Chapter Text
Will Graham had been staring at his increasingly sad looking open fridge for the past 5 minutes. He’d taken all of its contents out and examined them carefully, one by one. All of it deemed unworthy. Not that there was much to work with in the beginning.
They all went in the trash. Most of its teetering on the edge of going bad so, is it really that big of a deal? Jack doesn't have the time for me to be getting food poisoning right now. I don’t have the time to get food poisoning right now. So, I'm doing us both a favor really, right?
Fuck it, i thought, fuck it all. I'm not even fucking hungry anyway.
Jesus. Everything looked so gloomy, dimly lit by the flickering fluorescent light of the barely working fridge. 'It came with the house', he says, 'it's older than me for Christ sake'. Winston's ears perk up at the sound of his voice. Will winces, 'I know buddy, dinners on the way. Just give me a second.' He slams the fridge door shut and forgets about his own dinner. It wasn't that important, the dog is hungry, he's waited long enough.
The dog whines as Will opens a cupboard and cracks open a can of wet dog food. He empties it into his bowl and sets it on the floor for him, and Winston, who has been moaning at will for food since he’d arrived home 20 minutes before, scarfed the food down appreciatively.
Will watches as the dog eats, letting out a soft laugh as he does, at the sight of the dog. Winston looks up from his bowl as he laughs, and Will leans down to scratch at his ears lovingly. Will sighs as the dog returns to his food, and paces towards his bed. He flops onto it, not bothering to remove the prior day's clothes, its not as if he has the energy anymore.
He pulls the covers over himself and as he’s drifting into the haze of sleep, his stomach rumbles in its wake. That's a problem for the morning, he thinks.
Will woke with a start, jolting upright, startled from the memory of his recurring nightmares. The ripper, again? Really? How original. He glances toward his nightstand, the digital clock displaying 4.17am. 'That's the third time this week', he mutters to himself, trying not to wake the blissfully unaware sleeping dog at the foot of his bed. ''You’ll get no more sleep tonight boy'', he hears. If he was asleep before, by god he was awake now. Fuck being quiet.
'Hello? W- uh is- who's there?'
''Didn't you hear me the first time, doll? '' A man's voice, gravely, with an accent, or was it a southern drawl? Not unlike his fathers. Or jacks, Or.. Or…
'What the fuck? I said whos fucking there!'
Winston cracked one eye open, curious, and cocked his head.
''I said, You’ll get no more sleep tonight, boyo.''
'Yeah! I fucking heard you the first time! I'm armed', he says, grasping at the sig taped behind the headboard of his bed. 'Whoever you are, get the hell out of my damn house! I’ll fucking shoot!'
No reply came. Just the echo of his empty threat. The gun wasnt even loaded, what the fuck was he going to do? Whoever it was, they were right. He wasn't getting any more sleep tonight. He reached towards the lamp on the nightstand, yanked the chord and blinked slowly as his eyes adjusted to the newfound source of light. Opening the drawer and retrieving his actually useful fbi issued glock and a torch, he patrolled the house, searching for any signs of intrusion.
Coming to the conclusion that there was no sign of anyone being in the house, and no sign of fresh car tracks on the morning dew of the grass was decidedly more terrifying than hearing the voice to begin with.
It sounded so real. Someone HAD to have broken in, right? What the fuck else explains hearing, fucking conversing with a voice in the arse crack of dawn?! There wasn't an explanation. ‘Im not fucking crazy’ he mutters. ‘I'm not crazy!’
Maybe I'll say something to dr. lecter about this on friday. God damn lecter, making me go soft. Maybe I need some air. To clear my head. To stop thinking about my damn therapist at 4.30 am in the morning. ‘Winston, wanna go on a walk, bud?’
The dog shot up off the bed, gratefully headed toward the door, impatiently waiting for Will to finish tying his shoelace and shove on a jacket that he hoped would keep him at least semi sheltered from the bitter cold outside.
Winston strolled out into the long grass in front of the house, and Will sat on the rocking chair on the porch, the one he had built for himself some years ago. Not that he’d have the energy or the time (or the motivation) to build anything like that for himself now. Not like he has time or energy for anything right now, even the cases are getting too much with his lack of proper nutrition and an adequate night’s sleep. Nah, he thought, I eat plenty. Dr lecter feeds me well, i'm not even hungry. Nutrition be damned. Will reached into his jacket pocket and produced a worn pack of cigarettes and a lighter. he's smoked when he was nervous for years. since he was a teen even. he finds himself reaching for cigarettes more often as of late. He fumbled with the lighter for a few seconds before it actually worked, and inhaled. He smoked a few from the pack as he watched Winston prance around in the grass, watched the sun paint the sky a multitude of colours as it rose, watched as the smoke from his cig rose and dissipated into the air, and he felt calm. Calm as if he wasn't in the middle of investigating the highest profile case in the states, calm as if he hasn't just heard a man in his house who seemingly wasn't actually even there. In that moment, cigarette in hand, will was at complete and utter peace.
His stomach rumbled, breaking his chain of thought. The noise of it seemed to reverberate around the world, bouncing off the walls of his chest, hitting the inside of his skull and ricocheting in between his ribs. His stomach gave a weak stabbing pain in protest. ‘Shit! Shit,shitshit!’. he doubled over.
He hadn't eaten since Lecter had invited him for lunch two days ago. Couldn’t make the time for it really, the latest case was taking up most of his week. Couldn't make time for anything but the piss-water they passed off as coffee in the break room, or a quick sneak of Bev's water when he thought she wasn't watching. She was. Or maybe, he wouldn't make time for it. He wasn't quite sure which one yet. Either way, his stomach was putting up a fight.
He got up from his spot on the porch and padded over towards the kitchen again, having left his gun and torch back in their rightful places and setting the lighter and pack of cigs down, and remembered that he had thrown all of the useful contents of his fridge into the trash the night before. All that remained was some condiments that on reflection could probably have been thrown out the night beforehand, might as well have thrown them out. It's not like he cooks much anyways. fuck the food, he thinks, ill eat something in the cafeteria when i get in, no big deal. ill just leave early today. Instead, he grabs an aspirin and downs it. Maybe that'll get his stomach to settle. maybe.