AUTHORS NOTE: Hey Fannibals! (or curious readers!) so after watching the Verger story arch, I just had to write my version of how i wished it would have gone. The events of the story begin in the beginning of Tome-Wan, with hints at events that happened in episodes before. I really love this idea, and I hope you do too! Hopefully I'll be able to update asap!

This story is called Serenade because it was greatly inspired by music. Each chapter is named after and Italian musical term, and each chapter has a song connected to it. I recommend listening while reading! :)

SONG: As Ballad - Yorgos Katantzis

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hannibal or any of the characters. Credits to NBC and the fab Bryan Fuller.

Will Graham personally avoided various forms of sentiment. He was not an insensitive person, as he had come to learn over the past short months being under the watchful eye of his therapist Hannibal Lecter, but rather felt an array of too many emotions than he desired. The word avoid was key. He tried to avoid sentiment. Currently, he was failing.

Margot Verger sat before him in the office of Dr. Lecter, and he was trying to avoid her eyes which held most of the sentiment. They were a different shade from whence he remembered, a bright sort of blue now altered to a dulled colour.

Will folded his hands and huffed a breath through his nostrils, staring again out the window to the snow outside. He was trying to block out so many things at once - emotions, thoughts, the monotone soothings of Dr. Lecter - that he could not keep it all out of his head, bashing around like a child playing with their mothers pots and pans.

". . . healing will take time. Healing always takes time. But it is the scars that leave us empty." Dr. Lecter's voice drifted into Will's ears, "Do you have any scars Margot?"

It was just like the question she had asked Will those few days ago. Will held his breath subconsciously, turning again to face the young woman. She didn't respond right away, and Will knew the same thoughts were swirling through her own head.

Margot had slept with Will with the intent to become pregnant, much to his own disgruntlement, and it had worked. Despite any thoughts that either Margot or Hannibal had manipulated him, Will had been overcome by paternal instincts. It was like the way he felt for his dogs, not in a crude comparison but considering the heart of his emotions: he was willing to do whatever it would take to help them, save them, protect them. It has burned in him like hot coals when he looked at Margot, fiercely defensive. He wasn't sure if he even loved Margot but that was somehow not the point. The strange feeling was hope, so Hannibal had helped him grasp. Will hated the feeling at the same time as holding it dear.

The glorious thought of rebirth from the dark cloud of circumstances that had befallen both of them had been snatched away faster than a fleeting thought. Maybe it had only been a fleeting thought. It did not even get to be a fetus. Just a mass of combined cells and DNA and blood held together by the feeble hope of two human beings who saw the same psychiatrist.

But the fleeting thought of a fetus had been stolen away, ripped from their hands, and Will felt too angry to feel angry. It was a numbness that came upon him slowly, like frostbite eating away at his former hope. He had not even been the one to have the almost-fetus torn from his body, but he felt like he had. Especially when he looked into Margot Verger's dulled eyes. Especially then.

The pause was palpable, and Will felt it like an itch he couldn't scratch. He stared at Margot still, but she didn't meet his eyes. She had not for a long while.

"They could have done what was done laproscopically, but my brother told them to leave a scar." The words were deliberate, slow, and heavy.

"He branded you."

Will could tell Hannibal had shifted his gaze to rest on him then. They had gathered to put the matter to rest, and Hannibal had cautioned Will beforehand not to aggravate the situation, but find resolution. Emotions had the ability to run high, and it was their task to quell them. Will's incentive to be emotionless, as stating, was failing.

"Mason wants you to know this can never be undone." Hannibal reasoned.

"Mason can be undone."

The look the doctor gave Will was smoldering and dark with warning. Before Hannibal could speak, Margot's voice was heard again.

"Not without taking everything I have with him." Her response to Will's threat was genuine. She had considered the idea of killing her brother again. But the resolve that rested upon her was heavy with defeat. "He's all I've got now; That's exactly what he wanted. He won. He always wins."

"No one has won here, Margot. This chess match has become a classic game of noughts and crosses."

Margot looked to him, faint curiosity in the paleness of her face. As well, her gaze was accompanied by Hannibal's.

Will shifted his jaw, "You and your brother are equally matched in skill, so much so that your battle is simplified to children's play. You each placed your X's and O's strategically, methodically, with the precision of a surgeon and the accuracy of an expertly trained sniper. You've each swung your blows and narrowed the playing field."

Will took four steps, standing just between the woman and his psychiatrist. He gestured toward her covered but scarred and empty womb.

"Mason laid the last X across your skin."

"He finished the match." Hannibal concluded, and Will acknowledged him with a nod.

"Cats game." He whispered.

"Dinner, in my opinion, is only enjoyable when in the company of blood relations. In my case, I suppose I must only enjoy dinner in your presence Margot, since you are all I have. And all I will ever have, as of late."

