The Universe's Mixer

When Clarice had been in the Academy, and college before that, and the orphanage before that, homemaking had not been a serious option. Meals were to be found at cafeterias and the occasional friend's house or restaurant. Now, she had spare time, which annoyed her deeply on some level. There was no convenient cafeteria where she could mindlessly take care of food in between classes.

Now, unless she wanted peanut butter sandwiches and cereal for every meal, she would have to cook.

At first, it annoyed her. It was time she could have spent productively elsewhere. But soon she began to find the pleasure in it. Rediscovering meals that reminded her of her childhood with a bittersweet pang. There were several attempts at making old recipes only to realize that they had been intended for a family of six, which resulted in leftover pot roast being taken to the precinct.

Shopping for the week was now less of a grudging act of necessity and more a chance to feel at home, in whatever small way possible. With that vague thought in mind, Clarice strode through the City market, intent on having shrimp and grits for dinner.

Hannibal's adjustment period for his twinned soul was brief. He took in the boy and made him a part of the man. He made sure that the memories of certain people were locked well away so that he could make those discoveries all over again, with fresh eyes.

He had tasks and goals in his life. Plans. He was in the midst of opening up his practice again, his business cards had just come in. He was keeping an eye out for a secretary. Despite his wishes to not advertise - it was entirely too tacky - the City had seen fit to place a small ad in the paper for him. At least there weren't commercials on television, and he'd only seen the ad once, so hopefully it wasn't going to be a regular occurrence. The ad itself was as tasteful as it could be. Plain text, no images. Then there was also the production Erik was planning. As well as his training of Arya.

The doctor moved around the city easily, thanks to the knowledge of the boy on how it worked. He found himself looking for certain people now and again. He would have liked to see the girl, River Tam, for himself. The youth had assured him she was gone before he'd died, though. And Lestat, that vampire, Hannibal wished to meet him, as well.

There was one person that he wished to see more than any of the others, though. One face he hoped that he would encounter again. Clarice Starling. Hannibal found his thoughts roaming to her again and again. He didn't want to seek her out, that was too easy. He'd already sent her a watch, she knew that she could be found. What he wanted was another chance encounter. A second run in with her out in the wild. He wanted to see that look of surprise on her face when they both reached for the same apple, or when she glanced up at a restaurant to see him sitting across the room.

Another face appeared before him in the crowd as he walked, one that distracted him entirely from his former focus. Now Clarice could wait. This one...

Hannibal moved through the people like a ghost, jostling nobody, not even letting his suit lightly brush the arm of another, swiftly yet gracefully moving his feet until he found himself face to face with the subject of his brief hunt.

"Well, hello, Will."

Since removing her cast, Arya had spent much of her time making her leg strong again. Some of it could be mistaken as a child playing--running around the grounds of Erik's estate and chasing after birds, or standing on her toes as long as she could. She also spent time sneaking out, which wasn't as hard as she had initially thought now that her leg was better. The City was large and strange, and she was hardly given a second look. She walked and watched and listened while she was out, and when she returned, rumpled and smelling of the burning fuel of the cars, nobody said anything.

When she dreamed at night, she saw the City in another way: sometimes low to the ground, sometimes high up, sometimes with the taste of blood in her mouth. But there were shadows almost as dark as those of Westeros, and lights almost as bright as the day, and sometimes in the day she passed places that she had seen as she slept.

She had food and shelter and a bed and clean clothes. There were no Lannisters or Freys. She could almost let her guard down.

As the sounds of the town car faded behind him, Erik slowed his pace up the sunset-lit front steps of the City Opera House. His opera house, his most beautiful creation. Its fertile fields had been left fallow for far too long. Tucked under his arm was the score for Puccini's La Bohème, an opera that he learned about in the City. He was too weary to have written another composition himself, at least, not in time for the opening summer season. In having chosen a seemingly well-known opus, he expected that his company would have no trouble quickly picking up their parts. He needed to but set it before them.

But, as he stood before the door to the place he cherished above all, he found it difficult to put his hand to the task of letting himself inside. There were too many ghosts haunting this place, and none of them were him, an irony that had him grimly smiling despite himself. He lingered on the top step, one hand on the railing, and did his best to silently exorcise the spirits he felt waiting behind that grand door.

