Hannibal's first waking sensation was cold air on his stubble-covered scalp. He tugged the blanket higher over his shoulders, wincing from his sore muscles. How long had it been since he escaped from the hospital? Days? Weeks? Time blurred together.

Soft footsteps broke his train of thought. Maggie stood in the doorway carrying a steaming coffee mug. Her presence was comforting to his abused spirit.

"Good morning, Hannibal," she said brightly, setting the mug on the bedside table. "How are we feeling today?"

"Like I've been run over by a tank," Hannibal replied. "You?"

"Good." Maggie pulled a chair closer to the bed. "One cup of coffee, hot and strong like you wanted. Don't push your luck asking for a second."

"One cup? Maggie, you're killing me." He reached for the mug. His hand trembled as he tried to lift it.

Maggie steadied the mug in his grip. "Slow down, or you'll spill it," she said gently. "It's the tremors. Give it time."

Hannibal gave her a sheepish look. "You'd think I'd have this figured out by now."

"It's not about figuring it out. It's about healing." Maggie's tone left no room for argument. "Now, let's get you cleaned up."

###

Maggie helped Hannibal into the bathroom. He leaned heavily on the walker. The toes of both feet dragged against the hall carpet with every step. Hannibal gritted his teeth, frustrated at his body's refusal to cooperate with his demands.

Hannibal lowered himself into the chair next to the sink. "This isn't exactly how I pictured my golden years."

Maggie dipped a washcloth into the basin of warm water. "Golden years? Right now, they're looking more like brass. But I'll polish you up." After wiping his face, Maggie set a can of shaving cream, a razor, and a washcloth on the countertop.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. "You don't trust me?"

"Not with the way your hands are shaking," she replied. "You'd end up looking like a bloody patchwork quilt."

Hannibal chuckled. "Or I'd cut my head off?"

"There is always that possibility," Maggie said as she lathered his face with shaving cream.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The man staring back was almost unrecognizable, nearly bald, pale, scared, and the one thing he hated…weak.

"Do you think this is permanent?" he asked quietly.

Maggie paused from shaving the gray stubble off his face with a plastic razor. "It's too soon to tell. The brain is unpredictable, Hannibal. You're lucky to be alive."

"Lucky," he echoed. "Sure doesn't feel like it."

"You're here. That's luck enough," she said firmly, returning to her task. "One step at a time."

###

Hannibal eased into a leather recliner in the living room. His walker was parked nearby within his reach. Maggie brought him a glass of iced tea, setting it on the end table next to the recliner. The room was cozy, filled with framed photos, soft blankets, and books stacked on the end tables.

"Therapy's not scheduled yet," Maggie said, sitting across from him. "But I want you to start small today. Maybe a short walk to the kitchen and back."

Hannibal smirked. "Baby steps, huh? Never thought I'd have to relearn how to walk."

"Your suicidal escape from the hospital set you back several weeks," Maggie reminded him. "You're restarting from scratch."

A knock at the door drew their attention.

Maggie rose to answer it.

Sheriff Hank Thompson stepped into the living room with his hat in his hand.

"Hank," Maggie said. "What brings you by?"

"Just checking in," Hank replied. "Thought I'd see how our guest is holding up."

Hannibal smiled. "Still kicking. Barely."

Hank nodded. "If you need anything, let me know. Folks around here, remember what you did for us with the biker gang."

"Appreciate it," Hannibal said. Biker gang? He had no idea what Hank was talking about.

As Hank left, Maggie returned to her seat and picked up a book. "See? You're not alone in this."

Hannibal stared at the door, then back at her. "Not alone, huh? Then why does it feel like I'm fighting this battle by myself?"

Maggie leaned forward. "Because you've always been the one in charge. But not this time."

Hannibal leaned back, letting her words sink in. For the first time in days, he allowed himself to believe she might be right.

###

The days blended together. In the morning, Hannibal took a shower seated in a special plastic shower chair. Maggie shaved him and helped him dress in a comfortable sweatshirt and pants. Jeans and regular shirts were out. They took forever to button with his uncoordinated fingers. After breakfast was therapy, working with a rubber ball for his grip strength and pushing the walker a couple of passes around the living room.

Hannibal sat in the leather recliner, every muscle in his body aching. The stocking cap Maggie insisted he wear while his hair grew out made his scalp itch, and the laceration, though healed, burned. His walker was parked near the kitchen door so Maggie could run the vacuum cleaner over the area rug.

A sharp knock at the door jolted him from his near slumber, almost causing him to slide out of the recliner.

