[ They were out. They were all out and now back in the environment that should feel normal. Only Will was having a very hard time getting a clear delineation between the two.
He didn't advertise the fact, years of dealing with his feral mind having taught him how to hide it when his subconscious and conscious minds got into a tussle. He didn't talk about the vision of Abigail, who would walk into his field of vision, staying just off to the side, standing covered in blood and holding her hand out towards him.
Inviting.
He didn't advertise the fact that he heard Garrett Jacob Hobbs, as clear as if he were standing right next to his ear, whisper see, see over and over again. Randall Tier, lower jaw missing and upper jaw filled with sabre tooth tiger teeth, stood next to the Ravenstag, stroking his hand across it's thick, feathered neck.
Sometimes Will would look up, trying to escape the visions if only for a couple of breaths, but even up held no comfort. Mischa's killer hung, wine bottle winges flared, but his eyes were no longer peacefully closed. They were open, cloudy like Hobbs and the man kept laughing insanely.
By far the worst of it would come when he closed his eyes. A single slice of Beverly Katz lay just behind his eyelids, one eye blinking.
Intermingled in all of this was House, Wilson Hannibal and Ecks. Will tried to remind himself to focus on them especially when they spoke, but a lot of him was moving on automatic pilot. He followed where he was lead, he ate what was put in front of him, he waited his turn for the shower.
Even unwrapping his hands did little to help him ground back to reality. They were definitely healing, but some nails were still split and ripped, the fingers black and blue from the trauma. Will took his allotted time in the shower, the fall of the water skewing in his mind to the wet sound of Verger, cutting off his face and feeding it to the dogs. The water turned to blood, a hallucination Will had experienced often enough that he knew to just wait it out.
Only this time it never let up. He washed himself, hair included and tried not to gag on the phantom scent of blood, and mold and water. He tasted the rancid tissue paper in his mouth and had to spit. A bit of dish soap was squirted on the spot to clean it.
Eventually he surfaced, got mostly dried -no easy feat with his hands unbandaged but he managed it- and dressed. He could have asked Hannibal for assistance, but Will was feeling that fierce, independent Icansurviveonmyown streak.
Passing off the shower to the next member of their traumatized group, Will retreated to what he hoped was an out of the way corner of the living room. Sitting down on the floor, his damaged hands resting lightly over his knees, he pressed his face against his thighs.
He probably didn't make a particularly inviting figure, though he was a stationary target for the time being. ]
OTA - cw: Fingernail horror, forced feeding, mental instability, hallucinations
He didn't advertise the fact, years of dealing with his feral mind having taught him how to hide it when his subconscious and conscious minds got into a tussle. He didn't talk about the vision of Abigail, who would walk into his field of vision, staying just off to the side, standing covered in blood and holding her hand out towards him.
Inviting.
He didn't advertise the fact that he heard Garrett Jacob Hobbs, as clear as if he were standing right next to his ear, whisper see, see over and over again. Randall Tier, lower jaw missing and upper jaw filled with sabre tooth tiger teeth, stood next to the Ravenstag, stroking his hand across it's thick, feathered neck.
Sometimes Will would look up, trying to escape the visions if only for a couple of breaths, but even up held no comfort. Mischa's killer hung, wine bottle winges flared, but his eyes were no longer peacefully closed. They were open, cloudy like Hobbs and the man kept laughing insanely.
By far the worst of it would come when he closed his eyes. A single slice of Beverly Katz lay just behind his eyelids, one eye blinking.
Intermingled in all of this was House, Wilson Hannibal and Ecks. Will tried to remind himself to focus on them especially when they spoke, but a lot of him was moving on automatic pilot. He followed where he was lead, he ate what was put in front of him, he waited his turn for the shower.
Even unwrapping his hands did little to help him ground back to reality. They were definitely healing, but some nails were still split and ripped, the fingers black and blue from the trauma. Will took his allotted time in the shower, the fall of the water skewing in his mind to the wet sound of Verger, cutting off his face and feeding it to the dogs. The water turned to blood, a hallucination Will had experienced often enough that he knew to just wait it out.
Only this time it never let up. He washed himself, hair included and tried not to gag on the phantom scent of blood, and mold and water. He tasted the rancid tissue paper in his mouth and had to spit. A bit of dish soap was squirted on the spot to clean it.
Eventually he surfaced, got mostly dried -no easy feat with his hands unbandaged but he managed it- and dressed. He could have asked Hannibal for assistance, but Will was feeling that fierce, independent Icansurviveonmyown streak.
Passing off the shower to the next member of their traumatized group, Will retreated to what he hoped was an out of the way corner of the living room. Sitting down on the floor, his damaged hands resting lightly over his knees, he pressed his face against his thighs.
He probably didn't make a particularly inviting figure, though he was a stationary target for the time being. ]