Work Text:
Of Apocalypses And Breakfasts
by CestPasDuBaudelaire
Living with Hannibal Lecter was bringing its load of wonders and its load of annoyances. Especially when the man living with Hannibal Lecter was none other than Will Graham.
Love, fate, death and religiosity put aside, when two men were to settle together, and share their days in a common house they were working on calling their home, nothing could prevent the blossoming of that strange thing that was the 'domestic life'. Yes, Hannibal had gutted Will. Yes, Will had pushed Hannibal off a cliff. But those two facts didn't change their reality: they now had matching mugs, and favorite sides of the marital bed.
One could think there was nothing strange about that. It was a side of life most people were expecting to develop. But it became strange the second Hannibal was thrown into that mix. Because the man contained in himself an impossible dichotomy.
On one hand, he was the most inhuman being that had ever been born from the human race. More of an entity, or a concept than he was a man. Acting on diabolical thoughts, thanks to divine means.
On the other hand, an undeniable hand, he also was a highly skilled househusband and seemed to not only thrive in that role but also take great pride in it.
Between a fallen God and a male wife, here laid the weird truth of Hannibal Lecter, ever since Will had run away with him. And that impossible middle ground was the one upon which their impossible domestic life was built.
A unique, twisted building, mixing roman and expressionist architectures, that Will was slowly learning to call Home.
***
Or 5 aspects of domestic life with Hannibal Lecter that are great right until they aren't anymore. A study.
***
Housework
***
It was a secret for no one that Hannibal Lecter was a highly organized man. Subjected to very few impulses and rigorously rational, he was a man in control of his environment. He was studied in Criminal Psychology as a model of precision and clarity that even the coldest of killers struggled to live up to.
What would be wrong would be to think that Hannibal couldn't stomach mess. There were very few things Hannibal couldn't stomach. Rudeness maybe but even then, he had no trouble digesting it. Mess and dirtiness, he had no problem with it. He could play in puddles of blood and break objects and structures for the sake of it.
He didn't mind mess and dirt... as long as it was not his. According to him, everything related to him was an image of himself, a social announcement to the world. But 'what was related to him' was not only his behavior, his suit or his clean shaved face. It went much further than that, including his house and his husband.
He had, for himself and everything close to himself, standards of perfection he never failed to live up to. Which could sound rather awful for anyone who - like Will - was far from answering to these standards.
But where Hannibal's perfectionism was pleasant to live around was when it was supported by Hannibal's commitment to be the only one serving his own needs. Not once had he asked Will to do anything inside the house. No dishes for him, no laundry, no dusting. Hannibal's control was gravitating around him without a need for his input.
He simply had to put his glass on a table for a coaster to magically appear underneath. No matter where he were to leave his shirt before going to bed, it would be back in his dresser, clean and ironed, the very next day. The shelves were self-stocking, the trashes self-throwing, the floor self-cleaning and the bills self-paying. Even if Will had wanted to do something - which he didn't - he couldn't have done so, because there was never anything left to do.
He could have felt guilty for being so useless if Hannibal's passion for housework had not been as obvious. Hannibal loved few things as much as he loved to take care of his image and to congratulate himself for its perfection. The same way he loved to carefully choose his shirts, suits and ties, he loved to order the items in the fridge, to clean up the dust on the surfaces, to find the right scented products for the right rooms, to bring the shine out of the wood and the glass.
Those were all activities Hannibal loved to do, and the look of betrayal that had been his when Will had offered to vacuum the entrance was exactly the one he would have had if Will had asked to take on the cooking chore.
When it came to keeping himself and what belonged to him up to perfection, Hannibal had a true passion that didn't suffer to be lessened by something like chore sharing.
And Will, who would never beg to do the dishes and change the sheets in the first place, could enjoy an absolutely choreless life.
Right until:
"Will..."
Hannibal was standing in the doorframe, his whole silhouette inhabiting the architrave like the royal subject of an old full-length portrait.
"Yes?" Will tried to say, the foam born from the mixture of saliva and toothpaste dripping from his mouth and drawing long stains on his t-shirt.
Hannibal's eyes were slow. The way immortal beings probably were, given that time was but a suggestion to them. His eyes were slow and so were his hands, resting by his side, creeping into Will's field of sight like twin predators.
"I forgive you."
