You Are Now Entering Gate #12

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12
chapter one

Bathed in blood, they fell.

Will could feel the tug of the ocean beneath them as it swelled and crashed against the rocks, the time it took for them to hit it long enough for his mind to sift through every event he'd experienced in his life. There were far too many moments full of a searing ache he'd desired for the man tangled in his arms. Now, this was how it was to end, in the obscurity of a dark ocean current that rolled over them and baptized them into its relentless, violent emptiness. He could feel Hannibal's body shift and turn, and though it stung he would not deny Hannibal his prize. With his cheek torn and burning, he parted his lips as Hannibal held him ever closer and captured his mouth in hungry, fatal longing.

And Hannibal was definitely feeling the love, as Will was, hard against his thigh as they fell. He wasn't really into that, didn't have a problem with it 'per se', just that he preferred certain human bits over other human bits, and while Hannibal wasn't that fussy about what gave him pleasure between the sheets, Will Graham was all about the angsting over it, and for fuck's sake he's slipping him the tongue now and if that isn't just typical of that homicidal bastard.

Will tightened his grip. Whatever, they were dead, so who cares?

Of course, the landing was significantly different from what Will had imagined it would be. Obvious understanding of physics aside, he was sure that being torn into a billion pieces by the sharp rocks jutting out of an Atlantic ocean weren't supposed to feel like softened leather. In fact, softness was the overall sensation that pervaded every second of this whole dying thing, especially with the way the Atlantic air suddenly dried up into a soft, muted shade of firelight that he could see flickering in the corner of his eye. Hannibal's blood soaked cotton shirt was now silky and soft and warm under his palms and Will curiously searched it, hands clasped hard around bunches of loose fabric that smelled like an ocean breeze. Or rather, Downy fabric softener ocean breeze. And what was with these lips that weren't crusty with chunks of human meat and hungrily searching through the gore for Will? Right now they were ever so soft and almost pleading and, dammit, even his body as he straddled Will's lap was softer, Will's grip firm and searching on the man's pliant waist. He *tasted* soft, how was that even possible? Kind of sweet, reminiscent of overripe peaches.

He continued to kiss him, liking the taste, wondering just how long was this damned drop anyway, and why was his sliced cheek no longer aching, or anything else on him save what was in his pants, for that matter. He wasn't really anticipating going for it mid-air like this, but damn, he was going to break a zipper if he didn't find a way to make it happen and soon.

Hannibal tried to pull away, but oh no, that bastard got what he wanted, too late to have second thoughts on this particular lottery win. Will shifted and Hannibal sighed into his mouth, the scent of something intensely sexual wafting up from him and making Will dizzy enough to pause. Maybe trying out some other bits wouldn't be so weird after all, he was pretty much a pro at this whole kissing thing, and Hannibal seemed to like it just as much, so...

"Will."

Hannibal, dishevelled and wrecked but not at all in the way he was anticipating, stared down at him from where he was perched on Will's lap, his hands braced on Will's shoulders. Why was he stopping? This was a sin of omission Will was not going to allow, and in moments Will's hands were busily mussing up his silken coif, tugging the locks in tight circles around his fingers as he forced Hannibal down for another kiss.

"Oh my God, how is it possible you taste this good?"

"Will. Something is very wrong."

They both paused and took a good look at where they were, exactly, and it wasn't quite so much the darkness of endless torment into Hell as their bones and bodies were bloodily rendered by the rolling dirge of the ocean as a quiet little office with a fireplace and a rather familiar leather chair. Which Hannibal and Will were currently sharing. It was not *that* office, which Will was thankful for, not that inexplicably massive space that was more library and art studio than a place fashioned on the influential whims of Sigmund Freud. This office was a quarter of that size, and dark and equally lined with some familiar books from floor to ceiling, with the usual dark furnishings and a large, oak desk that imposed itself in the small space. A second, abandoned leather chair was posed in front of the tiny fireplace that barely lit the otherwise dark room.

"We were falling off a cliff," Will reminded him.

