Okay, I know I have several stories going already, but come onnnnnn. It's Hannibal. I couldn't resist! I've been writing on this for a while and it was mostly for my sister and my friend (and of course my enjoyment), but I'd like to share it. Now I wouldn't exactly call what I have planned romance, necessarily. You'll see and I think you'll all enjoy it. So short bio, name is Keeran Lovett, age 27, 5'9", blue-green eyes, dark brown hair. Now read on!

My heels clicked softly on the cement as I strolled down the sidewalk. I glanced down at the glistening casserole dishes in my arms. I didn't see my grandmother very often, so when she asked a favor of me I had been quick to oblige. I was beginning to wish that I had either worn different shoes or taken the initiate to drive down the block. My feet didn't wear heels well, particularly not when a lot of walking was involved. I didn't have the arches for it. I squinted in the sunlight, shifting the weight of the increasingly heavy glass. I hadn't seen the Hobbs family since I had just begun to hit puberty, so I wasn't entirely sure that they would recognize me. A lot had changed in fifteen years [the Mohawk, piercings, and tattoos being some of the visible changes]. Still, I had been a babysitter to their daughter Abigail for an entire summer, so maybe my face had stuck enough.

A familiar porch was slowly drawing closer. I felt anxious and I couldn't explain why. They weren't complete strangers, though I supposed that with the amount of time that had passed they might as well have been. I turned into the driveway and took a deep breath to calm myself as I marched up the walkway. I rehearsed in my head how I would greet them, how I might refresh their memories of my existence. I nodded once, feeling quite sure of myself. I had barely taken a step across the porch when the front door opened. I smiled instinctively, assuming someone had either heard me coming or that someone was about to head out the door anyway. Mrs. Hobbs staggered out the door clutching her throat. My smile cracked and fell away. I saw the blood covering her body, but it didn't click in my head right away. I dropped the casserole dishes I was holding to cover my mouth with my hands. They hit the porch and shattered from the force. Mrs. Hobbs reached out a bloody hand to me. I didn't know what to do.

I shrugged out of my cardigan as quickly as I could and pressed it against her neck. I tried my very hardest not to look too long at the gaping slash beforehand. My stomach was doing somersaults, the taste of bile lingering at the back of my throat. She was making strangled gurgles and gasps for air. I pressed harder, panic shooting through my veins. Her hands fluttered helplessly, clutching at my forearms. She opened and closed her mouth a few times like she was trying to say something. I shook my head, floundering for something – anything – to say. The choking suddenly ceased, her hands slowing in their frantic movements before stopping all together. I froze, cradling Mrs. Hobbs in my lap. I inhaled sharply as I gazed down at her expressionless face. I could see the life leaving her eyes, a cold feeling settling into my chest. What the hell was going on in there? I looked around myself, trying to gather my thoughts. They felt as scattered as the hunks of broken glass. I carefully pushed myself to my feet and approached the front door. I stood there staring at it for a long while. My shaking hand was hovering over the doorknob. I was debating with myself whether or not I should check to see if everyone else was okay or if I should just run for help. I didn't have my cell phone with me. I didn't think I'd need it. The longer I stood there with my back to her lifeless corpse, the more time I had to picture something happening to Abigail and Mr. Hobbs because I had stood outside the front door taking too long to make a damn decision. I swallowed hard and closed my hand around the knob. I was a little surprised, for some reason, to find that it wasn't locked. I pushed the door open and looked around the hallway. A trail of blood led away from the front door. I stepped in, looking at the pictures decorating the walls. It felt like I was seeing ghosts. I could hear Abigail giggling and running through the house, smell the grill going out back… I could even taste the tartness of the lemonade Mrs. Hobbs made for us all summer.

"Abigail?" I called out reluctantly. I hated to make my presence known, but if I could distract away from her I would. "Mr. Hobbs? It's Keeran. What's going on? Is anyone else hurt?"

