a fish out of water [fic]

An incomplete “accidental sex” prompt-fill ficlet…

Last year there was an accidental sex prompt challenge making its rounds on Tumblr. I silently picked a prompt unbeknownst to my friends and got to work. The problem was that I also made it a fix-it for Fromage, the scene where Will rushes to Hannibal’s office to see him all dewy-eyed and concerned. It was supposed to fix the scene so Will actually dabbed Hannibal’s bloody face with the gauze sitting on the desk like it said in the script.

I failed.

No matter.

Try as I might, I couldn’t get our canon, season-one boys to get down and dirty. I just couldn’t. It’s not in their personalities yet. They hadn’t betrayed each other. Will hadn’t been assaulted by Hannibal yet. Hannibal hadn’t come to terms with his emotions yet. There was no sailing to Italy. No heart on swords. No tragic “It’s beautiful” or the fall.

So I didn’t share on Tumblr because there was no accidental sex. I didn’t share on AO3 because it’s a pointless scene that I never finished. But here on my personal blog, I don’t mind sharing since I am all alone over here.

So here’s what I did for prompt #22:

I showed you insert sexual thing here as a joke but you’re actually turned on sex

Rated: T
Leda and the Swan is totally inconsequential, but it’s pretty 
and has far more to do with sex than this failed fic.

“You are – and I mean this quite literally – the only person who doesn’t think I’m a laughing stock.” Will gave up on his forkful of salmon, lowering his hands to the table as the day’s embarrassing festivities replayed in his mind like an unforgivable set piece.

He’d been called to work – nothing exciting. The world goes on after traumatic events despite our fatigue, worry, or willingness to acknowledge the passing of time.

When he’d arrived at the morgue that morning, he found it decked with brightly colored rubber gloves and congratulatory banners hastily printed on the office laser. Before the door had latched behind him, a neon orange party hat had been snapped around his head.

“I heard,” said Hannibal, a smug grin refusing to leave his face. He took a bite of a scallop. “You’re free to blame me; it was partially my idea.”

“I intended to blame you, and they told me,” he replied, now rubbing his aching temples.

“You have to understand, Will, they want to be your friends. Friends celebrate important events together. No one was singling you out. To think that might be considered narcissistic.”

Narcissistic? No. Narcissistic would have been him handing out pre-approved gift lists to everyone he knew because no one could possibly know him like he does. Narcissistic would be reminding everyone for months, weeks, days before the blessed event, who was about to be celebrated and why.

Will had been singled out because of his distaste for social events. He’d been made a fool for the fun of others; he knew it. If coming to that conclusion was considered narcissistic, then Hannibal was free to call him the conceited son of Cephissus.

“It was an anti-birthday, Hannibal. They called it my You’re Still Kickin’ party and held it in the morgue. The morbidity of that aside, I didn’t go to Alana’s birthday bash, or that fifteen-year thing for Jack. Why would I assume anyone would throw me a party? If any of them were actually friendly with me, they’d know parties and I don’t mix.”

“Your friends wanted to celebrate your life. I, personally, don’t think enough people do that.”

“What exactly did you say to egg them on?”

“My exact words were: Would you all show a little appreciation for the man. He survived something traumatic.”

Will’s shoulders slumped. “You should have said nothing because I don’t need to be coddled by these people. And the last thing you should be doing is planning parties. You’re recovering from an attack and just witnessed two men die less than a week ago. You should be resting, reflecting–”

“Were you not attacked, as well? Did you not witness two men’s death? Somehow you’ve managed to be back in the field.”

“My wounds are superficial and those two officers died in the line of duty. A murderer violated your office. He violated a safe space for you. He killed one of your patients in front of you – a man you were trying to help. He attacked you. He stabbed you. He shattered your sense of security. Your wounds have to go far deeper than mine.”

Hannibal filled their wine glasses, appearing to consider Will’s comments. “I wouldn’t say my security was shattered.”

“Cracked then.”

He agreed with a nod. “Did you at least enjoy your cake?”

Will took a sip of wine. “The cake was the only part I appreciated. Thank you. German chocolate’s my favorite.”

“It was made with only the finest, hand-selected Germans, Will – just for you.” His grin was damn near assaulting. “I’m sorry I had to miss the festivities, though. A nice meal with friends is the best remedy after something as exciting as a psysical assault.”

“You didn’t miss much.” Will was all too aware of the unpredictable nature of duty calling. “How did it turn out? Was he alright? Everything under control?”

Hannibal had been detained that morning when an off-duty police officer snapped inside an Unpainted Huffhines furniture outlet in downtown Baltimore. The officer had been the first on the scene to Will’s grisly attack at Chordophone – a man who had been traumatized by finding his dead colleagues littering the music shop. Hannibal had been temporarily summoned to talk some sense into him before more lives were lost.

“The smell of raw, unfinished wood was apparently very triggering to this individual,” said Hannibal. “He’d relived the trauma of tripping over the bodies of his friends, became overwhelmed, and started brandishing his gun. His wife and daughter, as well as the manager of the store, were unharmed, thankfully … for the most part.”

Will dabbed his lips, then returned his napkin to his lap. “For the most part?”

“The officer and his wife were picking out his daughter’s new big girl bed. She’d declared herself no longer afraid of the dark apparently – a milestone for a child. Something tells me after her father’s violent outburst, that she just gained a new and very visceral fear of something far scarier than the dark.”

Will set down his fork. “Her father’s lack of stability?”

“The questioning of faith and the loss of control are the monsters under everyone’s bed, Will. And now she’s wary of them, too.”

Will’s gaze dropped to his plate as he pushed around the periwinkles that had suddenly lost their appeal.

“But he seemed to respond well to my suggestions. He even agreed to have a few sessions with me. I’ll dig around a little – see what I find.”

“Well–,” Will mustered a smile and attempted another bite, “he’s in good hands then.”

With that, their attention returned to their dinner: wild Alaskan salmon on a bed of something green which, when arranged with little shellfish and gelatinized balls of lemon juice, made a luscious and picturesque underwater scene. Will was impressed, though he had no idea how to acknowledge the amount of work and attention to detail was required for such a remarkable work of art, so he remained quiet, allowing his occasional hums and gentle nods to express his gratitude for their delicious and private anti-birthday celebration.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying dinner,” said Hannibal, refilling his own wine glass. “My fish always seems to be well received.”

A memory suddenly smacked Will in the face, and he set down his fork. “Fish …,” he groaned. “Too many people know about my hobbies now. It’s embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” Hannibal cocked his head.

“You didn’t happen to make this dish because of something Price said, did you?”

“No. Why?”

“Doromania,” he sighed, “our collective obsession with giving gifts to each other. It’s out of hand. I received several unwarrented gifts from my caring, charming, wonderfully supportive new friends this morning … The same friends who were so excited to not see me in a body bag.”

“Is this about the cufflinks? I tried to tell Alana–“

“No. The cufflinks were benign – useless and impractical – but benign. The rest of my haul wasn’t so mundane. In addition to those delightful schooner cufflinks which will never grace my wrists, I received a costume quality sailor cap from Zellar – very practical. From Bev, a new fishing vest – arguably the most useful object I received; and–” He stopped, leaning back in his chair. “Let me just go get it. It’s the cruelest of all the jokes.” 

Hannibal would certainly appreciate Will’s embarrassment if the object was presented in all of it glory, so he hurried to his car, returning a moment later with a small black box.

He dropped back into his seat. “They are funny, guys, Hannibal. So funny, funny, funny,” he said, shaking the box. “Little, loony, lonely Willy Graham.” He tossed the box across the table. “This is what my dear friends thought I needed most of all. In fact, Price has about two hundred photos of me opening the box and holding it up.”

Hannibal, obviously curious as to Will’s overly dramatic issues with the innocuous box, slowly removed the lid. Inside, on a bed of crumpled black tissue paper was a chubby teal silicone fish, complete with textured scales and a tiny smiling face.

“That,” snapped Will, pointing at the fish, “epitomizes my relationship with them – a pain in my ass.” 

Hannibal tipped the box, letting the five-inch rubber fish roll into his palm.

“That,” continued Will, now tutting at the fish, “is what they think of me. Thankfully, I’m still alive so I can continue to be the butt of all their jo–” He stopped and cradled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant …”

Hannibal’s withheld amusement bubbled into his eyes. They were practically welling.

“Laugh it up, Hannibal,” he snapped. “Let it all out.”

“Will, it’s in jest. They play. They joke. You can’t assume this has ill intent.”

“I will assume ill intent and a blatant need to embarrass me. I had no idea what it was! And believe me, they got a good goddamn chuckle when I smelled it.”

The laughter was imminent, Will could see it. He watched Hannibal press the back of his wrist against his lips, stifling a snicker. 

This was ridiculous. Hannibal was supposed to defend him. “Friends don’t buy friends sex toys,” snapped Will. “It’s weird. It’s gross. If anything, it’s projecting. You’re a doctor. Say it’s projecting.”

“If you want me to say it, I will,” laughed Hannibal, “but knowing Mr. Price, I’m sure this was merely his way of getting you to open up.”

Will’s mouth dropped open. This was unconscionable. They were all against him. Now his own doctor was cracking jokes at his expense. “Oh, you want me to open up?” he sneered. “It’s not bad enough that Jack is doing everything in his power to push me toward my own demise, and you wanting me to get in touch with my feelings, now I have to deal with Price wanting me to poke things where the sun don’t shine!” Will huffed and crossed his arms. “I hope you’re all aware that this is akin to sexual harassment.”

“You have to prove persistent inappropriate conduct to call it sexual harassment, Will; this was an isolated, though obviously inappropriate joke that got out of hand. I’m sure he now understands that you don’t appreciate his humor.”

“You’re goddamn right I don’t appreciate it. Would you want a gift like this? Would you want all your friends gathered around to laugh at you like you’re some sort of ignorant prude or a gullible virgin? No. You wouldn’t.” 

Hannibal enjoyed another bite of salmon and leaned back in his chair. “I agree that it’s in poor taste. And I will concur that the morgue was an inappropriate place for a gift exchange.”

“Not just a gift exchange – a foisting of unwanted sexual devices.”

“At least it’s fish-shaped.”

That wasn’t funny. “I catch fish – I eat fish,” he said, shoving a fork-full in his mouth. “See? I don’t shove them–” He dropped the fork again and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t shove them up my ass …”

“Is that a moral standing or just personal preference?”

Will glared.

“I wasn’t making light of this by claiming Mr. Price wants to see you open up. You surround yourself with unscalable walls. Something traumatic happened to everyone: we almost lost you. I think your friends are simply relived, and that relief presents in curious ways.”

“Buy suggesting I violate myself?”

“They’re happy you’re alive and are celebrating by joking and playing with you. They’re relieving stress.”

“They relieve their own stress by foisting it on me?”

“Unwrapping an inappropriate toy in a morgue seems rather inconsequential when you compare it to unwrapping your friend.”

Will huffed and adjusted his glasses.

“They see you as something unique, Will, as they should. You are beyond them and that makes them uncomfortable. Your skills in the field are unprecedented. They can barely talk to you. Sexuality is an inherently human quality – an intimate human connection we share with each other. By seeing you as a sexual being rather than an unknowable clairvoyant, they level the playing field. They get to imagine you as a human like them.”

“I’m not a god,” he snapped. “I breathe – I eat – I shit like a human but in private. Sex is not part of my public life.”

“I’m sorry you felt like this was a personal attack. I guarantee it was a peaceful gesture.”

Will angrily ate another bite of food, unwilling to drop it. “So you’re saying that knowing I’m being forced to go home with that,” he said, waving at the little teal fish now sitting erect by Hannibal’s wine glass, “somehow magically makes me more approachable?”

“More relatable, too; why not?”

“Relatable?” he scoffed. “You act as though everyone enjoys a collection of fish-themed sexual aids. I highly doubt that’s the case.”

“The thematic element aside, sexual aids are quite commonplace – perhaps they aren’t given to us by coworkers over the body of a deceased serial killer – but I wouldn’t be so quick to scoff at Mr. Price’s gift. The offering of pleasure isn’t cruel, Will. It’s actually quite benevolent.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Price was so very generous with his unsolicited and tasteless gift.” Will sipped his wine, now far too bitter for his taste. How could his own psychiatrist be defending this behavior?

“But, here’s a question: do you know what’s inherently neither unsolicited nor tasteless?”

When Will opted to swish the wine in his mouth and glare from over his glass instead of answering him, Hannibal continued.


Will spit into his glass.

The wine, he surmised, was suddenly flushing his cheeks.

“No, I, uh … I suppose that can’t be unsolicited.”

“You’re talented in the ways of compassion, Will. You empathize with everyone. Do you empathize with yourself?”

“No,” he said, swirling his wine to disperse the bubbles of spit. “I don’t empathize with myself. I’m much to busy for that.”

“The rest of us empathize with you. We see you exhausted, angry, and so tightly wound you can barely keep your emotions in check. You forgot your place and snapped at Jack recently for no reason. You can’t control yourself – you can’t relax. We watch you grit your teeth, unable to make eye contact with your colleagues. It makes us all wonder if you’re taking care of yourself.”

“Well, you can all stop wondering. You shouldn’t be thinking of me in those terms anyway. It’s unprofessional.”

Hannibal snickered and leaned on the table. “We worry if you eat, Will – if you drink too much. We worry if you’re sleeping, bathing, getting adequate exercise. I, probably more than anyone, worry about your mental health. I wonder if you think of yourself in negative terms. I wonder if you stop and congratulate yourself on a closed case or just bury yourself in the next one. I wonder if you allow time for hobbies, if you allow yourself to daydream, play games, solve puzzles beyond the inescapable havoc of your day job. What I wonder, Will, is if you find yourself worthy of respect, adoration, compassion, or love, and that inevitably includes self-love.”

This was supposed to be a congratulatory dinner, not a session. Hannibal survived a scuffle. Will survived a scuffle. It was supposed to be an opportunity for him to enjoy a nice fish fry and a cold beer – though the fish wasn’t fried, and the beer was a clean and crisp Montrachet. What this wasn’t supposed to be was an opportunity to feel ashamed of himself. He had felt plenty of that in the morgue that morning when Jimmy had to explain his gift to him as though Will was a ten-year-old boy.

“Can I ask you a intimate question?” asked Hannibal. “You don’t have to answer.”

“I have a sneaking suspicion as to where this is going … go ahead anyway.”

“How often do you masturbate?”

“As often as necessary.”

“Only out of necessity? Never for pleasure?”

“As a distraction mainly.”

“What about for shits and giggles?”

Will grinned and scratched his scruffy neck. “Not typically, no. I’m not a shits and giggles kind of guy.”

“Something tells me Jimmy is a shits and giggles kind of guy, Will. You should probably take a page from his book – might learn something about yourself.”

Will laughed as he shook his head. “And what exactly would I learn from Jimmy’s book?”

