#will graham x original character

[bluemoonscape]

GENTLY GRABS YOU (endearing)

HEADCANONS FOR FAUST AND SOME OF THE CAST PLEASEE (I'm curious what you think he's like with the forensic team, Alana, or Freddie Lounds- idk if i told you ideas i had for Jack / Chilton but i wanna hear from YOUUUU)

FAUST HEADCANONSSS some of which I’m leeching off of ideas you’ve mentioned:

-So I headcanon this for Will too and I think it makes a lot of sense for Faust: I read him as demisexual. I feel like he specifically becomes attracted to Will and Hannibal because of their emotional connections—it doesn’t read as being influenced by physical attraction.

-I’m agreeing with you so hard that the name given to him at birth was Fawn like THE HUNTER AND THE FAWN SYMBOLISM GOES HARD

-He sees Abigail and Chiyoh as sister figures of a sort. Losing Abigail was extremely difficult for him.

-He doesn’t feel insecure about his scars until Hannibal talks about the fact that his wrist scars were a consequence of love. At this point, Faust’s apathy towards his scars starts to deteriorate.

-Sometimes he psyches himself out when he’s alone and thinks he’s back in that place. It’s a big part of why he started going to therapy with Hannibal.

-His near-constant expression since he was little appears very serious and deep in thought. He spends a lot of time in his head and has for as long as he can remember.

-A funnier headcanon based on something I’ve experienced: He once cut his hair short when he was a kid, then immediately regretted it because “oh my god I look like a lesbian.” He’s never not had long hair since.

-He has a big encyclopedia on his shelf about the language of flowers.

-I don’t know much about Faust as a child but I can’t help feeling like it would make a lot of sense if he was very sheltered and isolated as a child? That could’ve spurred his irrepressible curiosity.

As for his relationships with the aforementioned characters, here’s my guesses on how their interactions would go:

-Faust likes Alana in some respects. He appreciates her strong personality and her understanding of the mind. Her inclination towards Will being based on “professional curiosity” however, rubs him the wrong way and makes him a little more cautious about what he says and does around her.

-Jimmy and Brian are a little overbearing, and Faust sometimes feels like he’s on the outside of the forensic team, but he sneaks a joke in every now and then while they work together and they seem to like him for it. Beverly is more his pace and puts more of an effort into keeping him in the loop than the other two (mostly because they’re oblivious). Shouts out to her for inadvertently bringing Faust and Will together in Chapter 1 of the fic, thanks Beverly very cool

-OK SO HEAR ME OUT: FAUST DOES ACTUALLY HAVE A FUNDAMENTAL UNDERSTANDING OF FREDDIE? She craves knowledge. She seeks to understand and make others understand. Her arrogance and curiosity is directly aligned with Faust’s own. They see themselves in one another and are suspicious of one another because of it because “oh no it’s the worst version of me”

-Feeling like Faust would be chronically pissed off at Jack. He knows Will can handle himself with Jack, but does that mean he should have to? No.

-As for my man Chilton, Faust isn’t scared of him, but he is scared of what he represents to him: Isolation and captivity. In Season 2, when Chilton starts being more of a Will-is-innocent believer, I can see them working together in some capacity, though.

LMK WHAT YOU WERE THINKING FOR JACK AND CHILTON, this was so fun to think about!!

[liennka]

Mizumono

Hannibal Lecter x Will's daughter X Will Graham

Summary: Will was supposed to help Jack with killing Hannibal, but he arrived too late and with him, his daughter, Y/n.... (s2e13)

-> This one is filled with angst, but i realised that's just what i am good at :) I am open to any criticism (be nice pls).

I just wanted to say that I am not the owner of this show, but I did make this story, so don't copy it without my knowledge, thank you.

When Alana called about the warrant, Will didn't panic. He told Y/n to go downstairs, urging her to turn off the lights and grab a jacket. And as the police headlights came through the windows, they ducked and crawled on all fours to the back door, Will grabbing his gun. Outside, hidden in the darkness, they ran across their property, stopping on a road. The rain soaked their clothes, though at least the ground wasn't muddy, otherwise they'd be easy to track. A taxi pulled up and Will gave him an address. 

"Hannibal Lecter's house? Why are we going from one danger to another?" Y/n asked, much rather preferring a McDonald's or a cinema. 

"Because Jack will be there, and right now nowhere is safe," her father whispered, looking out the window, "and maybe it's the only address I know."

"That's probably it. What are we going to do then? Have a cup of tea with him and chat with Hannibal?" she sarcastically teased. 

"I gave him time to leave, nothing should happen".

Y/N wasn't so sure.

----●----●----●----

When they got off, her father couldn't have been more wrong. Alana laid there, glass broken, rain rinsing blood from her hair. She seemed dead, just the twitching from shock making her shoulders move up and down. 

"Alana!" Will rushed to her and wrapped her in his coat.

Y/n made note of her surroundings. The front door opened, all sorts of wet footsteps on the carpet, the second floor window busted. And a bloody burgundy dahlia looking at her from a pot near the entrance. 

"Betrayal," she hummed, crouching down beside Alana.

Will looked at her as if she was crazy. He had just called the ambulance and left Alana his phone. 

"The flowers," Y/n pointed out, "I guess he's inside.” 

"Jack's there too," Alana choked out.

Y/N was surprised, she thought Alana's rib cage was too damaged to speak, but Alana proved her wrong. Will nodded and stood up, his gun in both hands. Y/n stayed a little longer, not caring that her hair was now sticking to her ears and causing her to feel cold.

----●----●----●----

As she opened the door to the kitchen, the smell of blood hit her. There were knives, plates and glass everywhere, two pairs of shoes standing in the midst of it all. As she looked up, Hannibal's silhouette greeted her.  

"You were supposed to leave!" Will was standing in front of him.

"I couldn't leave without you two," Hannibal said affectionately. 

Y/n did not know who 'you two' meant, but had a hunch that it included her. Strangely, Hannibal didn't even spare her a look, placing his palm on Will's cheek as if to caress it. They both had such an intense gaze, the sexual tension almost making Y/n turn around to give them some privacy. The scenery looked like a theater piece, a tragedy at that. They dove into their world, where she didn't exist and where they spoke in a different language, or maybe she just lost her hearing from how loud her heart was beating.  Either way, Y/n wanted to separate them, to drag her dad back to their house, back to their dogs. 

She did not see the knife coming from her point of view. Her father simply yelped and took a step forward, crashing into Hannibal's arms. This wasn't real, no. Hannibal would never hurt Will, he was like the other half of his soul, she lied to herself. But there was a red stain on his shirt and when Hannibal embraced him, the weapon remained in his hand, as if to mock them. Y/n stood motionless, no sound could break through her frozen vocal chords. She never thought this would happen, her chest tightening and her eyes filling with tears of pure terror.

The impact of Will's body aligned with her first fallen tear. His body fell directly into a pool of Jack's blood, his pants soaking it up. A few droplets of their mixed blood landed on her shoe, ruining her white trainers. Y/n swallowed nauseously, not daring to look into her fathers eyes. 

Hannibal leaned forward, his crescent-shaped blade back on the counter. 

"I have let you know me, see me," Hannibal paused as Will struggled to breathe, "I gave you a rare gift, but you didn't want it.”

"Didn't I?" Will insisted heartbroken, his eyebrows knitted tightly together. He seemed distressed, but more than anything, he was furious. 

Y/n shut herself off, not wanting to remember her father so frail, choosing to merely listen. And when she heard Hannibal mention the shattered teacup again, something in her snapped. She opened her pocket knife behind her back, using it for the first time since she bought it after the encounter with Tobias. Her fight-or-flight instinct flipped a coin and settled on fight. In a blink of an eye, she was standing behind Hannibal, her knife placed just under his jaw.

Y/n had no idea what she was doing. Her mind told her to end it, to be free at last. But her heart knew that was not possible, not in this life. She couldn't stop shaking, so she applied more force, making him bleed a little.  Will sucked in his breath, not quite understanding what was going on as this was out of character for her. 

"We are not a shattered teacup. You can't glue us back together and pretend like nothing happened," Y/n croaked in his ear, her voice high-pitched.

The blade suddenly twitched as a chuckle erupted from Hannibal’s chest.

"No, you certainly are not just a piece of pottery, but you are indeed fragile."

“You should have left when Will told you to. Instead you slaughtered them all, rightfully or not, whether you believe in God or not. There is no excuse for that,” Y/n hissed, her disappointment in him turning her words bitter. 

"I should have seen it coming…you made us so blind," her disappointment in herself turning her words sour.

Alana's happy face when she gave her a handmade sweater, or Jack and Bella's Christmas party, it was all over. Her bright future turned dim.

"I just wanted us to be a family. Why," she sobbed, a big droplet falling on the floor, "why can't I have a genuine family for once?"

----●----●----●----

Taking advantage of her state of mind, Hannibal grabbed her hand, pulling the knife away from his throat and spinning her around. He took her face in his palms, making her look at him. Y/n had teardrops on her chin, red spots on her irritated skin, her lips chapped and her eyelashes littered with fresh tears. He wiped them away so she had a clear view of him. However, he was no better, his normally perfectly sleek bangs were now messy, blood on his collar and some drying under his nose. He was bruised and in pain, yet he still looked like the most charismatic man she had ever seen. A charismatic man that attempted to erase her father's existence. 

"You don't get to start over after what you've just done, that's not fair!” she tried to wriggle out of his grip, “You hurt Will and you broke my trust. What do you expect us to do?" 

"Nothing, such is life. Don't fight it, let it all go."

Y/n raised her eyebrows in disbelief, a single tear running down her cheek. By now she could care less about having a weapon on her side, she felt she had already lost. 

"'And what if I don't want to let it go, to forget or forgive?" 

"Then you lose yourself," Hannibal directed his gaze back to Will, "I forgive Will. Will he forgive me?"

"'Don't. No, no, no!" Will uttered for the first time after his collapse.

It broke his heart, but there was nothing to be done, his design was meant to be finished and everything had to go according to plan. He pried her knife from her slack hold, unbeknown to her. 

"What are you tal-" Y/n's question couldn't be finished as she was silenced.

Her own knife, now in Hannibal's possession, was plunged blade deep into her side, almost identically to her father's. She yelped as she felt her muscles being torn apart, the stinging as Hannibal yanked it out causing her to choke. Her eyes opened wide as if trying to comprehend what was happening. The searing pain in her torso sent her to the ground, but it was the pain in her heart that made her burst out crying again, only this time it would not stop. Hannibal slowly lowered her down beside Will, splattering the tiles with her blood and tears like the rain would.

 She shook, struggling to catch her breath. With one hand she pressed against her wound, with the other she found her father's hand and weakly squeezed it. She felt his cold fingers, the energy draining from his body. 

"Dad," Y/n muffled her cries. 

Will wanted to help her, to hold her and console her, but he'd been bleeding for so long he couldn't even open his mouth. He had no choice but to watch with half-closed eyes as the entire room bathed in red.  

"You can make it all go away. Put your head back, close your eyes," Hannibal reached for Will's shoulder and met his eyes. "Wade into the quiet of the stream".

Y/n blinked at Hannibal for a second, but instead of a man, she saw a red horned monster with black dahlias sprouting from its eye sockets. So this was his true self, she realised.

“We were never meant to work, were we?” she clutched at Hannibal's trousers with her bloodied fingers. 

There was a silence for a while, Will's labored breathing slowing and her own sniffles fading to silent tears. Hannibal knelt down and ruffled her wet hair. 

And as her father closed his eyes, Hannibal asked her: "Will you forgive me?"

Y/n wanted to say no. She wanted to send him into the pond of burgundy ink as well, but her own mind said otherwise. 

"'Maybe, if you promise to make us work."

He smiled and stood up, not looking at her again. As his footsteps faded away, Y/n's warm blood grew chilly and her eyes heavy. With her last strength she kissed her father's knuckles, her last tears streaming down her face.  

----●----●----●----

She shed tears for how pitiful her ending was. And as her vision got blurrier, she bid farewell to her life.

[oldeubagel]

Chalk doodles🖍️🌈✨

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

Helloo, more info about Ladybug? Like her height, age and so on? Because I'm a new follower and I was reading the kiss fic about Jade and Ghost. But I didn't see many appearances about Ladybug, other than the kiss fic, in your drawings and I was curious. The only thing I understood was that she is a medic

Hello! Soooo you're right on that, I haven't made much on Ladybug (Let's call her Lady for short) on this blog, and it's actually just a matter of starting it 😂. I've made the general story of her with Gaz on my mind, and all I need to do is realize it.

I will post her detailed bio in the future, so here's a WIP!

Here's a summary info!

Her name is Eleanor "Ladybug" Graham 🐞. She's a combat medical technician from 335 Medical Evacuation Regiment with the rank Sergeant.

Ladybug first knew Gaz from a dating app, but only met Gaz during the Piccadilly Circus Attack (MW2019). They met briefly without knowing that they've been talking in the dating app 💀.

Little did they know that they'll meet again in Urzikstan to help Farah, Alex, Gaz, and Price for medical and evacuation aid.

In the end of MW2019, after the gas plantation blew up, Farah asked Lady to search for Alex under the rubbles.

She's the one who performed on-field amputation on Alex's leg 👀

Credit to @shadeops21 for the loadout details! (❁´◡`❁) <3

[cj-ghostemoji-destielpie]

⚠️⚠️⚠️PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS IN THE ABOVE SCREENSHOT BEFORE CONTINUING!!! ⚠️⚠️⚠️

This is my fic btw 💖 it'll only get worse. Chapter two will be posted soon and it's... F-d up.

Royal Tastes, by Dragonborn_Eldenlord on AO3.

Chapter 1: The Young King, The Cannibal Knight, The Dead Knight:

Sir Hannibal Lecter. A knight, ruthless and merciless in his quests. Or hunts, as he calls them.

Hannibal was infamous among many kingdoms as the Cannibal Knight, or Hannibal the Cannibal, that ate his enemies as a show of strength; not a popular habit. Most Knights hated or reluctantly accepted their jobs, but he reveled in the bloodshed. The scars, the agony, the screams, the light fading in his victims eyes, blood gurgling from their mouths or dripping from shallow wounds til they slowly bleed out… He saw beauty in it all.

Hannibal was visiting a kingdom he hadn't visited in a good twenty years or more; the Ophiuchus Kingdom, named after the serpent constellation due to the multiple snakes that infest the forests. Ophiuchus was infamous. The past rulers were known for their vicious and violent tactics, for their greed and gluttony. The only reason Hannibal was coming here in the first place was to and get in the good graces of the new ruler, as they had recently had their coronation if rumors were to be believed.

Walking into the throne room, Hannibal noticed the grandiosity of the palace. The new King is obviously doing some remodeling since there's multiple portraits stacked in a corner, many of which are torn. Hanging on the walls in their place are tapestries, animal hides, and furs, making the throne room have more of an animalistic, wild, and feral vibe.

Hannibal noticed the lack of the King as the throne was momentarily empty but he knelt anyway, the dark gray metal of his armor scraping against the expensive tiled floor; dark inky black tile with gold outlines and occasional intricate designs. He kept his head hung low, and soon he heard the footsteps of who he presumed to be the new King.

“Sir Hannibal Lecter, at your service, my Lord,” He greeted, head still positioned towards the dark ground.

"My apologies, Sir Lecter, but I'm not exactly... Educated on the proper etiquette of societal expectations for how I'm supposed to act and talk so I hope you'll be patient with me. Stand. I'm Lokka La’Rose, new King, blah blah blah. Killed the last King because he was a dick, so on and so forth," Lokka says casually as he perches on the arm of the fancy throne, not even looking at Hannibal as the Knight stands, instead he's briefly frowning in distaste at the gawdy throne before finally looking back at Hannibal with curiosity, golden eyes slowly taking in Hannibal's armor clad body and handsome face.