In the silence that ensued, I heard muffled sobbing. I swiftly followed the faint sound of it into the kitchen. I wasn't sure what to expect, but seeing Mr. Hobbs with a knife to his daughter's throat was definitely so far from my mind that for a few seconds it didn't even register. I blinked in surprise and raised my hands submissively, taking a step back. The look in his eyes was what terrified me most. He looked crazed – a man who had run out of options; and that meant he was dangerous and unpredictable. I exhaled slowly. They really don't prepare you to deal with these kinds of situations in life. I felt like anything I had to say wasn't going to do. I tried to force a smile, but I wasn't too convinced that it came out right.

"Hi, Mr. Hobbs," I said in a conversational tone. "Do you remember me?" His wide, animal eyes passed over me for a few seconds before he shook his head and took a step back, pulling Abigail with him. "I-I'm Barbara's granddaughter? I babysat for you one summer back when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen?"

He nodded, seemingly recollecting. "You shouldn't have come here."

I heard someone on the porch, and footsteps in the hall a moment later. "Garrett Jacob Hobbs?" a man's voice called out. "FBI."

Mr. Hobbs looked from the entry to the hallway, to me, and back again. Abigail looked at me with tears in her eyes. I wanted to tell her it would be okay, but my tongue suddenly seemed made of lead. I felt powerless. A few seconds later a man came around the corner, gun raised and pointed at Mr. Hobbs. The two stared each other down for several long seconds. I saw Mr. Hobbs' arm tense and knew what he was going to do before he had quite moved. I gasped and reached a hand out to Abigail like that would help her, shield her in some way. Mr. Hobbs slashed upward at the same instant the man beside me shot him. I jumped, my ears ringing. Abigail collapsed, a spray of red painting the kitchen in her wake. I couldn't help the horrified cry that escaped my body. When Mr. Hobbs didn't go down with the first shot, the man shot him again – and again and again. I counted eight shots all together. It all happened so quickly. Mr. Hobbs collapsed against the counters and hit the floor. The man beside me ran to Abigail's side, trying to stem the flow of blood gushing from her neck just like her mother's. I stood there, petrified, looking down at my shaking, blood covered hands. For a moment I couldn't hear anything but the blood rushing in my ears and a faint continuous ringing. I felt like I was going to be sick or pass out; maybe both. I could feel the small spasm of one of the minor muscles in my left forearm.

Not now, I begged. Not here. I closed my eyes to focus on steadying my breathing – I was about to start hyperventilating. With the absence of imagery, the noises of my surroundings came slamming back. Abigail was making wet-sounding gasps for air. I pictured her mother on the front porch frantically clinging to my arms, the look of terror in her eyes before it fled, her blood staining the wood she had taken such good care of over the years. There was movement in the room. Abigail sounded just as scared. I wondered if she was going to die, too. I'd left my cardigan on the front porch. Once I had counted to six in my head and taken the number of deep, slow breaths to match, I opened my eyes. A new man was in the room; one hand was clasped securely around Abigail's throat, the other supported her head. The first man looked just as scatter brained as I must – maybe more. I looked back down at my still shaking hands feeling a little dazed. On the bright side, it seemed as though I had successfully managed to detach myself from the situation. I had a strong urge to walk straight home and go right to bed. Instead, I pulled up a chair and started taking off my shoes. I wanted to go to Abigail and quite frankly I didn't want to break my ankle slipping or worse, fall right on top of the poor girl. The two men in the room looked up at me curiously as I sat there muttering to myself.

"I really did love this dress," I said quietly. It was a vintage style pinup dress – white with a large black floral pattern and a black mesh petticoat underneath. Naturally, the dress was more red than white at the moment. "Maybe I can salvage it… I wonder how the drycleaner would feel about cleaning it…"

I shook my head and stood up, setting my shoes neatly by the chair. I pushed a few stray strands of hair back out of my face and rubbed my temples. Granted I was probably rubbing blood all over my face, I just couldn't bring myself to care about that at the moment. I looked down at Abigail for a few seconds, wiggling my toes against the cold tile. I hadn't seen her since she was just a child. Seeing her choking on her own blood like this was mortifying. I crossed to her side, biting my tongue at the squelch beneath my bare feet. I told myself to pretend someone had spilled paint. It seemed to work pretty well, other than the heavy metallic scent in the air. I tucked my dress under myself as I kneeled on the floor and sat back on my feet. She looked up at me, but I wasn't sure if she was actually seeing me. I forced another smile and took her hand, giving it a light squeeze.

