My definition of short and quick update seems to be a bit off. Oh well. There will be a sequel as soon as I've written up the first chapter for it, and gotten some more plotting done. If you're following this story, I'll post an update when the sequel is up.

Beta: NemiNightingale

The loud ringing of the phone jolted Will awake.

The last 48 hours had been trying for him. After waking up alone after her presence in his bed, he had buried himself in work, trying to distract himself. His latest distraction, or should he say work, involving a monstrous totem pole of people and finding out that Abigail had killed Nicholas Boyle in self-defense, had been an extremely tiring and terrifying affair, and after having agreed to keep Abigail's secret, Will had come straight home and… gone to bed.

Looking around, Will immediately realized that he was definitely not in bed. He was in his living room. Sprawled uncomfortably over one of his leaning chairs.

The recent events, where he had more frequently been losing time, triggered worry and confusion inside him, which he soon felt mounting to almost unmanageable amounts. Knowing the feelings were about to completely overwhelm him, he closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, soon calming down enough to think clearly.

'I have been sleepwalking lately', Will reasoned quickly, reassuring himself that nothing was wrong, and that his worries were for naught. His calming breaths helped lower his elevated heart rate, and with his mind clear, he immediately felt a pang of gratitude for the fact that he hadn't walked further this time.

He preferred not having the police drive him home every other early morning… in his underwear. The last time he had been found sleepwalking by the police had been a slightly awkward affair.

Shaking the last remains of sleep away from his mind, he realized the culprit of his early wake up call and stood, slowly making his way towards his bedroom to answer his cellphone.

His hand shook as he put down the phone. Another murder.

Funny how it took shorter time for the Chesapeake Ripper to kill than it did for Ashland Vodall to pick up her phone.

Yes, Will Graham was a tiny bit bitter. He didn't really know what to think. He had asked her if she was sure. She had said yes.

Then why had she been gone when he woke up? And why had she decided to avoid rejecting him properly, if that was what she wanted to do?

Ashland was running away from all her problems, and for some reason it didn't come as quite the big surprise for him. After all, she had moved half-way across the US to get away from her previous life, even though it seemed like she had no major problems to speak of back there.

But as she had somehow managed to slither into his life, and in record time been able to break down barriers he had spent most of his adult life building up, he couldn't feel as mad at her as he truly wanted to. He would wait for her to talk to him, and then figure things out before trying to settle on the proper emotional response for the situation.

It took two weeks the last time, perhaps it would take a month this time, but Will was not letting her off the hook this easily.

Disregarding any thoughts of Ashland for the moment, he got himself together and started dressing for the day.

There was another murder. One which he was currently in absolutely no state to go look at.

Not that he truly ever was. But he needed to put up the face that he was.

Despite trying to keep his mind blank and his focus completely on dressing, Will's thoughts didn't take long to stray back to Ashland.

He was morbidly happy there was a murder that day, or else all 12 hours of daylight would leave his mind painfully occupied and in its current favorite self-destructive track. With work to be done, he only needed to deal with thinking about Ashland when the sun went down, and all excuses about staying away from home were gone, unless he was planning on suddenly becoming a sociable person - which he wasn't.

With his mind straying to Ashland even though it shouldn't, his thoughts received a sudden intermission, as he reminded himself for the 100th time today, that it had probably been a terribly bad idea to get involved with her. He couldn't even manage to focus on as simple a task as putting on clothes.

But when had that ever stopped anyone?

Other than Alana Bloom, of course. That woman was too clever for her own good. Or just clever enough for her own good.

'I'm starting to think I'm the problem here', Will thought in sarcastic self-deprecation.

Perhaps Ashland was just as smart as Alana; she got away while she still could.

Though he would have preferred she had found that out before she had gone and slept with him. It had given him a slight hope of an even remotely normal relationship.

He sighed as the thought of Alana Bloom resurfaced. The first of the two women that he really shouldn't be thinking of. He didn't need another thing to weigh down on his mind when he was going in to look at a murder, especially not when feelings of guilt were involved.

In the beginning, Ashland had been a mere object to satisfy his curiosity, while he was recovering from the harsh rejection from Alana. Alana Bloom was everything a man could ask for, smart, beautiful, talented and above all, someone who could put up with him. Or so he had thought.