Will swallowed his excess of saliva, and it painted its way down his throat with freshness and an aftertaste of mint.
The last time Hannibal had forgiven Will, Hannibal had left the country and Will's guts had left Will's body.
It was still there, in those slow eyes, Will could tell. That sober love behind a burning betrayal. The kind that called for tears - both under the eyes and through the flesh.
Will felt his breath shorten, as if his lungs were desperate to enjoy oxygen while they could still have some. His brain, slowly submerged by that instinctive panic, began to darken Will's vision, sending all the blood in priority to the legs and arms. To run or fight.
"What are you forgiving me for?" Will dared to say.
Or something close to that, the toothpaste spit around slurring the contours of the words.
Hannibal stepped forward.
Will, oh so wise, stepped back.
A couple of harsh breaths later, the back of Will's thighs met the edge of the bathtub. For a moment, a small part of his brain couldn't help but wonder if Hannibal had not chosen that house specifically for its rooms perfectly fitting all kinds of victim-cornering.
Hannibal continued to progress after Will stopped retreating and, after a second or so, the Chesapeake Ripper stopped, an inch away from Will Graham, his bigger body completely occulting the sight, his large shadow darkening the whole world.
With the slowness of snails and death, Hannibal brought his hands to Will's cheeks, cupping them softly. His red eyes were the only light still shining.
"Knives with wood handles do not go in the washing machine."
Hannibal passed his thumb on Will's upper lip, diligently following the curves of the Cupid's bow.
"It breaks them. And we do not want that."
Will remained perfectly silent and still, his heart stopping to mimic death. Dead prays were less exciting to the predatory eye. A bit of toothpaste was collected on Hannibal's thumb.
"You know what limited amount of forgiveness I was born with Will. Your defying it reveals the kind of heroism found in the great tragedies. I admire it, though I do not recommend it."
"Got you," Will said, his lips moving underneath Hannibal's thumb. "Loud and clear."
"It is a wonderful feeling to be understood, isn't it?"
"Yep..."
Hannibal smiled, though it did nothing to lighten up his eyes. He softly kissed Will's lips, letting his teeth be felt against the thin membrane, and he stepped back.
"Don't forget to turn off the lights once you're done."
"Will do..."
With one last smile, Hannibal was gone.
And so was Will's bravery. Never again had he touched any piece of cutlery that Hannibal had not intentionally put in his hand.
Hannibal was an expert and an enthusiast when it came to all kinds of dull and bothersome house chores, but damn was he pathologically conscientious about them.
And to parody the quote of one F. Rabelais, Conscientiousness without conscience is but ruin of the soul. Ruin of the soul was a weirdly evocative nickname for Hannibal Lecter.
***
Emotional Support
***
Among people aware of the reality around emotional struggles, there was a well-known fact. When a friend was in pain, whatever the context or the reason, the first thing to do was to understand whether that friend needed support or solution. Two very different approaches that were not interchangeable.
Hannibal never asked.
Not because he always knew beforehand - though he did indeed - but because he was always offering both. On one hand, he would be the first to offer his ear or his shoulder to Will and let him pour out his feelings over him. On the other hand, a backhand, he would always solve the problem, so that Will, once his eyes would be dry again, would be able to discover around him a world in which his problem had been dutifully rooted out.
Was Hannibal a bit too swift in his solving, murdering the problems away? Certainly. But that was who he was and Will had no plan on changing what kind of being his husband was to his core.
Right until:
Blood was dripping from the hammer. Blood and something else. Something denser, heavier and darker that was falling on the floor with successive wet splashes.
Some mashed cerebellum, Will was willing to guess.
His handle on the hammer was tight and firm but the blood, acting like lube, was making it slippery. Though Will successfully brought it down one last time, the head of the weapon remained stuck in the skull and when Will tried to remove it, his hand came up empty, gloved with blood and sweat.
The man at his feet was irrevocably dead. And Hannibal was standing a few feet from them, the elbow on the dresser, his clean hands safely crossed on top of each other in front of him, his shiny eyes detailing Will's handiwork.
"What do we think of the haunch?" he asked in his soft, even voice, contrasting with Will's erratic breath.
"Hannibal..."
"Yes?"
"Will you be honest?"
Hannibal seemed to consider the question. When most people would have automatically answered the first 'of course' that came to mind, Hannibal knew better than to be inconsiderate about those matters.
