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Saturday June 16th, 1984
Hannibal glanced at the clock for the hundredth time. Almost nine, Saturday evening. It was silly, but he was a touch disappointed. Face had never been this late before with his invitation for this particular Sunday lunch. Typically he liked to touch base by Friday at the latest, just in case Hannibal had made other plans.
He hadn’t.
He never did. Not for this weekend in June. Not for the past six years, anyway. Not since he’d understood. Smiling, he thought back to that first time. June 20th, 1976. Eight years ago now. Time did fly. It had been a complete accident that time. Or at least he’d been supposed to think so.
They’d been between jobs and Face had called him up one sunny Saturday morning and asked if he wanted to try a new steakhouse in Beverly Hills the next day. Hannibal wasn’t one to turn down a steak dinner although he had politely inquired if it was in service to a scam.
Face had taken mock offense to that, claiming he could easily find a willing dinner companion who was a lot prettier than Hannibal. Of course, Hannibal’d had no doubts on that topic. He’d soothed ruffled feathers and Face had picked him up on Sunday in a rental. A 1975 Corvette convertible to be exact. One with a vivid orange paint job that had been nearly as bright as Face’s self-satisfied grin had been.
His own smile fading, Hannibal glanced at the time again and still the phone did not ring. Crossing the room, he settled on the couch, enjoying the cool evening breeze from the open sliding glass door on the balcony. Lighting a cigar, he told himself there were any number of reasons Face might not have called. Some good, some bad, some female.
Even so. Eight years. Face wouldn’t have forgotten. Wouldn’t have planned something else, Hannibal was just sure of it. Hannibal never planned anything this weekend, either. Not since the second year.
That time when Face had called, Hannibal actually had been busy. He’d gotten called at the last minute for a role and had been in process of walking out the door to catch a flight when Face had called. Hannibal hadn’t put the pieces together yet, of course. Hadn’t understood the carefully disguised disappointment in Face’s tone as he’d claimed it was no big deal, they could get lunch some other time, and wished him good luck on the film.
Hannibal had cheerily ended the call and hurried off. It hadn’t hit him until he’d seen a calendar. Even then, he’d told himself it was just a coincidence. Just a fluke. Face hadn’t picked a particular date on purpose. Had just picked a random Sunday. Wasn’t like they didn’t get lunch on random occasions all the time between jobs.
His gaze drifted to the clock again as it ticked onward. Nine oh one and no call.
Maybe he had forgotten. Hannibal shook his head. Unlikely. Highly unlikely. Face was many things, but forgetful he was not.
Which made Hannibal wonder about other things. When had he last seen Face, anyway? They’d wrapped up their last job about a week and a half ago. All grins and success and payment in their pockets. No arguments - well, not too many, anyway - and no injuries. A good job.
Everything had gone well and there’d been no indications of tension or hurt feelings. So it probably wasn’t anything that had happened on the job. Even so… He frowned, wracking his brain, trying to remember if he’d said anything he shouldn’t have. They’d all learned a long time ago, sometimes painfully, how easy it was to hurt Face. How easy it was to not realize they’d even done it until it was too late.
“I should just call him,” Hannibal said to the room at large.
The room didn’t answer.
The third year Face had called him up on a seemingly random Friday in June, Hannibal had been suspicious. He’d accepted the invitation to the new French restaurant in Hollywood and they’d had a great time. He’d known exactly what day it was that time, but he hadn’t said a word about it and neither had Face.
He stared at the silent phone, fingers drumming on the arm of the couch.
And then it wasn’t silent anymore. The phone rang and his heart leapt into his throat. He yanked the phone off the cradle.
“Are you alright?”
There was silence, then a small huff of amusement. Clearing his throat, Face said, “Hello to you, too.”
Hannibal frowned, sitting on the edge of the couch. “What’s wrong?”
“What are you talking about? Nothing’s wrong.”
Hannibal listened closely. Something was wrong. He just wasn’t sure what yet.
“Um…Hannibal? You still there?”
“I’m still here.” Hannibal narrowed his eyes. Face sounded a bit hoarse. Had he been shouting? “What’s up, kid?”
“Well…”
What followed was a three and a half minute, one-sided conversation. Face started with a discussion of the weather, circled somehow back to the last job, mentioned the possibility of lunch tomorrow, then roamed over to a complicated investment scheme that Hannibal didn’t understand and didn’t want to. There was a lot of stuttering and hesitation and backtracking going on, too, like he couldn't quite keep ahold of his thoughts.
