Chapter Text
The moment that Will lays eyes on Hannibal feels visceral.
As he trails behind Jack, the blur from the dangerously quick drive follows into the office. Everything feels like it's tipping out of focus, except for Hannibal.
Right at that split moment when Hannibal notices he's in the room, there are two things Will perceives within himself. The urge to protect his friend from harm was a kinetic force thrumming through him, leaving him with no outlet, with Tobias currently laid out cold on the floor. The second is that as their eyes finally meet, Will realizes that seeing Hannibal's vulnerability brought a distinctive feeling so harshly to the surface that it felt impossible to ignore.
Will pockets the thoughts for later inspection, turning to analyze the rest of the room with curiosity.
There is another body lying in an unceremonious slump on the ground. But what catches Will's attention is the bloodied stag statue beside Tobias's corpse. Helplessly pulled to the scene, he fixates on it until an agitating feeling rises in his throat, acute and uncomfortably familiar. It feels like a dreary mixture of falling behind the pendulum and drowning in a nightmare sequence. The stag statue lays down like a stark divination of destruction, wrung out of the lines between his hallucinations and nightmares and brought to the surface of his reality—a messenger soaked in blood, pointing clearly to Tobias's prone form.
See?
Will swallows around the fiery sensation and slips his eyes shut, clearing the whirlwinds of his imagination. Then he keeps walking, his footsteps muted amidst the commotion.
He observes that too many people are in the room and there is too much noise. It's distracting, as crime scenes usually are, and counterintuitive to the quiet that he needs to do his part of the job. But that was not why Jack called him here today. So, with a last scan across the disarray in the office, Will turns his back to it.
And there, Hannibal's state unfolds before him, a sight both intriguing and unsettling to witness, like the blooming of a Venus Flytrap. A crimson line runs from Hannibal's mouth to his chin, his hand patting over his thigh as bloodstained as the cloth in his grasp.
Will perches against the office desk and clasps his injured hands under its edge to cull the sudden instinct to reach over and soothe.
His gaze finds Hannibal instead, and in that moment, they share a silent understanding. It's a raw display, a mix of awe and relief delicately etched to Hannibal's features. It’s a shared language, a connection that surprises Will with its strength.
Now that he's closer, Will notices some more minute details. Hannibal does not look shaken by the event itself. But the anxiety emanating from him lingers. It’s understated; barely noticeable, but for the slightest fidgeting of his fingers. It feels mismatched. Hannibal's tension doesn't seem fabricated as much as repurposed in a way that Will can't quite pinpoint. And something is lingering subtly in the corners of Hannibal's eyes. Gentle and yet primarily unreadable. Look too closely, and you'll miss it. Will bites the urge to worry at his lip as his mind tries to deconstruct Hannibal's actions. He stares, wondering what could have softened the usually razor-edged air around him until Hannibal thankfully breaks their gaze from spiraling into a point of rudeness to follow Jack closely. Will watches as that characteristic sharpness in Hannibal's eyes swiftly returns.
Jackhammering a staccato that feels like a key removed from the familiar adrenaline rush through his veins, his heart lurches. It feels like fear. It feels like being pressed nose-first against the translucent glass encasing the key to one of his cases. It's all those things, yet it's also something entirely different.
Oh?
Oh, he thinks. But he could be wrong.
Will shifts his expression to one of understanding when Hannibal's attention returns a moment later.
"Mr. Budge said he was questioned by the FBI, and he murdered two men," Hannibal's voice is low, a little rough from exertion. "I was worried you were dead."
Will's empathy coils around the word worried, tears at its wrappings. Unearthing its weight feels quite dizzying, so he exhales softly to recalibrate. Leaning closer, he raises his own bandaged arm with a sympathetic smile. "You had reason to worry."
Hannibal's answering expression is a beacon, its light swiftly interrupted by Jack. Will leans back as he approaches.
"So," Jack starts, stepping closely in front of them. "Tobias Budge kills two Baltimore Police Officers, nearly kills an FBI Special Agent, and after all that, his first stop is your office." Jack’s looming figure is all the more authoritative, with him and Hannibal sitting. His tone, purposefully ambiguous, though the suspicion in his words rings clear.
Hannibal, however, takes the statement with ease. He reclines in his seat, straightens gracefully, and turns to speak.
