You Are Now Entering Gate #12

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12
chapter two

There are certain finalities that Dr. Hannibal Lecter knows to be true. Will Graham, the man he loves, is as unpredictable as the influence of a fractal. He is a man of infinite original, many sided geometries that circumspect the nature of the universe and tile his imprint upon it. This is a surety that Hannibal delightfully counts on and it was with an aria of blissful longing in his heart that he allowed himself to be pulled by the man's embrace over the edge of that fateful cliff towards the hungry waters below. Fate was set to determine the rest. As all great tragedies, theirs was to be especially poetic. Well done, Will.

The other finality was the disappointing understanding that death brings with it a firm resolution. There were to be no further chapters in the newly born life of Will and Hannibal Lecter, there was to only be regurgitation of the past, which would eventually become sad leavings on the back pages of Tattle Crime. They would fade into gory footnotes staining the history of Earth. Such a shame. He would have at least preferred a last meal.

But what the cannibal and killer and overall monster Dr. Hannibal Lecter did not put into his computations of this observation of reality is that what we perceive and understand as *being* is as malleable as Francis Dolarhyde himself had been, and with far more radical formations than even Will's unpredictable nature could account for. They were, inexplicably, bereft of death. How this came about Hannibal could only theorize, and yet, even his favoured teacup scenario did not entirely hold weight here, the little shards not only still falling apart, but continuing to break into smaller and smaller pieces until nothing at all was left of it. To reverse time would mean going back to an exact moment he recognized, to be within a familiar place with a hopefully different result. But this was not the case here, for this was still the present, and while the teacup seemed to be put back together, it was a mishmash of several other such broken shards of ceramic, all of different dates and manufacturers, glued back together unevenly and rendered into a patchwork whose pattern was impossible to interpret.

"You have a dancing skeleton mug."

Will plunked it in front of him as they inspected their now significantly smaller kitchen. The black mug with glow in the dark skeletons was the sort of gift a family member would give, and from what he'd gleaned of her personality, it was no doubt a present from his now not dead sister, Mischa.

Just the thought of her sent a flutter of panic throughout Hannibal's being and he pushed the offending mug and alien feeling away and reached instead for the calming glass of, admittedly, far cheaper wine than he was used to enjoying. This still did not feel like a place where they belonged, the very air seeming to goad them with an expectation of initiation. He'd felt a nagging suspense as they'd journeyed up the wide driveway to the front of their large, sprawling home. The grounds of their home were shrouded in darkness as they pulled up in the Bentley and he was feeling too unwell to properly inspect the large sign on his front lawn, indicative that this was his both his home and his business. A thick layer of snow covered it like a white shroud.

He was still unwell. The queasiness was more under control than it had been at that terrible concert, but it was still lurking in his gut, along with a feeling of restless neediness that he simply couldn't shake. He wanted to go to bed, specifically he wanted to go to bed with *Will*. The sexual component of such a desire was not at all important, what he truly wanted was to feel Will's arms on him again and this time in languid ease, so they could properly enjoy the afterglow of their mutual kill, which was sadly becoming muted as the evening wore on. Hannibal felt as though they had been robbed of this intimacy after the fall over those monstrous cliffs, and though it should have been enough to just be in his dear Will's proximity, for many reasons his physical body was aching for much, much more.

He couldn't help but feel distracted as Will barely got the key in the front door before he was insisting they investigate their new, yet old, surroundings, his hands picking up bits and pieces of a life that Hannibal had no understanding of. A few quick strides to the right of the mysterious central doors and they were in that section of the house he'd favoured most. He was instantly disappointed. The kitchen was far too small for his liking, though it was clear from the contents of his fridge that he was still an avid cook, though Will's influence was painfully evident. Pop tarts in the cupboard next to the oven. Bags of half opened potato chips of some vile generic brand held together with large clips. Canned soups and boxes of macaroni and cheese.

One word properly described it: Pedestrian.

