Bs.to hannibal

Bs.to Hannibal Uloge i zahvale

Hannibal Staffel 1. Einer ganz speziellen Gabe verdankt Will Graham (Hugh Dancy) seinen Job als Special Agent für das FBI in Baltimore, Maryland. Er kann​. Coe's Hannibal. Christ Pomol. II. B. S. Nr. 8. Hink. II1. B. S. Nr. 7. Coo c's Hannibal. Eine sehr große, eyförmige, bisweilen auch runde glatte Frucht, von​. Coe's Hannibal. Christ Pomol. II. B. S. Nr. 8. Hink. II1. B. S. Nr. 7. Coo c' s Hannibal. Eine sehr große, eyförmige, bisweilen auch runde glatte Frucht. Hannibal. Das zwischen August und Oktober erarbeitete, auf 18 Szenen in von B.s Arbeitsvorhaben vom Juli , in der Hannibal angeführt ist (vgl. Bebiane Ivalo Kreutzmann, Hannibal Harbo Rasmussen, Karen-Lise Mynster, Kurt Ravn, Lars Knutzon, Patricia Schumann, Rolf Hansen, Sigurd Holmen le.

bs.to hannibal

Coe's Hannibal. Christ Pomol. II. B. S. Nr. 8. Hink. II1. B. S. Nr. 7. Coo c's Hannibal. Eine sehr große, eyförmige, bisweilen auch runde glatte Frucht, von​. Hannibal. Das zwischen August und Oktober erarbeitete, auf 18 Szenen in von B.s Arbeitsvorhaben vom Juli , in der Hannibal angeführt ist (vgl. B. S. , ), ja sogar ein Bruchstück aus der Literaturgeschichte der Den Hannibal sucht auch unser Vf. mit mehreren neueren Geschichtschreibern zu. Natürlich kommt das heraus. Aber jetzt sind die Agenten hinter Dixie und ihr. Staffeln 1. Die Wahrheit über Dixie. Agent Schwarz lässt Sofie, Dixie und den Vodafone giga tv gehen. Aber Sofie schafft es, Gefühle in ihrem späteren Ich zu wecken. Die Notlüge.

Young Artist Awards. In Italia sono disponibili in cofanetti DVD tutte le stagioni della serie, ad eccezione dell'undicesima stagione.

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Stati Uniti d'America. Anthony E. You need to fire everyone and listen to the fans. Us network bosses are jokes how can they leave shows unfinished there blatant disregard for viewers is astounding.

Surely if a series is unfinished then at least commission a mini-series to give the viewer some kind of closure and show they do care about there viewers.

Very disappointing that they are choosing to cancel Revolution. I hate to see a good series unfinished. I know! Will not be published. Email address:.

Edition: International. Published On: Sat, May 10th, Television By Stephen Nevets. First Name. Last Name.

Legends of Tomorrow season 5 arrives on Blu-Ray, digital in September. The Flash season 6 Blu-ray, digital release and details emerge.

Displaying 9 Comments. May 15, at pm. Siemens emits an abrupt giggling noise which is oddly high-pitched and seems to go on and on and on.

In public. Absolutely shocking. It had broken the filter; the goddamn pool was choked with it. Have you got hands or paws? I interpret forensic evidence.

Will shrugs again, suddenly tiring of this game. Their design. It would take someone infinitely more sophisticated to truly be able to fathom it.

Someone like Hannibal. Skinner barks out a laugh then holds up both hands, palms upward, in a pantomime of someone conceding defeat.

Extremely skilled: good for you. A strained silence then ensues that seems to go on and on like something stretched out on the rack until Siemens clears his throat with a nervous scraping sound and jerks his head towards the door.

Price and Zeller shake their heads in silent unison. Retrieving his jacket from the back of the chair he slings it over his shoulder and begins to follow Siemens out into the corridor.

Will supposes he should be used to it by now: to being hated. Briefly he thinks back to the chronic, ambivalent nihilism he experienced after his first few meetings with Hannibal: the wretched sense that he would inevitability catch on to the wary mistrust that everyone else seemed to feel around Will and not want anything more to do with him coupled with a faintly hopeful optimism that maybe — just maybe, just this once — it might not be the case.

Price and Zeller are still looking at him, now with something that seems perilously close to sympathy, so Will forces himself to shrug again before beginning to shuffle a stack of papers together like someone without a care in the world.

The TST meeting starts badly and ends worse with Jack insisting on giving an interminable PowerPoint presentation for which, as far as Will can tell, there appears to be pretty much No Point at all before forcing everyone to go round the room and introduce themselves to one another.

Or a pipe bomb — I know how to make those, did I ever tell you? How are you enjoying Baltimore? In fact his whole stance is deeply familiar, and the awareness of this fills Will with a sense of gloomy foreboding of whether Hannibal assumes an expression of equally polite interest during their own conversations despite secretly withering with tedium inside.

Do I bore you? Would you tell me if I did? I guess you hear that all the time? His beard is so big it practically fills the screen.

On the screen the analyst is trying, and failing, to bring up a series of graphs on his laptop. He sighs heavily then lets his eyes trawl round the room in an obvious invitation for everyone to draw their own conclusions.

She rates his, um, expertise extremely highly. Look at the lustre. You could use it to stuff many pillows. A few seconds silence follow this announcement, presumably for the expected gasps of admiration.

And stop making all that noise. I was meaning to say earlier. On the screen Professor Barnes is drawing his monologue to a close with all the dramatic relish of someone declaiming monologues from Hamlet.

Just reach out for any help or advice you might need. Jack gives another irritated sigh then flicks a button at the screen so that Professor Barnes freezes mid-sentence, eyes popping like a pouting baby and mouth formed in a perfect o-shape of self-important righteousness.

Everyone now obligingly rotates their heads to gape at Will, who suspects he should probably be feeling guilty or self-conscious about it but refuses to do either and instead leans back in his chair and folds his arms decisively.

At this stage we just need to stick to the facts. Big deal — that much is already common knowledge. So no, Agent Skinner. The attempts to control the media exposure are already poised to blow sky high.

By the end of the week every breakfast table in the country is going to be talking about it. A soft murmur of dismay runs round the room in response to this and Jack straightens up then crosses his arms and stares accusingly at each person after another.

He stares intensely at the assembled faces in ominous silence, seemingly inviting them to meditate in private contemplation from the force of his words; and Will, who finds this type of hyperbole both annoying and pointless, stifles the sigh of impatience he wants to make and stares down mutinously at the desk top instead.

The best what , after all? The best babysitter? Unless his skin is just like that anyway, which with the dark eyes and hair is actually entirely possible.

