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Hannibal was bored.
That very emotion was not at all appealing to him.
Sitting in his plush velvet and leather sofa with a celebratory glass of Merlot in his hand, relishing in the unfortunate and bloody demise of his latest 'Master', he should be in high spirits.
But he was not.
He was bored.
He took a sip of wine and tried to settle his mind.
Around him, his abode started to tremble and shake. A reflection of his inner turmoil, he quietened with a practised deep breath. It consisted of many rooms and many memories that were his and his alone. All dark beauty with bold colours, shadow, and fire. From a harsh winter landscape filled with blood and ice, containing a little voice he refused to dwell on, to an office of wood and elegance. The room he was in now consisted of a fireplace he sat before on his sofa. No television. Sometimes he had to shudder at humanities pathetic dependence on technology. Though he was in no means a hypocrite, as he himself often indulged in the riches that life offered. A common thing among his kind. His room instead was filled with inanimate objects of ancient antiques, and paintings he had seen over his years and collected. Some rather macabre. But, he surmised with an elegant inner shrug, it was too much to hope that everyone had his taste and mental capacity to appreciate art of all kinds.
That thought brought him in full circle back to his bad mood.
Men of the world were pigs. Endlessly grovelling and wishing. Their desires were simple whining things of money, love, and other mediocre wants.
Hannibal gave a deep sigh. He held his hand palm open and made a $100 note appear between his long fingers before promptly setting it on fire and watching it burn. Money was such a trivial thing to him. But it did burn beautifully as much as anything. He briefly admired the waving disappearance of the note to ash. Watching the black specks fall gracefully onto his pure silk suit, he bemoaned his chains that kept him in his palace abode till next he was summoned. Such was his fate.
He took another sip of wine, letting the rich flavour glide along his palette and invigorate him. Looking into his glass admiring the rich bright red of the wine against the blood red of his suit sleeve, he knew it complimented the red hue of his eyes. It also worked well for his human eyes of golden amber.
Red.
Like the blood of his late master, spilling beautifully against the floor, his mouth open drooling disgustingly with blank dead eyes. Death's abyss had come calling, and Hannibal was grateful the time spent with this recent master was short, despite his immediate imprisonment after.
Yet the 'Master' had made the wishes, Hannibal smirked. Hannibal had seen the deepest desires of the pig and laid them bare before his eyes. The pig had wanted what other men had; money, love, and status. Once he had understood the reason Hannibal was there, he had looked at him with greedy eyes.
Hannibal's elegant lips curled on a sneer.
Pig.
Soon his wealth had turned to bare ash, his love into disgusted loathing, and his status showed clear the grovelling pig that he was. Hannibal had whispered dark wishes. The pig had whispered back for oblivion, freedom from the life he had turned to swill. So Hannibal had granted his wish, and gave him part of himself, had fed and delighted as the pigs mind fractured and fear enveloped. He had watched as the pig hugged knives close as a lover, and spilt blood onto the floor.
Hannibal fed and was satisfied. For a while at least.
One after the other, master after supposed master. Hannibal was always the one in control, and for a while it suited him. But he was bored now. No longer being able to find the joy in his games. He was passionate, indulgent, and he yearned for the stimulation another could give him. The one thing no being could have alone. He was beginning to think that there was no one alive or dead that could match him, and that was disappointing. Looking around his rich prison he could sense the world outside that he wanted to rejoin again. Hear the patters of wishes and the whispers of life that called to him. He looked to his windows that showed him flashes of vision from the outside, before disturbingly returning back to reflect only that which was inside the room itself.
Soon, he sensed. Soon.
Hannibal took another sip of wine. His ambrosia. His abode settled completely once again in wait.

He was a Djinn.

He would bide his time till next he could come out and play. Staring off into the distance, a slight smile on his face, pure black in his heart.
Hannibal was not a wishing man, he knew well the perils of a wish. Yet he made one nonetheless.

'Just please make them more interesting than the last.' he whispered.

Be careful what you wish for.

*****

William Graham stood before Jack Crawford, Head of the Behavioural Science Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigations (FBI), Baltimore in all his dishevelled glory. The room itself was simple, coloured white and pale pastel blue and yellow, unadorned except for a medium sized leafy plant in each corner, and one small one on top of Crawford's desk. One bright flower stood in defiance of it's owners facial expression.
Crawford was not impressed.
Block manner, stony expression. Will had a sudden sardonic thought that if he popped the Special Agent on the top of his head, would his mouth pop open? He then, silently thanked his warped manner that helped him keep his lowered eye countenance and lips from smirking at the sudden image in his head.
“I've heard about you Will.” Crawford said.
I'm sure you have. Will wiped sweaty hands on loose jeans. He had on his plain fennel shirt and beaten dark olive bomber jacket, a look that screamed old man fisherman.
“I hear you're good at thinking like a killer. Putting your mind in theirs and analysing the evidence to find and catch them. That you have been doing this for a while, and that it has helped you catch notoriously difficult criminals. That is why you have been recommended to me as a referral from the Baltimore Police you worked with last week”.
Ah. Will remembered. It had been an easy enough case for him. The killer had tripped the security in the house to record the victims voice response, then gone back and killed them security free. His method was almost boring, but smart as he had been getting away with his home invasions for months, until Will had been hired by the previous victim's parents. One more death (the woman who's name Will didn't bother to remember) and he had found where the murderer was hiding. Two hours later, the killer was in Baltimore custody. It had taken Will two days.
Will kept his head low and his eyes lower as he looked at the face of Jack Crawford through shaggy brown curled hair and rimmed glasses. His entire body language was introverted and uncomfortable. He could tell it was making Crawford in turn feel uncomfortable just looking at Will. Crawford was a man whose whole body screamed power, strength, and authority. But Will had been dealing with those types of men his whole life. It held no threat to him any more. Though Crawford was getting impatient. Will could tell. The slight grinding of teeth, the tension in the shoulders. He could always read a persons aura and identify their feelings.

Is this it? Is this the genius man?

“I helped the Baltimore Police with that case after I was hired by the second last victims parents,” Will said, “I didn't intrude, and I do all manner of cases. I am a private investigator”. What Will didn't add was the obvious, which no doubt Crawford had already gleaned about in the file underneath his clasped hands. A file about Will, containing his history and past cases. Crawford being the Head of the Behavioural....etcetera..... and all that. There is little chance for hiding. Yet, inner sarcasm added that criminals still escape the iron clutches of the FBI regularly, which is most likely why Will was there now. He wondered what exactly would make Crawford ask for external help from the unstable William Graham?
Crawford waved his hand in the vague 'yes yes I know' way people do, unaware of Wills inner monologue. “But you did help them catch a notorious killer. You do various different types of work as a PI, but your speciality seems to be murderers and those hard to catch.”
“I don't specialise!” Will snapped. What Will didn't add and that which confirmed the information in his file, was that cases other than murders, like spy work, he often failed because of his manner. Research out in the field that had him interacting with other people, just ended in uncomfortableness for all parties involved. Soon word spread, and he was only approached for the harder homicide cases no one wanted that had gone cold. Lucky for him, it was those cases that ended up showing his true potential. Word spread again, this time; Will Graham, the private investigator, was a bloodhound murderer finder.
Crawford gave a heavy sigh, then smiled in what Will guessed was a fatherly understanding smile.
That looks uncomfortable.
“What do you suppose is understood about you Will?” Crawford asked, “why is it that you can think almost exactly like these killers?” Will immediately failed to hide his rolling eyes at the question. He responded like a student reciting an overused quote to an overbearing teacher in the classroom. “My horse is hitched to a post that is closer to asperger's and autistics than sociopaths.”
“But you can....what was the word....empathise, with sociopaths. Murderer’s as it were.” The last was added with an almost triumphant applause, nostrils flaring.
“I can empathise with anybody. Not all murderers are sociopaths.” He was starting to get irritated at Crawford. So many people had tried to understand him. To pretend as if they weren't treating him with micro tentativeness. That they weren't blatantly poking at the dark, and pretending they knew exactly what Will was about. They only wanted to use his talents. Treat him as if he were an special tool to only be used for special circumstances, and only once in a while. Will had once wanted to go further in his career. He was a police officer for the determined time, then went for the FBI. But he had failed the screening process for mental capability and stability. They didn't even want to have him on as a lecturer, to teach when he had offered almost desperately. Even though he had written many upstanding papers, he was too unstable to have around newly growing virgin minds. So he had instead used what remaining financial bonus he had gained over his work as a policeman, and became a private investigator. It was surprisingly easy enough. The rest as it were, is history.
“You have pure empathy, or so the psychologists say about you.” Crawford insisted, “I have an active imagination,” Will responded, “That's all,” he then gestured towards the large display on the wall to the left side of Crawford's desk. “I suppose I'm not supposed to comment on that.” It showed a layout of a murderer’s very active devastation. Seven photos of girls all with the same hair colour and appearance were placed in a circle, red lines and multicoloured pins zig zagging on the map they surrounded. The word 'MISSING' popping up between the pictures, as if mocking the very crime spread.
Crawford gave a deep sigh closing his eyes, and pinching the bridge of his nose. A sudden rush of sadness enveloped Will and genuine guilt filled his chest. This was a man on the verge of a breakdown, frustrated over his situation, and would even turn to the weird PI guy for help if it meant getting the job done. Will decided he would help Crawford, if only because this was what he did. He was good at it. It made a difference. The girl's photos on the wall seemed to smile in acknowledgement at him. In saying so, Will only had one response to the man before him. He ignored the little voice in his head that always popped up when he took on cases like this one, the one that said 'At what cost?'.
When Crawford finally lifted his head and asked in a strong but soft voice, “Can I... borrow your imagination Will?”. Will could only say one thing.
“Sure, let me see what you've got.”.

