You Are Now Entering Gate #12

YOU ARE NOW ENTERING GATE #12
chapter nine

There was no question. Hannibal was sick. Weak, pale, feverish and viciously cramped, his skin feeling clammy, his own scent overripe and unpleasant, but this was not the time for him to be incapacitated due to the whims of his unusual biology. Hannibal had work to do.

The first order of business was the funeral of Mrs. Martha Budge, Tobias Budge's mother. With Chilton tucked beneath her rotund frame, she was slightly more elevated than usual within the cheap plastic coffin and it was definitely going to be difficult closing the lid when it came time for cremation. Luckily, this happened away from the weeping of mourners, and though Hannibal would have preferred to bury her and thus charge for the added costs of tombstones and plot purchasing, Tobias had insisted on cremation so he could place his mother in an urn next to him at his bedside. It seemed Franklyn wasn't to be free of her after all, in fact, she was to become far more intrusive into the intimacies of his strange life.

People were already gathered within the chapel, and Hannibal gave Mrs. Budge's scowling form one final once over before stepping aside for the minister to take over the service. A tiny puddle of red seeped out of a crack in the plastic coffin's corner, an unfortunate bit of damage that leaked Chilton's bloodied stumps, just below where his feet had been. Using the heel of his shoe, Hannibal discreetly pushed a potted plant near the hole, neatly disguising both it and the steady drip of stale blood with the thick, dark green foliage of the fern. He gave the minister what he hoped was a friendly nod and the smile he was given in return told him he'd faked it properly, and Hannibal walked to the entrance of the chapel, where his son was already dressed in a suit and tie, morosely greeting the mourners still arriving.

Tobias Budge and Franklyn Froideveaux arrived with a flurry of snow billowing behind them, Tobias in an obvious state of crumbling grief while a more practical Franklyn held him up. He pawned the soon-to-be sociopath murderer off on an aged aunt, who tutted over Tobias's weeping and assured him, in firm, possibly familiar tones, that, quote: "Your Mama loved you dearly but she had to go to on up to...Well...She went somewhere, Tobias, don't think about it too much..."

Franklyn nodded at Hannibal who made a small gesture to meet with him in his office, away from the small crowd already gathered in rapt attention in the chapel, waiting on a sermon that the minister had no doubt rotated through several times that month. Though he was dressed smartly, he had the air of a car salesman, and the thick application of aftershave did not hide the scent of whiskey from Hannibal's sensitive nose. He watched the minister sway a little at the podium, and he knew he was gripping the sides in an effort to remain upright and not for preaching emphasis.

He opened the door to his office and both he and Franklyn stepped in. Hannibal wore a black suit with a grey silk blend beneath it, his tie of an equally sombre shade. Franklyn was stuffed haphazardly into an ill fitting suit, the buttons straining around his wide girth, wild hair untamed and frizzed, matching his equally unkempt beard which did not at all hide the grimace lurking in all that hair. "That coffin looks awfully short. How did you manage to get her in it?"

"It was a tight squeeze, the confines of the display model are a tad crowded," Hannibal admitted. He bid Franklyn to take a seat as he sat on the other side of his desk and called up Franklyn's account on his computer. He printed up the bill and handed it to Franklyn, who didn't even give it a quick perusal. He was frowning as he looked on Hannibal, the grimace twisted into something that might, on that other Franklyn he had known, have been concern.

"You really don't look good," he said.

"It's a flu," Hannibal said. "Unfortunate timing, but one must persevere."

Franklyn ran his hand over his jaw, and kept looking over his shoulder at the partially open office door, as though to seek out Tobias. Hannibal knew where Franklyn's real concerns were. "He will not detect the difference, Mr. Froideveaux, I can guarantee it. He is overcome with grief, and that is what is taking priority."

