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Will shuffles forward, a dull ache in the back of his head, the sea of bodies surrounding him working as a collective to guide him toward his destination.
Occasionally he attempts to shoulder his way closer to the outer edges, make it easier on himself for when he needs to escape the human traffic jam, but the tactic only ever results in him stumbling and nearly tripping.
He remembers reading something about jellyfish recently, how they are often subject to the currents of the ocean and simply have to take what they are given. Be it calm waters or violent waves, a jellyfish is simply dragged along.
Will thinks he would rather be a jellyfish than a human.
He pushes that out of his mind. Such thoughts are dangerous.
He sees the street corner coming up and begins the arduous process of diagonally shuffling through the crowd. He mutters a soft ‘excuse me’ every few seconds and lets himself be guided straight to the door of his shop.
Lucky for Will, the crowd thins at the corners and he has plenty of room to open up. He can even leave the door open if he wants to. He did that for a while, too. He had thought it would bring in more customers. But, apparently, half of the people entering shops are just trying to escape the crowd, the noise, the constant heat and humidity - if only for a brief moment. Will quickly learned he was losing more potential clients with the surface-level gesture. Plus, he can’t afford a mold problem.
Will fumbles with his keys, hands shaking slightly as he tries to unlock the door. When he finally gets it, he has to practically force the door open. The bell at the top rings out so loudly it causes a stab of pain to shoot through his head. He winces, feeling the previously dull, constant, aching headache begin to turn into the erratic throbbing that signals the beginning of a migraine.
Fantastic.
He lets the door slam closed, immediately regretting it when the sound causes another spike of pain to flare up behind his eyes and around his left temple. He takes a deep breath, just grateful that the nausea hasn’t begun yet, and hurries to settle his stuff in the back.
Will grabs one of the foil packets concealed deep within his bag. He shakes the pill out, into his hand, and tosses it into his mouth.
It’s powdery. It tastes horrible. It soothes his nerves.
The bell at the front rings. Will practically chokes on the pills as he swallows it, his mouth almost too dry to get it down.
“Welcome to Graham’s Repairs,” he calls out, the bitter taste lingering in his mouth and his head throbs. “What can I help you with?”
“Got a way to fix a shoddy replacement for one of our best criminal profiling professors?” A familiar voice responds.
Will slides his hand down his face, wishing the conversation would end before it even begins.
“Jack,” he greets the man as he steps into the main section of the store, leaning against the counter, not bothering to mask how he’s feeling.
“Will.”
There is silence in the store; a tense silence. Will crosses his arms over his chest. Jack raises his eyebrow in question. They both know neither of them are going anywhere without this conversation happening - again.
“You know I’m not going back. I’m happy with how things are now. Business is,” Will pauses and looks around the small, desolate space. “Decent.”
Jack groans. “Come on, Will. You were great at the academy. You were one of, if not the best we had. You were happy there! You had friends! You can’t tell me it’s the same here. You’re all on your own.”
“Maybe I like being alone.”
“Will.”
“Jack.”
The two stare each other down.
This is unproductive and annoying and Will wishes Jack would just leave him be.
He left his job for a reason. He no longer trusted himself with the violent imagery he was subjected to day-in and day-out. He no longer trusted Jack, who kept pushing him towards the field. He thought he could handle it. He thought it wouldn’t influence him. But Will isn’t in control. He learned that a long time ago.
“Will,” Jack sighs. “I think you made the wrong choice. I want you back.”
Will rolls his eyes. It’s always been about what Jack wants. Anything else is null and void to the man.
“I think you just forgot how much you liked teaching. And…and I think you would really find that you would enjoy working with me in the field.”
There it is. These conversations always end in the same way. The whole thing makes him nauseous.
“Goodbye, Jack,” Will deadpans, pushing off the counter.
“Will,” Jack calls after him, moving forward.
He’s furious. His head pounds, blood rushing past his ears. He probably wouldn’t be able to escape Jack Crawford in his wildest dreams.
Will pivots on his heel, going for a quick escape to the back of the shop. But-
The world around him blurs. Everything goes sideways.
“Will!” Jack shouts. Concerned, muffled. “Will!”
He feels like his head might burst. When he opens his eyes, his vision swims. The light from overhead sears into his brain, so he flops his head to the side and squeezes his eyes shut again, trying to escape it.
There is someone calling to him but they sound very far away, and Will is very, very tired.
~⭑~
“Mr. Graham?”
Will’s eyelid is pried open and a bright light flashes across his vision. He cringes.
“Mr. Graham,” his name is repeated. “Can you hear me?”
“Y-Yes,” He stutters out.
He no longer feels sick, thank god, but his whole body feels incredibly weak. It’s as if he ran a marathon and then got hit by several trucks.
There is a click and the light disappears, though it leaves Will’s vision splotchy.
It takes a moment, but Will is slowly able to sit up and gain a better stock of his surroundings. He is in a medical office. The doctor that was just checking him is now muttering under his breath a few feet away, clipboard in hand, with a very concerned-looking Jack Crawford to his right.
Will sighs. “I just fainted. I’m not dying.”
The two men glance over at him briefly before mumbling something else to each other. Jack quickly looks away, expression uneasy. The doctor moves closer to the bed, eyeing his clipboard as he does so.
“Mr. Graham, you had a case of extreme exhaustion brought about by abuse of your government-allotted medications,” The doctor says.
Will eyes the doctor suspiciously. He feels extremely uneasy with the way he phrased that.
“Mr. Graham, I do have to say I am concerned with your case. The amount of medication that it appears you have been taking far exceeds the amount you are allotted. Is that the case?” The doctor asks, though his tone indicates he already knows the answer and is just daring Will to lie.
Will doesn’t lie, he knows what will happen if he does. Instead, he simply does not answer. He stares at his hands, resting limply in his lap.
“Mr. Graham, who is giving you their Pharm Cards?”
Will doesn’t answer. He picks at his nail beds instead.
He knows there is virtually no punishment for those who deal out their Pharm Cards, the government is simply too lazy to punish that many people. But, he gets his meds from Beverly. Sometimes Jimmy or Zeller if he needs more. They all helped him when he needed it, even after he stopped working with them. He couldn’t sell them out.
The doctor sighs, feigning disappointment, though Will can see him fighting a smirk out of the corner of his eye.
He opens his mouth to speak, but Jack suddenly places a hand on his shoulder. “A word?”
The doctor grits his teeth. “Sure, Agent Crawford.”
Will watches them slip out of the room, hearing muffled voices but not being able to make out the conversation being had. He feels like a child. He hates it. He wants to leave. But he can’t, and he is well aware of it.