He no longer had his lovely indoor herb garden and the dining room was stubbornly functional, sporting a battered round, oak dining table and mismatched chairs. There was painfully little by way of decoration in the home, and there was a greasy, black boat motor propped at the back entrance leading to the large back yard. He gave Will a knowing look, as some things didn't change, at least. A yawning, grey faced Rottweiller blearily eyed Will's frantic searching and pacing with bored interest before closing its eyes and slumping to the floor on a folded, worn comforter, falling back asleep beside the greasy motor, clearly used to his master's bad habits. Will crouched down and gave the ancient dog a playful scratch behind his ears, sending the little stub of a tail in an instant wag. "He's slobbery," Will said, but he was smiling, wiping his hands on his jeans as he stood up and left the old dog to sleep in peace.

Hannibal was not so content. In place of his herb garden there were pictures on the wall of strangers, the dog and cat figuring prominently in a few of them, along with children, whom Hannibal assumed were Mischa's. He couldn't help but smile at this, it was something he would have taken pride in, had she survived in that other life. Still, he couldn't help but inwardly remark that they weren't exactly attractive examples of the Lecter clan. A girl and a boy, both with dark hair and eyes, the boy tall and slender, the girl rather squat, her hair hiding her face with a halo of messy black curls. From the years leading up into their teens they were perpetually scowling into every camera, even as babies, two surly, rather miserable creatures if one took the photographs to be any indication of their personalities.

Will sighed, staring down at the ramshackle dining room table, and bringing the space into a shock of brilliant white light as he flicked a switch and bathed it in domestic brilliance. "What do you think?" Will asked, gesturing at the trap door beneath the table. "Shall we discover if some things never change?"

"You are still fond of boats," Hannibal said, gesturing to the motor and the dog snoring beside it. "And filthy canines."

Will didn't answer him, instead moving the oak dining table to one side, an action that had been done countless times before if the deep gouges in the wooden floor were any indication. He watched with bated breath as Will braced himself and pulled the trap door open, revealing a set of narrow stairs and a very well lit space waiting for them underground. A waft of chemicals rose up and Hannibal couldn't help but gag on it, its acidity placing an unpleasant layer on the back of his tongue. Formaldehyde. If he had murderous inclinations, as the presence of this chemical clearly suggested, it was in a far different capacity than the one he enjoyed in that other, already quickly fading, life.

Will gave him a knowing look and he began his descent, Hannibal smoothly following him. The chemical was stronger, now, along with other harsh cleaning products that smelled of various strengths of bleach. His basement was no longer the dark cavern he had previously enjoyed, and instead was a brilliant white, with shining, spotless ceramic tiles lining it from top to bottom, a large drain in the centre of the room along with a vast amount of what looked to be morgue cabinets affixed to one side of the wall. There were three metal tables, fashioned like shallow steel tubs complete with drains at the end, and a shower head affixed above it, along with a harsh spotlight. Will let out a low whistle at this, and turned to Hannibal with no small amount of victorious disdain. "Even when you have everything you want you can't keep away from it," Will said, sneering as he shook his head.

"Will," Hannibal said, taking in the surroundings with a far more critical and less emotional eye, "I am not entirely sure this is supposed to be a kill room."

"What else could it be?" Will snapped at him, a cheap plastic shower curtain separating the storage area for the chemicals from this, the central focus of what Will perceived was Hannibal's murderous might brought into a proper lab setting. "I bet you get a lot of sculptures done down here, there's no mistaking it, you've got all the tools you need. To say I'm disappointed is an understatement, you have everything you want, you have me, you have your sister, you have all of the universe refashioned whole just for your whims, and dammit, here it is! Evidence that you appreciate none of it!" Will angrily nodded his head at the metal doors on the right side of the room, his hands shaking as he pointed angrily at them. "So what will we find behind this? Another cold room for all your delectable treats? I'm warning you, Hannibal, if this results in nothing but blood and death once again, and all is destroyed as it was before, I can't forgive you twice. I won't. I will find a way to kill us both again!"

Will whipped the door open and was forced to step back.

"It's..."

"It's an elevator," Hannibal said, creeping up slowly behind him and then passing Will as he entered it. It was distinctively decorative, with faux wood panelling with a very low ceiling, both Will and Hannibal had to bend to get into it. It was also very narrow. Will cautiously stood beside his friend, his fellow predator, his *husband*, and Hannibal stared at the small, lit up buttons that proclaimed there were exactly three floors to choose from. Hannibal pressed the second floor and the doors slid shut, the elevator smoothly rising upwards to what was, he was sure, the main level of the house.