"I will lean toward honesty," he finally compromised.
"What hand did you have in all that?"
"Why care about my hands when yours crafted together such a lovely oeuvre?"
"Hannibal..."
Will stepped over the cooling body, ripping his shoes from the sticky puddle of blood and he walked to Hannibal, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt.
Hannibal curled his lips at the sight but said nothing aloud.
"Did you kill the dog?" Will asked, keeping his voice even despite his short breath.
"I did not. I've listened to you, Will. No animal torturing unless the animal's human. The dog didn't die by my hand."
"He killed his own dog..."
"He did."
Will wiped the sweat and blood from his forehead, trying to keep his vision clear.
Always a feat when facing a Hannibal out for fun.
"Hannibal. Is it really a complete hazard if I found the dog's body yesterday? Was it truly random that it was on my path?"
Hannibal remained silent for a moment, certainly calculating with all the speed of his mental power how far he could stand from honesty while still having a chance to get out of the situation unscathed.
Something in Will's eyes - or maybe something in the hammer Will had just picked up - must have help his mental mathematics to reach the correct result and realize there wasn't much he could deceive about at that point for he answered:
"It was not. I put it where you would find it."
Will had had to carry it to the house. He had had to look at the dog's mutilated body, wrap it in blankets as he would have his own child, and walk all the way back to the field of flowers by the house. Each step, he had been faced with how light the burden was, how unfed and unloved the dog had been.
"Why did you do that?" he asked, his rage for the disgusting dog owner now begging for a new target toward which it could turn.
"It does not matter."
Hannibal leaned forward, over the dead body, to look at the meat with an expert eye.
"Oh, Hannibal, I assure you, you'll tell me why you did that."
Done with his appraisal, Hannibal went back to Will.
"Because you were getting a bit inside your own head, lately."
"I'm sorry, what?"
It wasn't what Will had expected and the surprise nearly disarmed his anger.
"I know you, Will," Hannibal said with a conciliatory smile. "Sometimes, you accumulate a bit too many thoughts, and you get lost in contemplation and lethargy. Passivity can be good, but you tend to be less sociable during those periods. Unlike the way you are after murders. Full of yourself - in the best sense - and of quietude. And since we have the dinner with the Durand's and the Martinez's coming up this weekend..."
"So, you put the dog on my path as... what? An incentive?"
"I did not kill the dog, Will. It was already dead."
Hannibal looked down at the owner with unhidden satisfaction.
"You got an outlet, I got a partner for the party, and our guests got some quality meat."
Hannibal looked back at Will with an unapologetic smile. Certainly, he didn't think he had done even half of a wrong.
Cheating his way into solving every problem at once.
"You can go shower, Will," he said fondly, pleased that the whole day had gone exactly according to his unvoiced wishes. "I will handle the rest here."
Will knew there was no point in arguing or even explaining how this was fucked up. Hannibal was too set in his ways to be able to understand Will's point of view.
Instead, he simply left to find the nearest shower and let Hannibal handle the rest.
Hannibal Lecter was a man aware of others' emotions and able to support them like was required of the ideal of partnership he could daily live up to.
But that also meant he could manipulate them with little effort and, in Hannibal's world, the line between support and manipulation was a whimsical one, if there was one at all.
***
Communication
***
Hannibal Lecter spoke a countless number of languages.
In chronological order, he had learned Lithuanian, Russian, Polish, Latin, ancient Greek and German. After that, he had lost count. French, Old French and Japanese had been thrown into the mix, along with Hebrew, English and Italian. Now, it was useless to try to know just how many there were for Hannibal could often figure out what he didn't know and grow fluent throughout nothing more than a overheard casual conversation. Hannibal could discourse in more dead languages than Will could in living ones, and never did his linguistic knowledge seem to reach a limit.
Just like the Devil, Hannibal could speak to all of his victims in their mother’s tongue.
That was for the form, but the substance was just as deep, complex, and protean. And Hannibal had an extended vocabulary.
In a domestic context, it meant that Hannibal always had the words for Will's thoughts. No matter how limping and hazardous Will's language could be at times, Hannibal spoke it fluently, knowing by heart every idiom and every reference.
It also meant that Hannibal was always open to conversation and willing to tackle any subject that was on Will's mind. For someone so prompt to rely on extreme violence, Hannibal was among those people who were convinced that a lot could be resolved through words. And he was preaching and practicing. Will never felt like there was something he needed to keep silent or hidden.
