Every thread of his clothes and his sheets, the weight of his blankets, the pounding of his own heart and the rush of blood in his veins. Especially the blood. For a brief second, Will is utterly sensible of everything around him.
It means that he's acutely aware of what's missing, too. There's no blood on him, his bed, his clothes; there's no pain at all, and if by some miracle Hannibal didn't kill him (it wouldn't be the first time), he ought to be either in immense pain or a medically-induced haze (it wouldn't be the first time for that, either). He's in neither.
This whole taking-stock takes perhaps three seconds. Then he struggles into a sitting position in a flailing panic.
"What the fuck is going on?"
It takes him an hour to understand what's happening.
It's yesterday. He doesn't know how, or why, but it's yesterday; he hasn't reached his conclusions about the body (Stephen Just) and the Hannibals, and he hasn't confronted them, and he hasn't taken the truly idiotic step of provoking them to
( ... )
One of her smiles and tucks the other's short hair behind her ear as they approach the fire, wineglass held companionably in a stray left hand.
An ordinary day.
Brighter, perhaps, for the recent murder; there's a certain temporary stabilizing effect when they make a kill, a certain tendency towards cheerier moods.
He has to go talk to them. He has to. He did yesterday, so he has to now. But we can't forgive you twice, do you understand? Do I? Are there rules? Can I just let them go? Imagine what you would do, Will, if you could go back in time. He knows the answer to that last one, at least: whether or not there are rules to this insane happening, he can't let them walk around with blood on their hands. He has to go talk to them. I regret it came to this, Will. The memory of the knife in his throat (the stiletto in his side) is as vivid as if it just happened.
All he can do is stare at the Hannibals settling into their chairs. He's too terrified to move.
Her peripheral vision catches him and she lifts her eyes, tilting her head slightly, an expression of (subtle) genuine concern crossing her face as her double remains occupied with the wine.
"Will? Is something wrong?"
At the sound, the other Hannibal looks up to match; her smile fades and she sets down the wineglass with careful precision.
He went to sleep with damp hair, in sweatpants but shirtless. But his pillow is dry, with no trace of damp -- and he's wearing a T-shirt, the same one he went to sleep in the night before he--
"No no no no--"
But no amount of denying it will change it.
It's yesterday. Again.
He spends the day wracking his brains for some idea, any idea, of what he can do differently. It doesn't make sense. They said they would stop killing in Milliways out of respect for his sensibilities; he took them to Security; they were celled, for Christ's sake, and no one was hurt or killed. Why is that not enough? Do they have to be dead before he can go to tomorrow?
Could he kill them?
Because your our friend, Will.He thinks he might hate them, a little, for making him wonder. For robbing him of certainty
( ... )
One of her smiles and tucks the other's short hair behind her ear as they approach the fire, wineglass held companionably in a stray left hand.
An ordinary--
His placement puts him in a Hannibal's line of sight; she glances up, tilting her head with gentle concern, and her hand slips into her double's as they change course to head for his booth.
He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he wakes up in his bed, in his T-shirt and sweats. A groan, frustrated and exhausted -- he may be waking up, but he doesn't remember sleeping.
He tries to make random changes throughout the day, knowing that there's little purpose to it: he puts on a different shirt; he orders something else for breakfast; he deliberately avoids the bar for an hour or so, walking around the lake and revisiting the murder scene. Stephen Just's corpse is an accusation, especially after last night's attempt to ignore the whole situation.
(Fuckin' shark -- this one's not going to stop -- oh God NO)
"What do you want me to do?" Will asks the woods, the body, the blood in the dirt. "How do I stop this?"
No answer.
Evening finds him in the same position as last time, tense but resigned, black coffee cooling beside him.
One of her smiles and tucks the other's short hair behind her ear as they approach the fire, wineglass held companionably in a stray left hand.
An--
She looks up, perhaps thirty seconds earlier than yesterday, and regards him with clear concern in her ice-blue eyes. Holding hands, elegant fingers intertwined, the Hannibals approach his booth.