They know about him borrowing Cards, now. The HEW will be watching his, specifically, for at least a year. He’ll have to be monitored in some way, and if he tries to escape now they can institutionalize him - if they aren’t planning on it already.
Will feels himself start to sweat, the anxiety from the reality of his situation beginning to crash down on him.
He was careless and he got caught. He can’t get the medication he needs. What is allotted doesn’t work.
Will tries to steady his breathing. He can’t look unstable. He can’t have that tacked on, in addition to ‘addict’. That’s the last thing he needs.
The door to the room opens and Will glances over.
“Alright Mr. Graham,” the doctor says, making a weak attempt at masking his annoyance. “I’ve had a conversation with Agent Crawford here, and we’ve come to an agreement on which treatment plan would be best for you.”
Will looks warily between the two men. “And what would that be?”
“We’ll be sending you to Voluntary Therapeutic Treatment.”
Will balls his hands up into fists, looking toward Jack. The man has the audacity to look relieved, happy even, with the statement that was just disclosed.
“I personally advocated for Obligatory, but Agent Crawford made a…compelling case,” the doctor sneers.
“I explained how you have a business to manage. Institutionalizing you would leave your source of income to die. So you’d rather go to VTT. Wouldn’t you, Will?” Jack asks, though his inflection leaves no room for disagreement.
Will clenches his teeth, “Yup.”
“See, doctor. What did I tell you?” Jack smiles. “He’s perfectly willing to cooperate!”
The doctor hums, unimpressed. Clearly, he gets off on locking people up. Or, maybe he struck a deal with the OTT hospital director - he probably gets paid off each time he sends someone through.
With no reason to keep him there any longer, the doctor rushes the two men out of the room as quickly as he possibly can. Of course, he doesn’t let Will leave without one last barb thrown, telling him he’s lucky he has ‘such an important friend’ before the door gets slammed in his face.
Despite protests, Jack drives Will back to the shop to lock up and afterward to his apartment.
“I was introduced to a VTT psychiatrist through work. Apparently he’s one of the best,” Jack says as they pull up in front of Will’s apartment block. “I’ll make sure you get into his office.”
Will groans. “Jack, you know how I feel about this.”
“Well you don’t have a choice, Will. At least it isn’t Obligatory.”
It isn’t like Voluntary is that much better, really. If you don’t go, you get sent to Obligatory anyway. But at least Will can stay somewhat free, this way. He still isn’t happy about it.
Jack pats Will on the shoulder, understanding him in his silence. “This is an opportunity to get yourself some help. Help that you clearly need. You just have to be open to it, and maybe you can get better.”
Will shakes his head.
If only it was that simple.
~⭑~
Dr. Hannibal Lecter sits in his chair, gazing at the large painting in his office: a lake at dawn with a snowy mountainscape in the background. It is old, although he is not sure exactly how old. Decades, at least. It is his window.
His office has no real windows. Though even if it did, all he would see is the tightly packed skyline through the dense, always-present smog. In a world like that, where he chokes on hot, acidic rain each time he steps outside, he prefers the wonderfully soft blue sky of an antique.
The interoffice communicator buzzes, drawing his focus. “Mr. Will Graham is being sent up from the lobby, Dr. Lecter. He will be in momentarily.”
“Is that the compulsive liar with the trespassing charges?” Hannibal asks. He has far too many cases to keep track of each person HEW decides to funnel into his shoebox of an office.
“No, that would be Ms. Lounds. She’s scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
“I see. Thank you, Miriam.”
There is a slight static sound as the line cuts and Hannibal shuffles a few files around to find the one on the ‘Mr. Graham’ that will be entering his office any second.
Two words stand out to him in the file - addict and uncooperative - though before Hannibal has a chance to think about why an uncooperative drug abuse patient would possibly be sent to him, there are three sharp knocks on his door.
“Come in,” he calls out.
The door creaks open and Hannibal glances up. Graham is…
Not what he expected.
Roughly average height. Curly brunette hair. Slightly scruffy stubble. A badly ironed shirt and baggy jeans. Glasses.
Upon first glance the man just looks mildly unkempt. Hannibal quickly realizes he is wobbly, tired, and unfocused. He catches the man’s eyes for just a moment before they flicker away. They are an absolutely beautiful shade of blue. A very soft blue.
“Why don’t you take a seat Mr. Graham?” He suggests.
The man tosses his bag onto the sofa in Hannibal’s office before plopping himself down with a guttural sigh.
Usually a display like this would irritate Hannibal, but the usual twinge of displeasure is suspiciously absent. Something about Mr. Graham is strangely intriguing.
Hannibal pulls up his own chair, sitting across from his new patient. He tries to catch his eyes again, but the man refuses to look at him, staring down at his hands or at different places on the walls.
“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”
Graham sighs, clearly annoyed. “I find eyes distracting.”
Hannibal smiles, tilting his head to prompt the man to continue.
He does not.
“Right, well,” Hannibal begins after a moment of silence. “HEW would like me to get to the bottom of that drug problem of yours, Mr. Graham. To figure out why you’ve been taking so many pills and why you’ve been borrowing Pharm Cards. We will get you on a proper life track. You’ll take your allotted amount of medication, possibly even stop being dependent all together.”
He watches his patient force an unenthusiastic smile for a second, although no resistance comes.
“Your file says you have a tendency to not cooperate, although I don’t think I have to tell you that that attitude can land you in Obligatory Therapeutic Treatment. It is a bit of a mystery to me how you ended up here with a file like that anyway, but that is fine with me. I won’t hold it against you, Mr. Graham, and I do not take joy in sending people to Dr. Chilton.”
Graham sneers. “Sure, Dr. Lecter.”
“It’s true, Mr. Graham. Dr. Chilton and I may be colleagues, but I find his practices,” Hannibal digs for a word to appropriately describe his feelings for the other psychiatrist to a patient. “Distastefully unorthodox.”
“So you’ve never used unorthodox methods?”
“I did say distastefully unorthodox,” Hannibal repeats, putting extra emphasis on the word.
Graham seems to find it at least somewhat satisfactory, his posture relaxing minutely.
“Now,” Hannibal says. “Let’s talk about you. The drugs you were mixing prevent sleep.”
“I sleep just fine,” Graham mutters.
The deep, dark circles Hannibal can see underneath his eyes would beg to differ.
“You may sleep, but you may not get deep enough sleep. The body needs to go through all cycles of sleep to be completely rested. Is there a reason you would be avoiding that?”
Graham tenses and, though he hasn’t been making eye contact anyway, he is looking very pointendly toward the ground at the moment.
“Mr. Graham, do you have bad dreams?”
The man flinches, genuine fear flashing across his features. Small beads of sweat begin to form at his temples. “Sort of.”