He had shared with Hannibal his doubt about morality, his reservations around some of their crimes and even his anxieties regarding sex with him, and Hannibal had always welcomed his words and given them the place to explore deep questions and poke around sensitive wounds.
Hannibal was able to listen, and able to speak. And that, Will believed, was the basis of a solid and healthy relationship.
Right until:
"And that is when Heisenberg came along."
Hannibal's voice was traveling to the ceiling and was then reverberated back to Will.
"He didn't quite agree with Bohr and brought to the table the second quantization. But that brings us further from the original question. Question to which you haven't answered."
Will groaned against his pillow.
"Can't believe you woke me up for that..."
"I didn't wake you up. I would never dare. You woke yourself up, Will. And I didn't feel like wasting your awareness. What is more, Will, you asked the first question."
"I don't know what I think about waves and particles, Hannibal! It's fucking three in the morning!!"
"The question is not about waves nor is it about particles. Not really."
Will felt like crying. He couldn't even remember what the question had originally been about. Not that Hannibal had spoken for that long. He had simply dug that deep. In a surprisingly short amount of time and words.
"Breakfast," Will suddenly remembered. "You asked me about breakfast! How the hell did we get to Bohr?"
"Do you really not see the link between summing up breakfast to eggs or bacon, and the question of the duality between particles and waves in quantum physics."
"I just asked what you planned on doing for breakfast!"
"You did more than just ask. You then summarized a whole to its components."
"Breakfast, Hannibal."
"Everything is connected."
Hannibal rolled on his side and brought his hand to Will's chin that he stroked lovingly.
"You may see eggs. You may see bacon. If you look too closely at them, you will miss the whole breakfast."
In retaliation and extreme frustration, Will bit Hannibal's hand.
"Understandable," Hannibal simply stated, looking at the red dots on his skin. "But it won't answer your question. Though, if that makes you feel better about your uncertainties, then be my guest and bite ahead."
Hannibal Lecter knew how to listen and how to speak. He knew how to establish meaningful connections with Will and how to cast lights on any darkness that could use it.
But damn did he get his chit-chats and his colloquies confused. All the fucking time.
In their household, weather was palavered about when God, death, and trauma were mere matters of gossips and anecdotes.
***
Fidelity
***
It was a central nerve of monoamorous and exclusive couples. The Rome to which every dramatic path of domestic tension led.
Cheating was not part of Hannibal's vocabulary.
Well...
Actually, it was. But not in terms of spousal duty. And never on Will. After Hannibal had made a vow in front of God? Unimaginable.
Will never had the first embryo of a worry about that particular matter. The rare times where Hannibal would sit by Will's side to watch a movie with him, they would observe the romantic dramas going on and the fictional couples tearing apart with the detached patience of those who knew themselves to be superior.
The cute neighbor, the clingy coworker, the childhood friend, those threats were for the mere mortals, Will and Hannibal were flying far above these turmoils.
Not for a single second had Will doubt of Hannibal's fidelity for him. Hannibal had killed his ex-wife to hasten his way to Will’s arms, had waited three years in jail for him, had sabotaged his own best scheme just to be in the same room as him. Hannibal, if anything, was committed.
Will was not worried for the marital ring to slip off Hannibal's finger, when he knew Hannibal would beam in joy and pride if Will's name were to be carved in his flesh and bones.
Hannibal was faithful, and doomed to Will and it was a comfortable knowledge to have about a life partner.
Right until:
Will winced but thankfully, the waitress was already turning her back on their table and walking back to the kitchen.
Hannibal, sitting in front of him, was sipping his glass of wine, humming to a classical aria Will had never heard.
"Sorry," he said instinctively, though Hannibal didn't seem to mind.
"What for?"
"The whole..."
He vaguely gestured toward the kitchen where the waitress had disappeared.
"The whole thing," he simply said.
Will had not been in relationships for most of his life, but, noticeably enough, he had never been hit on when out with Molly, when it had already happened a couple of times in Hannibal's presence. Will didn't know if it was because people assumed that if he was with a man, he had to be single, or if the pretenders were simply much more motivated now that he was walking out of a Bentley and wearing expensive clothes picked by Hannibal. In any case, it was always uncomfortable, Will being awful at being flirted with, even when he was not in any exclusive relationship.
