Been A Son

BEEN A SON
chapter fifteen

Dr. Hannibal Lecter was in his office early the next morning, for he had much to prepare. The new security cameras had been installed, placating the elderly lawyers Lloyd & Lloyd on the ground floor and giving Will a false sense of security that still permitted Hannibal some daily freedom. He had no patients scheduled this morning and he was free to continue with his plans, most of which involved long texts of comprehensive reassurance to his army. In the lull between these correspondences he was content to sit at his large desk, his sketchbook open as he contemplated a new study of Will's torso, as viewed from the angle he'd enjoyed the night before. Hannibal felt a small jolt of pleasure dive deep inside of him at the memory, for the night hadn't ended after their unfortunate run in with Chilton at the opera. Will had such a luscious, eager mouth, one that Hannibal had dedicated several pages of his sketchbook to, the thought of the blush of those lips sending a warm ember through him at how skilled Will's mouth was at finding all of his secretive crevices in order to pluck ripe fruit.

The aria from La Wally drifted through his large office, the notes expertly interpreted by soprano Wilhelmenia Fernandez and accentuating the delightful memories and sending all negative connotations into an ether that was Will's touch. He fingered the dark, shimmering blue silk at his neck, and thought with great fondness on how Will had so expertly wound it in place, ending it in a smaller knot at the base of his throat than Hannibal would have used. He smiled at the small evidence of affection and was pleased to note that all of his plans were coming to a solid, uncompromising conclusion.

So it was with some surprise that he heard the knock on his door, insistent and harsh, knuckles comprised of delicate fingers that belonged to a woman and not a man. Hannibal could always tell by the force exerted against the wood. He gently closed his sketchbook and placed down his pencil, the scalpel hidden up his shirtsleeve in case some unexpected danger was lurking in the waiting room. He paused in front of the door, and pressed his ear to it, his lips curling into a far gentler smile, the scalpel tucked aside on a nearby shelf. He could hear Margot's gentle weeping, and he knew that there was no threat in it, she was merely here due to doubts and fears of recrimination, both things he was set to put at ease. He pasted on his facade of benign calm and opened the door, bidding her to enter and was momentarily blindsided by the appearance of Dr. Alana Bloom, who followed in behind Margot in a protective hurry, his office door closed and locked behind her.

They were both in an agitated state, which he supposed was to be expected though he didn't understand why Margot's body was trembling the way it was, like she was having a small seizure. Tears spilled and he recognized that she was holding in deep sobs, her inner turmoil leaving her deeply unhinged and ready to collapse. Dr. Bloom, placed a reassuring hand on Margot's shoulder and Margot collapsed into her, a damp embrace Hannibal was sure had been revisited several times that morning if the grim countenance on Dr. Bloom was any indication. She gentled the back of her girlfriend's neck and with a soft kiss and a promise she was going to take care of everything, she bid Margot to sit at the chaise near the window, which she did, teetering on the upholstered leather edge like it was a cliff face. She was dressed in all in black, as though in mourning though Hannibal couldn't figure as to why, this was one funeral they had both been anticipating for quite some time.

Dr. Bloom was in similar attire, though hers was oddly militaristic, complete with a leather backpack, black leggings and a pair of hiking boots that were far more comfortable than the usual impractical heels she subjected herself to. "I take it we have a crisis," Hannibal said by way of getting to the point. He bid Dr. Bloom to take the patient's seat across from him. "Please, there is nothing that can't be remedied. Is our project still safe?"

Dr. Bloom and Margot exchanged worried glances, ending it with Margot placing a shaking, well manicured had to her mouth and dry heaving into her palm. She hadn't said a word which was highly unlike her, and seemed content to leave the bad news to her Beta partner. "The original plan is fine," Bloom assured him, and pressed her lips tight together. "There's just...There are some complications, and I felt you needed to be aware of them."

Hannibal was bemused by this. He sat in his accustomed chair while Dr. Bloom remained standing, her feet shifting from one to the other in a nervous beat that did not suit her otherwise determined demeanour. Hannibal gestured to the decanter of brandy in the far corner and bid Margot to fix herself one, which she did wordlessly and without question, lunging for the amber liquid in an effort to self medicate. "No need to be selfish at this time, Margot, perhaps Dr. Bloom would like a sifter as well?"

