Archive of Our Own ^beta

One day, he had a headache.

A simple headache; common, typical, normal. There was really nothing out of the ordinary as far as Will knew. He has had plenty before this one, all with the same ache and same throbbing as the rest of them do.

Well. If you don't count the mild seizures he's also had, or the short term memory, and if you ignore his new found habit of sleepwalking too...he's good as gold. Honestly.

“You can see on this x-ray where the hippocampus is inflamed, right here near the center of your brain. It's fascinating, really.”

Will is silent for a few moments, before replying with, “I'm – I'm sorry, Doctor Sutcliffe. Could you please repeat that again?”

Will Graham sits in the neurologists' office. He has another headache – again, a small, aching thing like every other headache he's had. His eyes can't leave the image on the computer screen, no matter how much the brightness makes the pain behind his eyes more intense. A brain - his brain – with one, enlarged, red area right in the middle of it stares back at him. Mocks him.

“It's called Paraneoplastic Limbic Encephalitis, Mister Graham,” Dr. Sutcliffe says. “It's quite rare. If we focus on your frontal lobe - ” He zooms in on the image “ - you can see a small tumor. From our scans, it doesn't appear to be cancerous, per say, but that doesn't mean you're out of the ball park because – Mister Graham? Are you okay?”

“Fine – I'm just fine,” Will says. His eyes finally look away from the screen, but it doesn't matter now. His head is still throbbing. He has Encephalitis. He has a tumor. Christ. “Well. I'm not fine. Am I fine? I mean, this isn't going to kill me, is it?”

There's the sound of papers being shuffled. Will glances up to see Dr. Sutcliffe handing him a few pamphlets. He looks at them for a good, long minute before reaching out to take them.

“If you need someone to talk to,” The doctor says, “our hospital has several excellent psychiatrists on staff. I can recommend you one, actually. Let me find his business card.”

He's not going to be fine, apparently.

Will can't keep back the grimace on his face as he looks at the glossed and folded papers. Paraneoplastic Limbic Encephalitis. He wants to ask how - he exercises, he doesn't smoke, only drinks on occasion. Okay, more than one occasion, but that couldn't cause this, right? It probably hasn't helped, now that he thinks about, but there has to be more than just that.

“You should consider all the options described in those pamphlets. Your body is essentially fighting itself, and it's most likely caused by the tumor in your frontal lobe even though it has no underlying motives,” Dr. Sutcliffe explains. “Typically we prescribe you immunosuppressives and steroids to fight off the antibodies that you're producing. We also recommend coming in once a week for a plasma exchange, as well as giving you immunoglobulins afterwards to ensure any remaining antibodies can be taken care of - ”

“But what about the tumor?” Will asks, a little too quickly.

“The last option can go a few ways. We can try chemotherapy to reduce the size of the tumor, and if that doesn't work then we can discuss surgery after the initial inflammation has died down.”

“Oh,” is all Will says. His thumb rubs over the glossy papers still in his hand. He can feel the ink starting to smudge off onto his skin.

“Let's set you up with a treatment consultation and we'll go from there.”

“I'm gonna throw up.”

“Hey, Molls, don't – it's not that bad, I swear.”

“Will, do you hear yourself? You have En - Enseph – whatever it was called. You just said you have a tumor in front of your brain!”

“A non-cancerous tumor. Molly, just. I'm going to do some more reading when I get home, but it doesn't sound like I'm going to die.” Hopefully. “How's Wally?”

The trip into Baltimore has taken its toll on Will, as it always does whenever he has to go into the city. He doesn't mind going alone, but he admits it hurt to hear Molly say no to him asking. I don't want Wally around that, Will, she had said. What if something's wrong? I don't want him dealing with that again. Not yet.

She doesn't want her son to lose another father. Not yet, she said. Will gets it, he does, but it doesn't take away from the fact that something is actually wrong and he'll have to tell the kid sooner rather than later.

“He's good, out playing with Winston. My folks called, wondering when we're gonna come up to Oregon to see them again.”

“Mhm,” Will says. “We as in us, or we as in you and Wally?”

“Oh hush, they like you just fine."

Will thinks, I bet they'd love to hear that I'm near dying, but says instead, “I'm coming home. Call me if you need me to pick up anything on the way.”

”I just need you.”

His heart warms. For the first time that day, he smiles.

They don't bring it up to Wally or to Molly's parents that day, or the next. They don't say anything to anyone for the next week, going about their normal routine in ignorance.

Molly is there for him as much as she can be. She listens to the treatment plan, seems sympathetic to what Will is going to go through, but there's still a heavy reluctance in the air. She doesn't try to give her input, doesn't put her two cents into any ideas on how to make this easier for him. She doesn't seem...there, if Will's being blunt.

But Will does his research. He stays up into the night looking at The Encephalitis Society website and ignores the sleep ache behind his eyes. In the day, he takes aspirin like he's eating dot candy, two by two by two every other moment.

He goes into work, driving to Quantico on autopilot. He gives his lectures, answers questions from his students, and ignores the fever running hot under his collar.

On the Monday of his next appointment with Dr. Sutcliffe, he arrives alone – again – and gets another MRI and a prescription.

“Your tests are relative to last time, Mister Graham. We'll go ahead and get these two bottles filled for you, and later this week we'll set you up for a plasma exchange session. You'll need to make sure someone can drive you home afterwards. It isn't as intense as chemotherapy, but you may feel weak and we don't want to take any chances.”