"Do not fret. It is doomed to happen to people of such beauty," Hannibal said, not bothered in the slightest.
Will didn't react to Hannibal's compliments, they were too constant to still be noticed.
"Glad you don't mind," he said instead, bringing his beer to his lips. "I thought you'd be the kind to react."
"And how would you have me react?"
"To be jealous or anything."
"Jealous?" Hannibal repeated, amused.
"Yeah, I see your point."
Will drank from his glass and put it down. His eyes lingered on the tense couple sat on the next table. A word away from fighting, he could sense.
"I like it better that way," Will said.
"I would never blame you or resent you," Hannibal assured. "It is my greatest joy to give you my full trust. And if one day you betray it, I will embrace the pain and carry the wound like I carry your ring."
Hannibal leaned forward and, understanding the familiar gesture, Will met him halfway and kissed his lips.
"You can betray me as much as you desire it, Will," Hannibal whispered, "I will turn the other cheek with lust and pride. I crave for everything, if it comes from you."
Will kissed him again, sealing that vow, before leaning back against his chair.
Hannibal did the same.
"Our dear waitress, on the other hand, is already dead and buried."
Will took a second to understand the meaning of the sentence.
"Sorry what?"
Hannibal simply smiled at his surprise, as if Will had just momentarily forgot an obvious fact he otherwise knew well.
"You are allowed to give me anything, that doesn't mean she has a right to take a single thing from me. My Christic masochism doesn't extend past you. If you ever wish to betray me, please, keep in mind to give me a couple of hours so I can bring retribution to anyone you betrayed me with."
Hannibal brought his glass back to his lips, but, noticing Will's heavy silence, he smiled again, fondly.
"Do not worry, Will. There will be no anger nor jealousy. Simply death. And possibly dismemberment."
Hannibal Lecter was faithful. He considered his body, mind and soul to be Will's exclusive property and was never shying away from stating the depths of his commitment. He was also trusting and supportive, and Will never felt that he had to justify nor prove anything.
However, knowing that the reason for that trust was rooted in the knowledge that any other pretenders to Will's affection would know a swift yet painful execution was not painting the most healthy and peaceful of portraits.
If Will had to be honest about it, he wasn't so fond of it. Not because he wished he could betray with no consequences. Solely because wearing a t-shirt saying 'Don't flirt with me, my husband will kill you' was a bit too conspicuous and therefore Will couldn't get out of the house without worrying for some unknown soul's life.
Hannibal was indeed faithful, but it was the lesser manifestation of his complete fascination and obsession to Will.
***
Love
***
Maybe it was the root of everything else. The original cause.
The reason why Hannibal was so involved in their home. The reason why he was so supportive and so listening. The reason why he had vowed fidelity with such certainty.
Hannibal loved Will.
There was no possible doubt there.
It showed in everything. In the way he would search for Will by his side the second he would open his eyes in the morning. In the endless cares and attentions, he would cover Will's days with, to make each of them easier and brighter than the former. In the way his eyes would light up and his breath would stutter each time Will would walk into the room.
Everything in him was betraying his profound and genuine love for his husband. Though betray was not the right word, for there was nothing Hannibal was prouder of than this. More than proud, it was possibly the only aspect of him he was completely honest and open about with the whole wide world.
If one were to question him on his childhood, his crimes, his identity, or even his hobbies, they would in a blink be misled and lost through the labyrinthic meanders of Hannibal's unreliable narrations and changing ironies.
But his love for Will? It was a matter that suffered no deceit. Hannibal was wearing his commitment on his finger so that every single soul standing next to him would be unable to ignore it.
Sometimes, during the day, Will would walk to Hannibal, without a word, and rest his head on the man's chest, his ear against the torso. Simply to hear just how much his mere existence could speed up the old and slow heart of his husband.
Hannibal loved Will beyond any possible hesitation or tepidness.
And love was always making marriage easier.
Right until:
"Hannibal?"
"Mmh?"
Hannibal was lying on his side, his eyes closed, his hair falling on his pillow like a dark aureole. Will was resting against his back, his head on the hollow of his husband's neck, his arms tied around him.
"There's a lot I don't say."
