Will is deeply asleep when a gentle hand on his shoulder shakes him back to wakefulness. He hears Hannibal saying his name.
He's confused, his head fuzzy and neck sore, until the tightness in his stomach reaches up through the fog to remind him of the past few hours. He groans softly. The pale light of the dying winter's day pierces his eyes and makes his head throb. He nearly reaches for his aspirin before he remembers why that isn't a good idea.
Squinting, he unbuckles the seat belt, opens the car door, and slowly climbs to his feet. Hannibal is there to steady him when he sways.
Wordlessly, Hannibal helps him into the house and to the guest bedroom, depositing him on the bed.
Will takes in the room, his eyes less stressed by the lamp light. He's not the least bit surprised that it's refined and reserved – a French interpretation of an early American home built by people who still considered themselves English. He's sitting on a handsome sleigh bed arrayed in neutral earth tones. An antique chifferobe and dresser, a sturdy roll top writing desk, and two Queen Anne chairs round out the surprisingly spacious room. On the walls are drawings of buildings and scenes Will recognizes only as European. He supposes they're Hannibal's, though he notices style variations that suggest multiple artists. He'll have to remember to ask about them.
He turns to locate Hannibal only to find himself alone in the room.
Did he zone out again? It would be odd for Hannibal to leave without saying something first. Did he fail to hear Hannibal speaking to him?
Will closes his eyes and groans – and then doubles over as a cramp rips through him. He does, at least, recall seeing a bathroom across the hall. He stumbles toward it, accidentally slams the door, and assumes a hunched, pained posture that has become all too familiar to him.
Alana mentioned cholera. That it's similar to what he has. That people die from what he has. Hugging his mercilessly cramping gut, he understands how that happens: as far as he can tell, he's losing all the water in his body. Death by dehydration.
His mind wanders to the Civil War – his dad had been an aficionado, taking him to battlefields along the Mississippi and the Ohio. So many deaths by dysentery. What a terrible way to go, dying far from home in a ditch, alone and scared, all because of bad sanitation.
The cramping eases fractionally and he opens his eyes and takes in the room. If he had to go here, at least he'd go in a nice place: low lighting, handsome tiling on the floor and walls, and a soothing fragrance he doesn't recognize but very much appreciates. Maybe the best thing about losing water and not much else is that it doesn't stink. It's just disconcerting and extremely painful.
Eventually, the terrible urge and cramping fade. He's lightheaded and dizzy when he stands. He grips the counter and breathes and thinks about not passing out.
He wants to rage against the indignity of this illness, but he doesn't have the strength. Instead, he follows another pattern he's established today, washing his hands and splashing water on his face to cut the layers of sweat.
Going slowly and using furniture and walls to support himself, Will returns to the bedroom. Hannibal is waiting for him, sitting on one of the chairs with his legs crossed. Will notices a basin, a small, neat stack of clothes, and an IV stand with a bag already hanging from it. Hannibal, as always, is prepared.
Light music plays faintly in the background. Hannibal has shed his suit jacket, vest, and tie. He looks casual - underdressed. There's something oddly comforting and homey about the scene.
"Tell me you have something for this," Will groans as he sinks into the other chair.
Hannibal's lips twitch. "For your intestinal distress? I do, but you will not recover until the bacteria leaves your system or perishes by fever."
"I'll take the fever," Will grumbles.
He shivers and wraps his arms around himself. Cold. Miserable. Heavy and stupid with exhaustion. But it's better than the relentless squeezing that's sent him running for the restroom too often today. He'll definitely take the fever.
"Doing so will add time to your recovery," Hannibal replies. "I understand time is of the essence."
Will rubs a tired hand over his face and shudders as he imagines having to get up over and over again all night. He's too tired for that. He desperately needs to rest.
"You really can't do anything about it?"
The slight whine in his tone angers him. He's not some damn invalid.
Hannibal inclines his head. "I can give you a small dose."
Will nods gratefully, then grunts and hisses as his stomach cramps again.
"That I can help you with presently," Hannibal says with a sympathetic smile.
Thank God, Will wants to say, but his teeth are clenched too tightly against the pain. He settles for a quick nod, hoping it will spur Hannibal to move more quickly.
"What I have for you, while very effective, will also render you more or less immobile," Hannibal says as he brings the basin and clothes to Will, setting them on the writing desk next to Will's chair.
"You will be more comfortable in clean clothes," Hannibal says.
Will hears in his tone that this is non-negotiable.