When the doors opened and Will stepped out, it was obvious why that particular lift was needed. Will held his hand at his mouth as he stretched his way out of the elevator, shocked at what he was seeing, his steps uncertain, his head bobbing in a frantic recalculation of all that was instantly revealed.

"This is...This is a *chapel*."

Confused, Will slid his fingers along the outlines of dark wooden pews that led to a central altar, one that was devoid of specific religious significance, but which had ample flower decorations surrounding it, the stuffy space thick with their fragrance. He walked up the three small steps that led to the lectern, and braced his arms on either side of it, the tiny microphone propped beside it, silent. His voice was naturally amplified as he spoke to Hannibal who was standing stock still at the other end of the aisle, his head cocked to one side in genuine curiosity.

"You're a *funeral director*!" Will exclaimed, his voice echoing across the chapel.

"I will try not to be disappointed in how well you state the obvious, Will. Surely the stench of formaldehyde was an adequate enough clue."

Will shook his head. "This figures."

Hannibal licked his lips. "How do you come to that conclusion?"

"Oh come on, Hannibal, it's not like the two scenarios are all that different, you're still sculpting corpses, you're just getting paid for it this time and they're being brought to you instead of you seeking them out. We're in a new world but this really isn't so far off the mark!"

Hannibal tried, and failed, to quell his annoyance at this. "That is an exceptionally unkind assessment of the funerary arts, Will. I'm going to pretend I did not hear you equate serial killing with those who are hired to respect the dead." Hannibal chewed his bottom lip, taking in the surroundings with a renewed sense of unease. "A chapel. How ironic. I suppose if God exists and He wants to continue with His ridiculous play He will allow my roof to fall upon us. It would seem an adequate revenge for a deity."

Will stormed off from the pulpit and marched down the central aisle, opening the large doors that led into the front foyer, the marble flooring making far more sense than before. "I guess that sign out front is indicative of the family business. Beverly mentioned you're on a 'heat holiday' so I'm guessing that means your calendar is clear at least for a few days. That'll give us some time to figure out where and what we are at least, though I doubt we'll ever truly figure out the *why*."

Hannibal couldn't argue that point. As it stood, they were on the precipice of reality as it was, and Hannibal couldn't understand why this version of himself would choose such a morbid profession when he was clearly far more capable of putting the living into coffins over the dead. Still, the macabre artistry involved did appeal to certain portions of his instincts, and Hannibal had to concede it wasn't an entirely unpleasant vocation for one such as himself. He had plenty of grieving widows and widowers over the years in his practise, and not all of them were entirely made that way by his doing.

A quick, further inspection revealed the remainder of the main floor of the house, save for the kitchen, was dedicated to the business of the dead. The funeral home was not as eye-catching as Hannibal would have liked it to be, and he was already setting up in his mind the small, artful gothic touches that would really make the place stand out as an aesthetic welcoming of the dead. A few hints of Goya here and there would not be remiss, and the lobby sorely needed some mediaeval woodcutting prints, specifically those dedicated to skeletal images of the plague.

A sudden wave of nausea similar to what he'd experienced at the concert hit him, and Hannibal paused at the base of the stairs, his hand reaching out to balance himself as he took a fierce grip of the rails. Will was halfway up and he quickly ran back down, concern etched into every line of his frown. He slid his hand across Hannibal's brow in an intimacy that was highly similar to one Hannibal had given him all those years ago, and he sank into the cool touch of Will's skin, his body aching to melt against him. He could feel thin rivulets of sweat coursing down his spine and he didn't resist when Will placed an arm around his waist, and gently eased him up the stairs to what was, presumably, their shared bedroom.

"Do you think you are suffering some sort of prolonged illness?" Will asked, and Hannibal leaned against him, the touch giving him a strange sense of comfort that equally eased his nausea.

"No. It's not quite a flu. I'm not sure what this is."