"Dr. Lecter, you need to understand, we're not here because we are worried about...About our plan. That's going along just fine, no hitches there." Dr. Bloom bit her bottom lip and watched from the corner of her eye as Margot downed the sifter of brandy in one large gulp. She slammed the glass down on the small glass side table between the chaise and Hannibal's chair.

"Show him," she said.

"Margot, I really need to prepare him."

Margot shook her head and a tiny nag of something unpleasant began to wind its way into the back of Hannibal's skull. He regretted leaving the scalpel on that shelf, too far away for him to reach. "Like that's even possible. You can't prepare anyone for something like that, it's too awful. Just take it out and show him." Margot sighed and bit her thumbnail, not looking at Hannibal. "I'm sorry Dr. Lecter. I'd better fix you a drink."

Really curious now, Hannibal sat back in his chair in a posture of practised confidence as Dr. Alana Bloom slid her backpack off of her strong shoulders and dropped it to the floor. She rummaged it in for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time before taking out a tablet, her fingers moving over buttons and settings until the app she wanted was open. She handed the tablet to Hannibal, the display of photographs in a plentiful grid on its surface. "Start here," she said, pointing with a ruby red nail at the far right corner. "We took these pictures this morning."

He opened the first one and was greeted with a large image of what looked to be a laboratory, most likely the one adjacent to the room he had been imprisoned in. A plethora of tubes and machinery littered the interior, the arrangement of biological monitoring devices strange, and not used in methods he could easily recognize. A row of dialysis machines were hooked up to the various tubes, but he couldn't determine what they were being used for. There was an incubator, empty, in the far corner of the room, and several IV bags of a dark red liquid that was too thick to be blood strewn about in a haphazard order that was clearly the mark of the late Dr. Doemling, who with this was proven a careless faux physician at best. There were several heart monitors and stick nurses scattered throughout the room and in use, and the outline of something pink was in the background, an image he tried to enhance. He scrolled to the second photo and discovered it was a sow, her side stapled shut, oxygen and various monitors hooked up to the unfortunate animal. Whatever experiment she was, it had clearly failed from the long, flat lines that were in agreement across various pieces of equipment. The sow's pink body was already descending into the grey of decay along her upper back, and though he'd freed himself over three months ago from the clutches of Mason and Dr. Doemling, this pig's demise was recent.

It was clear to Hannibal that these were images of Dr. Doemling's last experiments, and while they were indicative of a highly unstructured approach to science and doomed to failure as a result, Hannibal had to appreciate the man's creativity. "Mason Verger's genetics lab, where he played at being a mad scientist. Animal cruelty is a terrible thing, Alana, one I myself abhor. I imagine the poor creature was left to fester after the death of Doemling. You would think Mason Verger would at least take some responsibility in taking out the sow producing his latest super pigs or find someone to take over the proceedings. A rather foolish waste of possibility, especially when he is so enamoured with increasing his bacon."

"Hannibal." Dr. Alana Bloom swayed where she stood and she closed her eyes, tears forming behind her lashes and threatening to fall. "You need to understand. He wasn't using her for breeding pigs."

Hannibal frowned, hesitating slightly as he slid his finger across the touch screen, and discovered, to his abject horror, what Dr. Alana Bloom meant. "There were four of them," Margot said beside him, handing him the brandy which he gulped down, a feeling of deep sympathy welling within him for Margot's terrible plight. This crime was one of many and it would not go unpunished, Hannibal would see to it. Margot's large eyes spilled massive tears, ones that her brother would have loved to collect and add to his cocktail aphrodisiac of misery. "None of them survived. They were about five months along."

"Margot, you must listen to me." Hannibal touched her shoulders and she quaked beneath them, her fists pressed tight against her eyes. "You are not responsible for any of this. This was a gift that was stolen from you and for that he will pay, very dearly. That I can promise you." He pinched her chin, bidding her to look at him and she did so with shaky resolve. "You are strong, Margot. Do not doubt it. You were forced to live amongst monsters and yet you did not become one yourself. There is a great deal of honour in this, and you should pride yourself on your courage. Dry your tears, the acts of such a man are steeped in poison and long to harm you and you cannot let them. As St. Agatha of Sicily presented her severed breasts upon a plate to the prefect and torturer Quintianus, such as this are you, Margot, fearless in the face of torment and ready to spit upon its face. You are a warrior, Margot Verger, or have you forgotten?"