“That you enjoy catching fish with more than just your rod and reel.”

Will groaned and nervously flicked the edge of his glass before snapping back the rest of his wine. “With my net, so to speak?”

“With your fishing hole.” 

Will laughed, but it was mostly nerves getting the best of him.

If Will was grateful for anything, it was that they were alone through all of this nonsense. His morning may have been embarrassing, but at least he could claim to be the hapless victim. In Hannibal’s home, he had nothing to hide behind but a fork. 

However, the predicament he now found himself in could have easily been prevented if he’d left that piscatorial plaything in his car. He wasn’t a hapless victim in here. His ineptitude and poor judgment were his own worst enemies. He’d brought this upon himself.

There had to be a way for Will to worm himself out of the conversation. “The page from Jimmy’s book is blank,” he said, “no instructions. It’s just a crudely drawn pictograph of a stick man with an arrow aimed between his legs.”

“That’s the gist,” Hannibal chuckled, rocking the teal fish across the table like a metronome. “No shame, no guilt, no stigma – just pleasure and self-satisfaction. What could be better?”

“Not being here for one thing. Not being in this particular chair at this particular table talking about this particular topic would be far superior to me.”

“I think Mr. Price gave you more than a novelty toy. He gave you an opportunity to test your own personal limits.”

“I’m fine with my limits. Have been for quite some time.”

“Let me ask you this then: how do you flex your skill set?”

Will bristled at the implication. “Flex my what?”

“How does one become better at empathizing?”

Empathy had never felt difficult to master. It was simply a fact of Will’s existence. He was therefor he felt – no training needed. But then again, to hone one’s skills there were a few tricks you could employ. “Engaging with others works well. Thought exercises. Reading. Writing. Talking to people outside your personal bubble. Stepping out of your comfort– No.”

“You talk to victims. You talk to murderers. You read, you study, you immerse yourself in evidence and science and psychology, but ultimately you are at the mercy of your own experiences, correct?”

“Did Jimmy put you up to this? Why are you so invested in this now?” Will suddenly craned his neck, checking all four corners of the dining room. “Are there hidden cameras in here?” He stood and rushed to the fireplace, eyeing the painting over the mantel. “Maybe a pinhole camera in that swan’s eye? You know for a fact, no one dare’s to make eye contact with it. It would be the perfect hiding spot.”

Hannibal’s amusement rolled from his chest like thunder. “I’m invested in you, Will. I’d hate to see you fall apart at the seams just because you’re afraid of being labeled a deviant.”

“Uh, no. I’m not afraid of that. And also, not playing with myself will not cause me to fall apart at the seams.” He meandered back to his seat.

“There really is no other explanation, unless you’re just too embarrassed to admit you have no idea what to do with it.” That unsightly little fish wagged in front of Will’s face as Hannibal grinned. 

“You are very rude, Dr. Lecter.”

“Not as rude as Jimmy, but I do understand his desire to watch you squirm. It’s somehow incredibly satisfying to watch your empathy cycles, especially when you trip, and I don’t mean that condescendingly.”

“Empathy cycles?”

“Your cycles of intrigue, confusion, reckoning, and climax before you’re suddenly intrigued again. I’m not trying to be offensive, but it’s child-like – not illogical, but certainly fun to witness.”

His eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

“Take for example you seeing a pink sphere on the ground. It doesn’t belong there. What do you do?”

“I weigh what I know about pink spheres with what I see, what I’ve heard, and what I assume.”

“In your confusion, you lay out all possible explanations like roads fanning from your feet, right? The well-beaten path is the one you walk first – maybe it’s a child’s ball – but you know the road most traveled is not traveled by everyone, so what do you do?”

“If I’m certain it’s not a ball, I’ll hop between trails and reassess. I missed something about the sphere. A new line of thought and reasoning will take me to my conclusion, but I have to weigh every option.”

“Each time you hop a path, you reassess reality through your personal experience and your own intuition – the sphere is the size of a hazelnut –another path. It’s textured – another path. You reconsider all of your options until you reckon you’ve figured it out. You narrow down your conclusion to a single path and there, at the very end you find your climax – the resolution – your explanation for what brought that pink sphere to the ground before you.”

“It’s chewing gum.”

“Your denouement would be filing away your journey to that conclusion so you can more easily find your way back to it next time. Small, round, textured wad on the ground equals chewing gum. Single, educated, aloof man with a love of music and a penchant for narcissistic behavior equals Tobias Budge, a musical murder. Then suddenly, whether you want to or not, your brain is intrigued by something new – a little black box – and the cycle begins again. No time for social engagement, conversation, corporeal pleasure – there are roads to explore, and your mind intend to master them all.” 

Will picked at the wilted green leaves still decorating his plate. He’d never thought about how his empathic technique might appear to others; it all felt automatic to him. He would close his eyes and walk the paths of killers in his head. Hannibal’s assessment of him was teetering a little too close to psychoanalyzation.

“What’s most intriguing to watch,” continued Hannibal, “is what happens when you encounter something wildly out of your level of expertise. All paths are over-grown, confusing, disorienting. You have no clear road to travel so you guess and suddenly trip.”

“So what you’re saying is that my fall is entertaining?”

“Like watching Buster Keaton take a dive.”

Will laughed and leaned back. “You know, the trick to Buster Keaton’s legendary stunts was that there were no tricks. The man was battered black and blue by his falls. The film probably helped hide that fact.”

“No one has ever claimed that your empathy doesn’t hurt, Will. In fact, we all admit that it does.”

“You know what else hurts? Shoving things up your ass.”

Hannibal chuckled and emptied the rest of the Montrachet into Will empty glass. “If it hurts, you’re doing it wrong.”

“Is this a hazing ritual? Because it feels very much like a game they used to play at my old college. What was it called? Oh yeah, Trick the Freshman into Sodomizing Himself.” 

“Are any of my efforts working?”

“No, they aren’t.” He laughed to himself and leaned on the table. “And why are you trying so hard?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” He smiled, then relaxed in his seat, his eyes wandering out the patio doors to his darkened backyard. “Maybe it’s morbid curiosity. Maybe my age or my concern for you.” His gaze wandered back inside and met Will’s. “Something happened the night I was attacked, and I’ve spent the last few days coming to terms with it.”

“What was it?”

“I felt an uncontrollable panic.”

“You had a panic attack. That’s not surprising. You just have to remember that the monsters under the bed aren’t real – of course, in your case, they kind of came after you … That’s a bad example.”

“It wasn’t an irrational panic attack. I was panic-stricken when I was under the impression you’d been shot. But you being killed in the line of duty is a reality that everyone with a badge has to grapple with – you aren’t a special case.”

“Well, I’d like to think of us as amicable, Hannibal, even if we have a professional relationship, I’m still a client – a colleague – a friend of yours. I don’t think its that farfetched or unrealistic for you to have been concerned with my wellbeing. I was overwhelmed when Jack called to tell me what happened to you. I had no idea what I was walking into when I got to your office. I was just as shaken as you.”

“You hid it well.”

“I wanted to vomit, but the paramedics hadn’t left yet, and I didn’t want them rushing to my aid with Pedialyte. Talk about embarrassing.”

Hannibal smiled. “You have an iron stomach, Will.”

Will snickered.

“Speaking of, how are you enjoying your birthday dinner?”

“It’s wonderful. Damn near makes up for this morning, but, honestly, I shouldn’t have put this burden on you. You really need to be resting and not entertaining the likes of me.”

“I feel most supported by my friends when I’m useful to them. You needed dinner. I needed company and here you are. You are doing me as much of a favor by being here, as I am by feeding you.”

Will smiled and they both raised their glasses with a clink.

“Fair enough,” said Will. “Then consider me at our beck and call this evening. If you need your leg re-bandaged, a barrel of ibuprofen, someone to run to the liquor store, consider me your man.”

“I may take you up on that.”

“I hope you do.”

I never got to the part where Hannibal is actually turned on by Will’s “joke.” And they never had accidental any sex …

Oh well.

If I do a part two and you want to be notified, leave a comment and I’ll reply if I post it.

the cold light of day [fic & concept]

A Hannibal S4/Fortitude crossover concept with two vignettes …

No Fortitude spoilers below.

Hannibal and Will are on the run post-fall when an idea for a temporary home strikes Hannibal. He knows of a secluded spot to hide, out of the reach and jurisdiction of the people hunting them.

Rated: G

At the top of the world, ice blankets the frozen, forgotten landscape.




Emptiness at the end of the earth.

Flying to this place is out of the question – too many eyes, too many trails.

Good evening, Mr. Overgård. They hear it everywhere now, his new name the only thing that follows them – no APBs, no FBI, no second glances. They travel up and out – to Norway – hidden on trains with forged tickets until they find what they are searching for: a nearly out of work American fisherman. He agrees to drop them at an outpost close to a Russian mining town deep in the Arctic circle.

However, they never catch the fisherman’s name, never divulge their own, never shake his hand. He drops them – spouting warnings of a dying economy, trigger-happy men, and man-eating bears, but is met with no questions asked, no answers given. Only Will’s mind reels with the potential danger.

Is this survivable? Can he limp across this barren wasteland? Will Hannibal kill him when his guard drops? Can he stop this monster in a frozen prison or is an icy valley where a cold-hearted killer thrives? Can they trek across the endless tundra with only packs and heavy, stumbling steps?.

Jeg vet ikke.

Kicking snow from their boots and tightly donning hats and gloves, they fight the cold and the wind until their joints ache. They fall asleep in a tent, turned away from each other, the only warmth shared being the heat of the fires in their bellies and their eyes.

Lonely and lost, a husky finds Will and won’t leave his side. The dog is hungry and reminds him of his own pack – also lost or abandoned, not by choice, but by necessity – and a warm finger of familiarity plucks at Will’s icy heartstrings.

Much to Hannibal’s disgust, Will feeds it the last meal they’d packed.

Nook. Will name’s the dog Nook and Hannibal scoffs again.

Over rocks. Over snow.

Past the outcropping marking their way, it follows.

Quickening winds bite cheeks. Nook nips and whines.

Rocks give way to a ridge and the dog howls. The men look over a small, quiet town – a frozen, forgotten place nestled on top of the world.

Space – privacy – everyone is friendly, so they say.

The only part of consequence: just four police officers await them.

Unsuspecting townsfolk see an educated former doctor who speaks French and Italian and a scruffy looking stranger who is very comfortable around boats. Neither were considered suspicious in Fortitude. Most of the current occupants are running from the law themselves or plain old Russian miners.

Vinden har snudd.

With no questions, they settle in a newly unoccupied house outside of town. Cash. Ignore the blood. Here’s the key. Welcome to town. The door is shut behind them.

Xenial is what he calls this place through an obnoxious, fogging huff from his nose: friendly, hospitable. Will finds neither to be true. It is not friendly. It’s tolerant. It is not hospitable. It’s bitter and frozen, like him.

Yoke-devil is his new goading nickname for his comrade-in-arms. You choke me, he sneers. You stumble, I fall. He bites and snarls. You drag me down with you. He fights, but he also cries. Not in front of Hannibal – never – but he will in his room when the house empties of man and beast. The chill of the house is nothing compared to the fostbite in his chest. It burns. He throws his fists and insults with ease, but Hannibal never acknowledges except with biting glances and grinding teeth. He has his own flowery language to use with the color-starved locals.

Zoilist. His lover is a zoilist, bless him. It rolls from Hannibal’s tongue with no explanation despite the confusion on the faces around him. Will has to look it up. He is Hannibal’s charming and faithful, though rude and hateful critic. Such a fussy, acrid man who yoked himself to the devil.

At their new freezing, minimal bungalow, Will’s idle hands fuss and rattle his proverbial chains. The food is nauseating, the ground frozen, the company Hyperborean to a disgusting degree. He needs new food, new friends, new hobbies. He becomes overly obsessed with taxidermy. Keeps his hands from choking the devil he’s tethered to.

But to Hannibal, this new obsession of Will’s is fascinating, endearing even. Will finds it his only outlet in the frozen prison he’s trapped inside.

Caribou, foxes, an occasional seabird – he studies with a local man and his unmountable messes turn somewhat arresting after a few rigorous weeks. When not in the workshop, he spends every waking moment studying Hannibal – writing, sketching, logging it all in his mind. This is not a honeymoon post-fall. This is and always will be about the last man standing.

Dan Anderssen, Chief of Police and fellow big hat enthusiast, questions Hannibal one afternoon. Nothing major, just a few issues with the townsfolk hearing strange noises coming from his and Mr. Graham’s new, husky-protected home.

“Elk? Bears maybe?” Hannibal crosses his legs. It’s strange to try to seem formal in a very informal place. He’s still dressed in his fur-lined coat and stocking cap. No ties and jackets for miles.

For five weeks they’d avoided the police station. They rarely spoke to anyone except the grocer and a few outcasts in their neck of the woods – the shaman taxidermist included. This is the first time Hannibal’s seen the inside of the station. It’s minimal – clean – seemingly too high tech for a cut off town. But there’s a research station in Fortitude. The town needs to stay in the know.

Glass walls are the most striking feature in the station: holding cells. Three. They’re highly protected – keypads and windowless – solid glass walls reminiscent of Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

Hannibal leans back in his chair opposite the chief’s desk. “I have yet to see a bear, of course, but I hear stories from the townspeople. Tear a man apart.”

“Indeed they will, Mr. Overgård, but no. These were human noises, not bears. Screaming. Clawing. Begging for help. We know bears here, and they don’t beg for help.” When Hannibal doesn’t answer, he asks, “Do you have another explanation for the noise?” No answer, then a long pause.

“Just a skulk of chatty foxes trapped in your shed then?” wonders the chief.

“Kennel’s not soundproof. Could be the dog.”

“Lying to the police is not looked at kindly, Mr. Overgård.” He glares. Hannibal glares. They glare at each other – a cold, striking scowl that fights, then bends angrily into forced amicability in the middle of nowhere.

“Maybe I’m not lying,” said Hannibal. “Maybe the wind plays tricks. Maybe my dog’s restless, and maybe bears should beg for help. I’m sure they don’t appreciate the melt.”

“No, I bet they don’t.” The chief scowls. “Because I am so trusting and you are so innocent, I’m sure you won’t mind me popping in on occasion. Newcomers don’t know the lay of the land yet anyway, and I haven’t properly given you a tour of the town.”

“Obstructing your duties is not my intention, but are the police truly the welcome wagon here? Seems you have more important tasks.” His hand flicks to a large cork board by the sergeant’s desk. It’s covered in papers, lists, and photos of a bloody patch of ice and snow.

“Police are in charge of many things in this town – keeps us well informed. I can either stop in and give you a quick, painless tour, or I can set you free to fend for yourself with a plate of lutefisk as a welcome gift. You’re choice, but I wouldn’t take the lutefisk.”

“Quite a tempting offer, Chief … but as much as I’d enjoy you dropping by, I think I’m suddenly craving a little lutefisk.”