He was expecting his usual abode, heavily draped in drop cloths and awaiting renovation, but what greeted them was a strange re-arrangement of his living space. As Will walked down the narrow corridor to open the room he knew contained Hannibal's bed, there was, in its stead, a vast space fashioned out of three bedrooms combined into one and recreated into a very well lit living room. There was a massive, sixty inch television at the far wall, along with three couches arranged around it in a C shape, and beside this there was a pool table, and then further down the left side there was a tucked in bar where a bathroom had once been. At the far end, where they were standing, was a sort of den that took advantage of a built in fireplace original to the Victorian structure of the house, an assortment of winged back chairs curled around it. Though the room was one vast, open space, it had been divided in need, and it was clear from the amount of papers and clutter and books on hunting laying around the floor beside them at their feet that both Hannibal and Will much preferred this little corner for themselves. The space was relatively clean but not clear of human influence as Hannibal's home once was, and there were several indications that this was a common room used by a busy family, the well worn couches and chairs a testament to the amount of time they tended to spend here. Dirty plates with cutlery were left on a coffee table in front of the television, along with an empty bag of potato chips. Hannibal frowned, the rudeness of this irking him.

Mischa's children would have to learn some better manners.

He could feel Will's hand at his lower back and he fought the urge to turn around and near beg with his mouth for more of those delicious kisses that he had been spoiled with at the beginning of their odd journey into this world. It seemed incredibly silly for them to be denying themselves the spoils of desire, especially when it had been so clear to him earlier in the evening that Will was not about to be daunted by the pleasures of the flesh. It was such a small component of what they shared, this needfulness of physicality, and yet Hannibal was more than willing to succumb to it, a melding of skin into that which was admittedly only a very small expression of his love.

He felt physically weak and shaking at present, his body betraying him with strange bouts of nausea coupled with sudden spikes in his fever that he had difficulty diagnosing. It didn't quite feel like a flu, and there was a certain, cyclical ebb and flow to the sensations that were unlike anything he had experienced or witnessed in patients. What he did discover was that Will's touch seemed to ease some of the symptoms and he sought it out even now, pressing closer to him as Will had his arm wrapped around his waist, his head resting against Will's temple.

They journeyed back into the slender hallway and opened what they presumed was a bedroom door, only to be confronted with a violent cacophony of black and red, a chaotic room with walls plastered with various Rob Zombie posters and a frilly canopy bed that was decorated in every gaudy manner of black lace and satin bedcovers. Costume jewellery lay tangled on a dresser with a cracked mirror, smears of make up on discarded tissue tossed on top of them. There were crusty dishes in here, the floor nearly thigh deep in dirty clothes and other assorted teen chaos, along with a pervasive stench of stale, cheap perfume. "Mischa's daughter must be a frequent visitor," Hannibal observed.

Will frowned at this, and shook his head. "I think she lives here."

Curious, Will parted from him, and Hannibal swallowed deeply at how the separation seemed to make him ill, a wave of nausea hitting him anew. He slid his shoulder along the wall as Will opened the second bedroom and found a different sort of arrangement, one distinctively male and far more sporty, though with a faint scent of weed. Mischa's older son stayed here as well. How very odd, why was he their keeper? Had something happened in Mischa's past that had made her an errant parent? It seemed unlikely, the Mischa he knew had been every facet of what he understood to be goodness and light and there was no possible way she could have created such unkempt, dreary creatures as this. No, that had to have been Will's doing. Hannibal let out a moue of disappointment as he closed the elder boy's door.

"Do you understand what this means?" Will said to Hannibal.

"We seem to have to some permanent, messy guests," Hannibal answered.

Will grimaced in nervous anticipation as they opened the final bedroom door and, how blissfully wonderful! His bed was made in starched, white linens, the room was spotlessly clean, his dresser clear of all debris. In fact, it was as if no one resided in this room at all!

It seemed a little small for two people to be sharing.

"This is a guest room," Will said, and Hannibal's hopes fell as he had to silently agree.

There was only one room left and it was directly across from them at the end of the hall. There was a certain suspense involved in opening that door, which Will did with painful slowness, as though expecting a fatal trap to spring from its dark confines and destroy them both. What greeted them, however, was a mess of sheets and comforters, frantically tossed clothes that never quite made it into a hamper, a broken cell phone and a mess of papers on what was, presumably, Will's side of the bed, while on Hannibal's all was neat and free of debris, save an ebook reader which needed recharging and an empty wine glass.

"Our little family has a bad habit of leaving dirty dishes around this house," Hannibal observed. "It seems I am a likewise culprit."