Hannibal was still straddled on his lap, hands still perched on his shoulders, and there was no question, exactly, as to what was set to happen until this sudden realization of their change in venue showed up. Will still had a firm but genuinely erotic grip on Hannibal's waist. Was he seriously wearing a silk purple shirt right now? And a black tie and black suit, of an equally silky sheen? A bit understated for a peacock like Hannibal, and since he had a good view and could get a nice close up of what was directly in his line of vision, he could see the collar of Hannibal's shirt was slightly gap-stitched and, to make matters worse, there were several little threads left orphaned along the back. Curious, Will slid his hand up and over the fabric, its tactile feel beneath his palm one of mass manufacturing, the threads low count and prone to be on sale.

Never!

"What's going on?"

"I don't know, Will." He shifted on Will's lap to get a better look at their surroundings, and really, it was such a treat to see that utterly *perplexed* look on his face! He'd never seen that particular look before, and it amused Will a great deal, hell, seeing Hannibal genuinely stumped was making him harder if that was possible, and seriously, what the hell....

He was hard as a fucking rock right now, and the lack of release was giving him blue balls and...They weren't dying at all, they were safe and were they just--Oh my God, were they *cuddling*? Just what the hell??

"We're in an office," Hannibal said. "Similar to my one in Baltimore but with some obviously very different elements."

"I've already noticed," Will said, raising a brow. "Where is the cliff face?" Will's hands were still roving over Hannibal's waist, his body very slow to get the hint that this was not supposed to be a pleasant little erotic tumble into the ocean's maw. "Where is death, Hannibal? What the hell is going on?" He took in Hannibal's nervous stance over him, the way he looked over his shoulder and around him as though unable to compute it properly and it was then that everything that was happening hit Will with the full force of a blow. "Oh my God...We were about to have sex!"

"Will..."

"This wasn't the arrangement! We were going over a cliff to *die*! We aren't supposed to be alive!"

Oh great, here we go again, Will thought, and he figured since he *could* think he must somehow stupidly still be alive, and yet all that led up to their final battle together, beautiful and glorious as it was, was now forced into that unpleasant realm of hallucination and Will was doubting his sanity. As per usual. He sank in the seat and stared up at Hannibal, incredulous, his hands sinking over the arms of the chair and hanging at its sides, helplessly limp.

"Did you give me encephalitis again?"

"No, Will."

"Are you sure? Or magic mushrooms in the wine, or maybe even a good hit of LSD. Did we even kill the Red Dragon together? That was such a defining moment for our relationship, and if you fucked me over again by making me think we did when we didn't and it's my subconscious acting like your little bitch, so help me..."

The threat went unfinished. There was a loud knock on the office door and Hannibal remained frozen in Will's lap. Will sighed and shifted, placing his hands on Hannibal's waist and easing him to standing as he did likewise. He noticed he was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of rugged jeans that he knew he didn't own, but both were comfortable if not a little out of character for him. He frowned as he inspected it, the t-shirt had a picture of a boom box on it with the words 'Satan's Muzak' plastered across it in neon yellow. He gave it a cursory sniff and noticed it had the same scent as Hannibal's shirt, a weirdly domestic chemical perfume. He'd already identified it as Downy's 'ocean breeze', but dammit, there was something else beneath it, and it was Hannibal's own scent buried in the fibres, so distinctive to Will it was as if he was taking a mental picture of the smell. Which was an odd skill to have, considering it was Hannibal who was the olfactory king.

He found he liked sniffing his shirt where Hannibal had been pressed against it, and there was something else very distinctive lurking in that scent, his body attuned to it with sharp, sensual need. He had to fight the urge to slide up against the back of Hannibal right now and breathe him in, the taste of his skin no doubt as incredible as his mouth.

Will felt inexplicably restless. Punchy. The animal section of his mind wanted to toss Hannibal to the floor and tear him apart, though in what capacity Will wasn't entirely sure. Hannibal's panting mouth was all he could focus on. He tried to shake his head of the image, but it wouldn't clear.

Hannibal placed himself into a semblance of decorum, smoothing down the wrinkles in his suit and affixing his dishevelled hair back into its usual geometric precision. He braced his shoulders and pushed them back as he swung open the door, and gave whoever was on the other side a bland, dull smile that did not meet his black gaze.

