Warnings: Uh…cannibalism? Seriously, if I have to warn for that it's possible you may be lost. Show level or less violence, much higher than show level sexual activity.
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. But a girl can dream.
A/N: Please read the stupidly long A/N at the end as well. Also, there's uh, no porn in this chapter. Sorry about that. Also the ending….yeah. That too. *runs and hides behind a big rock*
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Don't wantcha for the weekend, don't wantcha for a night. I'm only interested if I can have you for life – Shania Twain, I'm Gonna Getcha Good.
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When Will gets a phone call from the hospital informing him that Abigail Hobbs has woken up from her coma, he acknowledges that the time to deal with that something he feels her has come.
Because here's the thing, what he said to Hannibal was not a lie: Will has no interest in being her father. Will intends to build his family up from the ground floor, and he is not content to accept any substitutes. That said, Will is also self-aware enough to realize that the affection he feels for her is best desired as paternal. Perhaps it is the last remnant of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, this lingering affection, or perhaps it is organic, built from Will's own soft spot for strays, but honestly, the cause hardly matters.
What he does with it…now that is a different matter.
Will does not see her as the child he so desperately wants, but he can see her in that life. A standing plate at the dinner table, someone to take fishing and teach his own little art to, the fun, pseudo aunt to his children. And yet, that life – this creation of his that he will build on a foundation of blood and bone if he must – no matter how beautiful it will be, will not be without its own costs. Will is certainly willing to pay them, but will Abigail?
Ultimately, it comes down to one question – is Abigail Hobbs willing to play by the rules of his little war – she is willing to maintain the status quo? Does she even have the capacity to do so?
"I remember you," Abigail Hobbs says, eyes wet and vulnerable with tears Will can tell are at least in part of the crocodile kind, accusing, but voice wavering just enough to play it off as unintentional, "You killed my dad."
Well, Will thinks, hiding his smile, that answers that question.
"Would you give us a moment?" Will asks to Hannibal, tilting his head to frame the submissive curve his neck, eyes cast demurely to the floor to hide that fact that Abigail's barb missed its mark.
"Of course," Hannibal says graciously, the right response for all the wrong reasons – Will imagines, with a certain fondness the scathing lecture he knows Alana will deliver to Hannibal when she hears that he did this – and no one that was looking, as Will is, would be able to miss how his gaze lingers just a little too long on the pale flesh of Will's neck, "I shall be right outside if I am needed."
"So that's how it is," Abigail says after Hannibal is safely out of ear shot, a contemplative look in her eyes, and Will moves into the space beside her bed and sits down, and considers what he knows about Abigail Hobbs.
Abigail, who liked hunting with her father and baking with her mother. Abigail, who always wanted a dog but never asked because she knew what would happen to it if she did. Abigail, the omega who would have done anything to keep her family.
Even lure in girls for her father to kill.
Considering the sheer number of just the Ripper's known victims and his willingness to put that aside in his own quest, Will thinks it would make him an incredible hypocrite if he couldn't relate to that.
Honestly, for the most part, he just admires her dedication.
"Yes, that's how it is," Will says, taking one of her hands in his and leaning in close, like they are old friends having a chat, "And here's how it also is – you acted as bait for your father's victims because you would have done anything to keep your family together, and I shot your father ten times because after the first shot I realized I liked it." And then he pauses to make sure she truly understands the situation she is in before he finishes with, "I admire what you did for your family – you and are alike in that way. And so I want you to consider this - what do you suppose I would do to make sure I can build mine?"
The single, dry swallow that she takes is all that Will needs to know that she has.
And at that, it's like a light switches turns off somewhere inside her, and the manipulative little spitfire flickers out so that the girl who just lost her family is the only one left. The girl who, when she picked up a phone call – and don't think Will isn't aware who was on the other end – had a family and then woke up in a hospital with nothing but a scar on her neck and wounds that not even time will be able to heal.