In the centre of the unmade bed was a very large, rotund tabby who glared at Will with a predator glint that suggested it believed he was nothing more than a mouse. Will waved his hand at the feline to bid her leave the bed and earned a couple of ears pressed tight against her head and enough spitting hissing to make a cobra proud. He wisely stood back.

"I take it this is Tiger," Will said.

Hannibal looked down at the small ball of angry fur and wondered what it was that Beverly had found to complain about. The cat simply didn't like Will, was all, as evidenced by the way she curled up in happy purring when Hannibal scooped her up into his arms, her head butting happily and forcefully beneath his chin. He chuckled over her insistent purrs, which increased the more he gently petted her round flank.

Will tried to pet her and she instantly hissed and swatted at him, much to Hannibal's mirth. "I do believe she has a long standing jealousy with you, dear Will."

He released the chubby tabby, who slowly left the room, tail flicking in annoyance in Will's direction.

"Hannibal," Will said, and his voice was filled with unease. "We have children. From the look of their rooms, they must be in their teens, and those images of them downstairs, framed family photos, all the trappings of a normal life...We must have adopted them at some point early in our relationship and we've been a solid family unit ever since. Which begs the question, where the hell are they right now?"

Hannibal wasn't concerned, they weren't children he could easily conceive of as his own, from what he'd seen they had especially bad habits and poor manners and what they were up to in this rather mismanaged partially adult life of theirs was clearly part of their usual routine. Right now he cared more about getting this sheen of sweat off of him and cleansing himself of the sticky sensation it left on his skin. He still felt weak and feverish and the pull of the bed, no matter how unkempt, was one that was difficult to deny. "I need to shower. If you could change the sheets, it would be appreciated."

Will balked at this. "You want us to sleep together?"

"That does seem to have been the arrangement for eighteen years, so yes."

Will hesitated at this, confusion reigning amidst the assortment of wrinkled pillows and the clutter of a life that wasn't their own. He looked ready to protest, only to shrug and hold up his hands at the effort it would take. "I'm too tired to argue. I'm still not entirely convinced we aren't dying and this is all a highly complex hallucination." He watched as Hannibal opened up the large closet and was instantly bemused by Hannibal's tutting over his rather plain wardrobe, which mostly consisted of heavily starched dark cotton shirts and black suits. When trussing the dead one had to look of their number, Hannibal supposed. He rummaged through the drawers of a built-in dresser and pulled out surprisingly silky pyjamas that he would never have purchased. There was some strange green faced cartoon character plastered all over them, and his first inclination was that they were Will's only to realize they were in his own size. Another one of those gifts, he supposed, like the tacky mug. Why did people have this insane need to fill their lives with meaningless bric-a-brac like this? Again, this had to have been Will's influence, purchased as a joke.

"I'm taking a shower," Hannibal said to him, but Will wasn't listening, he was concentrating in that single mindedness of his on the top rack of the closet where a box clearly marked 'Family Papers, Etc.' bid him to satisfy his investigative curiosity. Hannibal sighed and kept the silk pyjamas in his grip as he headed for the en suite. Whatever information Will gleaned, he hoped it could wait until morning.

The en suite was far smaller than the one in that other house, in that other life, this one serving far more function than form. A very simple three piece bathing room designed at some point in the early nineties, with just enough storage space for a gnat. There was a large mirror that went from the sink counter to the ceiling, and it was cracked in the corners, and rusted at the top. The shower was missing tiles and the glass enclosure was obscured and stained with a layer of hard water. Clearly, this Hannibal was not as fussy about his environment, a habit the present Hannibal was very content to change. He had no knowledge of their financial situation at present, but he assumed it would be easy enough to finance a renovation that would please both himself and Will. He much preferred baths to showers, the womb-like heat of a tub a longed for comfort. No, this particular arrangement would not do at all.

The sink counter was crowded with all manner of creams and shaving implements and ratty looking toothbrushes mixed in with new ones and sad, white edged soaps. He picked up a bottle of Citrus Splash Shower Gel with grave distaste and set it down again as he opened the tiny sliver of a linen closet which revealed some bleached out towels and face cloths on one shelf and what was a makeshift medicine cabinet on the one above it. Curious, Hannibal picked up the various little prescription bottles, wondering if either of these versions of themselves were sick. None of them were of brands or pharmaceuticals he recognized, and there were strangely labelled toiletries which seemed more feminine oriented. Sanitary napkins labelled 'slick absorbents, country fresh scent'. Underarm deodorant in purple casings with a field of flowers printed all over it labelled 'Omega pheromone suppressant, lavender.' 'Come Hither--Body Spray For Intimate Evenings.' He had no idea what any of the labels meant, but as they were packaged in highly feminized advertising, he immediately assumed they belonged to their teen daughter, though she why she was using their en suite was a question whose answer would likewise have to wait.

