nobody asked for this but HERE IT IS ANYWAY
(under the cut for length, body horror, generalized monstery weirdness, thank god only one person is reading this, I'm sorry dude, oh god)
Despite Will’s initial reluctance, it turns out that Jack has been right all along, and dinner is just as delicious as the rumors had made it out to be.
Will is rather out of his depth with all the French names and expensive wines; Hannibal, however, is an unfailingly gracious host, and against all odds maintains a fairly pleasant atmosphere over dinner. It’s with a slight unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach (Will’s not used to all this rich food) that the two bid each other good evening, and Will gets back into his car to return home.
By the time he reaches Wolf Trap, the feeling of wrongness has gotten stronger. It’s not nausea; it’s a strange ache deep in his bones that has Will breathing a little heavier than usual, wiping sweat off his brow. He lets the dogs out, as usual, and gets himself a drink of water to settle himself, but it persists, and Will finds himself stumbling on the porch steps suffering from an odd sense of - vertigo? Everything seems too large, too close to him, and his hands are numb and clumsy as he pushes the door open. The dogs stream inside around him, buffeting his legs and almost knocking him over. Something is definitely not right.
Will is pulling out his phone to call in sick for tomorrow when, suddenly, his legs give out under him. He falls hard, the phone spinning off across the floor. For a moment, he’s simply confused by the sudden change in his perspective; he even manages to get his arms under him and start pushing himself back up again.
Then, the pain hits him like a hammer, and nothing else matters.
It’s as if someone has their fingers hooked through his ribcage and is pulling it wide, like his arms are being crushed and twisted by a giant’s hands, like his legs and hips are being torn apart at the joints, and he is screaming and screaming through aching jaws. His arms give out and he crumples fully to the floor, shaking violently, his voice tearing at his throat in a long animal howl.
His skin is burning, thousands of needle-sharp jabs searing over his torso and limbs, and he can hear with awful clarity the creaking of bone under stress as his skeleton warps and twists. A hideous crunch as his shoulders are forced out of alignment, snapping forward to a new position, and he shrieks and arches with the pain, claws at himself, feeling his fingers fist and curl in something soft for a moment before he loses control of them too -
There are spots before his eyes, his vision obscured with each new wave, but Will never fully blacks out; he is horribly conscious for every white-hot second.
After who knows how long, the pain finally starts to ebb until he’s left gasping on the floor, drenched in sweat, the residual ache a sweet comfort after the agony he just suffered. The dogs are scared; Winston is whimpering, Griffin letting out a harsh growl bordering on a snarl. Buster’s high-pitched yap finally pierces through the haze, and Will weakly pushes himself upright to tend to them, stands up and up and up and -
- and bumps his head on the ceiling.
With a yell of shock, he staggers backward, looking down at the room from far too great a height. He treads on something that slips against the hardwood floor and tugs at the small of his back; the sensation is enough to throw his already addled balance completely off and he topples back against the bookshelf. He throws out a hand to catch himself, but he only succeeds in knocking everything off the mantel before hitting the ground again.
Lying there on his back, he looks down the length of his body at the dogs on the other side of the room -
He looks down the length of his body -
His body -
Oh, god -
Will lets out a strangled noise between a shout and a sob.
Under the remaining scraps of his clothing, he is covered in a thick layer of feathers. His body tapers down into a swallow-like, forked tail, and his arms have been replaced by a pair of enormous wings, each tipped with two small claw-like fingers at the wrist joint. His legs are kicking absurdly in the air - a pair of scaly, bird-like appendages, complete with curved talons.
“No,” Will chokes out, “No, no, no, no, no.” This can’t be happening. This is a hallucination. This is a bad dream. This is a mistake, this is not real, this is wrong wrong wrong wrong -
Reflexively, he tries to push himself away from this awful thing that he’s seeing (not seeing, it’s not real, it can’t be real), but his legs don’t bend the way they’re supposed to and he has no hands and his panicked noises are catching on the raw edges of a shriek. The wings on either side of him are pounding madly against the ground and he can feel the shocks in his shoulders and chest with each impact, he can feel the talons digging into the great scaled feet as they clench and unclench on empty air.
Will falls still, choking back a scream. In extreme shallow focus, he sees the light brown feathers on his neck ruffle under his panting breaths. His feathers.
This is real. This is happening.
He's a monster again.
He struggles to all fours, hunching forward on his wing joints, shedding bits of flannel. His body is a mess of alien sensations: the twitch and flare of his tail, the bristling feathers on his neck and chest, the odd inflexibility of wings in place of hands. He looks over his own shoulder at himself, trying to ascertain the extent of the damage done, but stops himself when he realizes he’s turned his head around far enough to rest his chin on his back. Unable to quite stifle his undignified yelp of fear, he snaps his eyes back to the front and heaves a ragged breath, shaking and stiff-necked.
