You Are Now Entering Gate #12

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12
chapter six

Tiger was exceptionally hateful this morning, as evidenced by how nastily she sat on Will's chest and hissed into his face as he dared to shift his head on the pillow. Hannibal watched the cat's display of dominance over the still sleeping Will with curious interest, and he had to wonder what slight had been committed by his husband against the chubby tabby. He'd allowed the food dish to remain empty, perhaps. Had brought home the spoils of a morning's successful fishing at Wolf Trap and hadn't so much as shared a minnow with the feline monarch. Hannibal grinned and picked up the heavy cat, who curled in surprise and happiness in Hannibal's arms. He pointed in admonishment at its nose, Tiger sniffing the harmless finger and licking it with her rough, sandpapery tongue. "No trying to eat our dear Will," he said to the cat, who began to purr in rapture over his favourite human's attention. "He is a delightful treat, but a bit much for your tiny stomach. You are a maneater in name only. You need a mouse to snack on. I have an appointment at noon today with Franklyn Froideveaux. Yes, I think he is the proper kind of pest for you to digest."

His routine was set to be more frantic than yesterday, he had several clients to see and a large dinner to prepare for his now extensive family. After his appointment and cocktail with Bedelia, Hannibal had gone through his own list of chores, along with a quick inventory of what--or, rather, *who*--was being held in the cold storage of his basement workroom. Thanks to his murderous extra curricular activities, Hannibal had a very good understanding of mortuary work and he was confident he had the skills to manipulate the corpses into a semblance of life for the viewing of bereaved relatives.

Who said hobbies weren't useful?

Of course, most clients opted for cremation, and the former Hannibal had been all too ready to accommodate. He would be sure to turn far more of a profit with proper burials, and it is this that he was going to push for in future, with high markups on cheap coffins, and a multi-layered approach to burial plots. The urns themselves for those cheaper exits from the realm of the living were far too cost effective for the customer, and Hannibal made a mental note to double their price.

For now, awake before everyone in the house, Hannibal showered in the small, decrepit en suite, drying himself off with an oversized fluffy towel and wrapping himself up tightly in a bathrobe as he finished his usual toiletries. He opened his closet door and contemplated in depressed annoyance over what he was going to wear. He was sorely tempted to put the new suit he'd bought yesterday back on, but as it now reeked of sex and needed to be dry cleaned, he realized he would have to make do with one of the more drab selections in his counterpart's wardrobe. He closed the closet door, not yet ready to wrap his day in this sort of banal sadness. He would consider his ensemble after he'd made breakfast, and with this decision made, he wrapped the bathrobe around himself tighter and followed Tiger out of the bedroom. Will was still snoring in happy, sated slumber in their bed, and while he no doubt would have preferred to have Hannibal's body still tucked against the length of his own, marathon sex that had lasted throughout the night had left Hannibal a tad sore and, frankly, he was already getting tired of Will's strange insatiability. The kitchen experience the night before had been highly charged with erotic purpose, his flesh singing in praise of Will's skills, a further encore enjoyed when they hid away into their bedroom, closing and locking the door from curious knocks. Hannibal had enjoyed a blissful sleep afterwards, only to be awoken at midnight for another teasing session that left him feeling content, but bruised. When Will reached for him a fourth time, waking him up at three in the morning, Hannibal had to concede there was sometimes too much of a good thing, and managed to fake it well enough for Will to roll off of him and go back to sleep.

Hannibal combed his fingers through his damp hair, his feet bare on the ugly, worn paisley carpet that covered the floor of the narrow hallway. He yawned at thoughts of what breakfast would entail. They did have a guest, one whose habits and likes he understood well, and he smiled at the thought of making Abigail blueberry pancakes, ones as large and fluffy as a dinner plate. He was sure his own children would enjoy them as well.

When was it he had traded thoughts of murder for ones of dull domesticity, taking such pleasure in these small things that had only been on the periphery of his life, like garnishes beside a gourmet meal? It may have been the moment he knew his sister was given back to him, or perhaps it was even earlier than that, when Will's mouth had been so eagerly exploring his own as Hannibal straddled him on that leather chair in his office, his stomach fluttering in anxious anticipation for every teasing lick of his tongue. In any event, he was currently content to rest and enjoy what this particular world had to offer. He had no inclination to kill anybody, which was remarkable, and in all probability spoke of the settled feeling within his mind at the prospect of having one of those lives that encompassed fractal possibilities already tested and pushed to their limits and rendering all further exploration moot. The other grand experiment was yet to begin, and it was one which Will figured prominently and had already offered up a rather daunting challenge. To be 'happy'. A set up for failure if ever there was one, and he was going to delight in Will's constant furlong into this impossible dream. Man was solely made to suffer. He didn't learn by any other rote.