A bleached blonde woman in her thirties wearing a leather jacket, halter top and skin tight jeans with high heels was on the other side and while she looked like she might be a streetwalker, the expensive Gucci bag she sported said otherwise. "I've been calling you guys for over an hour. We have to pick up Beverly along the way, she's the one with all the green. I nearly forgot your damned tickets, can you believe that? I know, right, it's a wonder I have my head on straight. Jesus, Hannibal, you are not wearing a fucking suit to this concert, are you? Seriously? You are hopeless, that's all I can say. And no, don't even think it, don't even say it, I know I look like a Blondie wannabe from 1984, but sometimes you have to look the part of a concert organizer and not a tax collector, got it?" Her voice had a weirdly familiar cadence, the accent similar to Hannibal's. Will could immediately determine there were several traits already in evidence, that this was a relative of the Lecter clan. She had the same sharp features, for one, and though she was thin her arms were fairly muscular. A cousin? "It's going to be awesome, all ten thousand tickets sold out in half an hour, can you believe that? Bitch, we got floors! And here you are in your fucking death suit. Oh my God, I tell you to dress down and this is what you do. Well, it's too late to change now, let's just go, Beverly is waiting."

Beverly?

Will glared at Hannibal, who refused to give his hidden enquiry any emotion. Beverly was long dead and the person who made her that way was standing right in front of him, only a hint of apology lurking in his aura. What did this mean, were they dead, then? Was that elusive afterlife not a myth after all, and they were plunged headlong into the infinite mystery that Hannibal himself had denied existed?

"You're driving, by the way, and I don't want to hear any bitching about it. The rest of us are getting smashed, right Will?"

Will opened and closed his mouth, unable to answer. Frankly, getting smashed right now sounded like a great idea.

"Yes, of course," Hannibal said, playing along and forcing Will to do so as well. Considering they didn't know what was happening, perhaps this version of playacting was best. Will found himself pouring his being into his own brand of person suit, one he had cultivated during his time in the asylum. He gave the woman in their midst a warm smile that she instantly responded in kind to, enough to give him a punch in the shoulder that hurt more than it should have and a squeeze of a hug that had such an iron grip it left him flinching.

"I'm afraid I will need instructions on how to get there," Hannibal said, and the woman's smile faltered.

"I work at the damned Opera House! You park there all the time when we booze up at the pub across the street!" She laughed coarsely at Hannibal's perceived forgetfulness, though Will didn't miss the relief that washed over Hannibal over a seemingly familiar landmark. "Nuts, like I'm the one always being told she's forgetful and you get dementia on where we all go for drinks every Friday!" She made a dour face that was supposed to be an imitation of a Hannibal neither of them knew. "Mischa, you forgot to feed the cat. Mischa, you forgot to lock the door. Mischa, you forgot to pay for the coffins. Mischa, you forgot where you put the bodies. Blah, blah, you are such a nag."

Mischa? Hannibal's sister?

Will didn't miss the sudden shock that hit Hannibal at this, the stiff posture and wafts of cold persona that he used as a protective ruse when threatened. He gave her an uneasy smile that she interpreted as shy, but there was an underlying anger beneath it. "It's been a while since I've seen you," Hannibal carefully said.

"What are you talking about, I saw you this morning. Wow, you really do get into a state this time of the month." She began rummaging in her purse, her heels clacking as she marched out of the office and into the front foyer that led to a large set of Victorian oak doors that were highly reminiscent of Hannibal's home. In fact, as Will left the office to follow her, her heels echoing in steady clacks across the marble flooring, he had to concede that yes, this was indeed Hannibal's house, but it was transformed, not as an abode for the king of earthly delights as it had been but as a combination of work and home. He couldn't quite figure out what that work was, exactly, but there was a pervasive feeling of shadows that Will couldn't bring into light, and though he didn't know how he knew this, it was very clear to that empathic inner instinct in him that Hannibal was not a psychiatrist. Hannibal followed closely behind Will, taking in his surroundings with cautious wonder. Will paused, and dared to whisper in Hannibal's ear: "What is this place?"

"It seems it's my home, but it isn't. That monstrous arrangement of flowers and those large double doors under the stairs leading to the centre of the house, they weren't here before. The property seems larger, as though there are additions. But there are distinctive markers that suggest this is, in fact, my home, but it is completely rearranged. This is a highly curious situation we have found ourselves in, Will, one that has no measurable reasoning that I can attest to for us being here. Play along, that is my best advice, whatever journey this is it seems we are meant to have it together."