"The scowl was a nice touch, I was worried you were going to smooth it out. Tobias would have lost his shit." Franklyn smoothed down his tie and Hannibal had a momentary, nervous tic at the image of Daffy Duck staring back at him from the thin fold of rectangular silk. Franklyn noted his disdain and gave him a shrugging apology. "I run a comic book store, I don't wear suits and I sure as hell don't wear ties. I snagged this on my way out this morning, Tobias and I had a big fight about it in the car on the way here, so just...Don't bring any attention to it, all right?"

Oh he most definitely was. All the better to deflect the shoddy, overpopulated condition of Mrs. Budge's coffin. He wasn't entirely sure the thin plastic was going to hold that much weight within it for much longer, especially with that worrying crack in the corner hidden inexpertly by a plant. Hannibal gave him a curt nod, and Franklyn took out his chequebook, writing him the amount for the services rendered. He added a twenty dollar gratuity, Hannibal noted. Cheap and gauche.

"Is there any way I can stick around and watch her burn when this is all over?" Franklyn asked, surprising Hannibal with his ire. "Honestly, that woman made my life hell. I was never good enough for her precious Omega son, oh no, he was supposed to go to Julliard, not hang around some dusty music shop, teaching grade schoolers how to strangle violins. If there's an afterlife, the devil's got something coming to him, no hellhound hath half her fury."

Hannibal couldn't help but be amused by this, and he gave Franklyn a strained half smile. He had a pain in his side, and he sighed and pressed his palm against it, earning a frown from what had once been his most irritating client. "You really are sick," Franklyn said, shaking his head. "I...Look this is real personal and all and you can kick in me in the nuts if you find it too weird for me to say so, but Tobias has, well, he has issues with his..parts. We couldn't have kids, and I guess that's why he loves teaching them so much. His mother blamed me, of course. I wouldn't bring it up, but, the way you're holding your side like that, and the look on your face, it's the same expression Tobias gave me just before he ended up in the ER."

"It's just a flu, Franklyn."

"Cancer." Franklyn said, and Hannibal was starting to see the little notes of that other, irritating marble of a man rolling around in the bloated suit before him. "I mean, I know I shouldn't be telling you this, and it's not exactly a cool thing to be throwing around the 'C' word, but...Tobias ended up in the ER and that's what it was, they had to take it all out. He got real depressed, and it's not like he could tell *her*." He caught Tobias's tearful large eyes, and gave him a grim smile, a tiny gesture of support Tobias alighted on, only to have it marred by Hannibal, who made a very clear point to frown as his gaze roved over Franklyn's inappropriate tie--unbeknownst to Franklyn, of course. Tobias angrily turned back to the pulpit, where the minister clutched his fists on either side of it, holding on for dear life as he spewed a sermon about brimstone and fire and Mrs. Martha Budge's unrelenting and uncompromising spirit.

"We met not long after I opened my shop." Franklyn's voice was wistful, and he sighed, his thick hands deep in the pockets of his navy blue slacks. "He kept buying old issues of Weird Tales. He liked the blood and gore, especially the ones that were pre-censorship, really hard to find these days. He told me he appreciated the aesthetic. We have that in common." Franklyn shook his head, half listening to what the minister was rambling. "This guy, Pastor Glenn, what an ass. He's wasted, and everyone knows it, but oh no, pillar of the fucking community, can't say shit about a man of God no matter how much he stinks like a hobo with a dead liver. Listen to that crap. 'This GOOD GOD AFEARING WOMAN'. Bullshit. Angels feared to tread, let me tell you. If it was up to me I'd be pulling out his vocal cords and using them like a violin, that screeching would make more sense than this." Franklyn caught Hannibal's shocked gaze. "Yeah, that was probably a bit way too off the cuff. Look, thanks for the favour, I appreciate the discount. If I hear of anyone ready to kick it--Sudden heart attacks and late stages of the Big 'C'--I'll send 'em all your way."