Comments 114
Every thread of his clothes and his sheets, the weight of his blankets, the pounding of his own heart and the rush of blood in his veins. Especially the blood. For a brief second, Will is utterly sensible of everything around him.
It means that he's acutely aware of what's missing, too. There's no blood on him, his bed, his clothes; there's no pain at all, and if by some miracle Hannibal didn't kill him (it wouldn't be the first time), he ought to be either in immense pain or a medically-induced haze (it wouldn't be the first time for that, either). He's in neither.
This whole taking-stock takes perhaps three seconds. Then he struggles into a sitting position in a flailing panic.
"What the fuck is going on?"
It takes him an hour to understand what's happening.
It's yesterday. He doesn't know how, or why, but it's yesterday; he hasn't reached his conclusions about the body (Stephen Just) and the Hannibals, and he hasn't confronted them, and he hasn't taken the truly idiotic step of provoking them to ( ... )
Reply
One of her smiles and tucks the other's short hair behind her ear as they approach the fire, wineglass held companionably in a stray left hand.
An ordinary day.
Brighter, perhaps, for the recent murder; there's a certain temporary stabilizing effect when they make a kill, a certain tendency towards cheerier moods.
Reply
But we can't forgive you twice, do you understand?
Do I? Are there rules? Can I just let them go?
Imagine what you would do, Will, if you could go back in time.
He knows the answer to that last one, at least: whether or not there are rules to this insane happening, he can't let them walk around with blood on their hands. He has to go talk to them.
I regret it came to this, Will.
The memory of the knife in his throat (the stiletto in his side) is as vivid as if it just happened.
All he can do is stare at the Hannibals settling into their chairs. He's too terrified to move.
Reply
"Will? Is something wrong?"
At the sound, the other Hannibal looks up to match; her smile fades and she sets down the wineglass with careful precision.
Reply
He went to sleep with damp hair, in sweatpants but shirtless. But his pillow is dry, with no trace of damp -- and he's wearing a T-shirt, the same one he went to sleep in the night before he--
"No no no no--"
But no amount of denying it will change it.
It's yesterday. Again.
He spends the day wracking his brains for some idea, any idea, of what he can do differently. It doesn't make sense. They said they would stop killing in Milliways out of respect for his sensibilities; he took them to Security; they were celled, for Christ's sake, and no one was hurt or killed. Why is that not enough? Do they have to be dead before he can go to tomorrow?
Could he kill them?
Because your our friend, Will.He thinks he might hate them, a little, for making him wonder. For robbing him of certainty ( ... )
Reply
One of her smiles and tucks the other's short hair behind her ear as they approach the fire, wineglass held companionably in a stray left hand.
An ordinary--
His placement puts him in a Hannibal's line of sight; she glances up, tilting her head with gentle concern, and her hand slips into her double's as they change course to head for his booth.
Reply
He starts upright when they turn his way, like a prey animal that knows it's been spotted.
Reply
"Will?"
The is something wrong? is unspoken but present nonetheless, like a spectre. A ghost of yesterday-that-wasn't.
Reply
He tries to make random changes throughout the day, knowing that there's little purpose to it: he puts on a different shirt; he orders something else for breakfast; he deliberately avoids the bar for an hour or so, walking around the lake and revisiting the murder scene. Stephen Just's corpse is an accusation, especially after last night's attempt to ignore the whole situation.
(Fuckin' shark -- this one's not going to stop -- oh God NO)
"What do you want me to do?" Will asks the woods, the body, the blood in the dirt. "How do I stop this?"
No answer.
Evening finds him in the same position as last time, tense but resigned, black coffee cooling beside him.
Reply
One of her smiles and tucks the other's short hair behind her ear as they approach the fire, wineglass held companionably in a stray left hand.
An--
She looks up, perhaps thirty seconds earlier than yesterday, and regards him with clear concern in her ice-blue eyes. Holding hands, elegant fingers intertwined, the Hannibals approach his booth.
Reply
It takes equal effort to stay quiet and wait for them to make the first move.
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