“Alright,” Will says. “How long will it take?”

“An hour, at the most. I also wanted to ask if you've given any more thought to talking to someone.”

Will frowns. “You mean the psychiatrist thing? I've thought about it, but I honestly don't think I'll need one. Besides, I don't tend to see eye to eye with...the whole process.”

Dr. Sutcliffe nods. “I understand, Mister Graham, but I don't think the reality of this has set in for you yet. It can be traumatic for a lot of people.”

You don't know what I see on a daily basis, Will wants to say. “...I'll keep that in mind, Doctor Sutcliffe.”

And he actually does keep it in mind. The business card that the doctor gave him before is still sitting in his wallet, burning a hole in his pocket. It fades from the forefront of his mind when he goes to pick up his steroids, but comes back as a maybe – just a maybe – when he settles down for the night at home.

The past week Will's situation hasn't been brought up to Wally. Will mentions it to Molly when he gets there, after he tells her about his appointment. She doesn't seem thrilled – she looks downright appalled at the idea, still – and when he kisses her goodnight and lays there, his mind strays back to the business card. Because he could have brought up his condition to Wally when he tucked him in tonight. He could have mentioned it after reading him his bed time story. He wanted to – but he can't. Not yet, Molly's voice rings in his ears.

He closes his eyes. He can't talk to Wally, not yet - He doesn't even feel comfortable talking to Molly most of the time, but he has to talk to someone.

Will finds himself on the doorstep of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, three days later. The man has an office near the hospital in Baltimore, so patients don't have to walk too far – or so he assumes – and it seems far less clinical than a hospital appointed room.

Dr. Lecter also looks as much as Will imagined he did. When he had called the other day, the accent was surprising. The man, now, even more so.

“Mister Graham, please, come in,” Dr. Lecter says. He's almost the complete opposite of Will – a patterned suit, slick ashen hair, and clean shaven to round the look together. Will bets the man goes to the opera and plays the piano, too.

The doctor motions for Will to take a seat before taking his own adjacent to Will. He crosses his legs and settles his hands at the knee. Prim and proper, everything in its place. Will fidgets.

“So, Mister Graham, what brings you in today?”

Will grimaces. He didn't tell the doctor anything on the phone. “I've recently been diagnosed with a rare form of Encephalitis. And a tumor. It's been an adjustment, and I'm having a hard time telling people about it.” It's not exactly the issue, but it's close enough.

Dr. Lecter tilts his head. “Have you told anyone close to you about your recent condition?”

“My fiancée – she. She'll listen to me about it.” Will presses his fingers against his eyes. “But I know she doesn't like to. She doesn't bring it up. Doesn't ask me how I'm doing. She doesn't want me to mention it to her son. I don't think she wants the reality to sink in that I could die.” His chest hurts from thinking about it. His head only throbs slightly. “I just don't know what to do. I'm supposed to be able to tell her anything, but I feel like if I keep trying to bring it up she'll just try to avoid me even more.”

Will hears Dr. Lecter shift in his seat, but doesn't look up. “Often times death is a difficult subject to face. Has she needed to deal with this sort of matter before?”

“Her first husband,” Will says. “He had cancer, died about five years ago. He was a baseball player.” He laughs. “She watches baseball when she's upset. Our television has been on ESPN for the last two weeks.”

“She doesn't want to see another husband fade away,” Dr. Lecter says. “While understandable, it's hard to avoid the present situation. Have you attempted to tell her your feelings?”

Will shakes his head. “I've had two appointments so far. I go to another one tomorrow. I tell her how they go, but I can see her only halfway listening. She'll switch the subject if it gets a little too real. I don't want to yell at her or anything, but I'm afraid that I'm just going to scare her to death one day if I can't talk about it all – the good, the bad, everything.”

“Which is why you're here.”

“Which is why I'm here. Molly doesn't want to listen, so I have to pay someone to. How pathetic is that?”

“It isn't pathetic at all,” Dr. Lecter reassures him. When Will looks up this time, the doctor has a slight quirk to his mouth. “You're seeking acceptance and validation. I will give that to you as much as I can. Think of me as your paddle, if you will, Mister Graham.”

“Just – Just Will is fine, Doctor Lecter. I'm called Mister Graham more often than not.”

“Are you a teacher?” He inquires.

“A lecturer, technically,” Will says. “I go over cold cases at the FBI Academy in Quantico.”

Dr. Lecter sits up straighter in his chair. “Death is no stranger to you, then. It attributes to why your predicament isn't as shocking to you as it is to your fiancée.”

“I suppose not,” Will agrees. He rubs his hands over his faces. He feels lighter after talking about this – this is good. This is fine. His head still throbs, but it's dulled down.

“Are there any other concerns you wish to speak about?”

“No, no. This is...enough, for today I think.” It's more than enough, honestly. In the past two weeks this is more than he's spoken to anyone about this, aside from the doctor. “But next week...?”

“I'll make another appointment for you.” Dr. Lecter sounds pleased – or at least eager to jump at the chance at another client. “Same time, next Thursday?”

His next appointment at the hospital is for the plasma exchange, the day after his meeting with Dr. Lecter. He tells Molly all she has to do is drop him off and come pick him back up in the afternoon. She doesn't say anything.