Hannibal watched carefully as Franklyn, nodding politely to the various relatives gathered in the chapel, approached Tobias in the front row. Tobias snatched at his Daffy Duck tie and renewed argument threatened to spill over the inappropriateness of Franklyn's attire. But Franklyn quickly smoothed the ill feelings over with a handkerchief applied to Tobias's damp eyes and cheeks, and a pudgy arm draped over his hunched shoulders. There was genuine affection there, Hannibal was surprised to witness. He had to wonder who, exactly, was going to be bringing him more business in future, and was disconcerted to know that Franklyn himself had a shadow of darkness that ran just that little bit deeper than he had originally thought.

The rest of the funeral continued without incident, though Hannibal had an unexpected issue with the crematorium. Burning plastic was never a good idea and toxic smoke billowed out of the chimney in greasy, throat burning poison. The ashes would be delivered to Tobias tomorrow, the expensive urn sealed and containing much more than the remains of his difficult mother. She would be bullying Chilton within it for the remainder of eternity and Hannibal had to concede she was probably happy to have that kind of victimized company.

Marcus helped him empty out the chapel of donated flowers and cleaned up the debris of lost memorial cards and several candy wrappers from apathetic children, two of whom were Tobias's students. The pastor had leaned so heavily on the podium he'd warped it in one corner and Hannibal had to fiddle with screws to get it back in proper alignment. He followed his methodical son's lead, admiring the way Marcus knew exactly how to prepare the space as though by rote, his respect for his mother's business evident in his actions. Marcus gathered up a collection of orange lilies and brought them out to a separate storage area to lay in wait while the next batch for the next funeral arrived. Hannibal stopped him halfway, his warms hands framing his son's confused face, a kiss placed on the top of his head. "You are my greatest treasure."

"You really got a bad fever today, I don't think you should do this second funeral. It's that weird guy, isn't it? The one done in by the wrath of a lamb? You should go to the ER like that creepy fat guy said. I can do this for you, it's just set up and tear down, the gravediggers are taking him out to the family plot afterwards, not us."

Hannibal rested his cheek on the top of his son's head and closed his eyes, a surge of intense feeling rushing through him at the thought of this sweet boy being so protective. It was an innocence he had thought was forever barred from his life, and to have it back in this kind of blatant resurgence was a bit too much to bear. "Don't worry, Marcus, I'm fine. Your father will be home soon, and you can go to the BBQ at Abigail's house, I'll be there later."

Marcus frowned, his face framed inside of bright orange flowers, his concern smeared with yellow pollen that Hannibal brushed off of his sharp cheeks with the pad of his thumb. He opened his mouth as though to say more, only to think better of it and instead merely nodded, the flowers finally making their way to the back storeroom.

A sharp pain hit his side, and Hannibal pressed his palm against it, limping slightly as he made his way into the family kitchen to take out the salads he'd made for Garrett's BBQ. Though it was the middle of winter, Abigail's father was still enamoured enough with meat to challenge any blizzard against his top of the line Black & Decker inspired DIY brick BBQ complete with chimney. Garrett's passion for butchery took on a whole new level, in keeping with the violent, cannibalistic tendencies he had in that other world, the one that was very quickly receding further back into the far recesses of Hannibal's mind palace. No longer was he haunted by the sound of an axe finding its mark on wood. No more the rage that swelled and grew beyond the boundaries of his loathing until it spilled out with blood soaked vengeance upon the Earth.

Snoring loudly against the back door, Samson lay sprawled against the glass, a lazy remnant of Will's profusion of canines he had used as a substitute family. Tiger purred and curled around Hannibal's ankles as he searched for more condiments within the refrigerator, pausing as he took out two bottles of chilled chardonnay. Garrett was probably serving red meat. Only a shiraz would do.

The front door slammed open and shut and he could hear Mona before he saw her, dark hair wild and damp from gently falling snow, dressed in ridiculous layers of black clothing, none of them matching in hue. She jangled as she walked, her costume jewellery nearly dwarfing her beneath baubles and skull heads. She squealed in delight over her favourite salad being offered, along with the plans she had for watching horror movies well into the small hours of morning with Abigail.

"Homework first," Hannibal warned her. She grinned mischievously at him, her wine coloured lips leaving stains on her white teeth. Hannibal pointed at an incisor and Mona instantly began sucking her gums in self conscious worry.