Hannibal sat silently, listening more to what Face wasn’t saying than to what he was. He was also listening to the coughing.
There was a significant amount of coughing.
Right in the middle of a sentence, Face broke off coughing so hard that Hannibal cringed. Once the coughing died down and only strained, uneven breathing remained, Hannibal spoke up.
“You sound terrible.” He heard a sharp breath and quickly added, “Do not say you’re fine.”
“Hmpf.” Face huffed, then coughed, then coughed some more.
No wonder he hadn’t called all day. Hannibal shook his head, feeling strangely better, even though he didn’t like the sound of the cough.
“When did you start feeling sick?” He asked once the coughing died down again.
“Yesterday,” Face mumbled miserably. “Was going to see if you wanted to have lunch at Michael’s in Santa Monica tomorrow. We haven’t been there in awhile.”
“Ah.”
Hannibal stared out at the bright lights of Los Angeles against the dark sky. He needed to tread lightly. Cautiously. How, though? This was important - to both of them - but he had to handle it delicately.
“Well, I could certainly go for Michael’s,” Hannibal said after waiting for another bout of coughing to die down. “But maybe we could give it another few days until you’re able to breathe without coughing, hm? I’m free all next week.”
“They’d probably kick us out, anyway. Nobody wants to catch this plague.” Face laughed, but it sounded strained.
“Let’s play it by ear,” Hannibal said, trying to sound upbeat. “See how you’re feeling in another couple days and we’ll go then. Just let me know, okay?”
“Sure. Sounds good.” He wasn’t hiding his disappointment very well and didn’t end the call.
When the silence dragged on, Hannibal asked, “Have you got medications?”
“They don’t do any good.
Which, of course, meant that he’d been taking them in the hopes of a miraculous recovery. No doubt why he’d waited so long to call. Hoping he’d feel better in time for tomorrow.
“Maybe a few more doses,” Face muttered, muffling another cough.
“Maybe so.” Hannibal shook his head. It sounded like it was going to take more than a few more doses.
“Sorry for calling so late.”
“No problem. I was up.”
Hannibal wrapped up the conversation pretty quickly after that because Face was down to only being able to say about three words without coughing. He instructed Face to keep taking the medications and call him in the morning. Expecting a smart comment back about doctors and apples, Hannibal had to make do with a hasty good bye that dissolved into painful coughing.
He hung up the phone and turned on the television, settling on an old monster movie. Not one of his - shame - but it might be enough to distract him from how sick Face had sounded.
"He'll be fine," Hannibal said to himself, adjusting the volume.
His own reassurance lacked conviction.
Face leaned down to reach for the phone from where he’d dropped it after ending the call and earned a mild head rush for his troubles. As he grabbed the phone, he pressed his free hand to the coffee table to avoid smacking his head. That was about the last thing he needed right now. His head had already been pounding since before lunch yesterday. Dropping the phone on the coffee table, he slumped backwards, letting his head rest on the back of the couch.
The couch was white and clean and didn’t have any springs poking through. The carpet was also white and so thick a Chihuahua could get lost in it. The ceiling above had no tobacco stains and the windows all pointed toward the Pacific. All in all, one of the nicest places he’d ever scammed. Definitely the nicest place he’d ever stayed in while sick.
Groaning, he pressed his wrist to his pounding head.
He rarely got sick but here he was. Any other weekend..it could’ve been any other weekend, but no. It was this weekend.
Dropping his arm, he coughed miserably, closing his burning eyes. Even with the air conditioner cranked up, he was hot. Didn’t need a thermometer to know he was feverish and that it wouldn’t be long before he’d be chilled to the core again. The cycle of misery had been going on all night and all day, but it was too early to take more medications according to his scribbled notes.
It was just a good thing he’d gone out yesterday afternoon and stocked up while he’d still felt relatively okay. He’d tried to deny he was getting sick at first but it had not taken long at all for reality to set in and off he’d gone to the drugstore. He’d already been congested and sniffling with a mild cough so he’d selected every product that offered assurances that it could cure each symptom.