He was thinking thus when he passed by the third door of their large living room and caught a whiff of what was, unmistakably, cigar smoke. Frowning, Hannibal backtracked to the living room entrance, the smoke accompanied by tweaking strings from a guitar that poked into the cold morning like a bottle of half drunk whiskey left open and dusty on a shanty shelf. This had to be a mirage, for there was a man in their living room, a stranger sprawled wide on one of their couches in front of the TV, a guitar balanced on his knees like a plank of wood as the strings were wired along the struts. He sucked on a thick cigar, periodically taking it out from between his clenched teeth to allow a thick stream of smoke to leave him and coat the air around him in an earthy, but dirty, imprint. He half turned and put Hannibal in his sights, eagerly waving him into the living room to come closer. He was a tall, thin man, with thick laugh lines and yet a downturned, cruel mouth, an incongruity Hannibal found disconcerting.

"Was wondering when you'd decide to roll out of bed. That sleeping beauty of yours still hiding his head under the covers like the lazy son of a bitch he is?" The thick, Louisiana drawl poured out of him like cold syrup as he chomped on his cigar, a good quality one if Hannibal cared to be attentive. With a beady gaze, he gave Hannibal a searching once over that, for reasons he couldn't identify, made him want to take another long, hot shower.

Hannibal approached him, smiling wanly and hoping politeness would smooth over his complete ignorance of who the man was. "It's good to see you," he ventured and this seemed to be the correct response if the low chuckle that answered him was any indication.

"Come here, Babydoll, let me get a better look at you."

That odd word, used again, and Hannibal bristled at it, not liking the way it made him feel, like a pile of little bugs were crawling in patches on the underside of his skin. He placed his hands deep in the pockets of his housecoat and slowly approached the man sprawled in easy comfort on his couch.

"We don't smoke in the house," Hannibal informed him.

"Must be real cold for you then, when you need a puff and have to go out in that billowing tundra. But hey, I ain't judging if you like all that fresh air." The man continued to suck on his cigar, narrowing his eyes on Hannibal as though he'd found him incredibly amusing. "So, you just going to stand there, Babydoll? Not going to give dear old dad some sugar?"

He struck before Hannibal could stop him, a quick roll of his arm around Hannibal's waist and before he knew it he was tossed into the offensive man's lap, his hands firm on his ass. The old codger let out a whoop of victory as Hannibal tried to extricate himself from his grip, and though the man didn't know it, Hannibal had already figured out six ways to kill him, not the least of which was making him choke to death on that damned cigar--That would be the simplest process, plucked and tucked into a shocked mouth the wrong way in. Or perhaps a string plucked from that guitar and used to garrotte his neck, though snapping one off the instrument could prove tricky, it might cut his palm and leave evidence behind, so there was always the old standby of the hands on approach, a simple crush of his larynx with strong thumbs pressed tight against his prominent Adam's apple.

His murderous intentions were interrupted, however, by a sleepy Will Graham who padded into the living room in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a yawn. He rubbed the back of his head as he stared at the scene before him, expressionless, even bored.

"Hey. Dad."

"Hey yourself. Son."

Hannibal managed to get free, Ezra Graham's groping hands notwithstanding. He pulled his housecoat tight around him, enough to hide his neck, both hands gripping it closed. Ezra Graham laughed loud at his embarrassment, slapping his knee with his palm before landing another unwelcome whack on Hannibal's ass.

"Your father?" he hissed at Will through clenched teeth.

"Oh yeah," Will said, staring down at his laughing patriarch, who was taking great delight in Hannibal's discomfort. "He hasn't changed a bit."

~*~
"I don't know why you have to make them this big. Pancakes ought to be stacked, like coins. This is like eating a damned loaf of bread and syrup. Mighty nice, though, except for the bits of orange, and I don't know why you added cinnamon, kills the taste of the blueberry if you ask me." Ezra Graham shovelled in another mouthful, he was already on his second pancake while Abigail and Mona flanked him on either side, perched on stools and drinking in everything he said as though it was gospel itself.

