Chapter Text
*
“I’ll be honest, Dr Lecter. I’m a little surprised at the, uh…severity… of his reaction to you.”
Chilton wriggles into a position of approximate comfort in the dark leather of his desk chair, dabs at the shimmer of sweat gathering in his hairline and smiles, somewhat pointlessly.
Hannibal’s expression betrays nothing more than a polite interest in whatever justifications are about to pour forth from the other man. He’s wiped the earlier traces of Will’s spittle from his cheek – acrid with the scent of undigested tablets, he noted - and his demeanour now reveals as little evidence of the last half hour as his face does.
“You know he’s still holding you responsible for his actions?” continues Chilton.
“That is to be expected” says Hannibal , registering Chilton’s quizzical expression and upholding his side of the performance without missing a beat. “Will is in a particularly fragile position right now, and I believe it is important that he regains a grasp on something solid.”
Chilton stares, nods, though understanding of Hannibal’s words has yet to penetrate.
“It is just unfortunate that he has chosen that idea of a temporary stability to be myself. I would imagine that there is a form of displacement at work here…”
“Which is why I would like to, uh, ground him a little more fully in his setting” says Chilton. He means for it to sound like a statement, not a proposition, but Hannibal draws out the insecurities he exudes and seems to gain strength from them.
“And just how would you be doing that?” asks Hannibal. “Will is perfectly aware of the fact that he is incarcerated. And your manhandlers have no doubt amplified that detail by now. How is that to help him?”
Chilton reaches for a fresh tissue from his desk and holds it against his forehead, pushing it upwards as it dampens and disintegrates under the stress of perspiration.
“What I mean is that my methods will keep Will from acting on those more aggressive urges that we saw today, which my staff will appreciate, hah…”
Hannibal curls his mouth in a bastardisation of a smile.
“…But we’ll get what we need from him.”
The clock sounds 8 ticks before Hannibal speaks.
“Our Will has a mind that may be misguided at times, but will ultimately realise its truth. I am anticipating that as we chat now, you have made arrangements for some of that valuable mind to be subdued…”
Chilton nods tentatively, though he keeps the same glib smile in place.
“…I would ask that you consider the gift that you have in this mind, and to consider perhaps that muting it may not be conducive to our shared goal.”
It’s the closest Chilton has ever heard to a request from this man and it immediately upsets the dynamic.
“And I would ask you, Dr Lecter, to trust that as his caregiver and his doctor, I will be the one to access Mr Graham’s mind and gather the answers held inside it.”
“Of course” defers Hannibal. “I would only request that you would allow me continued visitation rights, despite today’s…upset. I believe that my presence will help Will to dismiss these notions of external blame, you see…”
Like a dance woven about the ankles, Chilton picks up the step for fear of tripping, and agrees.
“You’ll allow us a few days first though, of course.”
Hannibal nods in curt agreement and Chilton’s smile grows like a warning beacon.
“Obliged” says Hannibal, offering a dry hand to Chilton’s sweat dampened palms.
“Until then.”
*
The medications they feed you in these places, they’re the same as the ones they prescribe in the outside world. The world that still exists, despite all claims of this institution to the contrary. It’s the same Zopiclone or Atropine to fragment those rageful thoughts and then it’s the same Pregabalin to relax the muscles from all that anxiety induced tension and if you’re lucky, it’s the same Dexedrine to counter the depressants and breathe a spark of chemical life back in. Then, then there’re the same antiemetics like Dolasetron to stop you from vomiting the whole cocktail of moods down your industrially laundered whites and blues. The basics.
Will recites the names of the medications back to himself, silently.
Remember.
He’s not sure if he finds this link between the outside world and this place comforting – it’s not the unspoken menace you remember it being. It’s just a hospital. These are just drugs – or more disempowering – normal people can take these without assistance but you, you need to be interned here just to chow down on these like a normal person because you’re not, are you? Other people need to feed you, need to wash you, need to give you your medications because look who’s not together enough to do it for themself, hmm?
He’s not sure whose voice he’s hearing when he closes his eyes and lets thoughts happen to him; he can’t remember when it stopped being his.
Atropine. Pregab- pre-
The slow-looping recital of thoughts is interrupted by an instruction to move to the back of his cell, and he thinks but I’ve already had my mind nullifiers for the day. He shuffles backwards, bare heels scuffing the cold solid floor and feeling the catch of fabric as he moves, feels pins and needles through him and wonders how he’s supposed to know what a day is any more.
You’re trying to fight something, remember? His brain tells him.
But you’re not going to fight, are you?
There’s a hand on his jaw – a gloved hand – heavy with metal or something that’s scratching his chin. He doesn’t remember seeing the barred door open, or anyone enter the closed cell, and the discomfort that lurches at this is familiar. The smell is like balloons and antiseptic and the glove is pulling his jaw down. The gesture doesn’t feel deliberately rough but the weight is too much on his face. A second hand is pulling at the top of his head, and he thinks about a Pac Man being yanked into the shape people expect a Pac Man to be and he thinks, Pac Man? Did I even play Pac Man or has it just seeped into my head with all those other memories from other places that are clogging it all up? His eyes get hot and his jaw aches with being pulled wide and he can only see the ceiling, not the person with the gloves and then he thinks no, wait, it should be two people. This has happened before, and damnit why can’t he remember? He’s still looking at the gray-white ceiling and the skin under his eyes feels too warm and his jaw hurts like it’s about to be sprung open. His mouth is dry and this must happen every day but the memory of when or why doesn’t connect.
