Been A Son

BEEN A SON
chapter eight

Hannibal managed to park his Bentley crookedly in his driveway and stagger up the front steps into his home, slamming the door and locking it behind him. He pressed his back against the heavy door and slid down it to the dark oak floor in pained relief, unable to catch his breath. He had a vague understanding that he'd taken a terrible risk driving himself home through the snow squall and more than a few times the tires of the Bentley hit patches of ice, its high speed nearly sending it careening against the rails of the highway. His cell phone buzzed angrily in his coat pocket and he took it out only to turn it off, knowing who the caller would be. He let it drop to the floor as another painful wave overtook him and he grit his teeth against it, lines of sweat coursing down his back, his white cotton shirt sticking to his damp skin.

He was in heat. Full on, relentless heat, and though he wanted to blame the kiss he placed on Will's lips as the final trigger, the truth was far more disturbing. It was after he'd held the baby, going so far as to cuddle and fuss over her, the melancholy when he had to give her back hitting every biological button within him. Such a foolish decision, one that left him silently weeping during the first act of the opera. Even now his arms ached for that familiar little weight to be held within them, to brush away its tiny tears with soft kisses, the rightness of it culminating in the gentle sink of his body into the warm strength of Will Graham's fingers as he gently stroked the back of his neck.

His pants felt wet, soiled with slick, a spasm clenching his abdominal muscles, sending out another gush as he shifted against the back of the front door. This was going to be a particularly bad heat, and he'd already made a number of poor decisions to exacerbate it, not the least of which was kissing Will Graham. Surely the man wasn't so dim an Alpha that he didn't recognize the taste of heat on Hannibal's tongue, and it wouldn't surprise Hannibal at all to find Will Graham pounding on his door, demanding entry to sate his inexplicable lust.

Hannibal groaned at another shockwave that coursed through his body and waited until the initial tremors stopped before attempting to stand. His knees felt weak, but he managed it, his long, wool coat slid off of his shoulders and dumped onto the floor on top of his shoes. His skin was clammy, permeated with the sickly sweet scent of his heat, Omega hormones diving deep into the fibres of his suit. He'd have to burn it along with his coat.

His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed, his throat sandy and tight. His Omega nature was in full form tonight, poisoning every action with fear and opening dark doors that he desperately tried to keep shut. The crushing, recent memory of Will's fingers along his throat, his tongue open and exploring did little to calm the panic rising within Hannibal's gut. He managed to make his way into his kitchen with great difficulty, unbidden whines erupting from deep within his chest, an instinctive plea from an Omega to their Alpha. He was surprised at the involuntary sounds leaving him, though perhaps it was only natural for him to be calling on a possible mate. He was relieved that Will was not here to hear them, the weakness it suggested disturbing. Will Graham was getting far too close, and Hannibal's plan of deflecting the profiler, pushing him away just enough to reel him in again later should any question of gender arise, had been destroyed the second he'd captured Will's lips and practically begged the man to ravish his mouth.

There was still that musky taste of Will on his lips and Hannibal persistently licked them, sucking the insides of his cheeks in a vain effort to devour more. The places Will touched him, along his shoulders, his neck, the back of his head, they held the ghost of his strong hands, their absence leaving behind a hollow feeling that made Hannibal's body want to collapse in misery. He desperately needed that touch again, his memory chasing after it and still falling short in its effectiveness against the reality.

He would get through this. He had suffered through plenty of heat cycles in his life, and this was just one of that number, regardless of its severity. He would take to his bed in his little cozy cave and keep the lights low and he would have his toys to take care of the more insistent cravings. He would stagger up into his kitchen three days later, hungry and dehydrated, his mind crystal clean in its perceptions. Slick soaked sheets would be tossed into the heavy duty cycle of his washing machine while he'd shower for over an hour. He'd inject himself with a double dose of Alpha pheromones and eat generous amounts of Alpha liver and life would continue on, as it always did. He had the challenge of morphing Will's lusting desire into Alpha guilt when he re-emerged into the world. He was looking forward to it.

With fumbling, blind hands he managed to grip the countertop in his kitchen and open a cupboard door, fingers clumsily knocking down a glass which rolled and smashed onto the slate floor. Bracing himself with his grip hard on the edge of the marble counter, he forced himself to take deep, cleansing breaths before reaching up and taking another glass. He managed to fill the glass with lukewarm water from the tap, his dry throat stinging as he drank it before dropping the glass into the sink.