Hannibal stood, looking at the new King now fully. He seemed young. At least, younger than most rulers. If he's an adult it's just barely. His outfit—well, it lacked any form of royalty. Wearing something like that in court would make him the laughing stock of all the nobles. He's dressed in simple hunter-like garbs; a simple dagger on his hip, faded animal hide trousers and shirt. His curly hair is messy but pulled back in a low ponytail to keep it out of his face.

There's an old ugly scar running across his face that somehow danced between both eyes without harming them. And his eyes are peculiar as well; unnatural gold, reflecting all light, and feline-like with slit pupils.

"No worries, there's nothing wrong with not knowing etiquette. You’ll learn, it’ll feel like second nature in no time at all, Your Highness,” Hannibal studies the scars on the young King's face, "May I ask how you got those?”

"The scar? I was eight years old, a starving orphan, tried stealing from some noble man and he actually noticed and decided to teach me a lesson. Left me with a scar so I'd be reminded of the consequences of theft. Instead it just reminded me of the power imbalance in the Kingdom and the greed of the rich.”

Hannibal stayed silent for a moment, his eyes locked onto the other man. He studied the scar again, as it ran across his face in a jagged line. It had clearly scarred over years ago, but it still looked quite prominent. He knew the old King, and he was a greedy man, for sure. He thought the entire Kingdom was a piece of him to flaunt around. And many of his nobles had the same mentality.

"I see. You didn’t deserve that, child," He said the word in a somewhat condescending tone, though his facial expressions didn’t change from their almost emotionless state.

A small quiet huff of amusement escapes the King, “So, what are you here for? You requested an audience with the King. I know I'm not probably who you expected but I suppose I can still hear your piece and possibly assist.”

Hannibal smirked at his slight amusement, finding the King somewhat amusing. He began to circle around the throne, eyeing the golden details. He then came back to the front of the throne, locking eyes with the young King who'd allowed the Knight to pace and circle around him, looking entirely unthreatened.

"I didn't expect y ou , no," He paused for a moment, "Though I heard that you killed the last King. Tell me, was it worth it?”

Lokka tilts his head in thought, ".... worth it for the people....perhaps not for me though. I didn't want to be King. I just wanted there to be change. But no one else had the power to do it.”

Hannibal nodded slightly, silently admiring his slight vulnerability. He seemed to have thought about it a lot. He crossed his arms behind his back, shifting his weight to one foot. He seemed to look him up and down again before speaking again.

"You did this for the people, not yourself. That’s very admirable, Lord La’Rose.”

"Thank you, but please, just call me Lokka. I'm still not used to that title… and you're interesting enough to keep around and befriend.”

"Very well, Lokka ."

The way Hannibal says the King’s name makes the young King shiver and his cat-like pupils dilate.

Hannibal tilted his head downwards slightly, his arms behind his back casually and nonthreatening but somehow still imposing. The boy seemed somewhat shy, but somewhat confident, at least for speaking to a Knight that was feared by many for his bloodthirsty killing. He took a few steps closer to the throne.

"How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?”

“17,” The young King states simply.

Hannibal nodded as an indication of acknowledgement, slightly impressed that he had managed to kill a man—let alone a King—at that age. There was clearly a lot of determination and courage, perhaps some foolish bravery as well. He took another few steps, now being a few feet away from the throne.

"Ah. Young and full of life," He teases.

Lokka gives a small playful smirk, "I've heard of you, Sir Lecter. Hannibal the Cannibal . The Cannibal Knight . Are you here to add another man to your diet or are you after something else? I'm not easy to kill so I'd think twice if I were you,” His tone isn't threatening, just playful but with a hint of promise.

Hannibal chuckled dryly at Lokka’s comment, his hands still behind his back. Hannibal seemed amused by Lokka, intrigued even. Lokka was a curious thing.

" You're smarter than you look, kid ," He paused for a moment, looking into his odd eyes, before continuing, "And you seem a tad bit cocky for a young Lord.”

“Fake it til you make it," He says with a simple shrug, a hint of insecurity in his strange eyes.

Hannibal chuckled, noting a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. He tilted his head to the side, studying him a little closer.

"You're not confident, are you?" He teased him, finding a way to get under the new king’s skin.

Lokka shrugs, unperturbed, “No, I'm not. But I'm stubborn and spiteful so I'm planning on sticking around as King for a long time. At least until I find a suitable heir."

Hannibal hummed in acknowledgement, somewhat impressed by Lokka's determination and stubbornness. He seemed like a boy filled with ambition and power…and yet so vulnerable. So…breakable.

He'll be fun to break . Hannibal thinks to himself with a secret smile.

" And when you find that suitable heir, will you simply pass the throne over to them without a fight?" Hannibal asked, taking a small jab at him.

"I'll train them, have them educated on the life of the nobles and the poor, make sure they have decent morals and a support system, and then I'll peacefully step down, give them the throne when they're ready, and perhaps stick around as an advisor or something if needed.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows raised slightly, impressed by his thought-out plan. He had clearly thought it through for a while, which he respected.

"So you already have a plan in mind, that's quite…ingenious." He paused for a moment, "And you're sure they’ll be fit enough to rule your kingdom?”

"I've no idea. Haven't met a suitable heir yet. Enough about that though. What is it you wished to accomplish with your audience with the King, Sir Lecter?”

Hannibal chuckled at him, slightly amused. Lokka was clearly done talking about the subject for now, which Hannibal was willing to respect. Sometimes you have to play the long game when playing with a new toy you wish to enjoy breaking.

"Ah. Straight to the point. I like you, Lokka." He commented, now towering over the shorter man, "I simply came to offer my services to you—to the kingdom, I mean.”

Lokka gives Hannibal a small playful smile, not bothered at all with Hannibal towering over him- most Kings would've had Hannibal thrown out for the attempt at appearing imposing or threatening, instead Lokka just peers up at Hannibal in amused interest, "You wish to be my knight?" He basically purrs sweetly.

Hannibal found Lokka's lack of fear for him amusing, almost down right hilarious. Most rulers would be intimidated by a man like him, but the boy didn’t even seem slightly bothered by it. Hannibal found it quite interesting.

"Yes, of course," He said, somewhat amused. "I am the best in my field. You’d be unwise to decline my services, kid.”

Lokka chuckles, "Most would be practically begging or at least respectful when offering their services to a King, even a young and naive King enjoys respect instead of being called a kid," Lokka says with a playful smile, casually crossing his legs as he remains perched on the arm of the throne.

Lokka studies Hannibal for a long few moments, golden cat-eyes piercing and intelligent as he takes Hannibal in, like a wild cat studying its prey. Slowly he returns his gaze to Hannibal’s.

"Ask again." He says, a small smirk tugging his lip, “maybe with a pretty please ?" He asks, basically taunting Hannibal.

Hannibal was taken somewhat aback by his request, his eyes widening a slight bit. He had expected him to be polite and shy in his response, not demanding and confident. Hannibal’s smug expression soon faded away, the slight teasing look still in his eyes.

"My apologies," He began, his expression almost blank by now, "I'll be respectful , like you'd like."

He took a deep breath, knowing he was going to hate it.

"May I please be your Knight, Your Majesty, Lokka ?”

Lokka giggles in honest amusement, golden eyes lighting up with joy before he schools his expression.

"hm...no," He says before smiling again. "I'm not going to waste your services as a common Knight. If you'd like to work for me, I'd rather you be my main security. Top knight, Housecarl, or whatever the fancy noble terminology is. I've heard of your skills and I'd love to see them in person. I've had multiple attempts on my life within just a week so I imagine you'll get a chance to prove yourself interesting . If you grow bored of being a bodyguard, then I suppose I can send you out to play with the other Knights. Does that sound appealing enough to you, Sir Hannibal Lecter ?”

Hannibal’s eyebrows shot up at Lokka's words, surprised. He was expecting to be a regular Knight of the castle, which was just fine. But security for the King? That was unexpected, but he was very much intrigued by the offer. And it would make it easier to toy with the King and slowly break him.

"That sounds very appealing," He commented, his smirk returning once again, "I agree to those terms.”

"Good. Splendid. Hope you don't mind explaining the seemingly stupid noble jargon the people here keep expecting me to understand. Do you understand the purpose of so many forks for one meal?" He asks, tone switching from the teasing playful to genuinely open and curious

He chuckled at his question, amused by the King’s clear lack of knowledge of the social rules.

"Of course. And I know the noble jargon.” He explained. "And it’s stupid, honestly. There’s so many rules for a simple meal. A commoner would eat an entire turkey with their hands, while Kings and Queens have to use specific forks and spoons for specific items of a meal. And don’t even dare to use your hands; you’ll be chastised by the etiquette police.”

The King sighs dramatically as he lays across the throne, "Everything has so many ridiculous rules and yet the commoners are more concerned with surviving, which is more understandable. Why so many forks when hands work just fine? It's stupid…”

"I think I'm going to like you, Sir Lecter." The young King says, rolling his head where he lays across the throne to look up at Hannibal.

"Perhaps I may say the same," Hannibal replied, an amused smile tugging at his lips. He studied him for a moment, admiring his confidence, especially for a young king like him.

“ Goddesses ! I need to get rid of this throne !" He jumps off of it dramatically, a good three feet in the air before landing on his feet in a squat like a feral cat before slowly standing like a normal human, "that thing is so ridiculously uncomfortable. And such an eyesore . Like, we get it! This is a throne! But if you're going to show off wealth you may as well use it for something comfortable . Especially if you're expected to sit in the evil thing for days on end and play nice with other nobility.”

Hannibal was surprised by Lokka's sudden outburst and unexpected agility as he jumped from his throne, not expecting him to be nearly as physically adept as he was for a King or a human. He let out a dry chuckle as he stood next to him.

"Most nobles and royalty don’t care about what’s comfortable. They just care about what looks good and makes them look better than everyone else," Hannibal replied dryly.

Lokka huffs and crosses his arms, glaring at the throne like a petulant child who was just told that he has to eat his veggies before dessert, “Well I'm not most kings. If I could have that replaced with a recliner I would... I suppose I'll just settle for having this fancy throne melted down to coins and donated to the commoners, maybe the orphanage. Then I'll just feckin' carve a nice throne from some cherry wood perhaps and get some nice comfy- but I suppose fancy fabric- cushions to line it with."

Hannibal chuckled at Lokka's…rant, finding his determination for a more comfortable throne quite amusing. He tilted his head to the side, studying the younger man.

"A cherry wood chair," He repeated, a single brow quirked, "With plush velvet cushions," He added dryly with a slight tone of mockery. He was clearly holding back his laughter.

The King huffs and throws his hands in the air with dramatic exasperation "Ye have better design ideas, Sir Lecter?”

Hannibal let out a few dry chuckles at his dramatic actions before replying with a smirk.

"Maybe. I was thinking something a little more… aesthetic ," He said, thinking over the design in his mind, "Dark oak. Gold or a dark material for the trimmings. Soft light fur as a cushioning.”

"....I might actually be able to work with that...I'll sketch something up and have you look it over,” the King says after actually seeming to seriously be pondering over Hannibal's words.

Hannibal hummed, finding him quite amusing. Who would’ve thought a newly crowned King would ask for his input on a throne design of all things? Hannibal had to hold back his smirk at Lokka's eagerness.

“Of course. I’ll look it over once you have it sketched up, Lokka.”

"....so," Lokka clasps his hands and rocks slightly in place, "I'm supposed to play nice and be all Kingly for a few more hours today. One of the servants told me that there were a couple different knights and messengers from different kingdoms coming today- aside from you. I was even warned that at least one messenger is going to try and get me to marry some King's daughter from a neighboring kingdom," he says, looking disgusted but hides it mostly, "Are you ready to play advisor/bodyguard today or do you wish to have a servant show you to your new quarters and start tomorrow?”

Hannibal could sense Lokka's disgust in his voice and almost chuckled but contained himself. It seemed he disliked the prospect of having to listen to someone ask him to marry someone’s daughter for political purposes. He smirked, crossing his arms over his chest once again.

"I’m quite ready. And if any messenger does decide to try to convince you to marry an ugly daughter, I’ll be your bodyguard and advisor.”

"I'm not concerned with their looks , I'm just opposed to marrying some girl I don't know nor wish to know ," He says simply, reluctantly sitting back on the throne, though properly this time. He glances at the grand fancy clock across the throne room, "The next person should be here soon. Don't remember if it's a knight or some noble, or a messenger though.”

Hannibal watched as Lokka sat back down on the throne, this time properly. He still found the throne to be a little gaudy looking, no amount of proper sitting would change that. He took a few steps closer to the throne, positioning himself on the right side of him.

"Well, whoever this next person may be, I’ll be right here," He replied, referring to his position beside Lokka.

Lokka gives Hannibal a small smile, "Good boy," He says playfully, but praising, and before Hannibal can snark or react, a servant enters and announces the arrival of another visitor; another Knight.

Hannibal’s smirk quickly faded in surprise with Lokka's playful praise, his cheeks taking on a slight red hue. He was not expecting him to say that, but he quickly shook it off. He refocused his attention back towards the entrance to the throne room as the servant announced the arrival of another Knight. His eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the Knight carefully for his mannerisms.

The Knight was mature in age, probably around Hannibal’s age. His armor was shiny and well-polished; he's probably rather stuffy and hasn't actually seen many battles. He entered the room rather arrogantly—like most Knights were—and began to speak in an overly cocky tone.

“Your majesty, I am Sir Charles,” The Knight said, standing in the middle of the room, not bothering to take a knee or bow or show any respect, making Hannibal curl his lip in distaste.

Lokka tilts his head, studying the man, "Sir Charles... I'm Lord La'Rose. What have you come here to ask of the new King of Ophiuchus?" Lokka asks, all previous playful energy gone, in his place is now a serious calm intelligent King.

Hannibal noticed that Lokka even used his title this time, instead of being casual like Lokka had been with him. The change was sudden. Happened as soon as Sir Charles entered, only a brief moment of Lokka sniffing the air prerequisites his personality shift when Sir Charles entered.

Sir Charles was taken aback by Lokka's sudden and unexpected shift into a completely different person. From a giddy, happy, young King to a stoic, serious individual in a matter of seconds. He paused for a moment, almost intimidated by the change, but eventually responded.

"Well, your majesty, I have come to… congratulate you.” He replied, the word ‘congratulate’ sounding almost bitter coming from his lips.

"hmmm... Is that so? You could've just sent some gift like most of the others singing my praises lately," Lokka doesn't sound cocky despite his words, he actually seems uncomfortable with the thought of being praised for what he'd done, "So, what else is it you wanted from me, Sir Charles, aside from wasting my time?”

Sir Charles was once again taken aback, clearly not expecting the King to brush off his praise and assume he was just there to waste his time. He stood silently for a few moments, almost shocked, before speaking up again.

“I wasn’t just here to give my congratulations, your majesty.” He replied, his tone somewhat snarky and somewhat irritated now. “I also came to request something.”

"speak, no need to dawdle.” Lokka says when Sir Charles doesn't get straight to the point, making Hannibal fight a proud smirk.

Sir Charles let out a snort, crossing his arms over his chest and taking a few steps closer to the King.

“If you’d be so kind, Your Majesty, I was hoping you’d send a few of your troops to help us in a little battle we’re having.” He explained, the tone in his voice still demanding.

"A little battle?" Lokka asks, a single brow raised, "Why? Plead your case, Sir Charles.”

Sir Charles let out another snort, his arrogance seemingly taking control as he spoke again.

“My kingdom has been at war for over a year now. We just lost a significant amount of soldiers and are requesting backup.” He said, as if the reason was obvious and simple. “It would be immensely appreciated if you would send whatever soldiers you can spare.”

"...you have yet to explain why you're even at war or why I should be inclined to help. Perhaps I'd rather help your enemies, hm? What say ye to that?"

Sir Charles stood silent, shocked, for a few moments. The arrogance on his face now faded into disbelief. Obviously, he hadn’t expected the King to be so indifferent and ask for a reason to send soldiers to help.

“The reason for our war…” He repeated, “Why- the reason is…”

He paused for another moment, trying to come up with a reasonable response on why they were at war and why they needed his help. A good reason. One that wasn't seeped in greed.