"We're not in Kansas anymore," Will whispered back. He nodded ahead at Mischa who was now cursing as she rummaged through her large purse once again. "Do you think she's the good witch or the bad witch?"

"Good, of course. Mischa could be nothing else."

"Okay, the concert is starting in an hour, and, fuck, thank God, I thought I forgot it." She pulled out her cell phone and quickly dialled, giving Hannibal and Will a wide grin as she did so. "Beverly! Did you get it? Yes! You are a lifesaver, and yes, I got the mickey of whiskey hidden in the liner of my leather jacket, even if they pat me down they won't find it. Of course you're coming to the after party! Hannibal is the designated driver, of course, you know he won't have fun like we do." She waved at them both to hurry up as she stomped on her impossible heels out the front door, a shudder of snow assailing her as opened it. They followed her, steps in sync, a congruity that Will couldn't help but find amusing.

"At least the Bentley is still here," Will said, nodding at its austere outline in the wintry gloom.

"I am merely relieved we are going to a venue that I have some familiarity with. A good opera is a gift I have not had the occasion to enjoy for quite some time, though from the casual attire expected I have to wonder if it is some art house interpretation. No matter, it is a form of high culture that I am sure we will enjoy."

Will's face twisted into misery. "I hate the opera."

Hannibal smiled patiently at this, and entwined his arm in the crook of Will's elbow, leaning just that little bit too close to him and sending another strange, erotic jolt through Will's gut that he wasn't able to readily explain away. "My only hope is that they do not fall into cliche and force us to endure Carmen. Ten thousand people rioting against its poor production can be a serious problem. Surely she exaggerates, the Opera House cannot hold that amount."

"Hannibal." Will paused as he watched Mischa struggle with the passenger door of the Bentley, her heels digging into the snow and slipping. Eventually, she cursed loudly and tore her heels off, bared stockinged feet immersed in ice as she opened the door and poured herself into the back seat in a messy pile of blonde and denim. "That is your sister."

Hannibal was quiet a long moment as he looked on the Bentley, his posture stiff. "I am not ready to confront the implications of this quite yet. It seems there will many changes, dear Will. Let us watch, as one does a flower opening into the joy of the sun, as time recedes and claws back that which has been taken. I was correct in my assumptions, Will. We have gone so far ahead that all shall now reverb back upon us, and time has reversed itself. The teacup has been recollected and is whole. I should not feel shock that my theories have proved correct, and yet...This is overwhelming even to me, Will. We have no compass, no map from which to understand our place. Navigation will be tricky." He turned to Will, giving him a warm, genuinely happy grin and that weird feeling erupted throughout Will's groin again. He grimaced and near growled in an effort to quell it. "How wonderful it is to have you here, with me, at the universe's rejoining. I am thrilled beyond measure, Will. All that is broken has been repaired."

Will wasn't sure what to believe, there was something in Hannibal's calculations that felt off, but as he was standing here very much alive and not rolling along the bottom of an ocean where his torn body was feeding hungry lobsters, he wasn't going to argue the finer points of physics.

He turned his sights on Hannibal, who was poised at the top of his front steps, staring into the Bentley with such naked emotion, his eyes black with unshed tears, and Will couldn't help himself. He rested a hand on the small of Hannibal's back, in a sincere gesture of affection.

"Time to party, I guess," Will said.

~*~

Beverly was waiting for them on a street corner not far from the Baltimore stadium which was now known as the 'Opera House' due to the amount of bands that played there throughout the year. Hannibal had been seriously admonished by Mischa when he took what she knew to be a wrong turn and it was only when he punched in the address into the GPS under the ruse of getting the best route that they made it on time. Beverly was wearing a similar ensemble to Mischa, only with a sparkling gold jacket instead of a leather one, and boots with heels that were easily an inch higher. While there were genuine similarities to the personality he had met and worked with in that other, quickly fading life before the fall, she was much happier here and less ambitious, the wild side to her nature allowed to roam free. And she was certainly feral, Will quickly gleaned, especially with the way she was already drunk and waving a mickey of whiskey in Mischa's face, her purse practically overflowing with weed, the skunk scent of it nearly knocking Will out.