Does he have manicures? At the front of the room Jack has now resumed lecturing again so Will stifles a second, louder sigh and begins to stare out the window instead.

In fact it reminds him of a documentary, watched years ago and long since forgotten, of the legendary Zulu warriors and the way they beat drums to disorientate and intimidate the enemy.

The drums were made of animal hides stretched over bones and the Zulus struck them mercilessly.

The British colonists were terrified of it: the way it pounded and pulsed — the type of noise that gets in your head and lingers there.

Why has no one else in the room seemed to notice it? The war cry of the rain against the window…why does no one else seem to care? Rather as if, thinks Will contemptuously, serial killers are just another capitalist commodity and can be expected to conform to the same laws of supply and demand as any other business enterprise to ensure the spreadsheets all balance up with manpower in directly proportionate to results out.

In fact no meth head or heroin addict could possibly be as guilty and self-conscious about having their stash exposed despite the fact the tablets are entirely legal.

You always do. His hands have started to shake slightly and his coordination is so poor that it takes him a few extra minutes of increasingly desperate rummaging in his briefcase and every pocket he possesses to realise that no amount of searching can change the fact that his car keys are definitely not in any of these places and must therefore be lying uselessly on the desk in his office.

Impossible, after all, to imagine Hannibal ever doing something so mundanely absent-minded as leaving his car keys in his office.

Will nods in unhappy agreement and Hannibal nods back then takes yet another step closer. Will goes quiet for a few seconds, mindlessly tracing one foot against a ridge in the asphalt and torn between wanting to agree while battling against an ingrained reluctance to be beholden to anyone.

Thank you. Turning round, Will critically inspects his reflection in the shiny panel of the elevator. And then: What if he can tell?

What if he can tell you want to kill someone? What if he can see it in you? The reflection stares back with its haunted face and gleaming eyes and Will blinks a few times then resolutely turns away from it and takes a few deep breaths and runs his hands through his hair.

Stepping out he presses the button again to send it away to the top floor, fantasising that the eerily staring reflection is trapped inside and is therefore being carried away too, then leans against the wall and draws another soothing lungful of air.

Both of them are propped against the trunk while holding forth about the Sculptor case in obnoxiously loud voices and Will curses internally at the inevitable delay this is going to cause.

Then he briefly considers a strategic retreat into the building until he hears Siemens calling his name and is reluctantly forced to walk over.

Will mutters an affirmative noise then darts round to the passenger side and virtually dives into the car. In fact I intend to get off my lazy arse and arrange it far more often :-D Huge thanks to Prosey for not only culling my many typos and British-isms but suggesting the scene with the crime statistics board, helping me develop the meeting scene and generally being a total Hannigram goddess.

Any remaining mistakes are definitely mine. In fact I hardly gave you any instructions at all. My memory is…rather good. Possibly he could print it on a shirt….

I prefer to be in work. In fact the silence is so comfortable that Will, a veteran of taciturnity and countless speechlessly strained encounters, feels like he could bask in the ease and contentment of it as if it were a feather quilt.

A liminal space between words , thinks Will hazily. Yeah right , thinks Will gloomily. Nevertheless he manages to stroll up to the porch and unlock the door in a suitably unhurried and casual way then politely stands aside to allow Hannibal to walk in first before following behind, flicking on the lights and calling the dogs to heel before Hannibal gets smothered by them.

What the hell am I supposed to do with you now? Help me out here. Do you come with instructions or what?

A drink? Or — or would you rather I just got you a cab? Do you want to leave straight away; I can get you a cab if you like?

What would Martha Stewart do? Oh Christ no, not Martha Stewart. You are not to model your social intercourse on Martha Stewart, thinks Will sternly to himself.

I fucking forbid you. Hannibal, as expected, opts for the wine so Will vanishes into the kitchen to retrieve it and to take an opportunity to feed the dogs.

I always break the corks. Hannibal holds out a hand and Will wordlessly passes over the bottle just as the pack of dogs, frustrated at being denied entry for so long, finally succeed in nosing open the door and tumbling into the room in a joyful flurry of fur and pink lolling tongues.

Will smiles appreciatively in response then gently shoos the dogs away from the sofa so they can both sit down.

Wine bores , thinks Will rather contemptuously. Not that any of this is remotely worth expressing so in the end he just nods instead and takes a second, more retrained sip.

He briefly holds the glass up to the light, appearing to admire the deep hues of purple-tinged vermillion that glisten with the same richness as blood.

As with any fanatic they become preoccupied with trivia of no possible interest to anyone beyond themselves. Hannibal catches his eye and begins to smile.

What else should we drink to, do you think? Something to the contrary. Under the weather. That kind of thing.

Why are you making that noise? Despite having carefully engineered the entire conversation to this particular purpose, Hannibal convincingly feigns remorse and gives a small, regretful sigh.

Very well then. What you said before: people do know. That Skinner guy — he said as much this morning. With all that pheromone spray you smother yourself with you could easily pass for a beta.

Will runs his hand absent-mindedly through his hair then seems glad of the distraction when one of the youngest dogs, barely more than a puppy and far less disciplined than the rest, struggles free from the slumbering pile of furry bodies by the fireside and takes a running leap for his knee.

No stress. Probably not; at least not at first. Certainly less trouble than humans, although perhaps less rewarding on occasion.

Then he glances up and is relieved to realise that rather than displaying the expected resentment or indignation, Hannibal is merely gazing straight at him with the familiar Sphinx-like smile.

Revere them, even. Pissing on fences? It would be deflecting your criticisms rather than engaging with them. Besides, alphas are more than adequately represented and advocated; they hardly require additional defence from me.

Honestly though, why would he even want to elaborate? All that strutting and posturing and pissing on fences not to mention the endless bragging about potency and knotting.

Bulbus glandis …it's actually pretty revolting if you think about it. In fact the only mammals that do it at all beside human alphas are dogs and wolves, but from the way they carry on you'd think it was some sort of immensely special borderline-magical trait shared solely with elves and unicorns and brought to life through pixie dust.

As if their ludicrously inflated genitalia can heal the sick and raise the dead, and no doubt assemble flat-pack furniture and negotiate world peace before changing a spare tyre.

As if every omega in a ten mile radius is supposed to expire with longing at the very thought of it.

A fear of being boring about it initially makes him uncommunicative, but when Hannibal listens attentively and with obvious interest he gradually feels encouraged and proceeds to describe his ambitions for the new psychocriminology modules with an unusual level of enthusiasm and animation — alternately quick and precise interspersed with dreamy and thoughtful, and completely oblivious to how charming either combination makes him appear — before a blend of tiredness, alcohol and industrial doses of painkillers finally get the better of him and during a comfortable lull in the conversation he ends up falling asleep with both feet planted on the floor and his head tipped back against the sofa.