*****
Walking with Crawford towards the laboratory to meet the rest of the 'team' was both unsettling and adrenaline inducing. Will never worked well with people, he reminded himself again. His PI work usually consisted of asking politely for all the information, then doing his 'thing', then reporting back to the authorities what he knew. Factual, and distant recalling and reciting of information. The homicidal nature of his cases usually made certain that the police could recount back to the people that hired him, and not himself. They usually gave him no more acknowledgement than to say he satisfactorily helped, and only because it satisfied those who hired him that their money was not wasted. On the other hand, he was usually given a lot of information with authorities who were never wary against Will taking over.
When they reached the laboratory, familiar smells of clean metal and chloroform, with that dank faint under smell of corpses that never seems to go away, met their noses. Three people surrounded an empty metal table. A female with black hair and Asian features was sitting, dressed smartly in a no nonsense shirt and tight jeans. Definitely more of an on-the-field moving worker. The two males were standing. One had the look of a friendly but slightly strange older uncle, with hair slightly frazzled, a big beak nose and wearing one of those grey woollen vests over shirt and tie. The other had the look of stereotypical laboratory guy, with dark hair styled with gel, and wearing a comfortable checked shirt.
An odd bunch, but for some reason they seemed they suited each other. They had an aura of light hearted banter and good work ethic. It made Will relax slightly despite himself, then tense up again, as all three looked to him and Crawford as they stepped into the lab. Introductions were suitably made by Crawford, and all three gave friendly but genuine 'nice to meet you/work with you' greetings. But Will could tell that despite Crawford's command of the room and the immediate acceptance of this man now working with them, something was going to happen.
“So. Are you unstable Will?” Beverley Katz, the female asked. Her chin tilted up and she had on a simple curious open expression. Will responded with a blank look, eyes focussing on her forehead. Crawford pursed his lips but before he could say anything was interjected.
“Bevie, Bevie, Bevie...” chided the old uncle figure Will now identified as Jimmy Price. “You know better than to aggravate Father Jack by asking those types of questions. You keep this up and he won't let us have visitors again.”
“So sad,” added the other male, Brian Zeller. “We'll be put on the 'seen and not heard unless we are spoken to' guideline.” Price bowed his head, shaking it slowly in painful agreement.
“I was only asking what everyone was thinking,” Katz responded lightly. “I did the back research on him and found it interesting,” She looked at him again, seemingly ignoring his silent statue behaviour. Maybe if you do not move a muscle the danger will pass by and be forgotten. Or maybe not. “So this 'thing' that you do,” Katz continued. “You can think like the killer right? Put it all in your head and combine the evidence to act out the murder?” All three scientists looked expectantly at Will, waiting for an answer. Crawford made a face like he just sucked on a sour plum.
Will looked away to the side of the room, which showed yet another display similar to the one in Crawford's office. Will noticed that the only thing that made it strange, was where you might have seen pictures of murdered corpses and the aftermath of a killers presence, he again saw the same profile photos of the seven girls.
“No bodies found?”
“None,” Crawford confirmed, sounding almost relieved that the question directed at Will was ignored and the topic back on track. “No bodies, no parts of bodies, nothing that may have come forth from a body.” The other threesome seemed content in putting aside Will's mental instability for the moment to his relief.
“Then he is probably abducting them elsewhere to murder them.”
“Where is he taking them?”
“I don’t' know.” Will's eyes roamed over the screen, gathering information.
“Take a look at the file.” Crawford handed Will a copy that he snapped his fingers at Zeller for. Obviously already made, and for Will's possession. He took the file and gave Crawford a nod which was responded to with a returning nod. Will wasn't sure if Crawford thought it highly improbable that he would get any insight from just the file, or simply expected him to abracadabra the whole answer from it in the one night. Either way, it seemed that Will was being dismissed. As he turned to leave, Katz commented in a steady tone “Awww...so we don't get to see his party trick up close?”.
Will stopped and closed his eyes, turning his body back to the group.
“From what I've gathered at a glance this killer will not stop abducting these girls, which means unless we can catch him in the next 24 hours there is a chance he will abduct again. Which in turn means you will most likely have a chance to see my 'party trick,” Will gave a slight grimace at the term, “at the next crime scene.” Katz eye flickered and slightly lowered. The air turned stale and uncomfortable, and Will gave an inner sigh. This was why he didn't interact with people. He felt slightly guilty for his response to Katz's light banter, by reminding them of death, as if they weren't already intimate with the concept. He knew his ability, his 'party trick' would come up at some point, and didn't feel insulted, just weary. He hated that his empathy and the behaviour he developed as a consequence of it, always seemed to define him. As if he had no other worth. The sad part was it was true. If you asked him what his personality was underneath, he wouldn't have a clue how to answer. Only give the diagnosis that multiple psychologists have given him until he stopped seeing them, stopped responding to their enquiries into testing him. He was a psychologists dream desire.
“Uh oh. Awkward tension.” Zeller commented, breaking the atmosphere. Jack on the other hand, just looked lost.
“Ah ha! I thought it might turn this way!” Price exclaimed, eyes bright like he had been waiting for this moment and was thrilled it was finally here. Then seemly out of nowhere suddenly lifted up onto the table, a small wicker basket containing chocolate, cookies, and what looked like a glass wine decanter. “For you! With a big 'ole Welcome To The FBI! Hugs and love.” Price smiled widely with a mischievous gleam in his eye. Zeller tried to hide his laughter, while Katz pursed her lips to hide a smirk.
“Where, did you have that in the lab?” Crawford asked, tone dangerous.
“Oh somewhere.” Price answered vaguely, fluttering his hand towards Crawford. Who responded by giving a heavy sigh and muttering what Will thought was something along the lines of 'childish people', under his breath. Will, however seemed to have perfected his open mouth statue look. Price came around the table, and ignoring Will's immovable form, pulled Will's hand up to chest height before dramatically placing the basket handle in it with a smile. He then shook Will's other hand with both of his, an awkward half done feat since the other hand still held his crime file, before returning swiftly back to his post behind the table.
Will looked down at the basket and saw nestled happily, a card that said 'With Great Affection and Welcome. From the FBI and Team Sassy Science'. Will closed his mouth and swallowed.
“Thanks.....Ummm....Nice bottle.”
“Isn't it?” Price commented, all happy uncle. “It's from some European place. VERY expensive. Nothing but the best for the FBI's new friend”. Will could almost taste the happy sarcasm in the words, said with a showman's flair. Needless to say the previous stale aura of the room had dissipated.
“Hey, doesn't that bottle look like that unusual decanter we had given to us for evidence in that case a couple of years ago Bev?” Zeller suddenly asked, turning with a feigned ignorance to his female colleague.
“Oh is it?” Katz's eyes widened in exaggerated play. “ I'm not sure, it WAS a long time ago. From what I remember it was a case about a rich man who wanted to poison his cheating wife, and so they collected all of the man's belonging.”
“Yes yes,” Zeller agreed, His face now mock solemn. “I remember he had a lot of wine bottles and decanters. This one stood out for being quite, as you can see, unusual.”
“But we never found anything in any of them, just wine”
“Was a sad case though.”
“Haha...'case'...True.”

Will's eyes were widening the longer he watched the two talk about his supposed 'gift'. Crawford had veins popping all over his forehead, his face twisted like a Picasso painting.
“What was so sad about the case? I can't really remember.” Price looked quizzically.
“Oh, it was the usual,” Zeller informed the group, turning in his chair. “Man has unsuccessful life, man suddenly gets rich off a big break, man turns into some kind of multi tycoon, gets a big name, marries life long sweetheart, and then everything goes to hell. He loses money, status, and then his wife as she goes to cheat on him with one of his colleagues.”
“Guy finally commits suicide via knife stab.” Katz continues in a bland tone.
“Oh yes,” Price nods “Was rather interesting too. Guy manages to stab himself in the heart with one of his antique knives,” Price mimics the movement, using both hands to stick an imaginary knife into his chest, “Did it a few times too. Obviously not a very good aim, but persistent.”
“Would've been awkward actually.” Zeller comments.
“But that is besides the point,” Turning back to Will with a flourish of his hands, Price gestured towards the wicker basket and the supposedly origin debatable wine decanter, “It was such a waste that all those bottles were going to be destroyed when there was technically, nothing wrong with them and the case was suicide. But either way, this bottle given ceremoniously and with love to our new friend Mr. William Graham, is by no means the same bottle that was in that case. Because to do so, would be a behavioural disgrace and prove unprofessional conduct by the FBI lab technicians. As we all know, all bottles and past evidence no longer needed in that case, was of course disposed of according to proper protocol and guidelines. So Mr. Graham can, with great certainty, simply enjoy his alcoholic gift from us, keeping in mind that by no means are we saying that alcohol drinking should be encouraged by those employed or working with the FBI, and certainly not by Mr. Graham whose reputation contains past rumours of being mentally unstable.” Price's monologue is concluded with slow deliberate clapping by Katz and imagined toasting by Zeller.
Will on the other hand, has retained his a statuesque form throughout the whole ordeal, and is not sure just how to react to the knowledge that his gift could have once belonged to a now deceased suicidal man's. Morbid, yet strangely suiting. Will looks to Crawford who has progressed from the Piccaso painting look to a 'kill me now look'. Just as Will sees Crawford suck a big breath of air into his lungs, no doubt in preparation for a bellow to follow, Will decides it's a good a time as any to do a runner.
“PRI......!!”
“Thank you.....guys for this somewhat good natured yet disturbing welcoming,” Will interrupts, he raises the wicker basket and gives what he hopes is a appreciative smile that realistically is probably a grimace. He then turns to Crawford who seems to be poised ready breath in again. “I'll take a look tonight and get back to you within two days max. I can also write a proper report for submitting to the higher ups, I've done that before.” Crawford exhales a breath through his nose in a harsh wind blow before nodding at Will. “Of course. Don't take too long though, if what you say about this guy already is true then he'll strike again soon.”
Setting a deadline already, Will sighs. He hopes Crawford won't be too much of a pusher. He hates being pushed, or intruded upon, or yelled at, in fact he'd rather not have people impose on him all together. Instead he nods his head at Crawford again eyesight going lowering to make contact with his battered sneakers. Crawford clears his throat before going to the doorway of the laboratory and stands there, clearly waiting for Will to go first.

Probably doesn't trust any more communication with these guys unsupervised.

They again exchange simple pleasantries, this time 'goodbyes' and 'see ya's', though Will later could've sworn he heard Zeller's voice commenting “Well that was interesting,” as he and Crawford walked back out into the hall, and straight out of the building. Crawford didn't even say goodbye, just patted Will on the shoulder before leaving him alone to walk back to his car. Will placed the wicker basket on the back seat floor to keep stable while he drove the rather long distance home to Wolf Trap, Virginia. The file, he unceremoniously flicked with a practised wrist to land on the passenger seat behind him.

*****
Will liked the drive back to his house. The rather scenic route never failed to make him feel like he was escaping back out into the wild from the hustle and bustle of modern life. He was quite proud of the house he found, and chose it mainly because it was out of the way of everything. A wood and clear field area surrounded it, and if he walked just that little further, there was a river and lake where he liked to fish. Wolf Trap was his home.
It was also home to his seven dogs.
Some would say he was the male dog equivalent to a 'crazy cat lady', while others would say it suited his personality. Then there were experts that said he could only make a true connection to pets because of his neuroses. Will didn't care, he loved his furry companions. All strays he had found and adopted. From Maggie, an old hound dog, to his newest addition Winston, a mixed mutt he found along side the road while driving home one day. Will looked forward to going home to them.
He rubbed his face with one hand and avoided glancing at the file beside him. He knows this isn't going to be a nice, straight, simple case. He can already feel as if the aura of it is blowing heated breaths along the back of his neck, and he can only just stop himself from turning his head to look and see if there is anything behind him. He can feel a dark presence. Will gives himself a shake instead, and tries to concentrate on simply driving down the road. If the case is already getting to him this much, then he is in trouble. Relief fills him when he can see his house gaining ground I front of him. The dogs will jump and bark all over him as he opens the door, he'll play with them a little while before feeding them, then cooking his own dinner, fish most likely, then he'll sit outside on his porch with a glass of whiskey, and perhaps watch the sun go down if it is not already too late. Or perhaps he'll go inside and take a look at the file. No, he decides. The last thing he needs is more nightmares, sleep is hard enough for him as it is. Nevertheless, as he exits the car he proceeds to do just as was planned.
Predictable. Comforting. Stable.
He ignores the real reason why he thinks the last word. Freudian slip maybe?
After accidentally dozing on the porch much later that night, he stumbles back inside. Not even bothering to change out of his clothes, Will flops on top of the bed and is asleep, lost into the dark abyss. Various dreams plague him. But later when Will wakes, he can only remember the one.
*****

He can feel the sharp ice wind that slices at him. Wind that can only be that cold in a place of snow. But he is not cold. He finds himself in an eerie wood, yet he feels at peace here. Comfortable. For some reason he can feel the moon on his face from its place in the clear sky overhead. It's night. The moonlight reflects bright silver on tiny flat surfaces, muted grey surrounding the shadows. But there are no stars. The smell of wet leaves and dirt fill his nose which he finds soothing. He knows where he has to go. He can get there fast. Around him its strangely silent. A predator lives close here, the life around makes no sound. In fear maybe? No. This is the predator's domain. He controls it. Yet Will can run freely here, closer and closer and closer, to the edge of the wood and beyond which stands a tall castle, growing almost out of the very earth. Plants and overgrowth wrap the castle in its embrace, keeping the dilapidation contained. Fog covers the ground and curls around everything.