Margot stared up at him in glassy blankness and for a moment Hannibal was confused by this, for it seemed she hadn't quite grasped the concepts he was giving her, and there was an incomplete layer to her suffering. She took his glass of brandy and refilled it , handing it back to Hannibal who took it in frowning question. Margot crouched beside him, and with a shaking fingertip, slid it across the screen.

This was a more detailed close up of the first picture he'd been shown, a plethora of clear tubes and beige machinery scattered in between two neat rows of large, ten litre specimen jars, eight in total. Pink and red liquid filled them to the brim, murky remnants of indefinable tissue floating within the opaque fluid and Margot, with her fingers pinched, spread one of the jars wide as she opened it across the touch screen, bringing the contents into further clarity. Hannibal clutched at the sifter of brandy she had given him, its surface pulsing as his hand shook. The image before him was clear, the pink outline quite unmistakable.

Hannibal opened his mouth. Closed it.

"Margot, is that a tiny human foot I see?"

She nodded, silently, her eyes glassy and unfocused as she intently took in Hannibal's reaction. She smoothed back the thick mane of brown curls that framed her face before pinching the image back into its original size. She pointed with a rounded, polished nail to the two rows of heavily monitored jars, clear plastic tubing filled with red lines that were tangled with that strange, darker liquid from the IV's their length curled along the laboratory floor.

"These aren't mine," she whispered.

Hannibal choked on the implication. Margot sat cross legged on the floor beside him, her lower lip trembling as she looked up at his horrified despair.

"Two of them are still alive."

He dropped the sifter of brandy and the tablet to the floor and stood up from his seat, holding his decorum in with his hand caging his mouth. He pushed past Dr. Bloom, a quick 'Excuse me' given to her as he made a hasty retreat into his office washroom. His knees gave way as he slammed the door behind him.

He instantly collapsed over the toilet, retching violently into it.

The last time he had been forced to his knees in such a way was for a near exact reason, the echo of that ever present memory twisting his stomach tight and emptying every portion of himself. His dungeon doors were flung open wide, the ocean floor not enough to drown those demons that had stealth enough to learn how to swim. They rose to the surface, breaking through all of his careful barriers. They howled at his torment, leaving him raw and bleeding, clutching the seat of a toilet as though it was his lifeline.

He slumped against the wall of his office washroom, the clean white tiles cold against his back. He winced as he closed his eyes, the demons working their way through his gut, into that empty space that had been made all those years ago, a space that was never to be filled again. And now it was cruelly stretched further, was pulled into an much larger cavern that Will was set to discover. Hannibal swallowed, his throat dry and gritty, and he reached into the pocket of his pale blue plaid suit jacket and pulled out his cell phone. He hesitated, bracing himself for the inevitable, and then punched in the number he knew by heart and waited.

His call was answered by the third ring. "Hannibal?" Fearful, slightly panicked, a sotto voice that perceived the threat that this communication suggested, already worried about what Hannibal was about to do. "Why are you calling me? You had your yearly checkup a few months ago, what's going on?"

"Donald, I need your help."

The quiet on the other end made Hannibal regret the request, but he had no other option for even as a surgeon he had to admit there were some specialities out of his element, and this was too important not to leave to any latent imperfections in his knowledge. He needed a specialist and Dr. Donald Sutcliffe was the best.

"Hannibal, why are you calling me? Whatever it is, I can't, I can get into enough trouble as it is if anyone finds out I knew about you, I can lose my license..."

"I need you to go to Virginia, to a place called Muskrat Farm," Hannibal said, and though he tried to keep his voice strong the small choke that left it was enough, he knew, to melt Donald's reluctance. "Please, Donald, you know I would not be calling you if this wasn't of the utmost importance. This is an emergency."

"I have appointments with patients."

"Cancel them."

Donald let out a low sigh at this, clearly weighing what his options were and discovered he didn't have a whole hell of a lot. Hannibal remained silent on the other end, waiting patiently for Donald's response, his stomach still wrenched into tight, tortuous knots that just the sound of Donald's frightened voice brought into physical flashback. So many years had passed and yet that pain could be recalled with such clarity it was as if it was happening all over again, and if Donald didn't help him, he had no hope, his heart would inwardly bleed out with nothing left for Will to patch together.

"Okay." He could sense Donald nodding an affirmative on the other end of the line. "Are you in any danger? Are you bleeding, are you in any discomfort?"

"Just get to Muskrat Farm, there will be a woman waiting for you at the gate, her name is Margot Verger. Brown, curly hair, she'll be wearing all black. She will show you where to go."