Will might be able to admire the former in some strange way, but he can feel sorry for the latter.
"I'm not sorry I killed the Minnesota Shrike – I am sorry that you lost your family," he says, kinder than before, and now his posture truly is one of affection, as he asks her quietly, meeting her eyes, "Do you understand the distinction?"
"Yes," she says finally, and Will can see that she really does, this strange, remarkable girl, this little wolf in lamb's wool.
But only a little wolf.
"You don't want to know where the game you're thinking about playing ends, but I can promise you it doesn't end well," he says, and he hopes that she takes his advice for what it is – a kindness, and the most he can give her without jeopardizing what he isn't willing to lose, "You're a smart girl, but you're a little fish and there is blood in the water and sharks in the pond you've found yourself in."
He doesn't say Hannibal's name.
The look in her eyes tells him he doesn't need to.
"I'm not interested in replacing your mother, and I won't offer Hannibal as your father," He says instead, and then he makes an offer that he will only make once, and he maintains eye contact to make sure they are both aware of it, "But, if you were willing to play by the rules of my game, I could promise you you'd always have a place with us. Sound fair?"
And so, Abigail Hobbs looks at him, the little wolf in lamb's wool, the girl who never got to be girl, and Will meets her eyes the whole time, the one man alive that can see all of the things she is and keep looking.
And then, as Will watches, Abigail Hobbs decides.
"Sounds fair," she says, squeezing his hand gently, and there is something like gratitude in her eyes that sets off an answering response in him, the feeling so like the one he feels when he saves a life.
He thinks it might be an appropriate feeling.
"Want to let Hannibal back in before the curiosity kills him?" Will asks, the smile on the edge of his lips an unspoken agreement just for them, and she giggles like the teenage girl she never really got the chance to be and nods shyly.
And so, raising his voice loud enough to project but not enough not to be rude, Will calls the beast back in.
That he doesn't come alone is a bit of a surprise.
"Abigail, your…friend is here to visit you," Hannibal says, the hesitation barely noticeable, though Will catches it all the same and catalogues the gesture and its implied meaning before he lets his attention be claimed by the girl that Hannibal has brought, reluctantly, into the room. Abigail's age, all dark brown hair, and pale, wind burned skin.
Very Mall of America, the part of him that can still think like Garrett Jacob Hobbs whispers.
Well, Will muses, stomping that part back down into submission, that answers the question of who was next on the Shrike's list.
But he digresses.
"Who the hell are you?" The girl demands into the silence that Will's musings have born, and alright, yes, Will can forgive that one. It's entirely possible he might have been staring at her with a serial killer's gaze, and he can imagine that might be a bit unsettling.
"Ah," he begins to her shoulder, offset slightly by the overtly confrontational nature of her query, "I'm Will Graham."
"Uh huh," She says, blatantly unimpressed, steamrolling over whatever he was going to say next as she asks in a tone that makes it inescapably clear exactly what she thinks, "and just what were you two talking about all alone in here about?"
Will's not sure he's going to forgive that one.
"Just omega stuff," Abigail says, skillfully diffusing the tension with a hint of teenage coyness, before she flashes him the tiniest conspirators smile and continues, a teasing air to her voice, "Like whether or not Will is going to ask out that cute alpha nurse."
And hey, a single covert look to Hannibal's direction informs him, there's that tension again.
This time though…Will finds it comforting.
Abigail Hobbs, the omega who would do anything to keep a family.
"Abigail!" He stutters out in surprise that is only partially feigned and yet it disguises his fondness all the same, trying to rack his brain for information on any of the nurses, much less ones that would be considered cute by a teenage omega.
Abigail's still unnamed friend, apparently satisfied by the implication of his interest in alphas that Will isn't going to molest her friend takes that one out of his hands as she asks, voice casually vulgar as so many teens seems to be these days, "Who, the cute redhead one? You should totally fuck him, he looks like he'd be dynamite in the sack."