"Is it true you shot a man?" Abigail asked, her blue eyes wide. "That you shot lots of men--All right between the eyes, single bullet, down they went, and you got paid for it by the mob?"

Ezra Graham nodded over his blueberry pancakes and added more syrup. "No."

"Did you really beat a murder charge by sleeping with the Sheriff's wife?" Mona asked.

Ezra Graham nodded his head again and took a sip of coffee. "Nah."

"You once beat a man to death with an antique alarm clock. It was a true crime feature on 20/20."

"Can't say I watch those kinds of shows, Mona. Ain't good for the positive outlook."

Mona's eyes were as wide as the pancake on her plate, Abigail's in likewise wonderment. "Seriously, Poppy, how many people have you killed?"

He held out his fingers and started counting, stopping somewhere around fifty. "Not a one."

Hannibal was still in his bathrobe, and had corralled Will into his office, closing the door just enough so they were out of sight and sound of Ezra, but leaving it open a crack so they could listen in as witnesses to his unwelcome influence. "You might have mentioned your father was a nefarious felon. Honestly, Will, he's a misogynistic jackass, why is he in our house?"

Will let out a tired sigh at this. "He thinks I'm going to abandon you."

Hannibal frowned at this, and shook his head. "Does he believe he's the replacement? Hardly, Will!"

Will chewed his bottom lip and dared to peek out at his father through the crack in the door. "My father is a very perceptive man and he can deal with certain realms of empathy far better than his sensitive son. Obviously, he sees an opportunity to make sure his only son doesn't fuck up his life. Again. He'll kill me if it comes to it." Will rolled his eyes at Hannibal's expression of disbelief. "My father fixed a lot of things. Including for organized crime. Sailing up and down the coast and fixing boat motors was a great cover. We moved around a lot because of dear old dad. Always had to stay one step ahead of a crime scene."

"A rather large block of information you decided to keep from me."

"I was working for the FBI, and I've spent my entire life keeping the feds away from my dad."

"Lying to your psychiatrist was hardly conducive to your therapy, Will. I believe a considerable amount of pain could have been avoided had I known your father was a serial killer."

"Hired gun, not the same thing at all. And he wasted every dime he made on booze and women, so it's not like he turned a profit doing it, either." Will scratched the back of his head and dared to open the door a tiny bit more to hear the deep intonations of his father's voice, who was still obtusely answering the two young women flanked on either side of him at the kitchen island. "At least he kept that part of his life from me, best he could, but I figured it out eventually. He damaged me in other ways, he stole all of my girlfriends, slept with their moms, every teacher, every babysitter, every nurse...Doesn't surprise me at all he that wants to get his hands on you."

Hannibal contemplated this, his usual perverse curiosity coming to the fore. Will had called him 'Babydoll' in a heated, passionate moment, and the echo of that made Hannibal's skin crawl. "I have to wonder, Will, what changes this version of your father may have in this universe. As it is, I have no inclination whatsoever to kill anyone at present--save for my reaction this morning--and I'm finding that absence of homicidal need rather telling. Perhaps your father is the same way."

"Not a chance," Will said, and shook his head. "He is *exactly* the same as in that other world."

"Exactly?"

"I bet he's already been there and back again, that's how sure I am."

Hannibal took this information in with a sick feeling welling within the pit of his stomach. "Should he be left alone with Abigail?"

"Probably not, but Mona is there, she seems to be an adequate barrier..."

"OH MY GOD, DID YOU REALLY STAB SOME GUY TO DEATH IN THE EYE WITH A KEBAB SKEWER?? THAT'S FUCKING AWESOME!!"

Will sighed at his daughter's outburst and Hannibal could feel the tired weariness affecting him as well, all energy completely drained. "I think we might have to come to the realization that there is something seriously wrong with our daughter."

"She doesn't seem to understand subtlety at all," Hannibal grimly agreed.

Will groaned and checked his watch, the early hour goading him. "I need to get to work, Jack's picking me up in twenty minutes. Good luck with your clients today and give me a call if you have any problems." He gave Hannibal a searching kiss that wound through every portion of his body and straight down out of his toes and into the floor beneath him, and it was all Hannibal could do to remain upright and not allow Will to take him over his office desk, which was exactly what Will's Alpha nature wanted to do.

