"Yeah! I…can show you sometime. If you want."
Andrew is equally excited to just have someone interested in what he can do. Someone who he can talk to besides Matt. He puts his camera up now.
He did have Steve at one point to protect him. To at least talk to him. Now there was just Matt who seemed to be shoving him aside lately. He didn’t want to think about that now.
He freezes when Will puts a hand on his shoulder. He relaxes when it’s not rough or threatening but the opposite of what he’s use to. Will understands. He even explained how.
"Really?" He stands up from his seat now. He was pretty hungry, and honestly he didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to have to face his Dad. He knew the school had called him and told him what happened. He’d be in trouble for that.
"Trust me," Will says, getting up from his seat and dropping his empty coffee cup into the trashcan ( and indirectly ruining all of the paperwork that he’d had on Andrew ), "—the BAU could survive a zombie apocalypse with all the stash they have.”
Misunderstandings were inevitable. The state police had done a crap job of picking out the real victim, was all. Although ‘telekinesis’ wasn’t a particularly common thing to be placed on a closed case, Will would see what he could do.
The bully had gotten what he’d deserved; and at the end of the day, they were still children. And that’s all he had to say about that.
"After you," Will says, offering a genuine smile, as he unlocks the door.
lord of the dogs vs. beverlyhills | killedbyxcuriosity & psychoanalyzeme
Date? That wasn’t her intention; she didn’t go on dates with co-workers. It went against her work ethics. What she was asking now was not a date per se, but a random desire to “hang out,” so to speak, with someone she knew. And frankly, Will needed to socialize more. He was a hermit.
“Great. I’m thinking burgers with lots of curly fries and diabetes-inducing soda.” She relocated to her room to find her jacket. She didn’t fault Will for being unsociable. With the talent he had, she would probably be a hermit too.
“Did you want something else?”
"Getting diabetes on top of my agenda of catching murderers with my so-called talent wasn’t on my bucket list,” he says, placing the phone in the crook of his neck so that he could use both of his hands to pull open his kitchen drawer to pull out his wallet and car keys, “—but I could go for some food. The case is driving me crazy.”
All he’d had the past few days was a bucketful of aspirin and watered-down instant coffee, because he couldn’t bring it upon himself to spend valuable, precious time pulling gourmet coffee out of his coffee maker when a murderer was on the loose. He’d always been focused on paperwork that, when he poured the hot water into his cup that already had the coffee powder, that he’d poured too much and made it tasteless.
Just like his thoughts.
"No, burgers and fries sound good," Will says, perhaps a little too quickly, before he pets a few of his dogs on their furry heads; smiling, he refills their treat bowl and heads outside, climbing into the driver’s seat without making too much of a fuss.
"Where should I meet you?"
➸ She sniffled, stuffing her face into the crook of his neck and holding onto him for dear life. His arms were a needed comfort, strong and comforting. It was different than when Hannibal had held her, rocking her gently and silently. She finds she likes Will’s embraces better, they felt more genuine. Warmer and more heartfelt. She opened her mouth to try to tell him something- anything that would maybe heal her or his brokenness. Something so she wasn’t just crying and trembling on his shoulder like a child.
"I should have done something," is all she can say, voice watery and hopefully loud enough for Will to hear. She had already apologized to him, had already tried to slap a band-aid over their wounds and call it fixed, but she knew there would always be an ugly scar. The fact that he didn’t turn her away and scorn her maybe made it worse- he really loved her, and she had ruined his life. She had felt just as helpless with Hannibal as she had with her father, and she had stayed just as cowardly.
'I'm sorry' hangs on her lips, but she's said it so many times already the words are stale in the air now. So instead she finally allows tears to slip out, wetting his skin and the top of his shirt. Although the words are overused, she says them in her head like a prayer.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
"No-one would’ve been that levelheaded during a situation like that,” Will says, stroking her back with warm fingertips; he draws wide circles, patting Abigail’s back and feeling her shake in his arms.