Maggie emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dish towel. "I'll get it."

The knock came again, louder this time. Hannibal gripped the armrests. Something about the sound set his teeth on edge.

Maggie opened the door.

Colonel Roderick Decker, flanked by two MPs and a man in Army green fatigues covered by a white lab coat, stood at the threshold.

Hannibal didn't need to hear the introduction to know why they were here.

"Dr. Maggie Sullivan," Decker said coldly. "I'm here for John Smith."

"You mean you're here to harass a man recovering from a severe head injury," Maggie shot back, blocking the doorway. "Colonel Smith is under my care. You have no right to be here."

"I have every right," Decker snapped. "He's a fugitive, and I tracked him here."

Maggie squared her shoulders, her 5'3" frame somehow filling the doorway. "Tracked him, huh? Do you mean you tracked BA's van? That doesn't permit you to barge into my house."

Decker ignored her, motioning to the MPs. "Stand aside, Doctor." He pushed past her, the MPs and the other man following close behind.

Hannibal sat up straighter in the recliner as Decker approached. The man's smug expression set Hannibal's blood boiling.

"Well, well," Decker said, stopping a few feet away. "Still playing the invalid, I see."

Hannibal forced himself onto his feet, gripping the armrests until his knuckles turned white. He straightened as much as he could, locking eyes with Decker. "Colonel Decker, I'd say it's a pleasure, but we both know that'd be a lie. Who are your friends?"

Decker pointed at the man in the lab coat. "This is Dr. Elliot Cooper. He's here to prove you're faking."

Hannibal's legs trembled as he took an unsteady step forward with his right foot. His left foot dragged the floor as he moved it next to his right one. "You think I'm fucking faking this? That's a load of bullshit, and you know it."

Decker smirked. "Cut the act, Smith. You've fooled plenty of people, but not me. You're not as weak as you pretend to be."

Hannibal opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him. His vision blurred into multicolored swirls, and his legs buckled. He grabbed the back of the chair as the floor tilted beneath him.

A strange, prickling sensation raced down his spine, and a buzzing filled his ears. His chest tightened, and for a moment, he couldn't tell if he was breathing. His hands trembled uncontrollably, and his jaw clenched, the muscles twitching as if they had a mind of their own.

"Maggie," he slurred.

The world went black.

###

Hannibal hit the floor with a dull thud, his body stiffening like a coiled spring before erupting into violent convulsions. His arms and legs flailed uncontrollably. His head snapped to the side as foam bubbled from the corners of his mouth.

"Hannibal!" Maggie shouted, dropping to her knees beside him and levered him onto his side. She placed a hand near his mouth, feeling for breath against her skin, while her other hand rested on his chest, monitoring the rise and fall. "Dr. Cooper, I need vitals and a time check!"

Dr. Cooper knelt on the other side, pulling a blood pressure cuff from his bag and wrapping it around Hannibal's arm. He pumped it quickly. "Blood pressure's climbing—190 over 120. Heart rate's spiking, well over 150. We're at thirty seconds."

Maggie grabbed her medical bag from the nearby table. "Generalized seizure. We need to stop it before it causes more damage to his brain."

She pulled out a vial of lorazepam, drawing up the correct dose in a syringe.

Decker stood next to the wall with his arms crossed. "This is ridiculous. I've seen better performances by kindergarteners."

"What's ridiculous," Maggie snapped, "is you pretending this isn't real. Now, either move or get out of the way!"

She injected the medication into Hannibal's arm. "Time?"

"One minute ten seconds," Cooper replied, glancing at his watch. "His pupils are sluggish and uneven."

Maggie rechecked Hannibal's breathing. She leaned close, listening for breath sounds, hearing faint, shallow respirations. "Come on, Hannibal. Breathe. Fight through this."

Finally, the convulsions subsided. Hannibal's body slackened, his limbs falling limp on the floor. His breathing remained shallow, and sweat glistened on his pale skin. His hands twitched sporadically as his body relaxed.

"He's coming out of it," Maggie said. She brushed sweat from Hannibal's eyes. "Postictal phase."

Cooper nodded, helping Maggie lift Hannibal to check his airway again. "We need to move him to the clinic."

The front door burst open, and Sheriff Hank Thompson stormed inside. "What in the hell is going on here?"

Maggie looked up. "Colonel Decker barged in without permission and triggered a seizure."

Thompson turned to Decker. "You're done here, Decker. This is beyond your jurisdiction."