Lokka chuckles, darkly, in amusement, before speaking with a light disturbingly kind tone despite his words, "Give me a good reason, Sir Charles, before I send you back to your King without a head.”

Sir Charles almost staggered backward in shock, horrified by the King's response. His dark amusement and the threat of beheading him if he can’t come up with a good reason was enough to nearly make Sir Charles piss in his armor, but he managed to stay composed. Mostly. He swallowed thickly before replying again.

“We’ve been at war with our neighboring kingdom for years now. A war we can’t win without you. If you do not help, Your Majesty…” He paused once again, his voice wavering slightly, “We will be overtaken and lost.”

"Still," Lokka says, casually standing from his throne, and slowly walking down the steps of the platform to the main part of the throne room, gesturing with one hand casually for Hannibal to stay, back for now, "You've yet to explain why you're at war. Just that you are and that you're losing." Lokka's tone softens to an almost teasing seductive tone as he nears Sir Charles and raises a hand to gently caress the taller older man's cheek and tilts his gaze to meet his eyes, "so... Explain to me, Sir," Lokka practically purrs, "why," he traces his fingers over the Knight's pulse point, "you need me?”

Sir Charles froze as the King suddenly approached him, his hand gently caressing his cheek and moving his head to face him. The sudden shift in his tone and attitude to something more seductive and playful shocked him, his heart almost stopping as he felt his slender fingers tracing over his pulse point.

He inhaled deeply, unable to find the words to respond. His words got caught in his throat, but he eventually began speaking despite the dryness in his throat.

“I- We…” He paused, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"ooh, has a cat got your tongue?”

Sir Charles tensed his shoulders, his cheeks turning a slight pink at his words. It didn’t help that Lokka was so close to him, his slender but firm and calloused fingers still gently caressing his pulse point. Sir Charles swallowed again, his words stuck in his throat like a frog for a few moments.

“N-no.” He managed to stutter out, cursing himself for stuttering like a boy with a middle school crush.

The King chuckles playfully, dancing around behind the large Knight and draping his arms over the man's shoulders from behind, wrapping his arms around the man's neck and resting his hands teasingly on the man's chest armor.

"hmmm..." Lokka hums in thought, glancing over to Hannibal, "Sir Hannibal, what do you know of Sir Charles and his Kingdom?”

Sir Charles tensed more as the King began to dance around him, jumping slightly as he suddenly draped his arms over his shoulders. He immediately tried to look at whatever Hannibal’s reaction was to the King’s action, his stomach twisting into knots at the King’s forward and almost…flirtatious behavior.

Hannibal’s eyes remained fixated on the pair, his head tilted to the side observing the King’s behavior, and Sir Charles’ reaction. He noted his tension and how he seemed almost afraid of the small young King.

The boy continues to surprise me…

"Don't tell me a cat's got your tongue too now, Sir Hannibal," the young King calls out playfully to his Advisor and Knight, "Do you know of Sir Charles or his Kingdom? Feel free to speak your mind, Sir Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s eyes flicked over to the King as soon as he spoke up, his eyes narrowing for a moment before his normal, calm demeanor returned to him. He raised an eyebrow, a little surprised with the King’s almost childish behavior. He took no issue with it, it was almost…endearing…

Hannibal glanced back at Charles for a moment, observing his behavior further, before speaking up in his usual polite but crisp and composed tone.

“I know of his kingdom and his cause. I also know of his king.”

"Hmm," Lokka hums, teasingly nuzzling his face into Sir Charles' neck from behind, though from where Hannibal stands, Hannibal can see the way Lokka curls his nose in disgust at whatever he smells, or just disgust for the Knight Sir Charles in general.

“Continue to speak your thoughts, Sir Hannibal. What's your opinion? Since you know of him and his King. Should we help them? Why are they in a war?”

Hannibal noticed the way the King’s nose curled in disgust as he nuzzled into the Knight’s neck. That was interesting. Clearly, there was more going on than a simple plea for help. Hannibal kept that thought in the back of his mind for now as he continued to speak up.

“They’re at war with their neighboring kingdom because of a fight over land.” He explained, “Their King wants to expand his kingdom and is willing to take it by any means necessary, even if it means going to war.”

"Hmm...." Lokka hums, tracing his hands teasingly in a sexual manner over Sir Charles chest armor from behind as he continues to nose Sir Charles' neck, "pathetic," he hisses out before suddenly biting down and tearing into Sir Charles' neck, tearing out a large chunk of his flesh and causing blood to gush from his artery.

Sir Charles drops dead to the ground, a few brief gurgling noises before he dies. Lokka is now covered in Sir Charles' blood but looks unbothered. More annoyed with the blood on the beautiful tile throne room floor than anything else.

Lokka whistles out a sharp note and a servant enters.

"Maria, darling,” Lokka says sweetly, almost apologetic, and it seems genuine, “Can you have the gardener get rid of this one like they did with the King? You and the servants may sell or keep whatever he has on him. I'll need someone to clean this blood out of the floor. Again."

Hannibal’s eyes widened in utter shock the moment the young King suddenly bit the Knight’s neck. He stood speechless for a few moments, unable to speak or form any words or coherent thought. Everything about this moment was so…unexpected..

And strangely attractive.

Hannibal watched as the King called in a servant named Maria, almost stunned as he listened to what the pair said. He was still trying to process what just happened, and it almost felt like he was dreaming.

Maria nods and quickly fetches a few other servants. Soon the dead Knight is gone- a handsome but awkward looking man, the gardener presumably, fetching the body and carrying it out- and there's a servant cleaning the blood up. Lokka walks slowly back up to the throne and stops a few feet in front of you.

"Do you still want this job?" Lokka asks, unknowingly licking the blood on his lips.

Lokka's mouth, jaw, neck, and the front of his shirt is soaked in blood from Sir Charles.

"I promise to play nice and let you leave without harm if your answer is no. Though I will be sad if you do choose to leave.”

Hannibal’s eyes remained fixated on the bloody, almost gorey scene before him, unable to tear his eyes away from the blood on the floor.

He stayed silent for a few moments as he finally registered his question to him, his eyes snapping up to meet his gaze. His usual stoic features were now replaced with slight shock and awe. He wasn’t sure how to feel about any of this, it was all so…unexpected…

“I…I do still want the job, Your Majesty.” Hannibal says with a small stutter, surprising even himself. It's not fear though that makes him stutter. Something about the way Lokka looks with blood dripping from his chin is just… delicious. Maddeningly so.

"hmm... Very well then," Lokka turns and looks back at the servant currently cleaning the floor, "Maria? Sir Hannibal and I will be gone for a few minutes. If any guest comes, please apologize for the wait and have them guided to... I don't know where, just somewhere nice and keep them entertained and fed til I return. Understood, doll?”

Maria, a young, brown-haired, and freckled servant, looked up as the King addressed her. She paused for half a second before nodding her head. She didn't seem afraid of him despite the gore and violence.

“Understood, Your Majesty. Will do.” she says simply.

"Good." Lokka says with a soft smile to the girl, though the blood on him ruins the attempt at a kind image.

He turns and gestures for Hannibal to follow as he leaves the throne room and heads for his private chambers.

They're not the original King's Chambers- far too casual and not as overly decorated. There's still nice furniture and a sitting area but it's also decorated with multiple books filled with notes and scribbles in the margins, animal hides and leathers tossed everywhere, half finished crochet and wood carvings and leatherworking projects everywhere.

Lokka leads Hannibal in and practically ignores his presence as he goes to his wardrobe and pulls out a nicer but still not exactly Kingly clothes; simple black pants and a long sleeve black shirt. He changes and washes the blood from his face at the water basin before finally turning to look at Hannibal, not caring that he'd stripped down to his boxers and undershirt in front of the other man since the boxers and undershirt hid the parts of himself he likes to keep hidden from everyone who doesn't need to know his secret.

"So, any opinions or questions as to why I killed that Knight? You're allowed to speak freely. I won't give you the same side of me I gave him.”

Hannibal took the invitation to speak his mind, taking a moment to properly organize his thoughts before beginning to speak.

“You’ve clearly got a distaste for people who you see as weak, a person like the late Knight.” He began, keeping his voice and tone calm, and his words precise and careful to avoid sounding disrespectful. “Perhaps the Knight said something, or you simply got…fed up with him.”

The King chuckles softly, "hm, good theory but not quite, Sir Hannibal," He says as he sits on one of the couches in the sitting area of his private chambers, "I was going to kill him the moment I smelled him- I'm not a normal human if you haven't noticed yet."

Hannibal tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing for a moment as he fully assessed the king now, taking in his unnaturally keen sense of smell. This kid was far more than he seemed. He slowly walked over to the same couch and sat down a few feet away, keeping his usual polite composure still.

“You’re a werecat.”

Hannibal stated, not asking but saying it like it was factual.

“Precisely," the King says with a chuckle.

This was a very interesting development, to say the least. Werecats were relatively rare. Hannibal noted that Lokka's eyes resembled that of a cat. Sharp, unwavering, and almost predatory in a way.

“I assume you could smell that he was a coward…” Hannibal mused out loud, pausing for a moment as he noted more differences about the King.

“I did not kill him for his cowardice. But rather what I smelled on him- what he'd done- before he'd dirtied my Kingdom with his presence."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow, intrigued to know what he smelled on him. He never would’ve expected such a young king to be so…violent. The death was so vicious and sudden, and not to mention messy. And it was all over a particular scent.

But God, was it beautiful…

“What did you smell on him?” Hannibal questioned, his curiosity getting the better of him.

A murderous snarl tugs Lokka's lip, but not at Hannibal, rather the Knight he'd killed, "He smelled of children, suffering children, at least two. Two whose scents were far too different from his to have been his offspring. And scents that reeked of fear and pain. He'd harmed them. I dare not dwell in what ways."

Hannibal’s eyes momentarily darkened as he listened to the kid’s reply. Child abuse, a particular weakness of his. His hatred for it was almost as strong as his cannibalism.

For a split second, Hannibal suddenly felt a pang of…admiration. The kid had a sense of justice, in a way. A strange moral sense of delivering justice but still. He wasn’t a normal royal, that’s for sure.

“Is that why you killed him the way you did?” He questioned, masking his previous internal admiration and remaining composed and polite.

"Yes.”

Hannibal didn’t know how to feel about the King being so…unapologetic and straightforward about his violence, yet he found it almost refreshing and…charming. Usually, nobles danced and tiptoed around the subject and acted disgusted or horrified when acts like this were brought up.

“A brutal, yet justified death.” Hannibal muttered under his breath, speaking his thoughts out loud by accident.

"I'm glad you think so," Lokka says softly, head tilted slightly as he looks up at Hannibal.

Hannibal noticed his head tilt, taking in the small action further. He couldn’t help but find it…cute. The little King was clearly not an ordinary King, especially for his age. He was young, wild, and violent, and yet there was an almost endearing quality to him. Almost like that of a small, feral creature.

Hannibal's eyes drifted to the King's lips.

Soft and stained a faint red from the blood that he'd just washed off.

Lips that had parted to kill a man.

Lethal but beautiful lips that Hannibal wants to-

------

The gif of Hannibal covered in blood belongs to @bloodydancy ☮️💖

[frosty-tian]

Touched-up old doodle that was supposed to be for Pride Month. Their faces look unintentionally punchable.

In case it’s hard to read, Juan’s shirt says “yes, I’m gay and happy” (supposed to be a pun as well).

[n1angi]

Shrouded in Darkness

CHAPTER 4 : PARMIGIANA

previous chapter | next chapter

Will Graham x AFAB character x Hannibal Lecter (Polyamory)

Summary:

In the heart of Baltimore, forensic analyst Sidonie Renard navigates the shadows of crime scenes, concealing her loneliness behind a composed facade. Drawn into a web of intrigue, she captures the attention of profiler Will Graham and the enigmatic Hannibal Lecter.

Word count: 3,2k

Chapter Warning: Murder, Blood, Gore.

Sidonie observed the man in front of her. He was tall and slender, with a lean, angular face. His blue shirt, brown tie, and colorful ornaments on his tie complemented his suit. His hair was styled neatly, giving him a sophisticated look. He was charismatic, well-mannered, and attractive.

“I’m honored to offer any insight I can,” he said to Jack, then turned his attention to the brunette. His eyes took on her appearance.

She was neatly dressed in classic trousers, leather-heeled boots, and a black turtleneck. Her outfit made her large olive-green eyes stand out.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Jack speaks highly of you. I’m glad to work with someone of your caliber.” He maintained eye contact.

“The feeling is mutual. You’re also well-known around here. Agent Crawford seems to trust you a lot.” She nodded and smiled slightly, holding her hands in front of her as she glanced at Jack, who gestured for them to sit.

Jack cleared his throat, mentioning that Alana would join them soon.

“Abigail Hobbs woke up this morning. I thought we could consult two professionals before taking action since Miss Renard seemed hesitant about the idea.” Hannibal tilted his head slightly.

“What is the idea you speak of?”

“I have seven families waiting for an answer. I want Miss Renard to consult Abigail and find evidence of what is left of these girls. Speaking to Abigail will be necessary for trust.”

“I’m sure we need to give Abigail some time to process what happened,” Sidonie said.

“Sudden intrusion will only make her more cautious. It’s best if she speaks with her therapist for the first couple of days.”

Jack looked at Hannibal.

“As you can see, she is hesitant.”

“Hesitance isn’t the issue here, Agent Crawford. What you’re asking of me isn’t in my expertise. It’s a huge responsibility to consult a victim while trying to find evidence on them.”

“She might not be a victim at all,” Jack pressed.

“Her father slit her throat, and she nearly died,” Sidonie said, frowning. “She deserves some time to recover.”

Hannibal’s lips curl into a faint smile as if he’s trying not to show his amusement.

“I agree with Miss Renard,” Hannibal said calmly, looking at Jack. “It’s best to stay patient. We don’t want to rush.” He turns to Sidonie. “Combining her expertise while carefully observing Abigail could benefit the case. It might help move things along.” He notices Jack’s pleased expression. “However, given Miss Renard’s limited experience in this area, it’s better if those who have interacted with Abigail stay by her side.”

“Are you suggesting to accompany Miss Renard?” Jack asks.

“I believe it will be the best approach.”

“And what about Will Graham?”

“It’s best if he is there too.”

Sidonie holds her breath, dreading the possible reaction from the men.

“There’s a chance he might not be happy with this idea,” Jack reminds him.

“I expected such a response,” Hannibal replies.

The room falls silent. Jack sighed, realizing he could rely on Hannibal to manage the situation.

“Now, let’s move on to the painter’s case,” Jack stands up and looking at the wall covered with crime scene photos.

Hannibal and Sidonie also rise, with Hannibal holding back to let Sidonie go first. They approach the wall as Jack begins to speak.

“Seven deadly sins. That’s the theme behind the crimes. The number seven indicates the next possible cases, including this one. We have very little evidence of who the killer is, but…” Jack looks at Sidonie. “Miss Renard found a bristle and suggesting he might be a painter.”

“Quentin Metsys, the moneylender, and his wife,” Hannibal says with a slight smile. “A representation of greed.”

“At first, we thought it might be a copycat,” Jack continues, “but that theory was dismissed.”

“Understandable,” Sidonie adds. “A copycat sees himself as superior to his victims. This killer, however, seems to feel undervalued. A copycat is meticulous and proud of his work.”

“Are you familiar with profiling, Miss Renard?” Hannibal asks, intrigued. Sidonie shakes her head.

“No, not really. I just took into account what Mr. Graham said about the case. But over time, you start noticing patterns between evidence and the traits of the criminals.”

“Are you suggesting that evidence itself has character?”

“Not exactly,” Sidonie replies. “But there might be a connection between the evidence and the killer’s traits.”

Hannibal considers her words thoughtfully.

“Do you have any ideas about the killer, Dr. Lecter?” Jack asks. Hannibal turns back to him.

