Will Graham - Red Dragon (post-canon) - barplace

[mm_adiva]

After Will's last visit, he's taken to wearing his gun again, in a hip holster. Molly notices, and he tells her it makes him feel safer. Not me, she replies tiredly. I'm sorry, he tells her. Then stop looking over your shoulder. I can't.They have that conversation every few days. Things are tense. They haven't had sex in a week

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[no_more_chianti]

There is a young woman nearby.

She is dressed in a men's shirt and flannel pajama bottoms and looks, in short, as if she just got out of bed.

She also looks wary and confused.

"You anywhere near as lost as I am?"

[mm_adiva]

Will rubs his forehead, staring at the blank wall, and answers distractedly.

"It's the end of the damn universe. Welcome."

[no_more_chianti]

Clarice looks around apprehensively.

That would explain all the explosions.

Well, I'm definitely not asleep. I guess I could be-- reacting badly-- to everything ... I could be hallucinating.

"I really don't want to be going crazy right now," she mutters, glancing at Will. Though what he's going to do about it, she couldn't tell you.

[mm_adiva]

He glances over, then sighs, apologetic.

"You're not crazy. It's -- I guess it's magic, that's the only term I can make sense of it with."

[reactstonothing]

The young man who glances up at the curse has clear blue eyes and an eerily immobile, sharp-featured face, and he's currently engaged in the process of feeding pages to the fire.

Sketches, to be precise: elegantly done, in a bold, skilled hand, of five human faces. A little like an artist's rendition of a crime suspect, perhaps.

Two of them are already burning merrily; he's crouched to deliver the third when Will's voice distracts him.

He looks a little familiar.

[eidetiker]

"Fuck," Will repeats under his breath. His hand drops to the gun on his opposite hip, half-hidden beneath his open overshirt; he turns sharply, wincing slightly, to scan the room.

His gaze catches for a moment on the young man by the fire -- and then flicks back to the sketches.

[reactstonothing]

Three-- four--

--five--

--done.

And Hannibal stands, dusting off his hands with a distant smile and an air of quiet accomplishment.

His every motion is quiet, subtle, as calculated as a mathematics paper, when he moves to the Bar to get a drink.

[eidetiker]

He watches the sketches curling and burning for another moment, frowning. The style is familiar.

--sketches on the walls of Lecter's cell, in a classical style, all in charcoal, as he is not allowed anything stiff enough to conceivably be a weapon--

Will's gaze snaps to the young man, gauging his movements, comparing them to mental tapes of Lecter in his office.

[oddjobreporter]

"Door's missing?" Jim's sitting at a table behind Will, looking sympathetic. He can see his door, true, but he imagines being stuck in here isn't the best experience in the world.

[eidetiker]

Will turns sharply, right hand dropping to the gun on his opposite hip. He relaxes fractionally when he identifies the speaker, but his hand doesn't move.

"Yes. It is."

[oddjobreporter]

"I'm sorry. I -- " Jim stops short of offering a drink. He has an ease with strangers others don't always share -- others like men whose hands hover over their guns. " -- I'm not going to hurt you."

[eidetiker]

"I know, sir."

His gaze flicks over the room behind Jim before returning to him. He can feel himself dropping into his cop voice and stance.

"I'm sorry if I startled you. I'm not planning on firing. There's a dangerous man in here and I would rather be armed."