"I rolled some fatties for you Will!" Beverly shoved her fingertips deep into his shoulder, bruising him. He took them from her reluctantly, he'd never been one to smoke it, long preferring alcohol to dull his senses. "I'd give some to you, too, Hanni, but you're our designated driver, so sucks to be you. Remember the last time? Oh my God, you were so wasted, and you had that funeral the next day. Nobody could tell which one was the corpse!" She leaned into the front seat, heedless of a seatbelt, her elbows perched between them. "You're pretty close, hunh? I bet you guys got knotted up first, right? You sure you're going to be okay tonight, Hanni, I mean, you're on a heat holiday and all, cutting it kind of close, right? Mischa told me you tried to back out, but there's no way you can miss this, honest to God, I don't care if someone choked the life out of me and ripped out my kidneys an hour ahead, I'm not missing this!"

Will loudly coughed at this, but Hannibal seemed unperturbed. Will noted that he did, however, flinch every time Beverly called him 'Hanni'.

"Will's lucky he's got you, most Omegas would be curled up in bed right now, refusing to do a thing. When are you bringing that dog in for her shots? You're like a month behind in her rabies, and I know she can't move much these days but you still like taking her to your cottage in Virginia and they had some outbreaks there recently."

"Our dog," Will said, giving Hannibal a raised brow, and liking that the man didn't respond readily to this. "Interesting."

"I miss Samson's big, sloppy face. I know you guys are busy but you could at least bring him around the clinic for a visit once in a while. I love the big, goofy ones."

Beverly, Will quickly learned as she prattled on, was a veterinarian in this universe, and he had only one dog which was nearing the end of its natural life, which had been fraught with endless health problems. A slobbering Rottweiller with an asthmatic condition and prone to stomach ailments, the ailing canine was now ten years old. They had a much older cat that Hannibal had brought into their relationship, who Beverly clearly had no love for. She was a vicious creature, Beverly hinted, one that scratched and bit at every visit and would only allow Hannibal to pick her up. According to Beverly the cat bullied the dog relentlessly, and Will had brought the aging pooch to her several times after the cat had lacerated his ear.

"As for that cat, I keep telling you it's time to let her meet her maker, she's a misery. Sixteen years old and still pure evil. I know you're all sentimental about the rotten thing, Hanni, but I'm an animal lover and I usually adore all kinds of claws and teeth, but that little tabby cunt can get drop kicked into Hades for all I care. I had to get stitches in my arm the last time you brought her in, Hanni--*Stitches*!"

She showed him the still red scar on her forearm, which Hannibal glanced at in passing. "Clearly she is still feisty enough to defend herself, proof of a definite will to live."

"Typical Hanni, giving that rotten cat's bad behaviour excuses. You are a such a marshmallow."

Will choked on this observation, despite Hannibal giving him a warning glare. Beverly sank back into the passenger seat with Mischa, who was busy on the phone discussing last minute details with her staff at the concert venue. Mischa, Will discovered, was a PR representative for the Opera House and was responsible for booking bands and events for the large stadium, which was still currently undergoing renovations. She walked a tightrope between administrative genius and rock star, and it was hard to see where she was on that balancing act at any given moment, the lines so blurred she was a character of note herself.

"Park in the VIP section, it's in the part closest to the boardwalk. Security wanted the band to have back door access, but I still think the one off to the side on the right was better, the doors are bigger and it would have been easier to get in their equipment. I hope these damned renos are done soon, it's bad enough we have heating costs that are barely making this break even. I already got the parking stickers, it's good until six tomorrow morning, but I know you won't be staying that long. I'm going to have to dip in and have a few last minute chats with my people, make sure they aren't using the razor blade idea in the cannon, I kept telling those idiots you can't shoot sharp projectiles into a crowd, but do they listen?" She gave her brother a worried glare. "Hannibal, you going to be okay? Shit, I don't know, you look all clammy. I got pills if you want them, and I'm sure someone in there has got something that's never going to be an over the counter prescription, if you get my meaning, and of course, there's weed..."