From his peripherals, the look in Hannibal's eyes makes him wonder if Hannibal is going to forgive her for that one.
The fluttering in his stomach that answers that look – the one that promises terrible, grotesquely beautiful murder – is probably not the socially acceptable response.
Will finds he's never cared about social norms less.
"Marissa!" Abigail exclaims, finally shedding some light on her friend's name, and Will makes her tone as genuinely scandalized on his behalf, and Will hides his humor at that thought – that this is what scandalizes Abigail Hobbs – by focusing his eyes to the floor before tilting them back up to Hannibal's chin as he says, sentiment genuine but delivery augmented for best affect, "He isn't really…my type."
The flash of dark, possessive satisfaction that graces Hannibal's dark eyes before it is marshaled back down beneath his mask is a breathtaking sight to behold.
"Whatever man, your loss," Marissa says, all teenage dismissiveness as she directs her attention to Abigail, having apparently deemed him no longer interesting.
Ah, Will thinks, the heat of Hannibal's continued gaze a brand that burns in the best way, I don't think so.
This, he doesn't share.
"We should be going, and let you and your friend reacquaint," Hannibal says to the room at large, placing the situation back into his control, and Will demurs like a good little omega, squeezing Abigail's hand in a private, fond farewell before directing an awkward one in her friend's direction – nothing like the smooth elegance of Hannibal's own, all courtesy and charm – before he falls into position behind Hannibal as they head towards the parking lot.
And then, as they are walking out of the hospital, Will catches the barest glimpse of red, and, out of nothing more than curiosity takes a second glance to see if this is the infamous redheaded nurse. He only gets a second to process – blue eyes brought out by blue scrubs, vague All American good looks and pale skin that is offset nicely by the dark red of his hair – before his observations are cut short by the body that oh so casually steps into his line of view, blocking the redheaded man from his gaze.
Hannibal's body, to be precise.
The move is so smooth, so natural that Will barely catches the careful design of it. However, the hand that Hannibal puts on his back, the one that stays there all the way to where they part at Will's car, so light it's hardly felt but with a weight, an implication that even the dimmest of casual observers could not miss, he certainly does catch.
It is an hour long drive back to his home in Wolf Trap, and Will's smile is his companion for the whole ride.
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Will's high school chess club teacher used to say that thing about playing the long game was this – pacing is always key. It doesn't matter how sure you are you can win, if you rush ahead, if you push too far, too fast, then you're doomed to lose. Chess, the man had liked to say, was a seduction – slow and steady wins the race.
It's advice that Will finds especially pertinent these days.
Of course, Will's high school chess club teacher also liked to say that chess was the most strategically challenging game in the world. And, with all due respect to Mr. Miller, Will has to say the man was wrong on that front.
Will's playing sex chicken with the Chesapeake Ripper, and he's playing for keeps.
This is the most strategically challenging game in the world.
Still, it should be mentioned, Will was killer at chess.
Pardon the pun.
That in mind, Will amps down his campaign a bit in the coming weeks. Not a full stop, of course, not when he's made such inspiring progress already, but he plays it especially subtle and low key. A subtle tilt of his head to frame the soft meat of his neck, a demure glance here and there and the occasional deferment to Hannibal's judgement without question – all classic omegean appeasement gestures – are all he allows himself. No more rival alpha scents on his clothes, no slick staining Hannibal's belongings – not even the new little throw pillow that sits on the Freudian couch, its predecessor's absence never mentioned or acknowledged in their sessions.
Given what Will did with his sweater, he only hopes Hannibal similarly enjoyed that pillow.
And so this strategy - designed, as most omegean mannerisms are to get the alpha to instigate behaviours – is the one he rides through the case with the Mother and her Lost Boys, this terrible, tragic little family, something that, considering the goal of his own endeavour, stirs up some mixed emotions in Will.
Will cannot fault her desire, can even understand it, but he has little sympathy for her chosen method of execution.