Will interjects without hesitation, lips tightening. “Hannibal's patient told him he suspected a friend was involved with the murder at the symphony. Hannibal told me, and I investigated,"
"I got him involved," he insists before turning towards Hannibal. "Your patient. Is that who Tobias Budge was serenading?"
Hannibal's gaze dips to thoughtfully regard both bodies in his room, and Will notes with interest that his expression shifts. His features emerge in stillness—not an aversion to the scene born from guilt or a rigidness that usually could be expected from victims as their psyche attempts to protect them. The look is neither cold nor warm but a distinctive brand of nothingness.
It feels deeply unsettling to observe his friend this way. Through this relentless lens he's been desperately trying to separate his mind from carrying over into the 'real world.' They'd teetered on the precipice of many boundaries: between psychiatrist and friend, professional colleague and private confidante. But Will has managed to keep this part of his mind locked away from their relationship for reasons he can admit he doesn't fully understand. Perhaps it was because once he realized that his empathy could not breach the fortress of Hannibal's mind, choosing instead to step beside that blankness had been so liberating that attempting to intrude felt like it would shatter their friendship and himself. He craved the solace that Hannibal's mind gave him in a sea of endless chaos. So, primarily for selfish reasons.
But now that there is just the slightest crack on the surface of those walls, it's hard to look away.
Will averts his gaze just as Hannibal's attention returns to both him and Jack, carefully taming his scrutiny as he leans back to observe their exchange instead.
"I don't know," Hannibal finally quietly answers. "I'm convinced that Franklyn knew more than he was telling me. He told Mr. Budge he didn't have to kill anymore. Then he broke Franklyn's neck. Then he attacked me."
"And you killed him." Jack's tone comes out clipped. He rubs at his temple with a vague sense of annoyance. It was becoming hard to pinpoint precisely where Jack intended to lay down his frustrations about the crime scene.
"Yes."
Jack glances towards Franklyn's corpse as they hoist him onto the gurney with a saddened expression. "Do you think your patient…Franklyn could have been involved with what Budge was doing?"
Hannibal seems to consider the possibility before a shadow of doubt clouds his features. "I assumed it was a simple matter of poor choice in friends."
Jack scans Hannibal as they load another body.
They watch as the duo gets wheeled out in a tragic camaraderie, the scenery casting a haunting shadow. A shadow that feels physical, it blankets Will as if revealing a page of its meaning while constricting his ability to apply its lessons. It's an allegory wasted on me, he thinks. Danger seems to be all he knows.
"This does not feel so simple," Jack murmurs almost to himself before stepping away without another word.
He looks apologetically at Hannibal.
"Sorry about that," Will sighs heavily. "I feel like I've dragged you into my world."
Hannibal leans minutely closer, his eyes dark yet gentle as they settle on him. "I got here on my own, but I appreciate the company."
The words have enough sway to drain one avenue of the tension building inside him. In his way, Hannibal is attempting to absolve Will of responsibility for the day's events. The small part of him wondering if his sudden scrutiny of his friend was his mind's attempt at shifting blame flickers out. But the relief that washes over him is short-lived, as Hannibal's words take on a new, possibly unnerving meaning.
He anxiously tugs at the hem of his jacket, the unsettling feeling rising once again to the surface.
As they turn toward the room, Will's attention shifts to him. Hannibal breathes in deeply, lips pursing with mild displeasure as he scans the state of the office. Now that the officers are slowly trickling out of the room, the view of the damage seems unavoidable.
He brings a hand to Hannibal's shoulder and gently squeezes, carefully guiding him away from the disarray.
"We can sort it out later," Will offers quietly. I'll talk to Jack, then I can take you home." His unwavering tone leaves no room for question, and Hannibal easily slips into a conceding expression, with that indescribable look still lingering on his face.
The urge to trace over Hannibal’s smile and swipe away the congealing bloodstain under his lip is a hard impulse to ignore. It's almost that easy to forget that there were two dead bodies in the room just moments ago. Or that Hannibal had put one of them there.
Will gives the room a last appraising sweep before the picture of the day's incident is completely dismantled. Although his brain might constantly feel like it's on fire these days, the one thing he could still trust himself to do is accurately assess a scene.
The skill with which the struggle happened looked more like a dance when Will stripped it down to its parts—and it did not seem like the first time. Indeed, not even Hannibal could have matched this waltz against a tenured killer like Tobias.