Right after their arrival, Will obtained a crabbing boat despite every sailor he met telling him it’s a dying business. He’s back to his pre-Hannibal self, nervous around people, only now he’s dealing with his own questionable morality while living with a killer in his head and in his makeshift home. He justifies life on the outskirts as doing what is necessary for the greater good: quarantining himself and Hannibal away from the unsuspecting populous.

Sergeant Eric Odegard and Will venture out on his boat, not by Will’s choice, but at Eric’s well-meaning insistence.

The boat rocks as Eric leans on the rail, watching Will endlessly tie and untie the knots connecting each loop to everything else. “Fortitude’s an interesting town to settle in, Mr. Graham. Takes a certain type of man.”

“Undeniably so, but I’m not settling,” he says with an icy, stuttering sigh. “The ground’s too frozen to dig in roots.”

“Vacationing then?”

“We travel. We explore. We happened upon a map of Fortitude, it looked good for now, so we bought a house.”

“X marks the spot,” he snickers. “You’re not staying for the long haul then? I assumed you were here specifically to study with Tavrani. He said you’re a natural with flesh and bone.”

Yes, Will was a natural. Dissection – evisceration – skinning. It all came so easily now.

“Zoonomy is a relatively new hobby of mine,” he says, coiling a wet rope around his arm, “not that animal behavior and physiology hasn’t always seemed fascinating to me. But this place offered my first taste of preserving their physical form. Seemed useful to know.”

Aching, burning breaths catch in Will’s throat – the frozen air cutting his mouth and tongue. He tries to suppress the sting – hide his failing health from the sergeant, but succumbs, doubling over as he hacks and coughs against the boat rails.

Bears only kept some new folks out of Fortitude. The isolation and chill kept out the rest.

Coughing. Hacking. Mumbles of apology. I must have a cold, he says. It’s the dry air. It’s an old wound. Sometimes it acts up.

Den gudene elsker, dør ung.

Eric lets him compose his struggling lungs, then looks out across the endless sea. The truth is that no one really settles in Fortitude. It’s a dying town in need of help, but the winds whipped those pleas from its mouth before they had a chance to drift overseas. “Why’d you leave the States?”

Frozen fingers drop the rope, and Will sniffs his running nose. “That is a very long and boring story.”

Go figure. Eric gestures into the silence around them and laughs. “Bore me then.”

“Health concerns and a failed love interest, maybe three. My old boss became overbearing. It was all the consequences of staying in one place too long.” He got to know people. He got to feel them. He let himself get too close and paid the price.

“In the end,” he continues, “I only had one valid reason to leave, and no legitimate reasons to stay.”

“Judging by your sudden move here, it must have been one hell of a compelling reason.”

“Kismet,” he says. “Called by a higher power.”

“Luck?” snickers Eric. “You don’t strike me as the religious type.”

“Morality is still a higher power, as is destiny and fate – no religion necessary.”

No one else is out on the water so Will cuts the engine and they drift for a bit. Just seabirds. Silence. A restless crew of two.

“Odd jobs seem to keep you and your … ?”

“Partner,” finishes Will. “He’s my partner.”

Questions might have followed, but Will is prepared. He and Hannibal didn’t act like lovers. They acted like quarrelling adversaries hell-bent on destroying the other in every feasible way. They rarely went into town together.

“Right …,” continues Eric. “The work you do with Tavrani probably keeps you busy, and your partner seems to have his hands full doing … whatever he does, but you should talk to Dan anyway. If you plan to stay for a bit, we could always use a few steady hands at the station – bears are coming down and other things – and you told the chief you’ve been trained.”

Steady hands. Will huffs at that.

Training, he had, but what the purpose of all that training had been, Will hadn’t a clue. “A few steady hands for what exactly?”

“Uh …” Eric half-heartedly smiles and nods. “I guess we don’t get a lot of crime in Fortitude – theft, drunken fighting, out past curfew–”

“Vermin jump ship as soon as their fur freezes. But isn’t that ideal up here?”

“We’re too cut off for the really bad ones; you’re right. Crime is definitely not what we want in Fortitude.” He pauses for a minute, the frigid breeze and uncomfortable silence blanketing them from all sides as the boat rocks. “Not much crime,” he says again – prideful this time, but a little weary. “This sleepy little town sure does like to sleep. I think it’s all the snow.”

“Xmas all year ’round,” says Will. “Towns like this lull all the good little boys and girls to sleep right along with them. Makes you wonder what happens when they finally wake up.”

“You plan on waking up the town, Mr. Graham?”

Zipped coats, zipped lips. “I don’t, no,” says Will. “But I’m sure someone’s bound to.”

up in the air [concept]

Airport related AU concept vignette …

Tumblr promp:

Airport related aus, tho …

(with Hannigram added)

Rated: G
Dung Hoang | Flickr

After a grueling work week at the FBI which culminates in a last-minute flight to Washington on Christmas Eve, Will “not fond of eye contact” Graham meets a businessman at the airport bar as he waits for his delayed flight to depart. The man is drinking the same whiskey as Will, and they strike up a conversation. The stranger is very charming and very chatty, speaking mainly of his love of art, music, and his many culinary endeavors. He’s headed to Washington as well, claiming to have a “business” meeting in Seattle.

The pair openly share their many interests with one another. Will plays the guitar; the stranger plays the harpsichord. Will reads books about fishing and psychology, and the stranger shares his love of homebrewing and medieval poetry. They laugh and surprisingly flirt as Will loosens up a bit.

Over the loudspeaker, they hear that their flight has been canceled until the next morning, and Will groans to himself. It’s Christmas Eve; the hotels will be flooded with travelers, and he’s too drunk to drive back to Wolf Trap. He resigns himself to hunkering down in the terminal, when his new friend refuses to allow it, offering instead the other bed in his own hotel room, which he booked as soon as their flight had been delayed.

Will, still a bit tipsy from the bottle of Glenfiddich they finished off, agrees to take the warm bed over a cold floor, and the pair head to the hotel. 

Hungry, they order room service, but it’s a very strange dinner. Will can’t quite put his finger on what it is or why it’s strange, but it’s free and he’s enjoying the company so he doesn’t complain. They eat casually at a small table by the balcony, and the stranger seems to become more and more spirited as the night moves on. He suddenly speaks of God, and man, and the many cruel avenues of the human consciousness. They compare childhood stories, and Will finds himself drawn to this unusual man and his bizarre philosophy about life and death. 

Flirting and philosophy lead to more mouthfuls of wine, then slow kisses, and the two finally punctuate their dinner with an unrestrained whirlwind of semi-drunken love-making. It culminates in the pair nibbling, biting, and consuming one another like feral animals. 

Between moans and whimpers, secrets are shared – an abundance of profound empathy – anxiety – visions of the dead. The other is consumed with blood and a hunger for human flesh. He has gruesome plans – great ones that sore to the heavens and beyond – and needs a partner in crime. His uninhibited secrets are barely heard by the FBI man writhing under him in boundless pleasure. 

Will snaps awake the next morning, alone and hungover in a twisted nest of bloody sheets. Memories flood his aching head – sharp teeth, desires to slaughter, confessions of love, and … long pig? He throws on his clothes, rushing to the airport. He has to call Jack! There is a murderer on the loose and he knows who he is! At least he thinks he does …

He bounds to his terminal and boards his flight. The businessman should be here. He was on that flight. But would he dare to show his face after the night before? 

The plane breathes with tired travelers – grumbling piles of coats and scarves – but Will’s adjacent seat remains empty. More people board, more overhead bins fill, more chatty attendants help children, but the seat goes unoccupied.

He’s gone. The businessman must have grown scared and run off after realizing he’d admitted his horrific plans to an FBI agent. 

Will debates with himself, then calls Jack, stopping the witchhunt that had spread throughout the airport, tipping garbage bins and sweeping through men’s rooms. 

Maybe Will’s crazy. 

Maybe he didn’t spend all evening talking philosophy with a murderer. 

Maybe he didn’t have a passionate night of sex and bloodletting with a madman. 

Even if it had happened the way he remembers, who knows if the confessions were real? Perhaps it was simply a role-playing game to up the sexual ante. Being bad can feel rather good sometimes, and Will had spent his entire life imagining just how good “bad” could feel. 

Their dinner had been delicious, whether made from ghastly ingredients or not, and the stranger had seemed well-educated, making many worthwhile points about the degradation of society. But in the end, it was probably a bunch of hogwash regardless, so Will leans back and relaxes.

The flight takes off, and he stares out the window at the patchwork of white and brown below them, knowing Washington is just around the corner. It was all a dream; it had to have been. He’s stressed – Jack knows that – and getting called to Seattle on a holiday, his mind reeling with grisly crime scene photos was not the easiest pill to swallow. 

Then, while flying over western Maryland, Will hears a chilling voice over the intercom, “This is your captain speaking. I apologize, travelers, for the inconvenient delay last evening. A pilot certainly needs his rest. We would be arriving in Seattle at 10:03 Pacific time, if that were our destination. I’m sorry to inform you, there has been a slight change of plans. Please buckle-up and remain in your seats. If Will Graham is on this flight, I’d like to welcome you aboard. I hope you packed your appetite.”

silence on the lam [concept]

A Hannibal/Firefly crossover AU concept …

Many years ago, while writing A Thousand Dreadful Things, I came up with an idea for a Hannibal/Firefly crossover. Only about 10k words came to fruition, but an entire world had been built in my mind and on my computer. I had diagrams, backstories, timelines, and even graphics of each character’s homeworld. Since I will probably never actually write it, I figured I’d share some of my ideas here.

In my AU, Will’s home planet is Whittier in the Kalidasa system. It’s a bluerock, with over 90% of its surface covered in water. Whittier is the site of the largest privately-owned fish hatchery in the ‘Verse. The Alliance use Whittier to cultivate rare breeds of fish for entertainment and culinary purposes. (All Firefly canon, FYI.)

The desolate and cold moon of Whittier is named Ita. It’s a dry dock and salvage yard and, strangely enough, was where Hannibal was born in my AU, but that’s not relevant at ALL (nope, not at all). Ita was also used as a terraforming testing ground but all hell breaks loose after a catastrophe occurs on the small moon’s surface causing the deaths of 8,000 colonists. (So most of the Ita stuff it canon, I just gave her a tragic past, if ya know what I mean, *wink wink* )

Basically it’s Firefly if Hannibal was the new doc on the ship, not Simon, and Will was River. Simon and River are still important characters, but Simon had never been able to smuggle River out of the hospital. Will and River were in the same Alliance program at The Academy.

That little divider I made for the fic. It’s Serenity. I made a few actually; one for Mal’s ship and one for Hannibal’s. Hannibal flew in a Peregrine Class ship, seen below, flying around Will’s homeworld.

Will & his watery Whittier

This is Whittier, Will’s waterlogged homeworld.

Will’s mother died in childbirth so he was half-heartedly raised on this water planet by his drunkard father who was a fisherman and ferryman for the researchers attempting to stock the oceans with life. Will lived his whole childhood on a boat, learning from the scientists he met and basically never touching dry land until he turned twelve. He suddenly began hearing voices and becoming emotionally unstable. His father, wanting to rid himself of his “crazy” son, sent him to Beaumonde (the capital of the Kalidasa system) where Will was assessed and found to be “gifted”. He was then sent to Capital City on Osiris to be enrolled in “The Academy” and was never heard from again … (not true, but DRAMA) …

An old sea chanty from the seaman: “Oh Ita, bring us the tide. High for bait, low for shell. Oh Ita, let us brave your tide, keep us straight, o’er your swell.”

Here is what it looks like from the surface of Whittier. It has beautiful nocilucent clouds and lots of rain- and moonbows due to the large amount of water vapor in the atmosphere. When the sky does clear of clouds, you can see the Core, the stomping ground of the Alliance which appears as a small galaxy high in the heavens. Transport ships are constantly arriving and leaving the surface, causing streaks of water vapor across the sky. They also deposit large amounts of dust into the atmosphere causing very high clouds of ice crystals that create a sky filled with circumhorizontal arcs, sun dogs, moon dogs, and a plethora of other optical phenomenon. Will clutches onto the memories of the beautiful sky of his home world as he attempts to survive while in the custody of the Hands of Blue who probe his brain at The Academy.

From the fic:

The immensity of this black abyss was a sight Will had rarely seen, but it’s majesty was nothing compared to the brilliance of the sky over Whittier.  The blue heavens of his aqueous home world were continually diffused with rainbows, radiating through the mist-filled atmosphere. He’d grown up comforted by a dense blanket of foggy heat, a colorful spectrum continually circling his sun like an ever-present eye watching over him. At night, as he’d follow Ita on his father’s ship, he’d witness the twilight illuminated by arcing moon bows and silvery noctilucent clouds.

Hannibal & Ita, the moon of Whittier

The Peregrine Class is an Alliance ship from the early chapters of my WIP fic. It’s the ship that’s transporting Will when Hannibal happens upon them on the Rim.

I was still deciding between making this a legit fic with a plot and good-ish writing, or just having Hannibal and Will screw in space a bunch and then meet up with the Serenity crew. It’s so hard to decide between good and evil.

Ita is a cold, barren satellite of the water-covered planet Whittier located in the Kalidasa system. The moon is capped with ice on both poles and holds a wobbling rotation around it’s primary. It’s a relatively unstable moon, but as it is used as a terraforming testing ground and a stopping point for the ships from Whittier, the Alliance ordered it terraformed for habitation.  

In 2460 AD, Dr. Simonetta Sforza-Lecter and her husband, Dr. Hannibal Lecter I, began their life-long work in the terraform sciences on Ita. Processes to liquify water began and single-celled life was introduced. Gravity on the moon was altered to steady the orbital wobble. Colonies were established on Ita during the terraforming efforts for the research team and the workers in the dock and salvage yard. Colonists lived and worked on the moon, but the instability of the tilt and unpredictable storms made life difficult.

After ten years of research and rapid atmospheric temperature fluctuations, flora and fauna growth was deemed unsustainable, the wobbling tilt returned, and the gravity alteration failed. Ita was considered a lost cause and terraforming efforts were ordered to cease. The Lecter’s were the only scientists to remain on the moon in an attempt to compete there decade long research into RACS (rapid atmospheric composition shifting).  In 2472, the Lecter’s gave birth to their son, Hannibal. Five years later, their daughter, Mischa, was also born on the small moon. 

In 2480, Dr. Sforza-Lecter, in a desperate attempt to advance her and her husband’s careers and not let their failing research be in vein, attempted a final terraforming experiment without Alliance approval. A chemical agent was detonated below ground, filling caverns with a reactive gas. This agent was to combine with preexisting chemicals within the soil composition to create a stable atmosphere. However, a faulty quarantine caused the underground gas to spread beyond the containment bubble and across the entire planet’s service, overwhelming the atmosphere wth CO2 and methane. This catastrophe plunged the already unstable moon into a cataclysmic ice storm, dubbed later as the “Great Ita Winter”. 