Things you steal never really belong to you – only things you fight for, things you earn do.
Will plans to earn his family fair and square.
Hannibal shows up at the crime scene with a single thermos of handmade black 'chicken' – this, Will strongly doubts – soup, just enough for Will alone. "Silkie chicken in a broth, good for that cough you are trying to hide," Hannibal says, eyes slyly pleased as he passes off his stereotypical and yet solely unique alpha courting gift off as an act of medicinal friendship. And then he watches Will's mouth as he takes every sip with a look - that just peeks out through a crack in the mask - so primal that it makes Will want to cant his ass up and present in front of all of his colleagues, a dead body and thirty assorted strangers.
Will thinks the 'chicken' might have had red hair.
The rewards of patience have never tasted better.
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And then, because why the hell not, as soon as they close that case, Will's time and attention is rapidly snapped up by someone who has decided that snow angels are for pussies and has skipped right to corpse angels.
Seriously though, all the weird ones.
Will is starting to wonder if there's something in the water around here.
But, for all he jokes – in the confines of his own head, because he knows his particular humor would go over like a lead balloon if he ever voiced it – the case does leave him feeling a bit drained. Will's fully recovered from the damage that the suppressants did, but he's still just as vulnerable to sleep deprivation and overworking himself as the next guy. And so, after they close the Angel Maker case, Will comes home, feeds his dogs and then falls face first into his bed for a long needed rest.
Consequently, the next morning when Alana Bloom opens his door after knocking several times and calling his name, she is met not by Will, but by a racoon skittering across the toes of her shoes with six dogs hot on its heels.
Will, who by this time has managed to drag himself out of bed and shuffle to the door, admits that the noise she makes – somewhere between a startled yelp and a terrified squeal – that would be ridiculous on anyone else, is unreasonably adorable on her.
"I appear to have racoons living in my chimney," is what Will ends up saying instead of hello, and the look she sends him, a marriage between shock and no shit Sherlock, before she responds, uncharacteristically shrill though perhaps characteristically dry, "You don't say!," only serves to make her seem cuter.
"Really fast racoons apparently," Will replies bemusedly, staring out across his yard at his pack – minus Winston, who stands beside him and allows himself to be petted, himself seemingly looking out at the pack with an expression that Will thinks might be the canine equivalent of morons – who are still chasing after that elusive raccoon.
"Want to help me round up my dogs?" Will asks, shifting his attention back to Alana with a little half smile, and instead of a verbal response, he is met with a kind, but rather pointed look from Alana at his legs.
His very bare legs.
Right. He knew he was forgetting something.
"Right after I go put on some pants," Will says, and he knows that the tiniest flash of disappointment that runs through her eyes at the thought means the time to deal with that other something is soon to be at hand.
But first, pants.
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Rounding up the dogs turns out to be an easy enough endeavour, as by that point the raccoon has long escaped, adding further proof to the fact that Will's dogs are all loveable, fantastic marshmallows, and so after a brief walk Will finds himself inviting Alana Bloom into his home for a talk he's not sure how to have.
Given how truly dismissal Will knows he is at even casual conversation, he figures he might as well stall with a polite convention like an offer of a beverage. And so, knowing that his fridge is sorely lacking in variety, Will asks, "You want coffee or something?," already turned towards the cupboard to reach for a mug, and this is why Alana Bloom, whom he has several inches and probably a weight class on, is able to take him by surprise, crowd him up against his counter and kiss him with everything she is.
And, just for a second, Will let's himself imagine, and kisses her back.
Imagines that he is that beta that he pretended to be for so many years, and that he could have this. Alana Bloom of the lovely heart and the lovely soul, and a nice easy life of smiles and contentment filled with children and dogs. Imagines that his cock - a perfectly respectable six inches, no matter what Hollywood would have you believe with their omega cocks are tiny nonsense – is capable of producing seed that could take root in this beautiful women and create children with brown curls and Alana's kind eyes.
