Nameless One, 10/18
Jul. 3rd, 2011 09:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Nameless One
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: R
Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Face secretly takes meds for bipolar disorder. But for whatever reason, Face is no longer on his meds. Then the manic behavior starts, from getting into a mess of fights to needing to have tons of sex with strangers. Then when the emotional roller coaster stuff starts, Face begins cutting himself during the darkest times. His teammates notice, and try to help but Face is stubborn and refuses help, heavily in denial.
Additional Notes: Title taken from James Clarence Mangan's poem, "Nameless One".
The little cocoon he’s made out of a patchwork quilt and pillows keeps him warm when the inside of him is freezing over, winter settling in faster than he can stop it. He’s been holed up in his room for days, ignoring the light knocks on the door, Murdock telling him that breakfast or lunch or dinner is ready, B.A. asking him if he wants to go into town with him. Hannibal never knocks. He feels like hanging a sign on the doorknob. “Face is not available today. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
One of the doctors had kept asking him what he felt during his bad spells. Whether he thought about hurting himself, if he thought that he wasn’t worth anything, all that, and he kept trying to explain that he didn’t feel anything. He remembers being desperate for her to understand, because it didn’t sound that awful when he said it out loud, but it felt like he was a night without any stars, surrounded by inky blackness and couldn’t hear or taste or do anything. That nothing he could do would make it any better, would bring him any small amount of pleasure. How no music ever reached past his ears and made him smile, no joke made him laugh, nothing existed outside of that black hole he lived in.
How sometimes nothing can be a physical thing, like a dark so oppressive it swallows light. How that Nothing keeps spreading, pushing out all the other Things until Nothing was all that was left inside of him.
She didn’t really get it.
Everything fades away, even the knocking and soft murmurs through the door. The sunshine keeps creeping in and disappearing like a magic trick, but he can't feel it through the covers or on his face when it stretches long fingers through the blinds. The days are slightly better, something about the sun lulling him into sleep, but then the night comes and he's forced to stare at the walls and every terrible thought that he's hidden from in sleep comes out to haunt him, taunting stares from the corners of the room, accusations and recrimations and that cold desperation pushing against his ribs endlessly.
One day he wakes up and stares at the constellation of cracks and stains on the ceiling. He gets out of bed, walks to the restroom without thinking about it, and finds the knife he keeps tucked into one of his boots. The linoleum is brown and the light fixture has bugs and dust covering it, muting the cramped room into a pale yellow. He puts the blade to his arm, thinking, Not across the wrist, down it, follow the vein, perpendicular slash across the elbow because he read somewhere that’s how people used to kill themselves, the fastest way to exsanguinate.
The blade barely makes a shallow cut. It’s too dull, hasn’t been honed in a while.
He stares at the thin line crawling up his arm, leaking red bubbles of blood, and replaces the knife back in his boot, before dream-walking back into the main room and falling under the covers. He wraps them tightly around his body, staring out at nothing, and doesn't even have to try to not think about anything at all.
There's really Nothing to think about, anyway.
Author:
tripatchRating: R
Pairing: Hannibal/Face
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Face secretly takes meds for bipolar disorder. But for whatever reason, Face is no longer on his meds. Then the manic behavior starts, from getting into a mess of fights to needing to have tons of sex with strangers. Then when the emotional roller coaster stuff starts, Face begins cutting himself during the darkest times. His teammates notice, and try to help but Face is stubborn and refuses help, heavily in denial.
Additional Notes: Title taken from James Clarence Mangan's poem, "Nameless One".
The little cocoon he’s made out of a patchwork quilt and pillows keeps him warm when the inside of him is freezing over, winter settling in faster than he can stop it. He’s been holed up in his room for days, ignoring the light knocks on the door, Murdock telling him that breakfast or lunch or dinner is ready, B.A. asking him if he wants to go into town with him. Hannibal never knocks. He feels like hanging a sign on the doorknob. “Face is not available today. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
One of the doctors had kept asking him what he felt during his bad spells. Whether he thought about hurting himself, if he thought that he wasn’t worth anything, all that, and he kept trying to explain that he didn’t feel anything. He remembers being desperate for her to understand, because it didn’t sound that awful when he said it out loud, but it felt like he was a night without any stars, surrounded by inky blackness and couldn’t hear or taste or do anything. That nothing he could do would make it any better, would bring him any small amount of pleasure. How no music ever reached past his ears and made him smile, no joke made him laugh, nothing existed outside of that black hole he lived in.
How sometimes nothing can be a physical thing, like a dark so oppressive it swallows light. How that Nothing keeps spreading, pushing out all the other Things until Nothing was all that was left inside of him.
She didn’t really get it.
Everything fades away, even the knocking and soft murmurs through the door. The sunshine keeps creeping in and disappearing like a magic trick, but he can't feel it through the covers or on his face when it stretches long fingers through the blinds. The days are slightly better, something about the sun lulling him into sleep, but then the night comes and he's forced to stare at the walls and every terrible thought that he's hidden from in sleep comes out to haunt him, taunting stares from the corners of the room, accusations and recrimations and that cold desperation pushing against his ribs endlessly.
One day he wakes up and stares at the constellation of cracks and stains on the ceiling. He gets out of bed, walks to the restroom without thinking about it, and finds the knife he keeps tucked into one of his boots. The linoleum is brown and the light fixture has bugs and dust covering it, muting the cramped room into a pale yellow. He puts the blade to his arm, thinking, Not across the wrist, down it, follow the vein, perpendicular slash across the elbow because he read somewhere that’s how people used to kill themselves, the fastest way to exsanguinate.
The blade barely makes a shallow cut. It’s too dull, hasn’t been honed in a while.
He stares at the thin line crawling up his arm, leaking red bubbles of blood, and replaces the knife back in his boot, before dream-walking back into the main room and falling under the covers. He wraps them tightly around his body, staring out at nothing, and doesn't even have to try to not think about anything at all.
There's really Nothing to think about, anyway.