"If you are spending the night at Abigail's I want you to make sure that have cab fare if you have to come home." Hannibal's voice was firm, and he gave a flustered looking Will a heads up as well. "Garrett has been drinking heavily, lately. I'm sure you will be fine, but just in case..."

"You'll never guess who Garrett's boyfriend is," Will said, moving behind Hannibal as he quickly began putting away groceries Hannibal most definitely didn't approve of. Sugary cereals, marshmallows and packets of instant noodles, frozen pizzas, hamburgers and buns made of processed white flour. Had he learned nothing of the importance of what one puts in one's body? "You could have sliced my head open and eaten my brains with a spoon, I couldn't be more shocked." Will paused and looked over his shoulder at Hannibal, who was now giving him a pointed glare. "A half-hearted, ill conceived attempt isn't the same as actually doing it."

"He's a tattoo artist," Mona said, pilfering a marshmallow. Her brother slid into the periphery of the conversation and took a handful of the soft white cylinders for himself. "He's got this sick ass dragon on his back, Abigail took a pic when he got out of the shower this morning."

"Francis Dolarhyde?" Hannibal said, eyes wide.

"The one and only. Guys, stop eating those things, there won't be any left for 'smores later."

"He's sleeping with him?"

"Abigail says they get noisy. It's gross."

"No arguing there," Will muttered, and grabbed an apple out of the crisper at the bottom of the refrigerator. He stood up and closed the door, rinsing off the golden skin before taking a hungry bite. "Why are you holding your side like that? Is it hurting? You know what the pharmacist said."

"I don't understand the logistics of this, Mona, Garrett had a wife, one he was very dedicated to and whom he lost to Frederick Chilton. How sure are you this relationship is what Abigail is suggesting?"

"Oh my GOD! You guys NEVER LISTEN! She only talked about it at dinner last night! He's an OMEGA and this guy's an ALPHA! He's gone over the fence for the other team, and all the OMEGA ONLY bitches he's friends with are PISSED! HOW DO YOU NOT REMEMBER HER SAYING THAT!"

"Believe it or not, Mona, Garrett Jacob Hobbs's sex life is really not that important to us." Will slid beside Hannibal and gave him an assessing once over. "How long is this funeral going to last? You look terrible, and you're burning up, and I don't like you clutching your side like that. Did you make that appointment with Bedilia?"

"Of course I did. I see her Monday morning."

"You should go to bed right after the funeral. Don't bother coming to the BBQ, I'll leave as soon as I can. Mona, seriously, you've just devoured half a bag of marshmallows, there's hardly any left now for later."

Hannibal shook his head. "I see no reason for you to leave. In fact, I would prefer to join you, this particular show shouldn't last any longer than a couple of hours. I'd love to know what version of the Red Dragon is gracing Garrett's table." He gave Will a wicked grin, full of teeth. "We could always have a rematch."

Will hesitated at this, not quite ready to treat that tragedy of his becoming as a joke. Their clueless children looked in with morose disgust as Will clutched Hannibal close and kissed his lips, lingering just a little too long.

"I'm about to puke vanilla," Mona said. Marcus had already left the kitchen, and was setting up the flowers that had arrived for the second funeral of the day.

Hannibal chastely kissed Will's cheek, purposefully earning another "Eww" from his annoyed daughter. "I will let you know when I am on my way. Oh, and Will..."

Will paused, arms laden with bowls of salad. Hannibal took the last four marshmallows out of the bag and quickly ate them, his cheeks puffed out as he spoke with his mouth full. "Pick up more of these on your way."

***

Mason Verger's death was every inch the tacky spectacle he would have adored, and it was this that made Hannibal feel sick to his stomach. He was not in the habit of pandering to the wishes of expired pederasts, though this version of Mason clearly leaned towards bestiality rather than human victims. The very thought of his slimy touch made Hannibal shudder in disgust, and with a final primp of the man's corpse's shoulders with a horsehair brush, Mason Verger was ready to be lowered into the ground where he would gradually rot into formaldehyde tainted dust.