A lone wolf, its dark brown fur reflecting a reddish hue stands on the edge of the wood. Everything about this castle tells him to raise its hackles, to attack, for what's inside smells of pure fire and thick poison. The wolf raises his head to howl and sees a face in one of the windows. He does not know that face. Yet the figure there is looking at him, tilting his head to the side as if considering the very existence of the wolf. Why is the wolf there? The wolf doesn't even know himself. But he was meant to be there. The figure straightens and although the wolf cannot make out the face, he knows that the figure is smiling. The wolf can smell quite clearly somehow that the figure is pleased. Slowly it raises its hand in a still wave, before just as slowly, moves to point below. The wolf follows the line of sight down directly below the figure, where it sees the massive oak doors of the castle entry. Strange though that the doors have no handles, a funny thought for a wolf to have. All the wolf sees is a crest scorched deep, midnight black against the dark wood. The wolf can make out two strange creatures, each fighting a snake. The image burns with intensity past the wolf's eyes and deep into his head. He raises his head once more, and lets out a deep screaming howl in defiance of the pain the crest has given him. Quiet lightening strikes in a flash, leaving the wolf blinded by white, and seemingly falling into an abyss. He hears a dark whisper, barely more than a breath.

“Oh, you are interesting.”

*****

Will jolts awake on the bed, adrenaline causing every body muscle to sit up in rigid attention, his muscles then immediately start to spasm, shivering with the cold. His clothes are completely sweat soaked, and his skin feels clammy. Its dark except for the light of the moon streaming in. He can see the dogs awake on their respective beds in the living area, a few are wagging their tails, happy their master is awake and aware. They can smell that he was in pain, they just do not know why. Will feels a wet nudge on hand where it grips the end of the bed tight.
“Good boy Winston.” Will says in what he hopes in a reassuring tone. He can tells Winston doesn't believe him. The dog whines softly and licks his hand again, and it takes another pat on his head combined with soothing murmurs, before the dog reluctantly go back to his bed. Though he still watches his master with the eyes of a personal body guard.
Will shivers once more and rubs his hands all over his face, he feels sticky and heavy. He lets his hands fall down with a flop back onto the bed.
The dream.
He remembers the dream. He was a wolf running through a wood, and then to a castle, saw the crest on the door....
He knows that crest.
Another jolt of adrenaline suddenly spears throughout Will's body as he bolts out of bed, and banging into furniture, the doorway, and into an unidentified wooden object he'll identify later, he finally collapses onto the kitchen counter. Both hands slam down, fingers splayed on the surface counter, the edge digging into his soft stomach. He is right in front of the wicker basket that Price gave to him. He half remembers dumping it in the kitchen to deal with in the morning. In the back part of his unstable mind where his dreams dwell, he can almost hear a shadowy whispering coming from the wine decanter.
Will shakes his head like a dog, curls bouncing to try and shake away the imagined whispers. It seems to work. He straightens and shivers once more as he is still sweat soaked, which has made the chill of the night worse. He reaches out slowly to eradicate the wicker basket of the decanter. It sits snugly amongst the clear cellophane filler, surrounded by packets of 'full chocolate chip' cookies, and home bagged home made chocolates. But Will lifts it up with ease, feeling its heavy weight.
It is quite an unusual decanter, not visible with clear crystal like most. This one is a strange black obsidian, yet feels too solid to be glass or crystal made, more like marble, and very hard. Will grips the neck with one sure hand and delicately runs his callused fingertips down the front, tracing the sharp decorative cuts that creates a fractured mirage look. The moonlight through his kitchen window reflects the obsidian black back at his eyes in white silver for each facet when he turns the bottle just so. His fingers continue to move in circles around the front as he traces his dream. The crest is cut smoothly into the front of the decanter. The two weasel creatures each fighting a snake. But design in the middle is something he didn't get to properly acknowledge in his dream. It's a silhouette figure of what looks to be a man in a suit. Tall and imposing, looking straight out from the glass.
It really is quite beautiful Will surmises, though not quite to his taste. Too elegant, too dark. Yet he finds himself agreeing with Price in that it would've been a shame to trash such a thing. What makes him nervous about it, is that even though he can clearly feel its weight, he can't hear the slight sloshing of liquid inside that would normally accompany such a thing. So what could be inside it? Didn't the guys test the liquid inside? Was he stupid in thinking that they would give him alcohol?
The top of the decanter contains a stopper of the same type of obsidian as the bottle. Thin shiny red wire holds the stopper in place. A few fruitless tugs and fingers sliding and pulling around the stopper proves to Will, that whomever designed this thing needs a lesson in practicality. Finally, with a deep sigh he realises it would be highly improbable to try and get this thing open right now. Cradling it in both hands he runs one thumb in a slight caress down the front crest once more before realising just what he is doing. Shaking his head again he puts the decanter back into the wicker basket and turns around. Rubbing his hands down his face, he can only think about slee.....
There is a man standing in his kitchen.
Will can't bring himself to move, so out of place and sudden is this man's appearance. The kitchen goes still with quiet fear. His entire body which should have been ready and alert at the sign of an intruder is overcome by paralysis. His nostrils flare forcing air into his lungs, fingers twitch, but no go on the actual body movement. Eye's widen to take in the figure in front of him highlighted by the moonlight.
The man is tall, above average in height and seems to be wearing a shiny dark red silk looking suit, black shirt, and tie underneath. Will can make out tanned skin and a lighter hair colour almost bronze in the moonlight. Shadows obscuring most of the planes of his face, the man smiles closed lipped, and tilts his head to the side lightly.

Like the figure in his dream.

The man's voice suddenly fills the still room like a musical note; cultured, baritone, and with a rough raspy accent.
“Hello my master,” the voice speaks amused. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Will blinks, breath rushing out in a harsh whoosh.

“...Wha!?”......the fuck!?!

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

There is a man standing in his kitchen.

Will's train of thought goes to the millions of other people in the world, and the fact that scientifically speaking, there is a probably of at least ten who are feeling exactly like he is right now. Of that, he wonders just how many have suddenly turned around to find a strange man standing in their kitchen at 2:00am in the morning, or so the kitchen clock tells him.
Will still can't move. A testament to his statuesque behaviour, he figures he has pretty much down to a fine art.
He blinks and blinks again. Nope. The man in the red suit is still there.
Will only just manages to stop himself from physically pinching his arm next. Anything to explain why there is a man standing in his kitchen, cool as a cucumber, and now tilting his head at him and smiling in an almost fond way. Will can feel everything around him in a kind of anxious hyper vigilance. He can feel the cool of the night, brisk and sharp, even more so by the fact that his sleeping clothes are still damp with sweat, he can hear every breath he takes,like a loud wind through metal pipes, are the sounds of inhales and exhales his nostrils flaring, he can feel the cool tiles of his kitchen floor underneath his bare feet, he can feel the position of his whole body, hunched, wary, arms paused around his middle, hands half closed, and no matter how much he tries to blink through the sleepiness still attached to his eyes, he can see the man in his kitchen.

Like the figure in his dream.

Yeah, he won't be forgetting that one any time soon, especially not with the evidence of it standing right there in his kitchen.

His kitchen.

The man speaks.
“Hello my master,” the man says, and Will can hear the amusement in his tone, “A pleasure to meet you.” Will blinks again before he can help himself. All the breath he just took in an inhale suddenly whooshes out of him in one smooth exhale making his chest hurt, and he finds it very difficult suddenly, to breath in again. For some reason, he can smell the burning of fire. But he is not afraid of a physical burn, he knows there is no fire. Yet there is an aura of dark fire that still seems to drown down his nose and into his lungs, burning. Has his mind completely fractured on him? Plus of all the things he could have expected to hear from this male intruder, that particular phrase indicating servitude was not one of them. This man does not look like one who serves, not even as a butler. His eyebrows pull together in a sudden frown, nose slightly wrinkled, and he blurts out the his response before he can even help himself.

“...Wha!?”......the fuck!?!

*****

Very eloquent.

Hannibal regards the young man before him. At first you would think as anyone else would, that this man was not impressive. Clearly dishevelled, reeking of the watery stale smell of too much frightened sweat, and clearly not prepared for a visit with people, as he is standing there in a white T-shirt and blue striped boxer shorts. The man's living environment showing nothing but that of an old hermit. But he can not help the slight tilting of his head and his face muscles that move on a slight smile at the other man's still shocked form. Hannibal can see and taste the man's mind going a hundred miles a minute. But what is most surprising, and if he is being quite honest to himself, the most delicious thing about this man before him, is that although he can smell and taste the usual shock, anxiety, and fear that is usually accompanied by Hannibal's sudden appearance before a new master. Hannibal can sense wariness, a ready survival, as well as thoughts of wet leaves and earth. All of this man's sharp senses almost seeking out the aura around him and this new intruder in front of him, wanting to feel Hannibal out. Hannibal can always sense the smell of death and blood on a person, but usually after his end, not at the beginning.
Oh, it is so delicious, his new masters mind. Like sipping at every bloody colour of the rainbow. Never before has a mind sought him out. They usually shrink back afraid, and cowardly. Pigs. But this is a different animal before him. Hannibal's thoughts go back to the dream that opened him to the man before him. This is no pig. This is a wolf. Raw, untamed, and ready to pounce. Hannibal can not help but want to poke the animal as it were, to spur the wild beast on. He almost feels himself like a general on the cusp of a battle, ready to engage, adrenaline flooding his body. The complete passion and eagerness that this new master has stirred inside him both startles and shocks Hannibal to his core, yet he can not help but yearn to plunge straight in, as is his nature. He supposes the wish he made prior has come true. But then again, he reasons to himself, it seems that after all his work nature should indeed send him a little blessing.

Hannibal is no longer bored. He is excited. He wants to devour.

But he is getting ahead of himself. He pulls himself back using centuries of practised self control before once again regarding the man before him, still physically unmoving. But of course, what better way to start the beginning of a relationship than by a polite and proper greeting.
“Hello my master,” he says, “A pleasure to meet you.”

*****

After Will's exclamation, Hannibal decides to approach this a bit more carefully. No more poking the wild animal.

For now at least.

“I am at the moment, attempting to give you a proper greeting my new master,' Hannibal explains, his voice is smooth and cultured, calming, like one would use for a frantic creature that looks ready to bolt.
Will tries to wrap his head around what this strange man before him is saying. Apparently, Will reasons to himself in his head, this guy thinks I am his master. At that logical conclusion, Will only just manages to stop himself from keeling over in sudden hysterical laughter. Why the hell would anyone want Will as a master? For anything?

Bad choice there. Someone drew the short end of the straw.