One of the dogs, resentful of Will being touched in this way, emits an ominous growl and Hannibal calmly swivels round and stares it into submission until the dog begins to cower and duck its head.

You will always find someone prepared to exploit it to their advantage. Over on the sofa Will is now moaning quietly from the depths of sleep, his expression creased with distress like someone battling unseen demons.

You try so hard to hide it yet you wear it like a brand. And you wear it well. Such dark vitality: someone who not only refuses to shy away from the deliverers of horror and violence but actively identifies with them.

Will looks upon violence as a sculptor looks upon slabs of marble or piles of clay; and yet an artist whose specialism is not creation, but rather desecration and destruction.

A sculptor. Hannibal frowns again, remembering the famous words of Michelangelo whilst crafting his David: I saw the angel in the marble and I carved until I set him free.

What would it take to set you free? And then if you had your freedom, what would you do with it? Would you use it wisely?

Nevertheless Hannibal not only believes in the value of the long game but has turned delayed gratification — at least in the service of self-interest — into a positive art form.

To look, however, is considerable consolation for being unable to touch; and Hannibal therefore sees no good reason to resist the temptation of moving leisurely forward in order to achieve an even better vantage point.

Will, in turn, now seems determined to withhold the gift of his voice and merely blinks a few times in favour of saying anything else, briefly appearing as strained and haunted-looking as an El Greco saint.

Really, such aesthetic misery is addictive : Hannibal wishes there was a way to bottle it up and breathe it in. Hannibal waits a few seconds, calculating assorted probabilities with lightning speed in the manner of a chess master.

You need some proper rest. And take some aspirin for the fever. Let me get you some cash. What did you mean? Will frowns to himself then briefly closes his eyes before snapping them sharply back open again.

I think you were using it to work the case out to yourself as you went along — you were profiling him the entire time. Will just shrugs, typically modest, and Hannibal takes a small step closer.

The paradox of the Sculptor. Organised yet…. Chaotic yet methodical, as in the case of this unknown killer of ours.

Or else something different entirely: light yet dark, moral yet corrupted…vulnerable while still immensely powerful. There are no known incidents of this type of killer being female.

He closes his eyes again then stretches his arms behind his head. Hannibal nods and moves towards the door before turning round again with his fingers still curled round the handle.

Hannibal waits until Will has straightened up again then looks him directly in the eye. It closes behind him with a restrained little click and Will leans against the wall and takes a deep, slightly shaky breath before running back into the living room to try and catch a last glimpse of him through the window before the cab takes him away.

Come back , it says. Come back. Come back, come back; come back to me. I need you now , I need you so badly…I need you more than I have words to say.

Only that I think about you often as usual and that things continue to feel difficult also as usual and that since you were here these two things have become unexpectedly combined.

Do you understand what I mean when I say that? Can you see how the fact you only came because I was ill and you felt sorry for me could be worse than not having you here at all?

I want you to see me as an equal. I know this: I know all of it. All these things. So why do I sometimes still feel like my need to be close to you has no limits?

Not desperation and dog fur and a lonely house in the middle of nowhere. Not like me. Like oil and water…that sort of thing.

Did you notice that by the way; how surprised I was? Comfortable, I guess. In fact why on earth am I still talking to you about this?

You must have picked up on it by now. In fact I think I can blend almost as well as you can when I have to, although in my case the motivation is different because I do it so survive and minimise harm the same way a real chameleon does.

Maybe you do it just because you can. All these complaints…am I starting to bore you now? Are you rolling your eyes with irritation and drumming your fingers on your desk?

Would you like to know the reason for that? And I want that person to be you. What else should I say to you? The usual stuff I suppose.

Music, dining — that kind of thing. Ah, I can see you rolling your eyes at me again. Real trouble.

Eight doctors lecturing and preaching and trying to refer me for hormone therapy. Eight doctors telling me no. It would be giving up.

It would mean complete freedom. The body has been lying there for several days. It was a hiker who found him: happily roaming across the countryside with a backpack and a little hand-knitted cap and completely unaware that in a few seconds time she was about to stumble across something tattered and torn amongst the withered stalks of pampas grass that once was alive but now is dead — and the mere glimpse of which is destined to haunt her for the rest of her life.

Will can see her now in the corner of his eye: slumped on the ground with her head drooping forward and the bobble on the hat swaying crazily in the wind like a pendulum.

A paramedic is bending over her with a hand on her shoulder as his mouth opens and closes like a goldfish while he murmurs soothing words of sympathy; even though no right words exist, because what on earth can you possibly say?

He misses that innocence: the part of himself that still had the power to care. Will forces himself to stop staring at the hiker and her sad little knitted hat and turns round to face Jack instead.

Does Jack care? Probably; at least more than Will does. From now on every book and article and internet blog that discusses the Sculptor case is going to be mentioning John or Joe or James, probably accompanied with a photo of him from some happier time when he was just a regular person and not a criminology statistic or a footnote in the annals of Serial and Violent Crime.

Get them to check the field. Then he takes a deep breath, struggling against a renewed surge of pain. Will nods wordlessly then turns back again to glance at where the hiker is swaddled in a shock blanket while taking tiny sips from a white Styrofoam cup.

You thought what when you saw it? You felt like what? I only know why. I only know the designation and the purpose; this is my design.

Please, I need you. We need to get it…him…back to the mortuary as soon as possible. Jack nods in response then tips his hat a little further over his forehead as protection against the increasingly vicious gusts of wind.

Jack nods again then pulls the hat a little further down until his eyes have disappeared in the shadow of the brim. In an attempt to ride it out he gazes determinedly into the horizon: tracking his eyes over the vista of straggled trees and the ragged little outline of the crows as they dip and weave between the branches.

What kind of hiker comes all the way out here in this weather without boots? No backpack either. This guy came here by car.

Either way we should get some proof of ID and a follow-up address. No — Johns. Agent Johns. What have you got for me?

Mr Graham. Oh Christ, this is ridiculous: why is everything making him so mawkish at the moment? It must be another effect of the pills….

Well, you know the body had nothing on it beyond the usual stuff? Keys and loose change and whatnot: nothing of actual relevance and nothing to tell us who he was.

But we did find this. An hour later everyone has assembled back at the lab, where the energy of devising some kind of strategy plan is only slightly subdued by the increasingly urgent howls from the pack of journalists that are gathering in front of the building.