Fascinating.
His defenses are completely lacking, although he is desperately trying to act like there is a barrier between himself and others. There is just…something about him. Hannibal wants to understand him. Guide him. Control him. The temptation to do so is almost irresistible.
He swallows. “How do you mean?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
Graham hesitates. “I- My dreams…They affect the real world”
Hannibal breaths out, smiling. “Well, sometimes we can connect certain events in our dreams to the r-”
“No! I mean what I dream actually happens,” Graham says, completely serious.
“Yes, of course. Prophetic dreams have been well documen-”
“Not-” Graham cuts himself off, stopping himself from getting frustrated. “Not prophetic dreams. I mean- I mean, I dream something and the whole world changes to make that dream true.”
Hannibal pauses. “Could you give me an example?”
He listens to Graham’s story, how when he was sixteen years old he got in a nasty fight with his mother and wished she was out of his life. He had a terrible nightmare that she had died tragically when he was only a toddler, leaving him with no mother and an emotionally distant, grief stricken father. He woke up, horrified yet relieved it was just a dream, but he quickly realized that his dream was now his reality. He no longer lived in the small, loving home with his mother and father. He lived with his father in a shabby rental, though not for long, as they frequently moved from place to place so his father could find work to repair fishing boats. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t change things back. Since then, things sporadically change when he dreams.
“So, you are saying that your dreams influence reality?” Hannibal questions.
“Not all of them. Just the effective ones. It scares me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to change things! What right do I have to do that? And I can’t control them, either. It’s all my subconscious mind doing the changing.”
“Thus the sleep-prevention through drug use.”
Graham sighs, but nods. “Yes.”
“Does this affect your personal relationships? Work, friends, sexual relationships? I see you aren’t married either.” Hannibal scans through Graham’s file as he asks his questions.
“It…can. I left my job because it was getting too intense, and that left behind most of my relationships. I had a trial marriage, too. We were together for a few years before we broke things off. Molly wanted a child, but I didn’t think it was a good idea.”
“Do you not want children, Will?”
Graham shrugs. “If it’s with the right person and we’re both ready for it.”
“What is ‘ready’ for you?”
“Being able to sleep safely. Dream without worrying I’ll kill someone else.”
Hannibal hums. “Well, Mr. Graham. Lucky for you, dreams are my specialty. Maybe I can be of some assistance.”
Not with reality-altering ones, certainly. Although, Hannibal doesn’t quite buy that. The man’s brain has been drowning in pills and he seems to be dealing with extreme stress and sleep deprivation, some delusions are to be expected.
Graham looks suspicious, but his desire to rely on someone for help with his perceived problem clearly wins out in the end. “You’ll cure me?”
“I can try,” Hannibal says. “I need to get a read on your brain while sleeping, first.”
His patient immediately looks hesitant and goes on guard at the statement. “Did you not hear what I just said?” He snaps.
Hannibal smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry. You’ll be under hypnosis. I can suggest what you dream and whether or not it is - what did you call it - effective or not.”
He relaxes minutely at that. “Okay. Fine.”
“What’s your susceptibility to hypnosis?”
“About a three? I’ve only had tapes used on me before.”
Hannibal nods. “Right in the middle, then. I use a more hands-on approach, will that be alright with you?”
Hannibal looks over and sees Graham give a slow nod. He doesn’t really need his patients’ consent for the procedures he carries out, but he finds they cooperate better if he gets it.
“Wonderful. I’ll be using my own machine, The Augmentor, to quickly send you into a d-sleep - that would be dream sleep. I’ll also be recording your brain waves. Now, if you’d please get comfortable,” Hannibal walks his equipment over as he speaks.
He places a cap, small electrodes embedded in it, onto Graham’s head. “Sit up for me, for just a moment. I’ll begin the hypnosis.”
Hannibal had thought to warn Graham about his method beforehand. The possibility of resistance, and thus failure, is high with the way he does things. The satisfaction he gets, seeing the flash of fear and protest in the eyes before they flutter closed, as he presses his fingers to the vagus and carotid is always too satisfying to give up, though.
He gently lays Graham down and begins speaking to him in a calm tone, “You are very tired and relaxed, Will. Very, very relaxed. When I say the word ‘Chesapeake’ you will fall asleep. You will fall asleep and will not wake up until I say your name three times.”
Graham mumbles lightly and twitches around on the couch, all normal signs so far. A quick glance to the side shows Hannibal that his brain activity is normal as well.
“When you fall asleep, you will dream, Will. It will be a good dream. A clear dream. An effective dream. You will dream of,” Hannibal hesitates briefly, trying to conjure up a prompt. “Of a stag. A great, regal stag. However this stag appears to you is unimportant, but you will see it. You will dream of it, and you will wake when I say your name three times. Now, Will, I will send you to sleep. Chesapeake.”
Graham slumps even further into the cushions of the couch. Hannibal turns toward the small screen of The Augmentor, watching the little lines dance around, a perfectly normal pattern for a patient in s-sleep. That pattern is not what Hannibal is interested in, however, and he watches carefully as the lines begin to change into those of d-sleep.
The lines are jagged, moving in unpredictable and erratic ways. It is…strange. In all his years of analyzing brain waves of dreaming patients, Hannibal has never seen anything quite like it. He even glances over several times to make sure that Graham is, in fact, sleeping and that the brain activity being recorded is not that of a wakeful state. Each time he does though, the man is exhibiting the tell-tale physical signs of a dream-state: fingers twitching just slightly, eye movement under closed lids, lips parted to take in small, yet deep, breaths. Graham is dreaming, his brain is just absolutely fascinating.
After several minutes, when Graham starts to exit his first cycle of d-sleep, Hannibal switches off The Augmentor and calls his name three times. The man stirs, stretching and yawning.
“Feeling alright?” Hannibal asks, as he begins to remove the cap from Graham’s head and push the equipment out of the way.
“Yes. Fine,” the patient answers, words short and direct as he comes out of his deep sleep.
“I saw that you dreamed. Would you tell me about it?”
“A stag,” Graham says. “I dreamt about a stag. Like the one in your painting.”
Hannibal glances at the antique art piece that the man gestured at, seeing a stag crossing through a river, large pine trees on either side. All according to plan so far, then. The hypnosis obviously took, if the patient dreamt according to the prompted object.
“It was quite dark out, and I was just standing still, staring off into the horizon. The stag slowly approached me. I thought it might start charging, and I was scared, but it just walked up and stopped in front of me. I guess that’s when I woke up.”
Hannibal nods along, taking a record of the dream in one of his notebooks. It isn’t extremely odd, though he would like to talk to the patient a bit more before he fully guesses at what it means.
