Who: Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs. What: Hospital visit. Where: ... the hospital. When: Mid-January. Status: Complete. Rating/Warning: PG / Talks about dream violence, blood, the usual.
Abigail's post had said she wanted visitors. Will was almost certain that he wasn't included in that, and still had his moments of doubt where he thought she still wasn't real. The Abigail he'd invented hadn't been like this, though. And it was hard even for him to believe he was imagining entire network posts. All the same, he went. He brought nothing because he knew it would be pointless. What could he bring that she possibly would need or want? Definitely not flowers or a card. He'd even done one better than saying he was her cousin - he had sent a couple e-mails from Hannibal's office which got him through hospital reception without incident.
It all seemed like a great idea until he was actually there. He stood in the doorway like an awkward shadow, the staff bustling up and down the hall behind him. After a moment he raised his hand to knock on the doorframe. Not that he needed to announce his presence but it was probably polite.
"Hi."
Pain medication made Abigail groggy and itchy at the same time, which was its own unique sort of hell. Her brain was foggy off of six millis of Dilaudid every five hours, and her stitches were itching something awful. The TV was droning on and on - she had it set to the Game Show Network because it was the least offensive of her optional channels - when she heard a knock and a feeble greeting.
Her blue eyes opened, and she turned her head to look at him, wincing faintly at the stretch and pull of her sutures. “Oh, hey. Cousin Will.” Her tone was sarcastic, but there was a ghost of a smile on her face. “You know, I was thinking - he is pretty cute for an older guy. I’ll be nicer.” She giggled a bit, the pain meds evidently mellowing her temper. “C’mon, sit. Price is Right reruns are on now.”
Will’s own gaze moved from Abigail to the television and back to Abigail. At the invitation he moved inside, less awkward shadow and more hesitant man. “Not cousin. Doctor Lecter’s liaison.” Which was just awful all things considered. “I sent an e-mail from his account so I could get in.”
Still awful. Not as bad. Will settled in a nearby chair, reminded of his dream counterpart sleeping on the uncomfortable couch in Abigail’s room. “Who’s cute?”
“Ohhhhh. Makes sense that I’d have a shrink. My court appointed one sucked. I probably can’t afford your boyfriend, though.” She stretched her legs a bit before rolling onto her side to look at Will. She had to be careful not to upset the blood pressure cuff on one arm, the IV cath in the other, and the O2 monitor on one finger. “Your boyfriend’s cute. I saw how he looked at you when you were all noble and shot Dad.”
“He’d probably waive the fees for you.” And by probably, Will meant that there’d never be any charge at all. Hannibal would probably insist on house calls, even, to spare Abigail any nuisance of travel.
But then Will snorted. “Noble.” The word itself was more a scoff than anything. It wasn’t nobility. Will had been scared. He had never been meant for field work - they knew that when they made him a professor. “You should see how he looks at me when I mean it. But, yeah, I guess he’s all right. For an old guy. He’s turning fifty soon.”
“How kind.” Abigail yawned, then smiled dreamily. “It’s okay, I already know I have survivor’s guilt and PTSD. Got to hear it all the time as a kid.”
His snort made Abigail’s eyes widen, and her smile grow more crooked. Maybe he was more self-aware than he let on, which made her like him more. “He’s got a nice jawline. I’m always a sucker for guys with jaws like that.”
“I didn’t exactly come here to wax poetic on Hannibal Lecter’s face.” Then again, it seemed as good a topic as any. Will wasn’t sure what he went there for, or what he was supposed to talk about with her. It was just important to him that she thought … Better. He didn’t want her thinking he was a fuck up right off the bat. There would be lots of time for that.
“Is that …” He motioned to her, where she was on the bed. “From dreaming about when your father did it.” Jesus, he hoped she didn’t wake up without an ear.
“Yup.” Abigail shrugged. “Shitty dream, but waking up was the worst part. At least my RA does her job well.”