A stuttered hesitation only to end in an exasperated sigh. "Okay."

"Donald?"

"Yes?"

Hannibal wanted to tell him, that in all the years since that moment, when he'd lain soaked in death in an abandoned basement washroom, he had appreciated Donald's help. He wanted him to know that the yearly check-ups, performed for him in part, Hannibal thought, due to fear of discovery of illegally treating an Omega male guilty of gender subterfuge, was the closest Hannibal had ever come to having a friend.

"Thank you, Donald," he said, instead, and hung up his cell.

He crawled up from his seated position on the floor, flushing the toilet before heading for the sink where he cleaned himself up, rinsing his mouth of the foul taste that still lurked on his tongue, and splashing cold water on his face to bring him back into a collected calm. He slid his person suit on as best he could and straightened his suit jacket, brushing dust from his trousers before bracing himself and heading back into his office.

Margot and Alana were huddled close to one another on the chaise, and Alana leapt up from the seat to approach Hannibal, who held up his hand, stopping her. "I have made arrangements for a specialist to take a look at the situation. I have an unfortunate appointment I cannot get out of, but I will be at Muskrat Farm later this afternoon to go over the logistics of what we are to do."

Margot wrung her hands, the scars at her wrists still raw from where she'd picked at them. "What do we do about tonight?"

Hannibal was firm. "It continues as planned. This is war, Margot. These little skirmishes along the way do not forfeit that fact."

~*~

Hannibal checked his watch obsessively, hoping Chilton would be an eager enough busybody to want to start his therapy session early. He didn't dare cancel it lest it bring about suspicion later on, and besides, having such a meeting could be useful in creating an alibi. He was certainly feeling on edge enough to be considered erratic and it wouldn't be hard to convince the man he was too emotional to orchestrate some grandiose plan. Chilton would be all too eager to pounce on that excuse. He'd already wrongly vindicated Hannibal in regards to his being the Chesapeake Ripper and it was likely he would happily come to the rescue of Hannibal's stellar reputation again.

He hadn't yet contacted Will, the minutes ticking by long and lonely and tinged with a fear he couldn't shake as he waited alone in his office. Margot's insistence that two of the foetuses were still alive had played on his mind in a continuous loop, daring him to have hope. Along the corpses of so many possibilities what had been stolen from him could be reclaimed, but he was wracked with an inward anxiety that he had to hold severely in check lest all of his plans unravel. Hannibal sat in his psychiatrist's chair staring blankly at the patient's seat directly across from him, a mirror of emptiness that left him feeling remarkably fragile. He didn't need Chilton to come here to pick his brain and pretend to know the undercurrent of terror he was experiencing, what he wanted was Will. Hannibal placed his hands flat on his thighs, closing his eyes and envisioning Will in the seat across from him, smiling and reassuring him that no matter the obstacles, the end result would be his victory. He desperately wanted to believe this was true, but even as he thought it little cracks began to appear in Will's skin, his body crumbling in the empty seat and leaving Hannibal bereft and alone once more.

A sharp knock on his office door startled him, and he reset himself back into that cold equilibrium that hid all feeling within it. With grave effort, he left his seat and walked to his office door, opening it without questioning who was behind it first. Dr. Chilton looked up at him in surprise, his brow already furrowed in displeasure. "Goodness, Hannibal, you look a sight. Are you well?"

Hannibal gave him a terse smile. "After affects of a long night."

He liked the way the oblique reference to his sex life and his adventures of the night before sat ill with Chilton, who edged his way past him into the office, a thick, black notepad and expensive ballpoint pen in hand. It was probably a gift, given to him at Christmas, Hannibal thought. An endearment from Deidre to her idle scribbler. Chilton certainly seemed eager to get that pen scratching, as evidenced by how he practically dove for the patient's seat, bidding Hannibal to sit across from him in a rather ridiculous pantomime of role reversal. Hannibal complied with impatience, making it clear he was not going to be conducive to therapy and was more than happy to remain adversarial. "I'd offer you a drink, Fred, but I am reminded you are not here as a friend or a colleague. No drinking on the job for you. My day, however, is summarily finished after this. I have no qualms against imbibing." Hannibal clasped his hands over crossed legs, tilting his head to one side in thoughtful contemplation. "Is it unethical to fix your patient a drink? There's a mini-bar in that antique cabinet." He watched with grim amusement as Chilton uncapped his pen and started scribbling in his book. Hannibal turned his head, a gentle breeze tugging at the long curtains blocking out most of the afternoon sunlight. He waited until Chilton filled a page, before dropping his gaze and smirking at the thin line of sunlight on his chaise. "Of course, that would be something you could do if I had alcohol in my practise, which I never do. Offering you a drink is a test of your reasons for being here, for as an Omega, I can never be too careful. Such dangers that lurk for the likes of such as me. Thus, no liquor. " Hannibal smiled.