They were still healing; although Will would’ve liked to say that he was all done with mending himself up, he really wasn’t. Superficial wounds might’ve been healed — a long time ago, in fact — but the wounds that lingered beneath his flesh and in his heart were the ones that tore him apart at night, and —
"It’s not your fault, Abigail," he says again, and pulls back only slightly to wipe at her tears with a calloused thumb, "—never was, and never will be." It’s difficult, so very difficult, because this wasn’t what they were expecting. Abigail would’ve went to a good college, gotten a boyfriend, and had a pretty good life.
And Will? Well, Will would’ve been comfortable with his family of strays. He would’ve been just fine.
"—don’t cry," he echoes, and presses a kiss against her forehead.
Teacup had been travelling for days, getting tangled in vines and splashed with mud. Her fur was a mess, something her mother would never allow. If only she were there.
She peered off towards a small, lonely house, the first one she’d seen since her home. In dire need of food, she limped toward the door. She could smell the kibble. Her fox-like nose sniffed frantically as her hunger drew her closer and closer. Finally she found it — the food bowl. She immediately began to chow down, forgetting all the manners she had ever learnt in doggy training. Her ears perked up as he heard someone approaching.
"Settle down, alright? There’s enough for all of you for days," Will says, scooping some of the beef-and-rice mixture into the big bowl and letting his pups chow down; with a carefree smile, he reaches down to scratch furry ears.
The contented whines that he hears from the pups are good enough, and Will finds himself grinning even more. Shaking his head, he picks up the TV remote to turn on the channel —
—before hearing sounds of tiny teeth crunching on something; and if he really tries, he thinks that he can hear tiny paws on his porch, too.
Leaving his strays in the kitchen, Will pushes his hands into his pockets and steps out onto the porch, careful and gentle; he wouldn’t want to startle the animal, whatever it could’ve been.
He’s surprised when he sees a dirty, fatigued dog, chowing down on the bowl of stale kibble. He immediately closes the door, tongue clucking, as he extends his fingers slowly.
"Hey, pretty," he says, voice soft, "—where’d you come from? I almost didn’t hear you, you know that?"
In the dark, he’s a little confused; he can’t tell if this is a very skinny canine, or if it’s a fox. After a little scrutinizing, though, he decides that it’s a dog. Malnourished and weak, yes, but a canine nonetheless.
“‘m not going to hurt you, alright?” He says, and fishes through his pockets for some better-quality, dogs-favorite jerky. His fingers extend, giving a small ‘ch’ sound with his teeth as he offers the jerky towards the stray.
we’re under the sheets and you’re killing me | sayhellotopavlov
Inside Mason Verger’s bedroom are horrors that any civilized individual might balk at, and dear Mason would only encourage that. It’s never been a secret in the family that the young heir was nothing short of a sexual deviant and would practice his morbid curiosities often in tandem with his sexual exploits, leaving messes it took flame throwers and hazmat suits to clean up, with consideration toward the elimination of legally-relevant evidence.
Today, there was the open drapery, and they spilled light onto a collection of clean, stainless steel knives on the nightstand that were dirtied with recently dried blood, making them sparkle and shine around the gore. On the ground across the room were the remains of what one could easily piece together as an endeavor into fetishized pet play; little leather gloves shaped like paws and a chew toy. Graham still wore the collar and Verger fancied leaving it there for as long as possible.
"You know, I really can’t be emphatic enough when I say don’t call me Mason.” He laughed, as if amused by something ignorant Graham had said. He even went so far as to give the bound man a swat on the nose with his rolled up newspaper from downstairs. “Mister Verger. Or sir. Hey, you can call me Daddy if you want! Wouldn’t that be sweet. But definitely not Mason. You see, Will, I’m not really fond of sharing my toys. Things that get taken away from me when I still want them get taken back. But it’s not fair to steal something and not get punished, right? See, we’ve got a little conundrum here, and I’d like for you to help me figure it out. Can you do that, Will?”
Crouching down on his haunches, Verger pushed the damp tee upward so it bunched under Graham’s chin and exposed him. Sweaty. A cattle prod would do wonders with all that damp skin, but he’d have to save that gem for later!
"Why don’t we start. Can you tell me what it is you almost took from me? Granted, you would have set her free, but I happen to think family ought to stick together and take offense to the notion."
Will tries to focus on breathing.