But she couldn't. And he couldn't change his growing instability. So they couldn't be together.

And then Ashland had showed up, with her silly coffee-quips and her casual, laid back demeanor. And she never questioned his condition. He knew she had picked up on the fact that he was… Different. But her respect for his privacy was apparently greater than her curiosity, a trait he appreciated immensely after working with the FBI. Everyone in his life seemed to be sticking their noses where it didn't belong. Hannibal, Alana, Jack Crawford. But Ashland… She was there for him. Not for his mind, or his morbid talents.

She was everything Will thought he didn't need. She was unexpected. But that was what made Ashland Vodall special, and needed. It was easy. And before last night, it hadn't been remotely strained. Their friendship had been effortless and - dare he say it - fun.

But looking back at the casual and effortless relationship he had with Ashland, he couldn't help but feel slightly guilty. After all, he had kissed Alana before he had been entirely sure about wanting to pursue anything with Ashland. Not that he should technically feel all that bad, as he hadn't been anything more than friends with Ashland at the time.

But guilt isn't always completely reasonable, and Will knew he felt guilty for betraying both his own emotions, and for playing with the both of them, even though neither of them knew the other existed.

Not wanting to dig himself into a deeper hole than the one he was already in when it came to the women in his life, he finally cleared his mind and grabbed his car keys, hesitantly making his way towards his car.

'Here we go again.'

Will could see the crime scene from a mile away. The place was filled with countless faceless policemen, several identifiable FBI agents and an abundance of police tape, awkwardly parked cars and a mob of curious by-passers. In other words, it was the stereotypical crime scene.

He parked as close to the murder scene as possible, though far enough away to avoid getting caught up in the complete and utter pandemonium, before stepping out of the car to join the FBI behind the tape.

Will nodded hesitantly and awkwardly to whomever he recognized as he neared the area closed off by police tape. Will was only stopped as Hannibal stepped forward, revealing himself in the crowd to silently greet him, by treading onto the path Will was following to the crime scene.

Hannibal was completely silent, as he put his hand on Will's shoulder, firmly turning him around, and leading him away from the crime scene with fast, determined steps.

Will looked back in thinly veiled confusion, not entirely understanding the reasoning behind going in the opposite direction of where they were supposed to be going.

He looked at Hannibal questioningly and received a look he had only seen glimpses of while Hannibal was dealing with particularly unfortunate patients. And he knew what it meant. And it wasn't a good thing. Not by a long shot.

The pitying faces they were met with as they were walking away were becoming more and more disconcerting. Somebody died. Someone he knew. Perhaps someone they both knew. Was it Alana? He hadn't seen her at the crime scene yet. But then again, was she even supposed to be at the crime scene?

The new realization that he might know the new murder-victim sent his mind reeling. There were so many possibilities and so many different outcomes, none of which he hoped he would find at the crime scene.

Yet, he knew he wouldn't be able to find rest before he had seen which of the alternatives that his macabre mind had conjured up, had come true.

'Please, don't let it be Alana,' Will found himself desperately thinking.

Somehow she seemed like the next natural choice to fall victim to the Chesapeake Ripper. Despite the fact that Dr. Abel Gideon was behind bars, he knew he shouldn't count her as safe simply because of that. If anyone knew the intimate and sick minds of killers, it was Will, and he knew that if a murderer wanted someone dead, they would find a way to get it done, whether they were in jail or not.

Also, while Will didn't see Dr. Abel Gideon as the Chesapeake Ripper, Gideon had managed to annoy the real ripper, and that could easily mean killing someone close to Gideon while he was in jail to prove that Dr. Gideon wasn't the Chesapeake Ripper.

Which would mean Alana Bloom was number very high on that list.

Will knew he wouldn't be able to handle being there if the new victim was Alana. The guilt would be staggering. Knowing that he hadn't been there for her when she needed him. He wasn't sure how he would be able to live with that.

And he knew Hannibal knew that too, which was why Will was becoming more and more convinced of the identity of the body the further away from the victim they got.

By the time Hannibal had led him to his car, Will's head was swimming from all of the daunting scenarios that were playing out in his mind.