The kitchen table looked like a pharmacy and at first he’d been optimistic upon reading all the labels promising relief of symptoms. That optimism had taken a header overnight when the symptoms continued unabated. Everything had only gotten worse this morning and he’d been forced to accept the reality that he wasn’t going to be up for much of anything tomorrow let alone lunch at Michael’s.
Groaning again, he rubbed his eyes. Tomorrow was cancelled, which left him with no plans and no diversions from the misery. With a sigh, he blindly patted the cushions beside him until he located the television remote. Flipping the television on, he coughed as he searched the channels. Bad enough he’d had to cancel the unofficial plans he and Hannibal had for lunch tomorrow; worse still that Hannibal had heard him hacking up a lung. At least there was no question as to why he’d had to cancel.
Maybe it was for the best, anyway. He could take Hannibal out for lunch next week and then it would feel like any of their other random luncheons. Clicking faster through the channels, the illogical part of his brain couldn’t let it go, though. It wasn’t a random lunch, no matter how hard he tried to give that impression. Whether Hannibal saw through the thin veneer of his not-very-random-random-Sunday-in June lunch invitations or not, he’d never let on. Which probably meant he did know and was humoring Face.
A flush of heat that had nothing to do with the fever crept up his neck at the thought. He’d known, that very first year, he’d known inviting Hannibal out for lunch on that particular Sunday in June might be a bit on the nose but he’d done it anyway. And then he’d continued to do it.
It had just felt … right.
His chest tightened as another coughing fit overtook him. He dropped the remote, pressing a hand to his aching chest. The pounding in his head increased tenfold. By the time he could mostly breathe again without coughing, he was exhausted and curled up sideways on the couch. Grateful for the pile of pillows he’d brought out earlier, he rested his head against the cool fabric.
Breathing unevenly, he stared at the television. The remote had fallen to the floor and he wasn’t about to go searching for it which left him with some kind of monster movie. It wasn’t good, but it also wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever been forced to watch. He barely paid attention to it, anyway, his focus scattered and fleeting at best.
Of all weekends, why had he gotten sick this one? He didn’t know where he could have picked this plague up in the first place and it wasn’t like he didn’t take vitamins and try to get a responsible amount of sleep and attempt to eat well-balanced meals. Their last job hadn’t even been too stressful or involved any inclement weather. So, all in all, it was a very disappointing and ill-timed failure on the part of his immune system.
Shifting uncomfortably, he watched the monster movie with bleary eyes and a heavy heart. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now and it wasn’t like he could just send Hannibal a card. Besides, Hannibal didn’t care if he took him out for lunch tomorrow or any other day; he’d be happy with a free meal whenever they got around to it.
Face would just have to deal with his own disappointment.
“It’s just a day,” he mumbled, then coughed. “Doesn’t really mean anything.”
Except, it kind of did.
Sunday, June 17th, 1984
Hannibal glanced at the clock for the hundredth time. A little after ten, Sunday morning.
Up at dawn as usual, he was back to watching the clock. Face still hadn’t called. Pacing the room, Hannibal knew the chances were good Face had taken a dose of medications and was simply sleeping the sleep of the drugged and sick.
And then, just as he’d been about to reach for the phone, just like last night, it rang and startled him.
Grabbing the phone, he was immediately disappointed when the call turned out to be a wrong number. Ending the call, he set the phone down, stared at it for a split second, then picked it up and dialed the number to Face’s current “borrowed” apartment. The phone rang and rang without going to an answering machine. Hannibal gave it a few minutes and then called again. This time he waited longer and finally the call was answered with a painful sounding cough.
“You don’t sound better,” Hannibal said.
After a few seconds of coughing, a few seconds more of unsteady breathing, Face finally said, “You thought I would?”
Hannibal smiled at the mild exasperation in the weary voice. “I guess the medications didn’t work as well as we’d hoped.”
“Hmpf. They don’t do anything. Should sue for false advertising,” Face said, then mumbled about the state of things if one couldn’t trust the medical profession.
“Did you go see a medical professional?” Hannibal asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, no, but that’s not the point!” Even Face’s coughs sounded indignant.
Once the coughing fit was done, Hannibal asked, “Did you get any sleep?”
“I think I caught about an hour or so during The Blob.”
“Shame. Good movie.”
“You’re a true connoisseur of classic films, Hannibal,” Face said, muffling a cough. “I caught most of It Came from Beneath the Sea, though, so my morning was complete.”
