"Smile."

"Why?"

"I just... need you to. It's what you're supposed to do, whether or not you feel like it."

Ophelia scowled, her head pounding. But, reluctantly, she pulled her face into the cheesiest smile she could muster, and was rewarded by Will with a pat on the knee. He knelt before her, his glasses slipping down his nose. The dogs circled the couch where she sat, panting and whining. Ophelia did not know why, though.

She was still dressed in the cheery pink dress from the night before and her hair was still done up in curls, though they had tangled and frizzed overnight. Her shoes were stuffed unceremoniously beneath her purse, which had taken up residence beneath the coffee table. Will had not allowed her to leave the couch, even to change into something a little more comfortable. Trips to the bathroom were quite the production; Will stood outside, one hand on the knob as if waiting to hear her fall down the toilet to her certain death. The dogs always followed, a sea of fur, lolling tongues, and wagging tails undulating around Will's knees.

The morning sun streamed in through the windows; Will had neglected to close the curtains. A glass of water sat on the coffee table before her, along with a rumpled newspaper with bold, morbid headlines.

"Chesapeake Ripper Killings Shake Baltimore Area" and "Copycat Strikes: Competition for the Ripper?" screamed at her from the coffee-stained pages. It looked as if Will had sat up all night waiting for her to come around.

"A seizure?" she shook her head, refusing to smile for a moment longer, "What happened? The last thing I remember is getting in the car. I felt fine."

"Doctor Lecter called it 'Post-Traumatic Epilepsy'. I don't know," Will bit his tongue. Perhaps it would be wise to withhold the events of the night from her so as not to frighten her any further, "Probably... from the crash. I guess the effect is delayed. How do you feel?"

"Hungry. Thirsty. Tired, but I don't want to sleep. I had weird dreams; I was in a dance studio and there was a stag there, following me around. Surreal."

Will shot to his feet, nearly knocking the smallest of his dogs off kilter, "Breakfast? I have eggs. And bacon. I'll make breakfast. You... you stay. Relax or... or read the paper."

Ophelia had not noticed how Will's hands had begun to shake. As he hurried into the kitchen, she unfolded the paper and reclined on the couch. Winston jumped onto the cushion at her feet, resting his head on her bare legs. He sighed, gazing up at Ophelia as she began to read.

The article detailed gruesome killings done by the Chesapeake Ripper, whose signature brand of horror was apparently removing organs and mounting the bodies in ceremonial ways. While the article was gruesome and graphic, Ophelia could not tear her eyes from the painfully small print. It was fascinating. The images on the page, while morbid, were masterfully crafty and rather artistic. The killer had used fear to create something far from ordinary. Of course, Ophelia would never think of sharing her thoughts on the matter with anyone.

"Where is Alana again?" Ophelia called, "I forgot. Work, right?"

"She had to fly out of town for a case," Will appeared in the doorway, a plate of slightly charred toast in one hand and a tall glass of orange juice in the other, "You're stuck with... this. Not the best, culinary wise."

Ophelia smiled sweetly, "I always preferred my toast on the dark side." She folded the paper and set it aside. Will took note; she was aware of the Ripper now.

"I prefer working with something substantial. Like fish. Fishing is nice. It's peaceful, but at the same time productive. You get something out of it."

"Ever been ice fishing?" Ophelia took a crumbly bite of toast as Will plopped down on the couch between two of the dogs, maintaining a safe gap between he and Ophelia.

"Ice fishing?"

"Yeah, you cut a hole in the ice and-"

"I know what ice fishing is," Will snorted, pushing his hair out of his face. It had grown quite long and unruly.

"I could cut your hair for you, if you like," Ophelia shifted in her seat after a stagnant pause.

Will shook his head, "I don't need to cut my hair."

There was another long silence as Will sipped his coffee and Ophelia took another bite of her toast. Winston sniffed at her plate, which was perched on her lap.

"So, ice fishing," Ophelia said, "Ever been?"

He shook his head, "Never. I'm afraid all I would catch is ice cubes."