“Dr. Lecter, is there something about that painting that strikes you as odd?”
Graham is staring with a look of unease at the painting, his brows deeply furrowed and the corners of his lips tipped slightly downward.
“Such as?” Hannibal asks, as he pens out a few more notes.
“Wasn’t it different when I first got here?” Graham is beginning to sweat again. “I mean, wasn’t it a mountain and a lake?”
Hannibal pauses in his writing, turning toward the painting.
It…
It was a mountainscape with a lake, wasn’t it.
He can remember it. With alarming clarity.
But it couldn’t have been. It’s always been a stag crossing a river.
“Mr. Graham, do you remember the painting as a lake?” He asks, after several seconds of silence pass.
“Yes. I do,” Will nods. “It was a lake with snowy mountains in the background. And the sky was a pale blue with wisps of white clouds.”
The unsettled feeling in Hannibal’s stomach seems to dissolve as he watches Graham plead silently with him.
The man’s gaze is clear. They are not the eyes of a madman, but that of someone who desperately desires help. Craves a cure for what is ailing him.
“D-do you not remember it that way?”
Hannibal puts on a gentle smile and, with the softest tone he can muster, breaks the news: “I am afraid I do not, Mr. Graham.”
The man looks absolutely crestfallen. Hannibal maintains a neutral expression as he watches the small spark of hope slowly fade from the man’s eyes.
“I would like you to come again. Tomorrow, if it is possible,” Hannibal says, snapping his notebook closed and returning it to his desk.
“I,” Graham runs a hand through his curls. “I have to run my shop. I don’t close until around six o’clock.”
“That’s fine with me. It will be after hours, so I will give you my personal number so you can call up and get buzzed in.” Hannibal writes the number for his phone on the back of one of his business cards before he hands it over to Graham.
The man hesitantly takes it, glancing up and giving Hannibal a flash of the pale blue irises sitting behind his glasses.
“I’ll also give you a prescription for meprobamate. It will keep your dreams fairly suppressed, but not enough to keep you out of d-sleep. You’ll feel much better while taking it, I assure you. You can refill it every three days at the autodrug.” Hannibal hands his patient the second piece of paper, that which he takes much more readily. “I have hope that you will not be on that too long, and that we can solve your problem quickly.”
Graham stands and begins walking toward the door, followed closely by Hannibal.
“Oh,” Graham pauses before the door opens. “There was one more thing I wanted to mention.”
Hannibal stares down at him, just a few inches taller than the man.
“The stag in my dream,” he says, airily, “It reminded me of you.”
With that, the man leaves.
Hannibal swivels his gaze over to the mount- stag painting.
Will Graham is going to be a very intriguing case, indeed.
~⭑~
Will cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong.
It has been two months since he has started seeing Dr. Hannibal Lecter and things keep changing. At first, it was small things: Dr. Lecter’s office gaining windows, Will not needing his glasses anymore, his shop had even become slightly less dingy. But after a number of weeks, the precursory questions Will began to receive got more in-depth; began digging deeper.
‘We are getting more acquainted with each other, Will, it is only natural that I will pose larger questions.’
That was all well and good, and Will would have even been inclined to trust Dr. Lecter in guiding these more innocent effective dreams, except the changes started getting much more noticeable.
Will felt out of his depth and out of control once again and, despite his protests to whatever Dr. Lecter was doing, Will was met only with confusion. He felt as if he was going insane each time a major shift in the universe occurred, only to be met with the pitying gaze of his psychiatrist when he brought it up.
The thing is, Will knows in his very soul that Dr. Lecter is aware of what is happening. He must be. If he isn’t, there is not a single reason that Will can think of for some of the changes that have so conveniently been made in the man’s favor. But, unfortunately, he continues to insist Will only suffers from delusions. It is endlessly frustrating and there is next to nothing he can do about it.
Will did think of something, though.
If Dr. Lecter knows about the shifts of reality due to the effective dreams, it is because he is awake and aware that they are happening, in the same room with Will when they are happening. Will just needs to get somebody to be in the room during a session.
It is not easy to come up with a name to the ‘somebody’ he needs for the task, but when he does, Will very nearly kicks himself for not thinking of her sooner.
Alana Bloom, a woman he worked with briefly when he lectured for the FBI.
Though she always seemed to keep a certain distance, she was very kind to him and he would consider her a close acquaintance. She now works with the Board of Psychiatric Ethics.
Will is more surprised than he probably should be when she agrees to meet with him, although that quickly turns into nerves when he realizes he will have to explain exactly what kind of situation he is in.
–
They are crammed into a back corner booth of a run-down old cafe, half-way between his repair shop and her offices. She only had time for a quick half-hour chat during her lunch break and Will had already used up about a third of that time dancing around the subject of why he had called Alana out.
“What is it, Will?” She probes him again, for probably the fifth time since they got their coffee.
He chuckles. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“You don’t know that.”
He looks at her with a deadpan expression, but only receives the most neutral ‘I’m listening’ face she could possibly give him.
And so, he gets into it. He tells her. He doesn’t hold anything back and watches as she tries, and fails, to keep her expression blank.
“He asks me what I want, what I’m afraid of, what I resent,” Will rants, putting on a pretentious tone as he recalls the leading questions from his sessions. “And each time I wake up it’s to a new reality. He’s changing things and I don’t want that. But I can’t stop it either.”
Alana opens and closes her mouth a few times before sighing. “So. You believe that you can create shifts in reality by…dreaming?”
“I do. I know I do. And I know he does, too. It’s why I want you to sit in on a session to prove that it’s happening and that I’m not…crazy.” Will says the last word more quietly, his confidence dwindling as he sees the obvious pity in his ex-colleague’s eyes. “I just want to know exactly what he’s doing while I’m asleep, especially with that…machine of his.” He adds.
That seems to pique her interest. “Machine?”
“The Augmentor.”
“That’s not,” Alana pauses. “That’s not a registered device.”
Will raises an eyebrow. “He uses it during all of our sessions.”
Alana hums and taps her finger against the table. Will feels the unease in his gut settle just slightly.
–
“Hello, Will?”
“Yes, Dr. Lecter? How may I help you?”
“I am calling to inform you that there will be someone sitting in on our next session. She will be under obligation to maintain confidentiality, so there will be no need to worry about that.”
“Oh. Alright. Is everything okay?”
“It is nothing to concern yourself with. I will see you on Thursday.”
“Yes. See you then.”
–
As Will expected, Alana Bloom is waiting within Dr. Lecter’s office when he arrives for his weekly appointment. She is standing near one of the windows in the office, clutching a clipboard and fiddling with the end of a pen.