Will pulled away with difficulty, leaving Hannibal breathless. He left the office silently, and Hannibal was left alone within it, listening to the dark tones of Ezra Graham's voice echoing out of their kitchen and across the front foyer of his family home.

"Babydoll!" Ezra Graham shouted into the space and Hannibal flinched at the endearment. "How's about a breakfast beer for the old man! A day ain't started right without a pretty face and some liquor!"

~*~
Hannibal made sure there were ample tissues available, as well as a trash can in full view. Not that he believed Franklyn would be wise enough to use it, his snivelling sorrow no doubt about to erupt through the small confines of Hannibal's office in a torrent of ugly snot and whining. The fact he was alive in this world and still influencing its periphery was a sore spot for Hannibal, for while the man was irritating, he also had a genuine pity for him. It was a difficult thing going through life that needy and pathetic. Hannibal was self serving to a fault, but pointless deaths irked him, and Franklyn's had always sat ill in his conscience. It was a shame he had been such a dumbass.

The clock chimed noon and Hannibal was busy behind his desk, going over various accounts and scheming over who had the most money to fleece. His counterpart had been woefully ethical, a problem Hannibal was keen to correct, and he was already adding several charges to some of the loftier bills, explanations of added preservatives and insertions to bring the glow of life to death, actions which were cosmetic for a very short period of time. Grief was blinding to the fact that once the coffin was lowered the earth took over and rot did its grisly work. He pondered that if he did decide to start killing again, that old itch needing a scratch, he could give the corpses of his clients some much appreciated company. Of course, the crematorium would be more than adequate disposal as well, but Hannibal couldn't help but lament the thought of it all being so sterile and hidden. He'd much prefer the idea of walking across a cemetery and knowing his art was secretively seeping into the soil.

He glanced at the ironwork clock hanging on the wall above the door to his office and was surprised to see that Franklyn was late for his appointment. He steepled his fingers and frowned at this, for the man was always so pathologically punctual, even early, his sessions an exhaustive exercise that irritated Hannibal's usually calm demeanour. Suffering him had been unbearable, and it was an unkind twist of karma to push him back into his life once again. Still, he couldn't hate the man, not really, he was too pathetic for that, but he couldn't tolerate him, either.

It was quarter past noon when Hannibal heard the front door to his home open and close and a familiar wheeze and cough roll through the foyer. He smoothed down his suit, and adjusted his tie, his attire one of a selection of dark greys that blended in soft tones into one another. He stood up and opened the door to his office as Franklyn approached, standing to one side in a gesture of welcome, a politeness that, regrettably, was stunted in shock.

"Franklyn! I..." Hannibal stared at the man in near mute shock, taking in his rumpled appearance and the overall sensation that the man had just rolled out of bed and showed up in the clothes he'd already been wearing. He was wearing a worn, black t-shirt with holes in the sleeves, large, faded white letters boldly exclaiming 'Fuck This Shit', a pair of baggy jeans and converse sneakers that were ripped and frayed at the heel. His hair was much longer, a frizzy unkempt halo that blended into his thicker beard. He gave Hannibal's exclamation a quizzical expression and ambled like an oversized marble into Hannibal's office, plunking himself sloppily into the chair opposite his desk as he took out his wallet.

"How much is this shit going to cost me?" he asked. He gave Hannibal's reluctant silence a glower, a wholly unexpected reaction to find on the usually overly friendly Franklyn's face. "Look, I'm not the one in mourning, all right? She was my mother-in-law, she was a monstrous bitch, she damned near ruined my life. If I could, I'd tap dance on her corpse, but that's not exactly appropriate, so I'm just here, getting shit done. I don't want to hear about how you're so sorry for my loss, or that you understand how hard it is, or any of that In Sympathy Hallmark Card bullshit you guys toss around. My mother-in-law was a cunt. C-U-N-T."