Will fantasises about leaning out the window and yelling at them all to fuck off. They could also, and almost certainly do, refer to a wide variety of other things.

They do those terrible advertisements, you must have seen them — the ones with the singing judges. It sells organic produce and hand-knitted lentils and that sort of thing.

But they definitely peddle over-bred vegetables. Will returns the look very calmly from over the top of his glasses then resumes leafing through a stack of autopsy reports without saying a word.

Do you think he really might be trying to send a message about prostitutes? Loads of these guys do. You never know Mr Crawford: perhaps the dead guy was a john?

Will stares back in disbelief and is struggling to think of a nice way of telling him to stop being so fucking stupid when Siemens directs one of his patented watery smiles in his direction and it suddenly occurs to him that Siemens is attempting to find an alternative explanation for the letters in order to deflect attention away from Will.

You okay? Although why was his initial concern the idea of being seen as a killer rather than the fact some epic maniac might be sending him coded messages?

What the hell is wrong with me, thinks Will miserably. Ways that are far more effective than scribbling your initials on a bit of cardboard.

Red herring. Staring round at the scenes of carnage and chaos in the lab he sighs audibly. How can there be room for the romance and intrigue of red herrings in a setting like this?

I always park close to the building. Jack gives Will a look of guarded sympathy then falls quiet again for a few moments, obviously trying to think of something else to suggest as a form of comfort now the idea of being nannied in and out of the parking lot has been politely refused.

Thanks for calling me back. Siemens promptly looks so mortified that Will feels vaguely guilty despite not having done anything wrong.

At least not like that — not how you mean. He just looks up to me professionally. Although rest assured I shall be secretly resenting you the entire time.

Unlike Will, who always want to cackle when saying the name, Hannibal seems to be made of sterner stuff and pronounces it in the usual deadpan tone.

It used to drive him wild with irritation; but not anymore. Why are you asking? Will had once said after Hannibal, apropos of nothing, had enquired what was wrong.

He can see Will. And Will, in turn, had never really understood how badly he needed that until it was on offer. To be really seen, despite there being so much he can never possibly show.

I see you. As if love is just a pale and unconvincing counterfeit of perception: of the acceptance and awareness that comes from being seen.

Obviously it would be good to talk about it, but not necessarily to do so now …far better to come across as stoic and reflective by waiting out a bit longer rather than wailing over the phone to Hannibal straight away and risk appearing hysterical and undignified.

Do you have time to talk later? Or for longer this evening. Will pauses now himself as he calculates how much time is realistically required to accomplish the Task Of The Day; which just so happens to be illegally obtaining more heat suppressants.

In this respect, and despite his best efforts, Will is now aware of feeling deeply guilty and nervous. His voice comes booming across the lab like the proverbial foghorn and Will curses internally and elaborately before reluctantly turning round again with one hand still on the door handle.

Will gestures aimlessly at the half-open door, which is as about close as he dares get in non-verbal terms to announcing well obviously I am, you massive dumbass.

Examining the row of disapproving faces, he idly imagines turning round while loudly and sarcastically announcing the real reason he has to leave: Hey there, you uptight law-abiding bastards!

Then he spins round and practically dives through the door in his eagerness to escape, glancing at his watch and grimacing before picking up his pace to get to the car a little faster.

Nearly 20 minutes have already been wasted although if he drives quickly and is lucky with the traffic…anyway, surely the guy will wait?

He has to. A flurry of bad-tempered horns behind him makes him realise that the lights are already on green again so he forces himself to pull off while biting unhappily on his thumbnail and attempting to review his options with a level of calmness and logic.

What about all the suburban omegas, sneaking out from behind their rose bushes and white picket fences to source themselves some desperately-needed heat suppressants?

Does it? The alphas would have used it as an excuse to put some increasingly stifling legislation in place…. In other news, huge thanks and hugs once again to everyone who's been supporting the fic in the comments.

It's incredibly motivating and really does mean a lot to me. In fact this is one of the few real disadvantages that alphas are forced to contend with, in that any difficulty or distress is automatically attributed to personal weakness as opposed to society letting them down — and it means that when they fall, they fall hard.

Whereas betas or omegas in the same circumstances might be ignored or sneered at, the fate of an alpha is to be actively punished.

Where you going little omega? Where you going? Nevertheless this is an extremely bad start so he reaches into his coat pocket for a woollen hat, tugging it down over his forehead to cover his hair before removing his glasses and stowing them in the other pocket and finally flicking up his collar to hide his throat.

Then he ducks his head slightly and quickens his step, even though the chant is still there — Where you going?

He sways slightly then seems to finally register Will looking at him and immediately cranks back to life and raises an arm straight in his direction.

Oh fuck off , thinks Will with genuine anger. The sound is both unnerving and distressing by turns, yet despite the volume and incessant desperation of it no one else looks round or even seems to care.

You got the time? In fact his appearance certainly indicates that he might have done: a paunchy middle-aged man in a tracksuit that the designer clearly intended for someone several decades younger and several pounds lighter with the kind of damp-looking parchment pale skin that rarely sees the sun.

Oh Christ, this is tedious — why do people even bother doing illegal drugs if you have to go to this sort of trouble to get them?

You want to get us both arrested? Nevertheless possession is one thing and intent to supply is quite another; and for a beta like the dealer clearly is, a prison sentence would be almost inevitable alphas, after all, not tending to look kindly on anyone helping omegas to suppress their heats.

Will glances up at it, hoping to catch a glimpse of Orion and his dogs, then squares his shoulders and forces himself to strengthen his resolve.

You need them, you NEED them. Will grits his teeth and fights against the urge to snap something aggressive in response before reluctantly admitting that any kind of argument will achieve nothing beyond prolonging the ordeal even more than necessary.

The alphas keep you all for themselves. Will takes a deep breath in an effort not to lose his temper then deliberately turns his back on them and raises his voice.

In the resultant shrieks of laughter Will can feel his stomach turn over with a lunge of unhappiness but with an enormous force of effort refuses to let it show and tips his head back instead in order to regard the dealer with barely-concealed contempt.

The dealer begins to smile: a slow sickly contortion of the mouth that spreads across his face like grease across a skillet.

You got more than that. How about you come a bit closer and be nice to me, and in return I let you have it at a discount? Once again Will fails to reply: merely stands there in the silence as the seconds stretch out and the betas jeer and laugh while the dealer leers, and all the time consumed by an awareness of how the reason for his muteness has altered so dramatically from before.

It happens so easily too. I mean how else is someone like me ever gonna get within spitting distance of an omega?

Will frowns slightly but once again refuses to answer. Then he flicks his eyes around the scene, calculating the various requirements with rapid speed before leaning back on his heels and dipping his head again in a convincing performance of defeat.