Not without practice.
Will's been dealing with nightmares.
He's been dealing with them rather terribly. As he waits in Hannibal's pristine living room, he thinks about the hole he'd made in his chimney- a jagged, gaping wound in the heart of his home. He'd need to close that hole soon before real animals start visiting.
Will understands the symbolic irony in their mental states, even with the day's events. His mind feels porous; as if it requires good patching. Yet the more attempts he makes to fix the ruin, the more nightmares spill over. As always, Hannibal continues to epitomize an anchor: sturdy and impenetrable.
But he hadn't been entirely impenetrable today.
"Will?" Hannibal's voice, filled with genuine concern, calls him back to the present.
When Will turns towards him, he sees the first-aid kit he'd asked Hannibal to grab. He tries hard not to ruminate over what Hannibal must be thinking when he notices Will's too-keen fixation on his living room wall. As their eyes meet, he murmurs, "Yes," before standing up quickly. "Sorry."
"Where would you like me?" Hannibal asks, and Will's brain freezes.
"What?"
Hannibal analyzes him with a distinct expression that Will can only describe as pleasantly curious—dissecting, cataloging, and admiring in one go.
It should be invasive, and it is, but it's also somehow warm. Hannibal's interest in him is palpable; the reward is in making that interest known. It's beginning to dawn on Will how apparent this dynamic between them must have been, if he hasn't managed to misinterpret the entire situation.
"To tend to my wounds," Hannibal smiles as he casually flips a small towel over his shoulder. "I wondered if you may wish to choose for the sake of comfort."
Will's chuckles fondly and shakes his head. 'It's your home,' he says lightly. Hannibal's peculiar brand of care never failed to amuse him. Despite his injuries, from his face down to his thighs, Hannibal seemed more concerned about Will's comfort in a supposedly confined space for what would likely take less than fifteen minutes. 'But the bathroom down here should be good. I don't mind. It shouldn't take too long anyway.'
Will guides them toward the bathroom, and Hannibal lingers in the entryway. The compact space bears Hannibal’s unmistakably bold style, despite its clear lack of use. He moves around the room with ease, accustomed to the area, and sets up quickly. With a beckoning tilt of his head, Hannibal steps inside.
As they settle, Hannibal's sharp eyes catch a small, knee-high shelving unit pressed against the wall, slightly askew from its usual position. His brows knit with a trace of displeasure, a subtle change that Will quickly picks up on.
"You've made some rearrangements, "Hannibal remarks.
Hannibal was a man of precise habits thrown into disorder today. Even for someone so composed, a reassurance that any loss of control would be manageable seemed needed. 'Temporarily repurposed. Everything will be straightened back after,' Will assures Hannibal when he finally sits.
After a quiet moment, Hannibal glances at him. "I apologize. Some fragments of my wariness over the state of my office spilled past. As always, I want you to feel comfortable in my home."
Suppressing a smile, Will arranges the first-aid supplies, casually tossing the loosely wrapped bandage from his hand into the trash. "Can't be helped. It's nothing to worry about." Will watches as Hannibal's expression eases before returning his focus.
The cut on his palm is fortunately not severe. Though the wound is still raw, the bleeding has stopped. He flexes his hands under the cool stream of water to reassure himself, nodding in confirmation. Will retrieves a pair of latex gloves from the kit, then hesitates momentarily before slipping them on and fills the sink with warm water. After a prolonged pause, he tentatively slips the towel from Hannibal's shoulder and soaks it in the sink. The sound of water echoes through the room.
Those dark, enigmatic eyes never leave him. Even though he's turned away from Hannibal, he feels pinned, as though facing him with his back to the wall.
Now that Will is acutely aware of Hannibal's unwavering attention, he grapples with every past interaction. The almost gravitational pull behind their exchanges, behind Hannibal's comforting touch in all the right spots: the hand on his shoulder, the breadth of his back. Vague impressions of a solid but gentle hand gripping his jaw, keeping him grounded. He can't be sure if these thoughts are shadows of memory or distant desires bubbling up from his subconscious.
Hannibal's unyielding gaze sometimes hinted at a flicker of emotion that felt personal yet completely impenetrable to Will until now.