Margot Verger stared at her plate, pushing rice around the white china with her fork. It was well past the average dinner hour but they never did do anything per average. The house was disgustingly chilly, by Mason's request. Margot had managed to take in that information. Her brain was a well oiled machine, skilled at the filtering of her brothers mindless babbles. What she was currently blocking was basically everything else. He kept bringing it up. Why did he keep bringing it up?

"You know, I do everything I do with the best intentions. I hope you realize that," Mason, from the head of the oval shaped table, set down his fork with a clang. He cocked his head to the side like a nervous pigeon, his eyes resting on her. Margot didn't bother looking back. He took a sip of wine between swallows of tenderloin. "I give you leeway for being a tad bit upset with me. I would be upset with me I'm sure! Even though my surgeons are skillful with a scalpel."

The laughter colouring the last comment made Margot cringe. Her stomach turned. Hadn't she been tortured enough? Not just with all the events that had transpired to bring her to her current position, but with the literal suffering she had endured. Her wounds were still tender and her brother, who had cut her open, had the audacity to prod them?

It had not even been a week. A week since she left the hospital. A week since she had been strong enough to stand on her own. A week since she had been smashed in her car and taken in the darkness to have the one and only thing she had begun to love ripped out from inside her, mutilated -

"You are still looking pale, Margot, pale as a newborn." Her brother snapped, "Lucius, pour her a drink!"

One of the butlers came around to fill her wine glass, but Margot waved him off. The taste of her father's poorly aged alcohol couldn't even change her mood.

"Now that we have jumped this hurdle, our lives can move forward. I was thinking of expanding the farm, adding another barn off to the side of the far lot. We could put in another stable and a few more cabins for those kids that keep coming in, gives them more room to do whatever they do. It's good revenue Margot, you'll see. After this fogs lifts, the dawn on the Verger homestead will be brighter. Papa would have wanted it this way."

Margot nodded, instinctively.

"You could get a job somewhere. Do something to keep you out of trouble. And when I say trouble, I mean out of other men's trousers. Unless you want to do that, as your job, which is perfectly fine by me now that there's no more risk of any unwanted heir."

Margot barely flinched as she felt a piece of broccoli hit the side of her face. Throwing food was not uncommon for her brother. She glowered up at him for a fraction of a second, which in itself felt like too long.

Mason tossed another vegetable at her before exclaiming, "Eat, drink, be merry! You are making me depressed."

Margot scoffed, clearing her throat to speak for the first time that night. "I haven't gotten my appetite back yet."

"Nonsense, you went out for lunch yesterday with that awful woman who doesn't know how to shower."

"Cecilia. She is my nurse. And we went to her clinic to do a blood test." Margot set her fork down. "I'm anemic."

"Mm, good to know, good to know . . . you know, in case I'll ever need to open you up again."

That was it. Margot looked up and held gazes with Mason then. She could not go on living if it was going to be like this, day in and day out, her brothers personal punching bag. Her stomach churned, again, and the taste of bile filled the back of her throat. She had to stop it.

"Please."

"Please what? Please pass the gravy, please get you a pony, be specific sister - "

"Please do not talk about it anymore."

Mason laughed a laugh that was forced. Margot recognized it, and felt the hair on the back of her neck raise. For some reason her mind wandered to the time when Will Graham had caused her hair raise in such a way.

"It? What, are we referring to your fetus as merely an 'it' nowadays? Come now -"

"Mason - "

"Don't interrupt me!" Mason shouted, the flush that came to his face in sudden outburst making him seem all the more like the devil. Breaths came out short and hard through his nose, and he smoothed a hand back over his wild hair, regaining composure. His voice was softer. "Papa always taught us to trust each other, yet you went behind my back. I feel, and this is merely a feeling, it is my duty to remind you of how it felt every waking minute that I can so that something of this nature never happens again, as long as we both shall live. I do what I do because, you see, I love you. I did what I did because I love you."

Margot stared back at her brother, numbly aware of the tear coursing down her cheek. "You are . . . despicable."

"And you, Margot, are distrustful. Now eat your pork."

Vomit threatened at the thought, and Margot pushed out her chair with a screech, throwing her napkin down atop her plate of untouched food. Her gastrointestinal upset was caused by both physical and emotional assault. She moved quickly to the washroom, not bothering to turn on the light as she slammed and locked the door.

Trembling hands gripping the edge of the porcelain bowl, Margot gasped for breath to calm herself. She saw her pallid reflection in the dark water. The eyes that were hers seemed hollow and terrible. Her red lipstick was smudged at the left corner of her mouth, like a dying smile.

At that moment, she realized two important things: she did not trust her brother, and she did not trust herself. She had to find someone else to trust.

She could not hide anymore.

It was 2:25:07 a.m. on a Tuesday, and Will Graham's nightmare had been disturbed. He shivered in a hot sweat, sticking under his arms and in his messy chestnut coloured curls and his palms and his face. He stared at a spot on the floor, a faded spot of hardwood that he had stood on too many times, listening. Will was not sure if he was really awake or not, but he had been startled by knocking sound that was coming from his front room.