Hannibal regards the man in front of him with another tilt of his head, his small amused smile growing slightly larger. “I can guarantee you master, I do not believe I drew a 'short straw'. Neither do I hold any belief in the tedious reasoning’s such as something being of less value than another simply because it is different, or any other particular 'straw' lengths of measurement. Is it not said that another man's discarded is another man's treasure? Or perhaps it is as I can sense, and you simply do not know your worth beyond what the world around you tells you it is measured by? Or is it simply that there is no one that knows how to use you properly perhaps? Such bars and chains I can see are wrapped firmly around you. But already you have shown much more than my other masters that have come before you, who usually find my presence quite overwhelmingly frightening, and are usually crying for their life right now.”
“My life isn't worth crying over.” Will responds automatically, before he can even help himself.

So he really can't see the beautiful dark wolf inside him.

“No?” Hannibal asks softly, “You truly think that? Or is it because as of right now you are in that cage, and the parts of you that cannot fit into society as of yet are quelled. Those parts that would challenge and move outside the small pathetic box, the simple plain frame that is made up of societies norm. It treats you like a delicate china cup, to only be brought out when it is of use, and to be used for only 'special guests'. How long will you let them use you so?” Hannibal can sense Will's life before him, such is his ability. He can see all the dark desires and bare pained truths to spool in the palm of his hands and keep for his viewing. He can feel the raw potential trapped just under the surface, and Hannibal wants to rip it open and bask in it, let it soak into his very bones. The world may not know how to handle this exquisite creature before them. But Hannibal does. Hannibal will.
Will, on the other hand, is having to deal with his mind going into overload at the man's sudden speech.

Oh shit, I spoke out loud. I didn't mean to say that. Why am I talking to him? This is not a time for conversation! Well, people always did say that I was unique in my thinking, or in other words, completely bonkers...so tired....what did he just say? I can't say he is wrong, going on day after day, doing the law's dirty work...wait he just said I was brave, hang on, he just.......

“Did you just scold me?” Will asked incredulous. The man did, throughout that whole little speech he just scolded Will for implying and saying his life isn't worth anything. Any care about Will putting himself down, and this expressed with such eloquence and genuineness is so out of place its all Will could pin point. Hannibal purses his lips. Of all the things to concentrate on, this man finds that tiny little subservient emotion throughout the whole of Hannibal's elaborate and rather metaphorical tirade. But instead of feeling irked and irritated, he merely finds himself paused and contemplative.
“Of course I did. It will not do for my master to feel inadequate in any way. That is why I am here, to make things easier to see, and to help you, and give you whatever it is that you wish in order to be great.”
“And how do you suppose you're going to do that?!?” Will snorts with a voice full of scorn, eyebrows permanently drawn together, “And I seriously doubt you would know the first thing that would make me feel better right now, never mind helping me 'see' better. I can see better than most.”

Oh great. Another one who wants to 'know me'. Even if he is a random materialised person who may or may not be figment of my fractured mind right now.

“By simply asking what it is that you wish for to happen or have, and make it happen or gift it to you,” Hannibal informs Will simply, “Though my guess would be at this moment, is that your wish is to have anything prove to you that this is not real and I am not present before you. Unfortunately that is one wish I cannot fulfil as it will not help you accept my purpose in being here.”
“Wait, where exactly did you appear from?” Will asks. His mind starting to naturally adapt to this new if but strange circumstance he finds himself in. It was never in his nature to lose himself too long in strange circumstances. He dreams and becomes them almost daily as it is, and finds he can't now lose himself in a state of mind he never leaves.
“Ah, finally a good logical question,” Hannibal appraises, “You freed me from the decanter behind you, would be the base answer.”
“Base answer?” Will asks abruptly, catching on to the surface answer almost immediately.
Hannibal only has a breath of time to be surprised at Will's quick mind in catching his little manipulative fau pas, in not explaining fully where he appeared from. But Will's mind is already on the move, linking all the little pieces Hannibal and this situation has given him, to come to one logical, yet rather fantastical explanation.
“Are you telling me you're a genie in the bottle?!?”
Will spies the quick look of distaste that flashes across the man's face, before he is corrected in a professional manner born of someone usually, always in a higher knowledgeable position than others. “ I am a Djinn, or more importantly. Your Djinn, that you freed.” the man says dryly. Will's mind goes though all the childish facts he knew about Genies, and debunks every single one. “You don't look like a chubby eastern Arabic tanned man, with a shiny vest and pants, and an oily ponytail.” This time, the look of distaste on the man's face stays a while. “Yes master, I am a cheerful multicoloured Arabic folklore story figure,” the man's voice pulls off a perfect mix of exasperation and sarcasm, “No, I am a Djinn, beyond a figure of human folklore, and I assure you that I am very real. As is my purpose in being here, which is to serve you.”
“So three wishes?” Will can't help but ask, to poke the tiger as it were. The question is responded to with an extreme sound of annoyance, and for the first time since he appeared, the man moves. His hands which were behind his back at the time, and was a source of wariness from Will who was still aware of the fact that he is half naked in front of a man who radiated danger and is unarmed, moves to his sides. Will steps back immediately, and embarrassingly enough bumps his butt into the kitchen counter with a grimace. Hannibal, who was about to voice his annoyance again at Will's stereotypical assumptions, instead finds his lips open slightly in a breath of surprise at Will's reaction. “So you are frightened of me.” he challenges.
Will's eyes narrow. “I am cautious.”
“Ah, of course.”
Will realises that throughout the whole exchange, his dogs have remained uncharacteristically quiet. Usually two or at least Winston would have come up to Will to investigate the situation for themselves. “What have you done to my dogs?” he demands, automatically and subconsciously craning his neck slightly to try and look out the door to the living room which is currently being blocked by the man. Entire body language going on the offensive. Hannibal smiles at the sudden change. “So you are cautious with me, yet demand knowledge on behalf of your dogs? Well they are your surrogate family as it where, so it does makes sense.” His master certainly is an alpha wolf in all manner. Not that Hannibal would ever say as much to him of course. He has a feeling that such a compliment to his inner form would only be reacted to as if he were mocking him. “Yes,” Will responds to Hannibal's query, “if you hurt my dogs in any way or form I will kill you.” There are some things that Will would move heaven and earth for without his usual mental confliction. His dogs are one of them. “Then yes,” Hannibal answers, quietly admiring the slight show of savagery in the man's protective nature, “Your dogs are fine and still asleep in their beds. I do admit to using a bit of my power to keep them that way....which I can already see you object to, but I can assure you, they are not harmed. I find animals can be rather unpredictable at the best of times, and wished to have an uninhibited introduction with you first. Ah, but I can see that you are still unconvinced. So, would you like to make it your first wish perhaps? A sign of trust. Simply wish for it and it will be so.” Will tries to search Hannibal's face for some sign of deviousness for some reason he feels is there, but only finds open reassurance. Perhaps he should try this Djinn wish business.
“Fine. I wish for you to never be able to hurt my dogs in any way, shape, or form. Though I don't see this as a magic wish so much as a trust exercise.” Hannibal gives a respectful nod of his head. “It is done. Unlike most trust exercises which are based on the compliers capacity of willpower to obey, it will be literally impossible for me to hurt your dogs now that you have made your wish.”

Magic and wishes.

“Prove you are as you say.” Will demands, he can tell it was coming to this part, and for some reason his gut tells him that the man before him knew it too. “Of course master, we both knew proof of some kind should be given in order to further eliminate doubt. But I do not wish to startle you, so would you please tell me what it is you wish for me to do?” Hannibal asks. Will doesn't really want to answer, that would make this situation real, because he would certainly ask something to make it so. Will knows deep down he isn't hallucinating or dreaming. Nevertheless, he thinks about it for a minute.
“Tell me my name,” which Will knows he hasn't told the man yet, “Then putting some pants on me would definitely put me in a better mood.” He was nothing if not practical.
“Very well my master, Mr. William John Graham.” Will's heartbeat skips two rhythms at the sound of his full name coming out of the man's lips, his anxiety knocking up his gut to get stuck in his throat. He didn't know what to expect next, maybe a noise, vision of pants in the air, anything. But alas there was no spectacle, and he simply finds that all of a sudden he is wearing his smart but simple black slack pants. Will looks down at them, “A bit formal aren't they?” he comments, hoping to hide his dismay that this situation is very much real, and in saying so, so is the man before him. Hannibal's eyes however are involuntarily widening in amazement. His master, William, he now corrects himself with what he finds is a pleasure to speak, is completely unpredictable in his reactions. While previous masters would be finding their minds overblown by Hannibal's power and the new reasoning that fantastical events can be brought to realism. His master seems more disgruntled that Hannibal dressed him in obviously not his type of situation garments.

This one really is different.

Hannibal is filled with such glee. This is more than he has ever hoped his new master to be. Already he has been surprised, annoyed, and elated in equal measure. This will be a great game. To be able to see what exactly would break and crack such an intriguing mind such has this. Or perhaps his mind will not be so brittle as to shatter, and instead will bend, be susceptible to mould and form to Hannibal's liking. To prepare and allow to flavour, so the devouring will be all that more delicious, and last all that more longer. Will however, is oblivious at the moment to Hannibal's inner delight, and during so, has already gone through his freak out over the realism of this situation and the prospects surrounding it. But instead of being excited or afraid, he is just overwhelmed by tiredness. His life is already deathly fantastical at the best of times. Will's true wish truth be told, would be some peace and a serious de-dramatisation of his life. Perhaps a boat out on the still waters of the ocean, and fishing all day long. Yet life has thrown him another curve ball. He still doesn't half believe this situation, and he can barely keep control of himself let alone the added responsibility being someone's master, with what he derives is a lot of wishing power. On the other hand, his sleep deprivation seems to be muting his emotions right now in a silver lining effect. He doesn't really want to face what all this will mean tomorrow morning.

“How did I become your new master and how do I un-become it?”he asks.

Hannibal is taken aback yet again. Never has any master denied him. Usually by now they are contemplating the reality of this situation and what they could possibly do to use him. Even the most simplest living men have a few desires more they want. But he hides away his surprise yet again and if he was being truthful, hides a slight anxiety over the possibility of his master simply telling him to go back to his abode, and not come out. “Why would you wish to be rid of me? Surely I can aid you in whatever your wishes are?” Hannibal is not used to posturing, and the effect it has on him fills him with irritation, despite how intrigued he is with his new master. “What I want is a life without drama,” Will snaps “Now are you going to answer the question?” Hannibal decides that truth and fact will settle this slightly volatile situation better than slight micro manipulations, which seem to be having an adverse effect judging by this irritated individual in front of him. “I am a Djinn. There are many terms for us such as; Genie, Jinn, Jin. We are creatures of smokeless fire. We live in our abodes until a master calls to us and frees us...”
“I touched the decanter,” Will interrupts, causing Hannibal to hiss in dissatisfaction, “But that's not right because Price and many others would have touched it before me. Plus, I assume that guy who killed himself before was your late master and your handiwork.”
Hannibal nods his head in reluctant agreement before adding. “You need not fear master.....”
“Will. I'd rather you call me that.”
Hannibal nods again. “William then.”
“Will.”
Hannibal smiles at the insistence. “I shall call you William, as it is such a good name and suits you, as it means a strong and willed warrior. I sense you do a lot of fighting in your life.”
“Of sorts.”
“Then William it is. But continuing on with your original enquiry, our purpose is to serve our new master,” Hannibal makes an elegant gesture to Wills person, “and grant their desires and wishes, to make the highly improbable, possible.”
“So there are things you can't do. Bring back life I suppose.” Wills asks, pinpointing again the slight meaning behind in the hidden wording.
“Yes.” Hannibal confirms, “Though that being said there is a remarkable amount that can be done, and I can do for you William.”
Will contemplates this a moment. “Then how come Price or the others aren't your new master?” I'm ages suddenly pop up in his head of Price turning the world into an endless game show.