Hannibal grabbed a towel, which was faded but soft and smelling heavily of lily scented fabric softener. This version of himself certainly had an inkling for the florals, another habit he was keen to break. Too many chemicals for Hannibal's liking, and it was a symptom of wanting to mask the odour of the dead. He need not make such anxious concessions for this particular Will Graham.

He slid the suit jacket off and undid his tie, eager to be rid of the lacklustre fabrics, especially the silky purple shirt that was now plastered against his newly sweating skin. He peeled it off like a shed layer of scales from a reptile and tossed the offending thing to the floor, accompanied by the black tie which was not silk but a polyester blend. The trash for both of them as far as he was concerned. He made a move to undo the button of his black trousers, only to pause as he got a good look at his torso in the large mirror across from him. This skin was not without its tragedies, it seemed. Hannibal traced his thumb along the long scar that cut in an angry red welt across the lower half of his abdomen, the jagged shape of it suggesting cruel violence.

He'd been gutted, quite brutally if this scar was any indication, though the healing of it was evidence it had been a very long time ago. There were other marks, silvery lines that looked like once stretched skin, and the flesh at his stomach was wrinkled and flabby, with tendrils of what seemed to be varicose veins coursing in a wave pattern down his flank. Had he once been obese? There was no such loose skin anywhere else, from what he could observe, and it was a strange sort of localization for such a condition. Perhaps there had been abnormal swelling after this inflicted violence, an infection that had gone septic. He shrugged, for other than the odd fever he couldn't place and the accompanying nausea he felt healthy. He decided that a good shower was an adequate treatment for all manner of ills and would no doubt be the cure for this one.

He turned on the shower, the hot water fogging up the mirror as he slid off his pants and kicked them to the floor, along with his underwear and stepped into the blissful heat with a contented sigh. It was not the comfort of a hot bath, but it would do, the water cascading over his skin in a controlled pummelling, one the Atlantic would never have afforded them. He tilted his head back as he breathed in the steamy heat and closed his eyes as the water healed the ache and nausea, washing off that sickly sweat with what felt like sensual abandon. The idea of having Will join him had come too late, and Hannibal had to fight the urge to shout for him to do so. It had been an effort already to suggest they share the bed they clearly had been enjoying in this particular life, and he didn't want to push too much too quickly. They had ample time, and Hannibal had long proved to Will he had infinite patience for their ever expanding and growing connection.

Out of habit more than want, he slid the shower door open a crack and grabbed the washcloth and shower gel from where he'd left both at the corner of the bathroom counter, and brought them into the shower with him. He lathered the cloth up first before scrubbing along his skin, and to Hannibal it felt like he was shedding something ancient and ugly to replace it with something pink and new, smelling of this new existence and all of the joys it was set to bring him. He still hadn't quite figured out how his calculations had formed into this new arrangement of body and soul, and he half wondered if Will was partially right, if they had in fact died and had found themselves in a newly shaped universe that their residual energy propelled itself into. Such a thing would suggest an afterlife, and the possibility of a deity, two things Hannibal knew damned well did not exist and he was not so fallacious as to entertain that train of thought. They had side-stepped death and morphed into another world as a result. One which Hannibal sensed was rich with the promise of its own rather domestic brand of death and beauty.

He slid the washcloth down the centre of his belly, feeling the strange pull of his softened flesh as he lathered it, his hand diving lower in an effort to quell a different sort of nagging his body was giving him in regards to this new world and the Will Graham he had pulled into it with him.

That felt...

Good.

But...

But...

Hannibal let the washcloth fall to the floor of the shower. He slammed the tap shut, arresting the flow of water as his eyes widened at what he saw, his hands staggering against the rim of the shower stall as he tore it open with enough violence to take it off its aluminium rails. He nearly slid on the tiled floor as he careened out of the bathing room, dripping wet and stark naked as he stood in front of Will, his mouth opening and closing in a sudden inability to speak.