His nightmare had already fled his memory, though the edgy essence of it lingered like a pungent scent behind his eyelids, the taste on his tongue irony and metallic like blood. Will touched his lips to check he had not bitten down on them in his sleep, but his fingers came back un-reddened. His mind was twisting things, but the comfort in that fact somehow soothed him less then.

The nightmares had started again, in rapid frequency, ever since Margot's abortion. In fact, they had even become more chilling in content, which was a first and somewhat interesting in the eyes of Dr. Lecter. Will didn't find it interesting; he found it disturbing. Lecter had suggested it was his subconscious reacting to a conscious event, but Will had confirmed nothing had happened to him besides for the news of Margot's forced abortion. He didn't think the event bothered him enough to have a subconscious reaction - not to be heartless, of course - but his nightmares contradicted that.

His dream was reoccurring: he would be standing with Margot in the darkness of his living room, quiet and warm like the night they had slept together. He would smell the rough smokiness of the fire, and the scent of her perfume. Margot held a baby in her arms. He would look down at the sleeping child and touch its face, and the skin would be cold as ice. Rapidly, beneath his touch, the skin of the child would mottle to a thick, suffocating black, the tiny eyes dead red bulbs. A voice would stab into the frightened quiet, coarse like gravel in his ears. See? Then he would awake.

The knocking sounded again, interrupting Will's reexamination, followed by Winston's low growl. The dog had somehow managed to climb up beside Will on the bed earlier, and he hadn't the heart to push him off. Will made a shushing sound as he reached over to stroke Winston. His presence made him feel somewhat less nervous than he could have or should have possibly been. Soothing words from Dr. Lecter didn't take away from the fact that his nightmare to him seemed more so a dark premonition. Nothing could soothe that fact.

Will made a sharp whistle between his teeth to silence another of the dog's growls as he sat upright, stumbling to his feet drowsily and through his house to his entry way. The rest of the others had awoken, not in defence mode but staring up at Will. Some stared at the door.

"Go to sleep," Will mumbled to them for some reason, opening his front door and expecting to find the screen loose again and flapping in the wind, and not someone actually standing there. But he was wrong, like usual.

Someone stood there.

"Margot." It was't a question, and it wasn't exactly a greeting either. Will never pictured her as the type of person to drive out in the middle of the night in some sort of existential crisis seeking the embrace of a lost lover, and it didn't seem to be that way. Margot's eyes were dark with a sort of anger, but the dullness was replaced with the bright blue he remembered.

"Graham." Margot muttered back, a coarse undertone to her voice most likely from lack of sleep, "It's cold outside."

"You're not wearing a coat."

She was barely wearing anything, besides for a thin silk slip and a knitted brown sweater. It wasn't like her to come underdressed.

"I didn't see the importance."

"Of a coat?"

Margot shrugged with her eyebrows, "I assumed you would let me in."

"Assumptions, Margot, are dangerous things."

"What if I assumed you were and are still upset with me about the whole Little Verger event?"

"Then your assumption would be even more lethal than usual."

"But it would still be true."

Will felt a fever coming on, knowing his night sweat was lingering longer than usual and the winter air did not even cool him. Was he not allowed to be even a bit upset that he had been used by a woman and then spat on in the face when he had tried to become somewhat concerned about her? Was it her right to try and make him forgive her, or was he entitled to because of her dramatic abortion? And why was she even here at this hour? Did she feel guilty? Sorry?

Will's mind asked the questions but his mouth only managed, "I'm feeling ill. I suggest we talk about this in the morning - "

"You'll want to hear what I have to say, so I suggest you stop stalling and let me in."

Margot did not waver in stance or gaze, her words exiting in disappearing puffs of winter vapour. Will hardened his tone, illustrating clearer his own stance on the situation.

"The last time I let you in, I was coerced into getting you pregnant."

"So I recall."

"Forgive me for feeling hurt about it, I never expected to become a father and not a father in such a short period of time."

"Well apparently, so I have been told, you still are one."

The air around them seemed to still, transforming into the emotions eeking from them. Will blinked hard and slow and deliberate blinks, and scoffed. It was not expressed solely in disbelief, but more so in unattainable shock.

"Did Doctor Lecter set you up to this?" Will whispered through dry lips.

"I'm pregnant, Will." Margot Verger reiterated for the sake of the man's shock, the brightness in her eyes suddenly making sense. "I'm still pregnant."

Will felt an impulsive pang cause him to move, to move his arm up to hover his hand beside her cold, pale cheek, to pause there as the porcelain pieces of his broken hope suddenly recollected together again. Quickly, before his self-consciousness could stop the impulsiveness, his hand rested on the back of her head and he pulled her into him, to the safety close to his chest and the warmth beneath, in his heart.

Margot was stiff and tense, obviously hating the gesture, but she did not pull away. That in itself spoke louder than his raging heart. Will let out a ragged sigh and breathed sharply through his nose again. Then, it was quiet.