Hannibal smiled, shaking his head. “Why were you watching the Creature Feature marathon?”
Face groaned, apparently shifting position. He breathed raggedly for a moment, then said, “Remote hit the floor. Didn’t bother to look for it. I think these movies reach another level entirely of cinematic expression when you’re off your head on NyQuil.”
“Ah. Yes, yes I suppose they would take on a new flair while under the influence of drugs.”
Another round of deep coughing was the only answer.
Hannibal frowned. If anything, the cough was sounding worse. Talking wasn’t helping Face any. He needed to end the call, but first - “Face?”
“Yeah?” The word was more or less a gasped breath between coughing jags.
“Do you have any food?”
“Uh…yeah. Uh huh.”
That didn’t sound particularly reassuring. Chances were he didn’t have much. “Have you been eating?”
“Uh huh.”
In other words, no, Hannibal interpreted. “You need anything?”
“A refund on my immune system,” Face quipped, sounding hoarse but himself.
Hannibal laughed. “Good luck with that one. Call if you need anything, okay?”
“Sure. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for being sick, kid. It happens.”
A weary sigh. A cough. Then, “Didn’t have to happen this weekend.”
If Hannibal had entertained any doubts that their random Sunday lunch in June meant as much to Face as it did to him, they were forever erased now. It was only because Face was so sick that he’d even let it slip, which was also telling.
“Illness doesn’t tend to keep to our schedules,” Hannibal said, choosing his words carefully. “But we make our own schedules, right? We’re a bit…unconventional, aren’t we?”
“A bit?”
Hannibal grinned. “Okay, perhaps more than a bit. But that’s the point, Face. We don’t have to do things the conventional way… or on the conventional day.”
It was as close as he’d ever come to acknowledging the significance of the day. That their random Sunday lunch in June was not random at all. That the things Face couldn’t say aloud and never would were the same things Hannibal felt.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line, broken only by deep, wracking coughs and one suspicious sniff.
“What if we plan for Wednesday?” Hannibal offered. “Give you some time to get over this and then you can take me to Michael’s.”
“Okay. Have…have a good day.”
“Get some rest.” Hannibal’s reply was lost in another coughing fit and then the line went dead.
For a moment, he stared at the wall, contemplating. And then he pushed himself to his feet, decision made. There wasn’t a lot he could do right now, but when there was anything he could do, he wasn’t one to not do it.
Face braced both hands on the bathroom sink, head lowered, entire body shaking as he coughed. It had sounded like a great idea at the time. Like the only idea. The only thing in the entire world that could make him feel better, in fact. But taking a hot shower had just made it to his list of regrets.
He leaned more heavily against the sink, sucking in shaky breaths as the coughing died down for a moment. The hot, steamy shower had been good for his afflicted airways, but now he was paying for it. All through the early morning hours, buried in layers and blankets and still shaking with chills, his feverish daydreams had been centered on a hot shower. He’d been too exhausted and woozy to even attempt to make it to the shower at that time, though. Even when his fever had finally broken around eight, he’d just remained in a miserable heap on the couch, sweaty and weak.
After his conversation with Hannibal, he’d shoved away sweat-soaked blankets and made his unsteady way to the shower at long last.
Pushing himself upright, Face glanced in the mirror and grimaced. He definitely looked every bit as awful as he felt. The only good thing was that they were between jobs and Hannibal hadn’t given him a laundry list of acquisitions to acquire or contacts to investigate. He’d have a tough time charming anything less than the Thing from the Black Lagoon at this point.
Running a shaky hand through his damp hair, he turned away from the mirror with a sigh. He flipped off the light, leaving his discarded clothes and towel on the floor to worry about later, hopefully when he no longer felt like roadkill. Keeping a hand on the wall, he slowly walked back toward the couch. Like the medications, the shower hadn’t been a cure, but he did feel somewhat better just being clean and wearing fresh, dry clothes.
He paused halfway between the couch and the kitchen with a sigh. Up until Hannibal’s call, he hadn’t been hungry at all. Now, though, after being upright for awhile, he was a little hungry. Just as well he didn’t have much of an appetite since he wasn’t getting Michael’s today. He’d be lucky if there was anything in the kitchen at all, honestly. Wasn’t like he did a lot of cooking in the first place and when he’d hit the drugstore, he’d been thinking only of miracle cures, not food. Now, he was regretting that lack of foresight. Nothing to be done about it beyond ordering Chinese or a pizza, neither of which sounded remotely appetizing.