“Will, this is Dr. Alana Bloom. She is a colleague of mine and will be overseeing the session today as part of the approval process of The Augmentor.” Dr. Lecter pipes up, Will’s gaze having been on Alana for one second too long to forgo an introduction.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Graham,” Alana says, smiling for a brief second.
Will nods shakily, partly to keep up the act of the socially awkward patient and partly out of genuine nerves.
“Shall we get on with it, then?” Dr. Lecter asks, guiding Will to his usual seat on the plush fainting couch. “What is on your mind today?”
Will, who usually needs several moments to stew in his miseries in order to pluck something out that he has the energy to discuss, has actually come prepared for his session today. He had realized that finding something on the spot ran the risk of the issue being insignificant - his shoes being too tight or his apartment’s wallpaper being too dull of a color - and any of those changes would go unnoticed by Alana.
“It’s crowded,” Will mumbles.
Dr. Lecter hums. “I see. Would you elaborate on that for me?”
“The city is overpopulated. There are too many bodies. You cannot go outside without touching someone else, without feeling someone breathing down your neck, without feeling someone’s eyes on you. Transportation is insufficient, housing is lacking, there is simply no escape from anyone anywhere.”
Will swallows against the lump in his throat as he finishes and looks toward Dr. Lecter, who seems oddly entranced. He always looks so oddly entranced with Will after his spiels.
“I understand completely, Will,” the man says, standing up to arrange his machine. “It is certainly suffocating in this city at times.”
If Will didn't know better, he would think that he saw Dr. Lecter’s gaze flick over to Alana.
“I will begin with your hypnosis now.”
Before Will could process the sentence, his throat is grabbed and he descends into the familiar half-asleep, trance state that occupies the space between wakefulness and the command for d-sleep. He vaguely hears distant murmurings that sound like Dr. Lecter, though they are quickly replaced with the images of a dream.
Will walks down a street where he actually has room to walk, no longer having to slowly shimmy his way diagonally through a crowd to avoid tripping and being crushed by the herd. He sees an advertisement for a new neighborhood, where they are selling single-story homes and not just one-bedroom apartments. He gets on the subway and he does not feel as if the breath is being squeezed from him.
“...ll.”
The cars in the road are not always deadlocked in traffic.
“...ill…”
The neighbor to Will’s store has flower beds out front, clearly unworried that they will be ruined by a never-ending wall of city goers.
“Will,” Dr. Lecter’s voice comes clearly into Will’s mind. “It is time to wake up.”
Will wearily sits up, The Augmentor getting removed from his head as he does so. He glances over to Alana as he regains his awareness. She stares wide-eyed out of the window she is standing next to, a white-knuckle grip on her clipboard.
Dr. Lecter follows his gaze. “Does everything seem to be in order, Dr. Bloom?”
Jerkily, Alana turns her head toward him, eyes still round, face pale as a sheet.
“Are you alright, Dr. Bloom?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.
As if the words were a balm, her expression shifts to one of absolute calmness. With a quiet acknowledgement of Dr. Lecter’s questions and a thank-you to him and Will for their time, she makes a swift exit.
The click of the door brings Will away from Alana and back to himself. Back to his dream.
Memories of a world that now exist flood into him. It is now his turn to white-knuckle grip the closest object to him. He feels dizzy, he feels like he will be sick.
He looks to the window where Alana was and sees a skyline that is significantly changed; significantly reduced.
“What is the matter, Will? Was it another bad dream?”
“What’s the matter?” he glares, spitting the phrase back at the man through gritted teeth. “I talk about overcrowding and now a third of the population is gone.”
Dr. Lecter sighs, aggrieved. “Will, you had no control over the plague. These things happen.”
“I dreamt it up,” Will’s voice wobbles. “I killed billions.”
“You did not kill anyone, Will. Your dreams only make you think these things.
Will stares up at the man. His face is a perfect mask of neutrality, yet there is that twinkle of interest - no, amusement - in his eyes. There is something rotten about this man and Will knows it.
“They may seem real, but they are simply delusions.”
“I know my reality, Dr. Lecter.”
“You are unwell, Will. No amount of dreaming can change that.”
“Please don’t lie to me,” Will all but sobs the sentence out and buries his face in his hands.
What he believed to be a rock is slowly starting to feel like sand slipping through his fingers. He had always only been able to trust his own mind, his own sanity, no matter how fragile it was. But now the silky smooth words of this psychiatrist are beginning to wear on him.
“If it would put you at ease, I could increase the dosage of your medication,” Dr. Lecter says as he stands and walks to his desk, the painting of the stag at the river still looming behind it.
~⭑~
William Graham, Will as Hannibal has taken to calling him, has proven himself to be far more intriguing of a man than Hannibal had thought he would be. An incredibly useful one too.
Will, anxious, defenseless, pitiful Will, has been bestowed with a gift that he does not appreciate, but Hannibal has allowed him to utilize it to its full potential.
Far behind him were the days of working in a cramped, run down office, or living in a crumbling government-issued apartment. He no longer has to rush to work on the same barely-running train, packed in like a sardine with the swine that lived in this hellish city. No longer must he breathe in poisoned air, or eat poisoned food, or pretend to poison his body further with the mandatory medicines. No. Not anymore and never again.
Hannibal moves his eyes from the dancing lines on the screen of The Augmentor to the large window of his office, the sky turning from a dark, hazy gray to a deep blue-purple straight from the descriptions of fairy tales. A pleased expression crosses his face.
“Will,” Hannibal calls out softly, watching as his eyelashes twitch. “Will.”
Hannibal clicks off The Augmentor. “Will,” he calls for the final time.
The man stirs from his sleep with a soft groan, his hand coming up to wipe at his face. Hannibal helps him to sit up so he can remove the electrode cap.
He pretends not to notice, but Will has taken to staring at him during this part of the procedure. It is as if there is a question he is dying to ask, or an accusation ready to leap from his mouth. Although there is a modicum of curiosity about what plagues Will’s mind, Hannibal is rather enjoying the sudden onslaught of attention. He is loath to admit he was becoming somewhat jealous of how interested Will seemed to be in the design of his office’s rug.
Hannibal can see now that the man is finally beginning to break down, and he would be lying if he said he did not find a sort of pleasure from it. Will may not understand why he is so special, but Hannibal does and he will ensure that his gift is not wasted.
“How are you feeling, Will?” Hannibal asks.
Will glances out the window and sighs.
“We started a bit later than usual today, so you missed seeing the sunset. Apologies, I know you enjoy watching them.”
“I suppose I do. At least now I do.”
“Oh, Will,” Hannibal lets out his best disappointed sigh. “I thought we had gone over this, no?”