It was now mid afternoon and the steady stream of curious onlookers and strange acquaintances of Mason Verger began arriving, not least of which was his twin sister Margot, propped up by her partner, Alpha Alana Bloom. It was clear from the way Margot wobbled on her heels that she was not overcome with grief but by the near empty whiskey flask she held aloft in her grip, her half closed eyes blinking unseeing at the various gawkers surrounding her. Alana, to her credit, took Margot's condition in stride as she approached him, but the waft of too strong perfume and a fierce pondering of his skin made him reel with nausea.

"She's so overcome with grief," she said, and raised a brow, knowing he was well in on what a joke that was. She dared to lean closer, Margot more of a prop, like a purse or a hat, at her side. "You're very feverish. I like it. Salty sweet. I bet that's how you taste, right down to your marrow and all your secret little caverns..."

"Mr. Verger's funeral is about to begin," he tersely replied, and Alana purred at his reluctance to join in her unwelcome flirting, his reticence making him a challenge he didn't want her take on. "As per his sister's instructions, I left the wound intact."

Cameras flashed in the chapel and there were murmurs of approval amongst the colourful paparazzi that had assembled around the coffin. Margot seemed to come alive at the hub of activity, her toddling gait nudging Alana away and into the chapel. Hannibal couldn't be more thankful, Alana's unwanted attentions were ferocious with pheromones, and Hannibal felt physically weakened by her presence, enough for renewed cramps to assail him. Though it had originally proved to be quite enticing, especially with Will's hands and mouth upon it, he was starting to detest his Omega body. Bad enough to be at the mercy of feminine products that were intrusive and messy, he had to contend with everyone having an opinion about his womb, namely it's medical attributes and its hormonal needs. If there was one thing he preferred to keep private in this world it was his parts.

Sick and clammy, Hannibal had the sudden thought that perhaps this body was outright rejecting him, as though his soul was an unwelcome interloper. His immune system was shutting him out, his womb twisting and squeezing every bit of life out of him until he was nothing but a shivering husk of watery sweat, slick and discarded human tissue soaked into the dark blue carpet of the chapel. Marcus gave him a sidelong glance, and Hannibal straightened, ignoring the sharp jolts of pain through his abdomen, and gave his son a warm smile as he patted his shoulder.

"What would I do without you?"

Marcus didn't answer and instead kept looking at his mother with that now familiar, aching sense of worry that he wished he could erase off of his son's face. He took long, careful strides into the chapel, where Mason Verger's religious affiliate--Guru Cordell Doemling who was still running a long con, this time as a religious cult leader who wore bright yellow linen shifts and a collection of colourful wooden beads around his neck that pretended to be Indian in origin but were dollar store rejects he'd seen his daughter purchase. Doemling chanted and stomped barefoot around the circumference of Mason Verger's coffin, peacock feathers in his grip as he implored Valhalla to take its master. It was the weirdest, most ridiculous hodge-podge of religious hocus-pocus Hannibal had ever been forced to witness, and the paparazzi were loving every bit of it. The charlatan was set to have a reality TV show by the end of the week.

Margot swayed in the front pew as Guru Doemling began chanting gibberish and pouring chicken blood from a used, plastic yogurt container into the hole in Mason Verger's head. Her eyes bulged and swam as she clutched close to Alana. "I'm hearing knocking."

Hannibal waited, listening intently, but Guru Doemling was now hopping on one bare foot and shaking maracas. It was impossible to hear anything over that din. Margot continued to squint as she tried to bring the entire ordeal into focus, the chapel still filling up with people who were more curious than in mourning. The constant camera flashes were doing nothing to alleviate Hannibal's headache.

"I swear I hear knocking."

"Margot, please, behave yourself," Alana hissed at her through her brilliant white teeth. She grinned as a camera caught them both.