“There’s a chance he may not be a painter after all.”

“Why’s that?” Jack inquires.

“Being a painter is a well-known profession. If he was working as a painter, it would be easier for him to be identified, especially if he was dealing with recent frustrations.”

“And what makes you think that?” Jack asks.

“The statement he’s making.” Sidonie looks frustrated, trying to think of other possibilities. Hannibal’s point about the painter’s potential exposure makes sense. “The choice of the seven deadly sins isn’t random. It shows his inner conflict, his struggle with his own failures, and the wrongs he feels he has faced. He might be revealing something about his own life. There’s more to his story that he wants to share.”

“Well, we need to catch him before he can tell us more,” Jack insists.

The door opened automatically as she stepped outside, her boots clicking as she walked to a bench and sat down. She sighed, rubbing her slightly sweaty hands together. The contrast between the hot office and the cool air outside was noticeable.

She looked at her thumb, watching the sweat mix with her palm.

“Miss Renard, are you okay?”

She looked up, startled by Hannibal’s sudden presence. “Yes, I just needed some fresh air. It’s much cooler out here than in the office.” She wiped her hands on her trousers and moved slightly to make room for him.

Hannibal sat beside her, crossing his legs.

“Do you tend to run hot?” he asked.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” she replied. Hannibal nodded, recalling how cold the room had been earlier. He looked around.

“You mentioned earlier that evidence might link a killer to their traits. What about a painter? What traits might fit him?”

“Will Graham has already covered that. I have nothing new to add,”

“And what about Abigail Hobbs? Is there any evidence that could suggest she’s guilty?”

Her gaze lingered on his face, curious about the sudden change in topic.

“There’s a chance she could be, considering the nature of the crimes. But right now, the only clues would be in her current behavior, which I’m not sure I can help with.”

Hannibal nodded, clearly unsatisfied with her response. It didn’t provide him any new insight, personal or professional.

As his eyes drifted to her hands, he observed how her fingers were intertwined. He saw a scar running from her middle finger down her hand. Recalling the article Freddie Lounds had written about her, it seemed obvious to him why she seemed so anxious earlier.

“Your approach to her seems sympathetic. Some might even call it kind.”

“I’d describe it as flexible, rather than kind.” She looked away, her gaze falling on two familiar figures approaching from a car. “Approaching her right now might be overwhelming, especially after what she’s been through. Whether she’s guilty or not, it’s tough for anyone.”

Hannibal followed her gaze, seeing Alana and Will approaching.

“Balancing empathy with objectivity is no easy task, and you handle it with a rare skill,” Hannibal said. Sidonie blinked at his compliment. He smiled subtly at her reaction.

Will and Alana reached them, and Sidonie and Hannibal stood up.

“I’m glad we’re not too late, Has Jack arrived?”

“We’ve already spoken with Jack,” Hannibal replied.

“So we’re late,” she mumbled.

Noticing Will’s gaze, Hannibal turned to him.

“I assume you know Abigail has woken up?”

“Heard of it,” Will said sarcastically.

“And I assume he wanted to interview her right away,” Alana predicted, raising her eyebrows.

“I won’t argue with that,” Hannibal smirked. Alana shook her head at his response. “Miss Renard suggested we wait before talking to her, which seemed like a wise course of action.”

Hannibal looked at Sidonie, drawing her into the conversation. Alana smiled.

“I’m glad someone agrees with me,” Sidonie nods, smiling slightly.

“Shall we go in?” Hannibal asked Alana, who nodded in response. They headed inside while Will stayed behind.

Sidonie noticed that Will didn’t move, adding to her unease from their earlier shared eye contact.

As the door closed, Will looked around, finding the area empty.

“Jack has involved you in this case, after all,” he mumbled, catching himself. He realized his words might sound unpleasant despite his intention to start a conversation.

“I understand you’re not thrilled about this. But whatever Jack has assigned to me doesn’t reflect on your professionalism,” Sidonie replied.

Will chuckled, almost painfully.

“He doubts my judgment, that’s what it is.”

Sidonie remained silent as she shared the same concern.

“He doubts anyone who disagrees with him,” she pointed. “He strongly believes Abigail was involved.”

“What do you believe in?”

Sidonie blinked in surprise at his question. After a second, she turned to him.

“I trust the evidence, which suggests she wasn’t involved. I won’t rush to judge Abigail Hobbs just because of her father.”

Will looked at her face and saw no signs of deceit or falsehood. She appeared confident and sincere.

Noticing his steady gaze, Sidonie stepped away.

“I need to get back to work.”

Will stared at the road ahead as he and Hannibal drove to the psychiatric hospital to visit Abigail Hobbs, who had woken up a few days ago.

Surprisingly, Jack had taken Sidonie’s advice, and Alana had been persistent about giving the young girl her space.

Will felt a mix of nerves and guilt. He wasn’t just troubled about talking to Abigail; he felt bad for leaving her orphaned, even though he didn’t regret what he did to her father.

He remembered how Garet Jacob Hobbs had looked as life left his eyes, and he was relieved that Abigail hadn’t met the same fate.

Hannibal, who was driving, broke the silence.

“Something on your mind, Will?” Will rubbed his face. “You’re not sure what to say to her.”

“Are you?”

“No,” Hannibal replied, “but our best approach is to stay by her side and help her open up over time.”

“I’m not sure she’ll feel safe around me.”

“You saved her life,” Hannibal reminded him.

“You did,” Will countered.

Hannibal thought for a moment and then said calmly.

“We both played a part. What matters is that she knows she’s not alone. Building trust takes time, and your presence will help her feel safer.”

“What if my presence does the opposite?”

“Your empathy, though it might be a burden to you, can help bridge the gap to her healing. She needs to see that someone understands her pain, even if she doesn’t recognize it yet.”

Will sighed, feeling the weight of Hannibal’s words.

As the car stopped, Will and Hannibal entered the hospital and asked to see Abigail. To their surprise, the nurse told them she already had a visitor. They exchanged a puzzled glance, as the only people who knew Abigail’s location were the FBI and Alana, who they were sure weren’t there.

“Can you describe the person visiting her?” Will asked.

“A short woman with long curly red hair and blue eyes. She’s neatly dressed.” The nurse replied.“

Will frowned in confusion and asked the nurse to lead them to Abigail’s room. When they opened the door, they saw the red-haired woman sitting on Abigail’s bed, talking to her.

“...Works for the FBI but isn’t really an FBI agent. He catches insane men because he can think like them. Because he is insane,” Freddie Lounse said, looking at them.

Will immediately recognized her by her manner of speech.

“Would you excuse us, please?” Will irritate. Freddie stood up as he approached Abigail’s bed. Abigail looked around the room with confusion in her blue eyes. “I’m Special Agent Will Graham,” he introduced himself.

“By Special Agent, he means not really an agent. He didn’t pass the screening. Too unstable,” Freddie looked at Will.

“I insist that you leave the room,” Hannibal interjected. Freddie pulled out her card.

“If you want to talk—”

Will snatched the card from her without saying a word. Freddie didn’t resist and left the room. Abigail looked between the two men as Will removed his glasses and wiped them.

“Abigail, this is Dr. Lecter,” he introduced. After a pause, he asked if she remembered them.

Abigail turned her gaze to Will.

“I remember you. You killed my dad.”

Will nodded, his jaw tightening slightly.

“You’ve been in bed for days, Abigail. How about we take a walk?” Hannibal suggested.

Abigail walked weakly into the garden, supported by Hannibal and Will.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save your mother. We did everything we could, but she was already gone.” Will said softly.

“I know. I saw him kill her.” Abigail replied, tears stinging her eyes but not falling. They helped her sit down. “He was loving right up until the second he wasn’t. He kept telling me he was sorry and to just hold still.” She stops “He was going to make it all go away.”

“There was plenty wrong with your father, Abigail, but there’s nothing wrong with you.” Will looks at her. “You said he was loving. I believe it. That’s what you brought out in him.”

Abigail fell silent.

“It’s not all I brought out in him,” she whispered, looking at Will. “I’m going to be messed up, aren’t I? I’m worried about nightmares.”

Will didn’t respond. He couldn’t promise her she would be okay or that she wouldn’t be affected.

“We’ll help you with the nightmares,” Hannibal reassured her.

“There’s no such thing as getting used to what you experienced. It bothers me a lot. I worry about nightmares, too.” Will admitted as he sits down next to her.

“So killing somebody, even if you have to do it, it feels that bad?” she inquires.

Hannibal looks at Will, curious how honest his answer will be.

“It’s… The ugliest thing in the world.” Will says carefully as Abigail takes his words in.

“I want to go home,” she whispers.

Freddie Lounds leaned on the hood of Hannibal’s dark blue Bentley, waiting. When she saw Hannibal and Will approaching, she quickly stood up, almost respectfully.

“Special Agent Graham, I never formally introduced myself. I’m Freddie Lounds.” She offered her hand. Will put on his glasses, ignoring her hand.

“Are you trying to salvage this joke from the mouth of madness?”

“Please. Let me apologize for my behavior there. It was sloppy and misguided. And hurtful.”

“Miss Lounds now isn’t the time,” Hannibal spoke. Freddie looked at Hannibal but continued speaking to Will.

“Look, you and I may have our own reasons for being here, but I also think we both genuinely care what happens to Abigail Hobbs.”

“You told her I was insane,” he hissed.

“You weren’t the only topic in the article,” Freddie defended herself, noticing Will’s clenched jaw. “I can undo what I said.” Will tried not to laugh at how absurd she sounded.

“You help Abigail see me as more than her father’s killer and I help you with online ad sales?”

“I can un-do what I said. I can also make it a lot worse.” Freddie warned. Will’s face twitched as he stepped closer to her.

“Miss Lounds, it’s not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.”

Sidonie sat at her desk, working on a sample from the corpse. Jimmy clicked his tongue in frustration, and Beverly raised an eyebrow.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“Another article about Will Graham by We All Know Who,” He chanted. Almost everyone gathered around to look at the article on the computer.

Sidonie stayed at her desk, shaking her head slightly. She knew that no one, not even Jack, could stop her from writing nasty articles.

“It’s not very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.” Jack sits behind his desk reading off of his computer screen “You know what else isn’t very smart?” he looks at Hannibal, who sits next to Will. “You were there with him and you let those words come out of his mouth.”

Alana glanced at the two men next to her, and Sidonie did the same.

“I trust Will to speak for himself,” Hannibal clarified.

“Evidently, you shouldn’t.” Jack replied.

“I’m just happy the story wasn’t about Abigail Hobbs,” Alana said with a slight shrug..

“Then it’s a victory.” Jack pressed his lips together and nodded. “So Abigail Hobbs wants to go home. Let’s take her home.”

“What Abigail wants and what she needs are two different things. Taking her out of a controlled environment would be reckless.” Alana defends.

“You said she was practical.”

“That could just mean she has a dissociative disorder,” Will adds in.

“You take her home, she may experience intense emotions, and respond aggressively. Or reenact some aspect of the traumatic event without even realizing it.” Alana worried as Jack glanced at Hannibal, knowingly.

“Where do you weigh in on this, Doctor?”

“Doctor Bloom is right, but there is a scenario where revisiting the trauma event could help Abigail heal and prevent denial.” Alana shook her head and looked at Sidonie, who was quietly observing the discussion.

“Then we have a difference of opinion. Therefore I’m choosing the opinion that best serves my agenda.” Jack looked at Will. “I want to know if you are right about our Copy Cat Will.”

Will, looked tired, almost asleep.

“We have no way of knowing what’s waiting for her when she goes home,” Alana points out.

“And the publicity might make things worse. The whole city knows about her and her father because of Freddie Lounds.”

“Miss Renard has dealt with Freddie Lounds before. I’m sure she can talk to Abigail about it.” Jack asserts.

“I should add ‘Public Relations Expert’ to my resume,” Sidonie snarked with a slight smile. “I feel like I deserve a raise.”

“Perhaps a comic would be a better choice.” Jack retorts at the comment.

“A shared experience can help Abigail deal with her situation, but Miss Renard isn’t qualified to question her,” Alana argues.

“Hannibal and Will will accompany her as she works on the case.”

“It seems I don’t have a say in this,” Alana’s tone was sharp with frustration.

“No, not on this one,” Jack confirmed.

The room fell silent.

“I think Jack’s right,” Will spoke up, recalling what Hannibal had said on the way to the hospital. “Having someone who’s been through a similar ordeal could help Abigail. It might bring her some… normalcy and comfort.” Hannibal looks at Will, somehow amused at his agreement. He looks at Sidonie, who also seems to be taken aback by his words. “Maybe she can make things easier for everyone…”

Sidonie and Will lock eyes for a moment, their gaze sharing a sense of understanding, or knowing, like back in the pharmacy.

Hannibal observed the moment between Sidonie and Will with curiosity.

“Well, I have to admit, Will, I didn’t see this coming,” Jack says with a tone of genuine surprise as they break eye contact. “But I’m glad you’re on board.”

“So what’s the plan?” Alana asked.

Jack turned to Sidonie.

“Get ready for the trip. We are taking Abigail Hobbs to her nest.”

[steviebunny]

Pretty Astute Observations

Coquilles

___

06:00

Will Graham walks through the foyer of Hannibal Lectors home, bags still dark and heavy beneath his eyes. 

“Is it safe to assume you are not sleep walking now?”

“I’m sorry its so early”

“Office hours are for patients. My kitchen is always open to friends… and their partners.”

“Lena?”

“Came to see me just an hour ago, an interesting conversation was had on the topic of evil. Perhaps reaching out to her would be your best course of action. That's why Jack recruited her, is it not?” He says while fiddling with the espresso machine.

“I uh- I don’t know her very well.”

“One could always use more friends.”

“What about you doctor?”

“I’ll have you both…If you’ll have me” The innuendo could almost be unsettling if it wasn’t for Hannibal's air of confidence blanketing the statement. “Onset of adult sleepwalking is less common than in children.”

“Could it be a seizure?” Will asks gratefully accepting a glass from Hannibal.

“I’d argue, good old-fashioned post-traumatic stress. Jack Crawford has gotten your hands very dirty ”

“I wasn’t forced back into the field” 

“I wouldn't say ‘forced’, manipulated is the word I’d choose.”

“I can handle it.”

“Somewhere between denying horrible events, and calling them out lies the truth of psychological trauma.”

“So I can’t handle it.”

“Your experience may have overwhelmed ordinary functions that give you a sense of control.”

“If my body is walking around without my permission, you’d say thats a loss of control?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Hannibal asks, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Sleepwalkers demonstrate a difficulty handling aggression. Are you experiencing difficulty with aggressive feelings?”

“You said Jack sees me as fine china used for special guests. I'm beginning to feel more like an old mug.”

“You entered into a devil's bargain with Jack Crawford. It takes a toll.”

“Jack isn't the devil.”

“When it comes to how far he's willing to push you to get what he wants, he's certainly no Saint.”

—-

08:50

“You know, Hannibal seems to think we should be friends.” The statement shocked Lena, of all the things she expected Will Graham to say at a motel crime scene that was not one of them.

“Does he really, and what makes you think I’d like to be your friend?” 

“....I have dogs?”

“Are you asking me, or telling me?”

“Telling.” 

“Good. I love dogs, and now that we have that settled. Room was registered to a John Smith, big surprise there “

“An appalling failure of imagination.”

“They paid cash. There are no security cameras on the premises... another big surprise.”

“John Smith one of the victims?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, according to the register. They were mutilated and displayed. Jack and Zeller think it’s the Ripper but there were no surgical trophies taken, and the Ripper doesn’t exactly profile like the type of man who would vomit at his own crime scene”

“How can you be sure it wasn’t one of the victims?”

“They were strung up antemortem, and the sick was on the bedside table, once you see their positioning you’ll get why thats improbable.”

“Should I brace myself?”

“Definitely. It's not good in there.”

—

“Hooks were bored into the ceiling. A fishing line was used to hold up the bodies and... the wings. At least we know he's a fisherman.”

“Or a Viking.” Zeller chimed in.

