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Will was woken by a knock on the door. Sleepy and disoriented, he groaned and pushed back the bedding. He yawned just as he reached the door, briefly stretching before throwing the door open to find…Hannibal standing there in his ugly beige blazer, whole and hearty. Will was so pleased to see him alive and well that he launched himself at Hannibal, embracing him in an enthusiastic hug. He was surprised when Hannibal stiffened and did not return the embrace.
“You’re alive!” Will almost shouted.
Hannibal frowned. “Why would I not be?”
Will smiled and said, “Well we just fought a dragon, and won!”
Hannibal cocked his head. “I’m sorry Will, I’m not sure I understand.”
Will’s eyes finally focused on the carpark behind Hannibal, and he suddenly recognised it as the carpark outside the motel they stayed in the day that Hobbs died. Will staggered back from a confused looking Hannibal and slammed the door shut. Was he DEAD? Will opened the door again. Hannibal did his little speech about Jack being deposed in court, holding up the breakfast he had prepared. Will had a sudden thought and frantically grabbed at his face – there was no open wound from the fight with the dragon, not even a scar, no stab wound to his shoulder. What – then he pulled up his t-shirt - no stomach scar.
He looked at Hannibal, dumbfounded, and started laughing hysterically. Hannibal hovered in the doorway, unsure of quite what was happening here. Will decided he was either dead or having a psychotic break. When he eventually stopped laughing, he declined breakfast (causing Hannibal to look a little displeased) and firmly closed the door. He then had a freezing cold shower in the hope it might wake him up from his dream/nightmare, dressed quickly and bolted out to their hire car, looking over his shoulder to make sure Hannibal didn’t suddenly appear and join him in the car.
Hannibal returned to his room after he had attempted to engage Agent Graham in a meal and conversation, and been embraced then spurned in a very odd manner. Initially Graham had greeted him as a long-lost friend, hugging him as though they had a very close relationship and saying something about a dragon. Hannibal had taken a step back after that. Then Graham slammed the door in his face and reopened it almost immediately, before grasping at himself in a most strange way, giving Hannibal just enough time to explain Jack’s absence and offer breakfast. This was met by hysterical laughter, a rather impolite rejection of his food offering, and the door was slammed in his face once again. Hannibal had stood there for a moment before returning to his own room. Perhaps Graham really was in need of psychiatric help, and not just for looking at murder scenes. He saw no point in wasting his breakfast, so he pulled back the curtains and took a seat at the table by the window to eat.
Ten or fifteen minutes later he heard a door slam, and Agent Graham ran across the parking lot to their car, hurrying into it and pulling out of the parking lot at speed. What was going on?
Will drove around aimlessly for a while, turning events over and trying to formulate a plan in his head. If he was having a psychotic break, where was his body really – what his mind protecting him from? What if he were dead? He could do whatever he wanted, and it wouldn’t matter. Was his version of hell being back in this day? It was possible, though he had not previously believed in an afterlife. He needed some strong coffee before he could think properly. He pulled into the parking lot of a café that looked fairly quiet. He ordered an Americano and a rather tasty looking Danish at the counter before taking a seat by the window.
He fidgeted with the sugar shaker while he waited. If this was hell, why did the café smell so good? Why was the relaxed ambience soothing his nerves rather than making him feel like he had red hot needles being poked under his skin – because wasn’t that what hell was meant to be like? The server brought him his coffee and Danish, smiling politely before returning to the counter. The people didn’t seem bad – Sartre said hell is other people, but no one was causing him any bother.
Will took a bite of his Danish – delicious, buttery and sweet, definitely not the taste of hell – before turning his thoughts to Hannibal. He touched his face again to check the scar hadn’t reappeared – but no, still just his bristles, no scarred ridge of skin on his forehead, no wound from the dragon. How was he back here on this day, this particular day, with Hannibal. Well – currently not with Hannibal. He took a sip of the coffee and thought actually maybe he was in heaven, the coffee was that good. But if it was in heaven surely he would be surrounded by dogs. If this was a psychotic break, he was hallucinating sound, smell, taste, and visuals. He rubbed his forehead. This just didn’t make sense.
A newspaper folded on the next table caught his eye and he leaned across to grab it. Shit. Yes, it was really the very day he killed Hobbs and started a whole train of events in motion. Barack Obama was president – just beginning his second term. The paper was doing a promotion to win tickets to see Iron Man 3. Minnesota was soon to legalise gay marriage. Will sighed. Better late than never.
Ok. So if Will played along with whatever cosmic joke this was, what would he do differently this time around? This was such a mindfuck. Yesterday he was married – oh he hadn’t even thought of Molly till now. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. His finger wasn’t even indented from the ring like it would have been had he just taken it off. So that meant something. He just wasn’t sure what. He took another bite of his Danish.