Guru Doemling stood on the steps of the chapel, his arms and legs wide, the light streaming in from the stained windows behind him, penetrating the thin yellow shift he wore. The outline of everything his flabby Beta body had to offer was on full display, and Hannibal fought the urge to cover his son's eyes with his hands.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Margot suddenly exclaimed. She rolled her eyes and broke free of Alana's grip, her staggering heels dragging her down the chaos of the chapel aisle, paparazzi following ahead and behind her as though she had just been rolled out of the red carpet. "You got your fill, you greedy assholes! Let's fucking bury this son of a bitch!"

Hannibal took a step. Faltered. Took another one as he opened the chapel door and allowed the visitors who had only just arrived back out into the foyer with a confused sense of apology.

"There's definitely knocking," Margot said as she passed him. She bit her bottom lip in worry as she tipsily made it to the front door.

But the frantic drama of Mason Verger's circus of a funeral was not set to end. With one final step out of the chapel, Hannibal felt the marble floor suddenly rise and envelop him, the treasured stone of sculptors wrapping him tight in its mineral prison as he fell inside of it. The staircase, the chapel doors, orange lilies and flashes of light collapsed over top of him. He felt his body slump, falling into an endless abyss. The worried blink of his son's eyes. The lingering feel of Will's touch on his skin. His daughter's laugh. His feet were out of from under him and all had collapsed into freefall and that horrible cliff had claimed him for its own once again.

~*~

He could hear them, disembodied voices of the dead calling up to him, accusations over-riding the purpose of his sins. He had gotten what he had always wanted, for the attention of that ignorant Deity that had for so long abandoned its most dedicated pupil. For all the evil he had wrought had been in an effort for that angelic grace to stop him, and he had laughed long at the knowledge that it had enjoyed his antics and couldn't wait to see what vile attempt at attention he was set to make next.

"Hannibal."

It was calling to him now, bidding him to join it at the precipice of Hell, where the waves rolled along rock strewn shores and dashed the souls of far lesser mortals than he. How foolish it was to think he was mere flesh and bone. His lower spine was crushed to powder, his guts dissolving. He clung for Will, but he was no longer in his grasp, he was far away, deep in the tunnel of that furious ocean, his transformation torn within the waves.

"Hannibal, wake up. You need to sign this."

He groaned, the waves dissipating, becoming calm water that eventually morphed into the shape of a person staring down at him, ripples still clinging to the edge of his sight. He couldn't quite believe the image of Dr. Bedilia DuMaurier staring down at him, and the gradual clarity of her presence poured over him in currents of confusion. He tried to sit up and was stopped by an unbearable pain in his side, and he closed his eyes against it, his breath gasping as he struggled. It hurt too much to attempt to shout.

"Sign here," she said, pointing to a dotted line and offering him a pen. "Marcus can't sign for you, he's not your power of attorney, and Will isn't here yet. You need to sign this or I can't do the surgery. Just put a mark on it, anything..."

His hand shakily took the pen and the line where his name was supposed to go came into close focus. He managed to scrawl an 'H' and she nodded, taking the form away and giving him a wide smile. "You're going to be fine. This is an uncomplicated surgery, and you're going to feel better than you have in years, I promise you."

She leaned out of his vision and he tried to follow her, but the pain took over and he grimaced against it, his breath caught on its fury. Something was clawing him apart from the inside. It was doing all it could to kill him. He could hear people milling around his bed--How did he get here?--talking in muffled tones and speaking medical jargon that had a vague familiarity. The whole thing should have been frightening but he'd long abandoned that feeling and was instead frustrated that he couldn't employ his usual detachment. He was alone and wavering in the dark, the waves still threatening in the distance. Where was Will? He wanted Will.

"Mom?"

Distant, as though he were countries away. Hannibal fought to find his son, but the pain created chasms. He could hear Bedilia's soft, carefully chosen words, gentle diction easing the destruction of broken wings. "He's going to be okay. Go and wait downstairs, we're taking him into surgery now. Your dad's on his way."

He wanted to protest, to bring his son close to him and insist this didn't happen, that woman couldn't be trusted, how dare she speak to his flesh and blood! He'd dismember her for this, he'd render her most prized limbs and make a feast of her for his family, how dare she!

