Work Text:
Blog Entry #37 – 3,000 words of pain, posted at 2:17 a.m.
Hi. I’m the background guy. Don’t bother remembering my name. Nobody else does.
I was supposed to be an extra in a serious crime drama. My job: nod seriously, pass folders, look haunted by murder statistics. Easy. Respectable. But somewhere along the way, I got demoted into unwilling nanny for the world’s most cursed married couple.
I never asked for this life. I signed up to be an anonymous background agent at the FBI. My job was supposed to be passing folders around, nodding in agreement when Jack yells about deadlines, and occasionally looking grim during a briefing. That’s it. Not exciting, not glamorous, but simple. But no. Fate decided to screw me over, and now I’m stuck being the only human being alive who has realized the truth about Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter.
They’re married. Yes, married. Since forever, apparently. And they have children. Actual children. Plural. Misha, the older one who can see through my soul and scare me half to death without even blinking, and Nicholas, the younger one, who has the speed and destructive capacity of a raccoon on energy drinks. And somehow, I am the only person who knows this.
Everyone else is so, so stupid. I don’t say that lightly, but I can’t emphasize it enough: stupid. Every single one of my coworkers has been trained to notice tiny details at crime scenes, yet not one of them has managed to notice the fact that Will casually refers to Hannibal as “honey” when he thinks no one’s listening. Not one of them questions when Hannibal brings Will lunch in Tupperware. Do you know what was inside? Sandwiches with little smiley faces cut out of the bread. For Misha’s lunch. Hannibal “gourmet murder chef” Lecter, the man who probably thinks ketchup is a war crime, sat in his kitchen carving smiley faces into bread for his daughter’s sandwich, and everyone at the FBI just went, “Wow, he’s such a nice friend to Will.” A NICE FRIEND.
And don’t even get me started on Nicholas. One time, Will muttered in the middle of a case meeting that they were going to be late picking him up from soccer practice. Soccer practice. In front of everyone. Nobody reacted. Not even a twitch. I nearly drowned in my coffee, and Jack just told me to stop making a scene. A scene? Will Graham literally announced to the room that he and Hannibal have a kid to pick up from soccer, and I’m the crazy one?
The kids come around sometimes. Nobody notices. Nobody. Will brings them in, says they’re his “niece and nephew” or some other transparent lie, and people just nod along like sheep. Misha once looked me straight in the eye and said, “Don’t tell anyone or you’ll disappear,” while eating Goldfish crackers. Do you know how terrifying that is? Meanwhile, Nicholas was in the background, smearing applesauce on top-secret files, and I had to be the one to clean it up. Hannibal swept in, handed me a juice box like I was the third child in the family, and told me, with perfect seriousness, “Don’t let them play with scalpels.” Then he walked away. Do you understand the nightmare I live in?
And everyone else is blind. Deaf and blind. Every time Will slips and says something like “our anniversary,” I choke so violently I almost pass out, and the rest of the room just… keeps working. The interns don’t blink. Jack doesn’t notice. Alana probably thinks it’s some figure of speech. I’m the only one sitting there like, did nobody hear him? Anniversary? How many lonely bachelors out there celebrate anniversaries with their psychiatrist?
Sometimes I think I must be cursed. I see it all—the way Hannibal straightens Will’s tie, the way Will texts Hannibal about picking up milk or defrosting the chicken right in the middle of a crime scene. I saw him do it once, standing over a corpse: “Can you defrost the chicken for dinner?” he whispered into his phone. Everyone else was marveling at blood spatter. Meanwhile, I was wondering if they’d let me check myself into a psychiatric ward just to get away from this.
And Jack—don’t get me started on Jack. He once pulled me aside, all serious, and said, “Keep an eye on Lecter. I don’t trust him.” Oh, really, Jack? You don’t trust the man who literally drives Will’s kids to school, folds his laundry, and yells from the kitchen, “Honey, where’s the corkscrew?” in front of witnesses? That’s the guy you’re suspicious of? Groundbreaking detective work. Truly.
I’ve accepted my fate. I’m the lone background character doomed to know the truth. Everyone else thinks Will Graham is some tragic, lonely bachelor. Nobody knows he’s got a husband who makes carrot flowers for lunchboxes and two kids who are probably going to take over the world. Nobody knows except me. And it’s killing me inside.
If anyone from HR is reading this blog, please: give me hazard pay. Or therapy. Or both. Because when this entire charade finally collapses, and people start screaming about Hannibal being the Chesapeake Ripper and Will being his partner in crime and marriage, I will be the one standing in the rubble yelling, “I TOLD YOU SO,” clutching a Capri Sun that Hannibal packed for me like some twisted form of bribery.
Until then, I remain your humble witness to stupidity,
—The Background Character
P.S. Hannibal made me another sandwich today. It had little carrot flowers. It was delicious. I hate myself.