And you get the consolation prize of a wicker basket full of goodies!

“Because for me to do more than simply grant a minor want and show myself, we must bond with our new masters, “ Hannibal explains. “Price's desire at the time was that he wanted the bottle to contain simple wine, so the case could be shut and close. So I granted it to him, but there was not enough for a connection to be made. If we had to serve every master who had to only simply touch our contained abode, it would create mass madness. So, a connection is necessary. Usually, shown in a dream or a vision of first meeting, as happened between us.”
The dream. Will flashbacks. The figure in the castle and the gentleman figure on the crest....and for some reason I was a wolf.
“And from there a true connection is made,” Hannibal continues, “I belong to you and you to me, a symbiotic relationship as it were. The only way for it to end is if you die. Only then, do I go back to my abode and wait for the next master.”
“So you grant my wishes, and what do I do for you? A symbiotic relationship works when one gives equal amount to it as the other.” Will challenges.
“Indeed. What an intelligent master you are. I grant your wishes and you allow me to live in this world beyond my abode. To partake in real food, air, and lifestyle. I also feed off of the energy you exhume as your wishes are granted. But do not fear. As symbiotic relationship works, I do not hurt you in my actual feeding.”
“Tell that to your previous master.” Will replies dryly.
“Ah, unfortunately most people do not use their wishes well. A man can wish for something like a house, which I will grant him. But if he then by accident, burns down the house by negligence, I can hardly be the cause for blame. You still have your free will William.”
“Knowledge and wisdom,” Will surmises, this seems way too reasonable, “I don't want this. What if I wish for you to go back into the bottle and not do anything, and just stay there until I die of old age, in my sleep, surrounded by my dogs?”
Hannibal's eyebrow cocks in amusement and his lips quirk “A wish can only be granted if you truly desire it. If that is indeed your wish then it will be granted, and I will remain in my abode in wait if you ever wish to summon me again.”
Despite the matter of fact tone that the man, his Djinn, is speaking, Will can tell that what he just asked is not very appealing to the man before him, he smells of a slight burning dissatisfaction. Will runs his hand down his face, the whole situation and conversation starting to get to him.
“You seem tired William, and it is late in your time. Perhaps you should take your rest and we can speak more of everything tomorrow.” Hannibal suggests, “I am not going anywhere, my place is with you now.”

Yeah, that's my issue.

“What's your name?” Will asks abruptly instead. Hannibal is delightfully pleased that Will has asked it of him himself, and he did not have to give that piece of information about himself without invitation. This is a small step in the right direction into forming a stronger influence finally, and gives a less likely a chance that Will would become drastic and push away his presence.
“My name is Hannibal.”
Will admits its a name that seems to suit the man before him. Cultured, unique, foreign, and strangely powerful. “What I want is sleep,” the confession seemingly yanked from him, “I don't want to dream, or have another nightmare. I want to forget this conversation ever happened. I want you to go back to whatever abode you came from, and stay there until I can wrap my head around the fact that you might be real, and that this whole situation isn't just a splintered fragment in my head. Some sort of heroic gift that can wish away all the pain. I'm realistic. I can't believe it.” The weight of everything suddenly drops on top of Will like a drop into hell, and instead of his hyper vigilance in the sensations of the room, all he can feel is his tired muscles aching, like he had just run a thousand mile marathon. His throat is parched and a watery sour taste is in his mouth. His eyes feel gritty, and his head feels like it weighs as heavy as the world Atlas had to hold up in Greek mythology.
Hannibal sees the drastic transformation from defiant and aware to completely shattered, Will's whole body slumping down in on itself, and the taste of complete loss and weariness like thick stodgy stew. Yet for the first time in his entire existence, Hannibal does not feel the need to feed on this shattered mind, no desire to consume the fallen, and it shocks him to his core. Instead, he wants to protect, nurture, and watch grow, flourishing with pride.
“Is that what you wish?” he asks.
“Yeah. That is my wish.”
Will looks up, and Hannibal cannot help the slight inhaled gasp that escapes him as golden amber eyes meet those of a dark, great, ocean blue, for the first time. Slightly hard to see in the dark of the night, he can still tell how they are, completely out of place from the tired and dishevelled body surrounding it. It contains so much emotion, so much sadness and sorrowful pain, yet vast in its brilliance and creativity. A quiet churning ocean of the world it sees and reflects on its surface. Yet deep down, the mysterious world of the deep.
“If that is your wish, my master.” Hannibal says softly.
There is no swooning, no slow closing of the eyes like someone being slowly anaesthetised. Will suddenly just drops like a sudden weight has been snapped off its string. Hannibal catches Will against him before he hits the harsh tiled floor, using superhuman speed and strength. As he cradles his new master to his chest he can not help again, in noticing the contradiction that is Will Graham. His face is solemn, even in sleep, the scruff around his jaw lending to the wild nature that Hannibal already senses. Yet his bare skin is soft, and his hair is like a dark bronzed halo around his head. His eyes. Hannibal will never forget those eyes, even when Will is gone. Hannibal's own eyes trace up and down, flickering around Will's face as if trying to memorise every detail.

Beautiful, inside and out.

He starts to lift his precious cargo, holding Will’s shoulders with one arm and hand, while the other swoops under the the legs, he stands gracefully and fluidly with his burden. Giving in to impulse, he simply stands still for a moment and closes his eyes at the sensation of Will in his arms, something that he already knows he would never be able to do while the man is awake. The power that he feels filling him up is very satisfying. Awake, Will's aura is ever changing, showing bright sparks like the sun, yet also dark flickering shadows of the night. But here, in Hannibal's arms he feels the vulnerability inside. Even as he thinks it, Will gives a uncomfortable murmur, his eyebrows once again coming together from where they fell lax when sleep overcame him. Hannibal makes a shushing noise but Will still trembles.

Stubborn.

Hannibal first thinks to move him to the upstairs area where he assumes a bedroom is, but he senses somehow that the main living room would be better. Never one to disagree with his own instincts which have served him well, he smoothly proceeds to the living room where the dogs are asleep on beds in front of a fireplace. There, over the dogs resting place and the fur imploded sofa of patched blue is an unmade bed, sheets very faintly yellow from Will's restless sweat filled sleep.

The dream.

It had connected them deeply. A dream can be a place of truth and freedom, a place where sanctity can be, and Hannibal can intrude upon. For a dream can reflect outside reality, and for a connection to be made, their very essence and true selves are shown to each other in the dream. Hannibal's mark is then burned into their very essence creating a permanent bond. Most however, feel only afraid of the castle, his figure, and the pain. They are shown as snivel weasel creatures, or ones blown large with gluttony, or naked in desire, all rude pig-like individuals. Hannibal can then view them clearly to see what type of master he has next. But never before has a true form and essence been that of an animal, or in this case, a wolf. At first it put him on edge, for wolves are a secret enemy of the Djinn. Born of the earth elemental, as opposed to the Djinn who are born of fire and smokeless flame, earth can smoother fire. It should be in his nature to dispose of this new master quickly, to completely shatter this already fragile mind. Yet underneath the broken pieces he senses a hard steeled core. It seems that pain is an old friend of Will's and instead of breaking, his will is that of a large double edged sword. Life has battered and hammered at him but he remains as sharp and steeled as ever. Hannibal wonders how he will fair in the fiery heat of the forge? What exactly will emerge? The wolf in all his dark and wild glory?
Smiling faintly he looks down at his burden and again makes a soft shushing noise at Will who is still restless, now breathing loudly. The pillows and sheets in the rumpled bed he makes disappear replacing them with clean fresh sheets, the plain coverlets of grey he replaces with a dark navy blue to bring out the ocean in Will's eyes. He tucks Will into bed and gently strokes the curled hair out of his face in what could be mistaken as a lover's gesture. He will have to return to his abode soon as Will wished, though he did not specify a time frame, so Hannibal finds himself lingering a while. Looking down at the restless form he sees such potential, and for once is not sure just how to proceed. His face remains placid and calm, but his inner mind is churning. The whole introduction did not go as he had planned. Will had surprised him. But did he not wish for this? Who is Hannibal if not the Gentleman Djinn? He will not look a gift horse in the mouth, he has time. Perhaps he will even consult another Djinn and gain a different point of view. He eyes briefly glance upwards at the memory of an elegant woman with a calm, slow, feminine voice.
Yes, no need to be hasty. But first.....
Hannibal bends over the sleeping form and runs his fingers down the side of the scuffed face, stilling it from twitching. He holds one fingertip over the man's slightly open mouth and a single drop of black liquid falls. Will shuts his mouth immediately and moans in his sleep, grimacing at the intrusion, his head shaking back and forth. As Hannibal strokes his fingers along Will's jawline the restless man stills almost immediately. Hannibal's voice is a soft murmur of a baritone symphony, whispering words strangely soothing in their comfort. He then sits back satisfied when the weathered lines on the beautiful sleeping face smooth away, going lax in a dreamless sleep, eyebrows once again separating and stilling, breath now a calm slow flow like sea waves. His venom will seal the connection between them so that they will never be parted. Just one drop. Any more can risk overload in a human, like the most deadliest of drugs. An oblivion, like the amount he had granted his previous master.
A soft growl makes him turn to look behind him. One of William' dogs is awake and growling softly at him, hackles high. Hannibal's eyebrows rise, he would have thought his power more than enough to keep a few Canis familiaris asleep. He tilts his head and moves towards the dog, gracefully dropping down to eye height. Clearly a mutt like all the others with a muddled colouring, it clearly has a strong connection with Will who is now master to them both.
“Have no fear,” Hannibal whispers to the canine, “I have no inclination to harm our master. I only wish to see him as he should be truly seen, to help him break free of the chains and bars of life and spill forth in brilliance.” It is only when he says it does he realise just how true the statement is. His curiosity piked by Will. But the dog seems to understand him enough to stop growling. Intelligent fellow. His eyes still watch Hannibal balefully. “A beta to the alpha I see.” Hannibal comments amused. He straightens once more before appearing back in his abode. He sits himself gracefully onto his sofa and materialises a glass of wine into his hand. He has a lot to contemplate before he interacts with Master William again.

*****

Back in Will's living room, Winston moves his head searching, wondering where the strange smelling man has gone. He reeked of danger, yet the canine sensed no immediate alarm to his master. His master is asleep. He smells no distress, no noise, no sharp smell of fear. He rests his head back onto his paws, but his eyes remain open. Intent on watching over his master well into the dawn.

*****
When Will awakens the next morning, for the first time since his childhood, he feels completely rested and healthy. It is not a state he is usually comfortable with, and that alone slices through his peaceful rested state like a serrated knife. His mind is clear but strangely blank at the same time. His dogs are starting to stir in front of him, and.....

Was my blanket always blue?

What did he do the night before? He remembers visiting Crawford at the FBI. He remembers meeting 'Team Sassy Science' and being surprisingly pleased with them. He remembers the missing girls, the implication that no part of them was left behind. The file, he draws his eyes to his desk where he can see it sitting forlornly where he had flung it, happy that the dogs hadn't gotten to it as it is precariously half of the edge. Crawford had wanted Will to do his 'thing' to help them solve it.