But the cold water overtook him and Hannibal couldn't keep himself above it. He sank into the dark murk, the calm beneath the churning waves so absolute he felt as though he would never leave its comforting, velvet black embrace.

~*~

Will was the first face he saw when he woke up.

He wasn't worried, in fact he looked some odd version of serene as he looked on Hannibal, a small smile filled with comforting warmth overtaking the chill that Hannibal had plunged into. Confused, he brought a shaky hand up to touch him and ensure he was no mirage, and Will proved it by taking Hannibal's weak hand in his and kissing his dry palm with soft, hot lips. "You've been through the end of days by the look of you," Will said, and smiled into Hannibal's limp grip. "Bedilia said this all could have been avoided if you'd had this procedure done years ago, but I guess you had some emotional baggage you weren't too keen to get rid of. One that had the Dr. Abel Gideon seal of discontent all over it." Will sighed at Hannibal's continued silence. "I guess your counterpart had his own unhealthy ways of dealing with trauma. Not taking care of himself was one of them."

Hannibal suddenly realized what had happened, and a renewed feeling of sorrow suddenly overtook him. He choked on the words as they crept out of him like shards of broken flint. "She performed a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy on me. She stole away what makes me."

Will frowned at this and shook his head. "Actually, the scarring was a lot worse than she'd originally diagnosed. You've had a full hysterectomy, there was no choice, Hannibal. The scarring had created a cyst in one of your fallopian tubes which tore it open. That's why you were in so much pain, why everything was such a mess, your body was going septic and considering your unique biology, it also played havoc with your endocrine system. You've lost a lot of fluid and sugars over the past few days due to the excessive slick, and you passed out because you went into hypoglycemic shock."

Hannibal closed his eyes, not liking the way Will was looking at him, as though some piece of him had been amputated and his usual otherworldly perfection had been marred. He licked his dry lips and Will immediately came to the rescue with ice water and a straw, his body bent awkwardly over the bed as he held it steady for Hannibal to take long sips. The water was refreshing, and with it came a sense that all the fears he'd had were finally laid to rest, that hope was what was already in place. Hannibal closed his eyes and swallowed before turning his head away. "Where are Mona and Marcus?"

"They are in the cafeteria, I wanted to be the one to see you first, to see how you were doing. I didn't want them to witness you incoherent, which can sometimes happen when someone is fresh out of anaesthesia." Will set the cup of ice water down at the side of the bed and placed a chilled hand along the side of Hannibal's face, gently stroking his cheek. "You scared the crap out of Margot Verger. She's been quoted on TMZ as saying, "I thought for sure there were going to be two funerals, and with Mr. Lecter being the official undertaker and all, it crossed my mind he'd be burying himself." The press is all over it, you're probably going to get a lot of business and unwanted attention all in one. Alana Bloom claimed to have given you CPR, but seeing as how you passed out from severe dehydration and hypoglycemia, I'd say it was just a ruse so she could cop a feel.

"Ugh. How very odd is her configuration, I'd never have guessed it.  She is an abomination, my dear Will. I'll have to block her, she'll be sending me more dick pics."

Will chuckled at this, and sat back more comfortably in his seat. He'd stolen one from the visitor's lounge in the outside hall, and had arranged it next to Hannibal's bed, the wooden arms close to the thick, tubular beige railings. Hannibal sighed and closed his eyes, content to have his husband so near, the fact he was missing parts of himself no longer a nag against his person. He had taken so much from others it was only fitting that which he'd been so fiendishly denied a full understanding of had been likewise stolen.

"Will," he said, his voice a harsh whisper that Will had to lean close to him to hear. Hannibal swallowed, and turned his head on the flat, hard pillow, his eyes trying and failing to fully bring his worshipful fellow monster into focus. "How did the funeral progress?"