"This is the closest thing I have to your preferred sleepwear," Hannibal states with a hint of apology. "I can collect some of your clothes in the morning when I feed your dogs. I will be just outside. Call out if you need help."
Will nods tiredly as Hannibal leaves. He quickly unbuttons his shirt, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale sweat, and washes his upper body. The water is warm and feels good against his skin, but he moves as fast as he can, eager to lie down and take whatever medicine Hannibal has for these insidious cramps.
He should be indignant about this, he muses, as he removes his pants and underwear. Naked in another man's house, about to put on another man's clothes because he's too damn sick to take care of himself. He values his independence above all else. Losing it makes him feel vulnerable and weak, and those feelings make him angry.
But Hannibal doesn't want to take away his independence. If anything, he wants to restore it. And Hannibal doesn't judge, doesn't bear down on him with emotions. Will would be hissing and spitting like a cornered cat under any other circumstances. But Hannibal's care for him is both kind and distant: that, he can accept.
He's grateful, even, he thinks, as he dries his legs and dons the black shorts Hannibal left for him. Silk. Of course. The white v-neck shirt is made of the softest cotton Will has ever felt. The clothes feel alien against his skin because they aren't his, but he has to admit that they're comfortable. It's nice to feel clean, too. Nicer than he expected.
He uses the desk to push himself up and calls to Hannibal as he slowly makes his way to the bed, one hand drifting along the scrolled footboard for support while the other holds his stomach protectively. He feels like an old man, hunched over, shuffling along. Awful. Terribly unattractive.
He shoves thoughts of attraction and desire aside. Not now. He feels too disgusting.
Hannibal returns as Will sits on the bed and slowly lifts his legs up. Just like a damn invalid. He turns on his side, draws his knees to his stomach, and lies back against the two pillows Hannibal has arranged. He props his head up on a shaking elbow. Though his body begs him to surrender, he's too stubborn to lie down completely. He must maintain some modicum of control.
"What am I taking?" Will asks with mild curiosity as Hannibal selects a small brown bottle with a dropper. It looks more like snake oil from a Voodoo shop than something he'd call medicine.
"Tincture of Indica," Hannibal says, unscrewing the cap and pinching the dropper.
"Never heard of it."
"It's a powerful herbal remedy whose primary components are cannabidiol and tetrahydrocannabinol," Hannibal explains.
Will blinks. "THC?" he says incredulously. "Marijuana?"
"In tincture form, yes," Hannibal answers implacably. "Tinctures were used widely before marijuana was banned. This one is indicated for cramps and nausea among other ailments."
"Medical marijuana," Will says, a hint of uncertainty mixed with curiosity in his voice.
"Recently legalized in the state of Maryland," Hannibal explains. "It's best for your particular complaint. Most pharmaceuticals that ease cramping also slow the GI tract, which would set back your recovery."
Will's eyebrows furrow. "Will it get me high?" he asks, unsure which answer he prefers.
Normally, he would not consider willfully altering his perception. A bad trip could send him over the edge of psychosis - which is why he doesn't trust anything but alcohol. However, he trusts Hannibal more than he trusts anyone else, and if he's got to be this sick...
"Your body will feel heavy and you won't want to move," Hannibal answers, "but no, this tincture contains little of the psychoactive compound of cannabis. Instead, you will feel calm and sleepy."
Will nods. Of course Hannibal has a carefully-considered solution.
"It is administered sublingually," Hannibal says. "It works best if you don't swallow."
Will wants to answer that he doesn't want to swallow anything right now, but instead he opens his mouth and lifts his tongue. Instinct tells him to flee as Hannibal leans in to squeeze drops under his tongue – he's never, ever this close to anyone – but he makes himself stay still. A pleasant berry flavor fills his mouth. If he weren't involuntarily tense, he would hum appreciatively.
"Lie down," Hannibal instructs. "You will feel it right away."
Will does as he's told, his muscles sighing contentedly, and immediately feels heaviness like a weight pushing him down and sweet, sweet, so sweet relief in his stomach and gut.
The absence of pain is pleasure. Better, he feels a pervasive sense of well-being and no desire to question it – a mild, peaceful form of euphoria. If he winds up sleeping well, too, he'll have to look into this tincture for himself.
His thoughts, worries, memories, emotions – everything – fall away and he feels a full-body tranquility unlike anything he's felt before. An endless, bottomless peace.
Hannibal watches Will relax. He reaches for Will's glasses and stops himself when his hands are less than an inch from Will's face.