As he squeezes the towel, his attention draws to the weak steam wafting from it and disappearing into the air. It makes him question if this nagging feeling would end up the same. If once exposed, it would dissolve into nothingness, leaving him feeling foolish and, truthfully, terrified. Hannibal was, after all, his closest friend. But, while he knows that he might be venturing into dangerous territory, there is only one way to find out.
Hannibal was always too subtle by design.
And that was the perpetual paradox of their relationship. Until they dare to delve into that precarious box harbouring their vulnerabilities, every word exchanged between them remains either a therapeutic release or a mere friendly banter. Will, feeling the weight of the questions placed at the forefront of his mind, cannot bear to leave them unanswered for a moment longer without succumbing to the mounting tension.
He nibbles on his lower lip, exhaling a long breath as he approaches Hannibal with the steaming cloth. "I've never been one for subtlety, as you've probably noticed." His voice cracks slightly at the seams, spilling his apprehension.
Hannibal tilts his head in that characteristically birdlike manner, a peacock openly showcasing his curiosity. Then he smiles anyway, seemingly content to humour Will with whatever is going on in his head, and tilts his chin forward into Will's waiting hand. "Your forthrightness is one of your many charming qualities. You'll have no judgment from me."
As comforting as it is to hear those words from Hannibal, they don't quell his self-doubt. His so-called forthrightness had likely led to the loss of a friend merely days ago. And now, he realizes that his brief affair with Alana wasn't just misguided but also profoundly misplaced.
"…I want to ask you a question," Will lingers until their eyes meet. He inhales deeply and makes the first contact with Hannibal's skin.
"Alright," Hannibal murmurs as Will sweeps under his eyes with the cloth, his gloved fingers lightly trailing around the prominent groove. Hannibal is quite beautiful. That is a fact he'd always known, but seeing his features this close is a renewed revelation.
"It might be inappropriate, not just time and place wise…" Will tries emphasizing. He doesn't know if he's asking Hannibal to give him an out or if it's a verbalized warning to himself. Now would probably be a good time for Hannibal to establish those boundaries they've needed between them since they first met. Close the box and push it away altogether.
Hannibal's expression shifts slightly enough to show a cocktail of concern and interest. "Will, there is very little you can say to shock me. And we're both past generic social niceties," he pauses, consideringly. "You can tell me anything."
With that, he takes a deep breath of resolve before speaking. "Do you want… more between us?" he asks quietly, casting a furtive glance at Hannibal.
Hannibal parts his lips, as close to shock as he'd ever seen him. Then he gives a mild chuckle that rumbles beautifully under Will's palm while his gaze simultaneously roams over Will's face in a silent apology. "I'll have to rescind my last statement, after all."
Will laughs despite the nerve-wracking frenzy he'd worked into just a moment ago. It feels cathartic after the shitstorm they'd weathered through today. He raises his brows, tilting his head side to side in agreement. "I tend to have that effect on people."
Hannibal's amusement creases the corners of his eyes as they meet Will's. "Yes, Will. If I may be honest, I do," he begins, sobering. “However, I do not anticipate reciprocation, as I am delighted with the gift of your friendship. Your company, in any capacity, remains vital to me. And I wouldn't want the knowledge of this to impact our relationship—if you're amenable."
Will shakes his head just as the last words leave Hannibal. "No, that's good. It's relieving because I feel the same. I didn't fully realize it until I walked into that room today, and then…I saw you."
It's the truth. Yet, it's a truth with two sides, a coin hurtling through space, its rapid motion blurring the lines. To reveal one side is to halt its momentum, exposing the other. It makes Will almost hesitate. A part of him senses the potential consequences of his actions.
How does that make you feel? He ponders in the only voice that somehow managed to retain its gentleness amidst the storm in his mind.
"It felt…raw," Will finds himself answering a version of his question. "Unmistakable. As if some of the pieces I'd been trying to find had finally let themselves be seen."
Hannibal's pleasure is evident. His feathered lashes flutter as he directs his attention to Will's injured hand, which had previously taken the brunt of Tobias's aggression. He reaches out with a gentle, yet firm touch and pulls Will's hand closer, bringing the faint crimson hue beneath the translucent glove into focus. Will's heart quickens, moving closer until his knees brush against Hannibal's thighs. The warmth of their contact is electrifying.
