Chapter Text
Everything is spinning out of control, again. A familiar feeling but no more welcome than usual. He had hoped that seeing Doctor Lecter would make these episodes lessen, but no, everything feels just a little too much again. It’s been a few months since he’s been treated for the encephalitis, months of treatment so exhausting it had wiped out all of his other feelings, nothing left in his brain but recovery. Now he was back to normal as he could be, and everything ugly is creeping back into his skull.
That’s the thing about Will Graham, he knows the therapy tricks. But no amount of square breathing or mindfulness will chase away the demons Jack Crawford sends to him. Hannibal helps but it’s really not like traditional therapy, he doesn’t suggest the methods offered up to him as a cure-all like every other professional. He’s more like a balm, he is the therapy. Will knows it’s not healthy, but no one has ever come close to making Will feel as seen as Hannibal does.
He’s trying to pull away from leaning on Hannibal so much, from putting all his worth on the one person who listens to him the way he needs. It’s not going so well. This latest case is destroying him, it’s not much different than all the other killers but it is relentless work. He feels the oppressive weight of the murders on him all the time now. His life has diminished down to work, dogs and therapy, something is going to break and Will knows it will happen any day now.
He tries not to use the rope harness too often. Ever since he had discovered how much the deep pressure of rope and knots against soft flesh would calm him down, it had become a staple in his self care arsenal. Trial and error over the years means he now only uses it on his very worst days, particularly on days when he’s being called out by Jack to view horrors that stick around in his mind like glue. It’s an anchor, something tying him back to this world while he dives into the murky depths of someone else's mind. Certain points of pressure that hold him firm.
The ropes are being used more often these days, a testament to how bad things are getting. He’s being called out to see murder scenes every few days. The new killer has more stamina than Will does, that’s for sure. They’re affecting him more than usual, his sleep even more fractured and his nightmares more vivid. He wakes up with soaking sheets more often than not.
He has a little more time today, the body is already in the lab and he is expected there by nine, but Will had woken up with the dogs at five.
The feeling of a panic attack looming at his edges has him doing all the things he knows he’s meant to do, a checklist of normality. He eats a solid breakfast of bacon and eggs, they don’t taste of anything to him but it’s what he’s meant to do, so he does it. The way his heart is beating has him feeling out of step, it’s rising higher and higher with no external stimulus. Every fiber of his muscles feels like they are vibrating, pulsing out of his body.
The rope is kept within easy reach, hanging over a rod in his sparse wardrobe. Ready to be his lifejacket when he’s thrown out into the ocean. He knows today is going to be one of those days already, between his elevated heart rate and shaky muscles his body is sending him enough signs that he is liable to fall apart sooner rather than later.
It’s a funny feeling, his body thinks it’s under attack but all he’s doing is sitting at his kitchen table eating breakfast. It’s hard for his mind not to follow down the same path. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach telling him something terrible will happen any second now.
He lets the dogs out, he doesn’t like to be disturbed when he does this, it’s his time. The world takes every part of him but it won’t take this.
He undresses down to his boxer shorts and opens the wardrobe to pick his rope. Today he wants something uncomfortable, needs something that he can feel all day long. He chooses the roughest rope he owns, a natural brown jute, scratchy and hard to ignore.
With the rope in his hands he decides to take longer than normal, to make something more intricate, to turn his pent up energy into something pretty. Every moment spent manipulating the rope is one less moment spent thinking about other ways he could quiet the horrors in his head. He can’t let his mind drift there, not again.
With deft hands he starts, his headspace slipping into something blank, comfortable. He wonders if this would feel different if it was someone else making the knots. Would someone else's hands be too much? Would they sear his skin and make him feel on fire rather than pulling him down into serenity? He can’t help but picture the hands as Hannibal’s.
He sighs, that kind of thinking is futile. He isn’t built for relationships, he can barely keep himself together as it is.
He slides the two ropes over his head and around the neck with the bite of the ropes rubbing against the back of his neck, he starts by braiding the four lengths down his chest for a few moments. He winds the lengths around his back, they twist in a way that he knows will make itself known all day. Bringing the ropes back around to under his pecs he continues braiding the ropes further down along his stomach. It’s pretty, he crosses the ropes around his back again and continues this pattern until he’s left with several pretty braids going down his body with the ropes wrapping around his body every few inches. He finishes up by winding the rope under his ass then making a hip harness that wraps around each of his legs, creating a thick harness that hugs the top of his thighs.
He concentrates on the feel of the rope underneath his fingers, grounding, rough. Friction against skin dragging him into sanity. Knot upon knot pressing into his flesh, the rope encasing him. It provides a pressure that holds him, a facsimile of an embrace. He checks every so often that he can slip two fingers under the ties, he might want it to be uncomfortable but he doesn’t want nerve damage.
Once it’s finished, each length of spare rope twisted under others, he turns to look in the mirror. The rope is striking, beautiful even. He resists the urge to take a picture, he can’t risk it getting out.
With one last look in the mirror he starts to get dressed. He stretches and lets the rope rub against his skin, coarse and firm, exactly how he wanted it.
There is no sign of the cage of rope that covers him once he is dressed. The collar of his shirt is high enough to cover the two strands that wind across his neck and meet just under his collarbones. His clothes are loose enough so the bulk of rope can’t be seen. It’s his secret now.
Will presses two fingers to his wrist, an automatic motion, his heart rate is already down from earlier. The ritual has worked. It doesn’t always, sometimes he’s used it too much and his body gets used to it. It’s best when done sparingly, only on the very worst days.
He checks his watch with a sigh, he’s only just on time. He grabs his phone, gives a quick goodbye to the dogs and makes his way to Quantico.
By mid-afternoon he’s glad he had the foresight to tie himself that morning. It’s been a never ending cycle of stupid questions from would-be agents who don’t seem to have a single ounce of initiative and Jack’s demands that he scry something from photos of dead bodies. He is drained, there is nothing more to give.
The rope is getting more than uncomfortable by the end of the day but there is still one more thing he needs to do before going home and revelling in the marks left on his body.
It’s time for his session with Hannibal.