"As far as I know, perfectly well," Will assured him. "Mason Verger is buried on a family plot on the Verger estate, as per the requests of his will. He's next door to the pigs. That's a Margot quote, by the way." Will dared to trace his fingertips along the back of Hannibal's knuckles, warming his skin with just the barest of touches and sending an electrified jolt of life through his being. "You don't need to worry. Everything is buried, as it should be."

Hannibal gave him a crooked smile, his eyes still closed. "We are monsters again."

"We are survivors against extenuating circumstances," Will corrected.

Hannibal chuckled at this. "There are many who would say the same thing. Tell me, Will, how is it we can have such a perfect life and yet it is still tainted by the sour notes of blood? It pulses beneath us, it is an intrinsic part of who we are, the sum of our souls shaped into the clay formation of a Golem. You are my twin spirit, one of monstrous proportions. Surely, you still feel that. The very rocks below couldn't stop us. What follows now? What patterns do we dare pull into existence, a reverb of the past or a kaleidoscopic bloodbath of a future? I do hope it is the latter, Will. For however much I love my family and you I cannot deny that the beauty of death has its thrall."

Will clasped Hannibal's hand in his, his thumb grazing against his wrist. "We seem to be in the perfect careers to keep those needs sated, don't you think?"

Hannibal's lips curled into a genuine smile at this. He opened his eyes and Will was also smiling down at him, wide open and keen to explore what the future had to offer. The sound of crashing waves was reaching far into the scant echoes of his memory. There was still darkness lurking for both of them, hoary hands of the dead outstretched and needy. But Will was right. Perhaps the constant presence of corpses in their lives would be enough. Perhaps the shaping of the newly dead would soothe the hunger Hannibal knew his soul would want fed.

"I love you," Will said, clutching his hand tighter.

Hannibal grinned, feeling victory. "Of course you do, as I you. We do not have a choice, dear Will. Destiny placed us here, again and again, into such a moment, where the denial of the other is impossible. One heart cannot beat without the other. I am your monster, and you are mine. The more we are together, in this strange portrait of perfection, an oil smeared American Gothic of our own, the more I love the potential of everything yet to be. I love you, Will."

Will's smile radiated a warmth that Hannibal clung to, its promise banishing all sense of snow, all axes that fell echoing fast into a nightmarish place that held no purchase here. He was home, in the grip of Will's hand in the soft, half light of blipping monitors and the blurry outline of clear IV bags that hung high beside his bed. Memories that were distant and fractured into that other madman's life tried to interfere and couldn't, the obscurity of what he was only thinly clung to.

"I suppose our second problem was taken care of?" Will asked, brow raised, brilliant blue eyes brimming with a satisfied mischief that a Will Graham, FBI profiler had never thought to indulge until Hannibal had awoken him and together they had slain a dragon.

"Yes," Hannibal said, his lips as wide as a Cheshire cat's. "In a most fitting plot."

Will let out a soft, happy sigh. "Amongst pigs, then."

"Yes," Hannibal said. His eyes followed every tiny movement of his beloved in the chair beside him, his weakened grip doing all it could to cling to him. "I hope that was all right."

Will's hand left his and moved down across his belly to trace the lower ridge of his abdomen, where an ugly scar remained, a crescent of injured skin and muscle that was a constant reminder of the fight Hannibal had endured to keep his family whole. He was the sole survivor. In a red line along the length of her arm, his precious daughter bore the scar of a very bloody battle.

"He deserves that and so much more," Will said, and he bent low to kiss Hannibal's lips, tasting the pearl of his teeth as he pulled away, ever so slightly, his forehead resting on Hannibal's in a gesture of soulful affection.

"Will." Hannibal swallowed back his emotion and caressed his husband's hair, his hand combing through locks and pressing against the contours of his cheek as he had those many years ago, under far more desperate, unhappy circumstances. "Are we still falling over that cliff?"

Will shook his head, frowning.

"We will never fall again."

Hannibal felt his heart pulse in tune with his husband's. "Never?"

Will's gaze was unwavering, filled with black rocks and tidal waves that rejected the shore.

"I promise you."