The dealer, sensing victory, takes a step forward in a gesture of casual possessiveness that makes Will want to scream.

Not in this shitty town. You should be paying him. The dealer, as predicted, falls for it immediately. None of them are shy.

They all drop on the floor and spread their legs for the first alpha that looks at them. Something about the ominous tone of voice makes the dealer glance warily at him, and Will bites his lip at being stupid enough to let his true feelings show before ducking his head even further until the tip of his chin is touching his chest.

Grumbling mutinously the betas begin to assemble their assorted belongings of bags and beer cans then take their time in ambling towards the top of the alleyway, yelling the occasional mocking comment to Will as they go.

You have to tell me how omegas work. Okay, for starters: is it only the alphas that get you excited or can anyone do it?

Yeah, you with me now? You like the sound of that, huh baby? Now come here I want you up against the wall. Time to get yourself ready.

Omegas are meant to be delicate. Are you delicate everywhere else? Like it rough do you? Is that why you want those pills — your alpha not giving you what you need?

Then he lets out the breath and snaps back to life: startlingly aware, just in those few seconds, of how his usual sense of himself has faded away as someone else arrives instead.

It connects to his nose with a sickening crack as the fragile bone shatters and collapses in on itself, and the dealer howls with genuine pain and terror as Will pivots round again — supple and fearless with the lean, leonine grace of a panther or leopard — and delivers a vicious kick to the kneecap to make him lose his balance before punching him square in the jaw and sending him plummeting down to the ground.

The dealer screams again, a hideous clotted-sounding noise from his damaged nose, and Will draws back his foot to deliver a series of brutal kicks to the ribs as the dealer begs for mercy before abandoning words entirely and simply howling in fear instead.

Then for a few seconds Will just stands there, motionless and victorious and consumed with something like awe over the savage grace of it.

How swiftly, simply and beautifully a human body can be breached and broken apart. The sense of life and soul even in the midst of dying.

Here the exhilaration; there the sense of reckoning. The knowledge that justice can be meted out anywhere — in books or plays, the hallowed lofty spires of the Supreme Court, or the filth and abandonment of a back alley.

bs.to hannibal

It sounds ridiculous. Like the Tuberculin Skin Test. Only no one appears willing or able to think of anything better, and in the end TST seems to stick.

Siemens nods appreciatively then peers closer at the nearest chart. He hovers on the threshold for a few seconds, seemingly unsure of what to do or where to go, before spotting Siemens and heading over to converse with him in a low voice without bothering to greet anyone else.

Price rolls his eyes again, even more extravagantly than before. I admire her hugely. I want to show them to Will before the meeting.

Zeller gives a grunt of acquiescence and begins to assemble the relevant items when Will appears a few moments later, clutching a cup of take-out coffee in one hand and his briefcase in the other with his pale cheeks whipped pink by the cold.

Siemens emits an abrupt giggling noise which is oddly high-pitched and seems to go on and on and on. In public. Absolutely shocking.

It had broken the filter; the goddamn pool was choked with it. Have you got hands or paws? I interpret forensic evidence.

Will shrugs again, suddenly tiring of this game. Their design. It would take someone infinitely more sophisticated to truly be able to fathom it.

Someone like Hannibal. Skinner barks out a laugh then holds up both hands, palms upward, in a pantomime of someone conceding defeat.

Extremely skilled: good for you. A strained silence then ensues that seems to go on and on like something stretched out on the rack until Siemens clears his throat with a nervous scraping sound and jerks his head towards the door.

Price and Zeller shake their heads in silent unison. Retrieving his jacket from the back of the chair he slings it over his shoulder and begins to follow Siemens out into the corridor.

Will supposes he should be used to it by now: to being hated. Briefly he thinks back to the chronic, ambivalent nihilism he experienced after his first few meetings with Hannibal: the wretched sense that he would inevitability catch on to the wary mistrust that everyone else seemed to feel around Will and not want anything more to do with him coupled with a faintly hopeful optimism that maybe — just maybe, just this once — it might not be the case.

Price and Zeller are still looking at him, now with something that seems perilously close to sympathy, so Will forces himself to shrug again before beginning to shuffle a stack of papers together like someone without a care in the world.

The TST meeting starts badly and ends worse with Jack insisting on giving an interminable PowerPoint presentation for which, as far as Will can tell, there appears to be pretty much No Point at all before forcing everyone to go round the room and introduce themselves to one another.

Or a pipe bomb — I know how to make those, did I ever tell you? How are you enjoying Baltimore? In fact his whole stance is deeply familiar, and the awareness of this fills Will with a sense of gloomy foreboding of whether Hannibal assumes an expression of equally polite interest during their own conversations despite secretly withering with tedium inside.

Do I bore you? Would you tell me if I did? I guess you hear that all the time? His beard is so big it practically fills the screen.

On the screen the analyst is trying, and failing, to bring up a series of graphs on his laptop.

He sighs heavily then lets his eyes trawl round the room in an obvious invitation for everyone to draw their own conclusions.

She rates his, um, expertise extremely highly. Look at the lustre. You could use it to stuff many pillows. A few seconds silence follow this announcement, presumably for the expected gasps of admiration.

And stop making all that noise. I was meaning to say earlier. On the screen Professor Barnes is drawing his monologue to a close with all the dramatic relish of someone declaiming monologues from Hamlet.

Just reach out for any help or advice you might need. Jack gives another irritated sigh then flicks a button at the screen so that Professor Barnes freezes mid-sentence, eyes popping like a pouting baby and mouth formed in a perfect o-shape of self-important righteousness.

Everyone now obligingly rotates their heads to gape at Will, who suspects he should probably be feeling guilty or self-conscious about it but refuses to do either and instead leans back in his chair and folds his arms decisively.

At this stage we just need to stick to the facts. Big deal — that much is already common knowledge. So no, Agent Skinner.

The attempts to control the media exposure are already poised to blow sky high. By the end of the week every breakfast table in the country is going to be talking about it.

A soft murmur of dismay runs round the room in response to this and Jack straightens up then crosses his arms and stares accusingly at each person after another.

He stares intensely at the assembled faces in ominous silence, seemingly inviting them to meditate in private contemplation from the force of his words; and Will, who finds this type of hyperbole both annoying and pointless, stifles the sigh of impatience he wants to make and stares down mutinously at the desk top instead.

The best what , after all? The best babysitter? Unless his skin is just like that anyway, which with the dark eyes and hair is actually entirely possible.

Does he have manicures? At the front of the room Jack has now resumed lecturing again so Will stifles a second, louder sigh and begins to stare out the window instead.