Chilton paused his pen's scratching and leaned back in his chair. He frowned at the half empty decanter of brandy in full view where Margot had left it on Hannibal's desk. "Hannibal, that is a rather blatant attempt at gaslighting, to the point it is laughable. I know you don't have a problem with alcohol," Chilton said, rolling his eyes. "I know your game, Hannibal, you're going to try and put all kinds of imaginary psychosis into this visit as a source for your own twisted amusement."

"And why would I do that?"

"Because you are an asshole."

"How astute, Frederick, that is a particular brand of mental illness I have not yet discovered in all my years of study. Tell me, how do you plan on curing it?"

Chilton shook his head. "I'm afraid in your case it's terminal." He gave Hannibal's current appearance a careful study, his pen poised in the air as though putting him into a stick figure outline. "You look far more conservative today than you did last night. Right up to that eighteenth century styled silk bonding collar of yours. What shall I surmise from this--that your comfort level with your gender is only worth expressing when you can be seen? Narcissistic tendencies, most would suspect, and I don't doubt most of the opera goers did last night, but I don't necessarily see it that way."

"Oh?" Hannibal said. He checked his watch. How long was this meeting supposed to last? He'd given Dr. DuMaurier twenty minutes, he would give less to Fred. "You are the one stating that I wanted to be seen."

"Yes," Chilton said, and he gave Hannibal a knowing smile. "By one person in particular. Will Graham." Chilton made a few more of his infuriating notes and Hannibal longed to lunge forward and snatch the pen from his hand to stab him in the neck with it. It was a pleasant thought, one he replayed over and over in his mind. "You have both made quite the universe of two out of each other. I'm guessing considering the state the two of you were in last night he appreciated you playing dress up."

"Very much so. I fashioned my appearance on his boyhood wet dreams. His grandmother had an art book filled with Japanese Art Deco prints from the World Depression and male Omega geishas figured prominently. I saw no harm in indulging in that fantasy."

"Nor do I, in fact a bit of play is healthy in a relationship."

"Oh?" Hannibal raised a brow at this. "And what do you and your wife Deirdre 'play', Dr. Chilton? I'm rather curious, does it involve bridles and saddles? I imagine she rides you all over the block when she gets a chance, you are a man who likes to be driven."

Chilton made a face and starting scribbling again. "I'm adding jackass to your original asshole diagnosis. Let's call that a subset of your mental condition."

"I do believe I may have touched a nerve. How very interesting, the way your face goes red every time I bring up your wife. Alpha all the way, is she? Very forceful, I can guess, a bit of a stickler for what she wants when she wants it, no compromise, not for you, the Beta she settled for. A brilliant woman, matched fair and square with a brilliant man, one who can't wait to push his career forward and be the captain at the helm, even if it is the deck of a sinking ship, namely the BHCI. Hero of the day, there, I see, and I imagine your altruism goes over well with your Deirdre, who can go to her corporate meetings and pull out of her hat the pleasant, sweet little Beta man she married and how lovely it is that he does so much for charity while the cha-ching of her larger salary foists you lower on her rung. A pleasing education to put upon her arm during functions, that's what you've become. I wonder, Fred, does she bother going to the professional conventions you haunt, when you're seeking funding for the asylum? Tax shelters are wonderful things, they can be made of purse strings and the connective tissue of CEO contributions and it is these that have brought the BHCI up from the ashes like a phoenix." Hannibal smiled at the beet red expression now fuming on Chilton's face. "Well, I suppose that's to be expected. When one opts out of having a family, other more dire priorities must come to the fore. Money and power are lovely twins, you must be happy with how you raised them."

Chilton sighed at this, and he pressed his pen closed as well as his notebook, clearly having had enough already. Hannibal was eager for him to leave, he would call Will immediately and have him pick him up to make the long trek to Muskrat Farm, which was at least two hours away. He didn't have time to waste with Chilton, not with all of his plans ready to blossom.