She's tight-lipped through the whole ordeal, from when they get into the car and arrive at the hospital. The music on the radio thrums in the background, and it's a long, tense ride to Baltimore. Will reminds himself that she's just trying to cope.

The parking lot is full at Johns Hopkins when they pull in. As soon as they stop, Molly talks.

“I might be a bit in picking you up. Wally's school wanted me to come to a parent-teacher conference today - “

Will cuts her off. “You didn't tell me?”

“...I didn't want you to worry, what with all that's going on,” She admits. She looks ashamed. Will softens, sighing.

“Text me when you're on your way. I can hang out for a bit.”

“I will,” She promises. He leans over to kiss her, but catches her cheek instead of her mouth as she turns away. “See you.”

The sound of the engine fading in the distance rings in Will's ears. He tries not to think too much into it.

At the hospital, he's seen to by a nurse who takes him into another corridor of the building. The room he's shown to looks like an open ward. A few soft, leather chairs sit in a row with machines next to each one. They look like small, super computers from the nineteen seventies.

The nurse hooks him up, one IV in each arm, and he lets himself drift as the process starts.

“Did your appointment go well last week?” Dr. Lecter asks.

It's been another seven days of fragile existence. After the plasma exchange, he had been dizzy, a bit out of it – nothing compared to what he's been experiencing due to the Encephalitis itself, but he still thinks he can complain. Somewhat.

Molly had been late to pick him up, too. Will hates that he wasn't really that surprised.

“It was...interesting,” Will says, settling on his words. “It reminded me of giving blood, but more intense, if that makes sense. ”

“Much like a blood transfusion, I would think,” Dr. Lecter says. “Often times people feel more worn afterwards, considering they are taking blood out and then forcing it back into the body.”

Will grimaces. “You make it sound all the more appealing.”

“Forgive me,” He says, smiling at Will. “Let's talk about something else. How were your classes this week?”

“I actually turned in my medical leave notice yesterday,” Will admits. “The department head was shocked when he found out, but it is what it is. The treatment last week, coupled with the medication they gave me, has left me feeling like shit for days. I can't even begin to think what the rest of the semester would feel like.”

“It will take some getting used to,” He says.

Will hums, agreeing nonchalantly. He lets his gaze roam, just slightly, taking in Dr. Lecter as he sits in front of Will. He's wearing blue today; a robin's egg.

“How has Molly been?” The doctor asks. Will pinpoints his gaze on Dr. Lecter's cream colored tie.

“Molly's...been,” Will says. He shakes his head. “I don't know. She's still distant. I tried to do a few things this week, but I wasn't feeling that great and it was just...hard for her to see me struggle, I think. She's been keeping Wally away from me so he doesn't have to see me like that, too.”

Dr. Lecter nods. “As you said during our last appointment, she's gone through this before. She sees you as a fragile tea cup. Delicate and only to be handled with extreme care, or else you'll break.”

Will ducks his head, hands pressing against his forehead. No fever this time, but still an ache.

“I'm scared,” Will admits softly.

“What exactly are you scared of?”

He swallows. “That Molly is falling out of love with me. I'm broken goods now. I'm not healthy, or stable. I can feel how afraid she is of what's going to happen.”

“And what's going to happen?” Dr. Lecter asks.

“I might die.”

“Paraneoplastic Limbic Encephalitis isn't necessarily fatal. Generally speaking, the average survival rate is fifty-fifty, given how early or late you diagnose it.”

“You sound like you've been doing your research.” Will laughs.

“I was curious,” Dr. Lecter admits, giving Will a small smile.

Will wants to smile back. He feels warmth start to spread at the doctor's admission – however small it may be. But.

“But I still might,” Will continues. “She's scared, I'm scared. She doesn't want to get too close anymore. I was worried that she just wasn't going to talk about it, but she's distant in every way now.”

“And having already lost a husband due to a similar situation, she's pulling back from where she's already gotten too close.”

“Exactly,” Will says, quiety. His fears are being laid out in front of him, finally given a voice of their own. “It just makes me think...this is the opposite of how marriage is supposed to be. She wanted to promise me through sickness and in health before this happened, but now...” He trails off.

Dr. Lecter doesn't say anything. Will watches him get up to go over to his desk, taking a notepad out of a drawer.

“I want you to look into some reading, Will,” The doctor says. “While you may struggle with the physical changes, keeping your mind stimulated is just as important, especially after what you've just said. Here are a few titles, and if you would like, we can discuss them next week.”

When he walks back over, he hands Will a piece of paper. The doctor's cursive flows on the page, so much so that Will squints to read it.

“Dante? Really?

Dr. Lecter smiles. “His journey through Hell is often one I revisit. It is good to take a step back and see where your own journey may be taking you.”

Pretty sure it's taking me to Hell right with him, Will thinks. He glances at the other titles before tucking the note in his back pocket.

“Thank you,” Will says. He means it, too – through all the distance in his life right now, he's glad to have some sort of distraction, even if it's only until next week.

“It's my pleasure, Will.”

The next few appointments take more time to bounce back from. The plasma exchanges are still rough, and having just started the immunoglobulins afterwards Will feels like he really is going to Hell with Dante every week. But Dr. Lecter helps. They talk through his progress and then talk about everything else but his progress, because Will wants to feel normal again. And the doctor helps, surprisingly. He makes Will look forward to therapy.