“Vikings do this?

“Vikings used to execute Christians by breaking their ribs, bending them back, and draping the lungs over them to resemble wings. They used to call it a "blood eagle." Pagans mocking the Godfearing.” Lena laughed at Zeller’s ‘fun fact’. He raised a brow in her direction at the gesture prompting her to reply.

“Well you can’t say the Christians didn’t deserve it, they bullied their way into a foreign land, tried to murder those who wouldn’t give up their beliefs in the name of the church then moved their ‘savior’s’ birthday from spring to winter so that they could take over the pagan holiday of Yule for themselves. And pagans were also ‘god-fearing’ just not in a monotheistic sense”

“How do you know all that?”

“When I was with the BAU, the resident boy genius was going on a theology kick for a good few months. Each ride on the jet was at least a couple hours…I picked up some things.”

Zeller admonishes the idea and goes back to impatiently swab collecting with Beverly, She and Price laugh under their breath at the man’s childish behavior.

“No, he isn't mocking them. The unsub thinks he’s…transforming them. Elevating them in some way. 

I need a plastic sheet for the bed.”

—-

This is not who you are. 

This is my gift to you. 

I allow you to become angels. 

And now, I lay me down to sleep.

—

"Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws."

“Robert Frost.”

“Jim Morrison.”

“Even a drunk with a flair for the dramatic can convince himself he's God. Or the lizard king.”

“God makes angels. Jesus was fond of fishermen.”

“Are we talking hardcore Judeo-Christian upsetting, or just upsetting in general?”

“This is a very specific upsetting.”

“Increased serotonin in the wounds is much higher than the free histamines, so, uh, she lived for about 15 minutes after she was skinned.” Zeller announced.

“Powder residue on the neck of the soda bottle shows Vecuronium... scotch and soda and a paralytic agent.”

“Kneeling in supplication at the feet of g-dash-d.”

“Supplication is the most common form of prayer.Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

“They weren't praying to him. They were praying for him. He's afraid.”

“What is somebody who could do something like this afraid of?”

“What's in his vomit?”

“Uh, Dexamethasone...That's used for patients with tumors.”

“Kepra... He's epileptic. Radiation?”

“Gamma four, Steroids for the inflammation, anticonvulsants for the seizures, radiation for the chemotherapy.”

“Our guy has a brain tumor.”

“He's afraid of dying in his sleep.  He's making angels to watch over him.”

—-

An eclectically dressed woman, speed walks in her high-heeled shoes down the halls of the FBI looking for her target. Penelope Garcia won tickets to the most exclusive karaoke bar in Virginia (okay maybe she rigged the competition a little, who has to know?) and she’ll be damned if any member of her precious found family denies her invitation. The moment she spots Lena she grabs the woman’s arm pulling her into the commissary.

“You owe me.”

“What-” 

“Technically I’m not supposed to be helping out your team, and- and well you owe me, so you can’t say no to me!”

“Penny, what are you talking about?”

“This weekend, karaoke, you, me, BAU.”

“I’m on a case right now, sweetie. If Crawford doesn’t have us in the field I’ll be there.”

“Oh, you’ll be there alright. I’ll make sure of it!” The grin on Penelope’s face is contagious even as she rushes back off to her fortress of solitude.

—-

12:00

“There is no one and only spiritual center of the brain”

“Any idea of God comes from many different areas of the mind working together in unison.”

“Maybe I was wrong.”  Being wrong in this case seems like an unnatural event no matter how true or untrue it may be.

“How do you profile someone who has an anomaly in their head changing the way they think?”

“A tumor can definitely affect brain function, even cause vivid hallucinations. However, what appears to be driving your angel maker to create heaven on earth is a simple issue of mortality. Can't beat God, become him?”

“You said he was afraid.”

“He feels abandoned.”

“Ever feel abandoned, Will?”

“Less and less each day, if you and Jack keep encouraging me to make friends, either way, abandonment requires expectation.”

“What were your expectations of Jack Crawford and the FBI?”

“Jack hasn't abandoned me…I didn't expect to be working so closely with others…Lena wants to meet my dogs or rather insinuates she wants to meet my dogs. Definitely didn't expect that.” 

“Perhaps Jack hasn't abandoned you in a discernable way.”

“Perhaps in the way gods abandon their creations.”

“Is Jack God to you?”

“No more than you are.” If Will had looked at Hannibal's face he might have just seen a smile.

“You say he hasn't abandoned you, but at the same time you find yourself wandering around Wolf Trap in the middle of the night.”

“Well... This should be interesting…Please, doctor, proceed.”

“Jack gave you his word he would protect your headspace, yet he leaves you to your mental devices”

“Are you trying to alienate me from Jack Crawford?”

“I'm trying to help you set proper boundaries between employee and employer…I am also trying to help you understand this angel maker you seek. Well, help me understand how to catch him. If he were a classic paranoid schizophrenic, you might be able to influence him to become visible. What, scare him out into the daylight?”

“Might even get him to hurt himself, if he hasn't already. If he were self destructive, he-he..he wouldn't be so careful.”

“Unless he's careful about being self-destructive, making angels to pray over him when he sleeps.”

“Sleep is sacred, and who prays over us when we sleep?”

---

19:00

“Why angels?”

“Well, it isn't biblical. His angels have wings.”

“Um, angels in sculptures and paintings can fly, but not in scripture.”

“Technically not…if we're accounting for the angels that amass as giant winged amalgamations of eyeballs one would assume they could fly too?” Lena now always being a foot behind him is a fact he'll need to get used to at scenes.

“He's drawing from secular sources?”

“His mind has turned against him and there's no one there to help.”

“Uh, Jack... look at this.”

Are those… What are those?”

“Somebody got an orchiectomy real cheap.”

“Doesn't look like the victim.”

“So they're the angel maker's?”

Lena might just need to stop threatening to castrate men who frustrate her now, something about actually seeing the after-effects is more than unsettling.

“He castrated himself?”

“So he isn't just making angels; He's getting ready to become one. Angels don't have genitalia.”

“So he was afraid of dying. Now he's, what, getting used to the idea?”

“He's accepting it or he's bargaining. Heh, bargaining chips!”

“So, does this mean that he's done making angels, or is he just getting started?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, he's not just killing them when he's sleepy. I mean, how is he choosing them?”

“I don't know. Ask him.” Will begins to sweat almost profusely, removing his glasses and wiping his brow.

“I'm asking you.”

“You're the head of the behavioral science unit, Jack. Why don't you come up with your own answers if you don't like mine!?” Will’s voice raises in frustration. Crawford's face begins to morph into a threatening scowl.

“I did not hear that! Did I?!” he screams back at Will. Lena steps forward separating the two men.

“Jack I think its time for you to take a step back.”

“Do NOT get involved Gibbs”

“You brought me in to get involved! He’s obviously overwhelmed and looks like he’s on the verge of passing out, pushing your team won’t get you shit.”

“I know how far I can push my own team”

“Graham isn't officially on the team, you made that clear, and I’m telling you he’s done with the psycho-predicting today”

“I don’t need to be protected, I can see the rest of the scene,” Will says with a dejected rasp.

“I didn’t say we’re leaving, just to stop getting into the Angel Maker's head. I’m sure Dr. Lecter would agree with me if he’d seen that interaction.”

Jack's face screws back up and he storms away from Will and Lena. Beverly then approaches with a friendly smile and a gentle hand on Will’s shoulder. “My ears rang like the first time I heard my mom use the f-word. Are you ok?’ (he chuckles) ‘I know it's a stupid question considering that none of us could possibly be ok doing what we do, but… are you ok?”

“Do I seem different?”

“You're a little different, but you've always been a little different.”

“Brilliant strategy… that way no one ever knows if something's up with you.”

“Maybe not anymore, you’ve got a guard dog now.” Bev smiles and nods at Lena, then leads the two behind her further into the scene.

—-

19:20

“Meet Roger and Marilyn Brunner. You might recognize them from such lists as most wanted.”

“He likes to rape and murder, she likes to watch.”

“We got a DNA match. They falsified the motel registry and were driving a stolen car, so it took a second to identify them.”

“I wonder how long it took Angel Maker to identify them.”

“He didn't choose them randomly. He knows something about them.”

“He sees something we don’t.” It gets harder to not think of Sherlock, why the hell is Virgina so full of artistic and metaphorically motivated criminals?

“The murdered security guard wasn't actually a security guard. He was a convicted felon.”

“Could Angel Maker be a vigilante?”

“Well, vigilantes are pragmatic, they're purposeful; They don't lay down and sleep under their crimes.”

“In his mind, he was doing God's work. That spells vigilante.” Feels eerily similar to a certain terrorist too.

“Well, playing at God has other advantages. One of them…Is always being alone. So he makes angels out of demons.”

“How does he know they're demons?”

“He doesn't have to know. All he has to do is believe.

—

22:00

Will escorts Lena to a joint session with Hannibal practically the second after the both of them had been dismissed from duty for the evening.

“It's difficult to lie still and fear going to sleep.”

“What is there to think about?”

“You listen to your breathing in the dark and the tiny clicks of your blinking eyes.”

“I dream more now than I used to.”

“Well, your dreams were the one place you could be physically safe, relinquishing control. Not anymore.”

“Yeah, I thought about zipping myself up into a sleeping bag before I go to sleep, but it, heh, sounds like a poor man's straight jacket.”

“I’ve always found another body to be helpful…Sherlock would drape himself over me like a blanket when we slept. Bit hard to thrash during a nightmare if you’re simultaneously being squished.”

“Are you offering yourself to Will as a duvet, Lena?”

She laughs dismissively “We don’t know each other that well yet, Lecter. I’m sure at least one of your dogs is large enough to keep Graham still.” 

Will grimaces and huffs, “The dogs don’t sleep in my bed, I sweat sort of profusely…so even if they start there they’ll move off during the night at some point.”

“Well, then I guess I’m getting you an expensive sleeping bag for Christmas.” Will can’t actually tell whether she means that sarcastically or not, he looks to Dr. Lecter prompting the psychiatrist's next question.

“Have you two determined how this angel maker is choosing his victims?”

“Our killer, Well, he doesn't see people how everyone else sees them. He can tell if you're naughty or nice, or he thinks he can.”

“So God has given this person insight into the souls of men.”

“God didn't give him insight; God gave him a tumor.”

“God… rapidly dividing cells that keep trucking along. Seems so human, what deity would work so hard?”

“He's just a man whose brain is playing tricks on him.”

“You are not unlike this killer.”

“My brain is playing tricks on me?”

“You want to feel such sweet and easy peace. The angel maker wants that same peace .He hopes to feel his way cautiously inside and then find it's endless, all around him.”

“He's gonna be disappointed.”

“You accept the impossibility of such a feeling, whereas the angel maker is still chasing it.”

“I don’t think peace is impossible, I think the point of life is just striving for it, having it for a short amount of time. Then chaos ensues again. Balance, good and bad, Evil and righteousness. Peace and terror.”

“ And what or your life Lena has it been balanced between this sense of peace and terror?”

“More terror than peace, lately. But I think the scales are starting to level again.”

“If the Angel Maker got close to peace, that's why he will look for it again. I've tried to reconstruct his thinking and find his patterns.”

“Instead you find yourself in a behavior pattern you can't break. You realize you have a choice.”

“What is it?”

“Angel Maker will be destroyed by what's happening inside his head; You don't have to be.”

“That would require him telling Jack to screw off and stop pushing him,” Lena says as Hannibal stands from his place at his desk.

“Do you feel that Jack Crawford has bad intentions when it comes to dear Will?” 

“I’ve known Jack a long time. We’ve always had an antagonistic relationship, we first met through his wife when I was young. She helped my father on a case…he was not thrilled, I’ve never known why. He then tried to poach me back when I was with the BAU, but he chose to wait until our unit chief was going through difficulty…I suspect he might have even had a hand in convincing Director Strauss of her ‘motivations’. I didn’t want to be manipulated so I left. Went to Scotland Yard, and well… you know the rest, terror struck, Crawford sunk his claws in and here I am. The least I could do in my task to help Will is make Jack's life a little more annoying don't you think?”

Both men seemed to take in Lena’s perspective though whether her opinions on Crawford landed with Will is unknown. Hannibal seemed a bit more accepting. Nodding as he leaned into Will, sniffing the detective.

“Did you just smell me?”

“Difficult to avoid. I really must introduce you to a finer aftershave. That smells like something with a ship on the bottle.”

“Well, I keep getting it for Christmas.”

“Have your headaches been any worse lately? More frequent?”

“Yes, actually.” 

“ I'd change the aftershave.”

—-

07:00

“Elliot Budish: 35-year-old truck driver.”

“He's got a fishing license too. Uh, match came from the national cancer database.”

“Married, two kids… they haven't seen him in four months.”

“He was diagnosed five months ago.”

“Meet the angel maker.”

—-

“This'll be the last one.”

“It's Budish?”

“He made himself into an angel.”

“It wasn't God, it wasn't man. It was his choice to die.”

“His choice?”

“As much as he can make it.”

“I don't know how much longer I can be all that useful to you, Jack.”

“Really? You caught three. The last three we had, you caught. You caught three of them.”

“No, I didn't catch this one. Elliot Budish… surrendered.”

“You know, I'm used to my wife not talking to me. I don't have to get used to you not talking to me too.”

“No one wants to know your relationship issues Jack.” That earns Lena a glare, and if it was anyone else probably the uptick of a certain favorite finger.

“It's getting harder and harder to make myself look.”

“Well, nobody's asking you to look alone.” He says, angling a hand to the red-head.

“All due respect I am looking alone.”

“None taken, I’ve kinda made a career of playing sidekick.”

“You wanna go back to your lecture hall? Read about this stuff on tattlecrime.com?”

“Would you let him?” Lena says at the same moment Will announces “No, I don't…But that may be what I have to do. This is bad for me.”

“You go back to your classroom. When there's k*lling going on that you could've prevented, it will sour your classroom forever.”

“Maybe. And then maybe I'll find a job as a diesel mechanic in a boatyard.”

“You wanna quit? Quit.”

—

Entree (part 1)

“In the night. In the dark. Journey’s end and yet lover’s meeting.”

[beautyinsteadofashes]

there's doomed by the narrative and then there's my type of ship which I think is called never intended by the narrative. It's the political marriage or the unrequited best friend or the pre-hero's journey boyfriend or a character they barely interact with and my brain just goes "that one"

[grahamcracklewho]

00. RED ROGUE.

a Carmen Sandiego (2019) rewrite.

tw (for the entire series): murder, death, mild gore, angst, obsession, ableism. i will add onto this as i go on. this series is DEEPLY redcrackle but includes ocs and reworked versions of characters, canon events, and etc.

my version of Black Sheep is deeply inspired by this beautiful art piece :)

posted this bc I want this fandom to be alive again. i love cs and hopefully this’ll make others love it too.

this is the prologue. ask/comment to be tagged for ch1 and more.

YOU DON’T NEED TO KNOW CARMEN SANDIEGO TO READ THIS.

(I made this as understandable as possible to newcomers).

current (prolouge). next.

The smell of sea salt made Black Sheep scrunch up her nose as she took her hiding place crouched behind a large rock positioned by the island’s only dock, occasionally peering around it to check on incoming visitors. Though the golden sands and crystalline waters of the isle of VILE would’ve charmed any other, the sense of wonder it had brought her had long since faded, replaced by a perpetual sense of boredom.

The faint whirring of the engine of a boar caught her attention, and she cast the dock another glance. Black Sheep could just barely make out the silhouette of a boat on the horizon, the riding sun casting an orange glow onto VILE’s trademark black and green color scheme.

She grinned, glancing down at what she held in her hand: a red water balloon, filled to the brim. Someone was in for a nasty surprise, with that someone being VILE’s very own bookkeeper and number-cruncher: Cookie Booker. Black Sheep had gotten well-acquainted with her fury over the last couple years.