In fact it reminds him of a documentary, watched years ago and long since forgotten, of the legendary Zulu warriors and the way they beat drums to disorientate and intimidate the enemy.

The drums were made of animal hides stretched over bones and the Zulus struck them mercilessly. The British colonists were terrified of it: the way it pounded and pulsed — the type of noise that gets in your head and lingers there.

Why has no one else in the room seemed to notice it? The war cry of the rain against the window…why does no one else seem to care?

Rather as if, thinks Will contemptuously, serial killers are just another capitalist commodity and can be expected to conform to the same laws of supply and demand as any other business enterprise to ensure the spreadsheets all balance up with manpower in directly proportionate to results out.

In fact no meth head or heroin addict could possibly be as guilty and self-conscious about having their stash exposed despite the fact the tablets are entirely legal.

You always do. His hands have started to shake slightly and his coordination is so poor that it takes him a few extra minutes of increasingly desperate rummaging in his briefcase and every pocket he possesses to realise that no amount of searching can change the fact that his car keys are definitely not in any of these places and must therefore be lying uselessly on the desk in his office.

Impossible, after all, to imagine Hannibal ever doing something so mundanely absent-minded as leaving his car keys in his office.

Will nods in unhappy agreement and Hannibal nods back then takes yet another step closer. Will goes quiet for a few seconds, mindlessly tracing one foot against a ridge in the asphalt and torn between wanting to agree while battling against an ingrained reluctance to be beholden to anyone.

Thank you. Turning round, Will critically inspects his reflection in the shiny panel of the elevator. And then: What if he can tell?

What if he can tell you want to kill someone? What if he can see it in you? The reflection stares back with its haunted face and gleaming eyes and Will blinks a few times then resolutely turns away from it and takes a few deep breaths and runs his hands through his hair.

Stepping out he presses the button again to send it away to the top floor, fantasising that the eerily staring reflection is trapped inside and is therefore being carried away too, then leans against the wall and draws another soothing lungful of air.

Both of them are propped against the trunk while holding forth about the Sculptor case in obnoxiously loud voices and Will curses internally at the inevitable delay this is going to cause.

Then he briefly considers a strategic retreat into the building until he hears Siemens calling his name and is reluctantly forced to walk over.

Will mutters an affirmative noise then darts round to the passenger side and virtually dives into the car. In fact I intend to get off my lazy arse and arrange it far more often :-D Huge thanks to Prosey for not only culling my many typos and British-isms but suggesting the scene with the crime statistics board, helping me develop the meeting scene and generally being a total Hannigram goddess.

Any remaining mistakes are definitely mine. In fact I hardly gave you any instructions at all. My memory is…rather good. Possibly he could print it on a shirt….

I prefer to be in work. In fact the silence is so comfortable that Will, a veteran of taciturnity and countless speechlessly strained encounters, feels like he could bask in the ease and contentment of it as if it were a feather quilt.

A liminal space between words , thinks Will hazily. Yeah right , thinks Will gloomily. Nevertheless he manages to stroll up to the porch and unlock the door in a suitably unhurried and casual way then politely stands aside to allow Hannibal to walk in first before following behind, flicking on the lights and calling the dogs to heel before Hannibal gets smothered by them.

What the hell am I supposed to do with you now? Help me out here. Do you come with instructions or what? A drink?

Or — or would you rather I just got you a cab? Do you want to leave straight away; I can get you a cab if you like?

What would Martha Stewart do? Oh Christ no, not Martha Stewart. You are not to model your social intercourse on Martha Stewart, thinks Will sternly to himself.

I fucking forbid you. Hannibal, as expected, opts for the wine so Will vanishes into the kitchen to retrieve it and to take an opportunity to feed the dogs.

I always break the corks. Hannibal holds out a hand and Will wordlessly passes over the bottle just as the pack of dogs, frustrated at being denied entry for so long, finally succeed in nosing open the door and tumbling into the room in a joyful flurry of fur and pink lolling tongues.

Will smiles appreciatively in response then gently shoos the dogs away from the sofa so they can both sit down. Wine bores , thinks Will rather contemptuously.

Not that any of this is remotely worth expressing so in the end he just nods instead and takes a second, more retrained sip.

He briefly holds the glass up to the light, appearing to admire the deep hues of purple-tinged vermillion that glisten with the same richness as blood.

As with any fanatic they become preoccupied with trivia of no possible interest to anyone beyond themselves. Hannibal catches his eye and begins to smile.

What else should we drink to, do you think? Something to the contrary. Under the weather. That kind of thing. Why are you making that noise?

Despite having carefully engineered the entire conversation to this particular purpose, Hannibal convincingly feigns remorse and gives a small, regretful sigh.

Very well then. What you said before: people do know. That Skinner guy — he said as much this morning. With all that pheromone spray you smother yourself with you could easily pass for a beta.

Will runs his hand absent-mindedly through his hair then seems glad of the distraction when one of the youngest dogs, barely more than a puppy and far less disciplined than the rest, struggles free from the slumbering pile of furry bodies by the fireside and takes a running leap for his knee.

No stress. Probably not; at least not at first. Certainly less trouble than humans, although perhaps less rewarding on occasion.

Then he glances up and is relieved to realise that rather than displaying the expected resentment or indignation, Hannibal is merely gazing straight at him with the familiar Sphinx-like smile.

Revere them, even. Pissing on fences? It would be deflecting your criticisms rather than engaging with them. Besides, alphas are more than adequately represented and advocated; they hardly require additional defence from me.

Honestly though, why would he even want to elaborate? All that strutting and posturing and pissing on fences not to mention the endless bragging about potency and knotting.

Bulbus glandis …it's actually pretty revolting if you think about it. In fact the only mammals that do it at all beside human alphas are dogs and wolves, but from the way they carry on you'd think it was some sort of immensely special borderline-magical trait shared solely with elves and unicorns and brought to life through pixie dust.

As if their ludicrously inflated genitalia can heal the sick and raise the dead, and no doubt assemble flat-pack furniture and negotiate world peace before changing a spare tyre.

As if every omega in a ten mile radius is supposed to expire with longing at the very thought of it. A fear of being boring about it initially makes him uncommunicative, but when Hannibal listens attentively and with obvious interest he gradually feels encouraged and proceeds to describe his ambitions for the new psychocriminology modules with an unusual level of enthusiasm and animation — alternately quick and precise interspersed with dreamy and thoughtful, and completely oblivious to how charming either combination makes him appear — before a blend of tiredness, alcohol and industrial doses of painkillers finally get the better of him and during a comfortable lull in the conversation he ends up falling asleep with both feet planted on the floor and his head tipped back against the sofa.