His medical leave goes into effect by the third week of his treatments. His coworkers – if he can really call them that – bid him a farewell and a speedy recovery with cake and tears. It really solidifies every one of Will's worries.

But Dr. Sutcliffe reassures him after his next MRI that all is going well.

“Your inflammation has gone down, but the tumor in your frontal lobe is still an issue.” He points to the same computer screen from their first visitation. The image on the screen has far less red on it this time around, but that small lump is still there, staring at Will. “In the next few weeks we'll start chemotherapy.”

“Wonderful,” Will says dryly. He can't wait for his hair to fall out.

Without his lectures, he spends most of his time in the company of Dante. Wally is still none the wiser to the whole ordeal – but Will knows that he has his suspicions. The kid is smart enough to know Will isn't just on vacation from work, as Molly likes to put it.

And she. She hasn't said much to him. Molly still kisses him, still hugs him. She helps him shave off his hair before he starts chemotherapy because he wants it to be on his own terms, dammit. But she stays on her side of the bed. She gets up for work earlier than usual. Will sees her in the evenings for dinner and they spend short moments together before bed, but it's nothing like it used to be.

By his next therapy appointment, he makes a decision.

“I'm going to give her an out,” Will says.

It catches the doctor off guard – only for a moment, but Will glances and sees the surprise on Dr. Lecter's face before it shifts back to its normal, stoic expression.

“An out?” He inquires. He watches as Will leans against his desk. They've moved on from sitting in the chairs, or at least Will has. He sits down all day, so he tries to take advantage of the one moment of the day where he does feel like moving.

Will nods in confirmation. He reaches up to rub his forehead as if to try to push back the ache that's beginning to form, and he momentarily stalls to feel the bareness of his head (something he just can't get used to – thank god he saved his facial hair).

“I'm going to tell her she doesn't have to do this anymore,” Will then clarifies. “I know this is causing her as much pain as it is me, and I'm tired of seeing us both suffer. Giving her this choice might make her happy, even if losing her is gonna kill me.”

The room is silent for a few beats before Dr. Lecter responds.

“If that is what you wish to do,” He says. “Have you been thinking about this for long?”

“In the last few weeks,” Will admits. “We spoke of Dante a couple of weeks ago, and one verse really stood out to me. 'Then broken was their mutual support; and trembling each one turned himself to me; with others who had heard him by rebound.'”

Through the stories of Dante and his appointments with the doctor, he's become aware of just how hard this has been on the two of them. Because the thing is, Will still loves Molly. He admits to himself that even if she's as distant as she is, his feelings aren't going to change. He wanted to marry her – he still does, but not like this. If they can't face this together without the crippling struggle it's been, then they need to move on.

“Wally's catching on,” Will says. He looks down, feels himself start to tremble from the thought. “He doesn't ask me to read to him much anymore. He sees me, sees how weak I am. I know he wants to ask, but he doesn't want to make his mom upset. I want to tell him, though. I'm going to, once I tell her this is over, because I don't want him thinking I'm abandoning them.”

“Admirable of you.”

“I just don't want to let him down,” He says. Will can feel the pressure behind his eyes and fights back the onslaught of tears. “I'm starting chemotherapy tomorrow. I'm going to talk to Molly beforehand. It'll give her time to pack and leave.”

Another bout of silence, and then Dr. Lecter gets up and goes to his desk, appearing with a business card in front of Will a moment later.

“Strictly speaking, you are my patient,” Dr. Lecter says. “However, given the circumstances, I'd like you to have this in case you need anything of me.”

Will furrows his brow and takes the card. He has one exactly like it in his wallet, but when he turns it over he sees Dr. Lecter's elegant handwriting on the back. His phone number.

And the name Hannibal.

“Is this - “

“The idea of your fiancée abandoning you warrants me to offer you this. You are my friend, Will, not just my patient.”

Will stares at the phone number in his hand. Heat starts to creep up the back of his neck. It reminds him of when Dr. Lecter - Hannibal - had done his research on Encephalitis. Because this is unethical, but it makes Will happy. He's happy to know that someone cares, even if it's something so small as a phone number.

“...Thank you, Hannibal.” Will tries the name on his tongue. It doesn't flow as well as Doctor Lecter, but in time maybe that will change.

The smile that Dr. Lec – Hannibal – gives him sends his stomach fluttering.

He's happy, if only for the moment.

Will isn't surprised – again – when Molly agrees to leave.

That morning, they're sitting at the small kitchen table. Both of them look a little rough for wear, both knowing that this was coming eventually. Their coffees have gone cold. Wally's cereal bowl sits in the sink, only half eaten since their conversation began.

“He's going to miss you,” She says. Will gives a strained smile.

“I'm gonna miss him.”

“We can give it one more chance - “ Molly tries, but Will shakes his head.

“Molly,” He says, “you don't want to. You can't handle it again, I get it. I should've offered you this when I found out. I just. I can't lie to Wally anymore. I can't lie to us and go on like we have been. You deserve better. I deserve better.”

She sighs deeply, pushing her mug away before standing. “I'm gonna go help him pack. We'll say goodbye before you leave.”