Breathing was good. Safe. Healthy. Necessary. It’s a little harder to do that when a leather collar was tightly wound around his throat, but he manages to take a few breaths through his nose. Hysteria wouldn’t do him any good. Bile rises from his stomach to the back of his tongue, and it takes everything inside of him to keep from hurling the contents of his stomach all across the floor and bedding.
He wouldn’t have minded that if it was any other case. Mason Verger and his expensive-yet-grotesque belongings could burn in hell, for all he cared. But he was dirty and sweaty, and being sick on himself and the bed that he was tied to would be a bad idea. If he was at his house this very moment, he would’ve fled into the shower without even thinking twice about it.
But he couldn’t. He was a prisoner.
"Go to hell," he snaps, pulling at the bonds that incarcerates him successfully to the bed, limbs straining at the ties and chafing the skin easily, "—I’m not calling you any of those things.”
Will thinks about spitting on him.
———except it’s not thinking, because he does it.
The air feels even colder when it hits across his sweaty skin, his perspiration cooling on his body. Will bites back a quick inhale of breath, turning his eyes to look away. He had trouble with eye-contact, and that was no secret: but he feels as if he’ll lose his mind if he dares to look into Mason’s eyes, and he —
"You bastard," he says, nostrils flaring as the crease between his brows deepen even more, "—you’re not Margot’s keeper. You called for it to be arranged, didn’t you? So she couldn’t have the baby with a Verger name?"
He smiles when he hears the praise. Mr. Graham wasn’t freaking out. He was impressed. Andrew lowers the camera and back down onto the table. He pulls it towards him. “I didn’t either…” He said in a small voice. “But now I can do it. And…I can also fly.” He admits to the other, if he’d believe that part.
Andrew gave a small nod in return. “Yeah, you’re right. That’s what happened.” If he had any control he wouldn’t have done it. He would’ve walked away like he always did.
"He never gets in trouble for beating me up." Andrew says. "Teachers have even saw him…and they just…don’t care." He’s beaten up Andrew until his nose was bleeding or a busted lip. "I don’t know…it’s not fair." He said, fiddling with some stuff on his camera. It wasn’t on but it still kept him calm.
"Wow, you can fly?”
Will Graham can’t help but to sound like a five-year-old as he asks the question, eyebrows rising sharply; and to unexpected ears, the fact that the other could fly was an absolute wonder. He stares at Andrew’s arms momentarily, wondering if he could just flap his arms and get enough moment to fly, before also wondering if he’d watched too many movies to get something like that in his head.
He turns his gaze back onto the camera, sucking on the back of his teeth minutely.
How many times had Will Graham been laughed at? A million times, give or take. And yet, he’d gotten help. One way or the other, he’d received help, somehow. Whether it was the old, kindly nurse that had looked after him in the infirmary and kept him from doing some serious physical exercise, or his favorite English teacher that protected him from many bullies’ harsh words, someone had helped him deal.
And yet, Andrew had no-one; he couldn’t even trust his teachers. And in a place like that — a school — if you couldn’t trust the teachers, then who could you trust?
“‘Course it’s not fair,” he says, furrowing his brows as he extends a tentative hand to squeeze the other’s shoulders, warm and gentle; he’d want to talk more about this later, but now wasn’t the time.
"Want something to drink? Or eat? BAU’s pretty decked when it comes to food."
Running through walls of concrete and fear | psychoanalyzeme
It’s too early and the doctor knows it but that doesn’t make him less anxious to make his prisoner realize about the real power he holds. Even the one he has over him, because Will has taken over Hannibal’s life without this one even realizing about it.
Will is like a musical composition. Hannibal must find the right notes to make him sound the way he wants, respecting the tempo and the tones in which the piece will be played. And it’s not something to be done hastily. It takes time, patience, dedication.
"You’ll find out, eventually," he answers before getting up from the bed and moving to the small desk. The man serves the other a glass of crystalline water and sits back besides him. Carefully, he places it close to Will’s lips to drink. "Dinner will be soon. I’ll feed you. Given a chance, you’ll hold a knife against me and even if the attempt will be amusing, I can’t allow that to happen."
