Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: "If space is infinite then there's tons of yous out there and tons of mes."

"I like that thought. Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time." (Rabbit Hole)

Two different Molly Fosters. Two different Will Grahams. Just two out of innumerable possibilities. AU.

Author's Notes: This story is moving in a direction I didn't anticipate. I hope no one minds if I follow this plot bunny for a while.

Special thanks to the readers who returned for the last installment and those who took a chance on this. Please enjoy!

A Major Breakthrough

-Washington, D.C.-

Will tears his way back to wakefulness and never quite manages the full trip. His eyes break open from the swell of blood building under his face. Jack rests a hand on his shoulder, "Easy."

A paramedic appears, "Can you hear me? Can you say your name?"

He assumes he must, because the medic moves on to other questions: can he make a fist? Lift his arms? Smile? Do you have a history of seizures, Mr. Graham? Will shakes his head and tries to escape the medic and Agent Crawford. He can't seem to get his limbs to work. The muscles are all shot, stiff, and aching. The medic speaks to Jack, "Could be a result of the fever: it's not uncommon with temperatures as high as his."

Will's mouth is just as useless as the other parts of his body, but he musters half of what he's trying to say, "-cephalitis…"

"Will?" Jack asks.

"Encephalitis," Will stares into the blanket of stars above him. The word emerges sluggishly from a remote region of his memory. He doesn't know why it's important or who told him. That information is necessary, though, based on the expression on Jack's face. "I need an MRI."

"Another MRI?"

"They'll want to do one anyways given the seizure. Make sure he doesn't have a head injury," the medic offers.

"Check," Will urges, just before the atmosphere loosens up around him. He can't get enough air into his lungs no matter how much he gasps. "What's happening?"

"This isn't typical of a seizure," the medic starts probing again, but her touches feel very far away. Will's head is spinning anew. Someone's pulled the plug on the universe. Someone's torn open the atmosphere and the air's draining out into space. He waits to fall into the ocean or seep onto the beach, but the only place Will goes is into dark.

He's not alone there. Will shares the dark with an unknown entity, a dark mass of pure, unadulterated paranoia. He forces his eyes to open, revealing the blurred interior of an ambulance. The medic is fixing his IV and adjusting the tubes on his oxygen mask. The man at the door flickers in and out of sight, though he appears entirely as a dark, cloudy mass. There's a scare obscuring his face, a wide slash of gray that leaves him smiling in three places.

A feeling of knowing washes over Will. He recognizes the man, and even though the image is there and gone, there and gone, Will still feels him hovering all the way to the hospital. All the way back into the dark.

It's only when Will wakes up again that the man disappears.

"Dr. Foster."

Having spent the past fifteen minutes staring at the wall, Molly has to blink several times before she can meet Hannibal's gaze. "Dr. Lecter," she says by way of greeting.

He sinks onto the couch next to her. "Has there been any news?"

Molly shakes her head, "They've taken him for an MRI. They said he had a seizure in the field."

"Seizures are not uncommon with fevers."

"No, but apparently Will suggested it was encephalitis before he lost consciousness."

Hannibal considers the diagnosis carefully, "Encephalitis does not present itself so quietly."

"Not typically," Molly sighs. She scrubs her hands together, fighting exhaustion. "There are rare cases that present with psychotic behaviour."

"Do you think it's encephalitis?"

"I think that this is something fixable. Encephalitis is fixable."

The air in the waiting room becomes lighter all of a sudden. Molly can't seem to catch her breath. She gasps sharply and extends her arms to give her chest more room to expand. "Do you feel that?"

No, he doesn't, but Hannibal can certainly see her distress. He inches closer to her, "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. I just…" Molly continues gasping. "I can't catch my breath. The room is shaking."

Quaking is more like it. A crack splits the hallway down its centre and a dark figure flashes into view. Amidst Hannibal's ministration, Molly can see the shape draw closer and closer to the waiting room. The image clarifies, driving the rest of breath from her lungs.

"Have you had an attack like this before?" Hannibal asks.

Molly takes a long minute to respond, "No, never. Is that Will?"

"Where?"

But Will is walking away. The air starts to fill her lungs again just as quickly as it disappeared. Molly forces herself to rise. "I thought I saw Will leaving," she sighs.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Hannibal asks, rising with her.

Molly shrugs, "Apparently. I'm not sure what happened."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be walking around."

"Whatever it was, it's gone now," she tilts her head towards where she swears Will was just standing. "I'll just take a walk."

"It's unlikely that Will would be walking around."

"You don't believe that," she says.

"No," Hannibal's mouth curves into a slight smile. "I would hope that he has learned his lesson after tonight though."

Neither of them have to retort: not bloody likely.

Whoever Molly saw is no longer in the hallway when they patrol, nor is he in any of the stairwells or waiting at the elevator. "You saw Will," Hannibal states as much as asks, and Molly confirms that she did, though he was different. Darker. Distorted. Her perception might have been conflicted by the sudden loss of breath, but she doubts that she conjured him entirely.

Hannibal returns to the waiting room as she takes to pacing. Sitting still holds little appeal for Molly, fresh from her brush with panic or death or whatever came upon her earlier. She works her way from the stairwell back to the waiting room twice before the wind gets knocked out of her again.

Her hand on the wall is not enough for stability. Molly's vision starts to slip-slide out of sight, like the whole world is draining into a hole only she can see. The loss of air causes her to sway on her feet. She nearly pitches into the great torrent of hospital when a hand catches her.

"You are not crazy, and what you're feeling will pass."

"Will?"

The hand reaches across her chest and pulls her tightly for a hug. His aftershave is a dead giveaway. Molly struggles to turn around, but she's pinned back to chest with him. He brings his face to rest next to hers. "I don't want to scare you."

"Then stop," she tries to pry his hand off. "Will…"

"But I need you to understand something: no matter where you go, no matter when you go, Hannibal Lecter is a monster."

He keeps one hand over her heart and brings the other to rest around her waist. Molly knows it's Will, but she barely recognizes the touch. His hands are gnarled from work, callused, and there's a rubbery line crossing his cheek that sickens her to the core. "What's happening?" she asks him. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know," Will whispers, "not completely. I know that he's at the centre of it, whatever it is."

"Hannibal Lecter?"

"You feel it, don't you? When he's around? Like the whole world is breaking to pieces? He's the same here as he is anywhere else, the kind of evil that exists in every iteration."

"Let go of me," Molly starts to struggle. She looks for help but people move past her without seeing. The panic continues to limit her faculties. She has even more trouble breathing. "Let me go now, Will."

"I'm going to stop it," he promised. "I'm going to save you this time. I'm going to save us this time. I just need you." He breathes her in; Molly's stomach turns, and she can't help but gag. "I just need you to stay out of my way."

He kisses her on the cheek just once before releasing his vice grip around her waist and shoulders. The air returns, then her balance, and Molly stands in the hallway winded but hardly the worse for wear. Terror grips her in new ways, ways that this other-Will had to invent before he vanished into thin air.

She wipes at the wet spot on her cheek. The kiss lingers long after the trace of it is gone.

Happy reading!