It's an awful day, honestly. Will doesn't necessarily want to say goodbye – he likes the comfort, even if it's been strained. He's going to miss Wally more than Molly, admittedly, at this point. The kid hasn't pushed him away like she has. He doesn't know if he'll ever be called dad again after this, and this thought makes his chest hurt.

It's noon by the time they have everything ready. Will helps Molly gather her things from their bedroom and gently tucks away a few things of Wally's. The boy doesn't say much, until it's time to leave.

“I'm gonna miss you, buddy,” Will says. He kneels in front of Wally so they're the same height. The boy hugs him tight and Will can feel him shake a bit. “You can call me whenever you want. Keep your mom safe, okay?”

“Okay,” Wally says, half muffled in Will's jacket. “I don't want to go.”

“I know,” Will says, shushing him softly. “I'll come visit, yeah?”

Wally nods furiously and Will only hugs him closer. Molly is putting the last of their things in the car by the time Wally peels himself away from Will, and even then he hangs onto one sleeve.

“Come on, grandma and grandpa are waiting,” Molly says. She makes sure Wally's buckled in before giving her own hug to Will.

“Take care, Molls,” He says.

“You too.”

He lets them leave, lets himself cry for a solid fifteen minutes, then drives himself to his appointment.

Instead of seizures, Will has instead come into the good graces of vomiting and fatigue. He's honestly not sure which is worse at this point.

It's been a few days since his first chemotherapy session, a few days since Molly and Wally left.

Will lays on the couch in his living room and stares at the business card, eyes tracing the curves of Hannibal's phone number.

He picks up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hannibal – it's Will.”

“Will? Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I'm...I don't know. Not really. I didn't really think before calling you,” He admits.

“Has anything happened?” He asks. Will takes a shuddering breath.

“Molly left me.”

“Do you need me to come over?”

Will pauses for a moment. His stomach turns at the thought – not unpleasantly. But.

“Do you have anything that can knock me out?” He asks. “Or something that can, I don't know – I'm nauseous.” And lonely his mind supplies. “I can't keep anything down.”

“I'm afraid I can't offer you sedatives, but I can offer some food to make your symptoms more tolerable.”

“I – that's fine. Yeah.”

Hannibal asks for his address and Will gives it to him before hanging up. He curls in on himself, burying his face in the cushions. Hannibal is coming over. Hannibal is bringing him food. Christ.

He dozes in and out. Winston wanders in after awhile and jumps up next to him. Will instantly clings to him, seeking out his familiar warmth. He tries not to overthink, but it's fruitless until he finally succumbs to sleep. He only wakes when he feels a soft, wet cloth pressed to his forehead.

“Hn?” Will murmurs, turning into the feeling.

“Only me, dear Will,” Hannibal says. He's sitting on the edge of the couch next to Will, dangerously close. He goes about wiping the sweat away from Will's forehead. “Dreaming?”

“Nightmares,” Will says, voice hoarse from sleep. He lets himself be lulled by the other man's touch, humming.

Hannibal doesn't ask him to elaborate. He busies himself with situating a few containers on Will's coffee table.

“If you can sit up, I'd like you to try and eat something,” He says.

It's easier said than done, but in the end Will manages to lean on the arm rest while Hannibal pours something steaming from a thermos into a bowl that Will knows for sure isn't from his own kitchen.

“You made me chicken soup?” Will asks groggily. The chicken looks black and the broth is murky, but when he takes a sip it's can't be anything other than chicken soup.

“A recipe from China. Not the traditional sort you're used to, but I thought the herbs would be beneficial,” Hannibal says. He doesn't have his own bowl, seemingly content to watch Will eat. “There's some water on the table for you, as well.”

Will feels embarrassment creep up on him. He sort of can't believe he called Hannibal and the man drove an hour here to take care of him. All because Will's been sick (and lonely).

But here he is, sitting on Will's couch, making him soup and being kinda perfect.

“I'm sorry about this,” Will says softly.

“No harm done,” Hannibal reassures him. “I'm glad you had called. After our conversation last time, I was unsure of what had happened to you in regards to your decision. I was worried where that found you.”

I was worried.

Will coughs. “Well, I'm broken and alone, as you can see.”

Hannibal reaches to replace the (now empty) bowl in Will's hands with a glass of water. “Not necessarily broken, nor alone, now.”

His stomach aches with a sudden flutter.

“I guess not.”

Hannibal agrees to go with him to his appointment on Friday for his next chemotherapy – or rather, he offers. It's weird to have another person be there with him, but he takes the opportunity for what it is. He sits in the chair, arms tangled with IV drips, and talks to Hannibal. It's almost like their therapy sessions, but not – it's something entirely different than the man's quiet office. He hears Hannibal laugh in a room full of people, watches as he leans in closer to hear Will over the whirring of the machine. He gets to see the man out of his element that they both have become accustomed to, and remembers that Molly never did this for him.

They drive back to Will's home afterwards. Hannibal makes something easy for him to stomach. Will watches him from the couch, eyes roaming over the doctor as he handles himself in Will's small, rustic kitchen. He can't look away, and only does so when Hannibal joins him later with their plates.

It becomes routine for them over the next couple of weeks. Even if Will doesn't have an appointment, Hannibal still comes over with some recipe that doesn't send Will into a fit of sickness. He stays late until Will dozes and always promises to check in on him the next day.