"I don't need anything, Mischa," Hannibal tersely replied.

"Well, okay, but you're looking so pale." She punched Will's already bruised shoulder and between her and Beverly he was getting amicably battered. "Keep an eye on your husband tonight, don't worry about Beverly and I if you have to take him home."  She bit her bottom lip, her sharp eyes narrowing on her older brother.  "I hope this is just heat and not about that impending release date.  They aren't going to let him out, no judge in their right mind would allow that, so don't worry about it."

"I am perfectly fine, Mischa," Hannibal said, though there was a small lilt of strain in his voice that gave Will pause.

Mischa noticed it immediately and tutted at her older brother. "You should have took a heat suppressant like I told you to. There's a full bottle right there in the downstairs bathroom."

Beverly rolled her eyes. "Those things are placebos, none of them work. I have tampons, we all know those can help take the edge off, at least. Just let me know if you need one."

Hannibal's gloved grip on the steering wheel tightened and his pallor increased. Will felt a sick well in the pit of his stomach, and his shock and horror must have shown because Beverly laughed at his stricken expression, her bottom lip chewed in teasing mirth. "Like you've never heard of that before. As if, Will, you've been married for how long?"

"It's just n-not something you outright talk about in front of a guy," Will stammered, and this seemed to be the right answer.

Beverly collapsed in her seat and sighed at this. Mischa was busy putting the mickey of whiskey into the lining of her leather coat, as per their plan, and was thankfully not part of the conversation. He had no clue what they were referencing but there was a definitely uncomfortable sexual component to it that his empathy instantly alighted on, making his confusion all the more evident.

"You Alphas are all the same," Beverly said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "You only pay attention to the parts of heat that interest you and just block out the reality of all the messy bits."

Mischa's head shot up as they entered the parking lot on the far side of the stadium, which was already packed with people. "Park over there!"

Beverly let out a squeal of delight and giggled in excitement. "This night is going to be *sick*! Come on, come on, hurry up and park!"

Hannibal smoothly complied, his silence speaking entire essays that neither of the women in the car could hear, but Will could feel every intonation, every small outrage fluttering with purpose in Hannibal's breast. He was curious, that was obvious--Hannibal was always curious as to what was about to happen should he manipulate this or that moment--but the rub right now was that he had no foundation from which to spring and the only reality he could morph at present was a bland pretending of knowing what was going on around him.

"Marriage," Hannibal said, smiling with a forced cheer that was near grotesque on his otherwise stern visage, looking more a grimace than joy. He brought the large car into a cramped parking space and, as was his habit, expertly placed it with razor sharp precision between the yellow lines. "The years have clearly been good to us," Hannibal continued, talking to no one in particular. "A union of two souls combined into one. I believe that is the perception and expectation, and I am happy to see that Will and I have encapsulated both."

Beverly and Mischa paused at this giving each other confused looks before disintegrating into derisive laughter. "Whatever you say, big brother," Mischa said, slapping her large hand on Hannibal's shoulder and snorting with ugly mirth. "Don't know why you think you have to butter him up to get laid. Eighteen years, and you still think you have to earn it, you're adorable."

She dug into her purse and pulled out the tickets which she handed to Beverly, who was already smoking a doobie and handing the skunky smelling blunt to Will. He took it reluctantly, and smoked it only when she insisted, his lungs protesting the burning, bitter effort. His eyes were watering, but he coughed and took a second puff before handing it back.

"The best shit always makes you choke," Beverly said, grinning widely at him, and while he had a bit of a buzz already brewing, he couldn't say it was anything near as spectacular as cutting a human down in cold blood with a fellow killer and bathing in said juices.

He gave Hannibal a wan smile. "So...Honey. I guess it's showtime."

"I imagine so," Hannibal tersely replied. "I do hope my expectations are not as low as I anticipate them to be."

"Just because you are stuck being the designated driver does not give you license to be a condescending bitch," Mischa said to him. She slid out of the car, with Beverly following suit, their efforts staggered and already suspiciously uneven. "Meet you in the front row. Enjoy! This thing is paying my mortgage for the rest of the year!"

~*~

Well, no, it wasn't exactly Carmen.

Or opera.