For a second, Will imagines, and it is a lovely thing he sees.
But only for a second.
Because the inescapable truth of it is, Will isn't that beta. Will is an omega, and the things Will wants are the wants of an omega – a mate, a thick cock with a sizable knot, claiming teeth at his neck and the heaviness of children - and cannot be given to him by a female beta.
They can only be given to him by an alpha.
By Hannibal.
And so Will Graham lets himself have that second, a compensation for the lovely thing that he is going to turn away in favor of the hideously beautiful thing he is going to build to get what he needs, and then the second ends, and so too does the kiss as Will pulls away gently, placing his hands on her hips and directing her carefully backwards.
"I just…I've always been interested in you but you weren't well, and then suddenly you were but you were an omega and I know some omegas prefer betas and I would have regretted it the rest of my life if I hadn't at least tried," Alana rushes out, all in one breath, as if she expects Will to have something brilliant to say that would merit his interruption instead of the absolute nothing that is running through his mind right now.
And then, in the silence Will meets her eyes, and to his absolute horror there are tears there, just in the corners, and Will can't manage anything more than an achingly sorrow filled, "Oh Alana…," rendered utterly helpless by the sight that moisture in her eyes.
"There's someone isn't there?" She says, the always clever Alana, and it is not quite a question but neither is it an accusation, "An alpha that's…caught your eye."
"Alana…,"he says, helpless again, unable to let Hannibal's name slip from his lips for fear of what damage she might do to his progress in her good-natured protective rage, but also equally unwilling to let this lovely woman think that this is somehow a fault of hers.
"No it's alright, I understand – you're an omega," Alana says, like that's the answer to everything, breaking a little bit on that last word, and in the most basic way she entirely right.
That he lets her believe that's entirely it is perhaps an act of cowardice, but faced with those tears, Will thinks it's the action that men far braver than he would take as well.
"If I was that man you thought I was – that beta man – wild horses couldn't have kept me away from you," he says finally, meeting her eyes so he knows she knows he means it, and if it is kind it is only because it is the truth, before he shrugs his shoulders in helpless apology, "But I'm not that man,"
"I really do understand Will, and I'm happy for you, because I've never seen you this stable in your life, and I'd never begrudge you anyone who did that to you," Alana finally says, and Will can see that she truly means it, this remarkable woman, before she quips, with a self-deprecating air, "Doesn't mean I can't wallow in a little disappointment though does it?"
"No, I suppose not," Will says, awkwardly, and where another man might make a funny quip about being flattered Will can only manage the blurted query, "Friends?"
"Always," Alana says, heartfelt and sincere, and Will takes her hand in his and squeezes it gently, and for a second his chest hurts with the weight of the miraculous thing he is sacrificing on the altar that is his plans for his family.
But only for a second.
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For a second, after Alana Bloom has left his home, Will sits in his kitchen and considers not telling Hannibal about Alana's visit. One the one hand Will knows that, if played right, this could be just the push he needs to move this little campaign of to the next level, and he didn't even have to create this. It was just dropped in his lap with a big tempting red bow on it, just daring him to pull it open piece by piece.
And yet, on the other hand Will also knows that Alana – kind, lovely Alana with her warm eyes and warm heart – deserves more than being a battleground in a war she doesn't even know is being waged. Alana's only crime is caring about him, and she doesn't deserve whatever punishment Hannibal might deem worthy of that. Will doesn't think that Hannibal will kill her for it – he can tell that Hannibal does not lie when he calls Alana a friend, whatever that terms means to him – but still, he is not sure if the risk is worth the possible reward.
For a second, he considers not telling Hannibal.
"Alana Bloom kissed me," Will says as soon as Hannibal opens the door to his home to greet his unexpected visitor.
But only for a second.
Will cares for Alana, but this reward is worth any risk.
And oh, what a reward it is, because at Will's words Hannibal's pristine mask slips for a second and even without letting the pendulum swing Will can see exactly what Hannibal is thinking.
