With Profound Loathing, Sincerely the Murder Husbands

It's three months, almost to the day, after the death of Francis Dolarhyde, and the apparent murder/suicide of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, when Freddie Lounds came rushing into Jack's office. She was not up to her usual standards, her hair more untamed red frizz than sleek curls, and her outfit -while flamboyant- was slightly mismatched. That should have been warning enough.

Then her eyes, furious and excited and terrified, caught Jack's and she slammed something down on his desk. "They're alive!"

Jack blinked once, twice, before finally looking down at her proof.

It was a postcard, the kind you could make at a few of the resorts in Tahiti, where the hotel would take your picture and put it on the front to send to friends and family. And, yes, that was undeniably Will and Hannibal waving at them from the photo.

Will was a golden tan, clean shaven, and he looked well-rested. There was a new scar on his cheek, just beginning to fade, but his smile was enormous and easy. He was wearing sandals, a worn blue ball cap, a pair of khaki board shorts, and a t-shirt with stylized headshots of… himself and Hannibal, emblazoned with the logo "MURDER HUSBANDS LIVE". It was one of the fashion choices available for purchase off TattleCrime.

Holding his hand and beaming was Hannibal, hair grown long and with a slight beard. He had on a pair of designer sunglasses, his own hat (a white Panama with a broad, black band), bright pink shorts, boating shoes, and a white t-shirt. His read "Hannibal the Cannibal killed me and ate me, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." That was also a TattleCrime exclusive. (Freddie had put it up with her personal story of faking her death in an effort to catch the Chesapeake Ripper all those years ago. It had been egotistically named the "Heroic Sacrifice Shirt".)

Flipping the card, Jack looked over the two familiar sets of handwriting. The first was beautiful and absurdly artistic, considering it had been rendered with ballpoint pen.

I still hope to one day have you for dinner, Miss Lounds.

Beneath that, scribbled in a cramped, messy hand, was an addition.

Sorry, but he's insistent on using only the sharpest ginger as a garnish. Love the shirts. Be seeing you, Freddie.

There were no signatures.

"That's a threat," the blogger declared, pointing at the messages. "A blatant threat!"

Jack rubbed at his forehead. "You already posted about it on your website, didn't you?"

Freddie opened her mouth to retort, then shrugged.

"And how much has the demand for those two shirts gone up since?"

A rueful smile. "27% for the Murder Husbands one, and 63% for the Heroic Sacrifice Shirt," she admitted, unashamed.

Reaching for his phone, Jack huffed. "You're still the only one calling it that, Lounds."

It was later, after the local authorities had been notified and apparently "just missed" catching the pair, after they'd put together a timeline of the couples' vacation based on a number of bodies not previously recognized as Ripper deaths, after Freddie had refused to take down the article and Purnell had gotten involved, citing impeding an ongoing investigation, that Jack finally pulled back out the postcard and reread the notes.

And then he couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. Because memories started to flood back, and it finally occurred to him. Oh god, the cannibal puns.

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a/n: I blame tumblr. Also, OUR SHIP IS CANON, BITCHES.