No scientist or civilian escaped the moon due to raging storms on the surface and the tragedy killed eight thousand people. The Alliance presumed all men to be lost and no search parties attempted to brave the storms to search for survivors. The research family was forced to remain and wait out the unending storm in the safety of the research station. The station was eventually overtaken by surviving workers and both Dr. Sforza-Lecter and Dr. Lecter are killed. Their seven-year-old son, Hannibal, begged for his and his sister’s life but the starving workers killed and consumed the three-year-old sister, blaming the Lecters for their plight. They imprisoned the boy, keeping him alive and in chains to torment and starve (occasionally feeding him pieces of his sister and parents). The colonists and workers assumed that they would all die of hyperthermia or starvation in the coming months.

After thirteen months of raging ice storms, the experiment was partially successful as the moon’s atmosphere slowly stabilized. Nine workers and the boy were rescued during this “summer” period and taken to Osiris where Hannibal Lecter II was assessed and dubbed a child prodigy. He was offered a home on Osiris with Chinese adoptive parents, money, and a formal education to continue his parent’s work in Terraforming. He declined to continue in the field after the tragedy that befell his family. 

Scientists, now unwilling to work on Ita, left the terraforming efforts of Sforza-Lecter to stagnate and the moon, once again, plunged it back into it’s previous cold, dessert-like climate. It was then dubbed a “greyrock” planet and continued to be solely used as a dry-dock and ship salvage yard.

Though ultimetly unsuccessful, Dr. Sforza-Lecter’s experiment would be used on a larger scale and be proven moderately successful. This form of terraforming would also be the cause of Bowden’s Malady on Regina when the Sforza-Lecter Process is introduced to rapidly terraform the eastern hemisphere of the planet. The chemical reaction underground causes the atmospheric conditions to excel the growth of a bacteria that cause a  degenerative disease targeting the muscles and bones.

The Timeline 

(character backstories and plot spoilers below, but I doubt this will ever be written)

2460 AD – Dr. Simonetta Sforza-Lecter and her husband, Dr. Robert Lecter begin their life-long work in Terraform Sciences on Ita, a moon of the water planet Whittier. 

2470 – After 10 years of research, Ita is considered just a dry dock due to unsuccessful terraforming efforts and is used as a dock and landing zone for ships visiting Whittier, a water-covered, fishing planet. Colonies are set up on both Ita (during terraforming efforts) and on Whittier for fishermen and their families.

2472 – Hannibal is born on Ita while his parents continue their research.

2477 – Mischa is born, also on Ita.

2480 – Hannibal’s mother tries one final terraforming experiment on Ita (without Alliance approval) as she is sure it will be successful and after 20 years of research on a single moon, she’s beginning to feel like a failure. The experiment fails, plunging the moon into a severe ice age dubbed later as the “Great Ita Winter”. No one can escape the moon and the tragedy kills 8k people. All men are presumed lost, so no search parties attempt to save them. Hannibal’s family is forced to remain and wait out the unending storm. The Lecters are found by surviving workers who overtake their home, killing Hannibal’s parents. Hannibal (7) begs for him and his sister’s life saying they have enough dried fish from Whittier that they can live for over a year. The starving workers kill and consume Mischa (3) anyway, blaming the Lecters for their plight and sure that the winter will last forever. They imprison Hannibal, keeping him alive to torment and starve (occasionally feeding him bits of Mischa or his parents). They all assume they will die of the cold in the coming months.

2481 – Nine workers and Hannibal are all rescued during the “summer” (after 13 months of raging ice storms) and taken to Osiris where Hannibal (8) is dubbed a child prodigy. He’s offered a home on Osiris with Chinese adopted parents, money, and a formal education to continue his parents work in Terraforming as his parent’s work on Ita was partially successful after the winter storm ended (the moon began to show earth-like features only months after their rescue; though it eventually failed again, Dr. Simonetta Sforza-Lecter’s experiment would be used on larger, uninhabited moons later). Hannibal is mute after the tragedy and disinterested in terraforming, so he’s sent to live with his great (maternal) uncle Adelai Niska on his space station, the Skyplex, which orbits the his planet Ezra (in the Georgia system).

2482 – Will Graham is born on Whittier (small watery planet covered in fish hatcheries; look it up, that’s a Verse planet). It is the home planet to its moon, Ita. His mother dies in childbirth and he is left in the care of his inattentive fisherman father who is looking for any excuse to get rid of him. 

2483 – Hannibal (11) begins speaking again. In a fit of rage, he kills a man in a shop on Ezra, which is naturally covered up by Niska who thinks of Hannibal as his son. Hannibal quickly learns of his taste for human flash and begins his training with and cooking for Niska and his men.

2486 – Malcolm Reynolds is born on Shadow // At Hannibal’s (age 14) insistence, he leaves Niska’s Skyplex and is sent to med school on Osiris to study medicine/neuroscience and indulge his passion for human anatomy. Neuroscience is a field in which the Alliance is pouring money and effort into expanding, so his education is paid for due to his gifted talent in the field and is parent’s work in the sciences.

2490 – Simon Tam born on Osiris.

2492 – Hannibal (20) performs surgery on a man who was a survivor of the “Great Ita Winter”, intentionally (though secretly) maiming him, but the man survives only to be tortured and consumed by Hannibal while the man is conscious and in recovery. This begins Hannibal’s killing spree through the hospital and surrounding planets. He takes random leaves of absence to work on the outer planets, making a name for himself as a guilt-ridden philanthropist (helping the injured on satellites that were damaged by Terraforming practices) when in reality he is tracking down and consuming the men that killed his family during the “Great Ita Winter”.

2494 – Will (12) begins hearing voices and becoming emotionally unstable so his father takes him to Beaumonde for physical/mental assessment. They can’t help him in their research facility, so they send him to the inner planets were they end up at the thriving neuroscience department in Capital City on Osiris. Neurosurgeon Hannibal (22) does an exploratory surgery on 12-year-old Will’s brain, calling the structure “unique” but otherwise disinteresting to him. 

When the Hands of Blue ask if Will would be a good candidate for a special study, Hannibal assumes so (unknowing of what the Hands of Blue are intending) and Will is encouraged into “The Academy” because of his empathic abilities, brain structure, and strange aptitude for telepathy. He is randomly cryofrozen for years at a time during which experiments are performed.

2496 – Hannibal (24) continues to kill the rude and affluent on Osiris as well as his enemies during his outer planet pilgrimages. He is touted as an amazing neurosurgeon, removing tumors from victims of radiation on outer planets. Much of his Alliance money is being spent on his travels. // Meanwhile, a strange killer is on the loose in Capital City and he continues to outsmart the Alliance. They have dubbed him the “Chesapeake Ripper” due to the underwater forest of bodies they found wighted and dropped into a great sea on the planet. Body parts are missing from each victim. They call him “Chesapeake” from the old Earth-that-was word for “body of water”.

2500 – River Tam is born on Osiris.

2506 – Unification War begins // Miranda project fails // Reavers are created

2511 – Mal and Zoe fight at Serenity Valley // Unification War ends // Simon (21) get an internship under Hannibal (39) and they work very closely, inevitably learning more about one another. Simon finds Hannibal odd and intense and they don’t work particularly well together but Hannibal passes much of his surgical knowledge onto Simon. There are brief mentions of Simon’s 11-year-old sister, River, to Hannibal. He is disinterested in learning about Simon’s family.

2513 – Hannibal (41) is “caught” by Simon (23) in an incriminating situation with a dead body (butchering it in the hospital, late at night). Hannibal threatens Simon’s career and he agrees to keep the incident under wraps but Simon will never trust him again.

2514 – River (14) is accepted into “The Academy” and paired for experimentation with Will (32 though he appears 22 due to extensive cryofreezing). // The Alliance calls Hannibal into question when Simon finally fingers his odd behavior around the hospital as “Ripper-esque”. The Alliance attempts to question Hannibal but he’s already taken off to hide in deep space as he attempts to find the last few survivors of the “Great Ita Winter”.

2516 – River (16) is sending out messages from “The Academy” that have Simon suspicious. She mentions “Will” being taken from her. Simon has no idea she is referencing a person and thinks they are taking her willpower or her strength to continue so he begins looking into The Academy. What he finds disturbs him and he begins his journey to bust her out. // Will is cryofrozen and shipped out to deep space for long range telepathic experimentations … when Hannibal find the ship he’s being transported on (Chapter 1).

2517 (Firefly TV series begins) – (Chapter 2) Jump six months … Hannibal (45) has Will (35 though he appears 25 due to cryofreezing) sedated and back in his box and is looking for a ship to transport them to an inner planet where Hannibal can gather the supplies he needs to work on (or possibly treat) Will’s oddly psychotic behavior. Mal (31) welcomes them on board Serenity.

Annnnd are you now hooked? I was. All that shit, btw, is true to canon. Every planet, every city. Hannibal and Will fit so well in this world, don’t they?

materia medica [concept]

An 1850s Medical University AU concept …

… in which Hannibal Lecter is a medical illustrator whose drawings feature the uncanny likenesses of high society figures who have gone missing in and around Baltimore. 

Rated: G

Dr. Will Graham, a mortician and adjunct professor of materia medica at the University of Maryland School of Medicine, is the only person suspecting of Mr. Lecter’s possible nefarious deeds. He approaches Mr. Lecter who appears cordial and welcoming, and Lecter begins inviting Dr. Graham to dinner. They enjoy sumptuous feasts and long-winded discussions about Mr. Lecter’s personal philosophies and Dr. Graham’s emotional well-being which the dear professor finds nothing short of embarrassing. A budding friendship quickly forms though not without some protesting from Dr. Graham who finds himself accepting invitations just to poke around Mr. Lecter’s drawing room.

Meanwhile, more bodies are showing up at the morgue – strange bodies, stitched bodies, bodies missing pieces – and Dr. Graham is now plagued by images of these mutilated corpses. His teaching is being disrupted by memories and visions of these heinous crimes, and when new illustrations mirroring his nightmares suddenly cross his desk, he takes the drawings and his concerns to the Chief of Police, Jack Crawford. The Chief, however, refuses to listen to the professor’s overly emotional diatribe about prophetic dreams and murdering illustrators, dismissing his concerns as those of a madman.

Feeling backed into a corner, Dr. Graham enlists the help of seedy Irish gang leader, Matthew Brown, to help him follow and expose Mr. Lecter’s crimes.

It’s only a matter of time before Mr. Lecter discovers the Irishman lurking in the shadows, and his retaliation and subsequent gift to his dear friend Dr. Graham is far beyond the professor’s wildest nightmares.

mariage d’enfer [fic]

A “Will the wedding planner” AU concept with a vignette …

Mischa is getting married to a wonderful woman she met while studying abroad in the States. Hannibal is the totally “laid back” (but actually ultra-critical) older brother who plans to walk his beloved sister down the aisle in lavish luxury.

Mischa’s dear fiancée recommends a keen-eyed but somewhat anal-retentive American wedding planner who she’d met at her psychology mentor’s small but personal wedding.

The bride-to-be is a tad hesitant to hire such a fickle and pricy planner, but her brother insisted that no expense be spared. Since their parents’ death, Hannibal and Misha were all that remained of the Lecters, so this wedding was to be the social event of the century.

When Hannibal finally meets the snippy wedding planner, he was both captivated and appalled by the man’s overly dramatic, contemptuous, and somewhat rude demeanor. The planner almost refused to do the Lecter wedding due to its size, but he was somehow convinced by Hannibal’s fawning trust in his abilities. 

However, Hannibal soon takes it upon himself to spend every waking moment making more and more outrageous demands that are clearly impossible to fulfill. He enjoys watching the inner workings of the strange man’s mind as he attempts to recreate all of Hannibal’s desires. But the planner refuses to let his client-from-hell get the best of him, much to Hannibal’s dismay and delight.

Rated: G

Will had never minded weddings. They were, of course, beautiful and often considered the experience of a lifetime. They were a rite of passage for some, to others a joyous celebration of love and life.

They were a fascinating exploration of culture and human desire, and for some reason, Will had always been drawn to the festivities of two people – once wandering the earth alone – finally meeting and agreeing to share the rest of their lives in each other’s loving embrace.

It was a fanciful thought: living a long life beside your one true love. In reality, Will knew most couplings dissolved within the first five years, but the joy and excitement on that first day together were still thrilling, and he seemed to have a knack for making dreams come true.

He’d watched his classmates, colleagues, and former friends grow and marry – the brides as mannequins for symbolic dowries, and the grooms dressed as the pinnacle of class after a tawdry night with strippers and cocktail shrimp. He’d been to weddings where the musicians, the three-piece waiters, and five-course meals cleverly hid the debt the new couple was about to face. He’d watched the bride and groom be dwarfed by the enormity and grandeur of the decorations. In short, he’d been to too many weddings where the wedding developed a garish life of its own, slowly devouring the love hidden at the heart of it.

Guests were caught in the whirlwind of loud music, uncomfortable clothes, or awkward drunken flirting that lead to brawls or sex in a closet or overpriced hotel room. Those weddings lacked what Will deemed the most important aspect of celebrating love and companionship: warm and heart-fluttering intimacy.

Those small, intimate gatherings were the weddings Will planned – personal affairs focused on the spirit and devotion of the couple and nothing else.

It was eight o’clock at night, and Will donned his glasses, shuffling through the newest and hopefully final list of the bride’s brother’s demands. The wedding was in three days and these additions were nothing short of insane. 

The sanguine should be drained from a young cow, he read to himself. How sacrificial.

“Jesus wept, Bev, he wants actual blood in the cake now. Did you read this?! Drained from a young cow, he says. The chocolate’s supposed to be whipped with the blood–” He stopped, suppressing a gag. “He’s a goddamn monster! I have to talk to Mischa about this.”

“Don’t bother her,” said Beverly, topping up Will’s wine. “I’m sure we can handle it. Maybe it’s a Lithuanian tradition? Try to stay open-minded, Will. Remember the Bloom-Verger wedding? If I recall, it was pretty ornate, too.”

“It was over the top, but there was no blood involved. I can handle an obscene amount of flowers and however many white-chocolate Sapphos a couple of brides want, but blood inside the cake? Come on.”

Beverly laughed under her breath. “Did you have a chance to cash his last check?”

“You’re damn right I did; I’m not gonna casually carry around half a million dollars; I’m going to need that money to pay for all my Xanax.” 

He continued to read, completely appalled. “I said the guest list should be no more than fifty. Now I have to find a hundred and fifty ortolans for some toast he’s doing. They’re illegal to trap and buy; did you know that? And it’s not like he’s releasing the ortolans, that would make too much senseThere’s a recipe attached to this!” He flicked the hand-written recipe card toward his poor assistant. 