"Who are you?"

I looked up at the man I hoped was saving Abigail's life. Goodness he was a pretty little thing. The accent didn't hurt. His dark blonde hair was parted and in place perfectly. Though his expression remained relatively blank, his honey brown eyes shone with a dazzling wit as they probed mine. The question itself was innocent enough, but I sensed a slight hostility in the way he observed me. I swallowed hard and averted my gaze.

"Keeran Lovett," I replied in what I hoped was an even tone. He waited a moment as though he expected me to offer more information than that. When I didn't he continued.

"And what were you doing here?"

I looked at his hands rather than focus on his face or hers. He had lovely hands, too, so it really wouldn't have been a much better option if it weren't for all the blood. "My grandmother is a friend of the family. She lives right down the street. She asked me to return some Pyrex dishes to Mrs. Hobbs. I dropped them, obviously. That's why there's glass all over the front porch." I glanced down at myself and then back to Abigail with a frail smile. "Christ, she'll have a heart attack if she sees us like this, won't she?"

I listened to the sirens wailing in the distance, growing louder as they drew closer and closer. I glanced up at movement. The first man was wiping his blood-soaked hands on his jeans. I had the distinct impression that his mind wasn't really present at the moment, if his glazed eyes and vacant expression were any indication. My eyes fell on Mr. Hobbs – all the bullet holes in his chest slowly oozing blood, the same empty look in his eyes I had seen in his wife's. Abigail had just lost both of her parents in under ten minutes. I blinked hard, frowning down at my hands. What was going to happen to her after this? Sure she was old enough to live on her own, but… Jesus, would she be okay to? I watched the fingers expertly controlling the blood attempting to spurt from Abigail's neck for a few minutes longer before I shifted my gaze to his face. I bit my tongue, gathering the courage to speak.

"I'm sorry ahead of time if this sounds rude," I started off cautiously, "but do you mind my asking who you are?"

His lips twitched slightly, offering a momentary wry smile. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter. William Graham is working with the FBI."

He nodded to the first man who had entered the room. I glanced over at him and nodded my understanding. Will still looked like he was in a bit of shock. Understandably, he had just shot a man. I tried not to look back at Mr. Hobbs, though my curiosity was eating away at me. Why was the FBI showing up at their house? I closed my eyes to avoid it, as well as saving myself the discomfort of finding a suitable location to rest my gaze. As I stroked the back of her hand, I quietly hummed Hushabye Mountain to her. It was the only comfort I could think to offer, though I wasn't entirely sure it wasn't more for my benefit than for hers. I rocked back and forth, getting lost in the rhythm. Several long minutes passed with her choking and my humming before the paramedics began to arrive. They quickly filled the kitchen, taking over any free space left. I apologized for being in the way and excused myself, moving to retrieve my shoes. I watched them patch her up as best as they could on the spot before putting her on a stretcher to wheel her out. I brushed along, making my way toward the front door. I paused in the doorway to slip my bloody feet back into my shoes. I tread carefully across the chunks of glass, keeping my gaze straight ahead so I wouldn't be tempted to look down at Mrs. Hobbs again. I was edging my way around the gruesome scene keeping my eyes on the ceiling instead when I took notice of a hand being held out to me.

I looked down at Dr. Lecter, offering me one of his miraculously clean hands [how he had managed to do so that quickly was beyond me]. I smiled grimly and thanked him, hesitantly slipping my fingers within his grasp. He helped me pass over the glass in a few hopping steps and without incident, for which I was very grateful. His eyes locked with mine, holding my gaze for several long seconds. Though again his expression gave nothing away, I got the distinct impression that he was sizing me up, trying to tell if I was lying about anything or not. I don't know why he thought I might have anything to hide. His gaze though brief was intense enough to make me blush. As soon as he released my hand, I looked away and shook my head. Still a bit dazed, I followed the EMT's toward the ambulance. A man who looked to be in his late forties intercepted me almost immediately. Judging by the suit, I guessed he was either with the police or the FBI. I pursed my lips and impatiently watched them load Abigail into the ambulance. Dr. Lecter joined her, glancing at me one last time before the doors closed. I sighed in defeat, feeling the great urge to simply drag both my hands down my face, go home, and take a long, steamy shower.