Molly never did this. Molly never took care of him in such a way – all of her attention had always been on Wally. And that was fine, that was okay, but this is. This is what Will has been craving. This, this domesticity, is what he's needed. It's comfort that he's been searching for since day one.

And he lets himself believe, for a moment, that it's more than it really is. Will isn't blind. Hannibal is attractive, in more ways than just the physical sense. He's attentive and reassuring, looking after Will and even giving off the feeling that he looks forward to their time together as well. He's talented yet modest, but still preens at the compliments Will gives him with flushed cheeks. He teases in their banter and has made Will laugh so hard to the point of nearly being sick. He makes Will feel like a person again.

He finds himself wanting to give the man the same feeling.

He doesn't even know how many the relationships the man has had. More than Will, probably, but he wonders when the last time someone made Hannibal feel important. Has he ever felt wanted, or loved? Has anyone ever gotten close enough for Hannibal to open himself up like this? Has anyone ever returned the sentiment?

Will thinks (hopes) that their intimacy isn't all in his head. It's a sort of feeling that he didn't have with Molly, even when he was engaged to her. He had loved her – he still does to a point – but he doesn't want to overlook these stirrings of something that he's developing with Hannibal.

He thinks about it often enough to think maybe, just maybe, he could take the next tentative step into more.

Unfortunately, when Will tries to take that next step forward, life puts him three steps back.

“Your chemotherapy isn't taking, Mister Graham,” Dr. Sutcliffe says. “If your amendable, I'm looking at next Thursday to schedule your surgery.”

Will feels like he's having deja-vu, sitting in the same office with just as equally grim news as he did those few weeks ago. He's not necessarily dying, but surgery is big. Surgery is going to have his head cut open like a damn watermelon to get the seeds out, except the seeds are a tumor and not nearly as delicious of a process.

“You'll need to make sure not to eat twenty-four hours beforehand. I recommend having the person driving you to the hospital stay until the surgery is done, just to make sure you have all your aftercare instructions and in case there are any complications.”

Will feels the heat creep up the back of his neck at the thought of asking Hannibal. “Okay.” He can't quite bring himself to ask any other questions.

He leaves the office in a daze. He doesn't know how the surgery is going to go. Because – with brain surgery, there's always a greater risk than a normal surgery. Cutting open a skull is no picnic in the park.

What if something goes wrong? What if they fuck something up and he loses his memory? What if he loses his ability to speak? What if – Will doesn't want to think about the other million what if's that could happen. Knowing Will's luck, it would all go wrong.

Worst case scenario, he dies.

There's a fifty-fifty chance, he reminds himself. Fifty-fifty.

Will lets himself think, for a brief moment, of something else; of Hannibal. Something good.

There's a fifty-fifty chance, he thinks again. Hannibal could be into exploring more with Will, or he couldn't. Fifty-fifty.

That chance is what takes him to Hannibal's office. The man had to work today, appointments that he couldn't move, so Will had driven himself to the hospital. He didn't tell Hannibal he was coming by, but he doubts (hopes) the man doesn't mind the visit.

No one else is in the waiting room when Will arrives, but the door to the main office is closed. It doesn't take long, however, for the current appointment to finish. As soon as Will goes to sit down, a portly man comes out with Hannibal in tow.

Hannibal looks pleased to see Will, at least. He gives him a small smile before ushering his patient out.

“I'll see you next week, Franklyn,” Hannibal says. He doesn't give the man a chance to reply, closing the door as soon as the man is outside. When he turns back, Will notes the doctor looks more relaxed now that it's just the two of them.

Calm down, Will says to his racing heart. It's just Hannibal.

Which is exactly the problem, but he digresses.

“Will,” Hannibal greets him. “Please, come in.”

As soon as the door shuts, Will turns to Hannibal.

“I'm having surgery next Thursday,” He says. He stays by the door, nerves too alight for him to sit back down. “My...the chemo isn't taking. Doctor Sutcliffe made the appointment to have my tumor removed.”

“...I see,” is what Hannibal says. He doesn't take his seat either, but stands near Will. He looks at him curiously. “Are you worried what will happen?”

“As worried as anyone would be,” Will says. He gives a laugh. “I always knew it was an option, but I thought maybe it wouldn't really be an option, you know?”

“It's understandable, given the circumstances,” Hannibal agrees. “Though...I can't help but feel there's something else on your mind aside from the surgery.”

Will grimaces. Fuck psychiatrists.

“I wanted to ask – I need someone to stay at the hospital during the surgery,” Will admits. “He – Doctor Sutcliffe – said just in case anything happens, I need someone there.”

“I see,” Hannibal says again.

“And I understand if you can't, because you've already done a lot with my other appointments. I can find someone to come down. Because it's a lot to ask, since you already do so much.” Will toys with the idea of asking Molly for one, brief second.

“I assumed I would be staying, regardless,” Hannibal says. Will blinks.

“Oh.”

“I just need to clear my schedule for the day.” He makes his way over to his desk to check his calendar. Will suddenly can't move.

“I – thank you.”

It's quiet for a moment, before Will feels a hand – Hannibal's – settling on his arm. He doesn't look up at him.

“Did you think I would not?” Hannibal asks.

“I assumed, but then I thought maybe you wouldn't,” Will admits. “I wondered if you were tired of taking care of me, and then I reconsidered. I know I'd be tired of taking care of me. Molly didn't even want to start, so why - ”

“Because I am not Molly,” Hannibal says. “I thought we had established this. I am not a person to leave a friend unattended when they need help.”

