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
( ... )
He rubs a hand over his face again, closing his eyes -- only for a moment, but it's an unusual moment of unguardedness. There's a faint tremor to his hand. He's scared and confused and he doesn't know what to do.
"Me, Mischa, and yourself, huh," he murmurs bitterly.
...which is both an entirely unintentional reminder and a neat avoidance of the issue of where, exactly, Will and themselves are positioned on the scale.
Some days they're not entirely sure of the order.
At the moment--
"Mischa's not here," they observe softly. "You are. What's wrong, Will?"
From the way he steps back, watching her hand, they've judged correctly.
He asks her to lead the way to the Security Office. There, he explains to the woman in charge what happened, how he came to his conclusions, with less coherence than he might usually have; Hannibal and Hannibal watch him with faintly troubled expressions, and don't deny their part in Stephen's murder, but point out that it happened outside Security's jurisdiction.
The Security chief, frowning, tells them that she's going to have to confer with the rest of the team, not to mention the Barmen, on this one, and escort them to a cell. Will watches, uncertain relief playing over his face.
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 ( ... )
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He stops himself, stares at them, rubbing a hand over his mouth.
"You can't be serious."
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Hannibal herself is silent.
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Will is rarely this incoherent.
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She raises her eyebrows.
"We don't often care about people, but when we do, we do very much."
...the truth of that is painfully self-evident.
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"Me, Mischa, and yourself, huh," he murmurs bitterly.
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Wryly: "But Mischa comes first."
...which is both an entirely unintentional reminder and a neat avoidance of the issue of where, exactly, Will and themselves are positioned on the scale.
Some days they're not entirely sure of the order.
At the moment--
"Mischa's not here," they observe softly. "You are. What's wrong, Will?"
One murder isn't going to affect him this much.
Is it?
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"What does she think of this -- vigilante thing you've got going on? What would she think of it?"
God, he hopes that's not enough to set them off.
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Her anger is back, but it's not the blind killing rage of yesterday. It's an echo of a few minutes ago. Frustration. Upset.
"We can't know. She was two years old, Will, only two. And we have not seen her again around the bar."
No, he hasn't incited them to murder.
Only hurt them.
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"I'd like you to come talk to Security with me," he repeats, hoarse.
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Little. And--
--yes.
All right.
She nods.
Stands, both of her.
One hand lifts, as though towards him, then falls again as they judge the notion ill-conceived.
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He asks her to lead the way to the Security Office. There, he explains to the woman in charge what happened, how he came to his conclusions, with less coherence than he might usually have; Hannibal and Hannibal watch him with faintly troubled expressions, and don't deny their part in Stephen's murder, but point out that it happened outside Security's jurisdiction.
The Security chief, frowning, tells them that she's going to have to confer with the rest of the team, not to mention the Barmen, on this one, and escort them to a cell. Will watches, uncertain relief playing over his face.
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It's cryptic and confused, a mess of emotions.
Some part of them expects never to be let out again.
But anything is better than seeing that fear in the movements of someone they care about.
Right?
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And then he turns and walks out of the Security office, upstairs; he undresses and showers and gets into bed on automatic.
Things often look better in the morning.
Tomorrow morning, he assures himself, and eventually falls asleep.
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