"Will..." he managed to say. "Will..."

Will's head shook, and Hannibal didn't have to say more, the confusion and frowning he gave Hannibal's certain nether regions saying that yes, that lack of that...and that *replacement* was very much real and was not at all hallucination.

Not. At. All.

Will's eyes looked down. Looked up and met Hannibal's piercing, frantic gaze. Looked down. Looked up again. Eyes closed. Will's mouth twisted in a grimace, his voice degenerating into frustrated sighs as he opened his eyes again and repeated these exact, infuriating motions three more times.

"Will..." Hannibal said, and he could feel his voice sound very small and strained. "I need you to take a look at something..."

"Certainly explains this," Will said, holding up what looked to be ultrasound pictures of foetuses. Hannibal snatched them from his grasp, his wet grip curling the edges. In the upper right corner in digitized green lettering was what looked to be patient information. H. Lecter, Omega, M. 02/07/98. 4 months. The second picture had the same information, only a different date, three years later to be precise, and there were several images of this second gestation, the ultrasounds taken at staggered intervals of every two months.

"What is this?" Hannibal said, the photos shuffled through with increasing speed and violence.

"I believe those are pictures of our children," Will evenly said. He gently took the pictures out of Hannibal's damp hands and placed them back into the 'Family Papers, Etc.' box he had taken down from the upper shelf and placed on the far corner of their bed. Will tried to keep his focus even on Hannibal, doing what he could not to break eye contact, but finding it increasingly difficult as his gaze kept sinking much lower.

He didn't have to ask permission, Hannibal had already asked him to investigate and that is exactly what Will Graham's curiosity did as he reached out and slid his index finger along that alien flesh and...

Well....

Oh...

Dear Will...

Hannibal's body erupted into a sharp, intense shock of pleasure that buckled his knees and sent him nearly toppling to the floor.

Hannibal lay on his back on the bed, and Will was still acting the part of curious observer, his touch doing incredible, amazing things, things that made Hannibal's body writhe and made it impossible for him to speak. Will's fingers were quite adept at drawing out little sounds from the back of Hannibal's throat and as he continued, there were other automatic reactions occurring in some section of Hannibal's belly, a low vibratory rumble leaving him that sounded suspiciously like a feline purr.

Will touched him *there* and a sudden gush of silken, sweet smelling fluid left Hannibal's newly discovered point of eroticism, a jolt of pleasure now turning into a constant ebb and flow that didn't abate. He had a vague understanding that Will's stance on the matter was no longer that shocked lack of understanding, that his body was doing far better in its muscle memory of knowing what Hannibal liked than he did himself. Will's face was deep between his legs, and oh yes, what was he doing? He felt like every nerve in his body was attuned to pleasure, arms and limbs moving of their own accord, unable to find purchase on true release. This was a very different feeling indeed, this was definitely something worth exploring again and again, and...

Oh...

"Oh fuck, baby, you taste amazing..." He could feel the stubble of Will's beard on the inside of his thigh and this made it even more impossible for him to respond, as did the rasping of his whiskers on that softer flesh as Will grinned. "What a game changer this is. I really know how to bring you to your knees now."

Will crept upward, hands walking along the length of Hannibal's body, kisses delivered to that softened flesh above that long scar, sharp, little caresses brought up to Hannibal's throat, where Will nipped close to the jugular, sending a renewed shiver through Hannibal's body. The tip of Will's length was teasing, and Hannibal felt his knees quiver. Hips rolling, a low and feral sound erupted from deep within Will's diaphragm, like the curling growl of a supreme predator, and this sound, it undid him, it sent Hannibal answering in low rumbles of his own as his body and mind spiralled out of any semblance of control and he succumbed to tightened muscles, nerves sparking into fire and a near painful orgasm that damned near shook his rotted soul out.

He was still riding along the tail end of it, Will's cries sounding like a vastly distant echo as he fumbled in the near dark of the bedroom, his foot tangling in a cord and knocking over a lamp in the process.

"What the fuck!!"

No, his dear Will didn't sound very happy.

What a shame.

"What the fuck is wrong with my cock!!"