Despite Will’s initial reluctance, it turns out that Jack has been right all along, and dinner is just as delicious as the rumors had made it out to be.
Will is rather out of his depth with all the French names and expensive wines; Hannibal, however, is an unfailingly gracious host, and against all odds maintains a fairly pleasant atmosphere over dinner. It’s with a slight unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach (Will’s not used to all this rich food) that the two bid each other good evening, and Will gets back into his car to return home.
By the time he reaches Wolf Trap, the feeling of wrongness has gotten stronger. It’s not nausea; it’s a strange ache deep in his bones that has Will breathing a little heavier than usual, wiping sweat off his brow. He lets the dogs out, as usual, and gets himself a drink of water to settle himself, but it persists, and Will finds himself stumbling on the porch steps suffering from an odd sense of - vertigo? Everything seems too large, too close to him, and his hands are numb and clumsy as he pushes the door open. The dogs stream inside around him, buffeting his legs and almost knocking him over. Something is definitely not right.
Will is pulling out his phone to call in sick for tomorrow when, suddenly, his legs give out under him. He falls hard, the phone spinning off across the floor. For a moment, he’s simply confused by the sudden change in his perspective; he even manages to get his arms under him and start pushing himself back up again.
Then, the pain hits him like a hammer, and nothing else matters.
It’s as if someone has their fingers hooked through his ribcage and is pulling it wide, like his arms are being crushed and twisted by a giant’s hands, like his legs and hips are being torn apart at the joints, and he is screaming and screaming through aching jaws. His arms give out and he crumples fully to the floor, shaking violently, his voice tearing at his throat in a long animal howl.
His skin is burning, thousands of needle-sharp jabs searing over his torso and limbs, and he can hear with awful clarity the creaking of bone under stress as his skeleton warps and twists. A hideous crunch as his shoulders are forced out of alignment, snapping forward to a new position, and he shrieks and arches with the pain, claws at himself, feeling his fingers fist and curl in something soft for a moment before he loses control of them too -
There are spots before his eyes, his vision obscured with each new wave, but Will never fully blacks out; he is horribly conscious for every white-hot second.
After who knows how long, the pain finally starts to ebb until he’s left gasping on the floor, drenched in sweat, the residual ache a sweet comfort after the agony he just suffered. The dogs are scared; Winston is whimpering, Griffin letting out a harsh growl bordering on a snarl. Buster’s high-pitched yap finally pierces through the haze, and Will weakly pushes himself upright to tend to them, stands up and up and up and -
- and bumps his head on the ceiling.
With a yell of shock, he staggers backward, looking down at the room from far too great a height. He treads on something that slips against the hardwood floor and tugs at the small of his back; the sensation is enough to throw his already addled balance completely off and he topples back against the bookshelf. He throws out a hand to catch himself, but he only succeeds in knocking everything off the mantel before hitting the ground again.
Lying there on his back, he looks down the length of his body at the dogs on the other side of the room -
He looks down the length of his body -
His body -
Oh, god -
Will lets out a strangled noise between a shout and a sob.
Under the remaining scraps of his clothing, he is covered in a thick layer of feathers. His body tapers down into a swallow-like, forked tail, and his arms have been replaced by a pair of enormous wings, each tipped with two small claw-like fingers at the wrist joint. His legs are kicking absurdly in the air - a pair of scaly, bird-like appendages, complete with curved talons.
“No,” Will chokes out, “No, no, no, no, no.” This can’t be happening. This is a hallucination. This is a bad dream. This is a mistake, this is not real, this is wrong wrong wrong wrong -
Reflexively, he tries to push himself away from this awful thing that he’s seeing (not seeing, it’s not real, it can’t be real), but his legs don’t bend the way they’re supposed to and he has no hands and his panicked noises are catching on the raw edges of a shriek. The wings on either side of him are pounding madly against the ground and he can feel the shocks in his shoulders and chest with each impact, he can feel the talons digging into the great scaled feet as they clench and unclench on empty air.
Will falls still, choking back a scream. In extreme shallow focus, he sees the light brown feathers on his neck ruffle under his panting breaths. His feathers.
This is real. This is happening.
He's a monster again.
He struggles to all fours, hunching forward on his wing joints, shedding bits of flannel. His body is a mess of alien sensations: the twitch and flare of his tail, the bristling feathers on his neck and chest, the odd inflexibility of wings in place of hands. He looks over his own shoulder at himself, trying to ascertain the extent of the damage done, but stops himself when he realizes he’s turned his head around far enough to rest his chin on his back. Unable to quite stifle his undignified yelp of fear, he snaps his eyes back to the front and heaves a ragged breath, shaking and stiff-necked.