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With every cut and burn, Will felt the darkness slipping away from his mind. The blood that dripped down his forearms grounded him, the calming fluidity of it distracted him from the shrinking need to scratch the itch buried under his skin. He knew he should stop. If he didn’t the feelings might consume him and he’d eventually cut too deep. Who’d take care of his pack? Would Alana or Hannibal or, god forbid Jack Crawford sense something wrong in the air and be greeted with bloody pawprints covering his hardwood floors, the coppery smell not hitting all at once but a little bit at a time, the calm before the inevitable storm when his body was found. Would there be tears? He hadn’t written any funeral arrangements, why would he? He didn’t have a problem or anything. He was in control.
“Do you harm yourself, Will?”
What? Will almost dropped the book he had cracked open as a distraction as he tried to hold on to his composure, the back of Hannibal’s dark suit mocked him. How did he know? “What gives you that idea?” He managed to keep his voice steady and devoid of the fear Hannibal’s question caused. How his tone was dripping with coolness and professional curiosity unsettled him slightly.
“Time and time again you still manage to underestimate my sense of smell. Nothing can truly cover the pungent scent of a forming scab, Will.” He was facing him now, eyes dark pools of brown that Will swore he could see his own image reflected in even from the railing high above Hannibal’s head, his shocked expression stained against the psychiatrist’s retinas. Will could feel himself slipping, cold black water spilling over his shoes, rising, rising, rising. It was up to his waist, chest, shoulders, he fought to keep his head above it all, terrified eyes facing up at the stars. Stars. How did he miss them each night, shining bright above him? He used to spend hours counting each one from the small window in his childhood bedroom, why’d he ever stop? As he promised to himself that he’d never let another night sky go unrecognized the frigid waves crashed over his head, blacking out his vision and stealing the breath from his lungs.
Hannibal could tell Will wasn’t fully present. His scent spiked with sweat and confusion and anxieties. After Hannibal admitted to knowing about Will’s personal activities, the room had grown still yet swirled with what could only be described as apprehensive serenity, Will’s body was quiet and unmoving. His eyes had slipped closed silently and the tension in his body seemed to melt away, shoulders loosening and head tipped back exposing his neck. Hannibal would have loved to take in Will’s calm beauty from less of a distance. How his soft mop of curls had grown the slightest inch since they had last been in each other’s company. The slope of his nose and the depth of his cupid’s bow accentuated the angles of his no doubt delicious lips. A soft gasp broke Hannibal free of his thoughts and looked up at the second level just in time to see Will collapse to the ground.
Will woke to a pounding headache and the faintest taste of blood in his mouth. He had been laid on the therapist couch with a pillow under his ankles and a suit jacket that smelled distinctly like a certain stubborn psychiatrist he had come to know far too well. He tried to sit up but the stretching of the skin on his arms stung like a fresh wound and forced him to stay still. Will pushed the jacket off his chest, eyebrows furrowed at the small thud of it hitting the office floor. His attention was immediately brought to his arms, more specifically the bandages covering them. They were obviously fresh dressings based on the bleached white colour of the gauze and the fact that Will never put much effort into caring for his wounds apart from cleaning them to stop the blood flow and prevent infection but that was more so no one found out and had him committed or something. Will couldn’t help but notice how carefully the gauze was wrapped around his scarred arms, wound around with a gentleness and loving touch, not unlike a parent cleaning up a scraped knee while pacifying their teary-eyed child. Not that Will knew what that was like.
A soft shuffling from some dark corner of Hannibal’s office broke Will’s concentrated focus as his head whipped up to see the cause of the noise. His body was wound tight, ready to spring into a fight at the mere thought of a stranger waiting crouched, craving the feeling of Will’s pulse slowing to a stop under their fingertips. Footsteps. Soft footed even on the wood floors. Will was about ready to jump at the first thing that moved but seeing the sharp silhouette in the doorway made his heart skip a beat; it was only Hannibal.
Will looked awful. No, not awful. Exhausted. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month and it made him look smaller than he was. Paranoia wafted off his shivering frame in waves, his eyes wild with fighting spirit his body couldn’t keep up with. Hannibal stepped into the light and Will’s eyes visibly softened. His head fell forward and he stared at the rumpled coat on the floor between his legs. In the silence between them, Hannibal could hear Will let out a small but heavy breath, tension melting away with it. Will looked up once again and their eyes met. You’re here his eyes seemed to say. Where else would I go Hannibal blinked back. Will’s lips curved into a sad smile that Hannibal had seen so many times before. They would have to talk about this.
