𝘣𝙧𝗼𝙠𝗲𝗇 𝗺𝗂𝗇𝖽

the ring is a reminder of her recklessness. papers and laws bother her less than the emotional aspect of their spontaneous marriage; she imagines a slim chance for peaceful separation.

“ i'd haunt you.” i'd stay. “ forever. ” and ever.

because she hates half measures. if he gives her an opening, she will step inside and close the door.

“ i can move in if you want. ”

for once, instead of looking for the exit, she is finding a way to further entangle their fates; so, when they eventually have to split, they will have to take time to untangle their mess. of course, there will be logistics to sort out, how she should handle her time outside of him and their arrangement; and he can still say no.

He has never shared the entirety of himself with another person. At least, not in the way marriage requires -- or what Will imagines marriage to be. It's an idealized version where people do not grow tired or bitter with time, only closer. Two souls deciding to meld. He's tragically romantic in the way he imbues it with intimacy, as if there were no other reasons to do so despite the fact he is divorced. A fucking hypocrite so ready to trip into his second failed marriage. Fake marriage. Theirs was not real, a flimsy pretense, where there ought not to be any grade of investment.

The worst kind of idea. He doesn't even know how to take it. So little is he stunned, speechless. He wears it well, under a hooded gaze and pressed mouth. His tongue is heavy for a second, and the words elude him. Move in.

She's insane.

And he feels the imminent collapse hanging above them, trumpeting out the warning he doesn't even need harbingered. God, he cannot think right when she was near him. Could he devote to that level of day-to-day delusion, giving her his time as much as she gave him hers?

I'll be here when you come back from work.

Regrettably, the thought is intoxicating. He could empty a spare drawer in his dresser, push a spot in his closet for her, and put a matching toothbrush next to his. Two mugs, not just one marred with coffee on the rims in the morning.

It was... humbling in a way to have it all explained to simply to him, so easily. He believed Will as well; it was really all just that easy to see once you've seen enough of it. Some part of him wanted to disagree, but he knew that to be a childish and hopeful part of him. It was a part that fought against the monotony of existence, who bared its teeth and pounded its fist against the cycle of repetition he knew he was doomed to tumble around in.

❝ I loathe bureaucracy and you're right to assume I wouldn't enjoy it. However, I fear I am made to be... adaptable. I could handle it too well. I just wouldn't be very happy about it. ❞ If it was obvious bait, Clark had no problem with pulling on the hooked worm and making direct eye contact with the profiler as he did so.

❝ I suppose I am. I would also suppose it's the job of people of your sort to figure that out, isn't it? I know you like your games. Dogs and their bones. But you could just ask. I might not lie to you. And if I did, well there's another bone for you to gnaw on. ❞

It was something he got used to as much as it was something that profoundly tormented him. He was, at his core, a person who had grown accustomed to a range of affliction with existence. He could feel the slithering wetness of it swashing around in his head. He didn't balk at the grotesque, but it found its way into his head, shrieking and clawing.

"Well, as adaptable as you are - you're too whimsical for the FBI, I'm afraid." He laughs softly, mostly to himself, imagining Clark in front of his own boss with unimpressed consideration. Jack Crawford would have an absolute stroke. You had to adhere to the hierarchy. To excel, you had to be advantageous to another. He doesn't think Clark would like being used like that, but who knew. He knew nothing about him other than unsubstantiated hypotheses.

Bodies are forgotten as Will hums thoughtfully, "I could try to figure it out." He concedes, "But I find there is too much ground for me to cover. It's okay for me to know my limitations. I am an expert in the behaviorally deviant, so unless you call into that category, I find I am disadvantaged. Will you tell me?" Was it that easy? "Human or something else?"

The shower runs long enough for Hannibal to finish field dressing the deer in the industrial sink. Despite the coldness of its body, he had extracted plenty of blood. He’s in his element, carefully peeling back muscle from skin, harvesting all that would be beneficial to them. This almost felt like the days in his basement, where he would slice away all that he wanted from his victims, their choicest cuts destined for vacuum-sealed bags and eventual dinner service. Tonight he would go for the most tender part of the deer: the loin. Cutting these pieces away, he placed them aside to finish the others.

He sets a pan to heat, laying the meat against hot metal with a hiss. Dried herbs crumble between his fingers into the sizzling fat. Canned carrots and potatoes wait nearby—fare he would have dismissed in his previous life, but scarcity has broadened his palate. He consumed anything that would give him calories and nutrition, though this night he would certainly be spoiled.

Will's scent reaches him before footsteps do, cutting through the aroma of cooking meat. "Feeling human again?" Hannibal asks, glancing over one shoulder to admire Will emerging from the steam-clouded bathroom. He looked handsome with those fresh damp curls, a clean face now pinkish in coloration. Hannibal's fingers itch to touch that warm skin, but his own bloodstained forearms, sleeves rolled to the elbow, remind him of his state.