"Jack Crawford," he said, instinctively reaching his hand out before retracting it awkwardly once he thought better of it. "Miss Lovett, is it?" I nodded. "I'm with the FBI, head of the department. I understand this may not be a good time, but I need you to come in for questioning."

I looked frantically from my red hands to anything I could clean them on. I gave a frustrated growl and took a deep breath to calm my nerves. I could feel the pounding of my heart all the way up in my throat, choking me, the blood rushing through my veins, what felt like every nerve ending firing in my brain at the same time. It took a few seconds for me to collect my thoughts again.

"What for? Are you arresting me?"

His gaze was steely, calculating. "Not yet. However, you have managed to find yourself in the middle of a crime scene covered with the blood of one of the victims. I understand that you were in this state before my men arrived. Only Abigail Hobbs can corroborate what really happened and at this point it's not a guarantee that she is going to live to do so."

I blinked at his bluntness and lack of tact. I clenched my jaw, giving him the benefit of the doubt. He didn't know that I was acquainted with the family. From the sound of it, maybe it was best that way. I looked down, rubbing my hands together. "So you're temporarily taking away my freedom for the sake of your investigation, is that what this is?" I looked back up at him when he didn't respond. I shook my head. "Where do I have to go?"

"Our base is located in Quantico, Virginia. We'll provide your transportation."

"Are you kidding? What about my car? My luggage? I don't live here, you know. I'm just visiting."

"I apologize for the inconvenience, but I'm afraid I must insist. We'll make arrangements for your belongings."

I sighed and rubbed my temples. "And my grandma? What are you going to tell her? Jesus, she's… She must be worried. I was only planning to be gone a few minutes."

"We'll be as delicate as possible, I assure you."

I looked around, chewing my lip. There really was no way around this, was there? I growled and pinched the bridge of my nose. "Fine. Do I at least get to shower?"

He smiled tautly. "Once we get samples of the blood off your body we can get you cleaned up. Unfortunately, your clothing will be confiscated as evidence."

I laughed dryly and shook my head. "Of course it will. Let's get this going then, I suppose."

He nodded. "We'll get that all sorted out."

He held his arm out in a sweeping motion, gesturing to the black SUV behind him. I sighed and shuffled for the back door. Someone standing nearby opened it for me. Touching as few things as possible, I stepped up and slid into the leather seat. I closed my eyes and focused on staying as calm as I could while I waited patiently for Mr. Crawford. It was less than easy to ignore the gating between my seat and his, but at least he hadn't put me in handcuffs. I wasn't under arrest, I supposed, so there wasn't exactly a reason for him to. Still, just being in the back of a cruiser like this made me nervous. We drove for a short while. I wasn't sure if he intended to drive the whole way. I tried to shrug it off and not care. When I heard the sound of a helicopter, I sat up a little straighter. I'd never flown in one before. Sure enough, we drew closer and closer until we were just a short distance away from the helipad. Mr. Crawford looked back at me.

"Someone will be accompanying you on the trip," he said over the noise as he opened his door. "I'll be meeting you there for questioning. I have business to take care of here beforehand."

He opened my door for me, as I assumed it wouldn't open from within. I slid out, cradling my arms to my chest. I didn't want to touch anything. Once I was out, Mr. Crawford held up a pair of handcuffs with an empathetic look.

"I'm sorry to have to do this," he continued. "It's just a precaution."

I looked from them to him and set my jaw. I didn't have anything more to say. I held out my hands willingly. No need to make this any more unpleasant than it already was. He apologized again, fastening the cool metal around my wrists. At least he didn't make them too tight. He led me to the helicopter and spoke for a moment to the pilot as the agent beside me fastened my seatbelt. He shut the door and I closed my eyes as we shakily lifted off the ground. I exhaled slowly, trying to make myself comfortable for what would undoubtedly be a very long flight.