Hannibal sat uneasily behind his desk carefully taking in this vastly different Franklyn and suddenly wishing he had the old one instead. Franklyn's cell phone rang and he cursed, holding up his hand as he pulled it out of his back pocket and bidding Hannibal a small apology. "Sorry, got to take this." He pressed the phone to his cheek and his rotund, angry fury suddenly morphed into overly sweet overtones that would have made the Franklyn Hannibal knew proud. "Hello, sweetie, how are you doing? I know, it's such tragedy." He rolled his eyes and hands as though pushing the other person's grief along. Hannibal could hear gentle sobbing through the earpiece, its tones oddly familiar. "I'm at the funeral home now. Yes, I'm talking to the funeral director. Yes, they are going to treat Mama with all the respect she deserves." He silently mouthed curses. There was a long tirade after this, punctuated with muffled tears through the earpiece and Franklyn was clearly already losing patience. "You want the pink coffin, now? That's another two thousand dollars, Tobias, I don't think...Right. It's all for Mama. No problem, sweetie, whatever you want. I will." He grimaced into the phone. "Love you, too."

He hung it up with a barely contained expletive. "Honest to fucking God, Omegas are the worst. Always so damned prissy and know it all, and won't bend an inch, oh no, has to be their way or the highway." He gave Hannibal a disinterested once over. "No offence."

Hannibal felt the best recourse was to ignore the slight, and he busied himself pulling up Franklyn's account instead. "I believe you are purchasing the Monte Carlo model," Hannibal said, wincing at the gaudy coffin that showed up on his computer screen, with its highly stylized baroque trimmings that looked like icing on a tacky cake. Hannibal cleared his throat through his displeasure at the aesthetic. "And you want it in pink."

"I get it. She's going out in a Billot Log. I'm not the one making the decisions, here. I got an hysterical Omega at home, weeping over his violin every damned night over that miserable bitch. I want to keep this as cheap as chips, if you know what I mean. I don't have a pile of money, neither does Tobias--I own a crappy little comic book store and he owns the crappy little violin store next to it, and we both live in a crappy little apartment above the donut shop across the street. Tell me, Mr. Lecter, is there any way I can just rent this disgusting piece of crap and you can burn her body afterwards? Wrap her up in plastic and toss her in a well? Tobias need never know."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Froideveaux, but I am not in the habit of altering someone's last wishes. The answer will have to be no." Hannibal eyed Franklyn's disconcertion over this with narrowed concentration, knowing the man was currently going over his finances and was thinking hard on selecting another funeral home who just might make good on his suggestion. "The facts are, she will be lowered into the ground in this coffin and there will be ample witnesses. I am not averse to your plight, however. I can order a lightweight, plastic model version of this coffin that is used exclusively for display purposes. It will be significantly cheaper to bury her in it and, I dare say, it will be in keeping with her sense of style."

Franklyn eagerly held out his hand, sausage fingers wiggling. "Deal!"

They shook on it, and Franklyn went to take his hand away, but Hannibal kept a firm grip. "I only ask in return that should you hear of any unfortunate demises in future that you direct the families to my services. As a small business owner, you understand the need to help one another out."

"Uh, yeah, sure," Franklyn said, and only then did Hannibal release his grip. Hannibal knew that in Franklyn's rather dull mind he believed he would have no cause to be telling people all about the Lecter Funeral Home since he wasn't counting on knowing that many people who died. But Hannibal was banking on the fact that Tobias, an hysterical Omega in mourning who no longer had his mother on hand to give checks and balances to his murderous nature would be visiting his homicidal side with gusto in the near future. He smiled warmly at Franklyn. He was set to have a profitable year.

~*~

Franklyn said his goodbyes, but it seemed Hannibal was to have a busy day of constant human interaction, despite the fact his home was empty of all family (Ezra Graham had a few 'things to do' which according to Will involved parking himself on a stool and imbibing a lot of alcohol at a sketchy dive bar on the outskirts of Baltimore)for as Franklyn happily left, another visitor walked in, this one a rather curious, unexpected insertion into his day's schedule. FBI Agent Jimmy Price walked into the front foyer and Hannibal bid him a strained, uncertain welcome.

He had hints of that other, studious and serious Jimmy Price, who had taken great delight in the science of death, his font of knowledge one of eclectic oddities that Hannibal had often found amusing. This particular Jimmy Price had all of this and a strange hardness to him as well, and as he walked further into the Lecter-Graham home, Hannibal had the distinct feeling it was as though he were measuring his steps like a thief. "This marble always gets me, it's so over the top. People would never know you live here, the way you've castled it up," Jimmy said, tapping his heel on it. He held his hands on his hips, his beige trench coat parted wide. "Kind of slippery this time of year, though. Wouldn't want to be an old lady in heels walking on this, could break a hip. Mind you, maybe that's a sneaky way to drum up business. I ain't gonna judge."