He started toward the kitchen, wavering a bit when his hand left the wall. Backing up, he pressed his hand to the wall again and rethought his route. Crossing the empty expanse of the room seemed an ill-fated decision, but walking the long way around just to hold onto a wall sounded exhausting. Returning to the much nearer couch became the best option. He’d worry about food later.
And then there was a knock at the door.
Startled, Face sucked in a deep breath that led to a coughing fit. He leaned harder against the wall, and tried to catch his breath. If he hadn’t coughed so loud, he could’ve just ignored whoever was at the door, but no doubt they’d heard him hacking which meant he couldn’t pretend not to be home.
Even so, he waited and hoped. But no, there was another knock on the door. Polite, yet loud enough to be noticed. Once his breathing was a bit more under control, Face inwardly groaned and outwardly started moving toward the door. Whoever it was would probably decide they didn’t really want to talk to him once he coughed in their vicinity.
Bracing a hand against the wall, he unlocked the door, then pulled it open a crack, barely breathing in the valiant hope to not start coughing again.
“Hey Face!” Hannibal grinned, although the grin diminished a bit as he got a good look. “You…you’ve looked better.”
Well, he’d also looked worse, but Face wasn’t up to glaring at Hannibal or warning him about the dangers of entering a plague-infested apartment. He wasn’t up to standing up any longer either. Leaning more heavily against the wall, he reached back for the chair that was sitting by the door. Would’ve missed it, too, if Hannibal hadn’t pushed the door open, grabbed his arm and pushed him into the plush chair. Face doubled over, arms wrapped around his aching chest as coughed.
It seemed to take forever before he caught his breath, but when he finally did, there was a mug of water waiting for him. He accepted it and the cool water did ease some of the fire in his throat. Resting the mug on his leg, he pushed himself upright, leaning back in the chair and squinting up at Hannibal.
“What…why’re you here?” The words nearly started another coughing fit and he took a quick sip of water.
“Brought lunch.” Hannibal waved a thumb over his shoulder at the kitchen.
“Brought lunch?” Face frowned, trying to sort through the fog in his brain. He vaguely remembered cancelling their unofficially official lunch plans yesterday. They hadn’t made other plans. Had they?
“I assumed - correctly, I might add - that you didn’t have any soup.” Hannibal took the mug of water, then pulled him to his feet and steadied him when he swayed.
Face narrowed his eyes as Hannibal guided him to the kitchen. “You went through my cupboards?”
“Sure did.” Hannibal’s grin was back. He pushed Face into a chair and continued, “I was about to pull a muscle just listening to you cough so I went looking for a cup for water. Besides, the cupboards aren’t really yours now, are they? Regardless, neither you nor the rightful owner had any soup. Now you do.”
“I do?” Face blinked as something was set in front of him. A styrofoam cup of soup from one of the sandwich shops uptown. “You brought soup?”
Of all the things Face had expected this day to hold, Hannibal bringing soup hadn’t even been in the top three hundred. He looked up from the soup and found Hannibal opening a paper sack. He pulled out a sandwich.
“Michael’s can wait, but we still need to eat, right?” Hannibal asked, pulling back a chair and taking a seat.
Face nodded, opening the container of soup. Chicken noodle. Not something he’d choose on an ordinary day, but…today wasn’t an ordinary day. Today was just a random Sunday. Except it wasn’t. His eyes burned a bit and he tried to tell himself it was because of the fever.
“Hey,” Hannibal interrupted his thoughts. He was grinning and pointing at Face with a toothpick from his sandwich. “Is that Murdock’s shirt?”
Face blinked at him for a moment, frowned, and looked down. His shirt had a cowboy hat on it and across the top, the shirt said This is my Second Rodeo. He shook his head. “No, this is Murdock’s loss. He shoved all his clothes in my bag because he needed room in his for all the driftwood.”
“Driftwood?”
“Yeah. You remember. That job up the coast last month. He collected all that driftwood to take back to the VA for art therapy.” Face had to pause to cough, then to catch his breath. “I washed his clothes but kept this shirt as payment since he also shoved sticks in my bag and put a hole in one of my shirts.”
