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Hannibal Lecter liked sleep. Not excessively, and there were many things he liked better, but between his private practice, his work with the FBI, and his various extracurriculars, he had come to treasure his rest. He blinked at his phone blearily in the darkened bedroom. It was making a noise. He regarded it with a kind of venom until he saw the name on the screen.
“Will?” he asked as he picked it up.
“Dr. Lecter.” Nervous laughter. Breathlessness. Hannibal was already slipping his shoes on and looking for his sweater. “Dr. Lecter, I’m – I’m not okay.”
It must have been a painful admission for a man who resented being treated as broken. It must have been a painful situation to force him to it. Hannibal frowned in concern as he pulled his sweater over his head. “What’s the matter, Will?”
“I can’t – I’m stuck. I don’t know who I am. I see shapes. I can’t breathe.”
“Are you at home?”
“Y-yes. Yes, I’m at home.” A dog cried in the background, no doubt in concern.
“I’m coming over. I want you to stay on the line with me. Can you do that?”
“Okay. I’m sorry. You don’t have to. I’m okay. I’m sorry.” He was speaking too quickly, choking through tears.
“You’re going to be all right, Will. Just focus on my voice.” He was already downstairs. He put on his coat and quickly gathered supplies. Leftover beef soup with ginger and hardy greens, because panic was exhausting, and once Will could eat, he’d need to get his blood sugar up. Chamomile-lavender tea, because herbal remedies could be remarkably effective in treating anxiety, and the ritual of brewing the hot drink was a comfort in itself. And a sample pack of Alprazolam, because soup and tea didn’t always work.
He was outside and in his car in a minute, switching the phone to speaker mode and pulling out of his driveway onto the empty street. “When did the symptoms start?” he asked.
“I d-don’t – I don’t – a while. I don’t know. I didn’t want to wake you up, but it wouldn’t stop, and I’m really worried this time, this isn’t normal, even – even for me.”
“Shh, shh.” Hannibal pulled onto the interstate and headed west. At least there wasn’t any traffic to slow him. “There is no need to apologize. You’re my friend. I’d much rather know when you need assistance than not.” The sound of sobbing over the line tugged at his heart. Poor, dear Will went to so many dark places with no one for a guide or protector. “Can you feel your hands?”
“N-no.” More laughter. “That’s – that’s not good, is it?”
“It’s perfectly normal. You seem to be experiencing a panic attack. They’re unpleasant, but not dangerous. We’ll bring you back to yourself soon.”
“I’d like that, Dr. Lecter.” His voice sounded strained. “I don’t want to be him anymore.”
Hannibal didn’t ask who ‘he’ was. He could only assume it was their most recent killer, someone who tore his victims apart with his teeth in frenzied despair. As hard as it was for Will to empathize with the calmer psychopaths, at least they didn’t feed into his own anxiety. “You aren’t him. You’re Will Graham. You’re in Wolf Trap, Virginia. It’s three oh five a.m.”
“Yes. Right. I’m Will Graham.” There wasn’t much conviction in the words.
“Can you move your hands at all?” Hannibal asked.
“Y-yes. Move them but not feel them. Heh. It’s like watching a movie.”
“Try to curl your left hand into a fist.” He kept his voice as calm as ever. He did feel a pang of sympathy for his friend, even worry, but indulging those feelings was not going to bring Will back any sooner. He tucked them away where they wouldn’t interfere with what he needed to do.
“Okay. Okay, I can do that.”
“Good. Open it again, slowly. Can you tell me how that feels?”
“Light. It feels light. No weight. It looks wrong. It’s me, but it’s not me. I’m watching myself acting from a distance.”
The words were troubling, but at least they were coming more clearly without so much sobbing or choking in between. Hannibal continued to talk him through the grounding exercises through the drive to Wolf Trap. He even got him to drink some water.
“I’m at your road now, Will. I’ll be there soon. All right?”
“Y-yeah. Okay. Thank you.”
He pulled up by Will’s house and went up to the door. Will had unlocked it at some point during their conversation, and he let himself in, setting the soup and tea on the kitchen table. Fluffy dogs flocked to his heels, whining at him to ask for assistance. He petted one absentmindedly. “Will?”
Will stumbled toward him from the living room, shaking and soaked in sweat. “I’m here,” he said. His face was pale and still streaked with fresh tears. Hannibal touched his cheek and wiped them away, petting him gently to soothe him. He smelled of acid; he must have vomited at some point. He touched his forehead and found it cold. The chill couldn’t be helping Will’s state of mind.