Decker stiffened. "He's a fugitive, Sheriff. I have every right—"

"You have no right," Thompson snapped, cutting him off. "This is civilian territory. You're violating the Posse Comitatus Act by bringing military personnel here without proper authorization. That's me." His hand hovered near the handcuffs on his belt. "If you don't leave right now, I'll arrest you myself."

Decker motioned to the MPs. "We're leaving. This isn't over."

Thompson watched Decker and his entourage exit the living room. Once they were gone, he turned to Maggie. "Let's get him into the clinic, Mo."

Maggie nodded. "Thanks, Hank. I owe you."

Thompson's voice softened. "You don't owe me a thing. Take care of him."

Sheriff Hank Thompson and Dr. Cooper transported Hannibal to Maggie's clinic on a stretcher and carefully maneuvered him through the narrow hallway. Maggie walked alongside them, holding onto Hannibal's wrist to monitor his pulse.

She left his side to turn on the oxygen tank, power up the monitors, and place an IV stand near the gurney.

They lifted Hannibal onto the gurney. His head lolled to the side, dislodging the stocking cap to reveal his pale, sweat-slicked scalp.

Maggie placed the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth to ensure he was getting enough air.

Dr. Cooper attached leads to Hannibal's chest to monitor his heart rate and respiration. The steady beep from the heart monitor was reassuring.

Maggie wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Hannibal's arm and pumped it manually. "BP's still high—180 over 110. His pulse is erratic but slowing."

Cooper nodded, inserting an IV catheter into the crook of Hannibal's elbow. The saline flowed into his vein to stabilize him and counteract the physical toll of the seizure. "We'll need to monitor him closely. He's been through a lot, and the stress isn't helping."

Maggie adjusted the oxygen flow to ten liters. "I hate seeing him like this. He's fought through worse, but... this time feels different."

Cooper checked the monitor's settings. "I should've seen it coming. He was staring into space earlier, his jaw tightening. The classic signs of an oncoming seizure. And the twitching in his hand when he reached for the chair arm...I missed it."

Maggie looked up at him. "You didn't miss it. You second-guessed yourself because of Decker's accusations. Don't let him make you doubt your instincts. Next time, trust what you see."

Cooper nodded. "You're right."

Hannibal stirred. His eyelids fluttered but didn't open.

Maggie placed her hand on his cheek. "Hannibal. You're safe. The asshole is gone."

The beeping heart monitor slowed to a more regular rhythm.

Cooper let out a sigh of relief. "Vitals are stabilizing. We need to keep him under observation for the next few hours."

Maggie nodded as she checked Hannibal's pupils with a small penlight. "Still sluggish," she muttered, clicking the light off. "I'll need to reassess his medications when he wakes."

Cooper jotted notes onto his clipboard. "I'll file a report with General Buckhalter. Decker needs to be reined in. This kind of stress... it's a miracle Colonel Smith didn't collapse sooner."

Maggie double-checked the IV flow. "He won't admit it, but being stuck in a hospital, confined like that—it's a trigger. After what he went through in that POW camp, confinement eats at him. He fights so hard to stay free because he can't handle being caged again."

Cooper nodded solemnly. "That's something no one should ever go through. And Decker doesn't get it."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Decker doesn't care. But I do. And I'll make sure Hannibal gets through this, no matter what it takes."

###

The haze slowly lifted. Hannibal cracked his eyes open. The bright light above him made him slam them shut. He lifted his hand to shade his eyes before opening them again, only to have his arm gently pushed down to his side.

"Easy, you'll pull out your IV," Maggie said. "I'll turn down the light."

IV? Hannibal forced his eyes open, staring at the blurry image above him. "Maggie..." He looked around the room, struggling to process where he was. "What...happened?"

Maggie grabbed his hand. "You had another seizure, Hannibal. A bad one. We got you stabilized, but you're not out of the woods yet."

"Again?" He tried to sit up. His muscles trembled with the effort.

Maggie gently pushed him down. "Yes. Take it easy. You need to rest."

Hannibal blinked slowly, piecing everything together. "How long was I out?"

Maggie glanced at the wall clock. "A little over an hour."

An hour? Hannibal processed her words. "Is that normal?"

The man with Decker, Dr. Cooper, stepped closer to the bed. "Colonel, your condition is serious. You're already on Phenytoin for seizures and Propranolol for blood pressure, but you probably need a higher dose to prevent future episodes. And you need to avoid stress at all costs."

Hannibal frowned. "Stress? That's...half my life."

Maggie smiled. "Not anymore. You're under orders to take it easy, or you're going to end up back here flat on your back in my clinic or…worse."