One of the dogs, resentful of Will being touched in this way, emits an ominous growl and Hannibal calmly swivels round and stares it into submission until the dog begins to cower and duck its head.

You will always find someone prepared to exploit it to their advantage. Over on the sofa Will is now moaning quietly from the depths of sleep, his expression creased with distress like someone battling unseen demons.

You try so hard to hide it yet you wear it like a brand. And you wear it well. Such dark vitality: someone who not only refuses to shy away from the deliverers of horror and violence but actively identifies with them.

Will looks upon violence as a sculptor looks upon slabs of marble or piles of clay; and yet an artist whose specialism is not creation, but rather desecration and destruction.

A sculptor. Hannibal frowns again, remembering the famous words of Michelangelo whilst crafting his David: I saw the angel in the marble and I carved until I set him free.

What would it take to set you free? And then if you had your freedom, what would you do with it? Would you use it wisely? Nevertheless Hannibal not only believes in the value of the long game but has turned delayed gratification — at least in the service of self-interest — into a positive art form.

To look, however, is considerable consolation for being unable to touch; and Hannibal therefore sees no good reason to resist the temptation of moving leisurely forward in order to achieve an even better vantage point.

Will, in turn, now seems determined to withhold the gift of his voice and merely blinks a few times in favour of saying anything else, briefly appearing as strained and haunted-looking as an El Greco saint.

Really, such aesthetic misery is addictive : Hannibal wishes there was a way to bottle it up and breathe it in.

Hannibal waits a few seconds, calculating assorted probabilities with lightning speed in the manner of a chess master.

You need some proper rest. And take some aspirin for the fever. Let me get you some cash. What did you mean? Will frowns to himself then briefly closes his eyes before snapping them sharply back open again.

I think you were using it to work the case out to yourself as you went along — you were profiling him the entire time. Will just shrugs, typically modest, and Hannibal takes a small step closer.

The paradox of the Sculptor. Organised yet…. Chaotic yet methodical, as in the case of this unknown killer of ours.

Or else something different entirely: light yet dark, moral yet corrupted…vulnerable while still immensely powerful.

There are no known incidents of this type of killer being female. He closes his eyes again then stretches his arms behind his head.

Hannibal nods and moves towards the door before turning round again with his fingers still curled round the handle.

Hannibal waits until Will has straightened up again then looks him directly in the eye. It closes behind him with a restrained little click and Will leans against the wall and takes a deep, slightly shaky breath before running back into the living room to try and catch a last glimpse of him through the window before the cab takes him away.

Come back , it says. Come back. Come back, come back; come back to me. I need you now , I need you so badly…I need you more than I have words to say.

Only that I think about you often as usual and that things continue to feel difficult also as usual and that since you were here these two things have become unexpectedly combined.

Do you understand what I mean when I say that? Can you see how the fact you only came because I was ill and you felt sorry for me could be worse than not having you here at all?

I want you to see me as an equal. I know this: I know all of it. All these things. So why do I sometimes still feel like my need to be close to you has no limits?

Not desperation and dog fur and a lonely house in the middle of nowhere. Not like me. Like oil and water…that sort of thing.

Did you notice that by the way; how surprised I was? Comfortable, I guess. In fact why on earth am I still talking to you about this?

You must have picked up on it by now. In fact I think I can blend almost as well as you can when I have to, although in my case the motivation is different because I do it so survive and minimise harm the same way a real chameleon does.

Maybe you do it just because you can. All these complaints…am I starting to bore you now? Are you rolling your eyes with irritation and drumming your fingers on your desk?

Would you like to know the reason for that? And I want that person to be you. What else should I say to you? The usual stuff I suppose. Music, dining — that kind of thing.

Ah, I can see you rolling your eyes at me again. Real trouble. Eight doctors lecturing and preaching and trying to refer me for hormone therapy.

Eight doctors telling me no. It would be giving up. It would mean complete freedom. The body has been lying there for several days. It was a hiker who found him: happily roaming across the countryside with a backpack and a little hand-knitted cap and completely unaware that in a few seconds time she was about to stumble across something tattered and torn amongst the withered stalks of pampas grass that once was alive but now is dead — and the mere glimpse of which is destined to haunt her for the rest of her life.

Will can see her now in the corner of his eye: slumped on the ground with her head drooping forward and the bobble on the hat swaying crazily in the wind like a pendulum.

A paramedic is bending over her with a hand on her shoulder as his mouth opens and closes like a goldfish while he murmurs soothing words of sympathy; even though no right words exist, because what on earth can you possibly say?

He misses that innocence: the part of himself that still had the power to care. Will forces himself to stop staring at the hiker and her sad little knitted hat and turns round to face Jack instead.

Does Jack care? Probably; at least more than Will does. From now on every book and article and internet blog that discusses the Sculptor case is going to be mentioning John or Joe or James, probably accompanied with a photo of him from some happier time when he was just a regular person and not a criminology statistic or a footnote in the annals of Serial and Violent Crime.

Get them to check the field. Then he takes a deep breath, struggling against a renewed surge of pain.

Will nods wordlessly then turns back again to glance at where the hiker is swaddled in a shock blanket while taking tiny sips from a white Styrofoam cup.

You thought what when you saw it? You felt like what? I only know why. I only know the designation and the purpose; this is my design.

Please, I need you. We need to get it…him…back to the mortuary as soon as possible. Jack nods in response then tips his hat a little further over his forehead as protection against the increasingly vicious gusts of wind.

Jack nods again then pulls the hat a little further down until his eyes have disappeared in the shadow of the brim.

In an attempt to ride it out he gazes determinedly into the horizon: tracking his eyes over the vista of straggled trees and the ragged little outline of the crows as they dip and weave between the branches.

What kind of hiker comes all the way out here in this weather without boots? No backpack either. This guy came here by car. Either way we should get some proof of ID and a follow-up address.

No — Johns. Agent Johns. What have you got for me? Mr Graham. Oh Christ, this is ridiculous: why is everything making him so mawkish at the moment?

It must be another effect of the pills…. Well, you know the body had nothing on it beyond the usual stuff?

Keys and loose change and whatnot: nothing of actual relevance and nothing to tell us who he was. But we did find this.

An hour later everyone has assembled back at the lab, where the energy of devising some kind of strategy plan is only slightly subdued by the increasingly urgent howls from the pack of journalists that are gathering in front of the building.

Will fantasises about leaning out the window and yelling at them all to fuck off. They could also, and almost certainly do, refer to a wide variety of other things.

