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Pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham
Table: Otherwordly Challenge, tv_universe
Prompt: Noctuary - The record of a single night's events, thoughts, or dreams.
Author's Note: Sequel to "Solitary Adventurer."
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the lovely Hannibal Lecter or Will Graham, unfortunately, just borrowing them for a while. Please do not sue.
***Will ran a hand over his face, his eyesight blurring.
He didn't know why he was so nervous about going to sleep. He shouldn't be worried; it wasn't as though he had sensed anyone outside tonight.
But yet, he felt as though he didn't want to let himself sleep, to be unconscious to the world around him. It was as if he could feel a malicious intent towards him permeating the atmosphere, as though there was some malingering spirit just outside his door.
Whoever was stalking him, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were right outside, just waiting for him to fall asleep so they could create havoc in his life.
He didn't want to deal with that. He didn't need it.
He hadn't asked for this, he told himself almost angrily. He didn't want a stalker; he didn't want someone following him around, watching his house, making him feel uneasy. Some people might feel flattered to have a person watching them on a regular basis; he didn't.
There was nothing flattering about this in the least. It was terrifying. It was as if he was just waiting for the watching to be followed by an attack.
So far, that hadn't happened, but there was no reason not to expect it. He knew enough about stalkers to know that they always escalated, especially once they felt that their prey was at their most vulnerable. He didn't doubt that this person would show themselves at some point.
He didn't know what he would do when and if they did.
Will sighed, putting his book aside, wondering what he could do to make himself stay up later. His eyes were already burning; he knew that he needed to get some sleep.
But he didn't want to go to bed, at least not yet. The clock was creeping towards midnight, and that was the time when he usually went to bed, but he couldn't force himself to sleep when he was this wound up and tense. He knew that he would just toss and turn.
So there was no use in trying to sleep, but what could he do to keep himself awake? He definitely couldn't go outside; that would be foolish.
Reading wouldn't do any good, either; he'd been trying to do that for over an hour now, and even though he had read the same page over and over again, his brain wasn't making any sense of the words. There was no sense in reading when he couldn't concentrate.
The only other thing he could do was wash the dishes, or do laundry; he'd already done the dishes, but he could probably dredge up some clothes that needed washing.
As he rose to his feet, his gaze fell on an empty journal.
He had bought that journal intending to write in it, but somehow, he had never started. It never felt like the right time, and he hadn't been inspired to write anything in it.
At least, not yet. His heart rate quickened at the thought; maybe this was something that could not only help him sleep, but he would be able to sort out his thoughts about what he was dealing with, and that might make it easier to formulate a plan.
Will reached for the journal, opening it and picking up a pen. He curled up on the couch, resting the journal on his knees, the pen poised above the paper.
Now, how exactly should he start this? he asked himself.
Now that he had the journal in his hands, he wasn't entirely sure of what to say. Should he start with right now, what he was doing, how he was feeling?
He'd kept a journal when he was a kid, but he'd stopped once he was in high school. It had just seemed like a stupid endeavor to write down his thoughts and feelings; he hadn't wanted anyone to know how he felt, hadn't wanted anyone to see inside him.
He'd kept that particular window resolutely closed for so long that he wasn't entirely sure of just how to open it again -- or whether he really wanted to.
But keeping a journal about everything that he was going through seemed like the right thing to do at this point, like something that would keep him settled and grounded.
He had actually thought of talking to Hannibal about it, but that hadn't seemed like the best of ideas, either. He thought that Hannibal might want to actually read his journal, that he might think it would give him some insight into Will and help their therapy.
Will didn't want that, even if Hannibal thought it would be a good thing. This journal would be for him, and him alone. Not for anyone else's eyes.
No one needed to have that much insight into who he was.
Maybe he should merely try keeping a record of what he'd done during the day, at first. But no, that would be boring for him. He wanted this journal to be something more.
Did he want to talk about this whole business with the stalker, and how he felt about it? He really wasn't sure exactly how he felt, but maybe trying to put it all down into words would clarify that, and even make it easier to deal with.
With that thought in mind, Will began writing; the pen seemed to fly across the page, and the words poured out of him as though they'd been blocked for too long.
Somehow, the writing felt .... cathartic.
As the pen formed words, Will could almost feel his emotions pouring out onto the page. It was a relief to get everything written down, even though it wasn't coming out in the way that he had intended it to. It was all a lot more emotional than he'd thought it would be.
Everything that he felt was going down on these pages -- he couldn't seem to stop the pen, couldn't make himself put it down and stop writing.
This would be a journal that he kept for himself, one that he could go back and look at when all of this was over, and hopefully gain some insight into his own psyche. Maybe this would help him even more than his sessions with Hannibal did.
Now that was a good goal to keep in his sights.
When he finally finished writing, Will scanned the lines of script, then put down the pen with a soft sigh and flexed his fingers. Somehow, this still didn't feel complete.
It dawned on him that he wanted to keep a noctuary -- a journal of what had happened during the night. His thoughts, his feelings, his dreams, his actions. It would be a good way for him to look back and see what he was doing, and pinpoint things he needed to change.
The thought lifted his spirits; the idea of being able to do something proactive, instead of just sitting around and waiting, made him feel a lot better.
Waiting had never been one of his strong points; he wasn't a patient man. There were times when he had to be, at least in his work -- but this had nothing to do with his professional life. This was the personal sphere, and he didn't have to exercise that kind of patience.
Still, it looked as though he might need to, at least for the time being. And writing down the events of the night, and all that he thought and dreamed, would definitely help.
It would at least make him feel that he was doing something productive.
He would keep a noctuary of each single night's events, and his own thoughts. Even the dreams he'd had on each particular night, if he could remember them.
it would give him a sense of purpose, something that he could hold on to. It didn't seem to be helping him sleep, or even making him more tired, but then, his mind was whirling now with all of his new ideas, so he really shouldn't have expected it to.
He was embarking on something new, something that he felt he needed to do. In a way, it was exciting. It was proactive, and Will was sure that it would help him.
No one else would know about it, either.
There was no reason to tell anyone else, not even Hannibal. The man who was his de facto shrink didn't need to know anything about this.
After all, he didn't have to tell Hannibal everything about his life. He had a right to some privacy, didn't he? It wasn't as though he had to spill every little secret, tell Hannibal every move that he made, every thought in his mind. He didn't have to open himself completely.
The only place where he would be that open was his noctuary. Now that he'd started it, he actually felt a lot better. He felt .... well, more peaceful.
And maybe tonight, he would actually be able to sleep without any disturbing dreams.
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