Nameless One, 9/18
Jul. 3rd, 2011 07:47 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".
He goes back to bed after that, not wanting to face the world when the sun is shining brilliant despite the fact that it must know everything is going to go gray soon. He can hear voices outside in the hallway, so the guys must be waking up and getting ready, but he can’t bring himself to go out again, so he just wills himself back to sleep.
When he wakes up again, he’s alone, even the voices in the hallway gone away to wherever faded noises disappear. He squeezes his eyes shut. Normally he has longer than this before the crash, but the drugs have apparently messed him up and thrown him off cycle because the world looks hazy already. The wallpaper is a dingy pastel yellow with little faded roses on it, peeling away from the corners. He stares at them dully. There’s no fog over them, but it feels like there should be. Like he’s trapped behind thick windows and looking at the outside from inside a glass cage.
The comforter is a thick insulation against the outside and he curls into it slowly, wrapping it around him as tight as he can. It feels like his whole body is filled with sand and one little prick will send it tumbling out in a cascade flow. The fan above him is making slow circulations, sending wafts of cool air over him that stir his hair, and he watches its rotation, counting each circle of the blades like the second hand of a clock ticking past. It keeps making a ka-chunk sound each time it turns, the blades gritting against each other.
Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk.
He hates this. He would hate this, if he could muster the energy to feel it. Worse than a dentist visit, because at least the numbing wears off eventually and is only over a few teeth, but this is like an anesthetic over his whole body. Everything slows down, goes away, and he’s locked inside his mind, constantly questioning and all the while a balloon swells in his chest, feeling like it’s going to break through his rib cage any minute and leave him nothing but a shell. He can feel it pressing against his ribs and wants nothing more to let it out except he doesn’t know how. It doesn’t feel like grief, not that sharp pang of losing someone that you know will be over soon, it just feels like—nothing.
Nothing there.
Ka-chunk.
Hollow. Numb. An aching like a phantom pain of a limb lost and his heart’s still trying to revive it, to make it move, but there’s no tendons, no muscles, no nerves to respond anymore.
The worst part?
It’s only going to get worse. He can keep telling himself that it won’t last—Father Magill’s soothing cadence This too shall pass--but it’s a small comfort when time feels like it’s moving too slowly around him.
Ka-chunk.
He buries his face in the pillow and prays for sleep.
It’s the only respite he knows when one of these spells come over him, and it’s only going to get worse.
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".
He goes back to bed after that, not wanting to face the world when the sun is shining brilliant despite the fact that it must know everything is going to go gray soon. He can hear voices outside in the hallway, so the guys must be waking up and getting ready, but he can’t bring himself to go out again, so he just wills himself back to sleep.
When he wakes up again, he’s alone, even the voices in the hallway gone away to wherever faded noises disappear. He squeezes his eyes shut. Normally he has longer than this before the crash, but the drugs have apparently messed him up and thrown him off cycle because the world looks hazy already. The wallpaper is a dingy pastel yellow with little faded roses on it, peeling away from the corners. He stares at them dully. There’s no fog over them, but it feels like there should be. Like he’s trapped behind thick windows and looking at the outside from inside a glass cage.
The comforter is a thick insulation against the outside and he curls into it slowly, wrapping it around him as tight as he can. It feels like his whole body is filled with sand and one little prick will send it tumbling out in a cascade flow. The fan above him is making slow circulations, sending wafts of cool air over him that stir his hair, and he watches its rotation, counting each circle of the blades like the second hand of a clock ticking past. It keeps making a ka-chunk sound each time it turns, the blades gritting against each other.
Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk.
He hates this. He would hate this, if he could muster the energy to feel it. Worse than a dentist visit, because at least the numbing wears off eventually and is only over a few teeth, but this is like an anesthetic over his whole body. Everything slows down, goes away, and he’s locked inside his mind, constantly questioning and all the while a balloon swells in his chest, feeling like it’s going to break through his rib cage any minute and leave him nothing but a shell. He can feel it pressing against his ribs and wants nothing more to let it out except he doesn’t know how. It doesn’t feel like grief, not that sharp pang of losing someone that you know will be over soon, it just feels like—nothing.
Nothing there.
Ka-chunk.
Hollow. Numb. An aching like a phantom pain of a limb lost and his heart’s still trying to revive it, to make it move, but there’s no tendons, no muscles, no nerves to respond anymore.
The worst part?
It’s only going to get worse. He can keep telling himself that it won’t last—Father Magill’s soothing cadence This too shall pass--but it’s a small comfort when time feels like it’s moving too slowly around him.
Ka-chunk.
He buries his face in the pillow and prays for sleep.
It’s the only respite he knows when one of these spells come over him, and it’s only going to get worse.