There was a cold breeze moving through the air in his kitchen like a definable line, and Hannibal stood up into its path, the cold a balm against his damp, feverish skin. Some more rational portion of his mind told him there was danger here, that he hadn't opened any windows. An intruder was in his house.

He didn't have time to react to the hunter's dart that sank with painful precision into the side of his neck, just missing the jugular. He sank onto his knees, the broken glass on the floor cutting through the soiled fabric and into his skin. A hefty dose of xylazine, Hannibal recognized. It was one he'd used on many an Alpha meal himself.

~*~

He hid in the last stall and hoped no one else would come into the clearly abandoned washroom, the grey walls and concrete floor thick with mildewed dirt, the mirrors above the two rusted out sinks cracked down the middle. Hiding himself in the stall was a pathetic subterfuge, for any idiot could see the blood seeping out in a wide puddle onto the floor, and the knees of the man crouched against the toilet, his heaving, pained sobs punctuating the echoing silence. He picked up his pager and frantically typed in Donald's number, getting it wrong twice before it finally buzzed through. He hoped he would think to check the washroom they'd agreed upon for such an emergency, and that he understood that Hannibal calling his pager was indicative of disaster. Otherwise, he'd be at the mercy of the law, which held no kindness for citizens of Hannibal's type, his rarity a thing to be studied rather than exalted. He'd be thrown into an asylum for gender subterfuge and treated like a lab rat for the rest of his life, a cruelty that, thankfully, a kind Beta like Dr. Donald Sutcliffe couldn't stomach.

The door to the washroom opened, and Hannibal gripped his scalpel. He couldn't be found out, not when his life was just about to begin, his career as a surgeon so close to his reach all he needed was another inch to grasp success and force it into his clenched palm. He was one month from completing his medical residency at John Hopkins and obtaining his license. He was already on the short list for board certification, and whoever it was that was stepping closer and closer, Hannibal had his future's protection ready and he steeled himself for the inevitable murder.

"Hannibal?"

He relaxed his grip on the scalpel in his lab coat pocket and fell back against the steel walls of the stall into a sense of tired, frightened relief. He unlocked the stall door and allowed Dr. Donald Sutcliffe access. Donald quickly got to his knees and checked Hannibal's vitals, though the more problematic issue would require a bed. "I warned you about this, you are too high a risk," Donald said, but not without sympathy. Hannibal let out a small sob at this and Donald pressed his palm against his friend's cheek, forcing down his own panic into a professional calm he definitely wasn't feeling. "There's a mostly empty storage room not far from the old morgue, they put the broken beds in there. I'll get you set up and I'll come back and clean up the mess before I get back in there to examine you. I think there's some ancient wheelchairs in there too, do you want me to wheel one out for you?"

Hannibal shook his head, and he leaned on Donald for support as he stood up. The cramping had finally subsided, a fact that made his heart drop like a heavy stone into his stomach. With weak arms he braced himself over Donald's smaller, slighter frame, and limped his way out of the washroom, the carnage his body had left behind enough to make a seasoned obstetrics resident like Donald retch.

The corridor was deep in the bowels of the hospital, in a section that had been abandoned a decade ago when the new surgical wing had been built. There was little risk of them being discovered, though it was hardly an adequate space for emergency surgeries. Hopefully, nature had done most of the dirty work for him, and if there was any residual placental tissue Donald could perform a simple dilation and curettage to prevent further bleeding.

An overwhelming sense of nausea hit Hannibal as he was eased onto the uneven, cold plastic mattress of the bed, a broken wheel giving its steel frame a warped appearance. He fought the urge to vomit and began undressing, his soiled clothes tossed into a nearby biohazard waste bin that Donald had provided. He put on the thin, blue cotton patient's robe that Donald had kindly provided and lay back onto the bed, his body trembling in shock.

