Shrink
“Will?”
The latest batch of reports had come up from the lab and they were spread over the table like little bunches like fans. On top of them was Will Graham’s lunch, sandwiches from the canteen that he’d stopped to get that morning in a daze from rushing out of the house after missing the alarm, sat untouched in front of him. He hadn’t even opened them. The coffee that was in his hands had slowly cooled and was now cold and undrinkable but he still cradled the plastic cup between both hands, the bottom resting against the table.
Crawford stared at him.
“Will?” but it earned no response. Jack had hardly touched him since he’d moved in with Carter, trying to keep his hands and his thoughts to himself. But it seemed like the only thing he could do to break the spell that Will had wound around himself. He had that look in his eyes, like ice cold glass waiting to shatter at the slightest touch.
Will jumped when Crawford’s fingers touched his arm and the coffee almost upturned, a splash covering the white sheets of paper nearest to him. “Shit …” his hand went for a napkin automatically, covering the blotch. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“They’re not important, I’ll get Wells to send up another copy.” But Will was still dabbing at the mark, the coffee at his elbow forgotten. Jack rescued it before it went the way of the last coffee Will had let go cold, and added to the slowly darkening stain on the carpet. “Will, they don’t matter. Will? Leave them.” His hand closed around the man’s wrist and instantly it shot out of his grasp as if he’d burned him.
“Jesus, Will. What the hell is wrong with you?” there was a moment of stillness in the room and Will just stared at him. As if he wasn’t seeing him, almost seeing through him. Or worse, seeing nothing at all. “Will?” softer this time, an enquiry as opposed to a demand. Blue eyes shifted, left him, and moved back down to the reports.
“I’ll call Wells.” Will’s voice was blank, devoid of anything akin to emotion. Jack was used to Will’s cue’s to leave him be but this time, as he closed the door of the office, he wondered if maybe leaving Will alone was the wrong decision.
***
Will hardly heard the voice on the other end of the phone. He’d dialled the number from memory. It took him several minutes before he realised that it wasn’t the number he’d intended. He answered the enquiry from the other end automatically and got the answer he would have expected to have gotten. If he’d meant to call in the first place, which he hadn’t. Had he?
“… Investigator Graham, Sergeant Carter is out of the office at the moment. I’ll tell him you called. Can I take a message?”
Will shook his head, then realised that the voice couldn’t see that so he filled in, “No. Thank you. No message.” Remarkably coherent today, wasn’t he? Why in the hell had he called George, anyway? He looked around. And where had his coffee gone? Oh, hell, he was a mess. The phone went back down and he stared blankly at the wall of his office.
His first therapy appointment hadn’t gone quite the way he’d intended it to do. They’d jumped right back in at the deep end as if nothing had happened and Will hadn’t missed the ten or twelve in the middle. It was as if she was trying to make it so that Will was caught off balance, so that he didn’t have a chance to counter her technique. He’d walked out two hours later even more dazed than he had been when he came into work that morning. In fact, he’d been tempted to walk out in the middle of it, but he’d promised George that he would try.
The only problem was … he was now left with two questions that had to be asked to George, questions that he couldn’t move on without the answers to. Questions that he didn’t want to ask. ‘What do you think about when we’re making love?’ … how did he ask that? And something that, maybe, he should have asked way back; ‘Do you want to be monogamous?’ His guts gave a painful kick.
George was always honest with him, no matter what. Will knew that. But what happened if he got answers that he didn’t want? ‘I sometimes think about women when we’re sleeping together.’ That was the answer he expected, if George was to be totally honest about it, and if Will was totally honest with himself. He’d hardly thought of anything but George for these past few months. It seemed somehow a betrayal. Amy. He’d cheated. Damn, damn, damn. It wasn’t George’s fault.
He’d woken up to himself in the last few days. He’d been blaming George for everything, for the lack of communication, for the constant battle to make things right. It hadn’t been anything to do with George’s problem with sex. It was all Will’s fault. He just … wasn’t enough for George. He wasn’t a woman, he wasn’t a good enough man. He’d brought baggage, he’d brought problems and he strongly suspected that being George’s master wasn’t working because he could tell George was bending rules, it was in his eyes. Just little things. He wasn’t firm enough? Or was …
Please. Please. Please let it work. He’d tell him everything, he decided. When he went home. He would sit him down and tell him the lot. From top to bottom. Him, Molly, Hannibal, Jack, him. He’d tell him everything but please, God, please let it be enough. Don’t let it be too little too late.
His heart was breaking. Silently. Why was it so hard to love him? Did he make it that way? How could he fix it? Was he hurting George all the time? Did George want out and he just couldn’t tell him? Was George doubting his feelings and now he was testing the waters on the other side to see how easy it would be to slip away?
It hadn’t felt like that last night when he’d lain with his cheek against George’s heart, listening to it beat and George had sworn that it was beating for him. It didn’t feel like that when those arms wrapped around him and held him. It didn’t feel like that holding George, kissing him. Or saying he loved him.
Please let it work. Please. God please. Just this one thing and he’d let George have his way for the rest of their lives even if it tore him into little shreds. Please don’t let him leave.