And really, Hannibal didn't have to stand there so miserable and out of place, refusing to find any sort of redemptive quality in the heaving crowds that pressed at his back and nearly crushed his ribs against the stage. One typical concert goer body slammed him hard and stepped on Hannibal's foot, hard enough to earn a very neatly placed elbow at his throat that sent him flying back into the melee behind him. Hannibal continued to stand in his appointed spot, easing out the wrinkles in what was, in all honesty, a cheap suit, and remained looking as stern as a narc.

Will sighed as he stared at him, wishing his fellow killer could just relax for once and not be constantly internally playing the game of daring and consequence and placing bets on which scenario was most likely to play out. Will, for his part, was having a fucking fantastic time. Mischa kept the booze flowing with secretive sips of the mickey of whiskey from her sleeve and Beverly was in charge of the little nubs of apple pie, aka pot, she kept hidden behind the collar of her jean jacket and pretended to kiss Will when it was actually a puff, puff, pass when the security detail wasn't looking.

Sold out show! And they had *floors*!

No, it wasn't opera. It wasn't Carmen. It was as far and wide from classical in the Hannibal sense as one could get, but Will knew all the words to all the songs and damn if he didn't get transported all the way back to his angry late teen years when he'd spend days bunkered in his filthy room, blasting 'Sober'.

"Mother Mary, won't you fucking whisper!" He bopped his head and leaned laughing into Beverly, body thumping with the crowd, and its unholy din.

Floors! For TOOL!

Of course, Hannibal had never gotten to know this portion of Will Graham, this wild and unfettered little piece of history that his anger rode on, shaped in obscure lyrics and psychoanalytical mysticism, all delivered in a very loud, screaming package. He was too busy seeking out his murderous tendencies and moulding his mind into agreement with his monstrous world view--Efforts which could have been avoided if he'd just investigated Will's dusty CD collection in the glove compartment of his car. A person' choice in music said volumes about them, it was no small thing that killer David Berkowitz, aka 'The Son Of Sam', was fond of The Partridge Family.

For Will it was all about the anger and dissonance, and frankly, TOOL was kind of last on his list of preferred bands. He was an indie junkie, the ones he had LPs of stacked in the attic of his Virginia home were more obscure punk bands from the late eighties, full of discordant screaming, heavy guitar and the occasional sound of cracked teeth and razor blades slicing skin. It was a shame The Babykillers only ever put out an imprint of a hundred LPs, they were exactly the kind of band he followed with religious relish.

TOOL were okay, far too much by way of talent and melody for his liking, and from the austere look of them they were not the angry pessimistic self destructive monsters he much preferred. But still, Will knew all the songs, and his heart thrummed in tune with the massive crowd behind him, a wolf amongst the sheep who was steadily growing drunk on the euphoria of others.

"Will..."

Fuck yeah! Forty-six and two! Was that a new guitar riff? It sounded incredible!

"Will, please..."

Beverly stepped back and bid Will to stand in her place behind Hannibal, and she was shouting something to him but he couldn't hear her over the din, and it was all so fantastic, so incredible the way the crowd was all lit up, and he was floating amongst them, his body sweating, his muscles tensed and released, the endorphins of the crowd a dizzying, overpowering high...

"Will, I don't feel well."

Will felt a nag of annoyance hit his gut at this, because of *course* Hannibal would need to ruin this for him, he would need to interfere and present some ridiculous excuse to get him to stop enjoying himself for once. Far be it for Will Graham to have anything for his own pleasure! He turned on Hannibal with an angry scowl, only for it to falter and then gradually disappear as he saw that the man was, without question, in genuine distress.

Hannibal was starkly pale, his face a pasty hue that Will had never before witnessed and that filled him with alarm. He half wondered if their glorious dream had finally ended and there they were, crushed against the rocks and this was Hannibal's death before him as he sank to the bottom of the Atlantic with him. But Hannibal was not cold to the touch as Will inspected his brow with a press of his palm against it, he was burning red hot, enough to scorch. His skin left behind a thin sheen of very sweet smelling sweat on Will's fingers and though he couldn't figure out why, at that moment all he could think about was getting Hannibal home, getting him somewhere *safe*.