“Oh, wait, he is releasing birds,” he continued, “doves right after they say their vows … so cliche. So while the chef is drowning endangered songbirds in alcohol, we’ll be releasing a hundred filthy doves. Why not split the difference and just flambé a couple flamingos for dessert! His gothic, tortured soul schtick is going to completely ruin this entire event!” 

His scorn fell upon another request, and he gripped his mouth in horror. No … this was supposed to be an event celebrating the joy of finding love, the excitement of beginning a new chapter of life, and the peace of knowing you were no longer alone …

The color drained from his face. “He wants falcons, Beverly. Oh my God, the doves are being released to feed the falcons!” He ripped off his glasses and cradled his eyes. ”This is a bird-shit covered nightmare, not a fairytale. Who releases raptors at a wedding?!”

She shrugged and stifled her impending laugh. “Another family tradition?” 

“Maybe if your family is a horde of hungry, nomadic Mongolians!”

Beverly grimaced and minced over to his desk, picking up the list. “Well what about this; this seems normal: he wants ice swans. We can do that.”

Will shook his head, still groaning in despair. “Keep reading. There’s a picture at the bottom.”

“Oh God, Will.” She covered her mouth. “Why would he ask for this!? At his own sister’s lesbian wedding?! Who’s Leda?!”

“I’ve stopped asking questions …,” he said, still rubbing his eyes. It was all madness. “I can’t tell if he loves birds or vehemently hates them. I’m a wedding planner, not an ornithologist. I need you to find me an ice sculptor as soon as possible. Preferably one who has absolutely no moral values whatsoever. I cannot let that ass win.” 

There were monster weddings that created the dreaded bridezillas, but those simply ended in tears over a smashed cake. There were the lavish affairs that no one really wanted to attend, but those events were simply long, arduous ordeals everyone suffered through out of pure obligation. Then there was whatever this macabre nightmare was with its blood-soaked cake and inexplicable gore. The bride’s only request was for ripe figs to be used throughout the ceremony – something to do with a vacation the couple took to Spain. That was it. The rest of these unspeakable requests were from the insufferable older brother alone. 

“Well, at least he seems to have all the food covered,” she said. “That was nice and, I guess, helpful–”

“Helpful? You mean his secret night-time cooking sessions with my chefs who he gag-ordered for some bizarre reason? And what about his refusal to let me taste anything before the wedding? I can’t pair wines, I have no idea what the food will look like, and there will be at least thirty-five very angry guests who, in three days, will be sat down and told the vegetarian meals I promised them are not on the menu anymore because the bride’s brother has an ‘ethical issue with vegetarians.’”

Suddenly Clair de Lune trilled from the front pocket of Will’s slacks. He fumbled his phone, silencing the alarm, and gruffly donned his suit jacket. 

“I have to go,” he said, snapping back the remnants of his wine. “His royal highness is taking me hunting for something – at night, with dogs. Probably mushroom or something equally dubious. He’s testing me, Beverly. He thinks I’m going to crack because of all these last minutes changes.”

“Just refuse to go; you’re busy. Tell him you have to catch a bunch of ortolans for a really pompous client.”

“I can’t refuse his requests for about a half a million reasons,” he said, tapping his wallet. “I’m obligated to pretend to find his little trips and anecdotes entrancing. I know he’s going to corner me again, but for the love of God, I can’t talk about Italian poetry anymore. I just can’t. He thinks because I do this for a living that I actually care about romance and high-class society. He is mistaken. I’d rather be fishing than discussing the aroma and bouquet of a random port from 1965.”

“Maybe he’s just trying to be friendly. He’s probably sad. His baby sister is flying the coop, and it seems like he was more of a father figure to her.”

Will stared into space for a minute. “You think that’s his metaphor for the wedding? Flying the coop? He’s more than a little preoccupied with birds.”

“Maybe …” A memory flashed across her eyes. “I saw one of his little appetizers earlier. I swear to God it’s a Fig Newton with a chicken foot stuck in the top.”

Jesus Christ. “If that is the metaphor he’s focused on, why’s he killing so many birds?”

“Anger issues?”

“I feel like I’m losing my mind. I’m going to go fill all the birdbaths with Champagne and then drown myself in one. Gotta stay one step ahead of him … gotta make this the hap- hap- happiest day ever!”

Beverly wrapped her arm around him, patting his pitiful back. “Poor Will. Always the bride’s maid, never the bride.”

“Shut up.”

When Will began his planning business, it was supposed to be a creative outlet for his overworked mind. He had a strange talent for understanding what brides meant when they described colors as tastes or what emotion a groom had felt after he recalled a memory from his childhood. Whatever his innate talent was it helped him create the exact environment his clients desired, and he was celebrated for it. It was a stressful but relatively benign way to peek into the happiness and intimacy he never expected to feel himself. 

He dropped his wine glass back to the table and shuffled past Beverly. Whatever this hunting trip with Hannibal was, he wanted no part of it, but he was currently without options. He ducked out of the Lecter’s guest cottage only briefly before remembering his final request for his assistant. 

“Last thing,” he said, leaning through the doorway, “That bitchy red-headed florist ran off somewhere and she’s not answering her phone. For the love of everything holy, Beverly, if you see her, tie her up. I need to light a fire under her ass about those non-existent centerpieces.” 

She nodded in reply, and he took a deep breath before heading down the sidewalk.

“Happy hunting!” he heard behind him.

He dismissed her well-wishing with a wave of his hand as he reached his car. He had a laundry list of either impossible or illegal substances to acquire in just seventy-two hours. Meanwhile, the brides were blissfully unaware of the sexually assaulting swans and the violent falconry planned for their blessed event. It was Will’s task to take almost a million dollars and spin this psychotic circus into a fairytale for three hundred people.

He wrenched open his door and plopped into his seat. There was a cliff on the way to Hannibal’s meeting spot if Will wanted to end it all right then. He could hang himself with the thirty-five yards of tulle in his trunk. Or maybe through some bizarre turn of events, he could meet a serial killer who might just agree to put an end to all of his suffering.

Whatever happened, in four days it would all be over. The guests would be going home with full bellies and hopefully fuller hearts, and the brides would be on their way to sun-soaked Madrid for their honeymoon. The wine would be gone, the estate cleared, and the falcons – dear God, he thought – the falcons would be flown back to their aviary, and Will would be alone once again.

Always the bride’s maid, never the bride, he thought. 

Such was life and love.

the fire of ill friends [fic]

Read the fic on AO3 only Rated: M

A Hannibal S3/Valhalla Rising crossover missing scene [fic notes only] …

I will begin by admitting that my obsession with the Poetic Edda was what prompted this story.

As I read the myth of Óðinn hanging for nine days in a wind-battered tree… I couldn’t help but picture Will in his place. From there, comparisons began to arise between Óðinn’s personality and Will’s neurotic behavior. I was seeing Norse symbols in every episode of Hannibal – most probably imagined – but they were exciting all the same.

I began reading the Prose Edda and saw Will in Tyr. I saw him in Thor. I saw him everywhere and then the more I thought about these stories and poems, I began to see Hannibal in Loki. I saw Abigail in Hel. The pieces seemed to fall into place. Óðinn and Loki being blood brothers, Óðinn and Loki fighting against and with each other …

Parts of Loki (his children) are cast away by Óðinn. Loki is punished by him, he is held accountable by him, and as much as the other Gods despise Loki’s antics, Óðinn is defensive of his brother. In the end, however, it is Loki and his brood that bring about Ragnarök and despite his best efforts, Óðinn cannot stop his fate.

These are very similar themes that run through NBC’s Hannibal – concepts of fate and destiny intertwined with ambiguous morality and lots and lots of death and destruction.

I should probably explain that One-eye is Óðinn. If you missed that in Valhalla Rising, I’ll point it out now. One of Óðinn’s many, many names is One-eye.

VR has so many themes, from depicting the fall of man because of religion, to self-sacrifice, to destiny and fate, etc … it’s a very ‘man vs nature’, ‘man vs man’, and ‘man vs self’ sort of smorgasbord. I’m not going to do a critical analysis of Valhalla Rising because everyone and their brother has done one.

You may already know that I love director Nicolas Winding Refn, so I’ll just say, despite Valhalla Rising’s flagrant violence, abuse, and overuse of almost trope-like “art film” qualities, I still love it. I think it’s a fun jaunt into the mythological world of old and “new” religions, and since I despise organized religion in general, I think it’s a film everyone should watch.

Valhalla Rising takes place around 1000 AD. Many of the Norse myths were recorded in 12-1300 AD to help give you a timeline. Around 1000 AD, the Crusades were just about to take over Europe replacing the old pagan gods with Christianity. This is, obviously, a major theme of Valhalla Rising since One-eye makes it to the Americas with a group of Crusaders looking for the Holy Land.

I originally had a bunch of info right here about the original Graham Clan and how WIll could be related or at least connected to The Boy (in VR), but I already posted about that, so I won’t bother repeating.

The only two people in the whole fic given formal names are Will and Óðinn. All other characters remain nameless and I use, something like eight fifteen of Óðinn’s names in my fic, plus all the chapter names are more of his names. Óðinn has over 200 names. I don’t even give Hannibal a name in this fic other than to call him The Ripper a couple times. Also, if you watched Valhalla Rising none of those characters have names either, except One-Eye.

Below are the notes that I wanted to attach to the end of each chapter but I didn’t. If you want to know more about the symbolism of my fic or if you are curious as to where all the crazy dreams come from, I have the myths listed and offer references to learn more. Check out Jackson Crawford’s YouTube channel to get a hot take on the Norse myths and language.

Individual Chapter Notes

The Wanderer

I have a very elaborate headcanon backstory for Will – growing up in Louisiana, speaking broken French, being a latchkey kid, suffering from a lot of emotional turmoil since his alcoholic father really doesn’t understand his empathic “condition”, etc. I even have a sad story for how he got his first pair of glasses but it’s not yet published. Any of this ringing any Hopper bells? All the bells should be ringing.

So in my headcanon, Will spends a lot of time at his neighbor’s house and I briefly mention her in this chapter. She just happens to be described as an older, motherly-type woman, a seamstress, and having raised two boys before Will. She’s a blatant Frigg reference, and it draws comparisons between Will and Frigg’s youngest son (with Óðinn), the golden-boy Baldr. Baldr’s death is monumental to all the Norse Gods. In fact, it’s so tragic that Óðinn sends someone to Hel to try to get him back. But that all comes up later.


All that historical stuff about spearheads and limestone is based on the assumption that the Crusaders in Valhalla Rising landed somewhere around Quebec, possibly sailing down the St. Lawrence River or one of its tributaries. The red clay covered natives in that region of Canada around 1000 AD could have been the Wyandot people (aka the Huron). I’m basing this strictly on depictions of those tribesmen who used a lot of red clay to paint themselves and also very similar weaponry to what was portrayed in the film (similar types of bows and arrows and the club that fell One-eye at the end).

Also, Óðinn’s spear is named Gungnir. There is no reason to know that, I’m just sharing for fun.


My headcanon Will speaks French because he grew up in Louisiana. “Va te faire foutre,” means something akin to “kiss my ass” or “fuck you” in French. I like to keep Will a little sassy.

Also, in Valhalla Rising, One-eye was supposed to stay with his captors (the ones who were setting up his fights) for five years. They renege on that contract when another tribesman takes possession of him in the beginning of the film and we all know what happens to him. Mads Mikkelson must really like to disembowel people … but those four years of constant fights are where One-eye gets all his fractures. I’m only explaining this because I know some of you haven’t seen the film. Shame on you.

Masked One

Apples come up later in my fic as well. I wanted to give significance to something my characters can consume. This is a Hannibal fic after all. Apples were special to the Norse gods. They provided them with something akin to eternal youth. Without them they wither and age.

By the way, all my references to Norse Mythology come from the Prose Edda by Snorri Sturluson (Anderson’s translation) and the Poetic Edda by Sturluson (Crawford’s translation). If you want to know more about the apples you can read about them briefly in the myth “Idun and Her Apples” in the Prose Edda.

I play a lot with dignity and names in this fiction as well as domination vs submission because of One-eye’s character in Valhalla Rising being very yielding to his “captors” and because of all of Will’s colleagues treating him with a strange sensitivity since his incarceration. These are just several of many themes running through this fic but I’m not going to bore you with them here.

Sleep Bringer

Óðinn’s ravens were named Huginn (thought) and Muninn (memory). From the Prose Edda:

Two ravens sit on Óðinn’s shoulders, and bring to his ears all that they hear and see. Their names are Hugin and Munin. At dawn he sends them out to fly over the whole world, and they come back at breakfast time. Thus he gets information about many things, and hence he is called Rafnagud (raven-god). As is here said:

Hugin and Munin
Fly every day
Over the great earth.
I fear for Hugin
That he may not return,
Yet more am I anxious for Munin.

Ravens typically travel in pairs and we see two unceremoniously perched atop Cassie Boyle, the college student whose body was found mounted on antlers in a field outside of Hibbing, Minnesota. This is irrelevant, I’m just sharing some of my personal brain vomit about how I’m bringing the show into this mess of a fic.

About Will’s house, in an interview with Patti Podesa, Hannibal’s production designer, she says of Will’s home:

I found a farmhouse outside Toronto, untouched, habited by the original owners. This became our backstory for Will: he purchased the house and land and just moved in. He lives in the downstairs, so he can be aware of anyone showing up outside … Some of the furniture, paintings and books belong to the owners of the house (who are the most fabulous couple – he was a motocross champion in the ’60s, she paints) … Will lives there with his dogs, his motorboat parts and his fishing tackle. He does not have a computer and does not bring work home.

It has been my personal headcanon that a bunch of junk was left in the house by the old owners and Will basically just moves in and makes it his own. I love the idea of there being old crappy paintings in the attic that he dusts off and displays (you can see some of the amateur art above Will’s fireplace – a woodland scene with birch trees). This is what prompted my Encyclopedia bit. Not owning a computer allows Will the leisure of combing through his research slowly and intentionally – never wandering too far out of his comfort zone. Books require deliberation and methodical exploration, and this is how canon Will approaches his gathering of knowledge. He has always been a technophobe so books are far more comfortable for him.

Also, the chapter graphic is of an old map of Iceland. On it, we see caves, rivers, ocean, wolves, and sea monsters … lots of foreshadowing there …

God of Men

This secondary case that Will tags along on is never mentioned again, and is only significant symbolically. The decapitated body is a reference to Mímir, the wise. Óðinn often sought Mímir’s counsel (in fact it was Mímir’s well that Óðinn drops his eye into so that he may see his future – he sees his death at Ragnarök and then spends his life trying to avoid this fate). Mímir is beheaded during the Æsir-Vanir War and Óðinn keeps his head, which has been smeared with herbs and chanted over, in a box and refers to it for counsel. I used the herbs from Óðinn’s nine herb charm for reference even though the charm is for poisonings not, um, death by decapitation. The nine herbs charm was an Old English charm recorded in the 10th-century Lacnunga manuscript (an old book of medical recipes).

