flannelepicurean:

Will lays the back of his hand against Hannibal’s forehead. “You’re burning up,” he says.

Hannibal’s eyes flutter open. For all their glassy sheen, they are still lucid. “Will,” he acknowledges. Neither a question nor a plea.

Will sighs through his nose, looks over his shoulder toward the bathroom. He turns back to Hannibal, opens his mouth to say something, shuts it again. Reluctantly leaves Hannibal’s bedside and strides with resolute purpose to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Paws through it impatiently, coming up with a thermometer at last. Returns to the bedroom and brandishes the thermometer at Hannibal.

“Come on,” he instructs; “open up.”

Hannibal’s face remains placid, but Will senses a glare nonetheless. Will hands over the thermometer and lets Hannibal place it in his own mouth, tucking it under his tongue. They sit in silence.

The thermometer beeps. Will accepts it back from Hannibal, looks down at the reading. “One oh…” his brows knit together. “One oh three.” His eyes flick back to Hannibal’s face, taking in the florid skin, the sheen of sweat, the hair plastered to his forehead. “We’ve got to cool you down.”

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