He was not terribly successful. And, as he stood there, he realized what a foolish sight he must be. Again smiling with a sardonic sort of twist, he propelled himself forward smoothly. His opera house had waited long enough for its master. The City had been too long without music. And he.... He was an old and tired fool, who should have learned by now that dwelling on the pain of the past only made it more difficult to walk toward the future. He squared his shoulders.

Enough of this.

The only logical step after settling into his new existence, Hannibal knew, was to enter the world again and see what it thought of what had happened. See if, in fact, it even noticed the difference. He wondered if it would. If Clarice Starling would look at his hand again and see the addition of the finger. He hoped she would. He hoped that she was the sort that was observant on that level. Hannibal had much faith that she was. He wondered if Erik would see that his beloved friend was not wholly dead. That just the body was gone. This he wasn't quite so sure on. Erik might see the finger, but he might rebel against the rest of it. There was one person that Hannibal was quite sure would see all.

He sought out Dee at her lovely confectionery shop. The feeling she would be there was not one borne out of hope, but knowledge. She had a store to run. It was logical that she would be there in the middle of the day to greet her customers. The fact that she genuinely seemed to enjoy it only solidified that for him.

Though, there was hope for another matter entirely. In his hand, Hannibal held a rather nice looking basket. Inside held a fine wine. White, because it was day and day deserved something light, and because it matched the gourmet cheese and crackers that were also nestled inside. Very carefully, there was no meat. Hannibal planned to ask Dee if she would like to spend some time in the park with him. There was nobody in this place who knew him as truly as she did, and he wished to speak with her at length about what she knew and what changes she might see.

Who she was had also piqued his own interest. He wished to know more about her, as well.

The door opened smoothly, a little bell daintily ringing, and Hannibal stepped into Death By Sweetness, his senses flooded with the delicious baked goods Dee's hands had created.

The hospital had held him for a week. Hannibal had not explained how he'd gotten burned on his mouth and hand, and they stopped asking after a bit. His practiced shy smile and turn of his eyes from whomever was speaking made them think he was embarrassed and it was his fault. The latter was true, the former was as far from honesty as he could possibly get. He did not regret eating the heart of his youthful counterpart. It had been a strange occurrence with even stranger results.

The burns themselves had not been too horrible. Since he'd gotten immediate care and had allowed the doctors to do what they needed to do, the healing had happened quick, and he'd be left with no scars or loss of sensation at the end of the journey. They had assured him, though, that if he'd needed cosmetic surgery, that they had the best on staff and it would be light work which would show nothing when they were done. Hannibal had been glad when the doctors assessed him and let him know it would not be necessary.

Despite the lack of scars, Hannibal had not been left physically unchanged by the ordeal. Upon his hand was the strange, yet perfect, sixth finger. It moved with his others as if it had always been there, he had no period of adjustment when it came to working the thing, though there was a slight one in getting used to seeing it there. Strangely, Hannibal did not note it as an imperfection. Though he had not grown up with it as his companion had, he felt like he'd never been without it. The finger was elegant. It did not hinder his movements or his dexterity. In fact, it helped with several things.

This was not all he had gained, either. His mind had been flooded with the memories and life of the boy. Within his head he held all the experiences, the sorrows, the joys. He knew River Tam and life as the Head of Diagnostics. He knew every secret and every kill. He also knew some things that he did not want to know. Namely: Information about one Clarice Starling, but before he could really see these thoughts and memories, Hannibal carefully rearranged his mind palace to contain a great vault, where he locked away anything to do with her that had not been his own discovery. He would not spoil this fun for himself. He would learn of her as he should.

Upon leaving the hospital and returning to Lady Murasaki's flat, Hannibal had found the keys to the office of the Head of Diagnostics in the hospital. But he had called them and let them know that he would not be taking the position. As he'd told them this, his eyes had wandered to the door that led into his personal office. Grand and glorious. He would open his practice up within this city. He would see patients again.

He sat there now, in the refined space, his elbows on his desk, sorting through memories that had not been his before, but were his now. They had shared much, he and his younger self, but not everything. Now Hannibal knew all. Some of it matched up with his own - just in a different time setting. Some of it was contrary to everything. He sorted it all to where he thought it should go, exploring new rooms in his Ars Memoriae carefully. Some he left just where it was placed, such as the memory of the wolves - that was outside, beyond the snow, in a small burned building.