A friend.

“A friend,” Will says.

Another beat of silence, then,

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

Hannibal leans back. Will finally looks up at him. The man looks confused.

“Yes,” Hannibal says eventually. “I consider you a dear friend.”

Christ. A dear friend.

“I...” Will doesn't know what to say to that, exactly. He doesn't really want to say anything. He wants to throw himself off a bridge.

Fifty-fifty, he reminds himself.

“Then – don't worry about the surgery, Doctor Lecter.”

He doesn't give Hannibal a chance to respond before he's out the door. He can't – he should have known the odds weren't in his favor. They never are, especially in regards to this of all things.

Of course he's just a friend. Friends help each other. Friends have dinner. Friends talk about their problems. This, whatever this is, has just been in his head. All these thoughts of intimacy, the feeling of happiness – why did he let himself believe it could be more?

SMS Message from Hannibal [15:32 pm]:

Will, are you okay?

SMS Message from Hannibal [15:58 pm]:

I am done with appointments today.
I will be calling you shortly.

Missed call from: Hannibal [16:00 pm]

1 New Voicemail [16:01 pm]

SMS Message from Hannibal [16:05]:

Please call me back asap.

SMS Message From Hannibal [18:14 pm]:

Will, I am worried.

Missed call from: Hannibal [18:33 pm]

2 New Voicemail [18:35 pm]

Missed call from: Hannibal [19:00 pm]

3 New Voicemail [19:01 pm]

Missed call from: Hannibal [19:15 pm]

4 New Voicemail [19:16 pm]

He hasn't looked at his phone since leaving Hannibal's office. Will knows he's gotten more than a few texts and calls from the doctor – he who shall not be named, he tells Winston – and doesn't even consider listening to the voicemails piling up. It's petty, unbecoming, and stupid, but Will's chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with his medication.

The kicker of it all is that he let it go on for this long and still knew the slim odds. He was too caught up in someone finally, finally, taking care of him and giving a damn after Molly. He's just been attention starved. It's nothing special, what Hannibal is doing for him. The man himself even said he does this for friends, so why would Will be any different?

The phone on his nightstand lights up again, signaling another new message. He turns over and buries himself into the covers a bit further.

It's near four in the morning when someone knocks on his door.

Will – sleepy, weak Will – drags himself from the couch with the comforter around him to answer it. Without his glasses he can't quite see as well, especially in the dark, and if anyone asks he blames that on why he opens the door without a second thought.

Because it's Hannibal – in jeans and a sweater with unkempt hair, good Lord - looking distraught and relieved all at once when the door swings open. Will only gets in a few moments of realization before the doctor pushes Will back inside. The comforter is cast aside in favor of Hannibal's arms and the man takes in a shuddering sigh as he hugs Will to him.

And Will. Well. Will takes the opportunity for what it is, no matter how disbelieving, and hugs Hannibal back. His arms come up slowly to curl against the man's back, his forehead pressing against the dip of his shoulder. He closes his eyes and just stands there to take it in, lets himself have this moment he thought unobtainable.

And he's very much content to be held, mind you, but he murmurs a small, “Hey,” because he figures he might need to say something to the disheveled man who showed up at his home at the ass crack of dawn.

Nothing is said for a minute, but then he gets a muffled, ”I was worried you were dead,” in reply, which – he feels a thousand times worse for ignoring all those calls and texts now.

“I'm okay,” He reassures him. His hands fist into Hannibal's sweater just a bit tighter. “I'm okay.”

He isn't, but oh well.

“You did not answer my calls,” Hannibal says, moving back to look at Will. The darkness is sunken under his eyes, making him look like he hasn't slept – he probably hasn't. He's probably been waiting for Will to contact him all night. “I admit I thought the worst.”

“Not far from the mark,” Will mumbles. Hannibal stares at him, and Will corrects, “Not exactly that, but I wasn't...It wasn't a good day yesterday.”

“Did I do something to cause you distress?” He asks.

“No – Well, yes and no. It's stupid. I'm being stupid over it. It's not your fault.”

“Will - ”

“I've just decided that I shouldn't...I shouldn't keep relying on you for things. You have your own life, you shouldn't be my caretaker. You were my psychiatrist but that bridge was crossed - ”

“Will - ”

“ - and I'm still acting like you are, and then loading more of my problems onto you. I'm just. I'm gonna call Molly - ”

“Will.”

Will stops, finally. His skin is flushed from embarrassment. His hands flex, dropping from Hannibal's back. He wants to crawl back under his comforter for ten years.

“I'm sorry.”

“You are assuming things,” Hannibal says. “I never said you relied on me too much. Did I give the impression of such?”

Will swallows harshly. “No, but I know how I am. People get overwhelmed by me.”

The doctor smiles. “I am not overwhelmed, dear Will. I am not annoyed to be hearing of your problems, nor do I feel as though you're putting me out by your appointments or by this surgery.”

Will grimaces and tries to look away, but he feels Hannibal's hands come up to his face. Warmth presses against his cheeks and he's forced to look at Hannibal directly; blue into maroon.