“Good choice. I like it.” Hannibal grinned, then took a bite of his sandwich.
Face smiled and grabbed the spoon then started eating the soup while it was still hot.
Hannibal took a bite of his sandwich, glad he’d gone with his gut and made his way over. Hearing Face coughing through door had been bad enough. Seeing the pale skin, the dark circles under his eyes, and witnessing a coughing attack first hand had thoughts of an emergency room visit crossing his mind. Now that Face was quietly eating the soup, the coughing had died down and thoughts of the ER had temporarily at least been set aside.
He’d never had trouble finding things to talk about and a monologue was one of his favorite things in the world. Besides, if he was talking, Face didn’t have to try to carry on a conversation. So Hannibal kept up a steady stream of juicy society tidbits he’d gleaned from the movie set as well as discussing his thoughts on the way the characters in his upcoming film were the very embodiment of the Fenian Cycle of Celtic Mythology.
Yes, it was about a protoplasmic lifeform from the planet Migma and he didn’t have any speaking lines, but that didn’t mean backstory wasn’t vitally important. It also didn’t mean that his character - the unnamed protoplasm - wasn’t in every way representative of the great Finn MacCumhail. The director hadn’t been able to see the nuance and it honestly looked like Face was struggling a bit, too. But the connection was there, Hannibal was just certain of it.
“I’m telling you, Face, this could be the one. The one that elevates the maligned swamp creature beyond a mundane caricature and into a true hero of today’s cinematic culture.” Hannibal moved his hand through the air, seeing the words as if on a marquee at a theater or headlines on a newspaper article.
“I knew it was good the first time I read the script,” Face said, his words punctuated by coughing. He was hunched over his bowl of soup as if it was a very small campfire, keeping him warm. “Had a certain je ne sais quoi to it.”
“Exactly!”
Hannibal grinned. He took another bite of his sandwich while Face laboriously sipped a spoonful of soup. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of effort for him to even lift the spoon. His pallor had improved somewhat, but Hannibal had a bad feeling the rosy flush on his cheeks was because of rising fever not improved health. Or maybe it was just the fact the apartment was probably at least ninety degrees.
“Think I can turn the heat down?” Hannibal asked, wiping his fingers off on a napkin. “It’s a bit balmy.”
Face looked up with weary, bloodshot eyes and said, “I’m freezing.”
“You’re really not.” Hannibal shook his head, his gaze returning to the pile of medications he’d pushed to one end of the table. “When’s the last time you took something for the fever?”
He had to wait through a painful coughing fit before he got a vague this morning as an answer. If he’d wanted something more specific, it seemed he wasn’t going to get it when Face pushed the half-eaten soup aside then put his head down on his arms on the table.
Hannibal’s eyebrows rose. That was certainly not a good sign. He pushed back his chair then walked to the end of the table to survey the medication supply. There was a little of everything and clearly none of it was worth whatever Face had paid for it. There was also a notepad with scribbled notes of times and medications. Hannibal consulted it and found it wasn’t quite time for another dose of cough syrup. He noted he time so he’d remember to get Face a dose of it once it was time.
Even so, Hannibal found a package of acetaminophen and tapped out two tablets. Might not be a miracle cure, but hopefully it would help. Get that on board and then he’d see about turning down the thermostat. Sweat was running down the back of his neck already.
He refilled the mug with some fresh water, then said, “Time for some meds.”
Face was silent for a long moment. Then groaned. Then coughed. What he didn’t do was move.
“Come on, Lieutenant,” Hannibal said cheerfully, setting the mug on the table. “I can make it an order.”
He rested his hand on Face’s shoulder, then shifted to palm the back of his neck. Hannibal grimaced at the heat but Face shivered like he’d just had a bucket of ice dumped over his head. He finally moved, though, pushing himself slowly upright. Once he was sitting up, Hannibal handed him the pills and ensured the pills and the water wound up where they belonged. Once the task was complete, Face immediately started to list forward again.
"Uh uh, none of that, now," Hannibal said, stopping him with a firm grip of his shoulder. "Time to relocate."
Face grabbed the edge of the table with both hands, eyes pressed closed.
"Dizzy?" Hannibal asked, steadying him.
"Hmm." After a moment, Face opened his eyes.
Sensing he was about to put his head back down, Hannibal gently pulled him to his feet and asked, “Bed or couch?”