"Why are you leading me away from the crime scene?" he finally asked, genuinely starting to fear what he was going to see when he got back. Because he would be going back. Alana or no Alana. He needed to see for himself.

Hannibal stopped for a moment, looking like he was weighing his words with great care.

"As your friend and psychiatrist I deem it unadvisable for you to be at the scene of crime at this given time."

"Who is it, Hannibal?" Will pressed, and put a hand on the door of the passenger seat, stopping Hannibal as he tried opening the door for Will to get in.

"This is not the time, Will," Hannibal insisted, his tone as stony and firm as his face.

"There is never a right time for death, Hannibal."

Hannibal hadn't been able to keep him away for long.

A short 10 minutes later, Will stood before the body, his entire being shaking as the realization hit him.

Ashland. Oh God, it was Ashland.

With a fascinated horror growing inside him, Will observed the body, trying to gain an insight into the situation.

Even though the corpse was completely unrecognizable, the news that Ashland's apartment building had been burned down a couple of hours ago, and the half-melted credit card crookedly displaying the name 'Ashland Vodall', provided all evidence that was needed.

Technically they needed some DNA or some sort of finger print to provide a complete identification, but the body would provide neither.

It was completely burned to a crisp. The skin was charred from head to toe, and provided absolutely no distinguishing features for Will to recognize. It was somewhat of a relief to him. After all, he would more easily be able to pretend the body in front of him wasn't Ashland if he couldn't see her face.

What didn't provide him with any sort of relief was the fact that the body was missing both arms, which signaled either some sort of disturbing and painful pre-mortem torture; a murder most likely executed by the Chesapeake Ripper. That, or the murderer sawed off her arms post-mortem as a kind of trophy.

Both of the options made Will equally sick.

"We need to take her, Will," a voice came from behind him.

Beverly Katz.

"Find…" Will started, needing to stop for a second to maintain complete control over his shaking voice before continuing "…whoever did this."

"I'll do my best."

"Lamb shanks braised in red wine with rosemary served with mushrooms and a wine-infused au jus."

As plates with a stunning display of food were set in front of each guest the silence was deafening, and the only thing that could be heard in the room was the gentle thud of the plates being placed on the table in front of them.

"It looks delicious as always, Hannibal."

A nod of appreciation was sent towards Jack Crawford at the compliment, and yet again a strained hush fell over the table as Hannibal pondered over his next choice of words.

"I'm glad you could come. You as well, Will. You have been giving us all quite the cold shoulder lately, I was not sure you would accept my invitation for dinner."

An amused look was on Hannibal's face as he raised his eyes from the perfectly cooked lamb shank in front of him and settled his eyes on Will, as if he was enjoying his own private little joke. Considering the circumstances in which Will had landed himself in with a dead not-quite-girlfriend, he found himself unable to care about whatever subtle joke Hannibal had just made, and even less inclined to enjoy it, had he picked up on it.

"I don't see how I could refuse," came the answer from Jack Crawford as he gestured to the art-like display of food on the plate in front of him. "After all, you do spoil us."

Will remained silent, looking down at his plate instead of responding to the slight accusation. He was still giving him the cold shoulder, and probably would continue to do so for quite a while. Hannibal had in the past 24 hours (somewhat successfully) been trying to keep Will out of the FBI lab, in order to spare him the grisly details of the body that was assumed to be Ashland.

The previous silence of the room filled out, as eating utensils were picked up and scraped gently against the plates. Will wasn't entirely sure why he had agreed to come here. He had absolutely no appetite, and he wasn't too fond of Doctor Lecter at the moment. Will didn't need protection from a corpse; he saw those on a daily basis. What the well-meaning doctor didn't understand was, that the only place Will was haunted by the ghost of Ashland was in his home, in his bed, in his mind.

He would rather be by the charred and mangled body, trying to figure out how this happened, than at home where his pillow still smelled like her.

Prodding distastefully at the controversial menu of lamb fore shank in front of him with his fork, Will closed his eyes and was, at the thought of the questionable menu, suddenly struck by a thought so horrifying that he was completely paralyzed.

Ashland's dead body had been missing her arms.

His eyes opened reluctantly, and his gaze locked with Hannibal Lecter's at the other end of the table.

"Bon Appétit."