a/u: new story. here we go.
Somewhere across the world (or even across town) someone was dying, and probably dying painfully. Their nervous system lighting up like the Fourth of July. Screaming. Praying. Human minds are such powerful things until faced with something like death; then they crumble and leave their host trembling and convulsing– choking on their own fear. The thought of this both intrigues and depresses Will.
Will is unsure how many days he has spent at Baltimore State Hospital. They seem to mold together, the physiatrist faces blurring into one (the one that he convinces himself isn't Hannibal's face). It could have been weeks, since he's been admitted, or it could have been years; he's stopped trying to pull himself from the numb haze of the psychiatric drugs.
It's been weeks (or years) since Will has last dreamed. His nights are a bundle of spinning vision (a side effect of one of the meds) and goose-bumps covering his body. They don't trust him enough to give me more blankets. It's something that you 'earn', and Will was simply too numb at this point to give a damn about nighttime shivers.
Visitors come in waves, he's learned. Alana is usually the first, and then Jack, and then Beverly. Sometimes others from the Academy come and stare at him through the glass. Will doesn't talk anymore– doesn't bother with it, because who would believe him?
Will isn't sure exactly when he stopped talking. He just gradually realized that he stopped responding to the various comments from the other inmates. The check-ups are the worst; when they're checking his body for self-harm marks and asking him intimate questions. He doesn't answer anymore. Doesn't meet anyone's eyes. Doesn't bother.
When Jack gets word that Will has stopped talking, he drives over to the hospital and tries to converse with Will. He doesn't respond to Jack, who uses the hour to try to convince himself that his former special agent is okay. Will's hair had grown longer and his eyes darker, pale blues turning into stormy seas– he has lost weight. Jack could see the vulnerable slope of his collar beneath his orange jumpsuit. He asked the nurses, who said Will has stopped eating for the most part.
That's the last time Jack visits Will in the hospital. He tells himself that it's so that Will can unattached himself from Jack, but they both know its so that the guilt brewing in Jack's eyes won't burn his brain.
Alana is gradually coming to accept that she won't ever see Will again. Granted, she can see him for an hour behind bars every two weeks, but she'll never be able to feel him. Slowly, steadily, she draws back from him, so that he will learn not to miss her as much (and visa versa).
Two weeks after Will was found guilty of murder, Dr. Lector packed up his things and moved– nobody knew he was gone until they drove up the driveway to his empty house. Nobody tried to contact him; after all, he'd probably had enough of them.
Will had been behind bars for about six months before he vanished. When Jack caught word of it, he let the police handle it for a few days before taking the case.
And just like that, the old forensic team was back were they belonged– side by side and brains kicking brains.
"There's no sign of a breakout," Beverly said quietly after another day of looking over Will's file.
"Well it's not like he just… 'poof'", Price mumbled, hands mimicking an explosion above his head.
They lapsed into another silence before Zuller yawned and stood up–chair scrapped against the floor, the sound ringing in Beverly's ears. She glared at him from across the table.
"It's late, I'm gonna head out."
"Bye."
Zuller cast Price a pitiful look and left, the door swinging for what seemed like ages.
"What's up with you?"
"Nothing," Beverly muttered, flipping through the report of Will's departure again.
"You look like hell."
"What else is new?"
Price sighed. "Fine. Don't talk to me."
"You got it." Price folded his arms and leaned back.
"You think he'll kill again if we don't find him?"
Beverly didn't answer.
"You don't think he did it, do you?"
She sighed curtly and closed the manila folder. The wind from it brushed her hair off her shoulders. "Do you?"
"Look at the evidence, Bev."
"Something about it was wrong. Can't you see that?"
"I know he was sick, but… that's not an excuse."
"I'm not saying it is!" she snapped. Deep breath. "I'm just saying that it just doesn't sit right."
"Zuller is right… it's late. Why don't you go get some sleep?" Price nudged.
"You really don't care, do you?"
"About what?"
"This case. Will."
Price sighed and scratched the back of his head. "I didn't really know him. I mean, he was a good agent, but… he was a little out there."
"Aren't we all?"
"Not in that way." Price sighed. "I gotta get home. See you tomorrow."
Beverly waved at him as he left.
The only sign that he was gone was the fact that a window had been left open a crack on the second floor. Will slept on the third, so he must have gotten out of his cell. After being at the facility for six months, he would know the guard's patterns– it would be easy for him to slip past them.
Somehow, though, he must have managed to switch off the cameras on the second and third floor– the last image they have of him is at 10: 39 pm, looking up suddenly and out past the bars of his cell.
It almost looks to Beverly like Will see's something (or someone) in that minute before the footage cuts out.