Those stunning blue eyes turn toward him, anger and just a hint of uncertainty displayed clearly within. “I know my truth.”
“Will-”
“No! Just as soon as Alana calls me back I can prove that it’s real.”
The sentence halts Hannibal in his tracks. In hindsight, it makes complete sense that Dr. Bloom and Will know each other. They had similar work backgrounds, Will was surprisingly unresistant to another presence in the room, and it was suspicious that anyone would know about The Augmentor beside a patient of his - and he had very few at this point in time.
A spark of anger grew within him before he could fully suppress it. This little scheme could have messed everything up for them.
“You are acquainted with Dr. Bloom?” Hannibal probes, coating his words with an apathetic tone.
Will, swallowing nervously as he had obviously caught onto his mistake, nods. “We used to work together.”
“I see.”
“H-have you heard from her?”
“Only a call that The Augmentor had passed inspection.”
“So she’s alright?”
Hannibal hums, going toward the window to look out onto the city. Rush hour is over and only about a dozen cars spot the road, looking as small as ants from this high up. He hears Will following obediently and he welcomes the pleasure he feels from it.
“It appears she has recovered.”
“What does that mean?” Will asks.
Hannibal sighs. “Not every person is equipped to handle the shifts you bring about.”
An immediate silence descends onto the room. Hannibal turns over his shoulder and is met with Will, again having reverted to his habit of staring intensely into the flooring.
“I knew it,” Will mumbles.
“Will,” Hannibal starts, reaching toward him.
Will violently shifts his body away, hands rushing upward to cling to his hair. He looks as though he may begin to cry. “You were using me. You were using me!”
Hannibal steps forward, cautiously, and is surprised when Will does not move away again. He removes the man’s trembling hands from his hair, keeping hold of them for both of their safety.
“Is it not better this way?” He asks.
In lieu of an answer, Will rips his hands from Hannibal’s grasp and all but runs from the room.
Somewhere, some voice in his hindbrain tells Hannibal he should feel upset about this. He knows that there is no reason to be, though.
Will will be back.
~⭑~
It takes weeks, too many weeks, and far too many calls, but Will finally gets in touch with Alana again.
She, somewhat reluctantly, agrees to make the twenty-minute drive outside of the city to Will’s house to meet with him. Will, despite his feelings on his reality-altering abilities, is grateful he no longer lives in a cramped apartment block. He is paranoid as it is and the addition of neighbors listening in on him would not help. The two-story home, with plenty of land for his dogs - also new additions to his household - is free from any nosy neighbors who may think him psychotic.
When Alana arrives, Will can almost feel the anxiety radiating off of her. He takes her coat, sits her on the couch, and makes her some coffee.
It is harder than he assumes to start the conversation he needs to have, ask the question he desperately wants to know the answer to.
After what feels like hours, Alana is the one to break.
“Why did you ask me here, Will?”
Will clears his throat. He cannot draw this out forever.
“Do you remember anything strange happening the day you sat in on my session with Dr. Lecter?”
Something flickers across Alana’s eyes, something adjacent to fear but not quite anxiety.
“Alana,” Will tries again. “Do you remember anything? It’s really important that you tell me.”
“I, uh, I do recall something but…” she trails off, looking troubled.
Will nearly yells for her to continue. A flicker of hope for his situation has presented itself, and his desire to fan it into a great, big flame is almost impossible to ignore. He does not want to scare her off, though. For now, he waits patiently.
“I thought,” Alana takes a sip of coffee that has no doubt long gone cold. “I thought it was a dream, but I can’t shake the feeling that everything is true.”
“What’s true, Alana?”
He knows. He knows. But he must ask.
“I remember an entire life that was completely different to this one, and yet I can remember living this life just as long. I suppose I would have written it off, a few weird nightmares and memory just generally being unreliable, but I- I remember standing in Hannibal’s office watching as those buildings just…vanished.” Alana stares off, her features haunted.
“I almost forgot about it, but then I would do something like remember a conversation with my sister,” She laughed, sadly. “But I don’t have a sister. My mother died early from the plague, before she could ever have her. My father remarried, but my step-mother only ever had sons.”
“I’m sorry,” Will whispers.
“It’s not your fault.”
Will puffs out a breath, almost a laugh, “It is though, isn’t it? These shifts are my doing. They are caused by my dreams.”
“You really believe that?”
“Yes! You saw it for yourself!”
Alana hesitates. “Why don’t you stop, then?”
“I want to, but Dr. Lecter,” Will feels an overwhelming wave of emotion try to engulf him as he tries to explain. “He’s using me. I don’t want to dream. I want to be fixed.”
Will looks at Alana, a familiar look of pity etched into her gaze.
“Please help me.”
She places her head into her hands, sighing, and Will feels his entire body tense.
“What do you want me to do, Will? Make you dream that Hannibal is a better person?” She laughs wryly as she sits up, pushing her hair back.
Will pauses. “That…”
Alana looks back toward him, tilting her head. Her eyes are weary and she looks about two seconds from seeing herself out.
“How good are you at hypnosis?”
~⭑~
“Will,” Hannibal says, opening the door wider so Will can enter the office. “I’m surprised you kept your appointment.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t exactly have a choice, do I?”
Will walks past, going to sit on one of the chairs, rather than the divan he usually prefers. He watches as Hannibal watches him, slowly closing the door before he walks over and sits opposite him.
For a while, nothing is said. Will wonders if his dream with Alana took, if the man before him can truly be ‘benevolent’. It is somewhat difficult to think of though, when he is being viewed with poorly concealed delight. As if Dr. Lecter has gotten his favorite toy back.
Hannibal clears his throat, “Will.”
“Dr. Lecter,” Will responds.
The corner of the doctor’s mouth twitches, and Will feels a wave of satisfaction settle over him. Months ago, Hannibal had asked Will to refer to him by name, and Will had staunchly refused. It clearly annoys the man that Will will not allow him the small intimacy, which further solidifies his position on the matter.
“I’d like to begin by apologizing for how our last session ended,” he begins. “I believed it was best to hide my knowledge of your ability for the time being, but it was clearly an error in judgment.”
The apology catches Will halfway between stunned and pissed off.
He scoffs. “An error in judgment? Of course it was an error in judgment! You used me and lied to me about it!”
“I admit that it was wrong of me to conceal my understanding of the situation but, Will, you are special.”
Will stands, feeling suddenly trapped by the chair he sits in. Hannibal remains where he is, legs crossed, hands folded neatly in his lap, and eyes tracking Will’s movements.
“I-I’m just a man!” He insists. “An average man. A singular blade of grass in an incomprehensibly large field. I am not special.”
“You are wrong. You are not the blade of grass, Will, but the wind that blows over the field. You bend people whichever way you desire,” Hannibal says, gaze piercing.
