afteryourdeathormine:

Will was deep, delightfully so, and Hannibal tipped his head lightly, taking in the tremble of his shoulders and the slight, rhythmic sway of which he was utterly unconscious. If he touched Will in this moment, who would touch back? More importantly, who would lash back out?

The voice was muffled, Will’s tongue awkward in his mouth, and Hannibal’s smile at the back of Will’s skull was without its polite mask. Perhaps one day, with enough patience, with enough care, Will would return the smile in turn, a perfect mirror. A perfect foil.

How delightful he looked when he drowned in his own mind.

“Nothing of import,” Hannibal replied, schooling his features back to neutral. “What did you see, Will?”

And more importantly, whom did you become?

It was the normality in the question, the simple unperturbed cadence of Hannibal’s voice that warned Will not to answer; the particular discordant feeling between the jumble of his mind and the sound of conversation flowing on around him. Sometimes his lapses were noticed, often they weren’t, but when he lost time it was only ever in his mind, leaving him heir to whatever actions and conversations replaced him so convincingly.

Instead Will forced his gaze around them in a shaky impersonation of awareness, grasping for details that made sense. He was standing in front of a squat brass boiler, tarnished more green than bronze with years of neglect, and the pinched muscle in his jaw relaxed at the same moment his pulse began to hammer. The low ceiling, at least, was real enough: it stretched away above their heads, existing for less than seven feet in the dim glow. 

Hannibal was now holding their flashlight, angled low to protect his night-vision, and Will’s fingers curled belatedly around the place where he last – still – remembered holding it. (The digits tingled sharply, like he’d lost circulation in them for a while.) 

The hair at the base of his neck felt damp. 

“Uh. Weight,” he said, because there was still a question. He hated questions. They required answers. “The grooves, they’re. He fell on the stairs, so I know he’s not that heavy. The depth of the footsteps suggest water. His feet were wet, probably year after year. Slow erosion and,” he gestured blindly at the gloom, “lack of light. Curing smoke.” He couldn’t be the only one who could smell it. The memory was stronger than the reality, but it was there: hazel, he thought, but couldn’t be sure.

According to the police report, according to the land registry  there was no stream or river on the property. He didn’t need to be reminded of that.

Even with Hannibal, the doctor’s quiet understanding waiting patiently, it cost Will to ask. He lifted a numb hand to rub the sweat above his eyes, obscuring them with the curl of his fingers, and cleared his throat of the fear dragging his pride behind it.

“Where are we?”

Jun 24th   29 notes