Hannibal fancied that he heard the beating of two hearts within him now. Perfectly in time, but still audible to any who might care to listen closely. He knew this was not fact, not actual reality. But it still played a small smile upon his lips.

Trepidation chased Erik from the door of his manor to the door of his Opera House. The night was planned in pristine order, which was only expected from Hannibal Lecter. And yet, the unease Erik felt while walking up the steps of his Opera House was great enough to cause him to pause at the door.

This night should not happen. He knew it. And yet, he could not also deny that if Hannibal suffered half of what Erik did at the loss of his wife, then his friend deserved to play the entirety of the composition that Erik had written. it was filled to bursting with pain and loss and anger and grief - and it was too much for any one heart to feel without bursting into flames. Erik knew this, because his own heart was already in flames, and had not stopped burning. Then, the difference for him was that his blood had already been afire when he sat down to compose.

Perhaps that was not a difference, after all. Perhaps the boy burned just as hot as Erik himself.

Either way, there was no one else who could be trusted to execute the composition on piano as well as Hannibal Lecter. If it must be played by someone else, it could only be that stubborn, bull-headed surgeon. Straightening his already-pristine overcoat, Erik checked the cuffs of his jacket and then proceeded into the Opera House directly.
Erik bypassed his normal seat in Box 5 and went backstage instead. He was not the audience that Hannibal had selected. As Erik stepped to the side of the stage, just so that he had a view of the piano gleaming in the spotlight, he saw that he was not alone. Across the stage, at the opposite side, was the man who carried the same name as his friend and much of the same memories. Erik nodded cordially, holding him in respect for the way he'd played - if not also for his connection to the doctor Erik marked as his friend.

The lights were set to dim soon - but as of yet, the bustle of the audience still rose from the edge of the stage. It would begin soon. Erik was in turns excited and full of dread. This time, his dread held a dual part - one, for the reaction of the audience to his work; and the other, for the suffering of the audience because of his work.

There were many things within this city that Hannibal found himself enjoying quite a bit. The tour of the Opera House had given him hope for his future here. He wasn't sure what he would have done if the place didn't have any kind of culture to it. Hannibal was a man who needed beauty in his life.

He had sent a watch to Clarice Starling, finding her rather easily. He was sure she wouldn't be very appreciative of the fact that he'd been able to discover her whereabouts, but he knew - somehow - that she would still wear the watch. He hoped that she would at least be able to enjoy it, even if it was obligation that moved her to place it upon her wrist. He had taken great care to ensure that it would match her coloring and be able to be worn with anything she might pick out for work. It would not do to gift her an item that could only be used once in a while. A watch was supposed to be functional, though he knew it could also be beautiful.

Lady Murasaki's flat was perfect for him, and the memories of her lingered as if she'd just walked through the space earlier in the week. There were painful parts to that, of course, but for the most part, Hannibal enjoyed being there.

He had to find Will Graham. Enough time had gone by for the man to think that he'd truly seen a phantom. That he was safe in this strange place, and alone. Hannibal imagined that he was not doing very well with everything that the City promised, its moving streets and shifting buildings, not to mention the strange people. He would find Will and offer a gentle, guiding hand. An easy friendship with a face that he already knew.

Hannibal stood in the park, watching the sun set, thinking of all these things and more.

Hannibal had not been in Fangtasia in a long time. With the people he'd connected to most in this City gone - the loss of both River and Lestat were keenly felt by the young doctor - Hannibal wished to find out if other people he'd enjoyed were about. He'd been told by his older self that Clarice Starling was in the City, and yet he did not wish to seek her out, lest he ruin the game the other Hannibal was playing. It was a fragile thing, he knew. He also knew that the woman knew about him. The elder had admitted as much.

He found himself a little disheartened when he approached Fangtasia and discovered it to be rebranded under the name Purgatory. The outside was roughly the same, however, and it seemed to him that a similar clientele was still hanging around by the door, though there were also an awful lot of plaid shirts in the mix.

Keeping his eyes open for Pam or Eric, Hannibal showed his ID to the doorman and slipped inside.

