Have a heart! Buy organs!

Herc nods, taking another big bite of soup. He gave Hannibal the option because he was hopping that he’d take it. If they could get what was left of the paperwork done this evening, than Hannibal could focus on resting for the rest of the evening and weekend, relaxing and, Herc prayed, letting Hannibal get better. 

"What? You got a schedule conflict?" All he had to do was read a succession of 12 plodding and plotless novellas on procedures, contracts, particulars. All he had to do was sign his name on the goddamn line. Soup settling into his stomach he could calculatedly tip toe around the mental fog. Sleep could come later. There was no deadline for sleep.  "Now."

"Oh shut up. I hate it because it’s fucking stupid. I don’t have time for stupid."

He snorts. "Stupid? What are you, fifteen? Be a little more eloquent."

"I’m going to find a way to destroy Valentines Day. I swear it."

You got a grudge against Valentine's Day?

Herc smiles, shooting the look over his shoulder at Hannibal as he makes sure the pot is on the stove and starting to heat. “Good. Glad to know I can still shove some stuff in a pot and simmer.” He gives the soup a stir, sure Hannibal will eat some more before the weekend. 

Hot as fever is the soup, the competing temperature proving the best distraction to his green gills. Herc talks between mouthfuls, the humming timbre of his voice enough to penetrate plugged ears and the tickle of a sneeze, rendering his mouth open as if about to speak, extending the active silence before his answer. The crescendo of a swelling breath reaches no resolved climax and sits uncomfortably in his sinuses as the sneeze is eliminated from possibility.

The bowl is placed on the counter, large soup spoon beside it as Hannibal speaks. Herc frowns, looking at him. Hannibal looks better than he did before the shower, clean, even relaxed. He raises his hand, gently pressing it to Hannibal’s forehead, still hot, but that’s what he was expecting. 

Nodding, he is worn thin and compliant by sick waking hours. Unnoticed is the added weight of Hannibal’s eyes set on the damp drape of Herc’s towel, moving with his thighs down the hall to their room, all the while, before the rounding of the corner, hoping for sly telekinesis. The kitchen is empty, left to him and rising steam of the vital soup.

Hercules smiles a bit and watches Hannibal leave the bathroom, trailing wet footprints behind him. He dries himself off quickly then drops his extra towel to the ground, cleaning up the trails of water. He doesn’t want Hannibal to lift a finger tonight. He needs rest, comfort, the ability to recoup his natural strength that the sickness as pulled from him. 

"Rough, Herc. Ain't been this sick since-" He shakes his head; looking at the ladle, the boiling soup on the stove for the exact point on the misplaced timeline, "Been two years. Had a long run.”

Autumn’s fingers hastily rubbed at her forehead, a throbbing beginning to pound within her skull. The voice that responded was deep and even though the words weren’t threatening in anyway, chills found themselves cascading down her spine. Hazel eyes finally looked up and it took a moment before she realized who exactly she’d run into. A hesitant hand peeked forward, gripping Hannibal’s for a lift up.

When she has risen to her feet he takes his cue to bend, picking up the disgruntled stack. "Word to the wise, kid." 

Hannibal fits against Herc like a key sliding into a lock. Both men are too old for such ridiculous comparisons, but it’s one that Herc thinks of almost every time Hannibal’s hands slide against his body, fit in places like they were made for each other. His hand on his hip is warm and inviting and Herc can’t imagine a place he’d rather have it. 

“Alright, nurse Hansen.” Semi weary eyed, albeit clean, he dries off his face before wrapping haphazard, for decency’s sake, the towel around his waist. And it does not go unnoticed that in his act of selflessness, Herc has dripped from the contrasting confines of the bathmat onto the tile, leaving Hannibal to trail damp footprints over the hardwood to their bedroom, past the smell of soup that fills his lungs as olfactory apertif before it fills his stomach.

“Weeeeeelllllllll…”

"Awful damn calm about this."

Herc sighs and nods, raising his hands to placate Hannibal. “I’m sorry. It’s been stressful to say the least. But I am trying. I’ve got K-Science from five different Shatterdomes on this as high priority. Anything you’ve got that could help would be good.”

"I got an idea. Gonna go home, crack open a bottle of scotch, get real rip roaring drunk and wait for this to blow over."

"The one and only."

"Funny, son? You think this is funny?"

Herc doesn’t even need to guess who the woman is. “I’m trying to figure out it Chau. It’s going to take some time.”

"Marshall Hansen..."

"Process of elimination: I’m gonna go with Hannibal Chau."

"Don't take that as a reason to get cute."