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He knows blood. He sees it seep down her dress, he smells it in air, tastes it on his tongue, feels it dry under his nails, hears it lazily splash onto the wooden floor. Elise Nichols hangs mounted on the head of the feathered stag as her blood is drained drop by precious drop. He opens his mouth to-
Will Graham snapped awake, shirt soaked. With what? Sweat. It was sweat. The sheets were still white when he checked them by the light of the moon. Winston came up to nose at Will, whining at his discomfort.
"It's okay, buddy, just another nightmare," He soothed the dog quietly. The nightmares had been getting worse the past few weeks. Even after they stopped Hobbs, he still dreamt about it all so vividly. The Copycat was still out there.
Will sighed as he grabbed a towel from the bathroom, stripping off his ruined shirt. At least he hadn't woken up on the roof again, or somewhere worse. He laid back down on top of the towel, and thought about the journal Doctor Lecter had gotten for him. He'd said Will may benefit from writing down the contents of his nightmares. When Will had inevitably refused, Hannibal bought the notebook just in case Will changed his mind.
He looked over to the diary then his alarm clock. 6:22. He had to be up soon anyway and it's not like he would actually fall back asleep. Will opened the journal to the first page.
Dear Diary
And immediately closed it with a groan. He was a grown man, not some teenage girl writing about her crush. He erased the first words and tried again.
October 8th 2013,
Tonight I was once again in the Hobbs' cabin, Elise Nichols on the antlers of the Ravenstag. The cabin didn't have walls today, just an endless void of whispers and screams. It all felt so real, like it always does. I could hear it, smell it, taste it. Before I woke I think I was raising her liver to my mouth to eat it.
In my sleep, I sometimes become Hobbs. I see these girls through his eyes, a replacement fro Abigail that I must honor. Recently, though, I think I've been seeing them as the Copycat does. When I opened my lips to eat her, it was not with the intent of nourishing my love with her flesh, it was simply to consume. I can almost taste the raw meat, now.
That evening, Will brought the notebook with him to his session with Doctor Lecter, "Last night, I actually tried writing in that journal you got me."
"Oh? How did that go?" Lecter's tone was even as any doctor's, but the light in his eyes gave him away. He was pleased that Will used something Hannibal bought for him.
"I've barely thought about the nightmare since I wrote it down, so pretty well," Will shrugs, "Though I don't love having a physical record of my insanity."
"You are not insane, Will. Writing down one's dreams is not only for those who struggle with mental illness like you, it's a helpful technique for many types of therapy," He used that term again, mental illness, "It helps one with introspection and understanding their subconscious. Whenever I wake up and remember I have dreamt of something, I write it out in a journal just like yours."
"I imagine that it's filled with strolls down European streets and not visions of eating people."
"Rarely does my mind conjure such vulgar imagery for me to endure as I sleep," Lecter laughed softly when he spoke, "Will you be continuing the account of your nighttime torment?"
"It's proved beneficial so far."
The session continued then ended and after an hour drive, Will was back in Wolf Trap. He fed the dogs, ate something close to dinner, and laid down to sleep.
He is lying in warm earth. Everything feels right. His mind, his soul, he is connected to the world, to the people in it. The air he breathes is cold, bracing against the heat of the ground around him. His mouth tastes sweet and muddy, his brain is cloudy and free. Then the soil is lifted from his face. No. No no no no-
Will gasped into the waking world. He could still feel dirt on his skin. He rushed to the sink to rinse it from his mouth. When he checked his alarm clock it said it was only 3:48. He'd be too tired to work if he doesn't get more sleep.
With a grunt he grabbed his notebook and flipped to the next page.
October 9th 2013,
Today I was one of the victims of Eldon Stammets. I had been buried in the forest and turned into fungus fertilizer. It felt concerningly natural to be enmeshed with the world in that way, just like Stammets claimed but from the other point of view. I could feel the mushrooms reaching out to me, from me. We were one.
What woke me was the deep panic that broke through from dream to reality when I was being removed from my plot in the line. It felt violating, it felt evil. I wanted nothing more than to stay submerged in the mycelium and having that taken away was a horror to me.
The bed I lied in was so nice. The idea of wanting that, now that I'm awake, scares me. Craving something so literally life ending seems impossible but I know how it felt and that is terrifying. It's the thought that I could be convinced into letting myself die because the life underground would be better than that above.
His eyes closed just as the cover did. Will woke in his bed when his alarm went off for the first time in weeks.
"You look refreshed, Will, did you sleep well?" Doctor Lecter asks in their next session.
"I think your journal is actually helping. I managed to go back to sleep after I wrote down my latest nightmare, woke up rested."
"I am ever pleased to hear of your progress," Hannibal smiled.
He was making progress. The night sweats persisted but he felt rejuvenated. He didn't have a dream for the next two nights, waking on schedule each morning.
He snorts smoke from his nostrils as he bucks his head side to side, the shrieks of Cassie Boyle flowing over his feathers. The Copycat, a faceless man made of breath and steam, stands over her with a butchers knife lodged in her chest.
Will fell awake, shaking. He reached for the journal before he knew what he was doing.
October 12th 2013,
Today I was the Ravenstag. I watched the Copycat rip into Cassie Boyle over and over. I saw her lungs be taken, I heard her screams die out. I let him mount her on my antlers and lapped up her blood as it dripped down my face. She tasted rich and rotten, somehow pleasant even as she decayed in a rush. It took only a few seconds for her body to decompose then the Copycat was carving into her ribs again.
"You dream about the the murderers Jack Crawford sends you chasing. Are you the killer, the victim, or the FBI agent knocking down the door?" Hannibal asked calmly, reclined in his leather chair.
"All of them? None? Depends on the day," Will answered from the mezzanine.
"Do you fear you will find yourself aiming a gun at your mother as these Lost Boys did?" The question was pointed, leading.
"I fear a lot of things, Doctor Lecter," He doesn't even remember his mother's face.
October 14th 2013,
This time I looked right at Abigail, an apology falling from my lips, as she shot me between the eyes.
Will was twitchy throughout their whole session. Before leaving he throws his notebook on Doctor Lecter's desk, "I want you to look through these. Something isn't right. Why am I thinking like this? What is wrong with me?"
"You believe I will be able to tell you that from reading about your dreams?" Hannibal picked up the journal with interest. He flipped to the first page and scanned through the text.
"I think you'll be able to tell something, Doctor. Just read them. Get back to me next session when you've had some time to think," Will leaves without saying goodbye.
Will was away dealing with another serial killer when their next appointment came around and didn't mention his journal in the one after that. It seemed he forgot about it between everything else in is life and the encephalitis. Hannibal couldn't be happier. He read and reread the four entries many times, enthralled by the violence and pleasure written onto each.
Hannibal kept the notebook next to his own in his nightstand for weeks, only giving it up to Jack when he has to send Will to prison. Though few of his dreams are chronicled within its pages, what is written is more than enough to be incriminating when added to the pile of physical evidence Hannibal had planted.