Against his chest, Will could sense Hannibal's thoracic cavity inflate and deflate, just a bit more quickly than its usual slow pace, betraying the nature of the activities that had taken place in that bed before that very moment.
"You know the virtue of silence," Hannibal said, without opening his eyes.
Will's lips were resting on Hannibal's skin, but it was words that left them in lieu of kisses.
"And there's a lot I don't do."
"You know the beauty of stillness."
Will tightened his arms around his husband, pressing his chin into the broad shoulder.
"I wanted to tell you something," Will said.
His teeth were resting against the skin underneath them. If he wanted, he could bite and take a mouthful of his husband.
"I think more than what I say. And I feel more than what I do."
"I am aware."
"I think it's just me trying to... I don't know.... Apologize?"
At that word, which was loaded with meaning between them, Hannibal turned around. He slowly rolled on his back and opened his arms. Will accepted the tacit invitation and laid his head on his husband's chest.
He could feel the blood rushing under his cheek, pulsating against the warm skin of a monster made for cold waters.
Hannibal's heartbeat was strong and loud in ways his voice wasn't.
"What for?" he asked.
Will thought on it for a moment, trying to guess the shape of his strange guilt that had been crawling in the back of his mind for a few weeks now.
"I don't know... I've been thinking a bit lately."
"Yes, you tend to do that."
Will raised an unimpressed eyebrow to Hannibal.
"And you don't?"
"My thinking is a background aria in my brain. Never am I lost in it, never am I overcome by it. You don't think in the same fashion I do."
"I sure don't. But I’ve been thinking nonetheless."
Will let his head softly fall back on the chest once again.
"I've been thinking about us. Or maybe about me with us."
"What about you with us?"
"I've realized..."
Will sighed.
"I don't really do much for our house. I don't get involved. I don't always care for what you feel or listen to what you wanna talk about. I never brought stability or clarity to you, the way you do to me."
"I wasn't in need of any of that when I met you. You brought to the table something else entirely."
"I know you're gonna talk about doom and veneration. You're not expecting anything domestic from me. But it's the same the other way around. I'm not with you because I like how you do the dishes, Hannibal. I'm with you because I'm sick, the same reason why you're with me."
Hannibal remained silent for a minute and Will wondered whether, if he was to listen carefully enough, he would be able to hear under the solid heartbeat the clicking of the mental cogs in Hannibal's brain.
"Will," Hannibal finally called softly. "Why are you with me?"
Will scoffed.
"Let's say it's complicated. You know that."
"Then strip it out of its complexities and find its simple core. You didn't love me at first sight like I did, did you?"
Will shook his head. At first, he had found him shallow and ridiculous. Then monstrous and infuriating. Love had been slow and reluctant to come.
"May I hazard a guess? An educated one?"
"Go ahead," Will shrugged.
"The only reason why you started developing love back is because you were, at times, able to see the beauty we could birth together. A beauty you saw through my eyes, and you understood from my dreams."
Hannibal's hand carefully caressed Will's chin and coerced it into looking up.
"Who cares about housekeeping, when you are the one that has rushed us to a house to begin with, when all I could offer was mutual mutilation and obliteration. Who would want to be supported when instead they are inspired? What weight does listening to me have, when you are the only one who has been able to understand and guess me. Listening is unnecessary to you. And why would I pay any mind to stability, a constant I've been born with, when instead you offer me uncertainty and peril which I would never have been able to achieve without you."
Hannibal lowered his head and laid a kiss on top of Will's head.
"You may think you don't bring much to our domestic life, Will, yet you are the one who domesticated me. A feat doomed to remain unmatched by the rest of humanity. Whatever you think you get from me, you gifted it to yourself. And I hope you are pleased, for I am."
"I am. By the whole of you."
"Good."
Will closed his eyes and sighed.
Hannibal and he made some sense together.
"Is it a good time to tell you that I left the wine bottle outside after lunch and it's been under the sun all afternoon?" Will asked in the silence of the night, curled between the warmth of his husband and the warmth of the marital blanket.
"One day, I will bring destruction of apocalyptic measures upon you," Hannibal dreamily said.
"Fine, but no destruction before the morning coffee."
"Will you be interested in a slice of orange with it? I bought some at the market yesterday."
"Yes please."
"Duly noted. In the meantime, sleep well, Will."
"I wonder if I'll dream of apocalypses or breakfasts."
"Tell me first thing in the morning."