Sees Hannibal grab him by his nape and drag him into the house, sees him loose his teeth up Will's neck, a claiming necklace of bruises that Will would never be able to hide no matter how many scarves he wore. Sees him rend the seams of Will's cheap flannel to get to the skin underneath, licking and nipping at the skin exposed until Will's body was the story of Hannibal's conquest, the ink broken blood vessels and bruises. Sees Hannibal rip open the fly of his own suit, ruining the tailoring in his haste to free his cock and sees Hannibal lay him out on the nearest flat surface and make him take that fat, thoroughbred cock, driving it into Will's soaking, needy hole like an animal and fuck him until they couldn't tell where one of them started and the other one ended.
For a second, Will sees and it is glorious.
But only for a second.
Because then…he sees the monster recede, and the person suit return, and instead of feeling disappointed as he might have expected, Will just feels…satisfied.
Hannibal Lecter is playing a long game as well.
He thinks that bodes well for their future.
After all, half an arch cannot stand.
"Well," Hannibal says, as calm and unaffected as if Will had just announced the weather to him, impeccable mask firmly back in place, "come in."
Oh, it is so on.
Hannibal leads him to the kitchen, because of course he does; the kitchen is the heart of his house and the seat of his power, and so Will props his hip up on one of Hannibal's expensive counter tops and helps himself to a front row seat for the show as he watches the man himself remove two of some kind of pastry from his oven.
"I hope I didn't intrude on you and a guest," Will says, though it is at best an empty platitude as Will's nose paired with the sterile cleanness of Hannibal's house is enough to tell him there hasn't been anyone in this home but himself and Hannibal all day. Still, Will has noticed that Hannibal appreciates the effort of social niceties, and given that Will hopes to reap some appreciation from Hannibal himself, this is the least he can give.
"No, I always make enough for two," Hannibal says, hands deft and graceful as they plate up whatever it is he is making, placing fresh fruit and delicate cream with a flourish that Will best characterizes as peacocking, "I often find myself with unexpected guests, and so one learns to be prepared."
And then those dark, dark eyes lift to meet and pin Will's own and, without a change in that calm, casual tone, as he pours sauce as red as blood onto the plate, "And how did it feel to kiss Alana Bloom?"
And oh, the things that live in those eyes that are waiting to hear the answer to that question are monstrously beautiful indeed.
Tread very carefully from here, Will's lizard brain whispers to him.
"She's lovely and sweet and very kissable," Will says, because this is true enough, but because he only wants to do enough damage, he tampers it by immediately following it up with, "But it…she wasn't what I wanted. I want…someone who can give me a family," Will says quietly, the pause careful and oh so deliberate, the barest implication of a name and the words, I want an alpha lie between the spaces of what's he's said, unsaid but from the look in Hannibal's eyes certainly not unheard.
The monster in those eyes is very happy.
"Well, the first step in knowing what we want is understanding what we do not," Hannibal says calmly, the smooth, professional tone of a therapist only betrayed by Will's empathy. "I'm glad you came to me with this Will," Hannibal says, voice softer, designed to lure trust and for all that the tone is an artifice Will can tell that the sentiment is entirely genuine as Hannibal finishes, dropping the baited hook into the water, "I want you to feel comfortable sharing these things with me."
"I do," says Will Graham, truthfully enough, eyes abashedly lowered to hide the fact that he is the man who sold Hannibal that bait.
"Good," Hannibal purrs, and only a lifetime of self-restraint keeps the first hint of slick from dribbling down Will's thighs at the promises in that single word.
Slow and steady, after all.
"Eat your pudding," Hannibal commands gently, passing him the plate with flourish and Will tilts his head down to frame the pale curve of his neck and does, like a good little omega. And so he takes a bite of what he assumes must some kind of bread pudding, and as he does the taste of Alana Bloom wilts on his tongue, no match for the strong, savoury sweetness of Hannibal's creation, garnished with Will knows not who.
