➷ v o i c e t e s t :: w i l l . g r a h a m.

[mezzanotte]

VOICE TEST: WILL GRAHAM usual deal! leave me prompts, quotes, song lyrics, recipes, horror terrors, messages, spam. etc. + spoilers are coooool. character is will graham from nbc's hannibal. other open post is here.

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[prevents]

[Gratitude leads her feet to Dr. Hannibal Lecter's door. The whole debacle concerning her mental health after "the Corsica incident" led many to wonder if she was no longer capable of holding her position within the Specials. It was the dashing gentleman doctor with the implacable accent who had come to her rescue when push came to shove. Though she had never been his patient, he had referred her to a colleague who may very well have saved her sanity. The gritty details of her treatment and the circumstances leading up to it are things she'd rather not dwell on. Those memories are useless trinkets she's placed in a box and buried. Tonight, she's a woman rebuilt. A pair of stiletto heels serve as her cornerstones but she stands stable despite the lure of wine and the sway of dancing.

Stumbling is not on the agenda.

Instead, she glides.

It's easy to swim through the crowd, rubbing elbows and murmuring salutations to strangers. The silk of her vibrant green gown swishes behind her as she moves. She's a leaf floating down a river, plucked from its bough before its time. Though she doesn't look back, she can feel eyes on her. She always does. They're burning through, gauging the sharpness of the shoulder blades she has on display from the lack of fabric on her back. She can sense the gaze nudging away the long brown hair spilling over her shoulders, seeking to see what lies carved into the skin under the tendrils.

Taking a deep breath, she strives to calm herself. This isn't Corsica. Everything will be all right. It's hard not to reach out and touch just below her collarbone though. When she does, her fingertip comes away covered in a fleshy hued powder. Make-up can only do so much to hide old scars.

Shaking her head, she seeks the shore. It would do some good to take a seat, wouldn't it? Adjusting the peacock feather mask around her eyes, she keeps a steady gait and makes a beeline for the nearest table as the edges of her vision begin to blur. The room's spinning somehow and she's off-kilter. Lights dance around her, blending with flesh and silk and shadows.]

[fasted]

[ Will doesn't make a habit of coming to Doctor Lecter's parties. Parties require him to socialise, and socialising is another step out of his comfort zone. Hannibal makes a convincing argument about that being healthy and Will can barely remember what 'comfort' is anymore.

( some part of him knows exactly what comfort is, it's the purr of a boat motor engine and a damp tongue of a stray pup slobbering up his thigh )

He's never found himself to be good company and the masks - while they're good conversation starters, aren't enough to crack the vault he's built around him. he moves around instead of staying still. keeps his arms crossed against his chest and keeps silent for the most part.

Will notices her - he notices everything - but she stands out because she seems to be steadying herself instead of trying to have a good time. He walks towards her, grabs two drinks - non alcholic, mocktail? whatever doctor lecter put in it, it's tarty and cool and sets it down next to her. ]

Is everything okay?

[prevents]

[A voice pierces through the brewing tempest and the world around her slowly rights itself, coalescing and fusing the muddle of light and noise into something solid. The syllables falling on her ears are carried by a sound with depth. Deep and male. There's a rich timbre to it despite the unused quality it bears. It's the sound of a rusty door hinge opening as one sinks into a chair late at night, too intoxicated from the notes of oak dancing and burning on one's tongue to care about a home invasion. She's had many nights like that. Is someone coming home? Or has someone come to finish the job? Her mind meanders as she offers a nod to the stranger's query. Curving her lips, she does her best to smile at his unexpected concern.]

Perhaps after a drink.

[Her hand wraps around the cool mocktail he's set on the table, letting the drops on the glass blend with the sweat on her palm. The cold's almost comforting as she lifts the liquid to her lips. If she had been in the right state of mind, she'd be chastising herself for her stupidity right now.

Never accept anything that you haven't seen prepared in front of you.

But there are worse ways to die. The beverage is sweet; a blend of kiwi, strawberry and far too much sugar. She sips with as much grace as she can muster before setting the drink down on the table once more, leaving it half-empty and with the ghost of her kiss on the rim prominently displayed in dark red lipstick.]

To whom do I owe my thanks?