Chapter Text
There are a lot of things that Will Graham didn’t care for; he especially did not care for his old dried-out hometown back in Louisiana. He swore when he was younger that he would never return to that house. He took one look at his fathers face on a hot summers day, so hot it felt like his brain was melting, packed up his stuff and never looked back. The thought of it comforted him on occasion, knowing all those beatings and talk downs and empty stomachs at bedtime was long gone. It equally scared him, to know that he would forever be alone. Will would be cursed to lead a secluded life away from everyone in order to never experience it again, he would never have family again.
His empathy had a way of killing him. It dug deep into the core of his belly and ravaged everything inside, like a wild animal that could never be tamed, that would always remain hungry. He felt himself turn inside out every time he had to use his empathy on a case. Will didn’t often feel himself, and that scared him because he soon realized he didn’t know how he felt in the first place. It’s not like the empathy could be shut off either, a constant reminder of his disorder, his fucked up mind.
He still thought of Louisiana every so often, when he was fixing a boat motor and had to clean under his fingernails, when he had too many drinks at the end of a long day and he began to feel too much like his father, when he catches that old wood smell somewhere that belongs to his small house back over yonder. Little things that would allow him to spiral back to times when it was just Pops and Willy and ignoring all the signs. Everyone knew, it was hard not to, being that Will was an abnormal child to their standards of normalcy.
Will had a sick relationship with the thought of family and his loneliness every time it came buzzing in his head when he allowed himself to think. That’s why he kept himself occupied, sunk himself into mind-numbing work, being ordered around by Crawford, adopting more strays than he knew what to do with, all to keep on the chase from his innermost thoughts. When it didn’t work, when it faltered for just a moment, everything went to hell. Everything consumed him.
Equally, there are a lot of things that Will Graham cared for to the point of no return, such as; his dogs of course before anything, spending alone time out by the river fishing, and his weekly therapy sessions with none other than the good doctor Hannibal Lecter. Albeit ironic, Will was never fond of psychiatrists and the way they got into your head. They all learn to manipulate themselves into your inner psyche and before you know it: it’s too late to deny. Will had noticed early on the way that Hannibal manipulated and worked his words around his skull, like a starved serpent waiting for its next meal: a mouse. He had hoped that Hannibal wouldn’t mistake him for a mouse.
What terrified him the most was not the attempts; no he was all too familiar with the advances of psychiatrists who had their own drives: wanting to work up a profile on Will, and analyze his unique mind. It was the fact that despite knowing all of the Doctors' tricks, he still managed to fall for it, was sweet-talked too simply, and got comfortable.
Even while being well aware of the Doctors' tricks, he allowed it to happen for just a little too long and found that at some point he indulged himself in the comforting words. He too, fell victim to the manipulation even while knowing exactly what was going on. Will found that scary, all the power that Hannibal held and yet he remained so composed in the escalation of it all.
He wondered in what way Lecter would attempt to infiltrate his mind next as he headed to his weekly appointment at his office. Would he again sweet talk? Would the Doctor offer little words to coerce the conversation out of Will instead, sort of a reverse psychology method? Will was quite accustomed to all the tricks utilized by Hannibal Lecter.
Entering the waiting room, Hannibal with almost perfect timing, swiftly opened the door to his office and greeted Will with a warm smile. Another perfectly tailored suit that Will had the pleasure of knowing so well, at what point did he begin to memorize the Doctor's nearly never-ending closet of exotic suits? Despite his extraordinary empathy, Will never caught himself noticing so closely trivial things of those around him as he had learnt to do with those concerning Hannibal. Regarding his empathy, the combination of feeling everything and noticing closet choices and appearances he thinks would be far too overwhelming for his mind.
“Hello Will, come in.”
Will nodded, he only ever nodded, weakly at that when he was too deep in thought to do anything else. To give a proper response. Hannibal this time around spent more time standing by the now shut door, turning to observe the profiler waltz around his office. Will laid his coat down on his chair along with his satchel bag. When did it become his chair? He would have to ask himself that question again later, to what entitlement he now thought he had. Was he getting too comfortable? This surely wasn’t healthy.
He felt unstable and stable in the Doctor's presence all at once.
“Something on your mind Will?” Inquired the good Doctor, still stationed by the door observing Will now with an air of strange satisfaction and curiosity. As if he knew something about Will that he didn’t know about himself. That always found a way to bug Will and dig under his skin, he had learnt to despise it.
“You always know, don’t you Lecter?” Will responded tensely, still walking around the room.
“If I didn’t, would I be considered good at my work?’
“Get out of my head.”