If you’re interested, the charm references the following nine herbs:

Mugwort (Mucgwyrt)
Cockspur grass (Attorlaðe)
Lamb’s cress (Stune)
Plantain (Wegbrade)
Mayweed (Mægðe)
Nettle (Stiðe)
Crab-apple (Wergulu)
Thyme (Fille)
Fennel (Finule)

You crush the herbs to dust and mix them with soap and apple juice. You sing a charm into the mouth of the wounded, both of their ears, and over the wound itself prior to the application of the salve. There is more to all of this, but that’s enough about it here.

As for the name thing, yes, I only refer to Will and Óðinn by their formal names. No one else is named. I hope I did a decent enough job of describing everyone well enough that you can tell who they are. The science husbands get blurred, but that’s inconsequential.

I have a pet peeve in the Hannibal fandom that I had to explore in this chapter. I hate it when people call Will, William. It’s a thing that I just can’t get over. He has only ever been referred to as William on very weird occasions, once in a Tattle article in the book Red Dragon, and I think in the movie version of Manhunter. For some reason, fanfic writers think Hannibal likes formality so much that he’d call him William despite it being incorrect. Let’s not forget Hannibal has used the terms “a-hoppin,” “mic-drop,” “cheesy,” and “atta girl.” And if you read the books, he makes fart jokes, for god’s sake. Fans sometimes make him speak in Shakespearian riddles which I think it why in Unhitched I make him blunt as all hell.

For myself, there is no way I can make Hannibal call Will by anything other than his actual name, and since Harris didn’t name him William, he’s sticking with Will. I do recognize the irony is that statement considering Hannibal intentionally calls him everything EXCEPT Will in my fic Unhitched, but it’s an AU. There are different rules for AUs. Anything goes.

Moving on … Grimnir is one of Óðinn’s many names. It’s the old Norse spelling which translates to “Masked One,” the title I use for chapter IV.

Seiðr is the “womanly” magic that Will mentions when he’s talking about Óðinn. It’s only womanly in that it was concerned with discerning and altering the course of destiny by re-weaving part of destiny’s web. Óðinn was all about that because he was very anti-dying-at-Ragnarök. But seiðr was seen as a woman’s magic (associated with sorceresses or witches) possibly because it had to do with “weaving” which was woman’s work or possibly I just made that up.

That aside, at the time (Viking Age, remember 8th to 11th century) this type of profession would have been highly dishonorable for a man to partake in. No “self-respecting” “man” would adopt a female’s social or sexual role (why did I say sexual – because everyone seems to peg Will as a bottom boy, and I’ve never been able to get on board with that). And yet, Óðinn is associated with the masculine/feminine energies. A duality, so to speak.

Of course, now that I think of it, didn’t one of the Crusaders fuck another dude at the end of Valhalla Rising? The answer to that is a resounding yes. One of them did. They were in that weird drug-induced haze. Refn really likes to sneak that stuff in there, doesn’t he? I’m still reeling over his “homosocial” kiss between Frank and Tonny in Pusher … because all my straight dude friends totally make out with each other in bars all the time. They use it as a way to “bond”  … just like how they “play knives,” pretending to playfully stab each other because THAT’S not sexually symbolic in any way. Just two bros hanging out at a bar, pretending to stab each other until they end up a pile of sweaty giggles on the floor. I don’t know why I launched into shit about Pusher … back to what I was saying about womanly magic …

Actually, that’s all I had to say. I personally see Will very much like Óðinn, bridging the gap between what is referred to as masculine and what is considered more feminine. Will’s my plaid wearing, scruffy-chinned, small engine repairman. But he’s also my slutty little tease who is very in touch with his emotions. So I like to portray him less effeminate – more classically masculine – but with a traditionally more womanly appreciation for compassion, family, and emotional sensitivity.

But to each his own and all that. If you love to read stories about Hannibal undressing a long-eyelashed Will before powdering the man’s creamy white ass, you go right ahead! I’m sure there are a million of them to choose from, so enjoy.

Powdering Will’s creamy white ass, tho … just picture that for a sec.

Lord of the Gallows

I may have gone overboard drawing comparisons between the mythology and the show. This dream of Will’s is basically my interpretation of Óðinn’s Quest for the Runes and The Song of Spells found in the Hávamál, a collection of Old Norse poems from the Poetic Edda (they are from the perspective of Óðinn).

I took some liberties with the stags (also called harts or red deer), mainly because the stag is a critically important symbol in Hannibal but hardly touched on in Norse myth. The stag’s “formal” names are pulled from the Grímnismál in the Poetic Edda and are Dáinn, Dvalinn, Duneyrr, and Duraþrór, but how I use them in my story are not necessarily reflective of their significance to mythology. Dáinn and Dvalinn are more notably dwarfish names in Norse mythology (you may also recognize them from Tolkien’s lore) and mean Death and Sleep, respectively. These names are also mentioned elsewhere in the “Hávamál” but they are referencing the rune keepers of the elves and dwarves and not the stags which is confusing to say the least, but whatever.

For Duneyrr and Duraþrór, I used Finnur Magnússon’s early 1800s translation of the names (though I do not subscribe to his four-winds symbolism as I find it farfetched and stupid) and named them Thriving Slumber and Thunder in the Ear. Altogether, I see them as the four stages of human consciousness.

Dáinn is death, the largest stag who is purposeful and uncaring.

Dvalinn is sleep, dew and moss-covered from his time spent unmoving among the branches.

Duneyrr is transcendental meditation, who is the most unique of the four stags and offers Will introspection (he is also the only one of my stags to “speak”).

Duraþrór is consciousness or wakefulness and is both loud and cumbersome and the smallest of the stags as he represents the shortest amount of time our minds are in this stage.

I debated for a long time trying to decide on Will’s position as he hangs from Yggdrasil. Óðinn is not described as hanging by either neck or foot, but both depictions can be found in art from all over Europe (the most common being Óðinn hanging by foot like the “Hanged Man” card in the Tarot deck). As the translations seem to refer to Óðinn looking or peering down, we could say his body is hanging head up, but of course, “down” could be referring to the direction towards the Well of Urðr into which he peers, so his orientation is still a mystery. Whether Óðinn is hanging by foot or noose is irrelevant, however. I chose to crucify Will because, hey, he basically crucified Hannibal with the help of the orderly, Matthew Brown (S3E5). (I love how I used his full name and the episode number as though you don’t know this.)

As he hangs from the World Tree, Óðinn learns of the runes, nine songs, and eighteen spells, which I suppose correspond to eighteen runes, but I could find nothing attributing a specific spell to a specific rune (at least not in the correct order). As an aside, this is the origin story of the Old Norse Futhark. It was not a man-developed alphabet, it was given to Óðinn in a Divine vision.

What I ended up with in my story, after spending two days staring at about four different translation of each spell just to get an approximate idea as to what the hell was being discussed, was eighteen short, modern descriptive attributes of human qualities, skills, or traits. I felt as though Will would succinctly summarize the spells into easily digestible bits that reflected his own personality and abilities. Since he’s highly empathic, he has a certain insight into humanity and how men act, and I feel like Norse magic is very similar to human intuition and the fields of modern sociology and psychology.

Of course, don’t listen to me, I write gay fanfiction. I don’t know anything about this shit. Go look up Jackson Crawford. He’s informative and very suave.

As for the rest of the chapter, the story is just Óðinn’s … he hung for nine days from a wind-battered tree, etc, etc, you get the gist. Read the Hávamál. Actually read Jackson Crawford’s Cowboy Hávamál. It’s funny and charming (no pun intended) and you will get a straight-forward translation of Óðinn’s advice, and it reads like you’re sitting around a campfire shootin’ the shit with hobos.

I will say that the “mad horse” comment was just dumb luck. Yggdrasil is an ash tree and means “Óðinn’s horse” and when I saw the pneumonic device used by plant taxonomists, I had to use it. It was too perfect. This chapter is so packed with crap (there’s even a Dante’s Inferno reference ffs). I’m stopping here, because I’ve already said too much.

Father of the Slain

First off, the graphic is of the Icelandic flower Mayweed (see the nine herb spell from chapter VI). But it has another name: Baldursbra or Baldr’s Brow. I said Baldr would be significant later, and it is officially later.

So this chapter is all about the loss of a child. I bring in stuff about The Boy (from Valhalla Rising) to prompt Will’s self-reflection about what happened to Abigail. One-eye could be mourning the loss of The Boy, or he could be mourning the loss of Baldr. Baldr was his golden boy. He was loved by all (except Loki) and his tragic death (spurred by Loki) caused all the gods to weep (save Loki). But you can’t really blame Loki for what happened (yes you can). Óðinn banishes three of Loki’s children and there is a whole host of other problems between them, but I’ll focus on his three kiddos since the next three dreams are all about them.

Óðinn sends Loki’s half dead/half living daughter Hel to … well, Hel (also called Niflheim), where she becomes the goddess of the underworld. Loki’s wolf-son, Fenrir, is sent to an island in the lake Amsvartnir so he doesn’t eat the world, and Loki’s snake-son, Jörmungandr, is cast into the waters surrounding Midgard. Óðinn is paranoid as hell and he knows these three kids will be the death of him, quite literally. It’s a prophecy and it actually happens at Ragnarök.

Back to Baldr for a moment … Will’s talk about moving on and finding peace after withering from the death of a child … if you know Baldr’s story, that makes a bit more sense (Poetic Edda, “The Death of Balder”). So Baldr’s older brother Hoðr was tricked by Loki into killing Baldr with a sprig of mistletoe. Óðinn freaks out and sends someone to Hel to have Baldr released, long story short, due to Loki being a double-douche, Baldr is forced to stay in Hel but he returns each spring bringing his golden light with him. Think Hades and Persephone.

I really love the Baldr myth though. It’s tragic and poetic and I love that it brings about the fall of the entire realm. It paves the way for a brand new world, not unlike the death of Abigail sparking a turning point in the Hannibal world … though that is probably a stretch.

Anyway, you may be asking how I am relating all this Norse mythology to Refn’s One-eye. Well I kind of see One-eye as a regenerating being. His character might have a sense of finality in the film, but I remember reading once that Refn had intended to make a prequel that basically had One-eye traveling through time. It sounds ridiculous (because it is) but it got me wondering if One-eye didn’t live in cycles (at least in the Valhalla Rising universe). It made me create this entire AU in my head in which One-eye continually lives and dies, fights and falls, and sacrifices himself for the innocent. So I attach all the myths to him as though he has lived them for thousands of years and that the little window we peer into during Valhalla Rising is close to the very end of his existence as Christianity is forcing out the old gods.

Hel Binder

Obviously I made Abigail Hel. Hel is the two-sided (death/life) daughter of Loki and is described as literally having a dead and a living half. The symbolism abounds here with Abigail literally being both alive and dead in the show. First she’s alive, then her dad nearly kills her, then she survives, then Will “eats” her, then Hannibal “surprises” Will with her actually being alive, and then Hannibal kills her (again), and then we are all tricked into thinking that she and Will go to Europe together, and then we find out that Will’s just pretending  … what a life … er, death.

Hel is mentioned in a few stories. My basis for the realm is not so much in the scripture as it is in my own personal vision of Niflheim or what I think a young daughter of Loki may create. It is also the sort of world Will envisions Abigail living in. It is a realm of perpetual autumn, which, if you remember the show, the whole Shrike storyline takes place in the fall, so to Will, she may feel trapped in this golden memory of that experience together.

“Loki’s Offspring” in the Prose Edda tells us a little bit about Hel:

Hel, [Óðinn] cast into Niflheim, and gave her power over [the ninth world] that she should appoint abodes to them that are sent to her, namely, those who die from sickness or old age. She has there a great mansion, and the walls around it are of strange height, and the gates are huge. Eljudner is the name of her hall. Her table hight famine; her knife, starvation. Her man-servant’s name is Ganglate; her maid-servant’s, Ganglot. Her threshold is called stumbling-block; her bed, care; the precious hangings of her bed, gleaming bale. One-half of her is [black], and the other half is of the hue of flesh; hence she is easily known. Her looks are very stern and grim.

My Hel still feeds her dead with the meager pittance of a vast orchard. Obviously these are not Iðun’s apples, they are probably more akin to crab-apples, but she is doing her best to bring comfort to the dead.

Will runs into two dead folks in Niflheim. First is Sheldon Isley, aka Tree Man (S2E6), who gives him the Belladonna that Hannibal has stashed where his heart should have been.

The second is Beverly. Awww. I teared up writing Beverly’s part. Did you catch my “curiosity killed the Katz” joke? No? Well shit.

Oh, the dog’s name is Garm. He guards the entrance of Niflheim which is called Gnipa-cave. It’s irrelevant to know his name, but Will would want you to know (he’s mentioned again in the Prose Edda, “Ragnarök”).

God of Prisoners

So, my notes are getting ridiculous so I’ll just talk about this line: “We are both now at the mercy of time – awaiting the sword, the teeth, or the fall to kill us.”

At Ragnarök (Prose Edda, “Ragnarök”) and the end of Hannibal (assuming season four never happens), Heimdall fells Loki with his sword, Fenrir’s jaws kill Óðinn, and obviously, the cliff kills our boys. This could also reference Hannibal’s sweet chef’s knives and his teeth also being viable options for Will’s death and that brings me to my next strange headcanon.

In the Lord of the Gallows, I note how I imagine Will dying in Wrath of the Lamb. The stag asks Will if he “feels the teeth at the end”. My headcanon is that Hannibal tastes Will’s neck as they fall. Not like in a “kiss kiss” way or an “I’m hungry” kind of way but rather an “honor the flesh of my kindred spirit” kind of way. Hannibal really wanted to eat him. I mean he tried to eat him what, four times? If you don’t think he’d try again as his dying act … I’m not sure we watched the same show.

Of course, Bryan Fuller focuses a lot on all the physical pain Will is feeling at the end of Wrath, while he shows all the emotional pain Hannibal is in, so Hannibal may not be in a frame of mind to be so selfish that he would cause Will more pain at that point. Will has obviously changed him, so perhaps they die together in peace rather than pieces.

Foe of the Wolf

I feel for Will, I really do. He loves his dogs and to watch one as mighty as Fenrir be bound and hurt in such a way would be heartbreaking for him. Much like Tyr (the god who actually has his hand eaten by Fenrir), Will is ruled by his conscience and his honor (at least before Hannibal gets ahold of him). He wants to be fair and just. The greater good needs Fenrir bound, but as he loves and empathizes with the hound, he’s torn. This is how Will feels as the show shifts between season 2 and 3.

The wolf is tricked by three fetters (or ties) of which the first two he breaks free. The third is infused with magic and it ultimately ensnares him, leaving him bound (though still growing) until he breaks free at Ragnarök (Fenrir’s fettering story is in the Prose Edda, “Loki and his Offspring”).