“I have no right!”
“Who has the right, if not you? It is not unreasonable to think that someone, something, must hold such power if not you, yes? So, tell me, who would deserve it then, Will?”
“I can’t say who would deserve it. But I can’t say it’s me. I can’t even properly handle it!”
Hannibal stands, making his way slowly to Will. “Can’t you? Have I not been aiding you since you’ve come to me?
Will shakes his head. “That’s not me. You’ve been controlling my dreams.”
“I have simply been offering suggestions through hypnosis. You have dreamt the changes each time.”
“The nuance makes little difference,” Will mumbles.
“Then choose.”
“What?”
“Decide on something you wish to dream, and I will aid you in it,” Hannibal says, coming to stand directly in front of him. “I wish to work with you, Will, not against you. If you desire something, I will do my best to help you make it reality.”
“I-I don’t even know what I would want,” Will stammers, conflicted.
He glances around the room looking for an out, an answer, anything that could help him in his situation.
“I often find myself wishing that I could fix the parts of my life that I regret. I wonder about how things would be if I had chosen alternative paths. I fantasize about lives lost to lesser decisions,” Hannibal places a hand on Will’s shoulder, and Will locks eyes with him. “Which lives have you lost, Will?”
The name comes out in a breath, before he even has a chance to wonder if it is a good idea.
“Abigail.”
“Abigail?”
Will swallows the lump in his throat. “Abigail Hobbs.”
“Who was she to you?” Hannibal asks.
Hesitantly, Will divulges the story of the Hobbs case:
His first foray into the field, the only time he went into the field, was supposed to be a simple profile and investigation of a serial killer targeting young women. It ended with Louise Hobbs bled out on her porch, Will emptying a clip into Garret-Jacob Hobbs, and Will having to hold closed the half-slashed open throat of one Abigail Hobbs while she bled out in her own kitchen. Will stayed by her side while she recovered, surprised that she hadn’t pushed away her father’s killer. Eventually she was able to leave the hospital and get her own apartment, but scrutiny fell on her and it got to her. She acted like it didn’t, but it did. Will was approached by Jack with the possibility that Abigail had been involved with the murders her father had committed, and Will had not stood for it. Jack hadn’t cared though, and questioned Abigail anyway. It broke her. She hadn’t survived long afterward. Whether it was true or not, Jack never got his answer and Will…
“You wish you could have saved her. Protected her,” Hannibal offers.
“Yes.”
“You felt a paternal instinct towards her.”
“I- yes. I suppose if I had to put a word to it.”
He feels shameful admitting it, what right does he have feeling paternal for a girl who he could not save? Whose father he killed?
Hannibal leads him gently to the divan. “You do not have to mourn for her, Will. Let me help you.”
Will looks out the window, the sky a soft cerulean color. After a moment, he nods.
In a flash, The Augmentor is rolled out and he is strapped in. Hannibal is beginning his hypnosis and Will is allowing himself to fall in. The last thing he sees is the man lunging for his throat, and everything goes black.
—
Will wakes, groggy as always, as Hannibal pulls him up.
“How are you feeling?” He asks.
“I don’t know,” Will groans.
He is untangled from the machinery as he recounts his dream, the Hobbs case ending much the same but with Abigail avoiding scrutiny. Rather than being targeted, she was seen as another victim by the public. Jack may have had his suspicions, but avoided investigating to avoid public outcry. Abigail-
Will’s phone begins to buzz in his pocket, interrupting his retelling. He pulls it from his pocket, intending to silence it but…
“Will?”
Will breathes in shakily.
“Will? Hel-llo?”
“Abigail. Hey. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing? I was just calling to see if you still wanted to meet for dinner tonight, since I’ll be in the city?”
Will wipes a hand across his eyes. “Right. Right! You decided to visit for the weekend from university.”
“Yeah…So are we still doing dinner, or?”
“Yeah, we’re still getting dinner.”
“Same place as usual?”
A memory flickers across Will’s mind, several memories really. He and Abigail at a small pizza joint - the first place he took her after she was discharged from the hospital. They went there quite often for a while, as she refused home cooked meals unless she made them herself and her cooking skills were…less than stellar. She had learned quickly, but it had become somewhat of a special place so they made sure to go back when they could.
“Yeah, same place as usual.”
“Great. See you later!”
“See ya.”
The call cuts and Will lets his hand drop to his side, his phone dropping to the cushion. He barely even registers that Hannibal sits next to him on the divan.
“See, Will? Is it not better when you utilize your power? Has your life not improved?”
A twinge of guilt turns Will’s stomach.
“What does it matter if my life has improved? I could dream the world into perfection yet there would still be a singular flaw as long as I remain. A darkness will always cloud me as long as I hold this ability,” Will watches his hands as he wrings them together. “I am utterly alone in that darkness.”
Hannibal places his own hand on Will’s to still them. “You are not alone, Will. I am right beside you.”
Despite himself, Will feels comforted.
~⭑~
“I don’t know, Will.” Alana sighs.
They are back in the cafe where they had initially met. Will has updated her on how his last session went, hoping to gain some insight into the shift in Hannibal’s attitude.
“It seems like he wants to help?” Alana offers.
“He used me. He lied to me,” Will points out. “In fact, he still wants to use me.”
Alana nods, taking a sip from her drink.
He does not know why he is protesting so hard when Alana brings up the points she does. He has had this very discussion in his own brain multiple times within the past few days. He almost falls towards agreeing to Hannibal’s proposal each time, so he had decided to bring in Alana as a second opinion. She is being less than helpful to Will, though.
“After what we had you dream, did you not expect him to change?” Alana asks.
Will sighs. “I did, but-”
“But?”
“I just don’t know if I can fully trust him.”
“But you trust yourself? You trust in your ability to make change?”
“Yes.”
Alana leans back in her seat and shrugs. Will knows that there is not much more she can offer him. He has to make a decision for himself.
~⭑~
It is time for Will’s appointment, and Hannibal is patiently - anxiously but patiently - waiting for his arrival. Everything depends on this appointment.
The intercom buzzes, the patient is in his waiting room.
Hannibal opens the door and there he is, determination etched into every inch of his being.
He cannot completely hide his smile. “Come in, Will.”
Will walks straight to the divan, not unusual, but a good sign nonetheless. He settles himself and looks upward, directly at Hannibal; another good sign.
Almost as soon as Hannibal sits opposite him, Will begins.
“Hannibal.”
He stills, just for a moment. “Yes, Will?”
“I agree. I’ll work with you.”
Another surprise to Hannibal, but not an unwelcome one. “What great news.”