The faint scent of urine hit him then, an uncomfortable dampness under his butt made his stomach twist. His face flushed as the realization struck. "I... I lost control of my bladder, didn't I? During the seizure."

Maggie nodded. "Yes. But it's nothing to be ashamed of, Hannibal."

He clenched his teeth and couldn't face her, staring at the wall. "Damn. I hate this."

Maggie placed her hand on his shoulder. "I know you do. But we're going to get through this. One step at a time."

Cooper cleared his throat. "Colonel, this isn't about physical recovery. You've been through hell, and it's going to take time."

Hannibal nodded, remembering a quote by Benjamin Franklin from his high school history class: "You may delay, but time will not."His teacher said this meant that no matter how much we procrastinate or put off tasks, time continues to pass us by. Time was a luxury he didn't have.

###

Maggie and Dr. Cooper sat at the small kitchen table, steam rising from their coffee mugs. The wall clock declared it to be 6:30 am. She wrapped her hands around her mug, staring down at the dark liquid as if it held all the answers.

Cooper studied her for a moment. "You've been up all night, haven't you?"

Maggie sighed, gripping her coffee mug. "I've lost track of my days and nights at this point. Every time I think he's improving, we hit another brick wall."

Elliot nodded. "How are you holding up?"

She smiled. "I'm fine, Elliot. It's Hannibal I'm worried about."

"You can't run yourself ragged and expect to keep this up. I've seen how much you're doing. It's impressive but not sustainable."

Maggie shook her head. "I'll manage."

Elliot stirred his coffee. "I spoke to General Buckhalter last night."

Maggie stared at him. "What did he say?"

Elliot sighed, setting his mug down. "He's reluctant to order Decker to back off. He's convinced Hannibal's guilty. I told him about the seizures, the blood pressure spikes, and the stress triggers. I even told him I'd accept a court-martial if I was wrong about Hannibal's condition."

Maggie blinked. "You did what?"

"I know he's not faking, Maggie," Elliot said firmly. "And I made that clear to Buckhalter. I said if Decker wanted to keep poking Hannibal, he'd better prepare for another medical disaster. Buckhalter agreed, but let's say he wasn't happy about it."

Maggie smiled. "I hope you put that stick-in-the-mud in his place."

Elliot grinned. "I might have mentioned Decker's single-mindedness. Called him 'a man with the charm of a porcupine on a bad day.'"

Maggie laughed softly, shaking her head. "That's putting it mildly."

Elliot leaned back with his coffee mug. "But seriously, Maggie. Hannibal needs peace right now, and Buckhalter promised Decker would back off…for now."

She nodded. "Thank you. I don't know how much more of this Hannibal can take."

"That's why I think we need to bring in Mark Andrews," Elliot said. "Hannibal worked with him before. They already have a good rapport, and Mark's expertise could make a real difference here. He's trained in the kind of motor rehabilitation Hannibal needs right now."

Maggie set her mug down, crossing her arms. "I'm handling his therapy. I've done this kind of work before, Elliot."

"I'm not criticizing your competence," Elliot replied calmly. "But Hannibal's a complex case. He's dealing with foot drop, hand tremors, and coordination issues. Mark specializes in these areas. He can take some of the weight off your shoulders."

Maggie banged her hand on the table. "So, you think I'm not good enough?"

"No," Elliot said firmly. "But you're juggling so much, being his doctor, caregiver, advocate… and more. Letting Mark help doesn't mean you're failing. It means you're smart."

Maggie nodded. "Fine. But I want updates on everything."

Elliot lifted his mug. "Done. You'll still lead the overall plan, and Mark will provide the expertise needed for those specialized exercises."

She leaned back in her chair. "Hannibal's not going to like this."

Elliot chuckled softly. "He'll complain, sure. Once he starts seeing progress, he'll come around. You know him. He can't resist a challenge."

Maggie tapped her chest. "Make sure Mark knows this is my clinic, and I'm in charge."

Elliot raised his hands in mock surrender. "I wouldn't dare suggest otherwise."

Maggie picked up her mug, the warmth seeping into her cold hands. One step at a time.

###

The morning sunlight streamed through the window blinds, casting stripes across the hardwood floor in the living room. Hannibal sat on the couch, his hands trembling as he stared at the untied sneakers on his feet. The simple task felt like an impossible mountain to climb. He reached for the lace, trying to grip it in his fingers, but it slipped free again.