But who is Fenrir to Will? Well, he’s a lot of things: regret and guilt of course, but ultimately Fenrir is Hannibal. Like Hel is the embodiment of what Hannibal took from Will, Fenrir is what Will took from Hannibal. Will betrayed Hannibal’s trust and he rejected his offering of friendship.

After losing his hand, Tyr fades from the myths until Ragnarök. I imagine him returning to the island to bring food to Fenrir, much like Will visiting Hannibal in prison. In the myth, Fenrir howls so loudly that his captors stab him in the mouth, a sword left to pry open his jaw, effectively silencing the beast (or effectively muzzling Hannibal with that infamous half-mask). Fenrir’s blood and saliva pour from his gaping maw to form the river Ván.

I imagine Tyr sitting by Fenrir as the wolf continues to grow, petting his ever-lengthening fur and never getting over what he’d done. While the other gods laughed when Fenrir was finally bound, Tyr doesn’t. The myth alludes that he doesn’t laugh because he’d just lost his hand, but I see him silently crying to himself, not in physical pain, but out of compassion for the friend he’d just betrayed.

Now Will is obviously a little more hardened than this, but can you imagine an empath who loves dogs and has an incredible guilt complex about betraying a friend reading this myth? He’d be inconsolable.

At Ragnarök, Tyr is killed in a battle against Garm (the dog that leads Will through Niflheim). There is debate over whether Garm and Fenrir are the same wolf because Garm is called Fenrir in the Poetic Edda’s “Voluspa” (they both are named in various places having howled at the gates of Niflheim). For this reason, I have Garm struggle with his chains as Will descends into Niflheim in chapter IX. The struggling bloodies and rips up Will’s hand, the hand he will eventually lose to Fenrir.

Fenrir, of course, breaks free of his fetter at the end of the world and consumes Óðinn. This is yet another reason why I think it’s appropriate to have Hannibal take a bite from Will as they fall. It just seems to be a fitting end.

Ruler of Treachery

The first time I published these notes (over a year ago), I had nothing to share about this chapter. During my edits, I eventually doubled the word count, and thought I’d have something to explain, but, alas, I still find little to say.

It’s Will. He’s never enjoyed therapy, so sitting him down with Alana to watch him squirm was something I felt compelled to do. Realistically, would Alana be his therapist after all the shit they went through? No. But that doesn’t matter. I started making my own headcanons for everything so bear with me if you find my interpretation of the show wildly inconsistent. I’ve only watched it once five years ago, so this was all written from memory.

I feel like this chapter sort of sets you up for the mental anguish the man is under. He’s not handling his separation from Hannibal well and no one is believing him when he claims to be “okay.”

I will say that getting to this point in the story was eye-opening for me as a writer. The way Will and Alana interact here is very strained. At the time these notes were written, I found myself in the middle of Unhitched, exploring Hopper’s relationship with his own Alana. It really drove home how original Hopper actually is as a character. I can’t call him Will Graham anymore, I feel like he’s practically an OC, like Nicky and Bill or Blue (I have no link to that little slut; I’m so sorry). Will is still inside Hopper, but he’s a warped version of himself, stretched and twisted due to his circumstances.

Okay, I won’t talk about Unhitched again.


I loved writing this chapter. This is based on the myth in which Thor battles Jörmungandr, the Midgard serpent (Prose Edda, “Thor’s Adventures”). I just couldn’t write this fiction without giving Will the opportunity to go fishing. Fishing is such a core part of his character. Once again, the serpent is another version of Hannibal (and Jörmungandr is also Loki’s offspring).

Thor is basically made to look a fool in a previous myth (a giant plays a few deceptive tricks on him) and he takes out his anger on the serpent (even though his rage is somewhat misplaced since the serpent didn’t trick him, the giant did). I gave Will a new resolve in this chapter. He’s a bit angrier, vengeful, and ready to stop the madness. He’s also made to feel a little foolish by the old man who continues to call him “boy.” In the myth, Thor appears as an older boy.

In the end, Will sacrifices his eye (like Óðinn) to pull the beast out of hiding much like he uses himself to find Hannibal in Europe (though in my fic, that has yet to happen). There’s a lot more to it, but that’s the gist.

Mover of Constellations

And just like that, Will is expected to move on. I wanted to make the death of One-eye just a blip in time. His death is unimportant to the world despite how deeply important he was to Will. This is how Will has always had to live. He becomes personally invested in people on a deep, almost spiritual level only to have them walk away, or be taken away, or simply not reciprocate his feelings.

He was seeing One-eye as a very important being – a soothsayer, somewhat. He was gaining personal insight that he’d never had before. And then the man was pulled from him and destroyed and that connection is suddenly severed.

Was One-eye actually important? Was he supernatural? Or was Will projecting all of that onto him because he is depressed, injured, terrified, and heartbroken? Who’s to say?

I can’t imagine living like Will. I have studied empathy for months trying to get a sense of what turmoil Will would have to live with. I understand why he wants to be alone. I understand how easily he can lose himself in others. He’s malleable and easily manipulated. It would be terrifying to feel that vulnerable constantly, especially after the last few years of being deceived, framed, and then losing the trust of your colleagues.

But anyway, we leave Will hellbent on finding Hannibal and finishing what they started and this is where we re-merge onto the canon timeline, right before Will heads out to find Hannibal.

I cannot believe you read all that. My god. You win a gold goddamn star, reader.

clutching at straws [notes]

Unhitched chapter notes …

Read chapter on AO3 Rated: E

The next few chapters will be shorter bursts of insight into Hopper’s current mental state. I originally wrote each section (seven in total) back to back, in one long chapter with section breaks, but when I realized it was 18k words, I suggested to my beta that I might break them into individual chapters (2-4k words each). He agreed with that sentiment, saying that it would preserve the disjointed feeling of this part of the story as well.

If this were a physical novel, you could simply read at your own pace, but unfortunately, the flow doesn’t translate well when the chapters are posted weeks apart (which I do for several reasons – time, story continuity, and visibility being three of them). This will not be an issue once it’s completed, but for now, I apologize. I’ve decided to err on the side of the story’s needs rather than the comfort of my faithful readers, and I’m sorry about that. But in the end, I think the integrity of the story’s flow will be upheld if I post each section a week or so apart. I will try to post them at a quicker pace if possible, but if you want to not read for a few chapters, I fully understand.

An update on the scale of this monster: I was aiming for 60 chapter. Looking at that now, it’s a laughable goal. The Music Man’s death and Hopper’s mental and physical recovery was supposed to be three chapters in total before they move on. At this point, it is eleven. What I mean is: Unhitched will go far beyond 60 chapters.

That said, this is not a story that’s being written to be published (but a huge thank you to all the readers who have said that it should be). The fic is far too long and covers way too much information for a standard novel. The word count alone is outrageous, but I promised myself that I would write it as an exercise in mood, emotion, continuity, symbolism, and characterization, WITHOUT an end goal of publication. Because I’m not limiting myself (with a word count or length), I can go into the more fun aspects of my characters by visiting their mind palaces/stream of consciousness, dreams, back stories, hallucinations, etc, without length constraints.

Most of you are already supportive of this – you don’t want me to skim or limit this AU, and I thank you all for that encouragement. <3

To the meat of the chapter: If you were confused by this chapter, know that it will all make sense in a bit, please bear with me while I edit. I will try to post as quickly as possible without screwing myself by overlooking something important. I have already gone back through the previous 30 chapter, sculpting, adding, and editing, so if you ever plan to reread it, there are new tidbits to discover.

The fable, in the beginning, is actually a retelling of Aesop’s The Monkey and the Dolphin, the moral being, “He who once begins to tell falsehoods is obliged to tell others to make them appear true, and, sooner or later, they will get him into trouble.” Hopper should be concerned by his unreliable narration, but who knows if he actually sees the reasons yet.

In other news, I know at least one of you is going to message me saying, “The Blue Oyster, Jo? Is that a reference to The Blue Oyster club from those Police Academy movies? Do you have any integrity left?”

I plead the fifth, and also, I never had any integrity to start with, so suck it, Tyler. And we all know Hopper would frequent a gay-ass leather bar if he could find one in Baltimore in the late 60s. THAT’S MY HEADCANON WHICH IS CANON NOW. EVERYONE CALLED HIM SLUTPUPPY.

As for the trees and the plants and all that yada, yada, I’m not going to get into the symbolism because (guess what?) it comes up later.

BUT … the Montrachet, Montrachet, I always talk about Montrachet because it’s Will favorite wine. From Red Dragon,

Graham, who owned almost nothing except basic fishing equipment, a third-hand Volkswagen, and two cases of Montrachet, felt a mild animosity toward the adult toys and wondered why.

This is extra funny because the “adult toys” are not dildoes as we all immediately imagined, but rather golf clubs, trail bikes, a skeet gun, a Nikon camera, and a projector.

Anyway, I can’t NOT write about the Montrachet because it’s also the “Bastard” wine that Bedelia uses to draw the police to Hannibal in the show, so I always include it somewhere in my fics.

Anyone familiar with locust trees? I am. I had a giant one in the front yard of my childhood home. They are covered in huge ass spikes.

The next few chapters will be shorter bursts of insight into Hopper’s current mental state. I originally wrote each section (seven in total) back to back, in one long chapter with section breaks, but when I realized it was 18k words, I suggested to my beta that I might break them into individual chapters (2-4k words each). He agreed with that sentiment, saying that it would preserve the disjointed feeling of this part of the story as well.

If this were a physical novel, you could simply read at your own pace, but unfortunately, the flow doesn’t translate well when the chapters are posted weeks apart (which I do for several reasons – time, story continuity, and visibility being three of them). This will not be an issue once it’s completed, but for now, I apologize. I’ve decided to err on the side of the story’s needs rather than the comfort of my faithful readers, and I’m sorry about that. But in the end, I think the integrity of the story’s flow will be upheld if I post each section a week or so apart. I will try to post them at a quicker pace if possible, but if you want to not read for a few chapters, I fully understand.

An update on the scale of this monster: I was aiming for 60 chapter. Looking at that now, it’s a laughable goal. The Music Man’s death and Hopper’s mental and physical recovery was supposed to be three chapters in total before they move on. At this point, it is eleven. What I mean is: Unhitched will go far beyond 60 chapters.

That said, this is not a story that’s being written to be published (but a huge thank you to all the readers who have said that it should be). The fic is far too long and covers way too much information for a standard novel. The word count alone is outrageous, but I promised myself that I would write it as an exercise in mood, emotion, continuity, symbolism, and characterization, WITHOUT an end goal of publication. Because I’m not limiting myself (with a word count or length), I can go into the more fun aspects of my characters by visiting their mind palaces/stream of consciousness, dreams, back stories, hallucinations, etc, without length constraints.

Most of you are already supportive of this – you don’t want me to skim or limit this AU, and I thank you all for that encouragement. <3

To the meat of the chapter: If you were confused by this chapter, know that it will all make sense in a bit, please bear with me while I edit. I will try to post as quickly as possible without screwing myself by overlooking something important. I have already gone back through the previous 30 chapter, sculpting, adding, and editing, so if you ever plan to reread it, there are new tidbits to discover.

The fable, in the beginning, is actually a retelling of Aesop’s The Monkey and the Dolphin, the moral being, “He who once begins to tell falsehoods is obliged to tell others to make them appear true, and, sooner or later, they will get him into trouble.” Hopper should be concerned by his unreliable narration, but who knows if he actually sees the reasons yet.

In other news, I know at least one of you is going to message me saying, “The Blue Oyster, Jo? Is that a reference to The Blue Oyster club from those Police Academy movies? Do you have any integrity left?”

I plead the fifth, and also, I never had any integrity to start with, so suck it, Tyler. And we all know Hopper would frequent a gay-ass leather bar if he could find one in Baltimore in the late 60s. THAT’S MY HEADCANON WHICH IS CANON NOW. EVERYONE CALLED HIM SLUTPUPPY.

As for the trees and the plants and all that yada, yada, I’m not going to get into the symbolism because (guess what?) it comes up later.

BUT … the Montrachet, Montrachet, I always talk about Montrachet because it’s Will favorite wine. From Red Dragon,

Graham, who owned almost nothing except basic fishing equipment, a third-hand Volkswagen, and two cases of Montrachet, felt a mild animosity toward the adult toys and wondered why.

This is extra funny because the “adult toys” are not dildoes as we all immediately imagined, but rather golf clubs, trail bikes, a skeet gun, a Nikon camera, and a projector.

Anyway, I can’t NOT write about the Montrachet because it’s also the “Bastard” wine that Bedelia uses to draw the police to Hannibal in the show, so I always include it somewhere in my fics.

Anyone familiar with locust trees? I am. I had a giant one in the front yard of my childhood home. They are covered in huge ass spikes.

And that tree sent several of us kids to the hospital.

And that brings us to the end where Hopper collapses to the ground until his attention is drawn to a sweet voice he never thought he’d hear again. Hell, I never thought I’d write for her in this fic, but then again, why not? Let’s get some girl power up in this sausagefest. More on that to come.

All of that said: Please don’t hesitate to comment! I’d love to hear your insights, ideas, comments, or predictions! I do not bite! I am not someone to be intimidated by! I’m just writing a bizzaro story about cannibal truckers, and I’d love to hear from you.

Have you made any art for Unhitched? I’d LOVE to see it!

Have you tried your hand at Hopper and written a spin-off? Share that shit with me, goddamn it!

Comments make my day and if you don’t think I put a hellish amount of time and effort into his fic, you do not understand how this works.

Just know that I truly appreciate every comment (even the bad ones) and try to reply to everyone, though sometimes it can take me weeks to do so. If you’re nervous and don’t want me to reply, just say so! (Like: Reply not necessary.).

A lot of time and energy go into this fic, and I want to thank you all so very much for reading and for providing me with your continued support. I can’t wait to share more with you.

fools rush in [notes]

Unhitched chapter notes …

Read chapter on AO3

Did you know that Chris Diamantopoulos who played Clark “Should Have Crawled Back in There, If He Knew What Was Good for Him” Ingram was voicing Mickey Mouse while filming Hannibal?

Isn’t that just a fun fact?

Has the poster for “Get a Horse!” been shopped like this yet? If not, consider it my gift to the fandom.

Moving on to story time, I asked my loyal team of 1970s experts to come up with something weirdly 70s to set the tone of this chapter, and the resounding answer was: “Wasn’t everyone doing yogi or something? I remember lots of brown leotards and all that crap.”

Thanks, Dad. He meant yoga.

By the way, you can thank my old man for all of Hopper’s asylum talk from a few chapters ago. I don’t think I ever mentioned our conversation so I will briskly sum it up below because it’s Father’s Day. Some background: My dad is sort of a rock of a man, both generous and steadfast. He has a degree in biology, is hard-working, used to run track, and was once scouted by the Pittsburgh Pirates.