Half of the bar was still as he recalled, leather and chrome, black and red, fit for the gothiest of goth kids. The other half, however... well it was a strange mix with all the wood and rustic accents. The ones that were wearing the plaid went over to that side, and there seemed to be an uneasy truce between the two factions.

Now the name made a little more sense.

Neither group could be particularly happy about what had happened. Hannibal assumed it was another joke by the City itself. Something it thought it was doing to help. Something that had turned out very badly.

He found an empty booth big enough for four people and sat with his back to the wall. His eyes scanned carefully, but he saw no sign of the Viking King or his lovely progeny.

"Pam, are you here?" Hannibal said the words low, as if he were in normal conversation with somebody across the booth from him. He knew he did not need to shout. If she did not hear him, she was not in this building.

There was a cocky sureness to Hannibal's walk, and had been since the day that he had convinced Erik there was something to live for. The plan had been executed perfectly, Mag had played her part better than Hannibal had hoped. He was quite glad that he hadn't needed to kill her for her failure. She was, after all, a brilliant soprano. As an added incentive, Hannibal had left Erik's violin on the bed in the chamber he chose, where it would not be overlooked. Knowing that having a second thing - something a bit more tangible than song - to hold on to would only do the Phantom well.

He'd left his older self alone for a few days, granting the man time to adjust to the new surroundings and explore with his own eyes. Knowing that experience brought learning to its resolution faster, and knowing that he, himself, would not want another hovering over him the entire time.

The agreement had been made that his elder would remain at the flat of Lady Murasaki. It seemed only right. He could not ask for other arrangements to be made. The City had put the flat there, and while Hannibal had staunchly refused to live in it for varying reasons, he saw no reason for it to continue being unoccupied and collecting proverbial - not literal, as the City seemed to keep it sparkling clean always - dust.

But today, elated, Hannibal wished to make the introduction of the other to the Opera House. He did not know if there would be a spot for two Lecters within the staff, but attendance for various events would be a personal requirement, and he would have felt bad if he'd left the other to make this particular discovery on his own.

He picked a day when he knew none would be within, and brought Hannibal through the doors with a flourish. He walked until they could see the stage, and the piano sitting upon it. Hannibal liked to practice here, where the sound was not only the best, but the placement meant his ear would not be obstructed by annoyingly muted practice space walls.

"And here it is." He said, with great pride. "But please, do continue what you were saying. The City saw fit to bring your office here, and attached it to the flat?"

The folio with Erik's latest was in his hand, and when they reached the piano, Hannibal set it down in its rightful place, though did not sit on the bench. It felt like it'd been far too long since he'd last stood on this spot, and he closed his eyes, inhaling the smells. Perfumes, flowers, colognes, the sweat of dancers, brass polish, resin... so much.

Hannibal had gone by the physical store for the pastry shop after leaving The Imbolc to see about the actual store hours. He wanted to time it so that he would be the only one in the store when he had his discussion with Dee. He knew that it would have to be after the breakfast rush of those wanting something on the way to work, but well before any random passers-by might catch the scent of scones and other pastries and be drawn in for a sample.

There was also the need to make sure that there wouldn't be anyone else working behind the counter. He didn't think that he would get honest answers if she thought they could be overheard. As it was, he couldn't be positive that she would be forthright with her knowledge. It had been clear to him that she'd known him, how much, what tidbits, how she'd come by that information, all of these were things that he wanted to know.

He watched the store for a bit before crossing the street and heading inside. He'd seen no other movement but that head of black hair, obviously busy at her daily tasks. His watch, quickly checked, told him that he had at least a half an hour of potential lull before the streets became animated. Then the risk would go up substantially. There was no plan to do her any harm, just ask what he wanted to ask. The risk lay in somebody interrupting. Of her not being willing to be alone with him a second time so that he could continue his line of query. Hannibal had no doubt that the surprise of him on this occasion would not be a happy one.

The door opened easily, and Hannibal stood just inside of it, taking in the atmosphere. He even closed his eyes briefly to enjoy the pleasant smells of freshly baked pastries.