“Blankets,” Face mumbled before hunching over with yet another coughing fit.
Hannibal frowned, but only for a second. His gaze caught sight of the couch, piled high with blankets. There were more draped on the edge of the coffee table and the floor. Evidently Face had been camped out there. Hannibal guided them toward the couch since he wasn’t entirely sure Face could even make it to the bedroom. He couldn’t remember a time when Face had ever been this sick.
By the time they reached the couch - which really hadn’t seemed that far away initially - Hannibal was sweating profusely in the apartment’s tropical weather. Meanwhile, Face was shaking with chills and barely on his feet. As soon as Hannibal eased him down to the couch, Face was uncoordinatedly grabbing for blankets. Hannibal provided much needed assistance, but was also careful to tuck some of the blankets out of sight.
Face curled around a pillow, coughing viciously while Hannibal adjusted the blankets until only two lightweight blankets remained. He pushed the others behind the couch while Face had his eyes closed. Returning to the kitchen, he filled up a mug with water, then brought it back and set it on the edge of the coffee table.
“Hannibal?” Face asked hoarsely, his eyes glassy.
"Yeah, kid?"
“Can you…turn the heat up? ‘m freezing.”
Smiling, Hannibal said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Face nodded, closing his eyes again and shivering despite the blankets and the heat in the apartment.
Hannibal crossed the room to the thermostat. Sure enough, it was turned up and registering ninety four. Just as well Face wasn't planning to be here when the utility bill came due. Shaking his head, he adjusted the thermostat down a few degrees. Would have to bring it down gradually even though he wanted to drop it to seventy. Wiping his hand over his forehead, Hannibal got himself a tall glass of ice water from the kitchen, then returned to the living room and sat down in the recliner. Face’s eyes were closed, but the careful way he was breathing meant he wasn’t asleep. Probably wouldn’t be for awhile. Leaning forward, Hannibal grabbed the remote off the floor and set it on the coffee table.
The creature feature marathon was continuing and he was pleased to see he was just in time for The Quatermass Xperiment. One of his favorites. He kept the volume at a lower than usual level in case Face managed to fall asleep at some point even if he was currently staring at the television with bleary eyes.
“What’s this one ‘bout?” Face mumbled.
“An astronaut is infected with spores and starts mutating,” Hannibal explained, giving a quick synopsis.
“The one where he went missing in the mountains?” Face’s teeth were chattering.
“No, that’s The Cyclops. This one’s even better…”
It was rare that Hannibal had such a captive audience to listen to his thoughts on the psychology of movie monsters. Not that Face was really paying much attention, drifting as he was on a fevered tide of medications and misery. Even so, he’d occasionally cough his way through a semi-coherent question about something Hannibal had said. After a third coughing fit left him breathless, Hannibal consulted the time. A little soon, but hopefully wouldn’t do any harm.
He rose from the recliner.
“You're leaving?” The words were hoarse and started off a fresh coughing fit as Face struggled to push himself upright.
“I’m not leaving,” Hannibal said, holding up a hand to stop Face from moving. “Stay put. I’m just getting you some cough syrup.”
Face nodded, still coughing. He flopped breathlessly back against the pillows as Hannibal continued to the kitchen. Selecting the correct medicine, Hannibal measured out a dose then returned to the living room. Face was still breathing unsteadily, but pushed himself up just a bit and held out a shaking hand for the tiny cup. It didn’t at all seem like enough medicine to do battle against such a wicked cough, but hopefully it would help. Hannibal’s quick reflexes caught the cup just before it fell from Face’s hand, thereby saving the pristine white carpet.
“You don’t have to spend your day here.” Face stared up at him, voice wrecked. The feverish flush to his cheeks only served to make him look even whiter than the couch he was lying on.
“We were going to spend the day together, anyway, weren’t we?” Hannibal asked, making himself comfortable in the best luxury recliner someone else’s money could buy.
“This isn’t what I had in mind,” Face said dryly.
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“I never get sick.” Hannibal grinned. “Besides, where else would I go? This is our Sunday, remember?”
Face nodded, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead. He smiled a bit as he settled more deeply into the cushions. As his eyes finally drifted closed, he mumbled, “Thanks for comin’ over, Hannibal.”
“Anytime, kid,” Hannibal said softly.
It’s what a father would do.