The latest batch of reports had come up from the lab and they were spread over the table like little bunches like fans. On top of them was Will Graham’s lunch, sandwiches from the canteen that he’d stopped to get that morning in a daze from rushing out of the house after missing the alarm, sat untouched in front of him. He hadn’t even opened them. The coffee that was in his hands had slowly cooled and was now cold and undrinkable but he still cradled the plastic cup between both hands, the bottom resting against the table.
Crawford stared at him.
“Will?” but it earned no response. Jack had hardly touched him since he’d moved in with Carter, trying to keep his hands and his thoughts to himself. But it seemed like the only thing he could do to break the spell that Will had wound around himself. He had that look in his eyes, like ice cold glass waiting to shatter at the slightest touch.
Will jumped when Crawford’s fingers touched his arm and the coffee almost upturned, a splash covering the white sheets of paper nearest to him. “Shit …” his hand went for a napkin automatically, covering the blotch. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
“They’re not important, I’ll get Wells to send up another copy.” But Will was still dabbing at the mark, the coffee at his elbow forgotten. Jack rescued it before it went the way of the last coffee Will had let go cold, and added to the slowly darkening stain on the carpet. “Will, they don’t matter. Will? Leave them.” His hand closed around the man’s wrist and instantly it shot out of his grasp as if he’d burned him.
“Jesus, Will. What the hell is wrong with you?” there was a moment of stillness in the room and Will just stared at him. As if he wasn’t seeing him, almost seeing through him. Or worse, seeing nothing at all. “Will?” softer this time, an enquiry as opposed to a demand. Blue eyes shifted, left him, and moved back down to the reports.
“I’ll call Wells.” Will’s voice was blank, devoid of anything akin to emotion. Jack was used to Will’s cue’s to leave him be but this time, as he closed the door of the office, he wondered if maybe leaving Will alone was the wrong decision.
***
Will hardly heard the voice on the other end of the phone. He’d dialled the number from memory. It took him several minutes before he realised that it wasn’t the number he’d intended. He answered the enquiry from the other end automatically and got the answer he would have expected to have gotten. If he’d meant to call in the first place, which he hadn’t. Had he?
“… Investigator Graham, Sergeant Carter is out of the office at the moment. I’ll tell him you called. Can I take a message?”
Will shook his head, then realised that the voice couldn’t see that so he filled in, “No. Thank you. No message.” Remarkably coherent today, wasn’t he? Why in the hell had he called George, anyway? He looked around. And where had his coffee gone? Oh, hell, he was a mess. The phone went back down and he stared blankly at the wall of his office.
His first therapy appointment hadn’t gone quite the way he’d intended it to do. They’d jumped right back in at the deep end as if nothing had happened and Will hadn’t missed the ten or twelve in the middle. It was as if she was trying to make it so that Will was caught off balance, so that he didn’t have a chance to counter her technique. He’d walked out two hours later even more dazed than he had been when he came into work that morning. In fact, he’d been tempted to walk out in the middle of it, but he’d promised George that he would try.
The only problem was … he was now left with two questions that had to be asked to George, questions that he couldn’t move on without the answers to. Questions that he didn’t want to ask. ‘What do you think about when we’re making love?’ … how did he ask that? And something that, maybe, he should have asked way back; ‘Do you want to be monogamous?’ His guts gave a painful kick.
George was always honest with him, no matter what. Will knew that. But what happened if he got answers that he didn’t want? ‘I sometimes think about women when we’re sleeping together.’ That was the answer he expected, if George was to be totally honest about it, and if Will was totally honest with himself. He’d hardly thought of anything but George for these past few months. It seemed somehow a betrayal. Amy. He’d cheated. Damn, damn, damn. It wasn’t George’s fault.
He’d woken up to himself in the last few days. He’d been blaming George for everything, for the lack of communication, for the constant battle to make things right. It hadn’t been anything to do with George’s problem with sex. It was all Will’s fault. He just … wasn’t enough for George. He wasn’t a woman, he wasn’t a good enough man. He’d brought baggage, he’d brought problems and he strongly suspected that being George’s master wasn’t working because he could tell George was bending rules, it was in his eyes. Just little things. He wasn’t firm enough? Or was …
Please. Please. Please let it work. He’d tell him everything, he decided. When he went home. He would sit him down and tell him the lot. From top to bottom. Him, Molly, Hannibal, Jack, him. He’d tell him everything but please, God, please let it be enough. Don’t let it be too little too late.
His heart was breaking. Silently. Why was it so hard to love him? Did he make it that way? How could he fix it? Was he hurting George all the time? Did George want out and he just couldn’t tell him? Was George doubting his feelings and now he was testing the waters on the other side to see how easy it would be to slip away?
It hadn’t felt like that last night when he’d lain with his cheek against George’s heart, listening to it beat and George had sworn that it was beating for him. It didn’t feel like that when those arms wrapped around him and held him. It didn’t feel like that holding George, kissing him. Or saying he loved him.
Please let it work. Please. God please. Just this one thing and he’d let George have his way for the rest of their lives even if it tore him into little shreds. Please don’t let him leave.