"Eventually," Will echoes, brows furrowing heavily as he glances down at his missing toe; only a few seconds pass before he sees the water beneath his lips, and he tilts his head to drink the clear, cool water. He inhales, slowly, but he has a small fear of choking on the liquid. It’s a ludicrous notion and it should’ve been the least of his worries at the moment, but he couldn’t pull himself together.
At the other’s comment, Will wonders if he’d actually risk his life to take a knife to Lecter’s throat. It’s certainly something that he’d dreamed about doing, but where would he stop? What would be the cost to such an act?
He momentarily pauses drinking the water, tongue darting out to lick his chapped lips, before turning his gaze onto Hannibal, keeping his eyes on the other’s — an impressive feat.
"Anything could be a weapon if held correctly," he says, patting the pillow with his tied hands, "—even this."
➸ Abigail doesn’t usually feel the need to be held or hugged or anything like that, unless she’s upset. She’s upset today. She craves a pair of arms around her, to hold in the loose parts of herself she felt were spilling out over the rim, staining everyone in her perimeter. She felt she had stained Will, and yet she continued to be around him, to be the incurable virus in his life. She felt guilty, ashamed, sad. But it wasn’t always like this, as she said. Only some days when things got overwhelming in the small space of her body.
She hopes she doesn’t startle Will when she comes up behind him in the hallway and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in the back of his neck. His hair tickles her nose but she ignores it. She can smell the cheap shampoo he uses and the sweat of the day. She doesn’t say anything, a lump in her throat and too afraid of the tears that may pour over if she opens her mouth.
"Abigail?" He calls out through the hallway, wondering where she’d disappeared, "—hey, Abigail, dinner’s ready!"
But he doesn’t hear anything in return, so he just decides to set the table. There was no need to hurry her along; maybe she was just getting used to the flow of it all. Will knew that it must’ve been awkward, coming to stay with Will and his dogs — and although his dogs were definitely a calming plus, Will wasn’t the most sociable of men.
He places the forks and knives down onto the napkins, brushing by one of his strays that had wanted a bite, and slips him a sliver of ham. Smiling, he pets the wet nose that snuffles at his palm, and heads out into the hallway to call for Abigail again.
He feels arms around him, though, and doesn’t startle; well, not as bad as he could’ve, anyway. He lets out a small exhale, before turning around slowly and pivoting his body to wrap his arms around Abigail, pulling her close and pressing his lips to her forehead.
"Hey, hey, ‘s alright," he whispers, stroking her hair, "—hey. I’m right here, Abigail."
This was news. News he didn’t expect to receive a long while after he stopped trying. His vendetta was thrown away for more pressing matters and soon he was caught up in the heroics of being the red and blue masked vigilante. It brought up unpleasant memories and a bitter taste in his mouth. Peter questioned his choices upon hearing of this case. Aunt May had called him on his phone, for once not busy with saving pedestrians, just during the rare moments when he actually got to sit around and snap some candid camera shots of the plaza or park.
The way she sounded with that tremble in her voice, he knew something was wrong. If not wrong then quite serious. 2 ‘thwips’ and a minute later, he was speed-walking down the familiar street of his neighborhood. Stopping at the porch of his house did the young man squint at seeing a car with government tags and someone lingering inside the front door. Peter’s spider sense hadn’t gone off, but there was a familiar feeling of dread within him, praying to whatever god would listen that his aunt was okay or that they wouldn’t be losing their house.
'Keep it together Parker.'
"Hello, ma’am," he ends up saying after a long while of contemplation, looking at everywhere but her eyes, as he tries to give her a trying smile, “—I’m looking for someone named Peter Parker.”
The case had been a simple robbery, but Will had realized a personal M.O and a red lining that had led him to NYC; it had been a simple, thin line, but it had connected a past case to the case he’d been working on, and he’d decided to pursue it further.
He awaits at the door and doesn’t seem to mind it all that much when the lady calls someone behind a closed door ( and it’s okay, because Will of all people could appreciate privacy when it came to calls ). He does fret a bit, though, chewing on his lower lip and brushing by invisible dog fur from his clothes, before he hears footsteps nearing the house.
Speaking of, Will missed his dogs, too.
"Hey," he says, brows furrowing lightly behind the thick rims of his glasses as he stays by the door, extending a cautious hand, "—Will Graham, FBI. Peter Parker?"