His 'thing'....Miss Katz... Price....Welcome....Basket....!!!!

Will jumps out of bed and almost stumbles in the precise way he remembers doing last night half asleep, even tripping over the same piece of wooden furniture he bumped into last night.

A chair. I really need to move that thing.

Before falling again onto the kitchen counter, almost head butting the large wicker basket and coming nose to nose with the ominous black decanter, red wire around the top shining like fresh blood in the morning sunlight. Will reaches his hand out to it hovering, before pulling it back and standing up. The decanter doesn't look anywhere near as bad as last night.
Thank you morning sun.
His mind goes through all the usual symptoms first; denial, then acceptance, then challenge, then logic, finally ending on the fact that even if what happened last night were real, he remembers that he had told 'Hannibal' to remain in the decanter until he could wrap his head around everything. In fact he feels quite happy and content with himself.

It's scaring him.

In a pure moment of panic and impulse he slowly reaches out to gently grab the decanter in his hand pulling it towards him. Heartbeat loud, he looks around with his eyes for the tell-tale gentleman figure in the red silk suit. Seeing nothing, he suddenly rushes back the living room and straight to his desk. There he places the decanter on the table, before crouching and lifting up an old medium sized metal box where he keeps some of his fishing gear, tipping it all out onto the floor. Something that he knows he will regret later as he usually takes good care of his gear. He places the box on top of his desk being mindful of his lure equipment. Then delicately despite himself, places the decanter into the box and shuts it closed snapping the padlock in place. He doesn't remember where they key to unlock it is either. Stepping back and breathing heavily he looks at the metal box like he expects it to suddenly unlock and open. When it doesn't, his breathing starts to settle, that is until he is sure he can hear a scream of rage inside his head, similar to the feeling of being watched that he had in his car coming home late last night. He staggers back and shakes his head to clear it, hand to his forehead. The feeling and imagined screaming disappears almost like a big weight is lifted from his entire body. Unfortunately the feeling of happiness and light disappears as well, and in return is the ever vengeful headache that starts to pound away at his inner skull with vigour. He feels like shit again, but at least he knows this feeling, this pain, has lived with it his entire life. Now if he can only get the slight buzzing in his ears to back off.
...Wait.....
His phone is going off. Will turns and picks up his phone which is shaking more than his little terrier Buster at the vet's. The number isn't registered.
“WILL, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN UPTO!? IVE BEEN CALLING YOU FOR 10 MINUTES!!”

Oh good morning to you too Crawford, you're rather loud this morning.

“Sorry Director Crawford, I was up late last night looking at the case.” He should be ashamed by how smoothly he lies, but he knows he can cover himself. He already has a few incomplete pictures puzzled together in his head. Enough to keep the lie true anyway. “Well you can come in and tell it to the others then,” Crawford said in only a slightly lower voice. No apology of course. He must really think Will has no life. “ But I’m calling you because we have a meeting with one of the missing girls parents this evening.”

Oh good.

Will hates the visits to victims parents. What can he really say to them? He isn't good at consoling, and even if they say they want to know the truth, or whatever facts or stories you have thought of to explain the 'why' question to them, they are always lying. They don't want to know, especially in the cases that he usually has to investigate. The mind of a criminal is rarely tasty. In fact, it leaves quite a disgusting taste in the mouth. If knowing these criminal's thoughts can have a taste that is.
“Yeah, I'll be there.” Will replies distractedly.
“Well of course,” Crawford's voice sounds almost insulted, like Will had just tried to weasel his way out of going, “And don't worry Will, I'll be doing most of the talking. They know who you are and why you have been brought in. You're welcome to intervene with any questions you want to clarify anything that will help with the investigation. But I want you to be observing, getting a feel of it, and the girl as much as you can. We need to catch this bastard.”

Well that's a relief.

It looks like Will is going to be doing the same routine and just sticking to the backdrop. It works for him. Before he can say anything agreement- wise in some form or another Crawford interrupts.
“And you can call me Jack for God's sake. If rumour is true, you are going to give us the push we need to solve this case. Formal polite know towing can take a back seat.”
'Jack' ends the call before more can be said.

Hmmm.....Well at least I don't need to do the polite know-towing.

His head pounds in pain, reminding him that it's still there and hasn't gone away in the distraction of Jack's morning phone call. Will decides to feed the dogs first, who have naturally awoken at the sound of him up out of bed, though Winston seems a bit more on edge than normal. Will gives him a pat to reassure him. Then a shower, pain killers, and coffee. He can the take a quick look at the file to come up with some coherent theories to pacify his new team mates, while preparing himself for the visit with the grieving folks later this evening. He takes one more glance at the metal box containing the decanter before blinking in pain and heading towards the kitchen. Maybe he can have some cookies with his coffee later.

*****

His morning with 'Team Sassy Science' goes better than he thought it would. They spend the majority of the time going over facts already decided. Mostly the absence of the girl's dead bodies, and the lack of complete evidence all together. 'Jimmy', instead of the formal 'Mr. Price', is decidedly a breath of fresh air, and rather amusing to talk to. 'Brian', instead of 'Zeller' is the same, and both scientists assure Will quite fervently that 'Beverley', would be fine on a first name basis instead of 'Katz'. The latter not being able to speak for herself at the time due to being off 'doing computer stuff”. This was explained only after Zeller attempted to get Will to refer to her as the 'hot female asian science geek', when he sees her next. Luckily, Jack sticks his head in at the right moment to boom at them all about worker employee ethics concerning stereotype name-calling, before retreating. Will also notices to his relief that Jack's voice doesn't startle him alone, as he very clearly sees Jimmy do a small jump at the sound of the big bass bellow. The conversation then moves forward; delving into how to decompose a body, then onto how small you could chop up said body for disposal, and then finally the correct temperature for cremating bodies. Will is happily surprised that his own rather morbid sense of mood doesn’t seem to affect the two men. Neither does his knowledge of murder and death, which is met with a discussion of specifics rather than the usual uncomfortable looks, and slow edging away. Only two things mar the otherwise comfortable morning. One: Will's head has slowly begun to feel like it is about to implode, making him break out in a sweat and his companions ask him three times if he is okay, as he probably is starting to look exactly how he feels. Two: twice now he has thought about last night and the decanter currently locked in his fishing box, and only because Zeller brought up twice how much he 'wishes' to catch this killer. Because it is in no doubt in anyone's mind that the probably of these girls being dead and not just kidnapped, is extremely high.
Finally the dreaded evening comes, and Jack again pokes his head into the laboratory to bark at Will that it is time to go.

And here follows William Graham, the blood hound...Woof woof.

*****
Elise Nichol's house is just the same as the rest of the neighbourhood. A wholesome all American living with two storeys of clean white walls, and a decoration of various family pictures inside. Elise herself is described as the usual trouble free girl with a bright future ahead of her in college. Fun loving with plenty of friends, and parents who are quite adamant that their girl would never run away. As the story goes, while they were away on a trip Elise was reported to have come home in the night. But when the parents returned to the house on the Sunday evening, their girl was no where to be found.
Will wonders around the house, but he already knows the feel of the place and the girl in particular. Already her story is playing around in his head. He notices the cat in the corner preening comfortably, and comes to the conclusion that Elise had come home in the weekend. She fed the cat, showered, went to bed, and was abducted while asleep. It is in sleep that one is the most vulnerable. Will knows that better than most, rubbing his forehead in phantom memory of the bad dreams that often plague him, as well as in pain from the headache that seems to be getting worse if that is at all possible. Only half listening to Jack talking to the parents at the dining room table, he considers asking to see Elise's room which Jack had previously informed him has been undisturbed. Perhaps he can do his 'thing' and see how the kidnapper took her. That request is abruptly pushed from his mind as he watches the cat suddenly lurch to all four paws, and head off straight upstairs. Animals are perceptive creatures, and Will's gut has dropped in instinctual dread in response to the cat. Calling out a soft but vague “Elise's room is upstairs isn't it?” he doesn't wait for an answer before following the cat. He hears Jack's hurried and pacifying “It's okay, he knows what he is doing, he is a professional.” and knows he will get a scolding about polite behaviour later on. But all his focus is now upstairs whereupon reaching the landing, sees the cat pawing and sniffing under a door at the end of the hall. His mind turns to white static and he hears a distinctive buzzing sound, as well feeling a strange rush of adrenaline. Hearing the father come up behind him he turns and knows his face is serious, statuesque, and his voice distant. Will tells him to not touch anything and to hold the cat.
As he opens the door he smells the distinct smell of the musky dead and sees Elise Nichol's body laid precisely on her bed, dressed in a nightgown, and her eyes and mouth closed as if she were merely sleeping. He only just manages to catch the father from running to the bed, and gently pushes him out the door, knowing he will only have a few moments alone as the man runs to tell Jack and the mother. He then turns to the bed, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and reaches deep inside himself. Deep inside his brain, his headache fades away and a pendulum starts to sway. After every sweep that passes elements of the scene before him break away piece by piece. The body, the bed goes back unruffled, the window opens and shuts, until he can see right back to the very beginning. It was as he thought before, but he senses an added strange sense of apology, of care, of love.

I didn't know she was no good, so I put her back....I put it all back, just the way I found it.

“So this is your 'thing'...”
He is jolted back into the present by a familiar feminine voice that sounds amused. The jolt strains him, making him disorientated, like a scream waking you in the night.
“You shouldn't be here.” he murmurs to Beverley, trying to fight against the headache that immediately returns yet again.

Can't it give him a break for one minute?

“What do you mean? I just got here,” Beverley says dismissively “Jack is downstairs calling the rest of forensics. He has never returned a girl before. I'm excited to get at her. We might be able to find something.” Will nods distracted. “Hey are you okay?” Beverley notices his manner. “Yeah I'm fine, just a headache, and thinking about this.” Will waves his hand in a vague motion to Elise Nichol's. Beverley makes a sympathetic noise before smoothly moving to the bed and taking out a flash light. He decides to leave her to it and stumbles downstairs, he bypasses the now grieving and crying parents, their pleas to 'go see her', and the stern figure of Jack on the phone, who calls out to Will as he passes. Ignoring him, he manages to find his way outside where he breaths in now cool night air. His head is now a torture device, and his hands are shaking. He has never reacted this bad before. He looks up into the night sky, but deep in his inner eyes he sees the body of Elise Nichol’s on the bed, only this time she opens her eyes and sits up, mouth open and points at him.
“See?” she accuses.

*****
That night in bed. Will tosses and turns and wakes up early morning drenched in sweat. Visions of the girls he knows for certain are dead, stare at him with blank eyes, asking him to see. He is trying, he wants to tell them. He is trying to see....
Beside him on his desk the metal box looms, shadowed in the night. Will swears he can hear a throbbing coming from the box, like an angry heartbeat. He grabs a towel to place on his wet sheets and tries to sleep again, shivering, covering himself with a blanket he takes from the sofa. The scratchy feel of dog hair and distinct smell of dog sooths him, as does the sudden warm weight at the end of the bed near his feet as Winston jumps up to sleep near him.