Your memory isn’t to be trusted he hears. And he’s not sure whose thought is telling him this.
“These are the ones to help you sleep, Mr Graham” says a neutral male voice through the fuzz and he thinks but I’m already asleep. He feels the tablets dropping into his mouth and one – the chalkiest one, the one that starts shedding bitter flavours as soon as it touches anything – what is this one called – it drops under his tongue. It itches and it tastes like slow death and he’s starting to cough.
There’s half a second, maybe – between the spasm of his chest and the gloved hands forcing his jaw shut. He’s coughing, still, only he can feel his neck tightening, feels the cough shut inside his mouth and his airways getting confused. Instinct makes him flex his shoulder muscles, makes him try and reach his arms up to move those hands away, except the movement doesn’t happen. The cramp of a day’s inactivity shoots through his elbows and he can feel the constriction of the canvas material wrapping itself round him – tight, too tight –this is why you couldn’t move – and he can’t breathe can’t breathe and there’s a hand over his mouth – idiot – and there’s metal in front of his nostrils and this cough is thundering between his chest and his teeth.
“Swallow. Just swallow.”
The voice is too loud and he feels too hot and his throat’s opening, closing, opening, closing and his cheeks are hot, damp, and the voices won’t stop shouting if he could just open his mouth and let the cough out –
*
It’s not, he thinks, that he meant to bite. Not that his intention will be considered, here. It’s just that his jaws, when they finally sprung open and gave his choking some air, they caught one of the gloved fingers. It’s that there were all these things in front of his face and his space and something was trying to reach inside his mouth. He’d have just pushed them away if he could only move his arms, but instead he can feel metal against his teeth and someone is screaming at him. And now someone is screaming at someone else…
“Get out. Get help, get the –”
“My hand – he bit through the – I don’t –”
Will knows he’s supposed to feel guilt for this but he knows somehow that if he feels that, he’ll get everything else with it too. He’s spat out the half dissolved tablet. The finger isn’t nudging his tongue anymore and he can breathe. That’s enough.
“I didn’t –” he tries to say, but his tongue seems to roll against his teeth and words aren’t happening. He wants to struggle again – his instincts are telling him that something bad will happen, and then they’re saying but you knew this, didn’t you? His thoughts are pressing against the inside of his skull with a new headache and they’re telling him you did this because you’re terrified that if you start to heal, you’ll feel accountable for what you’ve done.
“Second chance, Mr Graham” says a voice that’s different from the first – a voice that makes him think of nausea and different ways of hurting – and there’s still this background fog of shouting and the sounds of soft soled shoes on lino floors. Will can’t open his eyes, doesn’t want to see what’s coming now because damnit, Chilton and no.
“Swallow these and we’ll be able to move past tonight” says a not-Chilton voice that’s so bored of the routine threats it makes, it almost doesn’t sound like words.
Will wants to say but I was trying to but he knows that even if he could make the words come out they wouldn’t be heard. He tries to nod his head and feels the constricted muscles in his back twinging with a new movement, feels the grasp around his head and wonders if his headache will go when the hands go and wonders why he can’t focus on the faces around him and remember how this is supposed to work.
“Open” commands that same bored voice and this time the movement is not as gentle. Will wonders if his bite was hard enough to break that other hand, wonders who it belonged to and wonders why they’re asking him to open his mouth when the staff here have control of his head, his jaw anyway. He lets his face go slack all the same and feels the taste of acid and metal and maybe sulphur as the air of the room hits his tongue. He’s looking at the ceiling again but his vision’s just made of spots now – white spots, yellow spots, gray spots and all of him hurts.
This time, it’s not gloves that he can feel on the side of his mouth. It’s cold and metallic and it’s like tongs. They’re pulling at his face and this time, this time the pills fall neatly to the back of his throat. Water sprays against the back of his tonsils and he swallows, mouth still open. He feels the metal moving clumsily inside his mouth, feels his tongue clasped and manoeuvred just enough to check that he’s not hiding anything underneath and you assholes he’s thinking. You saw me swallow this time, except now he’s retching.
“Okay, release” says the voice that is unmistakably Chilton and now, Will’s eyes are watering.
“Cover” says Chilton and it’s too conversational. Will’s trying to see what Chilton is talking about covering but there’s one of these pills that acts faster than the other and now, he cannot bring himself to care.
Because it’s easier to turn off, isn’t it? The feeling of heavier limbs, of lesser control, it’s only scary for a moment and I remember this feeling thinks Will and that in itself is a comfort.
Something presses against the outside of his closed mouth and no, and stop it, and as the force and the noise only reinforces how little he can do but endure it, stop saying I did anything to earn this. The something – a cold, rubbery, stretching something, is pulled taut across his face, from the dent beneath his nostrils to the bottom of his chin, to round his head, pulling his hair as it’s buckled into place.
Will’s neck tenses and he thinks about choking.
“Basic measurements now…” says Chilton lightly, as Will swallows his breath and swallows and swallows until he’s no longer aware of the motion “…and we’ll take the mold when he’s fully out, yes?”
Will sinks into the inevitable sedation and thinks about choking Chilton.
*