Before I start, here’s my old man with a tumbleweed circa 1979. He was 25 years hairy and apparently in love with that tumbleweed.

“Did I ever tell you about the time your grandparents had me locked in the nuthouse after I fell off a truck?”

Um, what? WTF. No. You never did.

“I was eighteen and goofing off in the back of a friend’s pick-up. We were headed up the mountain to a party. You remember my buddy, Jeff? He fell out too and landed on top of me and we sort of slid down the road. He was fine, but I lost all the skin on my back – had to get grafts off my ass.”

Oh, my god, Dad! What the hell?! I didn’t know that!

“Oh yeah, it was bad. I didn’t really feel it, though, I was too drunk and high. A few weeks later, I sort of went crazy – started hearing things after the accident. Tried to kill a burglar with my crossbow. I was convinced he’d locked himself inside my dad’s gun safe. They opened it up and there was no burglar, so they sent me to North Warren to calm down.”  [I want to note that he rolled his eyes at that comment.] “They gave me a couple spinal taps and everything. Now, I want to tell you something: that shit is fucking painful. Some giant woman who took no shit from anyone had to hold me down. It was brutal.”

Jesus, Dad! What did you do?

“Well, I wasn’t violent or anything, but I wasn’t medicated either, not like what they did to your grandmother … Those hospitals were really boring because they never gave you anything to do. It’s like being in a drunk tank, but they never let you go because you don’t “sober up”. It was weird being around all those sick people, too. It was pretty scary for a kid. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, so I played cards with some guy who seemed normal, but he took a lot of meds, you know – lithium, I think. Everyone was on lithium.”

Good lord. How’d you get out?

“Well, Jeff was pissed because with me locked up, he lost his drinking buddy, so he broke into the asylum one night with a six-pack of beer and after we finished it off, he decided to bust me out. We lived in the woods for a few days until the cops stopped looking for me.”

Holy mother fucking shit. XD

I guess, what are friends for? (I suddenly have a new bunny for a teen Hannigram one-shot.) Also, so you can picture Jeff: imagine Tommy Chong from Up in Smoke. Even now, in his 60s, Jeff still sounds like a stoner. He’s amazing.

“Ah, it was the 70s,” said my dad, all nonchalant. Apparently, that was the style at the time.

Anyway, my mom confirmed all that, adding bits and pieces that were just as fucked up, then my Dad proceeded to tell me what went on in the basement after he went back to visit North Warren a few years later. You don’t want to know, and honestly, I don’t want to repeat it.

So back to Unhitched … there was some sort of obsession with Indian culture in the 70s so I ran with it. There was something quite enjoyable about dropping Franklyn at the front door, dressed in his gauzy swami-wear and eventually eating cheese.

The Carnatic style of playing the violin is an Indian technique which I’m sure you’ve all heard, though you might not know it.

I then sent everyone on a little visual journey to India, too, because I wanted you all to imagine Mads in a white suit and hat. No reason. I was just reading a lot of Rudyard Kipling when I wrote this. What’s he have to do with anything? Well, he wrote a lot about India and, naturally, mongooses, and with the current issues in my home country of The United States of What the Fuck is Going On, I’ve been listening to Donovan’s 1970s classic “Riki Tiki Tavi”. Give it a listen. You’ll like it.

Do you feel how meandering a writer’s mind is? It’s very chaotic.

I was grateful to have my husband’s musical mind for this particular chapter with Tobias. We’ve actually had conversations about who he thinks was the most “underrated librettist” and when I asked him to name a composter that he thought Butcher would abhor, he immediately said Arnold Schoenberg, because everyone hates Schoenberg. I didn’t totally agree that Butch would hate him, but the “atonal orgies” that all his critics call his work was too funny to pass up. Also, Schoenberg had triskaidekaphobia or a fear of the number 13. This is only funny to me because I know how this shit storm ends.

From Star Trek to Paganini, the research for this chapter was extensive but enjoyable. Chordophone, by the way, was the name of Tobias’s shop in the show and means “stringed instrument” of course. If you’ve researched anything about luthiers (stringed instrument makers) you have to know the name, Kevin Lee. That eccentric bastard is a goddamn genius, and I love his YouTube channel. I never got to use this info, but Jakob Stainer, the famous German master luthier, went mad and died on his front porch in 1683 in a straightjacket and muzzle all Hannibal Lecter style. Kevin Lee owns one of Paganini’s medals and Stainer’s straightjacket because, of course he does. He also blows shit up in the desert and carves angels into his violins. He’s incredible.

The research for fics is the part that’s hard to explain to people. Fanfic writers have a million tabs open on their browsers at all times and a ton of bookmarks. We be like, “It’s a one-shot!” and yet our history is all …

That’s not even 1% of my bookmarks for Unhitched. I have even read the DSM I. Why? I dunno. I have copies of all of them so I can stay historically accurate as my Will Grahams are institutionalized through the ages.

About 70% of what Hopper and The Music Man discuss in the workshop is a combination of various philosophical teachings and the musings of Miguel Cervantes in Don Quixote.

“I have lived nearly fifty years, and I have seen life as it is.

Pain, misery, hunger … cruelty beyond belief.  I have heard the singing from taverns and the moans from bundles of filth on the streets.  I have been a soldier and seen my comrades fall in battle … or die more slowly under the lash in Africa.  I have held them in my arms at the final moment.  These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing.  No glory, no gallant last words … only their eyes filled with confusion, whimpering the question, “Why?”  I do not think they asked why they were dying, but why they had lived.

When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?  Perhaps to be too practical is madness.  To surrender dreams — this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash.  Too much sanity may be madness — and maddest of all:  to see life as it is, and not as it should be!”

This is actually an interjection by Miguel Cervantes who was the supposed “translator” of the historical documents that make up Don Quixote. I like the self-referential aspects of the book and made The Music Man and Hopper yell this bit back and forth as they discuss their personal justifications for all that they do.

First-time authors apparently make their main characters bookworms a lot because it’s a habit they’re well familiar with. Stephen King does this a lot, making his main characters authors … I’m not a bookworm though, so I have no idea why I made Hopper an English teacher (I mean he’s a teacher in canon, but … he didn’t have to study English). It’s actually way more work than I expected it to be. He has to feel educated, but a little aloof, and his vocabulary has to be simultaneously refined but also colloquial because he was still raised blue collar. Plus, it’s the 70s, but he was born in the 30s and raised in the 40s and 50s. It’s not actually a story “set” in the 70s other than the little techie and cultural reference bits. Hopper wouldn’t use the slang of the 70s, he’d use the slang he grew up with as a teen in the 50s.

But picture it: teen Hopper in the 50s … are you imagining him in a malt shop? Or maybe he’s a Greaser. Hannibal’s a Soc. Is this a fic already? It better be. “Stay golden, Lonelyboy.”

I have nothing more to add to this. If you have a comment or questions, drop me a line. If you want to be anon, feel free to anon me here on Tumblr with your commentary. Don’t forget to comment on the fic if you’re having a swell time with my boys. It really makes my day.

I’m still working on responding to old comments, but I will get there. Stay tuned for more stuff, readers. I’m not back in the saddle yet, but at least I opened the horse! Er, no, I mean barn door.

the great red dagon [boot tread]

Prompt from a comment on AO3:

How about a prompt based off of this: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dagon_(film)?


Now, this is an interesting prompt. The link takes you to the 2001 Spanish movie based on the H.P. Lovecraft novella, The Shadow Over Innsmouth, but the title is also the name of a short story which the movie is not based on, Dagon.

For this prompt, I went with the short story, Dagon, which you can all read here. It’s only 2200 words. I went outside the box for this prompt. I hope you all enjoy it.

This ficlet was originally posted on Archive of Our Own (AO3) as a short story written by one of my reoccurring fictional characters, Hopper. At the time, it was an essay he had written for his creative writing class in 1956  (complete with several errors).

1627 words

Cristobal Diaz | OCEANA

No one believed me by the time we had reached the shore. I was mad. They called me “touched by the sea,” but had no idea of the horrors I had witnessed. They hauled me inland as per my request and gave me an unlimited supply of sedatives. I did not argue, and this is why.

We were halfway to Alaska, netting the mighty blue, when we were caught in a deluge that rivaled The Great Flood. Sheets pummeled us, drowning out orders and warnings, and the mighty wind cracked against us, tipping the vessel to its side. Even our great mass was not heavy enough to stabilize the hull. The stern let out a holler that put the lightning to shame, and we were suddenly in two pieces and drowning.

I floundered and tread until I hauled myself into a small lifeless boat, already filled with water and nearly sinking. I bailed what I could, and by the time only an inch of brine was left under my heels, the storm had vanished, and with it went my ship, the crew, and the choppy waters.

The sea was suddenly glass. No breeze rippled it or moved my boat. I was soaked and now dead in the water. I feared to reach over the side, as the sea seemed to cut my boat like a knife. I was set on a mirror that reflected the blinding sun, scorching my skin as I waited for someone or something to find me.

I never thought I would wish for a pistol to turn upon myself, but by day two, when I had not drifted a discernible distance or wetted my cracking lips, I yearned for a bullet to end it. That yearning was just as palpable on day three when they finally found me. They were not Americans on large vessels, or Inuits in dugout canoes. They did not glide across the glass to me, nor did they soar overhead and spot me from a trans-pacific flight. They came from below.

Black webbed fingers crept over the edge of my boat, two at first, and then three. Three hands turned to six and I scrambled to the stern. In a matter of seconds, the boat was flipped and the bright open sky bubbled above me. I thrashed but grew weak and those webbed fingers gripped my ankles and hauled me down until the bubbling sky was an abyss miles above.

They took me where the sun no longer feeds the sea plants.  They took me to a place where schools of fish refuse to hide and the mighty sharks won’t hunt. They took me to the bottom of a great chasm cut into the earth like a scar on the face of the sea floor. They took me to a stone chamber where I was left to choke and writhe on the lung-filling icy liquids of the deep, begging for death, though it never came.

Days are not days without the sun. Nights are not nights without the filling moon. Time is unending at the bottom, and the pain in my chest was ceaseless. If given the chance, however, I would relive those freshly inflicted pains until the earth collapsed upon itself. I would live again through every burning, aching false breath and the agony of my newly frozen eyes. I would welcome once more, my numb fingers and empty gut until the universe exploded, just to avoid reliving what would happen next.

He came one day or night, I know not which. He did not rap or call to me. I was hauled out and presented to him, tied with ropes to a cross made of metal pipes from my own ship.

White globes encircled and cast us in an eerie, bewitching light. He was not a man but a beast of the depths. His body was gray, cut from stone and covered in fleshy scales. His arms were that of a titan, bulging and brutal and at the ends he bore black webbed fingers. His head was more like a honed skull than a human face. Thick pouting lips covered the fangs that protruded from his jaw and golden eyes pierced me as I wrenched against my bone-chilling restraints. As he hovered in front of me, studying me as one might a rotting corpse that washed ashore, I finally saw the rest of him.

At his hip were not legs, but a long undulating silver tail. It shone like a mirror as it flicked below his body, reflecting the orbs that circled us. An icy chill radiated from it, and though I was already numb, the cold plowed through me and I shook.

A glint caught my eye and I saw in his hand what I will never forget. He held a knife, bowed like a raptor’s claw. I couldn’t yell through the water which perpetually filled my mouth, nor thrash against my crucifix. I was stuck and waiting to be gutted like a fish.

Just below my ribs, I felt the knife slide into my body. My mouth grew agape but no shriek echoed through my watery prison. I swallowed my tongue in agonizing pain as I watched the creature disappear in a cloud of vibrant red.

My body burned and writhed and another rosy murk pulsed from below. I was twisted and yanked and was again consumed by another throb of crimson fog. When the attack suddenly ceased and the water began to clear, I felt my chest slowly rise as I floated from my lower half. Then two sharp gashes cut my wrists from my hands and consequentially my restraints, and I was left adrift.

When I awoke I had been returned to my stone cave at the bottom of the endless chasm. My body had been massacred and I shook with shock and misery. I dared not touch myself, for I knew no hands remained. When my torment grew too great, I finally pawed at my phantom legs with what was left of my frozen stumps. What I found were tingling fingers sliding down a slimy tail. Over my gut were coarse and crudely-stitched cords, laced between my soft flesh and the cold silvery tail of my captor.

In the glow of the single orb that lit my cell, I could see in its moonlight my black webbed hands. They did not move like my hands, they ached with each flick of my wrist. They trembled and pulsed, sending long black veins up my now naked arms.

I dared not look upon my tail. It was grotesque and unnatural and I was fearful of it. I could move around my cell with ease and grace, but the sheer magnitude of its strength terrified me. It had razors down its spine, and in its silver scales, I could see the outline of my face. I’d looked once, and what I saw was ungodly so I never looked again.

I was neither fed nor clothed, but left for an eternity to rot. Over time, my skin bloated and softened like a dead fish and chunks were nibbled away by passing crabs. I gradually covered in a slippery mucous by the fungus that grew on the walls of my craggy hole.

I begged for sweet death to come and rescue me, since my heart had stopped beating years before, but that cruel witch never came. Perhaps she was as scared of him as I was.

He returned not long after I’d given up. I’d burrowed beneath the sandy bottom when I felt fingers grasp my gritty hair. I was ripped from the ground and twisted to face him, his golden eyes furious at what his glorious tail had become. It hung loose and pathetic from my abdomen, the cords pulling and gaping below my navel. My white skin stretched and tore from the mighty girth hanging from it, and a lack of use had caused my long black fingers to twist into ebony claws.

He bared his silvery fangs, bubbles erupting from his nose and mouth. I had laid unmoving on the seabed, allowing the bottom dwellers to pick at my skin and my sanity, and he was furious at this disrespect I showed him. The knife glinted again and I closed my eyes this time, as it tore into me with an even greater and more ferocious fervor. We were plunged again into a great red plume that devoured us both, and then some. I waited for more, but there was only one crimson tide before the creature, and the depths, took my consciousness from me.

When I awoke on my back, surrounded by merchants ordering me to breathe, they were certain it was a nightmare I had witnessed. The men yelled and screamed and demanded to know who I was and from where I had come. I spoke of a creature who gave me black hands and I showed them. They scoffed at my lily-white fingers. I pleaded for their faith that a creature sewed a tail to me, but when I kicked my legs, they laughed.

I was mad. I was locked away where I begged for sedation. Instead, they plunged me into twilight sleep, though I had already lived through a decade of that at the bottom of the great ocean. They left me to flounder in a forgotten room in a long-abandoned building. They left me weak and comatose, waiting yet again for death, and this punishment was fair and just. They said I had been “touched by the sea,” and would never know how right they truly were.

The sea had touched me, gutted me, molested me. It had drowned me, stitched me, and presented me with an abysmal new perspective. The sea had given me a rare gift, and I wasted it.