Hannibal had turned up at his motel room, uttering the same lines as he had on that fateful morning, wearing the same clothes, with longer hair. And Will had not let him in. Did that mean he could rewrite the events for the rest of the day? Save Mrs Hobbs, not let Abigail get her throat cut, not shoot Mr Hobbs. Not end the day covered in blood and with a shrieking headache.
That was another difference. Will didn’t have a headache. He knew he’d started to get bad headaches before this day in the other whatever it was – timeline, version of events, hallucination. He knew that, because at one point he’d thought Hannibal was responsible for the headaches somehow, but they definitely did pre-date meeting Hannibal. He downed the last of his coffee and finished the Danish. He started to formulate a plan in his mind that should simplify everything.
Well. Almost everything. There was still Hannibal to be dealt with. Yesterday (if it was yesterday) he’d helped Hannibal break free from custody with the goal of killing the Red Dragon. Several custodial officers had died in the process. The dragon had died. He and Hannibal had embraced, covered in blood, from the dragon and their own wounds, and Will remembered feeling like he was going to pass out. Then he woke up in the motel room.
Where was that Hannibal now? Will drummer his fingers on the table. Thinking about it probably wasn’t going to offer much in the way of enlightenment so it was time to start the ball rolling for his plan.
Leaving a generous tip for the server, he headed out to his car and drove to the local Police Department. He showed his FBI ID and requested to speak to the head of detectives. The man was all ears when Will explained that he was in Bloomington to investigate the Minnesota Shrike. Will said the FBI had incontrovertible proof who the Shrike was, that he was a cannibal but the FBI team had been delayed in joining him here. Did the Bloomington police have the resources to apprehend the man? Will explained that it was likely that Garret Jacob Hobbs would try to hold his wife and or daughter hostage, so they needed to go in quiet and fast. The detective nodded. A search warrant was quickly typed up and granted, based on Will’s FBI credentials and assertions, and a heavily armoured team was assembled with impressive speed. Will trailed the 3 police cars and the SWAT van to the Hobbs residence.
He ignored calls from Hannibal & Jack en route.
The SWAT officers caught Hobbs unawares, and he was arrested without any loss of life. Will stared at Abigail as police spoke to her and her very much alive mother, then he sat in the hire car for a while. He sent Jack a text saying the Bloomington police had arrested the Minnesota Shrike based on a tip off – a bit of white lie but it would do – and that he needed to get the forensics team down here. Also that Hobbs had a hunting cabin. He wasn’t going to make any effort to either exonerate or involve Abigail for her father’s crimes. She was more than capable of doing that herself. Will didn’t need to be pushed into an artificial relationship with the girl. She wouldn’t need to fear death by Hannibal’s hand, or lose an ear. Not this time.
The senior detective came over and asked for his contact details, so Will gave his name but said that Jack and the team would be heading down soon with full forensics crew on board. He mentioned the cabin to the detective as well.
One mission accomplished. That had all come together so easily. He wasn’t sure what to do next. Should probably go to a doctor to get his encephalitis diagnosed and treated. Go straight home and see his dogs. Go to the motel and see Hannibal. And say what? If Will said he knew that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal might kill him on the spot. Assuming he could be killed in this place. He needed to work out his feelings for Hannibal. This was so complicated. He had no intention of returning to Molly. But this Hannibal wasn’t his Hannibal, and their last few hours together before the dragon had not shed much light on what would happen after. Will didn’t even know if he had intended to survive the dragon.
So Will did the sensible thing. On the way back to the motel he stopped at a liquor store, bought their most expensive bottle of whiskey and got burgers and fries from a place a couple doors down. When he got back to the motel there was no twitch of curtains at Hannibal’s window. Will did not want to go looking for him right now. He wanted to eat his burger and fries in peace and get drunk.
Damn that burger was good, and the fries were perfect. Hot, crunchy and with just the right amount of salt on them. If this was hell, the quality of the food and coffee was a well-kept secret.
After his early dinner, Will proceeded to get very drunk very quickly. As he got close to the bottom of the bottle, he thought he might wake up in a moment for real, to find Hannibal standing over him, bloodied and grim looking, trying to stitch up his cheek. Calling him his little mongoose. He slapped his hand up to his face again. Nope. No wounds or scars. “Face still pretty”, he laughed out loud, and promptly passed out.
Will was woken by a knock on the door. Sleepy and disoriented, he groaned and pushed back the bedding. He yawned just as he reached the door, briefly stretching before throwing the door open to find…Hannibal standing there in his ugly beige blazer, whole and hearty.
“What the fuck?”