Hannibal hummed in response to this and gestured to the darkened hallway to the left of the chapel's doors. "How about some coffee? I can make a fresh pot."

He walked with practised elegance to their kitchen, Jimmy in tow, his posture only slightly relaxed as he took in the decor of the house, some of it possibly changed since the last time he had been here. Hannibal assumed it had been a while ago, since in his opinion much in the home needed new repairs and design, not the least of which was this dreadful kitchen. He pulled out a bag of freshly ground coffee beans and set a kettle on to boil. The french press was hardly his complex distiller, but it was of the proper ceramic design and set to make a heady brew. "It's been quite a day for me already," Hannibal said, making small talk against the tension Jimmy's presence presented. "A demanding client, Will's father Ezra visiting..."

"Will's father is here?"

"Not at present, we're alone in the house for now, but that will not be the case tonight. I seem to have a large table to cook for, and I haven't yet determined the full extent of the menu. Hopefully, my meeting with the Vergers will not take long. The mugs are in the top cupboard just above your head, please take the black one down, and the navy..."

And then, just like that, a little dance of a sidestep and FBI Agent Jimmy Price wrapped his arms around Hannibal's waist and pulled him into the most erotic, searching, desperate and sensual kiss he had experienced in his life, and he was bolted to the floor by the power of it, unable to move--unable to *speak*.

What constellation was this? A confusion of feeling wrapped itself around Hannibal's senses and though his heart and mind were one in their mutual shout of "Will!" there was a certain rhythm here that held tantalizing oddity within it.

"You can't begin to know how much I've missed you."

He tried to do it again, and damn if Hannibal didn't nearly let him, only to have an instant image of a very jealous William, one whom he doubted would let Jimmy Price live through this brand of infidelity. "Jimmy," Hannibal whispered as soft kisses lined his neck and hands started doing some serious roving. "We can't."

"We did when we were alone in the house last week," Jimmy reminded him, and Hannibal felt a well of sickening disappointment roll through him at this, for it was clear this was not the happy nest he had thought it was. Will was wrong, the affair hadn't ended, in fact it was barrelling along, stronger than ever, and from the way Jimmy Price was now massaging his back and sliding his hands between his thighs, Hannibal could very well understand why.

Still, this was Jimmy Price. Team science. The man who kept pet cicadas and worried about the bees. Damn him, where did he learn how to touch a person like that, like he was an expert in bringing desire to its knees? No, this wouldn't work, this was all wrong. Stop. This had to stop.

"Stop."

Jimmy did, reluctantly. He stood to one side as the kettle started screaming, and Hannibal stepped back, smoothing down his suit and tie and turning with confused purpose back to making coffee. "He's out," Jimmy told him, and he couldn't resist pinching at Hannibal's chin, expecting to find fear and worry. "Frederick Chilton won't come near you, that I can promise you. You don't have to be scared. I'm on it. When that husband of yours takes off again, and leaves you alone in that bed, aching for someone to keep all that death away, that's when you'll call me." He delivered another passionate kiss that left Hannibal reeling, strangely sensual hands caressing his neck before letting them drop. He ached for them to come back. Jimmy stepped away, and Hannibal had to fight the urge to close the space between them, to give into the temptation he presented. Hannibal's mind might balk at the suggestion, but the memory of his body certainly didn't. Odd as the realization was, Jimmy Price had very convincing skills.

"See you soon," Jimmy promised, and he stepped out of the kitchen, the coffee forgotten as Hannibal stood silent in place, watching him leave.

"I hope not," Hannibal thought, and pressed his fingers to his lips, a strange sensation of guilt lingering as a savoury aftertaste on his tongue.

~*~
Will hadn't been exaggerating. Female Alphas were very, very aggressive.