Will's gaze remains fixed on Hannibal, mirroring his fascination with his hand. He suppresses a shiver as Hannibal's thumb glides over his palm, just shy of the injury. Then, Hannibal lowers his head, and before Will can comprehend the reason, there is a gentle pressure at the center of his palm. The moment stuns Will, his heart lurching from the intimacy and sudden need. He closes his eyes, his breath catching in his throat, the thunder of his heartbeat drowning out all sound.
When Hannibal opens his eyes, he is practically beaming. "Is that how you felt when you sensed that I might also feel the same?" The words caress in a network over each line in his palm, and desire pools sharply in his stomach.
"Yes," he answers softly.
Hannibal's satisfied hum is a gentle melody, and Will takes a shuddering breath, his heart still racing. As Hannibal releases his hand with a feather-light touch to cup his face, Will's lips moisten. Hannibal's eyes, a heady, dark shade of desire, roam over his face, but an observant expression swiftly replaces them.
"Have you still been sleeping poorly?"
Will furrows his eyebrows, feeling whiplashed by the question. Was this about Alana? About feeling unstable?
Hannibal tilts his head subtly and a look of comprehension passes over his features. He clarifies, "The question is completely separate from what we were just speaking of. I wouldn't diminish the impact of your words in such a way.”
A wave of relief washes over him, as he settles into Hannibal's touch. The inquiry is the magic word because his body instantly betrays him. He yawns with strain, and Hannibal smiles, open and fond. So that was why he was asking, he thinks, feeling a little sheepish. "Guess you have your answer," Will shrugs lightly, reaching for a band-aid from the kit and ripping it out of its enclosure.
"We've both competed for the world's most terrible day, but you also have the unfortunate addition of insomnia. It would seem that clearly, you've won," Hannibal observes with amusement.
Will quirks a brow, then laughs as he smooths the adhesive edge of the bandage over the bridge of Hannibal's nose. "So, add that to your next recommendation letter if I need another. Maybe I'll get a medal from the FBI for winning the world's shittiest day." He finally swipes away the congealed trail of blood from Hannibal's lips with a sense of satisfaction and lets his fingers linger; they're impossibly soft to the touch. "But it's not all so bad, is it?"
"Not at all. I could argue that you've made my day exponentially better." Hannibal sounds endlessly pleased. "I'd like you to stay the night."
Will fails to stifle his shock, his eyes snapping quickly to Hannibal's. Yes, his mind supplies helplessly.
"I… shouldn't," he says instead.
Despite his hesitation, he's glad Hannibal does not seem discouraged by his response. Before he can explain further, Hannibal speaks. “There's no pressure to indulge me, though I must clarify that I have no expectations outside of enjoying your company in the same manner as always and, more importantly, ensuring that you manage some rest. Let me tend to your injury and cook for you, at the very least."
"But I do," Will admits softly, gaze skittering down to Hannibal's mouth.
Hannibal's breath hitches, and he darts that clever tongue to wet his lips as his eyes meet Will's, and God, if that wasn't just the sexiest thing. Hannibal's desire is a switch, blatant at his call and unmistakable.
Will wants to kiss him.
But Will leans back slowly for his own sake. "I'll stay, but only to keep you company. Death can be a magnet to connection. Or would you prefer that I took advantage of the situation?"
"Would your answer change if I said I would?"
Will shakes his head, amused. "No, but I would find it a very persuasive argument."
"Then yes, Will," Hannibal raises a careful brow, his lips curving teasingly. "I'm not something fragile, far from it."
"I don't think anyone in their right mind would pin you as fragile," Will chuckles, retracing a finger over Hannibal's bruised lower lip. "I'm not hesitating because I believe you're shaken by what happened today, not in the way that you think. I'm worried you're unsure what to do because I know what you want with me. Today, our lives were tested, and that can cloud judgment," Will says.
He feels like a living testament to that point.
"The facts might be clear, but the actions that follow those facts may begin to blur for both of us. I think you also might have much to consider after today," Will continues.
"How so?"
Will's fingers cling to the warmth of Hannibal's skin, a once unimaginable sensation now a desperate necessity. He presses his thumb under Hannibal's chin, tilting his head up firmly.
"Everything went dark, but the scene in your office shed some light. I may have dragged you into my world today, but something tells me you might have visited long before me," Will's voice tensely hangs between them. Then Hannibal's lips twitch subtly, and Will feels the action ripple like a trapped ghost under his touch.
"I'm afraid I'm not quite following." Hannibal's stillness cuts through the air.