Ophelia laughed through another bite of toast, "That would be pretty lame I guess."

There was another pause. Will looked down at his hands, rough from years of work. He knew that there was a topic that he had left unspoken, but he could not leave it hanging between them much longer.

"So," he cleared his throat, "how was your evening? Your," throat cleared again, "date? Did you have a good time?"

"What I remember was nice," Ophelia felt her cheeks flush with heat, "If it hadn't been for the whole seizure thing it would have been a total success." In all honesty, and despite her sarcasm, it had been a wonderful date. She would have loved very much to see Hannibal again. But for some reason, she did not want to think about it or talk about it in Will's presence. His warmth was distracting in the most wonderful way possible.

"That would be enough to put a damper on anyone's day."

She laughed, "But it was cool. Hannibal was cool. I thought it would be intimidating. He doesn't smile or really emote a lot, does he?"

Will forced a grin, "Not often."

Another long silence, punctuated with sips of coffee and orange juice. Will's palms began to sweat.

"Um," Ophelia stood, empty plate and glass in hand, "I guess I'll get a shower. What are you doing today?"

Will stood as well, disturbing the dogs. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words formed as he watched Ophelia begin to retreat up the stairs, assuming he would not respond, to her makeshift bedroom.

"Wait!" he called, a bit more loudly than he intended. The volume of his voice made her start.

She turned to face him, the hem of her skirt swishing around her thighs, "Yeah?"

"Let's go fishing."

Ophelia half-laughed, "I thought you weren't an ice fishing kind of guy."

"I mean a real fishing trip. Mountains, streams... somewhere without snow. I spent some time in Georgia as a boy. We don't have to fish the whole time necessarily. Alana's gone and there's not much for either of us here. The neighbors could feed the dogs. And..." Will realized that he had begun babbling. He clamped his mouth shut. The last time he proposed running away with Ophelia, it had been under much different circumstances. But she had agreed. Perhaps she would take to this idea as well. He glanced down at the words "Chesapeake Ripper". They screamed at him from their crumpled place on the couch, confirming his need to take her away for a while.

While they could not escape forever, a vacation would be an excellent opportunity for the rift between Ophelia and Hannibal to grow. She evidently did not remember kissing him; that was good. The less she thought about Hannibal, the better. If that meant directing her attention elsewhere, Will was willing to do just about anything.

"I've heard the Georgia mountains are nice this time of year..." Ophelia looked down at her feet.

"No snow, no ice. There's a hot spring," Will stuffed his hands in his pockets. He could feel sweat pulling his glasses down the bridge of his nose, but he did not wish to move his hands. The rim of his glasses obscured Ophelia's face. Perhaps it would be easier that way.

Ophelia paused for a moment, then a cheeky grin spread across her face, "Okay, but only if you let me trim your hair."

Will shook his head, scratching his forehead and instinctively adjusting his glasses, "I suppose that's a fair trade. I'll make a few calls."

"And then we'll do something about that mop on your head!" Ophelia called from atop the stairs as Will retreated into the kitchen where the phone hung on the wall. She felt her stomach flutter with excitement; a spontaneous trip with the one person in the world she felt she truly trusted was just what the doctor ordered.

As snow began to blanket the earth, a man covered in tattoos purchased a hunting rifle and Petula Clarke's Greatest Hits. The woman who sold them to him resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow at this odd combination of spoils; she was sure it would not be wise to cross such a man, no matter what his taste in music and hunting gear.

As he dug through his pockets for exact change, her eyes wandered to the front window of her little shop of curios. The car in which the man arrived was still running in the parking lot, and from it she could hear faint music. There was a woman in the passenger seat, but she was unidentifiable, a scarf and a pair of wide-rimmed sunglasses obscuring most of her face. The woman talked into a tape recorder, her shielded eyes trained on the tattooed man all the while. Her lips curled into a poisonous smirk as the man exited the shop, rifle and CD case in hand.

The woman watched as they left, Downtown blaring through the speakers, and the rifle perched on display in on the dashboard.