At twenty-four years old, this wasn't how he'd expected his life in the United Main to turn out. At the young age of seventeen, his scholarship to John Hopkins was secured by his artistic prowess and he'd passed the entrance exams with ease. He was now fully qualified to work here, as evidenced by his consistent moonlighting work and his residency performance. If he'd had to mask his Omega status in order to achieve that success, what did it matter? The United Main was not to be a permanent home for him anyway, he had plans to move to Japan within the next few years to take advantage of their more inclusive lifestyle. Wealth would hardly follow him, however, not with how Japan like many other countries bore the brunt of the United Main's prejudicial bullying tactics through economic stalemates. Omega owned businesses were often shut out of the strong United Main markets, making it difficult for such companies to expand. Japan had a glut of them.

All he'd wanted was to make enough money to go to far more distant shores with ease, and a good wage treated frugally could purchase him a pretty condo along one of the country regions outside of Tokyo. Lady Murasaki had often told him about the stretches of near tropical forest, where shrines dedicated to Omegan forest dwellers could be found, little statues of rabbits, deer and koi dotting the landscape. Japan was a poor country, left destitute by the lack of investment by the United Main after the World Depression, and the dollars he earned here could go far. His current, unexpected condition would not have prevented this. He had hidden his gender this long, he was confident he could have kept the maternity and lineage of his child a secret as well.

His absently touched the small scar at his throat that still hadn't fully healed. The pinch of the scab made him wince and he let his hand fall away from it.

Could have. Life was full of desecrated possibilities that left cruel evidence in hindsight. He could have had his twin sister, Mischa, at his side right now, helping him through his lowest point. He could have avoided this altogether with her help, for if she had survived that terrible winter he would have always had an ally. First Mischa, now this. Was there any hope more barren?

Hannibal felt the tears fall, hot and furious and he shivered as he waited alone on the broken bed for his frightened Beta acquaintance to come back to him. Perhaps he had been abandoned, and he was to bleed out here, forgotten, as easily discarded as the soiled material shoved into the biohazard bin beside him. He knew, clinically, what was set to happen to him in the approaching months, how the hormonal sadness would assail him, placing him into a realm that shared its emotional borders with depression. This didn't make the sudden emptiness easier for him to bear, and he curled into a tight ball on the broken bed, his skin sticking to the rubber mattress, dried blood flaking and filling his senses with iron. Death had seeped inside of him. He clutched his bloodied fist to his mouth and bit down on the scream he wanted to allow escape.

When Donald finally came back into the dusty room he was wheeling a steel tray full of the surgical instruments of his discipline and several blankets which he hastily draped over Hannibal's shivering form. "For fuck's sake, Hannibal," Donald said, near terror creeping into the timbre of his voice. "It's not too late to go to the police. I have some friends in law school, they could petition the judge..."

"You're a fool if you think it's that easy," Hannibal said, cutting the conversation off at its root.

Donald placed a warm palm on Hannibal's forehead, caressing his damp hair from his brow with a tenderness that Hannibal had never before experienced. So many simple touches that everyone else could take for granted. He couldn't stop himself from sighing into the comfort of it.

"What was done to you was a crime."

"One I will forever pay for," Hannibal curtly reminded him. "Donald, I am appreciative of your help, but I am also fully aware that nothing comes without its price. You are no exception. I know you are here due to your own curiosity and I will not judge your for it, I only ask that you give me the same professionalism you give your regular patients. I understand the uniqueness of this opportunity and please know that were I in your position I would feel the same."

Donald frowned, his hand still cupping Hannibal's brow. "I don't understand what you mean."

"I think it should be obvious, Donald. I am quite possibly the only male Omega you will ever have the opportunity to examine in your entire obstetric career."

Donald stared at him, aghast and tore his comforting hand away. "Do you seriously think I'm that cold of a person? Hannibal, I consider you my friend. As an obstetrician, believe me, I'm keenly aware of how ridiculous the United Main's gender laws are. Please, Hannibal, don't mistake this for one more added cruelty." He kissed Hannibal's perspiring forehead, his lips cool against hot skin, the gesture wholesome in its concern. "I just wish you'd tell me who did this to you so I can kill the bastard myself."

Donald softly petted his hair, the action soothing, causing Hannibal to instinctively relax. He didn't entirely feel safe with Donald, but as a Beta he wasn't a threat either. Suddenly tired beyond his endurance, Hannibal rolled onto his back and turned towards Donald's angry and worried face.

