touches and useless sympathy.
"I'll be okay if you can just help me out with the nausea and cramps," Will says tightly.
Perhaps panic rises in his face, perhaps she senses something in his tone, but Alana hears his meaning and changes her approach. He watches her face constrict just so, especially around the eyes, and knows that she's about to lie to Jack for him.
"Jack, I don't have anything that will help him without also making him sleepy," she says. "He isn't going to be much good to you like this, anyway. But once he's rested, he may see something he hasn't seen yet."
She glances at Will. He's more grateful than he means to be, but he isn't sure it shows on his face. He's simply too tired to be expressive.
"We don't have time for that," Jack growls.
"You don't have a choice," Alana says, crossing her arms.
God bless her for standing up to Jack. Sensing a confrontation, Will opens his eyes to watch as Jack stops pacing and gets a little too close to Alana.
"You want to put him in a hospital?" Jack says loudly, "When we know the Ripper will kill again so soon?"
Alana stands her ground.
"Yes," she says, unruffled by Jack's proximity. "Or maybe Hannibal could look after him. He has the training and the knowledge. If he's not too busy. And if it's okay with Will?"
"Fine with me," Will says from the couch. Hannibal's house is vastly preferable to a hospital, even though the idea of being this ill in front of the man bothers him.
"I'll give him a call," she says. "Will, I'll be back with something to ease your symptoms soon."
Will lets gratitude show on his haggard face and closes his eyes. The cramps and nausea have fled and the empty hollowness is back.
Alana must see that because he hears her silently ask Jack to leave. Jack, frustrated but knowing he can do nothing, reluctantly follows her out of the office. God bless that woman.
Will relaxes and sleep overtakes him in less than a minute.