The gleaming darkness that lingers in Hannibal's fathomless eyes tells Will that was exactly his intention.
That night Will goes to sleep, and dreams of what other intentions Hannibal might have.
They are not all good dreams.
But they are all beautiful.
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When Will wakes up in the morning, the first thing he smells is Hannibal.
Everywhere.
The smell is so ever present, so inescapable that Will actually checks the house twice to make sure that he hasn't missed the man himself lurking in the shadows somewhere. And then, once he is sure that he is alone – save for seven hungry dogs – he goes to his kitchen, feeds his pack, and then stands, and thinks.
Omegas, typically speaking, have a much weaker sense of smell than alphas, though certainly more sensitive than betas. To the average omega the scent in his house would be relatively faint – a subtle suggestion of a presence to the edge of their consciousness – they would certainly be able to identify it as alpha, but probably not be able to pinpoint exactly which alpha it was.
Will's been called many things in his thirty-eight years of life: average was not one of them.
To Will, every room in his house positively exudes the scent of Hannibal Lecter. It's like being cradled by the very presence of the man.
The reason why it smells that way is a beautiful thing, and Will cherishes the thought like he would a child, swaddling it in warmth and cuddling it to his chest to protect its preciousness.
Hannibal Lecter waited until Will had returned home, and then he drove an hour and a half, in the dead of the night to Wolf Trap. And then he broke into Will's home and scent marked his belongings. At least one or two in every room. It would have taken him hours.
And then, on a half thought hunch, Will ambles over to his medicine cabinet in his master bathroom and picks up the pill wheel from where it sits in the left corner of the topmost shelf, as always. They're birth control pills; he'd bought a month's supply about a week before he walked into Jack's office on that fateful day, and although he's not touched them since then, they give off the perpetual accidental message of being in use. And so, hunch in mind, Will cracks one out of the package and grinds it to his incisor, just deep enough to get a taste on his tongue.
Sugar pills.
Hannibal Lecter drove an hour and a half, broke into his house, scent marked his things, and then walked past seven dogs and a notoriously light sleeping Will, and replaced his birth control pills with placebos.
From a psychopath of Hannibal's caliber, Will figures this is probably the preverbal green light, so to speak.
Will's smile lasts right up until he gets the call from Jack saying there's been a suspected Ripper murder, and that he'd better get there.
Quick.
Then he stops smiling.
For a second, everything was going so well.
But only for a second.
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A/N: *peeks out from behind that rock* I'm a terrible person with that ending, I know. So yeah, sorry about that. But it's (mostly) not my fault! I was going to have this chapter and the next one be one chapter and then someone was all "I'd love to see more murder related courting" and I went, yes, that should happen, and then the chapters just mutated from there. This is a necessary evil of pacing – blame Will's chess teacher.
Also, this is where the whole cherry picking and mixing canon is starting to come into play in a big way. Imagine that the The Mother and the Angel Maker cases were basically the same as the show minus any of Hannibal's copycat shenanigans and Will's hallucinations, but Hannibal wasn't having dinner with Tobias – he's not yet met Tobias, and Will isn't working Tobias's murders yet. The redhead was not Nicholas Boyle, he was just a guy. And yes, one of the women mentioned in this chapter was just killed by the Chesapeake Ripper. This isn't Twilight folks, where you get everything you want and don't have to sacrifice anything to get it; actions have consequences and this is a deadly game. That said, I did promise a happy ending (with cannibalism) and I am going to deliver on that, if that's any ease to the mind.
So, to come: a Ripper crime scene, some therapy, Tobias the creepy alpha and Franklyn, everyone one's favorite dropout of standing up school (the Hannibal crack videos might have been a bad idea) and of course some more manipulative Will and jealous Hannibal. So, as always, reviews and constructive criticism are welcome and enjoy.
P.S: The 'chicken' totally had red hair. That is all.
