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Title: Escape the Visions
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: gen - Will Graham
Fandom: Hannibal
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,420
Author's Note: One-shot.
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.


Will shuddered as he walked through the morgue after going to an autopsy, wishing that he was anywhere but here. He couldn't wait to get out; the atmosphere here was stifling, and it made him feel jumpy and nervous, as if he wanted to jump out of his skin.

Ever since he'd had that horrible vision where he had been a corpse here in this very morgue, he hadn't been able to feel comfortable coming here.

Of course, he had to be here at times; it was part of his job. But that didn't mean he had to like it.

He got inside the minds of killers every day; he shouldn't feel so uncomfortable with being in a place that housed dead people, really. It wasn't as though they were going to sit up and grab at him; they were dead and gone. They were no threat to him.

But he couldn't stop feeling that if he stopped walking, he would find himself surrounded by corpses, all of them staring at him with empty eyes, all of them wanting him to find justice for them, to look into the minds of their killers.

The idea made him feel queasy; he picked up his pace, wanting nothing more than to get out of here and back into the bright sunshine outside.

Once he was back in the outside world, a world that didn't revolve around dead bodies and autopsies, he would feel better, more himself again. He would be able to shake off this feeling of being threatened, and go on with his day as though he'd never been here.

Will's mouth twisted wryly at the thought. No, he wouldn't be able to shake off being here, not for the next few hours, at least. The morgue always affected him like this.

He hated coming here, especially after that dream.

Had it been a dream -- or a vision of his future? He didn't want to think like that; he didn't want to think that he would end up here in the morgue, a victim of one of the killers he tried to diligently to catch and bring to justice. That was too morbid, even for him.

But it was hard not to think like that when those kinds of visions seemed to assail him from all sides at times. It was hard not to see himself as being more a part of the world of the dead than of the living, especially giving what he did for the FBI.

If only he could go back to just being a teacher; if only he'd never gotten into doing this field work and letting people rely on his empathy.

There were so many "if onlys" in his life these days, he thought with a sigh. If only he'd never started doing what he did out in the field, if only he hadn't let Jack know that he was so passionate about seeing that justice was done, if only Jack didn't work him to the bone ....

That was something he really should stop, but he didn't know how.

It was hard for him to say no to Jack, hard for him to turn his back on what he did. There was always that obscure feeling of letting someone down, of not going out of his way to find justice tor one person who hadn't deserved the violent death they'd met.

He didn't like that feeling, and he didn't want to keep having it. He didn't want that vague miasma of guilt to keep trailing after him.

Yet it did, whenever he told Jack that he needed to rest, that he couldn't simply keep going and going and going like the Energizer bunny. He always felt that he should be doing more, that he wasn't doing enough, that there were more people who needed his help.

That was a ridiculous attitude, wasn't it? After all, those people were dead -- even if they did rise from their graves and their places on the autopsy tables in the morgue in his dreams, looking at him with those accusing eyes that begged for his help.

He couldn't turn his back on them. He couldn't turn away.

If he did, then that made him complicit in the guilt of whoever had killed them. He could find their killers; he could bring them to justice.

It wasn't easy to have his abilities, he thought with another soft sigh. Too often, they conflicted his loyalties, tore him in two. They made him seek justice no matter what the cost to himself; he knew that he didn't take care of himself properly when he was working.

But somehow, that didn't seem to matter. Doing his job, bringing killers to justice, was more important than making sure he got enough sleep or ate at regular intervals. His own physical comfort was much less of a priority than letting the dead rest in peace.

When had he started to think like that? Will asked himself with a frown. Was it before or after he'd started doing this work? He didn't remember.

Really, he had always felt like this. Like others were more important than himself.

He didn't remember exactly when that had become his mantra, but he knew that the feeling had been with him for a long time now. And that it wasn't likely to ever go away.

He might as well face it -- he wasn't doing himself any favors by working himself into the ground, and letting Jack push him to do even more, but it was something he couldn't stop himself from doing. This was his destiny. This was .... his design.

This was what he had been meant to do, and he couldn't turn away from it. If he did, then he would let not only the people who deserved to find justice down -- but he wold be letting himself down, too. He would be ashamed of himself.

He didn't want to live with the knowledge that he hadn't held up his end of the bargain. He could help people, so he was obligated to do that. He had no other choice.

Out of the corner of his eye, Will thought he saw movement.

He picked up his pace, more anxious than ever to get out of the morgue and outside into the real world, away from the miasma of death.

When he did, he raised his face to the sun, closing his eyes and gulping in great lungfuls of air. He felt as if the needed to be cleansed; he didn't want to go back into those dark hallways and shadowy rooms any time soon. Not until he absolutely had to.

He wanted to sit down on one of the stone benches in front of the building, to get his bearings back -- but he also wanted to get out of here as quickly as he could. He didn't want to linger by this building; he didn't want to be anywhere near here.

His steps quickened the further away he got from the building. Will almost let out a gasp of relief when he reached his car, quickly opening the door and slipping inside.

Once he was there, he leaned his head back, closing his eyes again.

He felt as though that vision was chasing him, the one he'd had of himself in the morgue, a lifeless corpse, ugly black stitches running through the center of his chest, his eyes open but sightless. It would follow him around until it was all he could see.

Resolutely, Will shook his head, putting the key into the ignition and starting the car. He had to push that vision out of his mind. He couldn't let it keep haunting him.

Besides, it wasn't true. He wasn't a corpse, and he wasn't going to become one any time soon. But maybe it was time to take a few steps back from his work, to ask Jack for some time off. He definitely needed to get away for a while, to escape from these disturbing sights.

If only he could escape the visions of his own mind as easily.