“I apologize if the things I said caused your fainting spell,”
“No it’s...it wasn’t your fault,” concern wasn’t often audible in Hannibal’s voice whether he felt it or not but there was a kind of vulnerability in his tone, Will didn’t know how he felt about it yet. “It’s not the first time this has happened,” Will meant to sound nonchalant, it’s not a big deal so why make it one, but his voice came out choked and strained. He could feel Hannibal’s gaze on him as he became increasingly interested in the armrest of his chair, rubbing circles into the leather with the concentration of an artist.
“Is there a particular reason you have chosen this genre of coping?”
Where could he begin? It wasn’t a new thing, he really started doing it when he was a teenager. When times would get especially rough he’d mark himself until he didn’t have to think anymore.
“It provides a kind of-” he paused, swallowing saliva that wasn’t there, “a kind of distraction. I don’t have to think when I...when I...”
“It gives you a momentary break from the suffering that comes with a mind like yours.”
Will looked up from the worn leather under his fingers, “Yes.” It wasn’t much of a question and more of a statement but it was a correct statement nonetheless. “When all I feel is pain, there’s not an opportunity to let the thoughts get to me.” He really didn’t want to explain that while the thoughts brought on by his empathy do go away with each cut, new ones are created from the slits in his arms. His ability to shift his point of view to the eyes of killers sharpen the knife, sure but the words that assault his mind make the final cut. It all felt so idiotic. Will had looked death in the face and bared his teeth but at night, when his mind is farthest from his control, words like worthless and stupid bombarded him, forcing the sweat from his pores and pushed the knife deeper and deeper into his chest.
Will opened his mouth to say it, admit what he had tried to bury. You’ll seem out of control his mind screamed, he closed his mouth.
“If you wish to say something, Will I have no reservations against waiting for you to be able. There’s no rushing these things after all.”
So they did. It felt like hours to Will but Hannibal seemed unbothered by it so Will wasn’t worried. He was finally ready.
“I-” his voice came out a squeak, he cleared his throat, “I’m worried that if I keep doing it, I’ll end up dead.” He winced at how harsh it sounded on his tongue, why didn’t he plan his words better? Hannibal probably thought he wanted to kill himself now.
Hannibal leaned closer, elbows resting on his knees, “Do what, Will? If you keep doing what?”
Will’s jaw clenched, what the hell was he getting at? “If I keep...you know...cutting.” It was little more than a whisper.
“That’s not what I asked. If you keep doing what?”
Will looked into Hannibal’s eyes and everything clicked. Oh. “If I keep...if I keep hurt...if I keep hurting myself.” He hadn’t quite considered it self-harm. It had become more of a way to help him sleep. With each movement he made, his arms would sting. He welcomed the pain most of the time, every brush against his sheets rubbed his wounds raw and let him fall into a painful dreamless sleep, no visions of him standing over corpses with blood on his hands or worse, seeing himself in the act of stealing the life from someone’s eyes. Flashes of crime scenes raced through his head like some twisted slide show of all the reasons he’s fucked up. Abigail’s lifeless body in her kitchen, eyes locked with his. Cassie Boyle mounted on the stag head side by side with Marissa. The two angels praying for their lives. You put us here. It’s your fault. You killed us. Will grabbed his forearm and pressed his fingers into the sensitive skin there, yelping at the sharp burning sensation spreading up his arm, his shoulders sagged as the images disappeared.
Hannibal was honestly shocked when Will gripped his injuries like he was holding on for dear life, the pressure causing blood to seep through the pristine bandages though he doubted Will noticed. He was likely experiencing an overflowing range of emotions that he wasn’t equipped to handle and it caused the spiralling.
“Will.” Hannibal kneeled before him and smoothed his warm palm over Will’s dry knuckles and felt give the second Hannibal’s hand touched his. Hannibal pulled Will’s slightly bloodied hand away from his arm and held it. He was with Hannibal. He was safe. None of the monsters that plagued his mind would harm him. Will’s eyes were still squeezed tightly shut but Hannibal would wait for him. He’d always wait.
After a few minutes, Will was able to open his eyes. The second he made eye contact with Hannibal, tears spilt down his pale cheeks. Hannibal wasn’t sure if Will was fully aware that he was crying.
“I think...I think I need help, Hannibal.”