"I don't want you to do what I am meant to," Hannibal said. He tilted his chin up in shivering pride, the scar at his throat opening anew. He could feel a fresh trickle of warm blood seep down his neck in a stinging, thin line. "I am borne of warriors, Donald. This is my war to wage."

Hannibal awoke on a cold, concrete floor, his body nestled amongst sawdust. He heard the clink of chains before he saw them, and he sat up with effort, the manacles at his wrists tight and bruising. Nausea from both his heat and the residual tranquilizer threatened to overcome him, and he tried to focus on the dark, small space he'd found himself in, the shape and arrangement of it oddly familiar. The ceiling was too short for him to stand, and the top of his head grazed the metal surface. He leaned against a wall constructed of steel and realized he was enclosed in a perfectly square metal box, not so much a prison as a small, mobile pen, one probably used for transporting pigs. He could hear voices through a thin slot cut into the metal door to his right and he strained to hear the conversation, his muddled, heat strewn mind doing what it could to make sense of the words.

"...I got a half dozen already starting to grow. It's just like watering a garden, really, I'm confident this method is going to be much more effective. Sows have their use, but when it comes to the bulk effort, you can't beat the test tube..." There was a low chuckle at this, and Hannibal blearily stared out the slot, trying to determine who the stranger's voice belonged to. It had an overly confident cadence to it that Hannibal instantly disliked. "Of course, the payment need not go through until there's at least preliminary proof of success. You must understand that no matter what, this is a highly experimental procedure..."

"I don't doubt your abilities at all Dr. Doemling, and I agree that Miss Piggy still has some potential with careful monitoring. I'm just looking to get as much out of my little bargain as I can. Get some bangs out of our buyer's bucks if you get my meaning. My oh my, this one has ripened up quite a bit in the last few hours, it's a pity you're an olfactory challenged Beta, Cordell, you can't imagine the incredible flower of that scent."

If Hannibal was feeling ill before he was outright sick now. He recoiled from the sound of Mason Verger's voice, the chains clanking as he moved towards the further reaches of his metal cage. The shackles were bound on both of his wrists, the length of the chains long enough to allow him full range within his confines, which were cramped and poorly ventilated. There was a painful burning on the lower right side of his back, and he tested it with a featherweight touch. Bits of sawdust had gotten into the wound, a blistered branding from the stinging feel of it. It was circular in shape, and Hannibal realized it was the one used on Verger swine, specifically the breeding stock. His nudity alarmed him, but he was still in full heat, a fact that told him he had not been abused in that sense, at least not yet.

Small, piggy eyes framed in thick glasses suddenly blocked what little light came into his cage and Hannibal remained immobile, masking himself in calm as best he could despite the involuntary shivers that wracked his body. "Looks like Sleeping Beauty has finally woken up! Hello there, Dr. Lecter, hope you got yourself a nice bit of shut eye. You know Cordell," he turned to the man in the white lab coat behind him, the one had referred to before as Dr. Doemling, "I didn't doubt it for a second. I wasn't a hundred percent sure until last night, when that little FBI turd stood in front of him. You could practically taste the Omega off the air, then. Don't know how the little scruff missed it, but then, these solitary Alpha types are weird dogs anyway."

Hannibal gritted his teeth at this, and fought the urge to lash out, instead forcing his rage into a simmering calm that would only mask the building fury within him.

"Listen, Dr. Lecter, Cordell, or as he likes to be known as 'Dr. Doemling', he found some pretty interesting information after he inspected your ladybits. Seems you're not the virginal old thing at all, and he's wondering where the little Dr. Lecter is." Mason smiled and leaned back, turning with a knowing look to Cordell. "Ah, I can sniff that off him, too, that tiniest little whiff of Omega Wants Her Baby longing, used to smell it off of Margot every time she lost one of those unfortunate mistakes. Isn't it funny, how long that lasts. No matter, the buyer's not that picky, and I'm sure he'll be thrilled to get himself a little collectable piece like this one." He turned back to Hannibal, his mouth upturned in a wide grin that met a malicious mirth in his small eyes. "I'll bet he'll like how *feisty* you are, especially with all that Alpha aggression practice over the years. You took a good chunk out of Cordell's arm last night, even while you were knocked out. How's that for instinctive reflexes! I'd try out the goods myself, of course, but you're a little older than I usually like--Okay, make that a *lot* older--But you know how Alphas are, always wanting to be the first ones to play with the toys out of the box. Gotta keep the customer happy!"