Almost two days ago, not quite a full two days, Hannibal had installed Magdelene Defoe into Erik's mansion as Arya's nurse. He had instructed the woman to be there around the clock, and to make her voice heard often. This latter he'd wanted so that it would not seem so odd when Erik finally arrived and the singing began in earnest. Arya must not be heard to utter anything along the lines of why are you singing? Even after just two days, she would be used to Mag doing this, and be comfortable with it.

Hannibal himself had made a point of visiting Arya more than once a day, which he had been doing anyway to make sure the girl had enough of what she needed. But now he felt as if he were being watched by the very walls. As if they anticipated the return of their true master. Hannibal hoped that the plot worked and that Erik did return. As much as he might have enjoyed the manor, it would never truly feel like his.

The composer was due any moment. Hannibal stood at the entry, waiting. Mag had instructions to wait for twenty minutes after she heard the men talking to make her vocal debut. He wanted her to sing from upstairs, from Arya's room. He wanted Erik to seek her out, go to her, discover her singing for the girl, or singing as she folded clothes. Singing, but without any pretense of being heard. Singing and surprised to discover that she had an audience.

So far, Mag had done her job quite well. Arya believed that Mag was there to nurse her and be a companion. Mag kept to Hannibal's strict clothing guidelines. She was a true diva if he'd ever seen one. Listened to instructions, took direction very well, and played her part as if she were truly living it.

He heard the sounds of Erik's shoes upon the steps leading to the doorway. The door itself was opened before the Phantom could lift a hand to turn the knob - or, god forbid, knock. There were many things that Hannibal could tell by Erik's appearance, all assessed within seconds.

"You haven't slept." He hadn't expected Erik to. Though only one with a keen eye would be able to tell, for the most part, Erik looked like tailored perfection. He even wore gloves.

Hannibal did not wait, but turned inward to the heart of the house.

Clarice Starling sat at a street corner café with her hands around a ceramic mug of coffee, though she did not drink from it. The local newspaper sat in front of her, but she had stopped reading it some time ago. Instead, she watched.

When she'd woken up in a strange place she'd initially dismissed it as a dream, but the solidness of it had very quickly dispelled that notion. Instead of sitting in the little apartment--presumably hers, given the few decorations and the clothes in the closet and drawers--she dressed and went out, trying to get the lay of the land. Which was how she came to be here, people-watching.

Everyone looked so normal. Everything seemed unremarkable. It was the very picture of idyllic city life. Except city life was never idyllic. There were traffic jams, and rat problems; homeless people begging on street corners and urban decay creeping in.

She finally sipped on her coffee and grimaced. It had gone cold in the time that she had been sitting. She turned, looking for the waitress.

Erik's impending aria for love was something Hannibal wished very much to embrace for his own uses. He knew that he would not, however, because it was the opus of his friend and his friend's pain. The loss of River Tam was a weight upon the chest of the boy doctor, he knew it too well. He had, until now, suppressed it in the face of the needs of others. Alone as he was in this moment, it was difficult to not think about.

He had loved her. He still, of course, loved her, though it was difficult for him to think of her in a present tense, as she was no longer there to encourage it. She was the past for him. A thing that had once been. Hannibal ached for her and wished to find a way to bring her back to him. Selfishly, he wished that she could be summoned from wherever she had been sent, even if it was home.

There was that part of him that longed to use Erik's notes to express his loss, his sadness. He could do naught but perhaps turn to Wagner or Beethoven to pour his heart into. Not now, though. Now he had other things to focus on. Arya Stark. Erik. Getting them both back to health and into the world.

Getting Erik to let go of this ridiculous notion of suicide.

He had given the other man instruction to meet him at the mansion to say goodbye to Arie in person. Arie. The girl whom would be raised a killer, a skilled one at that, by Hannibal's hand. By Erik's, too, if he could be convinced out of his funk. It was a part ruse that Hannibal hoped to use to waylay Erik for a time.

Now he just had to find the key component. The voice. He needed somebody who would stir Erik out of his mood, who would awaken him to the world once more. Hannibal had auditioned every soprano currently in the opera's employ and had found none who could match Christine. The voice was the only thing that would stay the Phantom to see his opera come to life. Hannibal's hope that after that was accomplished, Erik would see his own folly and come back. He needed him to.