"Will," he says softly. "May I remove your glasses?"
Will makes a small noise that Hannibal takes as a yes. He gently slides Will's glasses down his nose and places them on the nightstand.
Will has wrapped his arms around his chest. Chills. He's cold. Hannibal arranges the bedclothes around him so he will be warm and rests a hand on his left wrist.
"Will," he begins again, "I don't mean to disturb you, but I must start an IV. Dr. Bloom suggested a blood test, too, to detect which pathogen is troubling you. I will need both of your arms."
Will makes the same small noise of assent and lets Hannibal pull his arms away from his chest. He's compliant but not suggestible. He may, however, be open to something he wouldn't ordinarily allow - provided he's given a good reason.
"Also," Hannibal continues, "I have had a long day myself, but I worry you will need assistance during the night. Might I sleep next to you?"
Will cracks his eyes open a fraction. Hannibal sees uncertainty push against drug-induced contentment.
"I assure you, it will be entirely chaste," Hannibal adds.
Will's eyes study Hannibal's for a moment, then close as the last shred of tension leaves his body.
"'S fine, Hannibal," he murmurs.
Hannibal smiles and methodically sets about his work. If he were a less patient man, he would push Will to talk to him about the crime scene the Ripper left for the FBI this morning. He so enjoyed Jack's reserved anguish over Miriam Lass. It was one of the finest emotions he has witnessed. But where Jack was reserved, Will will be – well, he doesn't know, exactly. Frenzied by the emotional connection. Disturbed and upset by the frenzy.
Appreciative?
Hannibal thinks so.
Not in the sense of gratitude, but as one genius appreciates another.
Hannibal is ready to pierce the vein in Will's arm when he notices eight small, half-moon shaped scratches on Will's palm. He proceeds, sliding the needle in with precision and taping it in place, then lifts Will's hand to rest it in his own. He gently pulls back Will's curled fingers.
Two sets of nail marks. Hannibal bends down and inhales. A hint of dried blood. The wounds are a few hours old.
The pain and desire for control that drove these two small acts of self-injury elicit a complex response from Hannibal. Exhilaration bordering on eroticism is the one he least expects, though it's easily explained: this is the first wound he's seen on Will. How fitting that it's self-inflicted.
How nice, too, to be primed physically for the act of taking Will's blood. He takes Will's other hand and studies the corresponding patterns. Exquisite.
He allows his body to respond as he draws a vial of rich vermillion from Will's right arm. The heady bouquet is strong with salts and minerals, concentrated by dehydration. Warm and metallic in his mouth, Will's lifeblood has a bitter finish. Hannibal's taut cock weeps with excitement as he holds the sensual thrills in balance, relishing the endorphin-filled moment.
The concerto playing softly in the background pairs well with his mood. Serendipity again. How she has smiled on him today.
The sensations resonate in his body like the stroke of a bell in the air as he finishes the mundane business of connecting the IV and injecting the low dose of loperamide he promised Will. If he's honest with himself, he, too, needs the rest this dose will allow them both.
It's hard work, being the Ripper – spending so much time not just on the composition but also the entirety of the mise-en-scene. The acts themselves are enjoyable because they require an intensity of focus and determination that he only experiences otherwise when he cooks and, lately, interacts with Will. Adrenaline keeps him in the moment as he selects, stalks, incapacitates, tortures, and eventually kills. But the many hours of precise, demanding work have begun to tax his reserves. He is no longer a young man.
Finished caring for Will, Hannibal contents himself with a simple repast, prepared and consumed in just over an hour. With a curious mix of relief and anticipation, he repairs to his bedroom, slips into his pajamas and robe, and rejoins Will with a glass of the same cognac he shared with Jack last week.
He moves a chair so he can sit next to Will and peels back the fingers of Will's hand again to examine the scratches. Will has the hands of a craftsman; they differ in subtle but distinctive ways from Hannibal's artist's hands. Will's hands complement Hannibal's just as Will as a man of awkwardness and uncontrolled empathy complements Hannibal as a man of grace and selective antipathy.
When the last of the cognac is gone, Hannibal replaces the chair and joins Will in bed. He curls up on top of the duvet with his face to Will's back, careful to leave a foot of space between them. He inhales Will's scent, strong at the back of his neck, and allows his body to respond to the titillation of Will's proximity.
He will dream about slicing shallow slits in Will's soft skin and tasting his blood again, about showing Will an apotheosis without a fall.