#somesemblanceofstability

[afteryourdeathormine]

//RP thread roundup time! If you RP with me, please take a moment to read through this. As so many threads have gone dormant without warning in the past several weeks, I am very much open to multiple threads, new people, etc.

I just want to make sure that I am on the same page with all of you. Please do not feel obligated to continue RPing with me, but do let me know if you've lost interest in a thread, or in playing with me in general.

Threads which have gone completely dormant:

alambinwolfsclothing: all threads.

somesemblanceofstability: all threads.

teacupwilliam: all threads.

mirrortouchsynesthesia: Bread is the Body.

willstrayham: all threads.

Threads which appear to be going dormant:

penaltyofimagination: Hell Doesn't Want You [And Heaven is Full]

somnambulisms: all threads, but I believe you're on vacation.

Please do let me know what you'd like to do. Likewise, please let me know if you have not received a reply from me within 24hrs on any active thread. It means that I have missed it..

[afteryourdeathormine]

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Will failed to gather his legs beneath him with sufficient poise. Hannibal wondered what would happen if he simply walked away. Would Will Graham succumb to hypothermia? Would he curl into a fetal coil, still wrapped in what was now a stained wool coat, and shiver until his body lost the ability to warm itself? What would start eating at his body first? Crows, a coyote, a stray dog? One of his own pack, perhaps?

Hannibal reached out, catching Will beneath the elbow. He ignored the tension; it was rare enough, of late, for Will to even react to any of his touches, but Will was feeling vulnerable now and every instinct would be on alert.

"You fed the dogs," Hannibal coaxed, tipping his head slightly. He could pick Will up bodily without a problem. Throw him over his shoulder, a sack of half-defrosted dead weight, carry him to the trunk of his car. Will would look like he was just sleeping. "What happened after that?"

A little pressure on the elbow. All Will had to do was get his feet under him properly; Hannibal would do the rest, and spare him the indignity of being fully lifted.

[afteryourdeathormine]

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"Very good, Will," the doctor replied, giving Will space to pull himself together. Perhaps it was more accurate to call it coming back into himself, as Will's body became little more than a passive vessel when he assumed the mind of another. What fever-dream had propelled him into the lake? What hallucination chased him out of his bed?

"You didn't pick up your phone. I was concerned about you, so I came to make sure that you were alright." Hannibal eased down to a comfortable crouch, keeping himself at eye level without forcing himself into Will's physical sphere. "Clearly my instincts were correct."

Will was shivering, the shaking growing worse, and Hannibal knew it was a good sign. If he was capable of shivering, he wasn't in need of a hospital.

"Do you think you can stand? We need to get you out of these wet clothes and into a warm bath. I suppose you have no idea how long you've been out here? What's the last thing you remember, Will?" he asked, reaching out to adjust the angle of the coat collar, as if that would make its wearer look any more presentable.

[afteryourdeathormine]

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The fog dulls sound as effectively as a goosedown quilt thrown over a face. Hannibal finds the cold, damp air uncomfortable. The moisture is enough to make one want to shrug out of every layer just to feel dry again, yet the temperature makes it impossible to so much as consider unbuttoning one's jacket. Why anyone would want to live in a place that was hot, muggy, and mosquito-riddled in the summer, frozen and windy in the winter, and like this at all other times is beyond him.

He contemplates heading back to the car or perhaps releasing the dogs, who may have better odds of finding Will. Then, a faint sound catches his attention. Hannibal struggles to hear it again, beyond the muffling stillness of the fog, and finally does. There is a small lake beyond Will's property, part of the reason the fog is so heavy and frequent. The sound appears to be emanating from that direction, and thus Hannibal finds himself picking his way over the half-frozen ground towards it.

The closer he approaches, the more distinct the sound gets: water lapping against something. Hannibal wonders what Will would look like dead in the water, sightless eyes trained upwards at the dull black heavens, messy hair trailing around him like a seaweed halo.

Drowning would be a trite end.

Hannibal clears the edge of the field, where the soil turns to siltier banks, just as Will hauls himself out of the lake. Will retches up water, shoulderblades flinching beneath the second skin that his wet shirt makes, and he appears small, too small, the aborted offspring of some hooved thing, bracing itself against the concept of life.

"What a curious time to swim laps," Hannibal says, easing out of his coat and draping it around Will's hunched frame. Even the indirect touch of his skin is icy. How long had Will been out here? How long had he been in the lake? Despite it, Will's eyes look feverish, too bright against his sallow face. "You missed your appointment again. Do you know where you are?"

Do you know who you are?