Disgusted with his lack of success thus far, Hannibal was headed toward his favorite coffee haunt when he heard it. Lilting at him across the wind. He glanced around but nobody else seemed to be hearing it. Hannibal followed his ear down the street, where an open window called to him.

The composer was missing.

Hannibal had left Arya with attendants, thinking that Erik would be back soon. The next day he'd gone back to put the cast on and he'd thought that they had been two ships, barely missing one another in the night. He had returned to the routine of the City, going to the opera house for practices and rehearsals. Erik's presence was missing from there, as well. Which was highly noticed by himself anyway, but when the new third chair flautist showed up to his first rehearsal with the orchestra, Hannibal realized that something must truly be wrong.

He'd seen it when he'd been in the kitchen, examining Arya. Erik had been off. But there was no way that a man like this one would have been allowed to have a chair in Erik's arrangements if all was even remotely well. The situation was more dire than Hannibal had thought.

Returning to the mansion, Hannibal discovered that Erik had not returned since he'd handed the girl over for care. Arya was, of course, being attended to properly. But it wasn't like Erik to not be there for a charge. This bothered Hannibal quite a bit.

Erik deserved a few more days, he'd decided. He would allow the man time to do whatever it was that he felt he needed to be doing. They would talk when he returned. Of course, Hannibal's patience ran thin with the flautist and he decided he couldn't wait any longer. Something had to be done. And he wanted Erik to be a part of it.

It did not take the young doctor any time to figure out where his friend had gone. There was only one place in the City that Erik felt completely secure. It also didn't enter his mind that perhaps he shouldn't be going down there. He'd already been. He knew his way. The path was set in his mind forever. He needed to see Erik, needed to see what help his friend needed, and so there was no question.

He marched down into the deep and secret world under the opera house, dragging his reluctant gift with him. A gift that would, perhaps, help Erik out of his funk. Oh, he was well aware that he was going to be on the wrong end of some anger about the invasion, and the gift, but he was sure that he could overcome that particular emotion and get Erik to see what needed to be done.

The way was not easy, but Hannibal made good time. It wasn't too long before he was staring at a door, his knuckles tapping gently upon it.

The weather in the City was pretty much always perfect. There were days with rain, but they were still mostly warm. But there were still seasons. In fall the leaves fell (the trees were never bare, though), in winter there might be some snowflakes (never anything like the one great storm where the City had gotten carried away), and summers were warm and sunny and nobody had school.

Still, this year, the City felt like celebrating spring. Not any particular holiday. Just spring in general. There were new people around, there were couples in love, and it wanted to have a great big party for everyone.

Overnight, it set up the great festival. Streets all around the park were closed off so that people could walk around without issue. The park itself was expanded to over twice the normal size. A great clearing was made in the center, stretching from one side to the other. There needed to be lots of room.

Through this clearing the City placed tents, stands, and tables. These were filled with food and wares of all types. There were representatives for all the popular shops, as well as some that nobody had ever seen there before. There were stands for balloons for the kids, too, free of charge. And flowers absolutely everywhere. Woven into the stands themselves, laying on tables, set up in vases, growing in every patch that the City was sure nobody would accidentally step on them. Colorful ribbons, some as large as crepe streamers, also decorated everything. The City wanted as much color as it could possibly get.

At one end of the clearing the City placed a small carnival. Rides, games, everything it could think of. Even a petting zoo, though some of the animals within weren't typical farm animals that usually went in petting zoos. At the other it placed a few stages for performances. Concerts, plays, musicians. The stages were all contained within their own invisible sound barriers, as to not disturb one another, but the noise from all could be heard on the main promenade.

It put signs up all over, put notices in mailboxes, ads on the radio, commercials on television, and even made Candy and Frank talk about it on the morning news.

The celebration would go from sunrise to midnight. At sunset, the City would have a bonfire, complete with a pig roast and s'mores. At that time, it would move the park closer to the water, creating a beach between for the bonfire to settle on.

The girl he left in his kitchen was in pain. She suffered. She waited for him. The girl left in his kitchen was in pain. He was responsible for her. Erik drew his scattering thoughts back to Arie again and again. Above it all, she was a singular thread, iron and brutal and ugly, but nothing like the horrors left in the vacuum of Christine's absence.

