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It starts on Thursday, with Will making coffee in his kitchen. It takes him a few moments to realize that the reason he stopped, spoon held aloft with its load of sugar, is because he is narrating himself. Not out loud, the dogs haven’t stirred from their pile near the fireplace, but accurately enough to be both worrying and endearing. He tips the sugar into his mug and stirs, frowning as the commentary resumes.
Sometimes you don’t need pathetic fallacy, sometimes, all it takes is for the coffee to be the wrong side of burnt in the morning, the taste the darker side of pleasant. You know it heralds a bad day, dear Will, you know.
The frown deepens and Will drinks his coffee too fast, the liquid burning his tongue, the sugar not quite enough to make the taste pleasant. He leaves the house unhappy, coffee mug upside down in the sink, the remains of his unsatisfying drink drying on the metal lining.
By the time Will gets home, he has examined two crime scenes and accidentally contaminated one. He tries not to think on how bad a day it ended up being by ignoring the voice when it tells him that showers should be avoided at all costs by those who do not wish to be burned or paralyzed.
He goes to sleep late, and tries to sleep on the side he hasn’t scalded.
-
On Friday, the voice calmly informs him that there is a dog park nearby that Will should make the effort to steer clear of.
Dogs are not allowed in the dog park, it drones, do not approach the dog park.
Will sets the knife down that he’d been using to gut fish and glares at nothing in particular. Winston cocks his head at him from the armchair in the main room and Will rubs his eyes. He’s just tired. It’s been an insane few weeks with the copycat killer picking up his pace, and the amount of crime scenes Jack drags Will to has almost doubled. He spends so long in other people’s minds that he’s forgotten what his own sounds like.
It’s late into the evening when Will’s eyes open, sticky with sleep and unseeing, and he realizes that the voice that just wished him good night is not his own.
-
By Monday, Will has had enough. His mind has been fizzing with static, bad advice, words from sponsors and unrealistic horoscopes.
“I’d venture to say the copycat killer is a Taurus,” he hisses, pacing Dr. Lecter’s office in frustration as he drags his hands through his hair yet again, upsetting the mess into something worse, “Because apparently it’s their crime day, and they are exempt from all laws.”
Hannibal, in his infinite patience, lets Will move, watches him as he gestures angrily and tries to convey just how frustrated this entire situation is making him.
“Will,”
“And the amount of SHIT that this commentator says,” Will takes a deep breath, one hand against his face as his other holds his glasses out of the way, just dangling from his fingers in exhausted resignation.
“I think I’m losing my mind.” he murmurs forlornly, “I think I’ve finally… jumped that barrier and become what I’d been trying to avoid by never leaving the college in the first place.”
“William.”
He finally stops, silent but for the rapid intake of breath to fill his lungs after the exertion of emptying them. Hannibal leaves him a moment to gather his thoughts enough before he’s sure Will can hear him.
“You are under a lot of pressure with Jack.” He says calmly, hoping with Will’s inability to not empathize he’ll take on the tone himself and sit, “You see things most people imagine only in nightmares. Sometimes you see worse. It’s only natural for the mind to want to deal with it a certain way. Perhaps the fact that you talk to yourself is healthy, you’re trying to sift through the issues without burdening someone else with them. A real person.”
“I burden you.” Will replies, letting the hand drop away, and a slightly broken smile replace it. He slowly slides his glasses back onto his nose and takes a seat.
“You are not a burden, Will,” Hannibal assures him, tilting his head now that Will has sat down, so he can meet his eyes as much as the man will allow. “To me, you are a friend. And to Jack, I am your psychiatrist.”
They are quiet for a time, Will staring at his hands clasped tightly between his knees, Hannibal watching Will’s face as it goes through minute ticks and changes, quick as thought. He’s a fascinating study, Will Graham. He has managed to keep Hannibal interested throughout the entire time he’s known him, which is both unusual and frightening – the former for Hannibal, the latter, if the man knew, for Will – and absolutely addictive. For them both, it seems, for Will keeps coming back despite Hannibal signing him out as fit for work weeks ago.
“It’s not me.” Will says finally. Hannibal gives him a beat before sitting forward to mirror Will’s posture.
“Our subconscious is the part of us we relate to the least,” he tells him, “Simply because it is the one part of us we have no control over.”
“No it’s…” Will purses his lips a little and sighs, “The voice. It’s not me. It’s not mine.”
Hannibal regards him in silence, lets himself think. After a significant pause in which Will has started to fidget again, he speaks again.