*****
The following morning at the laboratory, he stands with Price, Zeller, Beverley, and Jack as they discuss their findings on Elise Nichol’s body, lying still on the table before them. As the first three report to Jack what they have found, Will can't help but sit down on a chair. Jack's eyes flicker towards him before landing back on Beverley who excitedly tell him she found a kind of felt on Elise's wounds.
“Most likely from an animal horn,” Zeller explains “An antler from a deer, most likely.”
“So you are telling me he put her on an antler?!?” Jack booms.
Zeller shrugs.
“But that's not the half of it,” Price interjects “You can see very clearly here that he has opened her up, taken the liver, and then put it back.” Jack and the three look at each other in confusion. Will however, has a sudden link of information, gathering all he had felt in the room, and from the file. The sudden knowledge, and the implications surrounding the explanation that has come together in his head make him want to vomit, mainly because he is still fighting the feeling of remorse and love he feels looking at Elise Nichol's dead body at the same time.
“It's an apology.” He reports softly. The other four look at him and he feels the sudden weight of their gaze down right into his toes. They see a man stern and still, palms together in prayer pointed downwards, yet the eyes are vague and far away, seeing things they never will.
“The meat was bad.”
“What meat?” Jack questions, dread entering his voice.
Will look to Price. “What was wrong with the liver?” he asks.
Price startled, looks at the report. “You're right.” he says slowly, swallowing. “She had liver cancer.”
Will sighs. The explanation he then gives to the room seems to be dragged from him. Placing his head on his palmed hands before looking up, and saying in a clear concise voice, punctuation detailed, “He is apologising for taking her and having to put her back without honouring her. He needs to honour every part of the girls he takes. That is why we don't find any part of them again.” he puts his forehead to his fingers again.
“What are you saying Will?” Jack asks looking sideways at him. Will hates those types of stares.

“He's eating them.”

*****
Two more days pass and nothing more is said about the big bombshell Will had given. Two more nights of no sleep either. He doesn't remember how any of the other conversations go, and simply keeps his head down to avoid the stares that keep getting thrown at him. Though he really feels like looking up, and smugly telling them,“ I told you so, I told you you wouldn't like my 'party trick.'” Instead he focuses on Beverley's voice, when she reports that she has found a scraping of metal on Elise's nightdress. Most likely from a pipe. This is why he finds himself sitting at one of the employee computers in the computer lab. The only other person is an obviously a, student furiously typing away at the screen. A late report, Will assumes, judging from the chip packets and 3 open cans of soda at his elbow. Will pecks at the keyboard and finds a few places that fixes metal piping in the vicinity. One place is right at the centre of the abductions, it's address, he jolts down on the back of a piece of paper he finds lying next to his computer. A failed report print out. He tries to do some more research but the topic of metal leads him back again to the metal box on his desk at home, and the supposed contents inside. Will finds himself typing 'Djinn' into the search engine before he can help it. Clicking on the first site he absorbs the information visually shown to him.

'Djinn, 'Jinn', or 'Genie'.... Beings of smokeless fire, and made of fire....elemental being of chaos... can be originated from many stories from various cultures....Origins mainly back to Arabic folklore.....Reference in the religious Muslim text the 'Qu'ran'....fallen angels of light, tricksters, and master manipulators....feed off the living in a parasitic relationship. Feeding off of a humans fear, desires, and sex.... can even feed off real flesh and blood....

Will can't seem to take his eyes off of the screen. He feels shaken to the core, but not surprised. He continues clicking on every link he can find.

The Djinn can have both a non corporeal form and a physical form.....can eat and feed and procreate like other humans.....rumours to be able to shape shift...long lifespan....The Djinn can be supernatural in strength, speed, and power. Though their main gifts are their eyes which can mesmerise their victims, and their venom. Their venom is essentially their essence which can poison humans, and/or cause mental anguish in small amounts.

….the Djinn do not generally have many weaknesses, though they are slaves to sensation. Preferring the riches of life and stimulation to help them 'live' and 'feed'. Their biggest enemy is the spirited wolf, as a creature of earth, whereas the Djinn is a creature of fire. But mainly in their purpose, in their ability to grant wishes......it is possible to trick a Djinn into retreating into their abode in your own desires for a wish from them. Though being natural manipulators, they often send humans to their demise through their wishes.....
Will suddenly switches the screen off and sits back, eyes wide. Every word comes back to him of himself and Hannibal's conversation that night. He can see how he was being manipulated and told half truths. Suddenly he is relieved that he had wished Hannibal back into the decanter without even realising it. Will clenches his shaking hands on his knees, and takes a deep breath. He remembers the intensity of their presence together in his kitchen. How he finds himself suddenly having such a good nights sleep, and waking up clean and fresh and with a new bedspread. Okay, it took him two days before he figured out it had definitely changed colour.

He remembers the dream...

The sudden connection he felt between them. Will shakes his head. No. It can't be. Not just from a first meeting. Besides judging from what he just read, he is lucky to have survived an hour let alone until morning. What he should do is go back and bury the damned thing in the middle of the field 6ft deep. Nodding to himself, he decides that is what he shall do. He doesn't need a wishing demon in his life making things worse.

I can have life sucking the energy out of me day after day all on its own thanks.

Though he can't help the little voice in the back of his head that says;

You can wish for anything.

Will switches the screen back on and deletes the search history before stumbling out of the lab. He moves shakily to the men's bathroom to wash his face. On the way, he passes Jack who again calls out to him, but he pays no attention. Moving to the sink of the bathroom, he opens the cold water and plugs the sink, emerging his face in the water. In his minds eye, the water starts turning red with blood. Will pulls back with a gasp only to be met eye to eye by the stern and imposing figure of Jack, arms folded, who has not surprisingly followed him into the bathroom. Unplugging the sink, Will grabs some paper towel from the holder and pats his face dry. He then leans his ass on the counter and faces Jack with a grimace. To his great surprise, Jack just sighs and considers Will with an almost sympathetic look. “Look, I understand this case is horrible,” he starts, “And it can effect us in all sorts of ways. This is a shitty case. What you explained to us, though we don't want to admit it, makes sense. The fact that it would have never occurred to us, only tells me I was right to have you included in on this case. We need to narrow it all down, and to do that I need you in top form dammit! We are so close to catching this bastard now I can feel it! You've been looking shittier day after day, hour after hour. Now I don't know what you usually do to help you relax yourself and de stress, or what other private investigators usually do, but it's obviously not working good enough. You're with the FBI now and we like to do things clearly, so I have made arrangements....”
At this, Will looks up startled.

No....God no not another psych eval....

He opens his mouth to object, but is stopped when a poor guy walks into the bathroom, already unzipping his pants.
“USE THE LADIES!!!” Jack bellows at the now shocked man pointing back out the door and not letting his eyes leave Will's form. The man scuttles back out the door in a flash. Will looks at Jack, “I'm fine, just....” he rubs his face and tries to school his features in some semblance of sanity.
Jack gives a heaving sigh, the fight expelling out of him a little at the dismayed look on Will's face, like a kicked puppy. “I've spoken to one of our psychologist consultants in our department who has agreed to meet with you....No, I don't want to hear any disagreement from you.”Jack waves his hand at Will who has his mouth open, intending to do just that. “Apparently you are already acquainted with Miss Bloom.” Will's mouth drops open again. “Alana?” Jack gives a small huff of amusement. “Yes, when she told me you were already acquainted I had hoped you would be a little more forthcoming about a meeting. You have one booked for tomorrow at 1:00pm, if you value your life by not pushing me, I would seriously recommend you attend this appointment.” Jack then strides out of the bathroom without another word. The storming out of a man who usually gets his way. But Will has no more thought to be annoyed. He keeps going over and over the one mantra in his head...

….it's Alana...it's Alana....it's Alana....

*****
That night. Will lies in bed, eyes closed, thinking about a raven haired beauty with red lips, and her small happy smile pointed at him a time long ago in college.
If Will had looked beside him at his desk, he would have seen the metal box on top start to glow red almost in anger. Instead, the heat from it seems to sooth Will, lulling him into a restless sleep he does not awake from until morning. A sleep in which he dreams of red eyes staring at him, and a shadowy figure he can't seem to recognise, reaching out.
*****
The next day finds him in a plain private consulting room at the FBI Academy, face to face with Alana Bloom. She is giving him that small smile he remembers, only this time he can sense the sympathetic pity coming from it which irritates him, then makes him feel guilty for being irritated because he generally likes Alana. She looks as splendid as ever. Bright bold colours complimenting her perfectly, her shirt and long skirt tight enough to show off her figure, but naturally so, still conservative and maintaining a professional air. Will is standing while she is sitting at the table in the middle of the room. He can barely seem to look her in the eye, not that he usually likes eye contact, but now his whole head glances everywhere but at the woman in front of him. He knows this is rather rude, but lately he is finding it hard to remain still. His hands shake and his eyes twitch, and he is sweating a cold sweat constantly. He glances her way and gives a quick nervous smile, no teeth. Her face opens like she is about to say something and then retreats back. Will could almost laugh. They have known each other since college, kept in contact via emails, has had a crush on her since the day he looked at her, and still face to face awkwardness remains. Will tilts his head back and narrows his eyes as if he is trying to analyse the wall in font of him.
“Do you realise this is the first time we have ever been alone in a room together?”
“Is it?” her voice is soft but clear, “I suppose that is my fault in a way. I thought you would prefer a bit of distance.”

Oh Alana, please don't lie to me.....