He turned to Mischa, but she waved him off, a half smile given to him and no concern at all directed at her older brother. "Take him home!" Mischa shouted. "Beverly and I are sticking around for the after party anyway! We'll get a taxi!"

She moved her mouth, and she might have said more, but Will couldn't hear her. A security guard suddenly appeared at Hannibal's elbow, clearly he was brought over to help them leave. A secreted door at the left side of the stage ushered them out and down a long corridor that ended outside of the auditorium and into the parking lot. Will could see the Bentley in the distance, a small layer of snow covering it.

The security guard was an African American man of slender build, wearing a tight, bright blue t-shirt with the white words 'Security' blazoned across it. He nodded at Hannibal, who was leaning on Will, his complaints of dizziness and nausea now a near constant refrain. "Probably shouldn't have cut it this close if it was coming up," the security guard gently admonished Will, who didn't have a clue what the guy meant, no matter how much empathy he tried to glean from the various facets of information he'd gathered. 'Heat suppressants' Mischa had said, and then Beverly had cut in about tampons which was weird, and what did it all mean?

What the hell was 'heat'?

'They would never release him..' Mischa had said.  Who did she mean?

"Hannibal?" Concerned, Will focused on the man who was now shivering in front of him. He caged Hannibal's face in his palms, feeling the inexplicable fever coursing through him. He felt a sudden urge to pet him, his hands moving of their own accord, smoothing down his hair and melting the tiny flecks of snow that dared to cover it. Will felt dizzy himself, but it was due to alcohol and weed, and maybe a little bit of that flavour that was gently wafting from Hannibal's partially open lips, so sweet and delectable that Will couldn't do it, his willpower was no longer his own, and he captured Hannibal's breath, stealing it as he placed tender kisses on that surprised, and yet relieved, soft mouth.

"You're going to have to drive," Will reminded him when he broke free, and Hannibal nodded into the palms still framing his face, the dreamlike quality of the evening not lost on Will alone, it seemed. Will's hands slid away from his face and one clasped onto Hannibal's as he led him to the Bentley, keys already in Hannibal's hand. The walk seemed to take forever.

Were they still falling over that craggy cliff? They were witnesses to the dead, that was a certainty, they had Beverly and Mischa, two long buried corpses who had now arisen and were full of life in their midst. It didn't seem fair to be given this when all was set to dissipate, their conjoined illusions ending in darkness.

Hannibal turned on the Bentley with a push of the button on his key. The engine purred into life, the lights of the large car illuminating the parking lot.

Will frowned as he glanced back at the security guard who was watching to make sure they left safely. The man gave him a friendly wave, which Will returned with a wave back. Very strange, he had no recollection of ever seeing that man before, and Will never forgot people, especially not their faces. In dreams, strangers were never random, they were faces seen and recorded by the subconscious, brought out in somnolence. There were monsters and imagery that was unusual and surreal in his imaginings, but never strangers within them, never this kind of detailed, every day inanity. Where were the monsters and the slick black images of water he would have expected? Where was his churning abyss of blood?

Then there was Hannibal himself, strangely compliant as he got into the car and slid into the driver's seat, Will quickly accompanying him in the passenger role beside him. He pet the back of Hannibal's neck in long strokes and what the hell, his lithe, never to be rattled monster purred into the touch, a dreamy look in his gaze that had nothing at all to do with impending death.

"Will, I am feeling very strange."

"We must be dying," Will said, hoping that Hannibal agreed.

Hannibal licked his lips and frowned slightly at this. He pulled the car out of park and began to drive it off the lot. "No, William, I don't believe that to be true at all. This car is real beneath me, as are my hands upon the steering wheel. Your touch...Dear Will, you are mesmerizing me. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to stop, for though it is exceptionally pleasant it's making me feel calm enough to sleep."

Will trailed his hand away, pausing his fingers at Hannibal's lips and taking small delight in how the man couldn't resist closing those maroon eyes and kissing their tips. "Our relationship is taking on some very romantic elements, Will. Lust has its place for us, it seems."

Something feral and eager unsprung itself from within Will Graham as he looked on Hannibal, and it was with no small amount of surprise that he heard a darker intonation in his voice, which was far gruffer than he'd intended.

"Just get us home," he said.