Eventually, after this back and forth they both sat. Albeit Will still had the jitters, sometimes he found that he couldn’t really ever stop fidgeting. His foot tapped wildly, fingers picking at each other, tapping his knee. Anything to get the excess energy out, to properly keep his thoughts and body flowing in unison. He’d been like this all his life, described as just too energetic; too nervous and fidgety. Most couldn’t understand how it mainly came from a place of comfort, a need for stimulation in order to continue to process at a regular speed without getting weird looks. Hannibal, of course, noticed this about Will a long time ago. Upon reading Will’s file, the autism diagnosis clicked into the description of Will perfectly. An avoidance of eye contact, detestation for unnecessary touch, sometimes even by people he knew closely, the quiet stimming he often tried to disguise, all the fidgeting, his entire demeanor. With all that Hannibal had thought about it, he still had yet to bring it up in therapy. He wondered if Will ever worked through his diagnosis and what that really meant, or if he found out on some insignificant day, sighed at the results and tucked it under the many files in his mind that composed the entirety of Will Graham.
“Fidgeting again, Will?”
Almost instantaneously, Will straightened his hands to sit against his thighs, perfectly parallel to each other and most importantly, still.
“You shouldn’t feel the need to stop. That wasn’t my intention in addressing it.”
“Shouldn’t I? Wasn’t it?
“I never mean to stop you from stimulation, I understand its importance and the comfort it can provide to a mind like yours.”
“Right, a neurodivergent mind. Is that what you’ve been wanting to prod at?”
“I try not to prod, just encourage and converse. Will you know this.”
“Of course, just like how this isn’t therapy, just a conversation according to you.” Will puts an emphasis on the words therapy and conversation by using air quotes. Hannibal grins lightly at the sentiment.
“I suppose with the way that you are quick to hide and disguise your neurodivergent traits, it wasn’t previously welcome.”
“Yeah well if you’re growing up in the south a scrawny emotional boy it doesn’t really help to display that part of yourself. I had to mask it more often than not.”
“Mask yes, that is the proper term. Was your father not tolerant?”
It bothered Will how Hannibal pretended to not know any of this.
“As tolerant as he could manage to be. I felt bad for him, didn’t understand much of it, just prayed for what he considered a normal son.”
“And did he ever receive his wish?”
“I like to think he did. I like to think he can’t see me now, that his last memory of me was something kind.”
“I assure you any memory of you is kind.”
Will runs a rough hand from his eyes down to his chin, blinking rapidly and swallowing hard. Sometimes he feels overstimulated even with just words. Words can be heavy, they can carry a lot of weight and meaning that might not ever leave you, that is if you’re unlucky. Will knows from experience, knows that all those offhand comments from his father about his strangeness never quite left. Built up in his psyche as fuel for when it gets bad again. Will behaved that way, held negative fuel for negative thoughts, and allowed himself to wallow in it whenever given the opportunity.
This was one of those times when the words surrounding him became too much. He couldn’t fully process what that meant, coming from Hannibal. People around him always seemed to be on a personal mission to confuse him and frustrate him and although he enjoyed dancing around metaphors cleverly with the therapist he sometimes wished things could be said simply and straightforwardly. Especially as he knew the truth, that memories of himself didn’t always have the power to be kind. Will realized he shouldn’t dig too deep into it, forbid he goes nonverbal the rest of the session.
“You were right.”
Hannibal didn’t respond to this, he often waited for a while after Will said something in an attempt to coerce more out of him. It worked this time.
“I guess I’m not sure how to regulate my emotions on top of all the daily motions. I feel like I'm underwater, I can’t control anything in my life.” Continued Will.
“Not a shock Will, you’re constantly giving yourself up. Giving your mind up.”
“It’s not like I have a choice, do I? I respond to Jack, I respond to everyone when they need to borrow a piece of my brain.”
“You always have a choice, Will, when it regards your own well-being.”
“Tell that to my job.”
Hannibal appears to be thinking for a while, it scares Will, he’s always calculating his next move.
“Will I believe you struggle with overstimulation, every aspect of your life demands high levels of involvement from you, in turn, you become exhausted.”
“Sure, but there are some things I don’t mind offering my attention to.”
“Correct, and those things, such as your dogs or fishing are going to remain positive points in your life, with everything else I wonder how much longer you can endure.”
“You say it like I’m abused, Doctor.”
“Your mind is abused.”
Allowing himself to wither he knew was some form of self-harm. It went along the lines of avoiding mirrors, forgetting to eat, only having the energy to feed his dogs before passing out in his bed for the entire weekend, never talking unless spoken to, not calling, and not reaching out. Complete isolation. It helped calm him down, for a moment, but over prolonged periods of time, it could only do damage.
Later, Will would begin to fully grasp what it was that Doctor Lecter was talking about when he mentioned an abused psyche. Deep down, Some part of him knew he wouldn’t be able to hold on the same way as he always had. Destructive behaviors, getting hurt to the point of no return, and allowing himself the minimum amount of recovery before being thrown out to the wolves again. Will Graham was incredibly damaged and didn’t want to accept this fact, so he allowed himself to wither.