“Does it have a name?”
Will snorts.
“Cecil.” He replies, tone curling in a quietly snarling annoyance. Hannibal nods, looking at his hands a moment.
“An apt name.” he says, “It means ‘blind’, if I’m not mistaken.”
Will shrugs, “I wouldn’t know. I didn’t name it.”
“Will, you are trying to come to terms with the things that you see. With the things Jack Crawford makes you see. It seems your mind has chosen to do so with commentary. It is dealing.”
“But it tells me nothing of import!” Will exclaims, pushing himself to stand again, “It’s like listening to a never ending, badly written fanfiction of a Samuel Beckett play.”
Hannibal’s lips quirk at the allusion.
“It narrates my actions, gives me stupid advice, sometimes drones on about absolutely nothing at all and it is exhausting trying to filter it.”
“Is the advice sound?” Hannibal asks, tone amused but genuinely curious. Will just snorts, shaking his head in frustration and gesturing simply because he needs to move his hands.
“I now know that alligators are a danger to my children.” He offers, tone almost calm if not for the slightly hysterical raise at the end, “That today’s air quality is mauve and speckled, and that I have at least one spider on my person at all times.”
He pauses, breathing quickly again as he feels the agitation – and admittedly, fear – rise up in his chest and choke him. Will rests his hands on his knees and ducks his head. After a pause in which Hannibal checks the time more to know it than to rush Will out – he’s here without an appointment scheduled anyway – Will continues, voice quieter.
“It warned me a bad day would be heralded by atrocious coffee.” He licks his lips and, with a sigh, straightens. “That day, Jack sent me to two scenes and I managed to contaminate one of them.” He doesn’t mention the shower incident, his shoulder still feels like it’s been sunburnt in the worst way. Hannibal’s expression is commendably neutral. Will licks his lips and frowns, brows furrowed.
“Do you think this is serious?” he asks, “Do I need to go to the hospital?”
“No.” Hannibal smiles and stands, walking around Will and to his desk, pulling out a small notebook and passing it to Will as he returns to stand at his side. “I think your subconscious, the mind that you have chosen to name ‘blindness’, is trying to detach you in a way your physical body and conscious mind cannot. You need peace, Will. You need to distance yourself from your work and not burden your soul with it.”
He taps the notebook gently. “If it helps you to feel like you’re curing yourself, write the advice down. Keep it stored so your mind lets it go.”
“What if it doesn’t?” Will mumbles, holding the notebook in limp fingers.
“It will.” Hannibal reassures him, ghosting a hand near Will’s shoulder but not quite touching him. “Do not rush your mind in dealing. Let it do so in its own time. It is up to you which advice you believe, Will, but perhaps it would be best to discount it entirely. Bad days happen. Convincing yourself you will have one is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Write it down and let it pass on its own.”
Will nods, licking his bottom lip before parting them on a deep breath.
“Thank you, Dr. Lecter.”
“Of course.”
Hannibal shows Will out, lingering in the doorway as the other man leaves. Will Graham has an exquisite mind, a dangerous one if it turns on itself. He makes a note to monitor Will more closely, perhaps request he bring the notebook in to sessions so he can see what his mind dredges up to try and buffer him from the world he works in. after a moment he steps away and closes the door to his office with a quiet click.
-
The night is restless and hot, and Will lies on his back, blank eyes at the ceiling, as his mind methodically lists his schedule for the week. Wednesday, apparently, has been cancelled due to a scheduling error. He hears a dog snuffle at the foot of his bed, the way the trees shift in the light breeze outside the open window, closes his eyes when Cecil’s voice appears to fade.
Before I go – Will’s eyes open and he glares into the dark – the things you think I tell you in jest, I mean in earnest. He wasn’t wrong in assuring you my voice would cease. It will. There are only four sessions pre-written and the latest intern has yet to return with coffee, for which I sent him two days ago. He will be missed. And so will I, Will, when I leave you, like the last pterodactyl flying into the burning orb of the meteoric explosion. But what you must understand, is that the man is his own dark shadow. A mirror of normalcy covering his raw and vicious will. Remember, and think on it. Good night, dear Will, good night.
And then silence. Peaceful, liberating silence.
Will licks his lips, swallows, and lets out a breath. He turns his head enough to see the notebook on his bedside table, the pen balanced precariously on its edge. A mirror of normalcy covering his raw and vicious will. He blinks, just once, and turns away to sleep.
He doesn’t write it down.