It was the sort of request he would have expected from a Verger, and the fact it came from Margot even more so. It was clear this version of Mason was equally problematic, his habits just as perverse only leaning more on the side of bestiality rather than pedophilia, though Hannibal was quite sure if there was a dual sexual component to such perversions, Mason would definitely be its celebrity. He was a drug addict, a festering sore on the Verger name, enough for his father to oust him from the family will and surrender all of the Verger assets to his Beta daughter, Margot. This tipping of power didn't seem to do much for Margot's already abrasive personality, though he had to admit this tougher, coarser version held none of the original's fragility, her confident strength bolstered by her long term relationship with one Alpha female, Alana Bloom, her former accountant and hedge funds manager. They both stood in the white confines of his basement workroom, the corpse of Mason Verger on the slab before them, the cause of his death as obvious as the massive hole in his head.

"Baa, baa, bye, little brother," Margot said, and she took a flask of whiskey from the pocket of her red wool coat and unscrewed the cap. She offered it with a flourish to Alana and Hannibal, who both refused. "Don't know why you won't celebrate this milestone with me. I always told him he needed a good kick to the head, it's about time he took my advice."

"I can reconstruct that side of his head and make it symmetrical for viewing," Hannibal assured her. He gestured to a blackened hallway leading out to a separate set of stairs that wound their way up to the chapel. "There is an excellent selection of coffins, of varying variety in colour and styles, but I would encourage you to consider the Mount Royale, which both incorporates elements of Mason's interests and his profession. I understand your estate is a champion breeder of thoroughbreds--The horseshoe theme of the Mount Royale is subtle and yet purposeful. The interior is, of course, genuine leather, with various decorative buckles and straps along the inner lining of its lid to give the illusion of a bridle."

"Toss him in a cardboard box for all I care," Margot said, and took another swig. "This asshole cost me enough in lawyer bills and stayed in the news like a weekly feature. Seriously, the paparazzi used to run *from* him. And don't bother fixing his head, the more chewed up he looks the better, the press will love it. In fact, can you make the hole a bit bigger? He just looks like he banged his head really bad, and that's hardly going to make the front covers."

Alana Bloom stood to one side, clearly finding the whole thing rather boring, as evidenced by her loud yawn and clipped steps as she wandered around the small workroom. Wearing a simple black dress that accentuated the round shape of her breasts, she kept putting Hannibal in the periphery of her vision, a fact Margot caught onto immediately. "She knows you're an Omega," Margot spat, and took another swig. "That's my Alana. Always sniffing out fresh meat."

"I just like to do my research," Alana said, standing too close, and making sure Hannibal had a good view of her cleavage and leaving not so subtle hints about her stamina. When they first arrived and he guided them down to his basement workroom, Alana had point blank asked him if he'd had his heat recently. She assured him she could still smell its residual sweetness on him, suggesting whoever had tried to cure that particular ache hadn't done the job properly.

Though she didn't deserve the explanation, he at least enjoyed this carnal version of that moral compass he once knew in that fading other life, and he said to her with equal candour, "I have a medical condition that has been tampering with my cycles. I do hope it isn't making you uncomfortable."

Margot snorted loudly at this. "I wouldn't be worried about that, Mr. Lecter! I'm the bed and you're the cozy comforter to her, if you get my drift."

He still didn't,not quite, and it wasn't until Tiger jumped onto the slab and began tasting the torn flesh at Mason's ear that he got a far clearer picture of Alana Bloom's lustful nature. She picked up the rotund tabby and practically purred herself into the cat's flank as she stroked her, red lipstick leaving a smeared gash on the silver sheen of fur. "So pretty," she said, but she was looking directly at Hannibal when she said it. "I sure do like petting your pussy, Mr. Lecter."

A rather monstrous double-entendre, but there it was, and it left Hannibal blushing furiously, a fact that made Alana laugh at his discomfort. "Dammit, Margot, I wish we knew more dead people. Look at him, he's adorable, it's a shame we're only seeing him once. Well, as far as we know, there's some on the edge of life in the family, aren't there, Margot? Aunt Mary has a heart condition, and I'm sure getting her corpse here instead of to New York wouldn't be such a big deal, would it? You could be our own private undertaker, on retainer, our own cute little Lurch."

"We could always get a contract done up," Margot shrugged.