Will stormed into the bathing room, Hannibal's focus on him fading. He felt so very tired, and he curled underneath the blankets, his sensitive nose detecting the residual scent of Will on the pillow beside him. He buried his face in it, sighing deeply as he breathed the tendrils of Will's arousal in.

He had an understanding that Will was very upset right now, though Hannibal couldn't fathom as to why. Hannibal felt so calm and relaxed, Will's ranting like a lullaby. Will paced at the foot of the bed, his shirt undone, his pants missing, a pair of grey boxers not at all hiding the burgeoning, red length poking out past the elastic band at his waist. Small balloons of flesh puffed along its sides in venous pink bubbles. Will took another long, horrified look at it before hiding it properly beneath his boxers, the massive length already softening.

"Just great, Hannibal. We're walking around in a Samuel R. Delany novel! We need to find another cliff to fall off of!"

Hannibal softly sighed into his pillow, the grip of sleep near suffocating in its gentle nudging. He felt incredibly boneless, every cell in his body attuned to a deep sense of meditative relaxation. "I'm sure there's a very good purpose for it. Mm, dear Will, come to bed, we need not finish what was started, I feel sated enough. I assure you we can enjoy our new pastiche of sexuality in the vast array of days and years that are set to come."

"This doesn't upset you?! My cock looks like a fucking LUPIN in BLOOM!"

Hannibal groaned. "Why would it, dear Will? You've already proven to me that specific, intimate exploration is quite preferable to death. Before you panicked, I do believe you were about to commit an act of determined procreation." Hannibal widely yawned. "We have found ourselves in a world where all of my theories have come to fruition. The miracle of rejoined teacups begs that we should not be destroyed by such pointless small details. We'll explore these new parameters in the morning."

Will was silenced by this but he didn't stop his constant pacing, which Hannibal had to stop watching, all that movement was making him dizzy.

"Things aren't perfect here at all, so get that out of your head right away. There was some kind of lawsuit, we went to trial and there was a murder conviction, the court papers are all there. You were a witness for the prosecution, your testimony was the main reason Frederick Chilton went to jail..."

Hannibal smiled at this. Fred, a proven monster rotting away in jail, such a pleasant thought to drift to sleep with. What was Will talking about, it all sounded like Heaven. Really, why was Will so relentlessly pacing a hole in the floor, when it was so much more comfortable to relax in bed with him?

"...You weren't the only victim, there were two other women who survived long enough to give a description, at least I think they were women, it just says one was a Beta, whatever that is, and one was an Omega, and I guess...I guess that's what explains everything that's going on *there*." Will's shaking hand made a vague circular gesture at Hannibal's groin. "He murdered five others before he was caught, he's a fucking butcher...He...He was caught in the act with you, it's probably the only reason you survived. Hannibal, they called him the Cesearan Ripper. I'm...I can't get my head around any of this."

Hannibal's palm instantly slid across that wide, ugly scar on his abdomen and traced its uneven, ragged shape. A little flutter of something unpleasant tried to worm its way into his consciousness and Hannibal refused to allow it purchase. He had no interest in a life that held no meaning for him, this Hannibal was completely new, as was Will, and those others from this world were possibly in place of himself and Will as they rolled into the Atlantic and then hopped into whatever other strange universe would take them. He hoped it was one very similar to this one, they seemed like lovely people. How vast and unnerving it is to understand that reality is so very unstable! Streams of worlds melding and colliding with one another, how very fascinating!

Will was, of course, talking and he didn't want to hear more. It all sounded so frivolous. Will was being foolish, spending all this time on chatter when he could be curled in bed, sleeping soundly next to him. It would be nice if he could just stop his silly, anxious prattle and just do what came naturally for once, if only Will could just crawl into bed and wrap his arms in a lovely protective circle around him, and nothing else needed to matter.

"Come to bed, Will," Hannibal said, and it was a near whisper, because he was drifting and falling in a gentle pace into that feathery down of contented sleep, a feeling of intense security so deeply embedded within him it felt like an inward, warm blanket fussing over him and tucking him in.

He didn't hear Will as he left the bedroom, the box of papers in his rough grip as he marched out into the hall and towards the large common room next door. Hannibal's eyes had long since fluttered shut and he was lost to pleasant dreams of flowers growing out of the emptied cavities of corpses.