He leaned back to get a better view into the cage, a thin amount of light streaming against the far wall. Hannibal was keen to remain in the shadows. "Where's your dog now, Dr. Lecter? What's wrong, not going to bare your teeth at me without him around to protect you? See, Cordell, just the mention of him gets the juices going. He's got an itch that only Will Graham's knot can scratch. Forgive the crude observation, Dr. Lecter, please, it's just a statement of fact."

Mason left Hannibal, then, concentrating instead on his business with Cordell, which Hannibal gave his full concentration as he listened in. "Quiet, isn't he? Most of them are howling by now, rolling all over the floor and begging for any kind of relief."

"He's struggling," Cordell assured him. "Just give him by the end of the day, he'll just as much of a mess. If anything, I would suggest he be sedated, I wouldn't want to him to harm himself in an attempt to escape, especially after what he did when he was unconscious." Hannibal noted the large bandage on the man's arm and it was then that Cordell finally came into full view. He was a sweaty, slightly overweight man who was a head taller than Mason, in his mid to late thirties and balding. He wore a white lab coat that had a mustard stain on the sleeve and his stethoscope was draped over his neck, the nozzle cracked. Not a doctor so much as a man desperately wanting to be believed as one. He probably did have some rudimentary knowledge, but his application was too sloppy. He'd been a failure. A dropout.

A sense of genuine calm washed over Hannibal at this for if the man was tardy in one respect, he would be in many others. Cordell was a confident man. The easiest enemies to smite always were.

From what he could discern, the cage was in a brightly lit room, and it held an antiseptic aroma. He was in a lab, and from what he remembered of the Verger estate this was Mason's little genetics pet project where he hoped to develop meatier pigs. He'd had some success in the past, according to Margot, but the resulting swine had been deformed, so burdened with flesh they couldn't move and thus died within a few hours of being born. Mason always fancied himself a bit of a gene splicer. With a lackadaisical scientist like Cordell on his side, all manner of sick experimentation could occur. Hannibal was extremely happy at that moment that he was not a pig.

From what he could determine, the room and his cage were situated in the basement of the Verger estate, on the far reaches of the property, directly beneath the pens. He knew there was a set of stairs that led directly upwards into them, in an empty pen just to the far right of the barn doors. Old man Verger was a paranoid man, convinced that he needed escape routes should any of his enemies--usually envisioned as some fictitious branch of the United Main government--come seeking him out to destroy him or, more importantly, steal all of his money. Hannibal had made a point to go over all of the original architectural plans, circling and memorizing the secret rooms and routes that criss-crossed the entire property. He'd managed to bar entry into Margot's cottage this way, cementing shut the trap door in her sub basement. Mason was rumoured to have pouted over this for weeks, though he never revealed he knew about it, of course. Margot was tickled at his misery.

A small slot was opened at the bottom of his cage door and a tray of food was shoved through it, sawdust sliding into a set of runny sunny side up eggs. They sat, slimy and cold on a ceramic plate decorated with tiny pink flowers around the edges. How precious. Hannibal smiled at the offering, grateful for it.

Old ceramic plates were much like teacups. He tapped it hard against the ground, liking the way it easily broke into pieces.

"Just because you're in heat doesn't mean you shouldn't eat," he heard Cordell's viscous, overly friendly voice say to him. He watched carefully as Cordell waved goodbye to Mason whose ear was already plastered to his cell phone as he left Cordell alone, business trumping pleasure. It wasn't until Mason was well and truly out of the lab, that Cordell slid up to the small window and pursed his lips in thought.

"Now, he thinks selling you off to this guy is going to be a nice little turn of profit, but I'm thinking Mr. Verger just isn't seeing the big picture here. I mean, the last one we sold him ended up in the river on Will Graham's property, I mean, why not just point a beacon on us and be done with it, right? Not very smart. You've been branded, too, Mason's silly idea of putting a label on his merchandise. This guy is just too out there for things like that, he's sloppy and stupid and he's going to have us hung before the week is out when they find your corpse in Will Graham's dumpster." Cordell tapped the side of his nose. "I'm always thinking, though. It's why I'm the brains of this operation. Got a long plan going that I think is going to be very profitable for the Verger family and I think I have a better solution for you that will be especially profitable for me."