Alana grinned at this. "What a great idea! You'd have to come by the house. Really, Mr. Lecter, you should come by the Verger estate sometime, for one of our little formal soirees, get into the fold properly. The entrees are lovely, we get a chef flown in from France." She bit her bottom lip before licking them and pursing her mouth as she spoke. "But dessert has always been my favourite. Syrup on my cake." She was still holding Tiger as she approached him, a long fingernail tracing along the outline of his jaw and leaving him shivering at her touch. She was an Alpha, after all, and displays of such dominance were difficult for him to resist. "Peaches and cream..."

"I know you from somewhere," Margot Verger chimed in. She was the same slight woman, delicate in many ways and hard in others. Alana, despite her Alpha gender, was all softness and curves, save for what was hidden under her skirt. He hoped she had the wherewithal to tape it down. Margot squinted at him, and then gave him a crooked grin, slapping Alana on the shoulder as she remembered. "He's that one in the news! The one that freak nearly murdered all those years ago! You know, the one who had the kid torn out of him."

"You have children?" Alana said, and her smile was strained now. Margot, regretfully, filled in the blanks.

"He has two! The last one was a girl, wasn't it? Got gutted like a fish, that's what the news said. The Caesarean Ripper, that crazy bastard they're letting out. Must be hard sleeping at night knowing that thing is on the loose. No wonder his heats are all fucked up, probably chopped up his insides like devilled ham..."

Alana was mortified by Margot's blunt, crude retelling of his old injury, and she gently dropped Tiger in order to place a warm hand on his shoulder and lean in just that little too close for it to be comfortable. "Don't listen to her, she's a drunk and a bitch. She can't help herself, it's part of her gene pool. I hope you got someone here to keep you safe at night. You know, if you ever need it, I can always stop by and we can enjoy a lovely, sweet dessert...All. Night. Long."

"I'm bonded. To an Alpha. His name is Will Graham," Hannibal curtly said, getting sick of how touchy feely everyone was around him, and he shook Alana's shoulder off, uncomfortable with her cloying proximity and Margot's ugly smirk. "The funeral will begin Friday evening, with viewing at seven. Burial will be at ten in the morning on Sunday, you can text me which casket you would prefer." He stepped aside and curtly bid them to go ahead of him into the dark hallway and up the stairs that led into the main chapel. He hadn't forgotten his last promise to her, and this version of Alana was very much toeing over the mark.

"Oh, I'll text you," Alana promised him, and the way she said it made his stomach angrily twitch.

He followed after them, the journey up the stairs and through the chapel led by Tiger, who seemed to want Alana to pick her up again, and Hannibal had to wonder how it was the cat had so little sense, making allies of his obvious enemies.

He was brusque as he said his good-byes and no sooner had the door closed that it opened up again, this time spilling in his son and their massive, ancient Rottweiler, Samson, who limped his way carefully across the marble floor with careful, plodding steps. He left large splotches of slushy mud in his wake, which Hannibal had to mop up. Marcus stood stock still in the front foyer of their home as Hannibal fussily began searching for a cloth to wipe up the mess, bidding his son to help him. But Marcus only turned to his mother and glared at Hannibal, his almond shaped eyes not all liking what his keen olfactory senses told him. "Is Poppy here?"

Hannibal sighed. He'd detected the malignant cigar. "Yes. He's staying for dinner."

"You've got to be fucking joking."

Hannibal paused at this, for the family rift was obvious and it was going to be difficult to get the information he needed out of the monosyllabic Marcus. "It's only for tonight," Hannibal promised, and he wiped imaginary dust from his son's slumped shoulders and then curled his arm around him in an embrace. Though he was tense, it was a relief to have something in common with his morose, overly intense son, and he was looking forward to the bonding session they were set to have over their mutual hatred of Ezra Graham. "We're having a big dinner tonight. Mischa is coming as well, and I have decided on lamb stew with Irish soda bread and chocolate trifle for dessert. You can help me peel potatoes." He smiled and stroked his son's hair, which was still damp from the snow gently falling outside. "How was your day at work?"

"Shitty. I had to euthanize a sheep. Apparently it killed somebody. Sheep are stupid and docile, what the hell did someone do to piss one off enough to turn it into a murderer?"

"Something unspeakably unpleasant, I'm sure," Hannibal said, releasing him to slide off his winter coat and toss it into the closet before trudging off to the kitchen, annoyed with being forced to help with a dinner he wasn't going to enjoy in the least. They all had burdens to bear, it seemed. Even Mason Verger's ripening corpse.