Will holds up a hand. “I have conditions, though.”
“Which are?”
“You cannot make any more major changes without my explicit consent, including changes to our personal lives.”
Hannibal does not consider this entirely unreasonable from a general perspective, although he is not thrilled about it from his own.
“And if I do not agree to these conditions?”
“I’m out.” Will says.
Hannibal blinks. “Out?”
“If you won’t change what you’re doing and I cannot stop myself from dreaming, then I’m out.”
Hannibal does not see hesitation or uncertainty in Will’s expression. He breathes deeply and pretends to consider for another moment, as if he had not made his decision five minutes ago, the second Will had said ‘I agree’.
“I suppose I must submit to your terms then, Will.”
“What great news, Hannibal.”
Hannibal smiles, standing. “What will it be today, then? Any thoughts?”
After minimal debate, they settle on addressing the public transportation system. Despite everything, the buses and trains in the city are still subpar. They are old, rickety, and they will likely never be fixed without a little…intervention. It is a necessary improvement.
After some additional debate, Hannibal gets Will to reluctantly agree to letting him add in another minor wish of his own to the dream. What that is, he simply refuses to reveal to Will, but he promises to him that it will not alter reality as a whole or either of their lives in any significant ways.
~⭑~
“I fear you may burn a hole into me at this rate, Will.”
Will says nothing, continuing to stare at Hannibal. Suspicion simmers within him as he watches the doctor scribbling away in his notebook at the large mahogany desk a few feet away.
“Are you dissatisfied with something?” Hannibal asks, setting his pen down so he can look at Will properly.
Will slowly shakes his head, finally glancing away. “No,” he says softly.
He really isn’t.
Everything is almost too perfect. They had agreed to address the public transportation issue and Will woke up to a flawless system. Trains, buses, high-speed railways, even ferry systems. People hardly even own cars anymore.
Will feels more in control than he ever has. He feels secure, settled. He cannot help the feeling growing within him, telling him that maybe Hannibal was right.
Will feels he is not special, is ordinary, is just another cog in the machine, he always has. But if he does have this ability, if he has a means to control it now, is it truly that unreasonable to want to improve the world?
Will does not know the answer and he knows what Hannibal’s answer would be. Being able to ask a third party would be ideal, but no one else knows about his situation. No one else would be able to understand, willing to understand.
Will’s eyes snap to Hannibal, the man still watching him closely.
“What happened to Alana?” he asks, throat dry.
Hannibal lets out a barely audible sigh. “Dr. Bloom is the head of the Residential Treatment Facility. She lives very comfortably. I believe her son just turned three.”
Will reels slightly from the information. The RFT, previously the OTT program that Hannibal had induced Will into changing several months ago. ‘Distasteful’ was what he had called it.
“Wasn’t Dr. Chilton in charge of the hospital?”
“Dr. Bloom does a far better job as far as I am concerned.”
“She has a son?” Will asks, voice wobbling slightly.
“Yes. A wife as well,” Hannibal tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Are you upset by this?”
Will does not even know where to begin with the question. Upset? Of course he’s upset. How could he not be? Alana was, well, not exactly a friend, but he valued her companionship. He trusted her. She is entirely erased from his life, even if she still exists.
“Why?” he whispers.
Hannibal leaves the desk and comes closer to Will, settling next to him on the divan.
“She was an obstacle to our progress.”
Will looks to him. “An obstacle?”
“She knew about your ability,” Hannibal seems to hesitate for a moment before continuing. “She distracted you. You…desired her. Or you believed you did.”
Will jolts. “What?”
Hannibal remains firm where he sits. “It would never have worked out, Will. Dr. Bloom keeps those of your nature strictly isolated from those she allows into her personal life. A category labeled ‘professional curiosity’ and nothing more.”
“Oh, and you’re so different, Dr. Lecter,” Will practically spits. “I’m not just ‘professional curiosity’ to you?”
The man is oddly quiet next to him.
Will lets out a breathy laugh. “You- I- You think that we-?”
“I do not think it’s that absurd,” Hannibal says, voice quiet but gaze intense. “We work well together.”
Will so desperately wishes to deny this, but he cannot. He still feels such a strong sense of reality, even after the major shift from his effective dream this session. He always said that he would give up the world for this peace of mind, and now he has it.
“Do you hate the idea so much?” Hannibal asks.
“No,” Will says under his breath.
He does not hate the idea at all, yet that in itself discomforts him. He should hate this. He should despise the man next to him, yet he does not.
Hannibal reaches for Will’s hand, limp on his thigh, and gently holds it.
“You can have anything you dream of, Will. I just make that easier for you.”
~⭑~
Will walks through the front gate of his home, walking along the path and breathing in the clean air and scent of the flowers that line the garden path. The sun shines bright and a cool breeze rustles the leaves of the trees. The days of walking in unceasing, warm rain and choking on air thick with smog are long behind him.
“I’m home,” Will calls out as he opens the door.
The sound of several pairs of paws running on the tiled floor of the foyer makes him look up as he slips off his shoes and puts them on the rack by the door.
“Hello,” Will coos to the few dogs that came to greet him by the door.
Although he lives closer to the city now, he kept quite a sizable yard for the dogs. He grew attached to the first few when he got them and has since picked up a grand total of seven.
Eventually, Will does have to move out from the entrance of his home. He stands from his crouched position and moves further in, four furry bodies following him with tails wagging excitedly.
“Hey, dad.”
Will turns his head to see Abigail halfway down the staircase, one of the terriers at her feet.
Her neck is free from any scar, her expression unhaunted by the trauma brought on from previous realities. In this life, she had lost her parents as an infant to the plague. Will had taken her in as a toddler, raising her as his own ever since.
“Hey,” he says, giving Abigail a hug as she reaches him. “Something smells good. You cooking?”
Abigail gives him a look, turning on her heel toward the dining room.
“Dinner just finished. You came home right on time.”
Will follows, taking his usual seat at the table. A centerpiece of flowers picked from the gardens is sitting perfectly arranged in the center.
“Is there a special occasion I don’t know about?” Will chuckles, fiddling with a peony.
“It is always a special occasion when our daughter visits us.”
Will glances across the table, watching Hannibal as he places a plate of food before Abigail. “It certainly is.”
Abigail rolls her eyes. “Stop it.”
Hannibal sets down the last two plates of food in front of his own spot and Will’s. He leans over to plant a soft kiss on Will’s forehead as he does so. “Welcome home. We made your favorite.”
“You made his favorite. You only let me peel the vegetables,” Abigail objects.
“Therefore you helped, therefore we made it together,” Hannibal responds, sitting down. “Bon appetit.”
Will smiles at the two of them.
He could not dream of a better life.