Cordell leaned closer to the small window to show Hannibal his cell phone. "I've been emailing this drug cartel guy in Romania. He's been looking for some Omega candy and he's real interested in what you got to offer. Sent him a pic while you were out, so he thinks you're more docile than you are. He's offering a good ten thousand more than the creep who will just kill you off, kind of unusual for a foreign market, but I'm not complain..."

Hannibal took that moment to take a shard of the broken ceramic breakfast plate and shoved it deep into Cordell's eye and well into the underside of his brain. Cordell screamed, immobilized by pain and brain damage, while Hannibal calmly reached through the slot with his plastic fork and deftly lifted a set of keys out of the front pocket of Cordell's lab coat and pulled them back through the slot, dropping them into his open palm.

It took a few moments to figure out which keys belonged to his shackles and when they were finally undone he reached through the slot and unlocked the deadbolt, earning a set of nasty scratches on his arm as a result. Freed, he stepped over the writhing torment of Cordell Doemling, and picked up his cell phone before snatching up the fake doctor's stethoscope and wrapping it tight around his throat. It took a good few minutes of hard adrenaline and determined muscle, but Hannibal managed to cut off the 'doctor's' air supply with its rubber hose pulled taut around Cordell's windpipe. The body violently thrashed and blood spurted from behind the nearly fully embedded piece of ceramic in Cordell's eye, a little pink flower teasing around the area where his pupil used to be. The overly bright room was awash in Cordell's death, splatters bathing Hannibal's bared chest in an unwelcome warmth. He squinted through the harsh light, letting the stethoscope drop.

Since Cordell was well and truly dead, Hannibal turned on the cell phone's camera and took a picture of his gory corpse. He checked the emails with the Romanian Cordell had been negotiating with, only to realize the foolish man had been duped. Hannibal had seen such correspondence before in Will's Omega case file and had extensive communication with officials in Eastern Europe. Cordell was offering to sell a male Omega to a Russian sting operation pretending to be based in Romania, a joint effort between the countries cracking down on Western traffickers and poachers. How very amusing. He sent the official who had been baiting Cordell a picture of his corpse along with a suggestion, in perfect Russian, as to how to use it for an anti-trafficking campaign poster. He was confident it would send the right message.

His escape plan was not secured yet, and he had a very small window of time left to implement it. He quickly dialled his quiet and meek patient Janine, who answered on the second ring, her voice painfully groggy. He checked the time. Five o'clock in the morning. Poor Will, he was set to have another early start.

"Hello, Janine," Hannibal said, and his voice was as warm as heated honey. "I hope you are doing well. The burns on your hands are healing? Very good, and not to worry, your mother can buy a new bed. A new couch set too? Ah, you were able to blame that fire on a back draft from the gas fireplace, very clever girl. I'm proud of your ambition. I am calling right now, my dear Janine, to make a very serious request of you. I need you to call the FBI. It's a matter of some urgency."

After giving her strict instructions as to what she was to say and do, Hannibal hung up the cell phone, leaving it in a puddle of Cordell's blood but not before taking the padlock off of his cage and slamming its rounded edge onto the cell phone's surface, crushing it. He grabbed a lab coat hanging on a nearby hook, slipping it on before grasping under the arms of Cordell's corpse and dragging it down the small corridor that led to the late Mr. Verger's escape route. It was hidden behind a incomplete partition in the drywall, and Hannibal deftly stepped into the arid space, Cordell's body tucked in along with him. He carefully put the partition back into place in case Mason happened to stop by during his escape, though at this early an hour he was sure the current Verger patriarch was back in his crusty bed, visions of Hannibal's 'ladybits' at the forefront of his vile mind. Hannibal shook the horrid imagery off and dragged Cordell's body down the secreted corridor, hefting it up and over his strong shoulders as he climbed the steep iron stairs leading up to the empty pen in the barn.

The trap door took a good shove to push open and it was Cordell's body that went first, plopped roughly onto the planks, face first into pig shit and shovelled fully through it as Hannibal pushed the corpse up by its knees over the edge of the opened trap door. He followed it immediately afterwards, closing the trap door behind him and covering it with straw before kicking Dr Cordell Doemling's corpse over onto its back.