And there it was. That razor-sharp intensity, that mysterious energy that Will could never quite decipher. He was now getting barely a hair's breadth glimpse through its doors. It hits him with certainty.
Hannibal is dangerous.
And he'd be a fool not to be afraid. He's only half of one.
Like a detached observer, he registers the turmoil in his mind as he frantically tries to unravel the enigma that is Hannibal. Hints of veiled secrets and the true extent of his influence. Yet, Will's breathing remains steady, and his heart, if anything, feels like it's beating in slow motion, mirroring the sluggish revelation of truth— thick and obscured like molasses.
Will's gaze flicks down to him as he wisps the washcloth over Hannibal's rigid jaw one last time, before placing it at the edge of the sink. "We don't have to talk about it right now. But whatever is happening between us, it dies right here if you lie. And no words of omission either." It sounds unconvincing even to his ears, but Hannibal breathes slowly and falls silent, his expression a mask.
Will confronts the harsh reality of the thoughts that must be racing through Hannibal's mind. Hannibal must realize that Will is openly challenging the boundary between self-defence and murder with Tobias Budge. Regardless of the potential crimes Hannibal may have committed beyond that office today, he understands that self-preservation would be Hannibal's most logical move. The irony of being in the presence of two killers in one day, both with a strong inclination for their craft, feels like a cruel twist of fate. Everything has shifted, and yet.
“What are you thinking, Will?" Hannibal finally says, pulling Will back into the present.
Still grappling with his emotions, Will finds solace in the familiarity of a task. He leans away, slow and deliberate, keeping his movement clear as he reaches for the scissors on the edge of the sink. Squatting in front of Hannibal with a knee to the tiled floor, his eyes meet Hannibal's in an open question. When he sees no hesitation, Will carefully wraps his hands around his calf and drags forward until Hannibal cues in and stretches his leg gracefully over his lap. Will slips the pair of scissors through the tear that Tobias had created when he'd stabbed Hannibal in the thigh, watching as the expensive fabric yields while Hannibal's gaze burns at the nape of his neck. Will concentrates on the task, looping around the material until it finally stacks into an unceremonious bunch above Hannibal's ankles, unveiling the hidden puncture wound. Then, he finally raises his head again to meet Hannibal.
"I don't know," Will admits, his voice filled with uncertainty. "The chicken and the egg, the actions and the facts; they all seem to intertwine. Which comes first, and what do I do with you? I'm sure you're wrestling with the same thoughts." A small, distressed laugh escapes him. "I don't know, Hannibal. But the next time you need a distraction, invite me over again. I won't say no."
It's the closest thing to an answer he can give, the most honest at this specific moment. It would have to do.
He hears the deep, sharp intake of breath. Hannibal's expression is one of astonishment for the second, record-shattering time today.
"And is that a fact, unwaveringly so?"
Hannibal's eyes are sharp yet cautiously reserved; they’re dark whorls that ensnare Will. When drowned in that gaze, he doesn't trust his voice, doesn't trust himself to answer.
"Yes," Will manages anyway.
"No matter what?"
At that question, Will relaxes a little, the slow-rising anxiety surprisingly easing even though it feels like a deadly gift, a deadlier promise. Even though it feels too much like a confession. The fangs of Hannibal's greed are finally baring out openly between them. Witnessing Hannibal shed some pretense is relieving despite the situation.
"Yes," Will confesses. "No matter what."
Hannibal is observing him and seemingly comes to some conclusion. "Then I have one more thing to ask of you. Would it be possible for you to clear your schedule tomorrow?"
The unexpected request takes him a little aback. "What, distracted already?" Will deflects.
Will's unease manifests in his fidgeting, his fingers nervously playing with the loose threads from Hannibal's ruined trousers. Hannibal, ever observant, reaches out to still his hand, his touch sending a jolt of heat through Will's body. His breath catches in his throat, his eyes dart between their intertwined fingers and Hannibal's gaze. The warmth in Hannibal's eyes is almost unbearable, searing through his skin.
Hannibal leans in, his thumb brushing gently over Will's cheek. His brows furrow slightly, and he takes a deep breath before speaking. "Yes, though I'm afraid that this won't be for pleasure," he says, in a measured tone. Will's confusion compounds, his mouth twisting in apprehension.
"I have a good suspicion on the origin of your fevers, and I'd like to have you scheduled for an appointment."