"Fuck!" He fought the urge to slam his fist into the nearby wall, but he'd probably miss and wind up on the floor.

He heard a mechanical squeak but didn't look up. Maggie was sitting in the leather recliner.

"You're hovering, Maggie," Hannibal called out, concentrating on his shoelaces.

"I'm observing. There's a difference," she said.

Hannibal laughed, but the humor quickly faded as he fumbled with the lace again. He dropped the laces and leaned back on the couch, rubbing his temples to ease his headache. "This is ridiculous. I could tie these in my sleep."

Hannibal heard the door creak and glanced up at Dr. Cooper with his usual clipboard.

"Morning, Hannibal," Elliot greeted him. "Making any progress?"

Hannibal snorted. "If you call tying one shoe in fifteen minutes, progress."

Elliot chuckled and set the clipboard on the table. "Actually, I do. But I've been thinking, maybe it's time for some extra help."

Hannibal cocked his head. "Help? I've got help." He pointed at Maggie.

Elliot held up a hand. "Hear me out. You worked with Mark Andrews at the hospital. He's one of the best, and you already know each other."

Hannibal leaned back in his chair. "Do you think Maggie can't handle this?"

"Don't twist my words," Elliot said. "Maggie's doing a hell of a job, but your case is... unique. Mark specializes in neurological and motor skill recovery. He has techniques and tools that go beyond general therapy."

Hannibal glanced at Maggie, who set her coffee mug on the table and crossed her arms.

"He's right," Maggie said. "Mark's got more experience with issues involving brain injuries. But I'm not stepping aside. I'll be with you every step of the way."

Hannibal sighed. His hand tremors hadn't stopped. They seemed worse after the last seizure. The thought of struggling like this indefinitely gnawed at him. He flexed his fingers, glaring at their defiance to obey his command, and nodded. "Fine. But if he treats me like some charity case, I'll send him packing."

Maggie smiled. "Deal."

###

Two days later, Hannibal sat at the kitchen table with his sneakers still untied. He heard a car pull up outside. A minute later, the front door opened and closed. After Decker's untimely arrival a few days ago, he hoped this was not an enemy, or he might be dodging incoming. Considering he couldn't take three steps without his walker, that might be a difficult trip.

Steady footsteps allowed Hannibal to track the stranger's movement. He looked at the kitchen doorway. Mark Andrews stood there wearing his hospital scrubs and a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

"Colonel Smith," Mark said. "Still as charming as ever, I see."

Hannibal smirked. "Nice to see you too, Andrews. What kind of torture devices did you bring today?"

Mark chuckled and set the bag on the floor. "Torture? Nah. Just a little exercise to get you back into fighting shape." He unzipped the bag, pulling out resistance bands and a pair of stress balls. "We'll start small. Hand exercises first. Simple, but effective."

Hannibal took one of the stress balls reluctantly. "If we're going to be seeing each other on a regular basis, call me Hannibal, not colonel."

"That works both ways, Hannibal."

"Deal." Hannibal squeezed the ball. His fingers ached and resisted the movement, trembling with effort. He gritted his teeth and continued.

Mark watched closely, nodding in approval. "Good. Now, let's talk about your legs. Dr. Cooper said you've been dragging your toes."

Hannibal shot him a look. "Thanks for pointing that out."

"It's not criticism," Mark said. "It's a starting point. We're going to work on fixing that with exercises on the parallel bars. Maggie's already got them set up, but first—" He knelt and tied Hannibal's sneakers. "This is the only time I'll do this for brevity."

Hannibal pushed himself up from the chair, grabbing his walker for support. As Mark led him to the parallel bars in the spare bedroom, Hannibal white knuckle gripped the walker handle.

Mark positioned him between the parallel bars. "Take it slow. Focus on lifting your foot from the hip, not only the knee. Visualize where your foot needs to land."

Hannibal gripped the bars and took an unsteady step forward, his toes grazing the floor. He paused, frustration bubbling to the surface. "It's like my body's forgotten how to move."

"That's why I'm here," Mark replied. "One step at a time. You'll get there. Remember repetition and patience. We're creating muscle memory."

Hannibal gritted his teeth and tried again. Sweat dripped down his face, and his breathing grew more labored with each step. By the time he reached the end of the bars, his arms and legs felt like jello.

Mark grinned. "Not bad, Hannibal."

Hannibal chuckled. "If this is your idea of 'not bad,' I'd hate to see what good looks like."

Mark chuckled. "Good starts with tying your sneakers. Ready to tackle that next?"

Hannibal rolled his eyes. "Might as well."