He sets the pan aside, turning the burners on low. He’d take his turn now. “Let’s see how much water you really left for me.” As they brush shoulders, Hannibal breathes in Will's clean scent that permeates even the bathroom air. He desired for Will to have the hottest water for the night and it delights him to see him warm and vibrant. "Don't touch anything yet." He warns, tending to his own meager clothing. Luckily, the last occupants supplied some of the room drawers with warm clothing. He chooses a beige sweater and some slacks that looked warm enough to block the chill of the night. He's looking forward to having a full stomach and the scent of Will's fresh skin next to him to breathe in when he sleeps.

He was feeling something.

More human than he had in a long time. The heat and steam brought clarity, undue luxury when so much had been a fight or active effort for their survival. Who knew Will Graham would be so grateful for clean hair and fresh clothes. Small things indeed. As much as either of them had acclimated to everything, he assumed there were still things they both missed. A lot of the amenities they had access to right now wouldn’t consistently be there in the future. They’d inevitably taken one place to another, stripped of anything but the desperate ploy for survival.

He is brought forth by the promising smell of meat. He merely lingered, not encroaching on Hannibal’s territory, awaiting any instructions or if he wanted assistance. He didn’t mind cooking, but it certainly hadn’t been a recreation for him. Before things changed and when it had been only him, he had gotten by with very humble meals. No fancy cuisine or mystery meat.

“Then hurry.” He wouldn’t, but there was no rebutting how much he was looking forward to a thoroughly enjoyable meal. Most days were some degree of hunger and struggle. Fresh meat, especially deer, was not frequent. Maybe squirrels, rabbits, or fish if they were lucky. Winter had descended like a frozen wasteland. Resources more lacking, and the plants that he could have found to temporarily sustain them long since died. They ate what they could, and he doesn’t remember the last time he hadn’t felt a little bit of the pang of hunger. Will was eager, to say the least, to dine like a glutton. The meat couldn’t be kept for very long. They didn’t need to make it stretch.

Every part of Ethan wants to go. Some part of him is tempted to agree; to stand back and let Will go get whatever the fuck he wants and just be gone by the time Will's finished. But he can't do it. He already knows he can't do it. At this point, even if Will changed his mind, could Ethan quiet the need to sink claws into the other man and never release him? Doubtful.

He chews his lip, considering. Planning is hard for Ethan, who usually can only go forward with nothing but blind faith that things will work or that he'll deal with things not working. It would be better to let Will come up with something. Will's smarter than Ethan about these things. His asks aren't that terrible. Let him retrieve his dog. Let him get some cash. Let him guide them somewhere safer than here.

Whether Ethan used his claws or not –– held was still being held. Will didn’t discriminate against his embraces.

Will doesn’t push him away or make any signs of wanting to move away. He’s listening to Ethan breathe, trying to feel a steady drum of his heartbeat clattering along in that ribcage. He wants to smile, reward Ethan for being amenable. But it felt inappropriate to do so as well. They’re talking about running away together, presumably out of FBI custody, and living like runaways. Not guilty of any crime – but not entirely innocent either. Will’s hands are stained, and Ethan? His chest is open & echoingly silent. Instead, he nods slightly as a gauche line forms on his lips.

“He.” He answers instead, persuading his own heart to slow, for his breath to come leisurely and to concentrate on the press of the river at his legs, the breeze of the mind on his face, and finally the sound of birds. Distant and shrieking of coming danger. He doesn’t let Ethan go, fingers gripping tightly even if just for a brief moment. “Winston. His name is Winston. And he will like you.” Maybe. There were growing suspicions that Winston might be privy to what Will did not fully understand. Or what he refuses to. The Bakers hadn’t been alive either, at least in a normal sense. He still didn't fully understand. His gut sinks, “We can make it before they know we’re gone. We drive all night, grab some things from my house, and then we head wherever. No direction in mind, just as far away as we can make it.” The words are even and staccato, already formulating the plan, a big bulletin board pinned with each approaching measure to take in his head.

this is the before. as in it's before miss teschmacher becomes eve teschmacher. before glamour and fame and danger become synonymous with her presence, like a tangle she can't brush out. right now, she's just miss teschmacher, intern for will graham. right now, she's just miss teschmacher, who checks her instagram following every hour or so and squeals when it jumps up even one number. all this to say that eve is a little wide-eyed, because she's naive, and she's a little naive, because she's hopeful. hopeful that there's something else and something more beyond hackensack, new jersey.

hopeful that maybe she'll fit into wherever that is.

"hi!" she controls her voice from sounding like a squeal, being self-aware enough to know that this isn't the space to be bubbly. honestly, she struggles to know what to say, because everything she wants to say doesn't seem like it fits the situation. she thinks you're supposed to sound smart or profound, not theatrical. she swallows down every comment that comes up. every comment but one. "so, we work for the good guys, yeah?" on paper, it sounds noble.

He almost thinks he must have pissed someone off higher above because what did they think was going to transpire by pairing them together? Two people couldn't be more dissimilar if they tried. Will can only offer a fast smile, feeling decades more out of touch than he actually is. He had to have some hint of understanding of the outside world to be good at what he did. He knew how to read tendencies.