“I must confess that my feelings for you are inconvenient, only because it has been years since I have been enthralled by someone so strongly,” Hannibal admits, hushed and soft. “The thought of you going to anyone else for this, especially your former fiancée, makes me feel ill in my own respect. And the memory of you leaving so suddenly without explanation has caused me to worry excessively, especially thinking that I have been the source.”

“It wasn't your fault - ” Will tries, but he's shushed quickly.

“Inadvertently, it was. Is it because I told you we were friends?” Hannibal asks.

Will doesn't say anything, but he can't avert Hannibal's gaze.

“Because,” Hannibal says, “it seems I have been a bit too subtle in my feelings.”

And now Will really can't say anything, because Hannibal is suddenly close, closer – his mouth is soft as it presses against Will's. His head tilts just so, just enough for Will to feel the scratch of stubble that Hannibal hadn't shaved off this morning. He moves just enough for Will to feel the beating of the doctor's heart against his own chest. They're so close that Will can easily cling back onto him, slipping his hands up once more to grip at his back.

It's just what Will has imagined kissing Hannibal to be like – warm, comforting, grounding. It's intimate in all the ways that Will has been afraid of. The lingering sweetness and musk that he inhales is purely Hannibal, just as intoxicating as the man himself, and it only makes him want to press further into him to see how far inside he can get.

And when they part, Will gasps, shudders, pressing his face into the crook of Hannibal's neck to steal a few more moments of closeness. The hands on his face move to wrap around him again, as if to try and keep him from escaping again. As if Will would leave after that.

“I am a selfish man, when I let myself be,” Hannibal admits into the quiet of the kitchen.

Will smiles against his neck. “You should be selfish more often.”

Hannibal replies with his own amused chuckle. “With you, I feel as though my opportunities will be endless.”

“Do you think I'll be okay?”

The rest of the week before the surgery – the rest of the week following That Morning - has been a blur for Will. It's not been awkward, per say, but it's been that next step that he's been doubtful of taking with Hannibal.

Because when Hannibal said he could be a selfish man, he meant it. He asked Will (and Winston) to stay with him for the remainder of the time before his Thursday appointment. He's rarely left Will's side unless it was for his own practice or a bit of grocery shopping, and even then he's spent most of his spare moments doting on the ill man. And it's nice – really nice, if Will's honest. It's just like before when Hannibal would come and make him dinner, spend the evening hours with him afterwards, only more; more lingering touches, more kissing, more whispered conversations and confessions that have been sparking between them. It's more than Will could ever hope for.

Even now, in the quiet of Hannibal's Bentley that's parked outside Johns Hopkins, Hannibal holds his hand with possessiveness. His thumb rubs circles, clockwise, as a soothing gesture into the skin, just letting the time pass.

“Doctor Sutcliffe is an excellent surgeon. I have no doubt that you will be in good hands.” Hannibal keeps rubbing his hand. He looks at Will, questioning, “Are you worried?”

“I'm terrified,” Will confesses. “I've only ever gone under to get my tonsils out, and that was thirty years ago. So this - ” he gestures to the hospital outside the car window, “ - is daunting.”

“I will be here, mylimasis, if anything should go wrong,” Hannibal reassures him, giving his hand a small squeeze. “Shall we go in?”

Reluctantly they leave the safety of the car and enter the hospital. Will is directed to change into a hospital gown as soon as they check in, then ushered into one of the many beds they have in the surgery ward.

Hannibal doesn't leave his side. He waits with him as Dr. Sutcliffe and the anesthesiologist come in to talk to Will, telling him all that's going to happen – literally everything Will doesn't want to hear – and they let Hannibal know what to expect afterwards.

When Will is ready to be wheeled away onto the next room, Hannibal leans in and kisses him. “I will see you in a few hours,” He promises.

Will clings onto his suit sleeve until the last moment.

“I can't wait until my hair grows back,” Will grumbles. The stitches from his surgery go around in a curve, from the top of his forehead down to the outer end of his eyebrow. Thankfully it's closer to the side of his head and not smack dab in the middle of his face – small miracles, Will thinks – but it's still very obvious. He can only hope his hair grows enough around it to cover it up for the most part. He's gonna be screwed if they ever need to escape the country.

“I admit, I do miss your curls, but I am rather fond of the shaven look on you,” Hannibal murmurs. He's concentrating on applying the antibacterial ointment to Will's wound. It aches, nothing like it used to, but Hannibal still attempts to be as gentle as possible.

“You just like the shape of my skull,” Will teases. Hannibal hums in agreement.

“The human body is fascinating. Yours more so than any other person's,” He says.

Will closes his eyes as he feels the press of the bandage being applied to his head, then smiles at the press of Hannibal's mouth against his own. Warmth spreads through Will and he leans in closer, enjoying the sensation until Hannibal reels back.

“Are you feeling well enough for dinner this evening?” Hannibal asks, busying himself with putting away the medical supplies.

“As well as I ever do.” Will grabs the open bandage wrappers off the coffee table. “So who are these people again? Alana and Morgan?”

“Margot,” Hannibal corrects. “They are very eager to meet you, but if you would rather - ”

“I think I'll be fine.” Will turns to press another quick kiss against his lips. “It's just dinner with two other people – not a party this time.”

“No parties,” Hannibal agrees. “Nothing too overwhelming. I promise, mylimasis.”

Will flushes at the endearment. “One day,” He promises back.

In this whole ordeal, it started with one day.

He looks forward to what the next one day will bring.