He put his hands on Will’s shoulders, giving him something steady to support him. “We’re going to get you into dry clothes.” He led him by the arm to the dresser and gently stripped him of his tee shirt, quickly replacing it with a fresh one, clean and dry. Will still didn’t have enough control of his body to dress himself, and Hannibal felt a surge of protective tenderness as he dressed him, smoothing the cloth over his skin. Will shied away when he reached for the waistband of his shorts, but Hannibal spoke to him soothingly. “It will only take a moment. Please don’t let modesty delay your recovery.”
Will gave him a nervous grimace of a smile and then looked away while he undressed him. Hannibal took in the scent of his fear, of his unwashed body, and had to ignore his watering mouth and his growing arousal. He slipped Will into clean boxers and sweatpants as efficiently as he would have for any other patient, and then drew him close to share his warmth.
“Good.” He guided him to the couch and gave him a pillow to hold, tucking his arms snugly around it. “Here. Hold this, and concentrate on breathing slowly. I’m going to the kitchen, but I’ll be back very soon. All right?”
Will looked up at him and gave a shaky nod. Hannibal smoothed his hair back from his forehead before leaving to make the tea. He put an extra spoonful of herbs into the pot. This was a serious case.
He brought a steaming cup out to his friend and set it on the table in front of him. “Chamomile and lavender. It calms anxiety, and should help to settle your stomach.”
“Th-thanks,” Will stammered, reaching for the cup with a shaking hand. Hannibal helped him guide it to his mouth and fed it to him in slow sips.
“Good. Drink it slowly. You’ll feel better very soon.” He set the cup down to give Will a chance to get used to the drink. Will made a quiet, broken noise in his throat, the sound of an animal in pain. The tears came fresh again, and he began to shiver. Hannibal felt a surge of emotion, the desire to protect and cover. He gathered Will’s trembling form into his arms and pulled him into his lap, heedless of any boundaries he might be crossing. He rubbed his arms, shushing him quietly and holding him close to warm him. “It’s all right, Will. You know who you are. I’m here. You aren’t alone.”
Will didn’t have the strength to resist him. He needed him far too much. He curled up in Hannibal’s arms, burying his face against his sweater to listen to his heartbeat and take in his familiar scent. He whimpered quietly, and Hannibal held him tighter, giving him deep pressure to help calm him. Eventually he settled, and his breath came more regularly.
“I can feel my hands again,” he said, moving them experimentally.
“Good.” Hannibal released him from his hold, concealing his reluctance. He would have happily held Will all night.
Will ran his hands over his face and took a deep breath. “Thanks for coming out here,” he said. “I know it’s not the best way to spend the middle of the night.”
“On the contrary,” Hannibal said, checking his forehead again. He had warmed up, and his face had lost its pallor. “Do you think you could eat?”
Will grimaced and shook his head. “Everything tastes like Mr. Weston.”
Mr. Weston was the last victim they’d found. Both nipples and most of his right arm had been rent from the bone.
“Perhaps later, then.” Hannibal took the Alprazolam from his pocket and put it in Will’s hand. “This will help you sleep. You’ve depleted your body’s energy reserves; you need to recover.”
Will checked the little watermark on the foil to see what it was, then swallowed a tablet with a mouthful of the cooling tea. “Thank you.”
The dogs around them had settled, most of them falling back asleep, satisfied that their person was unharmed.
“Do... do you want to stay here tonight?” Will asked, not meeting his eyes. He didn’t want to admit that it was more a request than an offer.
Hannibal nodded. “I think I had better, don’t you?”
Will’s shoulders relaxed. “You take the bed, I’m good on the couch.”
“I should like to stay closer to you.” He stroked his hair, pressing his cheek against Will’s head.
Will looked up at him, anxious but hopeful. “Really?”
Hannibal nodded. “You may wake up in need of a familiar face to reorient yourself. Indulge me in my concern?”
Will rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “I guess... I guess that’s pretty reasonable after I called you sobbing and couldn’t feel my hands.”
Hannibal smiled. “Come, then.” He took Will by the arm and gently led him to the bed. Perhaps it wasn’t strictly orthodox to share a bed with even an unofficial patient, but he knew he would sleep better knowing Will was safe. He left his sweater on when he climbed under the covers. A drafty farmhouse was colder than a modern house in the city.
Will lay an awkward several inches away from him, anxiety clear on his face. The poor man must have been touch-starved as well as shaken.
“It’s all right, Will. Come here.” He tugged him closer, and Will pressed into the softness of his sweater, putting his arms around him gratefully. Hannibal stroked the back of his head, fingers combing through his soft, curly hair. Despite his reservations, Will slipped easily into sleep, and he lay against his chest as trusting as a child.