"We didn't opt out of a family, Hannibal, we did try to have children."

Hannibal faltered slightly at this. "An interesting addition to your layers, Fred."

Chilton shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably and loosened his tie with a finger swooped around the circumference of his shirt. "We had a little boy, he died when he was an infant, only a week old. It was long time ago, over twenty years now, we were only finishing up our schooling at the time and Deirdre was still a secretary with the firm. Perhaps you are right, we may have replaced our grief with ambition, it's a common enough coping mechanism."

Hannibal tried to speak.

He found he couldn't.

If Chilton had shot him point blank in the chest with a shotgun, Hannibal couldn't have felt more shredded. He could feel the demons clawing their way under his skin, up through the emptiness in his abdomen, pressing painfully against the edges of his heart. His breath caught and he could feel an acid burning behind his eyes. His nerves, his tendons, his life, pulled into little cracks that he began to spill from. Will had warned him this would happen. Hannibal brought his hand to his mouth as he looked on a suddenly genuinely concerned Dr. Chilton.

"Fred, I am so sorry."

"You weren't aware."

"If I'd known this about you, I wouldn't have said such things. That was rude of me."

"It was a long time ago," Chilton said, waving his hand as though to dismiss it and Hannibal felt slapped by it.

"It's a horrible thing to lose a child." Hannibal could feel his face twist into sorrow, the feelings that Victoriana's death dredged up now amplified as that distant other tragedy crept into the forefront of his memory, the scent of blood so thick in his olfactory senses it was as if he was marinated in it. He tried to pull his grimace back, smoothing it into a marble calm, but he couldn't prevent the harsh tears that spilled, the need to release them a physical one lest he collapse entirely. "Don't lie to me, Fred. The years mean nothing. Every day there is a recollection, a small hint of where a life was supposed to be. A life that you were prepared for, that you decided you wanted. It didn't matter how it was given, it was a gift you treasured, and it was stolen from you."

Chilton remained stewed in Hannibal's misery, unable to move from his seat, nor use his pen or open his notebook. The moment felt charged with inertia between them, the only movement permitted were the tears that fell in a straight line down Hannibal's cheek like dew on polished stone. Finally, Chilton cleared his throat. "You were given a physical when you were admitted in the BHCI. The nurses told me, there was evidence..."

"Six months. I hid her for six months before I lost her."

The memory of that phantom pain hit him and he near doubled over in his seat from the force of it, his palms pressed tight against his stomach. He turned away from the tortured expression Chilton was giving him, knowing he'd awoken a similar ache within the psychiatrist. How strange to find he had found such an understanding in Chilton, and not through commonality but through what they were both missing.

Chilton sat at the edge of his seat, poised as though to spring but it was merely to approach a topic he wasn't sure he wanted to inspect. "The father..."

Hannibal instinctively wrapped his arms tight around his stomach. He was suddenly finding it difficult to breath, and while he intellectually knew it was simply the memory of an ancient panic, the demons welling up within him and wanting purchase outside of himself, he had to keep them under his control. Chilton left his seat and reached for him as though to comfort him and Hannibal gnashed his teeth and growled, ready to snap his fingers straight off with a clean bite.

Chilton wisely stepped back, eyeing Hannibal carefully as he took out his cell phone from the side pocket of his suit jacket. His movements were exaggerated and slow, and he kept himself in Hannibal's full view, nothing hidden, easing into the trust of a tiger as he walked within its cage. "I'm going to call Will Graham," Chilton quietly said. He eyed the decanter of brandy as he pressed the saved contact with Will's name, his fingers shaking. "If you're still offering, I could use a glass of that brandy that doesn't exist."

~*~

With Hannibal, Will learned, there was no such thing as a moment not pregnant with intensity. He left Quantico the second Chilton had called him, not even bothering to explain to Jack why he suddenly had to leave. The drive into Baltimore had been a mess, major downtown roads blocked at every turn, large crowds gathered as they geared up for the major rally Governor McBain was having that night at the Baltimore Convention Centre. He fought through placards and ribbons, and he was getting so tired of stopping and starting for wandering pedestrians he was just about ready to press his heel to the gas pedal of the Bentley and start ploughing through them.