The sharp click of Cookie’s heels against the wooden dock made Black Sheep snap out of her reminiscing. She reared her arm back, taking aim. This was the only enjoyable part of her year, and she wasn’t about to mess it up.

Wait. Cookie was getting closer. Wait…

Now!

Black Sheep swung her arm forward, grinning widely as she watched it soar through the air and meet its target with quite the splash—Cookie’s luxury-brand coat, now soaking wet. Cookie took one look at her coat and her face grew as red as the water balloon.

“Black Sheep!”

Black Sheep giggled as she ran away from the docks (and the victim of her unruly prank), only to suddenly collide into a heavy figure. “Ow!” She cried, rubbing her face, though as she looked up, a smile quickly formed. “Coach Brunt!” The woman was large and tall, with cropped green hair and fists that could’ve very well been made of iron. The coach was like a mother to her.

Coach Brunt didn’t waste a second, immediately enveloping Black Sheep in a sturdy hug.

“Morning, lambkins,” Coach Brunt said as she squeezed Black Sheep tightly, to the point of making her both smile and gasp for sir. “What’d you do this time, hm?” I can see that look of mischief on your face.”

Black Sheep managed a sheepish smile and glanced off to the side, seeing Cookie in her peripheral. Coach Brunt followed her line of sight and laughed when she saw the bookkeeper in wet garments.

“Ah, soaked Cookie again, did you?” Coach Brunt mused. “Well, I’d tell you to stop, but you’re just too darn cute to say no to. And, Cookie’s got it coming, anyways. She’s so damn snobbish.”

The coach rolled her eyes before grinning down at Black Sheep. “Up for a game of dodgeball? I’ve got a fresh batch of kiddos to break in this year.” She released Black Sheep, who wheezed as she was set back down. “You wanna help your mama out, lambkins?”

Black Sheep clutched her chest, rubbing a sore spot, but smiled. “Are you kidding me? Let’s do it!”

Aside from pulling pranks on Cookie, her other favorite pastime was watching VILE’s students train. They were taught to be master thieves, the very best of the best, able to simply take whatever shiny trinkets caught their attention. Black Sheep wanted to be just like them. But also?

She wanted to make Coach Brunt proud.

“Damn.” Black Sheep looked around the vast gymnasium, currently filled with people that were a mess of flailing limbs and stumbling feet. “They’re not very good at this.”

Coach Brunt patted her back. “This is what most newbies are like, hon. They’ll have improved by the end of the year, and any who don’t get booted out. But, you’re not fully wrong, either. I think Bellum is accepting whatever idiots sign up at this point, because she wants more lab rats for those wacky experiments of hers.”

Black Sheep hummed noncommittally in response, thinking about how she was already so much better than the fumbling fools that VILE had taken in.

If only she could learn to be a thief already… but VILE only accepted students at a minimum age of eighteen. She was sixteen. Could she even last two more years without dying of boredom? Or… worse yet, being forgotten, if more skilled and experienced students came?

She gave the gymnasium another look over. It was no more impressive than it was before, and she felt a little sick this time.

“I’m gonna go real quick,” she said quietly. “Be right back.”

Coach Brunt gave her a quizzical look but didn’t question her as she ran off.

Black Sheep slowed down to a stop once she could no longer hear the chatter in the gym, but scowled to herself as silence flooded in instead.

VILE’s halls were cold, hard and empty. Its students were what breathed life into it. She hoped to be one of those students one day, but with each passing hour, her patience was slowly being whittled away. She wasn’t sure she could wait anymore.

As she dragged herself down another long, white corridor, she noticed how shiny the floors were. That was a clear sign that Vlad and Boris, VILE’s janitors, were nearby. Her face lit up. They were always fun to talk to, mainly because they were too exhausted to get annoyed at the pranks she tended to pull on them.

“Vlad? Boris?” She called as she rounded a corner.

Instead of seeing the familiar pale-skinned, dark-haired janitors, however, Black Sheep came face-to-face with a stranger. It was a young boy, around her age, with ghastly pale skin and stark white hair.

Startled, she jumped back, frowning as she scrutinized him. “Who are you?” She demanded, eyes fixed on this odd new person. A piece of cloth was tied around his eyes, acting as a blindfold. He held his hands up, the motion stiff and defensive.

“My name is Zircon,” he said carefully. “My uncles work here. Please, don’t be rash. You can identify me with staff. I have clearance.”

She squinted at this so-called Zicron. “Are you a student here?”

“No.” Slowly, he lowered his hands. “But I hope to be. I’m applying next year.”

“How old are you?” She pushed.

“I—“ he looked slightly offended, but caved. “Sixteen.” Holy cow, he was the same age as her! “Like I said, my uncles work here. I have a good word in with the faculty.”

Black Sheep suddenly had a lightbulb moment. Surely, if the faculty was considering having this random as a student, they’d also consider her, right? After all, she had lived on this island all her life, and had proven to be a skilled pickpocket already. She had the right to cultivate her talent.

“Hey,” she said. “How’re you gonna, like, convince them that you’re a good pick for next year’s class?”

“…Well, I’ve already pitched my case to faculty. It’s in their hands, now.” Zicron shifted a little, looking uncomfortable. “Is that enough information for you? Frankly, I don’t appreciate being interrogated.”

Slowly, she straightened herself. “Yeah,” she said slowly. “Yeah, it is.”

Zicron relaxed. “Alright, then. Nice meeting you, uh…?”

“Black Sheep,” she supplied. “That’s my name. Coach Brunt gave it to me. You know, the faculty member.” She probably didn’t need to boast, but she was in a good mood. “You’ve heard of her?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” he said. “You’re the one that was found as a baby on the side of a road in Argentina. You’re practically famous in these halls.”

Doesn’t ever feel like it. Still, she managed a smile. “Thanks. Guess I’ll see you some other time, then.”

“Guess so. Bye, Black Sheep.”

She smiled to herself, brushing past him as she walked away. “Bye-bye, Zicron.”

Black Sheep strolled to the library and made sure that no one was in the vicinity before she raised her hand, glancing at the stolen ID she held between her fingers, Zicron’s name glimmering in silver letters. She brought it up to the light, peering at it closely.

“Vlad and Boris’s nephew, huh?” She murmured. “Interesting.” Another word caught her attention.

Medical Issues: albinism; blind.

Blind.

She scoffed under her breath. How would anyone disabled, much less blind, ever make for a good thief?

A shame. She slid the ID into her pocket. I won’t be seeing him again next year.

[corleonewrites]

Wandering winds

AU: The Terror (2018)

James Fitzjames x Original Female Character fanfic

Summary: Alexandra Walton’s life was always surrounded with sea: either it was her walks near the seashore with its cold waters, or deep sea of her senses. Her father taught her to throw herself headlong into it, without fear of being drowned and she used to it since her childhood. She dived into love with the same courageous way. And even when everything and everyone was talking about the hopeless state of things she continued to believe in the opposite: that her loved one will return to her safely.

Chapter 1. He comes with western wind, with evening’s wandering airs

______________________________________________________________

I would never forget the night when our eyes met and everything suddenly went quiet. Your hazel-green eyes captivated me and I never wanted to remove my gaze from them.

It was one of those greeting evenings in the Admiralty, which usually transformed into balls, welcoming our heroes back either from expeditions or battlefields. In 1844 there was a welcoming evening for you and my brother Alexander: both of you came home from the First Opium War.

Your charisma attracted me, your recklessness and the stories you told about your actions, your battles – everything fascinated me, making my heart skip a bit.

We danced the night away, never changing partners in our dances, and it was basically a declaration of marriage.

I remembered the anticipation of waiting for new meetings with you. Those long walks near the seashore, those parties, those theatre plays we attended, those poems by Brontё sisters I used to tell you which I knew by heart.

______________________________________________________________

The proposal came shortly afterwards. It was the end of September, my favourite time of the year, when the nature was surrounded by golden-like leaves, which were falling from the trees. The wedding bells were loud and cheerful, they celebrated our joy with us and with our closest friends and family members. I would never forget our first night together as husband and wife, when you whispered “I love you, Missis Alexandra Fitzjames” and I never knew that I could love someone I’ve never knew before in such strong way.

You became my guidance, my closest friend, my support, the one to whom I could finally open my heart, not afraid of being misunderstood. It felt like our souls could understand each other, they weren't wandering around anymore.

Of course, I knew who I was marrying, as men of my family were in Admiralty. I knew what long separation was, what unbearable worries and losses were, what it felt like to wait impatiently for loved ones to return home safely, it surrounded me from my childhood. That was all I've ever known. You entered my life like cold wandering air of endless sea, but for me it was like warm sea breeze.

______________________________________________________________

When on February 1845 your invitation to participate in the Arctic expedition came, I was happy for you and I was ready to let you go for an indefinite period of time, just how I was letting go my father and brother when they were going to their expeditions or battles, waiting for them. Wherever they were going I knew that they would come home safely.

This time, when the expedition was only a few days away I felt the same way, despite the fact that at the same time I felt uneasy as if something could go wrong. I told you that, but you reassured me that everything would be alright and I believed you. My senses were feeling the same way.

We said our goodbyes on the morning 19 May 1845, when huge beautiful ship Erebus sailed from Greenhithe in Kent, followed by its sister ship Terror. I didn’t want you to see me crying, and I did not shed a tear, I smiled for you and gave you the handkerchief with my initials on it. You never knew that I cried quietly, when I reached home.

______________________________________________________________

Your last letter came from Disco Bay the same year. Your voice sounded in my head as I ran my fingers over each letter and the curls of the letters, rereading it over and over again. Time passed by slowly and as stretched as never before.

When the silence and uncertainty were growing more and more with every new month the feeling that something terrible happened with the expedition was crushing me inside.

Questions about the rescuing expedition sounded louder with every year. With every new month of each year chances for your return were lower. Finally, not only my father and brother, who supported me since the silence fell after your last letter, but the rest of members of The Arctic Council agreed to arrange the search of now lost expedition to return home. It was the beginning of 1848.

______________________________________________________________

Every day I came to seashore of the northernmost post after which the endless ocean began. Cold waves and air surrounded me and my wandering thoughts. My gaze was chained to the icy ocean: it seemed that at any moment a rescue ship would appear out of the thick fog and rain.

My inner sense was as calm as ever again: I knew that you would come back home. I refused to believe in any other outcome and continued to stare at the ocean, feeling like I was dissolving with it in its icy waves.

______________________________________________________________

Wandering winds masterlist

[winksasleeplesseye]

reunio (six)

SUMMARY: While Leon and Ashley are off on their own adventure amongst the vast castle, Amara, Luis, and the reluctant Ada are off on their own journey within the castle walls. A hunt and a reunion ensues. But, the chaos isn't over yet.

WORD COUNT: 7k (no edits, we die like men)

WARNINGS: some item hunting, angst, flashbacks and conversations and violence

[PREVIOUS] [SERIES MASTERLIST] [NEXT]

1999

The wallpaper was a bit dated, gaudy for sure. All of it in its 70s glory. The floral green upholstered couches and almost painful salmon pink of the accents and decor made Amara’s eyes hurt. 

Paired with the two suits currently occupying the couches. They looked just about excited as postmen at Christmas. Only here out of obligation to the young girl temporarily staying here. It’d been a tough first year, reestablishing normalcy to a girl who’d had less than a normal life proved to be far more difficult than expected. Another reason they’d called her here, beyond their allotted visits. 

The older woman, Mrs. Hoffman, was sweet but one could tell she ran her home with a tad bit of an iron fist. If it wasn’t already clear, this woman was strict to Sherry. 

Treating her as though what laid inside her could be fixed.

Stupid. Fucked up, really.

They’d become two of a kind. Amara knew what it was like to be uprooted quite often, never quite having stability to really put much stock into making friends, sure, she’d try but never quite knowing when they’d be off to the next place made it hard to keep in touch. 

Sherry had been in limbo, both Amara and Claire argued that this much moving around didn’t do much for her. 

Amara leaned against the doorframe, Sherry not yet made aware of her being there as she rummaged through a storage container of cassette tapes. Even from her sitting position on the floor, Amara could tell she’d hit a bit of a growth spurt in her absence. 

The soft melody of an older song played in the cassette player as Sherry clicked it on. The Jackson Five. 

Hmm, she was impressed that Sherry even knew them. 

The song was Got to Be There. Huh, how fitting. 

“Aren’t you a little young to be listening to such old songs?” Amara makes her presence known, the smile Sherry wore is enough to make her have one in return. 

Pushing herself off the ground, she practically jumped into her arms. “Amara!”

“Sherbear! Careful now, my ribs are still bruised from the last hug you gave me,” she jested, ruffling her hair. “How’s Hoffman treating you?” 

“Like a fucking dictator.” There’s a particular heavy emphasis on the curse word. It was definitely new to her. 

“Hey, watch that language.”

“Sorry. It’s just—“

“Yeah, I know.” 

They wanted her here to quell Sherry’s frustrations with going from place to place. One could say she was essentially in the system. Considering how this country operated, no one wanted to be there but Sherry had a strange predicament to start. The cards didn’t really line up in any of their favors. 

Unfortunately, soon enough, she’d be under the care of Derek C. Simmons. 

It was the last option the government had. Amara had fought tooth and nail with the decision but there wasn’t much leverage on her part. Couldn’t exactly go against her own deal, really. 

That man in question had something about him that made her stomach turn. He was like Irons 2.0, a general creepy vibe radiated from him that she didn’t like. He seemed the last person qualified to truly care for Sherry. 

“When am I gonna get to stay with you?” She has a puppy dog look in her eyes. “I’ve never been more bored in my life.”

“Sorry kiddo, but I still have no idea,” Amara answered honestly, shoving a hand into her pocket. She didn’t want to crush the girl’s hopes. Wait. She almost forgot. “Sheesh, Sherry, your keychain!” 

“Where from this time?”

Sherry had developed a strange knack for collecting keychains much like a mother collecting mugs from her kids in their many travel adventures. Amara thought it sweet and just about the funnest thing to pick up on her missions, the others assigned with her would make fun that she’d take the time to stop into the most touristy places just for a “silly” keychain but to see Sherry’s eyes light up as she looked over the fun designs made it worth it. 

“Italy, can’t you tell by the moped?” Amara pointed out the cartoon, an over-exaggerated man speeding away on his blue Vespa and the damn near kismet colors of brown cobblestone streets against a teal-blue skyline on it made it one of the more artistic keychains she’d picked out for the girl. 

Sherry, a little too perceptive for her own good, seems to notice Amara’s overall demeanor underneath the smile she wore. 

“I’m not staying here much longer, am I?”

“You know, in another life, I’d like to think you’d be a detective the way you pick up on so much,” Amara sighed with a sad smile, going down to eye level with the girl. 

“When?”

Her head hangs low, she can’t say it…not directly anyway, not while seeing the sadness that would spring to the girl’s eyes. 

“Next week. With Simmons.” 

Amara inevitably looked on the bright side. Having someone as “important” as Simmons as her guardian guaranteed that no perceived threats could get close to the girl. The only threat that she could think of was Wesker (only second to the very government themselves). After the mansion incident and RC, Wesker’s body had never been recovered so that formed the only logical conclusion to come to that he still walked among the living. 

“He gives me the creeps,” Sherry fiddled with a loose hem on her t-shirt, “a lot of creeps.” 

“I won’t fight you on that, kiddo. But, he’s just about the safest option for you now and you know Claire and me fought hard on that choice.” Amara explained. “There’s a quote I heard once that went a bit like this…in any moment of decision, the best thing you can do is the right thing, the next best thing is the wrong thing, and the worst thing you can do is nothing.” 

“This feels like the wrong thing.” Her voice is small. 

“It’s better than nothing, right?” Amara noted. “Besides, it’s not like I’m going to just up and leave and never see you again. You’ll always have me, we are two of a kind after all.” 

Present 

Amara wandered through the grandiose halls of the castle, in search of an item—a blue Butterfly to be specific—to aid Luis in creating a new suppressant and at the same time pondered on the notion of getting Sherry a castle keychain.

