Chapter Text
Will is awoken by the sound of his hospital door opening, the slight creak alerting him to the action. His mind feels as if it's floating on a ship in the middle of a storm. Everything is hazy and numb while also being painful and sharp.
"Sorry to wake you Mr Graham, but there's a Hannibal Lecter here to see you?" His Nurse Matthew says and he lets out a soft groan. His head feels like a ton of bricks, he manages to make an affirmative noise and the doctor himself walks in. Not much makes sense anymore, but the name sounds familiar. Safe.
Hannibal finds himself unprepared to see Will in such a vulnerable state, with cables and tubes laying all around him and his heart monitor beeping away. At least his spinal tap is no longer present. The empath is laying on blue sterile sheets and has a similarly coloured gown covering his body. Will is now capable of sitting up but he doesn't seem fond of the idea. Matthew watches them unhappily before storming off down the hall. Will looks over at Hannibal slowly, finally capable of such a thing. The pair hadn't interacted much, only their initial rubber stamped conversation. Only a week later, Will had a terrible seizure at a scene and wound up here. Hannibal felt it important to check on the man. He wasn't sure why.
"I wish we were meeting again under better circumstances, Will." Hannibal says and the younger man lets out a soft chuckle, surprising both parties. The harsh lights of the hospital have been turned off in his room to soothe his raging headache. He moves slightly and lets out a whimper of pain. The doctor rushes over to him and frowns.
"Do you need help?" Hannibal asks softly and Will nods carefully, teary eyed and panting. The doctor helps him to sit up and Will breathes out slowly once more. He rubs his eyes and watches the older man walk back to the end of his bed and pick up his file. His eyes darken as he reads further.
Will Graham, 28 year old male, 5'10, 120 lbs.
Anti-NMDA Encephalitis (this much he already knew). Patient presented with seizures, hallucinations, and chronic migraines. At the time of admission to hospital, patient also presented with severe aphasia and confusion.
Hannibal looks up to the younger man, dwarfed by the hospital bed, as the pieces begin to click together. Confusion may still be at play if the boy's panicked look is anything to go off of. The file feels heavy in his hands as his maroon gaze returns to the feverish man.
"Will, can you talk?"
The younger man lets out a whimper before shaking his head. Broca's region aphasia, the doctor surmises. His heart aches for the profiler in a way he is unfamiliar with. He admirer the sass of the profiler, his quick wit, and barbed tongue. He's had that ripped from him, with no help from Jack Crawford. Hannibal cannot help but feel a twinge of guilt, knowing he rubber stamped the man who now lays in agony before him.
"I see. Well my ability to aid as a psychiatrist is limited then, but I'm sure you could use a friend. The nurse said I was your first visitor aside from Mr Crawford." Hannibal frowns and the younger man sniffles. The doctor looks at his slightly matted curls and unshaven face, even now there is a striking beauty about the man, but he cannot help but want to see him pampered. The fondness worming its way into his heart must come from his time as a doctor himself. He wants to see the man make a full recovery. He will make sure he does. He goes to speak to Will's doctor but not before he notices the boy's tremors.
***
Jack Crawford was many things. Husband, friend, boss...but he was no Saint. He knows he pushed Will, but it was only because the ends justified the means. Will got killers behind bars, and that's all Jack needed to know. True empathy, or whatever Doctor Lecter had called it, meant Will was damn good at his job. He gave Will a chance to quit, and he didn't take it. So was it really Jacks fault?
Who was he kidding. Of course it was. Jack was consumed by guilt, and a shameful part of him kept wondering when Will would recover so he could get back to saving lives. He didn't expect Will's condition to be so severe. Maybe stress induced seizures or latent epilepsy, not a nearly fatal brain inflammation. He arrives at the hospital and slams his car door shut. He was getting fucking sick of hospitals. Running a hand down his grey button down he enters the hospital and demands to see his best profiler. He's kept it quiet at the BAU, asking Alana to fill in for Will's lectures and ignoring any questions Beverly or Jimmy throw his way. Zeller seems content to think Will 'finally lost the plot'. He hopes Kade Purnell hasn't heard about this. His job could be on the line. It deserves to be on the line.
They tell him that Will is currently not available to receive visitors, but he can wait in the waiting room until he is. Jack just nods and takes a seat, closing his eyes and wishing for this nightmare to be over. Encephalitis. Just his luck.
***
When Jack enters Will's room he is met with the smell of urine and a fairly out of it Will Graham. His nurse Matthew is running a damp towel across the empath's skin and his eyes snap up to Jack's.
"They let you in here? What the hell." Matthew snaps and the FBI agent raises both his eyebrows in shock. Will looks haggard, eye bags deeper than when he last saw Will unconscious. Matthew sighs and pulls Jack out of the room, closing the door pointedly.
"Look I don't know what you think you're doing, coming here when he's like this, but if you're another tabloid-"
"I'm his boss, Jack Crawford, FBI." Jack states, pulling his badge from his pocket. Matthew's eyes widen carefully and he nods. He breathes out in a whistle and nods again, clearly frazzled by the agent.
"Well now isn't a good time. He's not well, Mr Crawford. Plus, if your looking to get him to help you, he's not much use. He can't talk." Jack hears the words. Fails to process them. Watches his career go down the drain right before his eyes.