"We work for the people who want to be seen as the good guys." That was their job. Adjust and curate public opinion in a way that benefited them and kept their heroes as priceless investments to the company. It was all terribly red tape when it came down to it.

Boring, he might say.

Maybe she was a fool. A deep sigh escapes her lips, drowning in these foreign halls and dissipating in the crisp fall air. Autumn had already kissed these small-town Alaska trees with bright bursts of red, yellows, and oranges, a cascade butterfly flutter to smatter the ground with color. It was beautiful, really. Easy to get lost in the scenery and forget just how strange things had gotten since moving here when everything else in their lives already felt so strange. 

Violet had always been a little too trusting, despite her circumstances. Quick to warmup, and even quicker to assume the best in other’s intentions. Despite the icy cold he’s shown to be capable of time and time again, she still holds out hope. Maybe it was just his past? Some kind of sick, twisted trauma he hadn’t quite worked through yet? Or maybe Violet had somehow already managed to elicit a distaste in his mouth for her. Either way, it didn’t make him any less of a person, any less of a partner– however fake the marriage may be– and with so little options, Violet can’t help but want to get to the bottom of it and understand him. Truly understand him. Maybe then they’d both feel a little less alone.

An olive branch for an olive branch. She pauses, gaze flickering up to meet his, always so hopeful despite the madness of it all. “Yeah,” She says softly, shifting against the counter as she sips from her tea once more. “Yeah, that sounds nice.” Maybe he could be someone she could confide in. She’s spent all this time closed off so as to not be a burden, but in doing so, she’d also denied them both a companionship and friendship that they may have needed all along. Perhaps allowing him to help her work through her trauma would give purpose to this arrangement, beyond the safety of hiding away. 

“Sorry,” Softly, tension melting beneath this new realization. “I didn’t mean to cry on you.” Violet manages an embarrassed laugh, eyelashes fluttering when she wipes a tear from her cheek and straightens up. “I honestly didn’t sleep well last night and I think it's getting to me,” she admits, but what she fails to mention were the circumstances for her lack of sleep. A bird flying into her window at full force before dropping dead… someone from town standing right outside her window and staring… the horrifying cry of a mountain lion deep in the woods, despite the creatures not being native to Alaska. With the outrageousness of all these weird coincidences, it was easy to chalk it up to-

“Weird dreams.” 

It's terribly cold, and that was something he didn't quite get used to. He liked to trek the little path outside their faux home, collecting firewood or winter berries, an eager stray Will had brought home with the help of Violet. He justifies it with a sensible excuse - it makes their lies all the more plausible, or at least that is what he persuades himself of.

He hasn't quite gotten used to Alaska yet. But it's pretty, even though it's cold and the days are short -- the sky devouring light much earlier than Virginia or Louisiana ever had. And his own sleep had been questionable. With a history of sleepwalking and varying soundness of his mind, he tried to avoid stress as much as he could while retaining his job. For the most part, it worked even if it felt achingly dull. He was alive; he couldn't ask for much else.

The town was bizarre even for him, who felt the beady eyes follow them from place to place. He couldn't shake the feeling that conversation about them erupted after they walked out of any room. Their smiles were too uncanny valley and rigid, something about the way their teeth sat clenched under their lips giving it away to the profiler. Will opted for most days to not go into town if they could avoid it. The other morning he found a dead rat on the porch that had its intestines tied around it like a makeshift snare. He kept his gun in his bedside table, aware to some degree this was not standard. His reports to his boss go ignored; Will is just being histrionic or worse, sensitive.

He opens his mouth to try one final time, to ask what Will plans to do when he inevitably regrets this choice, but it's like that thick thing in his chest is reaching up to fill his throat. It stills his vocal cords and cuts off his breath. As if his body has decided that enough is enough; Will is his and there is no fighting it. No preventing it. He closes his eyes. Accepts it. Feels the thing recede back down to settle around his heart.

Ethan takes a shuddering breath and tries to think. It's not his strong point; he normally just goes. There's a threat and he moves and shit works out. Eventually. Being here, with Will? It settles his need to keep the other man close, but it doesn't keep them safe. They're being watched. Ethan's being watched. And if his worst suspicions are true, if anyone finds out- they aren't. Safe. Here.

The horrific part is Will can clearly see exactly which strings he needs to pluck with Ethan. A part of Will is benevolent, and the other part is ready to exploit it.

"Today? Now?" Will breathes because fuck, the other was really going for it. He was leaving a door for Will as best as he could to find his way out. Will plainly has more to lose between them. His job, his home, his dog- he lets out a small, shaky sigh as his mind tries to develop some game plan that makes fucking sense for them. Okay, they get away and then what? They'd need money, and he could liquidate his assets. There was the matter of changing their apperance to some capacity, so state surveillance didn't pick them up amidst their getaway. Then his dog? How long until someone noticed they were gone, he wonders? "Besides the fact I am the cops too." Will sighs again because he didn't trust them either. Perhaps had there not been evidence of severe corruption.