There were still crowds lining the streets in front of the Hannibal's office building and Will honked his horn for the millionth time, bidding idiot gawkers and police in riot gear alike to get out of the way. He parked the car and furiously left it, the door slammed as he ran up the steps to make his way to Hannibal's office. Dr. Chilton had sounded upset on the phone, and in between softly intoned syllables Will could detect the man was terrified, as though convinced Hannibal was about to kill him at any moment. And considering who he was sharing a small space with, that possibility was not unlikely.

So it was with no surprise that he found Hannibal in his chair, tightly wound, evidence of upset still visible to Will's empathy despite his cold, aloof exterior, which Will knew he was holding onto with tenterhooks. Will turned on Chilton first, the man holding a glass and drinking Hannibal's *brandy* of all things. "What did you do to him?"

Chilton was instantly on the defensive. "I didn't do anything! We were just talking!"

"He was fine this morning!" Will shouted at him. "You know what, Fred, you really know how to bring down the house, don't you? I'm getting really sick and tired of this interference you keep running between us, do you not get that it's not helping at all!"

"I am doing what is best for Hannibal!"

"Chastising him for finally being able to be open about himself, no matter what your aesthetics dictate, is hardly a measure of 'help', Fred, and is dangerously teetering on the edge of judgement."

Chilton set his jaw at this, incensed. "You are both professionals in very lofty careers of high responsibility and you were both *stoned* in *public*!"

Will was ready to add a fist to this fight, and Chilton looked about ready to give one back, Alpha versus Beta notwithstanding, but it was Hannibal who abruptly cut the tension between them. He left his seat, grabbing his coat and turning off the lights in his office, a quick domestic kiss stolen from Will's grimacing fury that momentarily disoriented his rage. "Gentlemen, I do believe the best recourse for this day is for all of us to withdraw. Will, Frederick has not been unkind to me, and I would appreciate if you would apologize to him for your blind accusation."

He ushered them all out of his office, leaving Will and Chilton to awkwardly confront each other in the tiny waiting room as Hannibal locked the door. "He made you upset," Will protested, and Hannibal sighed, giving Will a withering look that instantly made his conscience chafe. He gave Chilton a wavering glance that had no true remorse in it. "Sorry?"

"Hardly adequate, Will," Hannibal admonished him, but Chilton put up his hand, eager to get out of the building himself.

"I'll accept it. Hannibal, I will see you on Monday, have a restful weekend." He was eager to make his leave, but Chilton couldn't surrender the meeting on such a harsh note. "I know what we talked about was exceptionally stressful, and though I may not have shown it, you are correct in everything you said. Sometimes the most a person can hope for in such a situation is adequate methods of faking it." Chilton clearly wanted to say more, but chose against it, nodding politely in parting instead. "We'll talk on Monday."

"Fred."

Chilton paused at the top of the staircase, eyeing Hannibal's cold, predator posture with a wariness Will felt it was wise for him to have.

"I will not forget your understanding in this matter."

Chilton's eyes watered at this, shocking Will, and he made his leave quickly, the staircase absorbing him into its shadows as his steps echoed upwards, hard and fast, as though frightened a thing with teeth that Hannibal had let out was chasing him. Will frowned, turning to his mate, his hand instinctively moving to his neck and attempting to gentle him. Hannibal remained stone, the cold expressionless state of him so far removed from the emotions he had been steeped in as of late he seemed like another person. This was the Hannibal he had first met, Will thought, painfully guarded and unwilling to allow any display of weakness.

"Hannibal, what's happened?" It was unnatural, this devolving of Hannibal's personality, and Will a stone roll through his gut, his empathy creeping along the periphery of Hannibal's boiling blood. He could feel it, the dungeon doors were open and the ocean had caved it in. Hannibal's demons hadn't drowned, and instead they were swimming openly inside of him. Will could see the tips of their antlers, dozens poking beneath the fabric of Hannibal's suit, tearing up the man inside of it. Though he didn't show a reaction, Will knew to reach up and gentle him again anyway, smoothing his palm and stroking against the back of Hannibal's neck in a steady, regular pressure.

"We are going to Muskrat Farm," Hannibal informed him, and he slid on his coat, his driving gloves deftly smoothed over his hands as though they were poured over his fingers. He was driving and Will was not to question it.

"Why?"

Hannibal paused, and leaned against his Alpha as he continued to stroke his neck, the only indication of how desperately he wanted and needed Will's support. "We're going into the Verger estate's laboratory. I hope you did not have anything too heavy to eat for lunch, dear Will, this will require a strong stomach."