His servants had relocated to basement storage the wheelchair that Hannibal once sent to his manor. On his way down to the storage room, Erik remembered to grab the phone. The doctor's number was still on speed dial - a courtesy and convenience built in for his servants (and his wife, his wife) when Erik was too ill to dial the number himself. When Hannibal's voice answered, Erik opened his mouth and said something - less than a handful of words. As soon as he dropped the handset on the last bit of furniture he passed, he forgot whatever it was he'd said. The door to the basement stairs closed behind him.

There were a few minutes lost to his memory. He could remember only the presence of old friends - the hand of rage on his shoulder, the breath of helplessness against the back of his neck, the claws of pain raking his chest. What had drawn him back? He looked at the handles of the wheelchair in both blood-speckled hands, knuckles stinging, then checked behind him. The basement door was destroyed, and the blood must have been his own.

A sound came to him, the siren bell, ringing. He walked with the wheelchair (the girl is hurting) to the door of his manor, straightening last night's rumpled shirt with one flattened hand. Hannibal. Yes, of course. Erik pressed the button that would allow the doctor entrance through the otherwise-inpenetrable security around his manor, then turned back toward the kitchen. Arie was waiting. She needed him.

Hannibal had awoken in the small one room space he had taken root in at Bate's Motel. It was not where he had been staying previously. He had been with River, and they had secured themselves in one of the suites in a hotel, awaiting her trial. Then they had been told that all charges had been dropped, and they had celebrated. And then... and then what?

His mind was flawless, his memory impeccable, there was no way that he would have forgotten. Yet here he was, without River, in this place.

He had no doubt that he was in the City still, as when he looked at himself, he was entirely in black and white. He did wonder about his friends, and then his curiosity went to another place entirely.

( Read more... )

The petite vampire wore one of her cuter pinker outfits. She looked more like a 50s tv mother than the sexed up vamp Maggie met in Purgatory. Her hair was kept in place by a wide headband that matched her kitten pumps, gloves, belt and the trim on her dress. Yes, she could put quite the outfit together. Tonight Maggie was seeing Pam as she was when she wasn't at work and still felt like dressing up.

She had allowed the human to make the arrangements, only after getting permission from Eric. The doctor was trusted with her Maker and his bride, though Pam was only interested in what the Viking thought of the young man. She'd picked up the other woman in a white Pontiac Firebird, one she'd found one night and taken a liking to.

It didn't take her long to get them to the clinic for the appointment, and soon she was helping Maggie out of the car.

"I hope this doesn't take long." There was a flash of fang to explain why she may want things to go quicker.

"I put your mail on your desk for you," Andrea told him. Lindsey, still half-asleep, just nodded as he made his way to the Mr. Coffee.

Lindsey didn't realize that he rarely received paper mail. Most things here were done via email, or in-person visits. Actual letters... as he poured the coffee, Lindsey started to realize that was a very rare thing. There weren't even a lot of government agencies here of the kind that just sent you things by default.

Coffee in hand, Lindsey went into his office, took off his coat, and sat down at his desk.

Sure enough, there was mail. There were two pieces of it. One was a bunch of pizza coupons for a new place that opened down the street. The other was a very official looking white envelope with a return address of CITY COURT on the side.

Lindsey took a quick sip of the coffee and tore the letter open with a pen.

He scanned it quickly, eyes dancing over the page to grasp why he was getting this and what in the Hell it was before processing the finer points.

Words stood out, right and left. IN THE MATTER OF THE CITY VS. RIVER TAM and NEW EVIDENCE and DINAH LANCE and PAMELA EISELY, AKA POISON IVY...

It was then that he got the most important part of the letter.

DISMISSED ALL CHARGES.

"Holy shit!" he yelled.

"Sugar, you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah... Andrea....I, uh, I gotta go out for a little while."

He sipped more of the coffee, grabbed the letter, and picked his coat back up. He smiled at Andrea and headed out the door, making a beeline for the hotel where he knew River Tam was staying. He'd been there a time or two to visit her about the case, so nobody kicked up a fuss about him heading up to her rooms now, and the front desk man actually waved at him and said good morning as Lindsey passed.

He knocked on the door, still smiling a little bit. He hoped River was here. Or Hannibal, even Hannibal. Or better yet, both of them.