This mission had her thinking a lot about the past few years considering she had not one, but two familiar faces from Raccoon. And if Leon was any indication, they’d been…difficult to say the least. 

He was always pretty, but damn, he looked exhausted.

She never thought about her own struggles with sleep nor the other problems that arose too hard, barely breaching the surface. Just put them down as nights filled with distant voices on TV and ramen. The beauty of compartmentalization, she’d punch it down any chance she got. She rubbed her back gingerly, feeling a knot beneath her fingertips. A constant almost hunger sat in her stomach and it gnawed and bubbled like bile in her throat. 

“Definitely need a hot bath after this.” Amara scaled the wall. Silently wishing she had Ada’s grappling gun. 

Amara surveyed the room once she entered, gun at the ready, listening for any special guest that was too keen on choking her out.

Clear. 

She lowered her gun, putting it back in her holster. “Thank fucking God.” 

“Now, let’s see about a blue butterfly.” 

The collection room sat below one of the castle battlement towers so it was pretty clear how little whoever ran this place cared less about preservation, should it have ever come under attack. 

Her hands slid across the displays. The floor creaked under her weight with every cautious step. For a moment, it was as if she were at a museum, slowly gazing over different exhibits. Something about these items fascinated the curiosity deep down.

A letter stood out on the table next to an animal skull, almost too convenient if Amara had to guess. 

Her eyes skim the letter—a diary entry now that she looks closer—and it reads: 

Preparator’s Notes

The collection master is a tacky and lousy boss! He leaves all the dissections for me to do! Even if he does bother to come here, all he does is gawk at his three favorite specimens in a particular order before leaving. 

There’s nothing special about them anyway! Why only look at those three specimens when we have that prized butterfly to admire?

A good researcher would know such things. 

She now noticed the lock, images were the code to unlock it. Seriously? What was it with the damn puzzles? 

She walked around the room about three times. By the third time, her vision blacked out momentarily and a pain struck inside her ribcage. It sent her to her knees.  “Fuck sake, knock it off.” Amara almost wanted to punch herself in the chest but thought better of it. Was this what Leon and Ashley were going through too? 

The more negative part of her thoughts drifted to the smallest possibility of them failing. Small, but ever present. 

A puppet to a parasite. No control over her own body, her own thoughts. Controlled by some unknown figure. 

A particular twist in her gut made her feel like any contents in her stomach could come up. She didn’t want to stomach that for either one of them. Or herself for that matter. They didn’t survive everything thrown their way so far to give up now. 

Stand on your feet, girl. One of her trainers would say after a breathtaking blow would damn near make her keel over. Amara would wave a hand dismissively (tears threatening to spill from her eyes), thinking maybe just maybe she wasn’t cut out for it after all. But that was too easy. 

“Amara? Hanging in there?” Luis’ voice from her radio shaked her out of her thoughts.

“Define that, and I’ll let you know,” She pathetically pushed herself to her feet. “How’s it coming with the ingredients?” 

“Just need yours and we’re good. I’m all about taking it slow, but maybe hurry it up?” 

“So I've saved the best for last?” Amara wiggled her eyebrows. “I’m honored.” She turned the lock a few times, the crudely drawn images on it denoted the animal skulls she had examined. 

A satisfying click comes from it as it opens the display. A perfectly preserved blue butterfly. She weighs it between her fingertips, careful not to let it break. “This better work for all the trouble you gave me.” 

There’s a silence from the comms but she can still hear the sounds in the background on Luis’ end. “Luis, I’ve got it. On my way.” She hangs up shortly after.

Amara is more than ready to get the hell out of here but another letter catches her eye. 

Preparator’s Notes 

The collection master has yet to examine this painting. Lousy boss that he is. After my thorough examination, I’ve decided to have the painting moved to the gallery in the hall with the three-headed statue for display. 

I’m sure the castellan, or someone, will appreciate its rather unusual nature. 

“Two birds, one stone.” 

That had to be pure happenstance that the very last painting would be among the collection of the other rather stereotypical pieces that Amara expected on the walls. She racked her brain, retracing the steps it would take to get to the gallery quickly while also delivering the butterfly to Luis. 

Her watch read 7:35 pm. Amara lifted her eyes to the sky and for the first time, she noticed how dark it truly was. Almost a whole day had passed? 

Los Illuminados really had them on their toes for hours. And yet, here she was, fighting against the clock against a mind-controlling parasite to burn a painting. Shit, she needed to get her priorities straight. 

After having traversed a few of the castle walls (narrowly avoiding encounters with the black robes), she noticed Luis as he carried a wooden box. Amara could only assume those were his tools. 

Ada came up along the path not too long after her.

Amara handed Luis the butterfly, perfectly intact. Ada followed suit and handed him the ink and other items. “That should be everything.” 

Luis dug in his pocket, a small tube of sorts held between his fingertips. The Amber. An almost heady, painful reaction came over both women in its presence. Amara could see black veins as they crawled up the exposed skin of her hands. Her vision turned damn near kaleidoscopic. Her reaction is instinctive. Clawing at the fabric of her sleeve as if she felt the parasite squirming in her veins. 

The habit wasn’t wholly unfamiliar to her. As the G infection took hold of her six years ago, she remembered the spine-tingling pain and the way her nerves almost numbed to nothing. At random intervals she’d press a hand against her right arm to feel that her touch still registered against her skin. That she hadn't been overtaken by the virus. 

“Shit…the parasite must be reacting to the Amber."

"So, that's the Amber? Not exactly what I expected," Amara spoke. It was small, a mere tiny piece of what seemed to be something broken off a larger block. The parasite was minuscule within the resin of yellowish-red tree bark. Like it had been naturally occurring for quite some time. 

She had only learned a few things in her trek to get the Butterfly. The castle's history was in papers that laid haphazardly all over the various rooms of this place. They clearly had no problem with letting an outsider such as Amara learn their history. The Plagas had been here, naturally occurring within the village before the cult had come to deliver what they thought was...salvation to the villagers. Of course, then, it had no name, and the villagers searched for anything that would rid them of this "plague." 

Amara couldn't exactly blame them. How easy it was to go along with this lulled state of prosperity. 

But, it was false. A pyrrhic victory as they had given up their free will and their bodies to something truly grotesque. 

"It's coming," Ada spoke softly, a hand against her temple. 

An inhuman screech came from nearby. Amara's reaction isn't physical, so much as it is visual at the sight of...she can't even begin to describe it. Its face denoted that of a bug of sorts, gnarly claws extended out from underneath the robe it wore as it towered over all three of them. 

She never looked away, careful not to blink for fear of this disgusting thing lunging at them. Doesn't even flinch as this thing gets closer. Her first thought isn't even fighting this thing, it's going after that painting while she still had the chance. Clearly, it's after Ada and she guessed the suppressant could wait. Her second thought was catching up with Leon, now that Luis had recreated it, maybe she could tell him something good. 

With that in mind, experiencing a brief sense of deja vu, she ran toward the Grand Hall. "We'll meet up again soon!" 

"Head towards the mines!" Luis shouted back as he helped Ada away from the creature. 

The Grand Hall is just as Amara expected. Though, entirely too damn quiet for her liking. An elegant chandelier hung above her head, illuminating the hall with more than enough light. Marble statues lined the path and a plush velvet blue carpet leading to the staircase laid beneath her boots. Mud now stained the carpet and for a brief second, she felt bad that such quality was ruined by it. She would have loved to spend some more time wandering this place but she had to remind herself that she was here on a mission. 

Still, her eyes follow along the opulent archways, ones also cast in stainless marble. 

"If I were a gallery, where would I be?" Amara posed the question to herself. She pulled from her knowledge as a high school student, the history nerd inside her surely squealing at the chance to use what others deemed "useless" information. 

Castle galleries were usually nestled toward the back, better to keep their intimacy and the state of exclusivity to the ones who lived there rather than outwardly make them known. 

Plus, they offered their telling of the family's lineage and history beyond just the books. Not that Amara was particularly, fervently interested in learning about whoever ran this place now (she only learned by chance), considering the zealots followed the orders of their castellan and well, their castellan didn't like guests. 

That was another thing she'd learned. Ramon Salazar ran the show around here and didn't seem pleasant, based on what she read. 

A Spanish nobleman, descended from centuries of warriors, born to Diego and Catalina Salazar. 

She hoped she wouldn’t have to meet him, but she also wondered if Leon and Ashley had encountered him. Salazar sounded like…what was it that the servant called him? A Pulgarcito.

Fuck being impolite and imposing on his castle. Like, seriously? He threw acid on the face of one of his servants. He clearly fits right in with Los Illuminados. Catalina had allowed their influence to take hold and take hold of her son and while Amara could certainly understand the need to protect their flesh and blood, a parasite would be the last thing she'd give a child to "protect" them. Honestly, getting the chance to rid him of one painting was doing him a favor. 

The gallery is not as she expected. It's actually rather nice, at least the little shit had taste in art. Like she were one to talk, just about the only thing she ever owned art-wise was a knockoff Basquiat (before it was burned to a crisp in '98) but examining the paintings, she could still see the brushstrokes and dried paint laid upon the canvasses. The smell still hit her nose...huh, oil paint.

Most people couldn't stand the scent of paint but Amara found it quite fragrant, it made her miss her set-up at her new apartment. In the corner of her bedroom meeting the slanted windows to the floor, giving her a view of the city as she would let her paintbrush across canvases. 

She certainly would be committing the room to memory. Its vibrant apple-red carpets, marble flooring, and gold-framed displays were worthy on their own to be painted. Of course, they needed to get out of here alive first before that would happen. 

There it is. 

The painting. 

All its glory laid out before her. More of a macabre display than anything else and it all was mere inches from her fingertips.

Yet, a weird feeling wriggled up her neck. 

This is way too easy. 

Amara quickly scanned her surroundings at every angle, God forbid a spike or something dropped down on her head.

Her first steps when encountering one of the paintings on her missions were to document them. Preferably with a camera or something. Each one of the paintings needed to be documented, not only for top brass but for record purposes.

Amara’s eyes scanned the length of the frame. Shit. 

She was beginning to wish she had actually kept the mini camera from her last mission. 

How in the hell could she document this? 

As if a lightbulb shone above her head, she frantically ripped open the pouch (just short of tearing it apart) on her leg. If she couldn’t take a photo, she could damn well draw the picture, right?

Well, a more rudimentary version, at least. 

Kneeling to the ground, she places her notepad onto her thigh. A quick once over of the painting has her examining the more basic ideas of it as she began her outline.  

There wasn’t exactly the luxury of time. After a few minutes, she raises the notepad to the light. Amara turns her lips down in a judgmental manner.

Crude but good enough.

Could be better. 

Now, it was time to destroy the real thing. 

She managed to get the painting off the wall but she hadn’t accounted for the fact that maybe, just maybe, there had been a weight mechanism to deter thieves. The hall becomes shrouded in darkness, a particularly loud thud comes from the entrance she came from. 

“Shit!” She laughed humorlessly. “This is just delightful.” 

And it only seemed to get more delightful as Amara heard the heavy footsteps and shifting, grating sound of what had to be steel or iron plates. 

Just as she turned around, she only had a half second before she moved out of the way of the business end of a heavy sword. Sparks from where the sword hit the floor momentarily lit up the space. Part of her wanted to take a closer look at the knight that had just reanimated to attack her but the other part of her—and frankly, the more logical—pushed herself out of its way. 

Her stomach turned, a tightness constricting around her ribs as the knight wobbled and stumbled towards her, sword dragging against the carpet. 

Amara conferred with herself for a moment. Clearly the darkness was a trigger for it to come to life and attack so maybe light would be just the thing to stop it? It’s at this moment that she remembered she does have weapons at her disposal, namely a flash grenade she found lying around earlier.

She quickly enacts her idea–her only idea–to toss a flash grenade near it just as it raises the sword once more to swipe at her. The room is covered in the brightness white light, briefly fucking with Amara’s vision. A disconcerting little scream (screech?) sounded off from the knight and when her eyes readjust, she finds the armor in pieces on the floor and viscera around it. 

Moving closer to it, she stands over it and for some reason all that comes to mind for her to say is: “You are no knight in shining armor.” 

Amara realized how stupid it sounded only afterwards in the silence, but decided not to chastise herself. 

Some of Leon’s tendencies to quip had left an imprint on her brain.

With an eye roll, she stepped away from the armor and focused on the bars locking her in. In proper Indiana Jones fashion, she swiftly replaced the weight of the painting with a seemingly heavy chalice that had escaped its display during the knight’s melee. The bars lift from the entrance.

“Now,” she moved towards the sword, taking it in her hands, “time to actually destroy this painting.” 

Needing no preamble, Amara plunges the sword into the canvas. Dragging the sharp sword through the image with no rhyme or reason. The artist inside her cried a little at ruining of such a nice canvas but it was for the greater good. After the painting is practically shredded, Amara can faintly hear the sound of gunshots resonating within the halls. The only answer that made sense shouted in her head. Leon and Ashley. 

Dropping the sword, she propelled herself in that direction.

Amara followed the noise to find more of the castle goons were on Leon and Ashley like bees to honey. One had Leon in their clutches, choking him out while another attempted to grab at Ashley. Within moments, Amara dispatched both with efficiency. 

Both drop with unceremonius thuds but that sends Leon and Ashley’s attention towards her. She can’t help but smile.

“You know, if you needed the assist…I would’ve come sooner.” 

“Amara!” Ashley couldn’t fight a smile as she stepped over the bodies to meet them halfway. Leon sat on the ground, still recovering his breath. “Need a hand?” 

“Thanks.” Leon took hold of her outstretched hand, pulling him up to stand once again. “Where have you been? Where’s Luis?” 

She looked back towards the way she came briefly. Luis could handle Ada’s infection. Hers seemed more urgent. 

“It’s a long story, really long. He said he’d meet us in the ballroom.” 

Amara really didn’t want to divulge everything from start to finish in the time they’d been apart. Better to be given grief later by Leon. 

“What about you two? Anything interesting?”

The pair share a look. She can only imagine what that meant. She raised her eyebrows briefly before throwing her hands up in defeat, “I’m better off not knowing. Anyways, what the hell are you two doing now?” 

“Well, we’ve been trying to get a-head of the game,” Leon picks up what seems to be a golden lion statue head, his voice is deadpan, but it’s clear he’s attempting to lighten the mood.

Amara looks at Ashley, “Has he subjected you to this this whole time?” 

She chuckled a tad, “Get this. He paid me a compliment not too long ago.”

“Consider me shocked, I thought Leon the Grouch  over here had a heart of stone.” 

It doesn’t escape Amara’s notice that a corner of Leon’s mouth slightly quirked up. But just as quick as it had come, it was gone. “If you two are done, I’d like to get a move on.”

She waved a hand at him. “Oh, don’t get your holster in a twist.” 

They trailed behind Leon as he made his way back towards what seemed to be a three headed statue. Sans the one he currently held in his hands. The mechanism quietly slots into place at the final piece being attached but something about it seemed particularly off. Things couldn’t be that easy this evening. 

She doesn’t hesitate to voice that. “Well…that seemed way too easy. A bit…disconcerting actually.” 

As if right on cue, Ashley pointed and yelled out, “Leon! Amara! The stairs!” 

Both of them follow where she pointed, finding more of those stupid zealots coming after them. Everything after that happened so quick, it almost gave her whiplash.

Her heart pounded against her chest and reverberated in her ears, though she wasn’t sure if it was sheer terror or adrenaline kicking in. A healthy mix of both, probably. 

But, if there was one thing she learned in all her training, she had to do the hard things scared out of her mind.

Leon swiftly aimed his gun at them, ready to take them all on as Ashley stood closer to the pillars to give herself proper distance. 

Amara followed suit with the former. Better two guns than one. 

But just as quick, she heard a click from a switch and a familiar thud. A gilded cage surrounded both her and Leon. Leaving Ashley vulnerable. They were trapped.

“Run! Now!” Leon swiftly commanded through the bars to Ashley in a tone that Amara hadn’t heard from him before. (Though, to be fair, she’d never seen him in a mission setting until now).