It was still dark at this early hour and he could hear the distant wail of police sirens and he knew that with Mason Verger already on the FBI radar that Jack Crawford would waste no time getting a team onto the scene. He pulled the thin lab coat tight around him in a vain attempt to fight off the cold. His feet were still bare and he inwardly cursed as he took a look at Cordell's shoes and realized they were far too small to be of any use. He would have to track through the snow barefoot.

Shuddering against the cold, it was only now that his adrenaline crashed, taking him out of his sense of calm and releasing him to the painful ravages of his heat. A sudden spasm in his abdomen sent him doubling over in pain, and the release of slick put the intact boars several pens over in a furious state of panic, their screaming violence so loud it filled the barn with their aggressive din. Boars began to tear into one another in Alpha dominance, breaking the confines of their pens in order to get to each other and tear their rivals to pieces. The noise was going to alert someone on the Verger estate soon, this was not a safe place to hide.

With his senses overly attuned, every sharp wind cut through the thin lab coat like razors, his slick freezing to the inside of his thighs. Walking through the snow in his bare feet felt like stepping on shards of glass, but he struggled through the pain, stopping every few steps to clutch at his stomach and fight the angry scream that tried to rip itself out of his throat. Every nerve ending in his body felt like it was tipped in fire and dousing it with the cold only made it burn hotter.

The responding local P.D. were on the property now, and Hannibal managed to slip to the back end of the barn, in an area they wouldn't investigate and one which would give him a good vantage point.

Will. He needed Will.

Only Will.

He pressed his cheek against the large, plastic water dispensary meant for the pigs in temperate months which would be filled with rainwater starting in early April. Right now its contents were frozen solid and leaning against it offered no respite nor relief. At this rate, he'd die of exposure before finding any hope of rescue.

He curled his knees up against the twisting spasms tearing apart his abdomen, and he half wondered if he was having a seizure this time, if his heat was actually going to kill him. An old wives tale, of course, but he well understood where the idea came from, especially with pain this relentless and all consuming. A low whimper escaped him, and he tried to comfort himself with positive images from his memory palace. The incredible performance of The Sorceress by opera diva Cecilia Bartoli, the warmth of his hearth fire as he sipped a particularly good selection of well aged Glennfiddich. Will, playing ragtime on his harpsichord. Will, chiding him for not wearing the right kind of shoes. Will, his confusion and delight, his lips so warm and soft and needful, his touch so very strong and pleasing...

And just like that all the dungeon doors of his mind palace flung open, his inner horrors drifting out of them and onto the snow, rotting mind monsters that clamoured to be heard. He could feel Mischa's breath, sweet and temperate on the back of his neck, and he could hear her tiny voice asking him, for the hundredth time, 'Brother, what can we eat? I'm so hungry. Hanniska, I'm so cold.' and he had nothing for her, nothing but the cold and the long, thin grip of death on an endless field of snow. It took her tiny body despite all of his efforts to keep her safe. He should have just laid in the snow and followed her into her endless sleep, he never should have fought his way to the road, where he was rescued by the Soviet soldiers who had just celebrated a victory over the militia insurgents who had burned down Lecter castle. He should have covered his twin's small, slight corpse with his own and forgotten about this cruel thing called life. He should never have accepted the hot coffee from the laughing soldiers who bid him to drink, and praised him for being such a brave Alpha lad in the midst of such bloodletting. He should have crawled beneath the ground to be Mischa's grave, and he should have wrapped his arms around her thin, nine year old body and kept her corpse warm.

He could feel Will's touch against the side of his face when he closed his eyes, the very thought offering him comfort. He could feel the heat of Will's breath at his ear, whispering into it, "Why do I find you so beautiful?"

Hannibal's teeth chattered, his knees drawn up tight against his chin. "I don't know," he whispered back. "My dear Will, all I am is pain and hurt. It hurts, dear Will." He tucked his face into the ice cold space between his knees. Will Graham was set to arrive on the scene. Will Graham was Jack's bloodhound and Will Graham would recognize Hannibal's distressed scent.  

Will Graham had to hurry the hell up.