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Title: Spell It Out
Pairing: gen - Will Graham
Author's Note: This is a fic set in Will's past, when he was a toddler. I very well may be sent directly to hell without passing Go or collecting $200 for writing this, but I don't care.
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the lovely Will Graham, unfortunately, just borrowing him for a while. Please do not sue.
***He liked playing with his blocks. It was one of the many things he did when he was alone.
And he was alone almost all the time. His parents never seemed to be around; he had no siblings, not little sister or brother to play with, and no older ones, either. It was just him, always alone.
Will liked it that way. There was no one to bother him, no one to make him feel inferior. There was no one to laugh at the fact that he lived in a tumbledown house, that his parents both worked all the time, that they didn't have much money.
Nobody to laugh, nobody to point fingers. Just him. Alone.
The way he wanted it.
He tilted his head as he moved the blocks around on the floor, absently making words. C-A-T. He knew that one. D-O-G. R-U-N. Those were easy.
He smiled as he kept moving the blocks, the words forming and then disappearing. Making words was fun. He already knew lots of them; when he'd eavesdropped on one of his teachers talking to his mother, she had said that he was reading at an "advanced level." Whatever that was.
It sounded good, like something he should be proud of. So he was.
H-A-B-I-T. He knew what that was. It was what his mother called his father's smoking. And his drinking. A bad habit. One that she wanted him to stop.
Will frowned at that thought, moving the blocks around faster. He didn't like to think about his father's smoking and drinking. His mother worked so hard, and she was always tired. The fact that his father made her unhappy with his bad habits made Will unhappy, too.
He wouldn't think about it. If he didn't think about it, then it might go away all by itself. He didn't really think so, but it wouldn't hurt to try.
Maybe if he kept spelling out words like that, all the bad things would go away.
The blocks almost seemed to be arranging themselves, spelling out words that he knew, but that he didn't remember meaning to spell. The words kept coming, and he kept sounding them out in his head, spelling them out in the brightly colored wooden letters.
H-O-M-E. D-A-R-K. T-E-A-R-S.
Will frowned again, a little trickle of fear snaking down his spine. He didn't like these words, but they didn't seem to want to stop forming.
Suddenly, it didn't feel like he was the one making them any more.
What was that word? It wasn't one he knew, one that he didn't want to spell out. There was something about the word that was trying to form that felt dark and foreboding, a word that drew him closer even as he struggled not to move the other blocks into line.
His hands trembled as they picked up the blocks, then set them down neatly in a row. He didn't know what that word was. He could sound it out, but he didn't want to.
It was bad enough to spell it out, to feel the darkness reaching for him.
Will wanted to scream, but the sound stuck in his throat. It was caught there, unable to come to fruition; he couldn't have made a sound no matter how hard he tried. He wanted to run away, but he was rooted to the spot, staring at the word spelled out in front of him.
The blocks seemed to smile up at him with an evil grin all their own.
He didn't know the word, didn't want to know it. There was something about it that terrified him; whatever it meant, Will knew that it wasn't anything good.
Suddenly, he didn't want to play with his blocks any more. Making words was no longer fun.
Slowly, he got to his feet, picking up the blocks and trying not to look at them, putting them away neatly into the toy chest at the foot of his bed. He had a feeling that ht was going to be a long time before he want to spell out words with those blocks again.
He would play outside for the rest of the day. Better yet, he would find one fo the books his mother had bought for him and practice reading.
Will took a few steps towards the door, almost feeling that there was something trying to call him back. He could almost hear the voice; sweet, low, seductive, calling his name. He saw those letters flash before his eyes again, still not knowing what they meant.
He fled from the room and down the stairs as if the hounds of hell were snapping at his heels.
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