They briefly shared a glance before turning their attention to the threat.

Two of their zealot friends had somehow joined them within the golden enclosure. 

She leapt out of the way of a scythe, just barely scraping at her ankles. 

Through the bars, a flaming arrow scraped against her arm. Trying not to wince, she unloaded a few rounds into the zealot with her good arm. She slid between their legs. A quick slash of a boot knife, then a disgusting spurt of red at the zealot’s ankles.

She had to be sure. 

It was a shame the higher ups couldn’t see what a pair these two were. Both worked with an efficiency and a finesse even within the barrier of the enclosure.

The zealot laid at her feet, guaranteed they would not get back up. Blood seeped onto the marble floor beneath.

There was almost a deafening silence except the lock of flames emanating from torches nearby. Amara could only breathe a sigh of relief. 

But, that didn’t stop her from being brought back to reality. Her arm. 

Damn arrows. Amara checked the sleeve of her sweater, that fiery arrow cut through it straight to her skin. Blood sat at the surface of a fresh cut and stung more than the countless other scrapes she’d acquired over the years. 

She examined the surroundings more clearly. An array of the black-robed zealots lay haphazardly around the space of the cage. 

Only she and Leon remained standing. 

Now Ashley had to fend for herself, something that Amara hated to think about. She briefly put herself in the girl’s shoes. Thinking about how scary this whole ordeal was without the necessary tools and training that the two of them had. 

She gingerly rubbed a thumb over the wound, smearing the blood onto the inside of her sweater. It’d heal. 

Just like every other wound. Part of her “experimentation” before they loosened her leash noted the G virus had granted an almost protective ability over certain types of wounds. This was one of them. 

But, with the added intruder swimming in her organs, it was almost as if this ability were halted. The pain stayed and the cut still bled. 

“You alright?” Leon asked, immediately taking gentle hold of her elbow to examine her. Amara found herself doing the same—something she’d been doing a lot since reuniting with the pair. Besides the mussed hair, dirt, and other grime, Leon looked just about as unscathed as when he’d first arrived. Except for the wound on his hand, she didn’t see it but one could ascertain from the blood on the grip of his gun.

“I’ll live. Just a scratch. Now, let me see your hand,” Amara held out her own. Leon scrunched his eyes in confusion. “What?”

“I’m no gun aficionado, but guns don’t make your hand bleed through a glove, Leon.” She gestured once more, “Now, hand please.” 

He hesitantly placed his hand in her palm. She took her time to remove his glove, the cut through it more obvious when looked at directly. Sheesh, how’d he do that? 

“Do I want to know what you did?” She asked, half joking and half serious as she met his eyes. 

He scoffed, “Will it make you feel better if I tell you?”

“Hmm, maybe.”

“Ashley tried to stab me.” He stated, as if he were describing the most mundane thing like the weather or something.

“She what?” 

“It’s not what you think…something…or someone took over her,” Leon looked as though he was still trying to piece it together. “I, at least, had—ah—the sense to stop her—shit—before she took an eye out.” Leon hissed as Amara rubbed alcohol along the cuts. 

“All it cost you was some flesh.” Amara looked away briefly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there… to help.” 

“I’m a big boy, I can fight my own battles.” 

“You don’t have to fight them alone, you know? I don’t want you to,” She admitted. “Being alone, it’s not a nice feeling-” 

“Amara—“

“And you won’t ever be alone. Not when you have me. Okay?” 

Leon pulls away the second she finishes cleaning the wound, and a heavy sigh leaves him. 

“It’s not that simple,” he spoke faintly. 

“Why not?” She asked just as quietly, ready to lay it all out considering they weren’t leaving the cage anytime soon. “Why can’t it be?”

“Is this really the time for this?” Leon is cold, cutting in his tone. It’s obvious to Amara that he’s trying to deflect. The more direct, the more indirect people became, she realized. 

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen you in—what? Six years? Now is as good a time as any,” She barked, she could feel herself running hot with anger. “I guess the message has been pretty clear and I was too stupid to see it.” 

Leon pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes more than likely annoyed to even have the conversation especially right now. 

“I stayed away for a reason, Amara, and not for whatever reason you think I have.” 

“Tell me.” 

“Because you deserve normal. A normal life. Normal everything.” The frustration is clear in his voice, but his voice remains at the same level. 

“And you don’t?” 

“Has anything since Raccoon shown that I do?” Leon gestures briefly.

“Leon, I don’t know if you’re aware but…shit’s been fucked up for me too since then. Doesn’t make the both of us any less deserving of something good.” 

“I can’t take that risk. I need you to be safe.”

“From what? The world? The government? I’ve never needed protecting, Leon. I’ve needed yo—“

You. That’s what she was going to say: that after everything, she had no one to turn to. To tell about everything and that would understand and he was the one person, her person… and he wasn’t there. It devastated her in a way she couldn’t fathom. But none of that came out, because his mouth was suddenly covering hers.

Was it a way to get her to shut up or to distract her from the topic, or both? 

Amara panicked at first, muscles stiffened, standing frozen, but his hand was on her cheek, the other wrapped gently around her neck, and she was suddenly kissing him back. 

Her arms fervently wrapped around his shoulders, crushing her front against his. Her hands thread through his hair, messing up its carefully styled appearance, making it a bit more disheveled, but it wasn’t enough. 

She wanted to dishevel all of him. 

Realizing they both needed to breathe at some point, Leon pulled away first, looking down at her. The thumb on her cheek traveled to her lower lip, tracing it.

“Don’t you realize?” Leon whispered, and she watched his lips, “The reason I need to protect you so badly is because I’m in love with you?” 

Her breath hitched at those words. Amara hadn’t realized how much she needed to hear them. 

“I’ll be damned if I let myself be another part of your suffering. You don’t deserve that,” He repeated himself as if he were trying to convince himself more than her. 

“And what do I deserve?”

“Better than me.”

“I think I can decide that for myself,” she spoke. “Leon, you’re worried about the risk, but what about the guarantees?” 

“Amara-“

“Leon! Amara!” Ashley’s voice echoed from higher up. It quickly separates the two as they both search for where it came from. 

Amara cracked a smile, her first in what felt like hours, though it was brief. 

From her vantage point, the voice seems to come from a gated door at the nearest balcony. “Ashley? Are you okay?” 

“…Yeah, hang tight, I’ll get you guys out of there!” 

The sound of her boots gets farther and farther away but Amara can’t help but feel a weight lifted. 

They both nod their head in understanding despite her not being able to see it. She had to give her some credit, she’s a smart cookie. She moves towards the statue, deciding to sit down for once.

“Sit with me?” Amara asked him innocently. He couldn’t do anything but oblige. 

Were it any other place, not surrounded by corpses, he’d think it romantic to sit under a statue. Huh, maybe this is their romantic?

Her words made the gears turn in his head. When he sat next to her, she laid her head on his shoulder. Leon cherished any sort of contact she’d give him, god knows the last time he’d known a gentle touch. 

He’d spent a lot of time alone, by choice. Having anything even remotely close to a “close” relationship with anyone was a risk. It’s probably why he’d gotten such a reputation around the office according to Hunnigan. Leon never really cared for the gossip or the attention he got. 

He never really divulged anyone in his love life prior to Raccoon and after. At least, he tried to. Hunnigan certainly pestered him enough. He’d only let himself slip up once in mentioning Amara (not by name, of course). 

She certainly teased him enough about it before this mission, but it was easy to tell that she worried about him. Leon would constantly wave her off, wave her off, wave her off until she gave up. 

But now, Amara offered a new perspective. One he never thought to consider. 

He always thought about the risks of it all and became quite familiar. What if he died on his next mission or even this one? Never got to see Amara again, something he couldn’t exactly face head-on. What about the guarantees? What if he could prove himself wrong? Do this kind of work and have someone to come home to?

Leon knew it was too soon to retire now as a government agent (not that they’d let him), but he’d imagined it—well, he didn’t imagine beyond a certain point these days. Just getting to the next day with a pulse was good enough. But a part of him—deep down—had yearned for that silly white-picket-fence life when he was more idealistic, more bushy-tailed, more the bright-eyed rookie he’d left behind in Raccoon City. Buried under the remains of a forgotten city. 

He could see that now as if Amara had unlocked it from the deepest recesses of his mind. The guarantee of someone to confide in, someone happy to be with him, happy to come home with him. 

“Get out of your head,” Amara nudged him with her elbow. “Is this a bad time to ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Are you…seeing anyone? You know, it’s been…six years.” 

“I just kissed you and said I’m in love with you, is that not answer enough?” 

“Maybe? People kiss people all the time—“

Leon sighed. “No, I’m not. You?”

“Don’t laugh. But no.” A strange giddiness came over him at this information. But still, he found it insane that that was even the case. Her? Of all people? 

“No? I find that hard to believe.” 

“Why?” 

“Why? Look at you, any man would be insane to not kiss the ground that your feet walk on.” 

“Huh, then would that make you insane?” 

Damn. She had him there.

“That’s debatable.” Her laugh is brief, it’s nice. Leon wished he could bottle it up. 

“Fucked up circumstances aside, this is good.” 

“Yeah.” His reply is terse. 

“How have you been?” Leon stares straight ahead, genuinely thinking about the question. But something inside wants to retract, dial it back in fear of revealing too much. Vulnerability isn’t exactly his strong suit. Too much of his life had become classified information. 

Awful. Terrible. Like nothing seems right. 

“I’m alive, usually counts for something,” he quipped.

“It does, so working directly under Graham, huh? How’d you manage that?” 

“Well, they asked me and I couldn’t exactly say no.” 

Amara nodded in understanding. She knew too well but he couldn’t fault her for asking. More curiosity nagged at him for what she had been doing for six years. He knew that she’d become a top agent but not exactly how that came to be. Training, a few covert ops, and Operation Javier all came to mind for himself. 

He shuddered to think what they’d had her doing. What about the past six years was fucked up for her? 

“So, uh…what about you?” 

She looked away. “I’m sure you’ve read the file.” 

He noticed her blinking rapidly as if she were trying to clear something from her vision. 

“A file only says so much.” Leon ran a hand across her forehead, still checking that she was okay. “Jesus, you’re burning up.” 

“Damn parasite.” She cursed, leaning into his touch. “Your hands are still cold.” 

That alone made Leon become more alert, and back into focus mode. She felt unnaturally, uncomfortably warm. He abruptly stood up, carefully pulling Amara up with him so that could better assess her. Holding her face between his palms, he scanned every inch of it even as her brow furrowed in obvious confusion. 

“Everything okay?” 

“I hope so.” 

That's when he noticed a brief twitch and almost jerk, he had to catch her before she all but collapsed to the floor. He recognized it, the parasite had to be working hard to take Amara down. He hated to call it a shield, but considering the G virus, she still looked just as sorry as the rest of them but it had to be fighting just as hard to keep her at "optimal" performance. Like a machine. 

She dug a hand into his bicep, eyes scrunched close while her other hand pressed against her temple. She’d been having the visions too, seeing and hearing that hooded figure in her head. Trying to lure her in with his almost sinister, charming words. 

Leon could only wonder what he’d been filling her head with. Whatever it was, it was bullshit. 

Amara seemed as though she had come up for air, the vision had passed. “Give me a fucking break.” 

“Couldn’t agree more,” Leon sighed, turning his head in the direction of where Ashley had called out to them. He really hoped that she was alright. For now, he basked in the closeness with Amara, curling his fingers around hers briefly.

Something about it was strange…foreign almost. 

Physical touch didn’t exactly fit into his busy schedule. Which in hindsight is incredibly…sad (something that Hunnigan doesn’t fail to remind him of). 

“Leon?” Amara softly spoke.

“Hm?”

She snickers a bit to herself, “I may have fibbed a bit earlier.”

He furrows his brows, turning his attention from watching the outer perimeters of the cage to her. “About?”

“Dating someone.” 

Leon’s response is swift. “Don’t tell me anything.” 

Amara jokingly scoffed. “Seriously? Why? Think you’ll get jealous?” 

“I won’t bullshit you and say I wouldn’t…because I would, insanely.” And it’s the truth. Leon always thought honesty is the best policy but that doesn’t stop the slight heat creeping up his neck in embarrassment. 

“Well, rest assured, it’s much like the antiques in this castle. Ancient history.” 

“How thoughtful of you to tell me,” Leon deadpanned. Much like with their resident Spanish heartthrob, Leon couldn’t exactly stomach the thought of anyone else wrapped up in Amara’s arms. Besides, right now, they needed to get out of this cage.

“Now, can you focus?”

“Hey, you’re the boss here,” Amara put her hands up in surrender with a knowing smirk. 

Just then, Leon could faintly hear footsteps from above. Of course, neither he nor Amara were aware their momentary reprieve was coming to an end. 

[kammy-hearts]

celica loves her boyfriend leon!!!! (an resident evil oc dump)

[oldeubagel]

Found various random old doodles of graham from a old Sketchbook

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

Got tagged by @efingart and @alypink to do this Picrew of myself! ✨ Thank you so much for the tag (⁠人⁠*⁠´⁠∀⁠｀⁠)⁠｡⁠*ﾟ⁠+

And here's Jade and Ladybug!

Tagging @welldonekhushi @applbottmjeens @pingurusama and everyone who wants to do it! 😘

[breakingbranchesbella]

Self-Indulgence: The Way To An Aching Heart

Chapter 2 Teaser Post

Author’s note: I started two jobs this week and honestly didn’t have the motivation to finish the chapter at the time I set for myself </3. It’s about 1/3 of the way done :(. Not that I’ve accumulated any sort of following that cares, but take this as a token of apologies and expect the chapter to be out Saturday or Sunday. Not proofread

She couldn't look at them for too long. She stepped around the table and moved towards the chair. She slumped down on it, her elbow rubbed against fabric that was ripping. It would last a few more months before her aimless movements had completely destroyed it. That was a problem for later. Right now she just wanted to—

Beep.

Do nothing.

Beep.

The same three numbers had been messaging her all day. Two of them had contact names, the third didn't. Booth, González, and an 800 number. She still wouldn't respond.

———————————————

Reid, Gideon, and Elle were crowded around the few seats that were accompanied by a table instead of just open leg room. They chattered amongst themselves, sometimes about the case, sometimes not. Hotch chose to sit across from her. The single section seat wasn't pointed towards her, but he'd turn to face her anyways.

"How long has it been?"

  Cassie opened her mouth to speak, then closed it as she thought more intensely. She'd bit her bottom lip, thinking about events that happened before and after, creating a timeline of the good and bad to pinpoint an actual date. "Two... no. Yes, two years?"

  "Two sounds about right."

  "You haven't changed."

  "You have."

  She looked to the side, towards the three still talking. JJ and Morgan were asleep. "Is that a bad thing?" Her gaze still lingered on the back of Reid's head. He was going on a tangent now. Elle was fact-checking him. She knew he was going to be right either way.

  "I think it is."

  "I hope you're right."

  Cassie leaned back, slowly peeling her head away and looking towards Hotch. His expression sympathetic. She'd curl inward instinctively, kicking off her shoes and pulling her knees as close as she could get to her chest. She knew what was coming next.

  "Don't be."

  Aaron cocked his head.

  "What?"

  "Sorry. Don't be sorry. Please."

  "Alright. Then I'm not."

  "It happens."

  His chest would rise and fall with slow, calm breaths. "It happens?"

  "It's the line of work we chose. If it didn't happen then, it was likely to happen another time. That's life."

  "You're right."

  "I know."

  "Good talk Lorayne."

  Any harder now and she'd puncture the soft flesh of her mouth.

  "I'm sorry. I appreciate it, I do, but I just don't want to hear it anymore."

  "I'm not mad."

  "I don't care if you are, I'm just explaining myself."

  "We don't have to keep talking about it."

  "Please."

  She tiptoed around the edge of desperation. Narrowly missing the tone that threatened to tug at her voice. It was time to work, not think about what had and what could have been.