Will makes a 'mmmm' agreement noise before taking a seat before her. The smile she gives him now is slightly more genuine. “It's good to see you again Will.”. “You too.” he replies. Silence again fills the space before Alana starts tapping the file on the desk before her. Will eyes focus on her fingers tapping before he look up and gives her another small smile. The exchange between them needs no words. They both know why they are here.
“I actually volunteered my services and insisted it be me to speak with you, and help you with all this. I hope you don't mind.” Alana does not seem at all ashamed of her actions. She is as cool as ever, speaking with a soft consideration and respect, like she is considering every word she says before she speaks it. “No,” Will shakes his head, looking down. “I appreciate it, really.” He look up at her and sees she is now wearing a sarcastic, humorous smile. “It was either me or Dr. Chilton. He was very enthusiastic and with much concern did he offer his services.” Will gives a harsh, humoured laugh in return. “Oh yes, I can definitely see that. He has been wanting to quantify me for his collection at the asylum for a while, so he can write some more articles about his breakthroughs. I remember the first time I met Frederick Chilton to see about identifying a brother of another criminal. I never went back. Still to this day, afraid he would never let me out again.”
Dr. Frederick Chilton managed the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
Alana looked at him carefully. “You are not insane Will.”
“Am I not?”
“No. You have pure empathy. It can sometimes affect your state of mind more than you want it to. You're sensitive”
“Hmmm....that's exactly what a guy wants to hear.”
“Hey, don't dismiss the appeal of the New Age Sensitive Guy.” Alana's eyes crinkle, and Will can't help but give a puff of laughter in return. This is why he likes Alana, she always has a talent for turning his sardonic and often self insulting humour around on its head, turning it into something positive. Even if it is a lie.
He then gives another big sigh and leans back in his chair. In part to seem more relaxed, and in part as a more natural movement to hide the fact that his leg is jiggling and he wants to jolt up out of the chair again.
“So what did Jack want you to do for me?” Will asks.
“He wants to make sure you're not going to break on him half way through the investigation,” she replies tersely, lips pursing, and a disapproving look crossing her face. “People like Jack see only the goal at the end of the line, and tend to dismiss the actions in between. He uses tools one after the other and pays no mind when they break. But Jack is a good man underneath it all, and the job he does is what it is. I'm here to make sure he doesn't break you Will. He has heard the rumours about you and your past track record catching murderer's. The Bureau is getting hit hard with all these fantastical cases, and he knows he can't figure them all out on his own. He wants you as a trump card, and has expressed his interest to me in making you a permanent consultant.” Will isn't surprised by the last part. He had been a consultant for a while with other police forces, and the FBI would have more than likely kept him on record from his fervent past applications. It was once suggested he be given Special Agent status, but again, his mental state had intervened. His empathy made him unable to pull the trigger when needed, and he had failed. “Nothing to be ashamed of.” Alana had said when he told her years later. But shame hadn't helped him get to where he had wanted to go. Perhaps now, fate was giving him a second chance.
“I know what Jack wants off me. My ability,” Will speaks in a rush, “But I am already working as a private investigator and have been catching murderers for a while now. It's what I'm good at, what I'm useful for. What I have to do is not pretty, the only difference is that while others can hide themselves, mine shows a little bit more. I won't be responsible for others perceptions.” Will's voice tapers off in a mutter. He knows Alana is looking at him in that long suffering look she gets when she thinks Will is acting like a martyr. “Will, it's like you are an open nerve. It's not healthy.” Will meets her eyes directly “Nothing about law enforcement is healthy. You'd be surprised just how unhealthy a human mind can get.” Alana narrows her eyes in response. “I'm a psychologist Will,” she replies tartly “I've tempered my whole career around so called unhealthy minds. Don't underestimate me just because I don't have you personal imagination.” Will gives a laugh and a respectful nod to her at that, which she returns.
Touche
“If this is how I can do this Alana. Then that is what I'm going to do.” Will can see the look on her face. He doesn't stop her when she reaches out and grips his hand which is shaking, resting on the table with both of hers. “I am your friend Will. Just promise me you won't let it break you. That you will come to me if it ever gets that bad.” Will reaches over with his other hand and grips her hands with his, accompanied by one of his genuine smiles. “I can't promise that. But I'll try.” Alana gives a light laugh, the room filling with sweetness and soft comfort. “Then that will have to do.” For moment they just stay there together, basking in the caring emotional atmosphere. Then Alana clears her throat, releasing his hands, and her professional mask slots back into place. Will is sad to see it, but he understands.
“I am worried about your health Will. You can try and hide it but I'm not blind. You look like a drug addict going through withdrawal.” Will raises his eyebrows and takes a deep breath but he can't contradict her. “I'll make sure to take some time for self-care. Promise. I'll go fishing maybe, or fix same boat motors. I've just had.....a lot on my mind.” The image in his head goes back to that night and Hannibal. To the metal box, where even now he is not sure just how true the reality is that an evil Djinn is in there.
“Outside the investigation?” Alana queries.
“Yeah.”

And how the fuck he is going to deal with it is beyond him....Wait. No. Burial. He remembers now.

“But I can tell already by the look on your face that you're not going to tell me.” Alana sighs.
“It's not worth telling,” Besides I wouldn't know how.... “ I'm planning on dealing with it later tonight.” Will hopes his voice sounds more stern than it is in his head.
“Good.” For some reason Alana's happy smile makes him feel guilty.
There's not much to say after that, just awkward conversation ender's. Him, promising to keep in touch, and Alana, assuring him that she will report to Jack that he is dealing with his issues naturally, and that it's simply the case's stagnation at the moment getting to him. Which isn't a lie at all. They part with the friendly handshake sort of hug but not. Will knows why. Steeping out into the brisk air as he walks to his car. As usual, when you don't see a friend for so long, after you part again your mind goes back to the time you first met.
They had taken some psychology classes together in college, and Alana was the only one who could put up with Will's little idiosyncrasies. They had come to like each other well enough, and had parted friendly after college. However, while Will was getting rejected by the FBI and being immersed in his battle with his blossoming empathy, Alana had exceeded in her field. He can never remember how he ended up on her metaphorical couch later, only that the sessions between them were difficult for them both. Will, he is willing to admit, made it more difficult than her. His intense dislike of being psychoanalysed making him down right intolerable if he were to be honest. Eventually it was Alana again that showed her intelligence and maturity, ending their therapy sessions but remaining in contact. She later told him she had felt he had needed a friend more than a therapist. He agreed. but there was still an awkwardness to their hang outs. Alana could tell Will was attracted to her. Will could feel sometimes that she was attracted to him too. But fears and uncertainty off both of them, allowed them to instead slowly taper off communication to only regular email swapping. The unspoken attraction left small and easily pushed aside.

But it was still there

Will could feel it when they had linked hands. It is still there. He knows it is more than just Alana being one of the few people to whom he liked, and who didn't treat him like a freak. Nevertheless, even if he were to do something about it, he knows right now would be the worst time. With the investigation making him go funny and sleep deprived, and his little suited 'wish' problem currently residing in his metal box. Deep down he already acknowledges that Hannibal is real, and the night they met really did happen. He had spotted a discarded pair of his best pants on the floor, being scented on by his dog Buster last night before bed. Pants that Hannibal had materialised on him that night, and in no way would he have had outside of his wardrobe otherwise. Getting into his car, he contemplates the pros and cons of a wish made and what he had researched about the previous day. Hannibal was in no doubt dangerous. Did Will really need that type of danger in his already complicated life? Driving back to Wolf Trap, he can't help but go over that night over and over again, everything that Hannibal had said to him compared with what he had read. How can anyone wrap their head around it? It's not something anyone would ever think could happen. Will deals with murderers and disturbed killers, not fanatical beings. Yet Hannibal had seemed very real to him. There was something there. Something that radiated from Hannibal, almost....surprise. He had been surprised by Will.
The killer had been surprised by Elise Nichol's cancer, and surprise has a habit of making murderer's careless.
The appearance of Elise Nichol's body also almost completely confirmed the devastating assumption that all the others girls were dead. Taken and used, eaten, and honoured, every single part of them. But who is he? What is his motive? Who? What? When? Where? Why? As Will drove up his driveway he continuously thought about the motives of such a man. All his feelings rolling around in his head, he knew without a doubt he would be dreaming of the dead girls again that night. He knew this man, this killer, he knew why, it was on the very end of his fingertips. His brain searching and pushing, going over details and impressions over and over and over again. Pushing and pushing.

He NEEDED to SEE!

*****

Will was right. He did have a nightmare of the dead girls that night. All of them. All white skinned and pale in death, eyes blank and cloudy, all floating, pointing at him, telling him to 'see'.

*****
Will was wrong. The metal box remained on his desk unmoved, and unburied.

*****

Three more days pass.

With each day the tension gets higher and higher. Will doesn't want to hear of another girl missing, or end up with another dead body to look at, but sometimes it seems preferable to this building tension. Nothing else was found on Elise Nichol's body, and the metal scrapping found on her clothes from a pipe was proving to be a clue similar to those that involved finding a straw coloured needle in a haystack. They needed to narrow it down. Too many 'creepy' candidates and suspects. Even Price had since lost his teasing good nature, Beverley was so consistently glued to a computer screen her eyes were going square, and Zeller barely said a word to anyone. Will has rejected all other forms of work and cases in his PI job, in favor of concentrating wholly to this one.
Jack is growing more frustrated with him everyday. Will could tell he had put all his cards in on Will pulling out a miracle. Will does give him some leeway for his frustrations, as Will hasn't seemed his best lately.
In fact, Will is getting worse.
At first he pegged it up to stress from the case and his nightmares originating from it, so used to the headaches and sleep deprivation. Unfortunately it isn't just that. He is getting the shakes consistently, as if he were sick. He always seems to be in a cold sweat and itchy all over. He can't rest, he can't sleep. Jack has forced him into meeting with Alana twice more. Both sessions usually consist of about an hour of Alana asking if he is truly okay, and Will trying his best to stop twitching and convince her. Finally, he couldn't stand the eye glares off Jack any more, and told him he had probably caught something, leaving work early that day to go see a doctor. The doctor couldn't explain it. He asked if Will had taken anything, as all his symptoms pointed to a type of substance withdrawal. Will told the doctor he hadn't taken anything except painkillers for his headache. But by the insufferable look the doctor threw at him, he wasn't believed. Will saw another doctor the next day and asked for a blood test, just to make sure. It came back clean. Will was slowly starting to feel like he was losing his mind. He just couldn't see.
It didn't help that the metal box was still on his desk. Unburied.
It was not like he had no inclination to bury it as he had planned too. But by some form of fate, the next morning it was still exactly were Will left it. He would go home with every intention to go and bury it straight away, but then one of his dogs would do something, or he would find something else in his home he had wanted to do, and he would do that first. Then he would go for a walk to calm himself from his new jitters, and the box remained. Then he would convince himself to try and eat something first, and the box remained. Every time. It didn't help that he was still having dreams of glowing red eyes and a figure reaching out to him. This part was always after the dead girls.
Frustrated, ill, tired, and in pain. Will was starting to lose options. So life, it seemed, decided to give him a push.
It came in the form of another meeting with Jack. In which he was forced to tell the man again, that he had come up with absolutely nothing further to help make a breakthrough on the case. Jack had bellowed and snarled and accused everyone under the sun. Finally, he yelled to the roof 'To what devil do I have to make a deal with huh?', pointing at a ceiling light as if it could grant him his wish.

Wish.

That word resonated deep within Will. For everyone knows, that man can go to quite extensive lengths when very very desperate.
Will was getting very desperate.
That evening, driving back to Wolf Trap., Will was reminded of something Alana had asked him in their last session before he had stumbled out. She had asked him, “How much are you willing to sacrifice of yourself, your health, or your sanity, before you think you have given enough?!” Will could tell she was getting genuinely worried about him, and so didn't get annoyed by her sudden question. But it made him ask himself just how much was he willing to give? His life? His sanity? Was he prepared to make a deal with the devil? Or more accurately....a Djinn?
When he arrived home, he let the dogs out and played with them....
As much as his headache allowed.
Fed them, then tried to eat something himself.....

Not much, not that he was able to keep it down anyway.

Then sat on the front porch and watched as the sun went down, turning everything from blue to orange, to pink, to purple, to black......

He did this while sipping a couple of fingers of whiskey of course.

Finally, he couldn't delay any longer. Night found him sitting on the side of his bed looking at his desk, and at the metal box on top. His blue eyes for once not twitching, but still as a calm sea. In his head he grew concious of dark whispers growing louder and louder.
He blinked.
Suddenly his hand was positioned poised, reaching out to the metal box, hovering over the lock.
He pulled back.
Then in a blind panic, almost over turned his desk in a frantic search for the key to unlock the padlock on the box. When he found it, he resumed his seat on the side of the bed, key in hand, staring at the box.

What was he prepared to risk?

To do?

In order to catch his killer?

…............................................................…..................................................…..........................................…..................................….............................…........................…...................…......…

Anything.

Will stood at his desk and deftly, as if he had no hesitation at all, unlocked the metal box. Then promptly fell back on his ass, on the bed in surprise, landing with a 'umph'. Eyes wide and scared shitless, if he were to be honest.
The decanter inside was bright red and glowing hot.
Breathing heavily, Will slowly approached the box again. Watched, as the decanter slowly faded back to black obsidian. Taking a deep breath he reached in and tentatively touched the decanter. It was cool. Taking it out gently, he wondered what he had to.....
“Hello William,” a cultured voice says evenly behind him, full of cool dark promises and raspy fiery anger.
Will twisted, and to his great embarrassment fell again on his ass, this time off the bed, clutching the decanter to his chest.

“How would you like me to help you?”

OH.......SHIT.