They do those terrible advertisements, you must have seen them — the ones with the singing judges. It sells organic produce and hand-knitted lentils and that sort of thing.

But they definitely peddle over-bred vegetables. Will returns the look very calmly from over the top of his glasses then resumes leafing through a stack of autopsy reports without saying a word.

Do you think he really might be trying to send a message about prostitutes? Loads of these guys do. You never know Mr Crawford: perhaps the dead guy was a john?

Will stares back in disbelief and is struggling to think of a nice way of telling him to stop being so fucking stupid when Siemens directs one of his patented watery smiles in his direction and it suddenly occurs to him that Siemens is attempting to find an alternative explanation for the letters in order to deflect attention away from Will.

You okay? Although why was his initial concern the idea of being seen as a killer rather than the fact some epic maniac might be sending him coded messages?

What the hell is wrong with me, thinks Will miserably. Ways that are far more effective than scribbling your initials on a bit of cardboard.

Red herring. Staring round at the scenes of carnage and chaos in the lab he sighs audibly. How can there be room for the romance and intrigue of red herrings in a setting like this?

I always park close to the building. Jack gives Will a look of guarded sympathy then falls quiet again for a few moments, obviously trying to think of something else to suggest as a form of comfort now the idea of being nannied in and out of the parking lot has been politely refused.

Thanks for calling me back. Siemens promptly looks so mortified that Will feels vaguely guilty despite not having done anything wrong.

At least not like that — not how you mean. He just looks up to me professionally. Although rest assured I shall be secretly resenting you the entire time.

Unlike Will, who always want to cackle when saying the name, Hannibal seems to be made of sterner stuff and pronounces it in the usual deadpan tone.

It used to drive him wild with irritation; but not anymore. Why are you asking? Will had once said after Hannibal, apropos of nothing, had enquired what was wrong.

He can see Will. And Will, in turn, had never really understood how badly he needed that until it was on offer.

To be really seen, despite there being so much he can never possibly show. I see you. As if love is just a pale and unconvincing counterfeit of perception: of the acceptance and awareness that comes from being seen.

Obviously it would be good to talk about it, but not necessarily to do so now …far better to come across as stoic and reflective by waiting out a bit longer rather than wailing over the phone to Hannibal straight away and risk appearing hysterical and undignified.

Do you have time to talk later? Or for longer this evening. Will pauses now himself as he calculates how much time is realistically required to accomplish the Task Of The Day; which just so happens to be illegally obtaining more heat suppressants.

In this respect, and despite his best efforts, Will is now aware of feeling deeply guilty and nervous. His voice comes booming across the lab like the proverbial foghorn and Will curses internally and elaborately before reluctantly turning round again with one hand still on the door handle.

Will gestures aimlessly at the half-open door, which is as about close as he dares get in non-verbal terms to announcing well obviously I am, you massive dumbass.

Examining the row of disapproving faces, he idly imagines turning round while loudly and sarcastically announcing the real reason he has to leave: Hey there, you uptight law-abiding bastards!

Then he spins round and practically dives through the door in his eagerness to escape, glancing at his watch and grimacing before picking up his pace to get to the car a little faster.

Nearly 20 minutes have already been wasted although if he drives quickly and is lucky with the traffic…anyway, surely the guy will wait?

He has to. A flurry of bad-tempered horns behind him makes him realise that the lights are already on green again so he forces himself to pull off while biting unhappily on his thumbnail and attempting to review his options with a level of calmness and logic.

What about all the suburban omegas, sneaking out from behind their rose bushes and white picket fences to source themselves some desperately-needed heat suppressants?

Does it? The alphas would have used it as an excuse to put some increasingly stifling legislation in place…. In other news, huge thanks and hugs once again to everyone who's been supporting the fic in the comments.

It's incredibly motivating and really does mean a lot to me. In fact this is one of the few real disadvantages that alphas are forced to contend with, in that any difficulty or distress is automatically attributed to personal weakness as opposed to society letting them down — and it means that when they fall, they fall hard.

Whereas betas or omegas in the same circumstances might be ignored or sneered at, the fate of an alpha is to be actively punished.

Where you going little omega? Where you going? Nevertheless this is an extremely bad start so he reaches into his coat pocket for a woollen hat, tugging it down over his forehead to cover his hair before removing his glasses and stowing them in the other pocket and finally flicking up his collar to hide his throat.

Then he ducks his head slightly and quickens his step, even though the chant is still there — Where you going? He sways slightly then seems to finally register Will looking at him and immediately cranks back to life and raises an arm straight in his direction.

Oh fuck off , thinks Will with genuine anger. The sound is both unnerving and distressing by turns, yet despite the volume and incessant desperation of it no one else looks round or even seems to care.

You got the time? In fact his appearance certainly indicates that he might have done: a paunchy middle-aged man in a tracksuit that the designer clearly intended for someone several decades younger and several pounds lighter with the kind of damp-looking parchment pale skin that rarely sees the sun.

Oh Christ, this is tedious — why do people even bother doing illegal drugs if you have to go to this sort of trouble to get them?

You want to get us both arrested? Nevertheless possession is one thing and intent to supply is quite another; and for a beta like the dealer clearly is, a prison sentence would be almost inevitable alphas, after all, not tending to look kindly on anyone helping omegas to suppress their heats.

Will glances up at it, hoping to catch a glimpse of Orion and his dogs, then squares his shoulders and forces himself to strengthen his resolve.

You need them, you NEED them. Will grits his teeth and fights against the urge to snap something aggressive in response before reluctantly admitting that any kind of argument will achieve nothing beyond prolonging the ordeal even more than necessary.

The alphas keep you all for themselves. Will takes a deep breath in an effort not to lose his temper then deliberately turns his back on them and raises his voice.

In the resultant shrieks of laughter Will can feel his stomach turn over with a lunge of unhappiness but with an enormous force of effort refuses to let it show and tips his head back instead in order to regard the dealer with barely-concealed contempt.

The dealer begins to smile: a slow sickly contortion of the mouth that spreads across his face like grease across a skillet.

You got more than that. How about you come a bit closer and be nice to me, and in return I let you have it at a discount?

Once again Will fails to reply: merely stands there in the silence as the seconds stretch out and the betas jeer and laugh while the dealer leers, and all the time consumed by an awareness of how the reason for his muteness has altered so dramatically from before.

It happens so easily too. I mean how else is someone like me ever gonna get within spitting distance of an omega?

Will frowns slightly but once again refuses to answer. Then he flicks his eyes around the scene, calculating the various requirements with rapid speed before leaning back on his heels and dipping his head again in a convincing performance of defeat.

The dealer, sensing victory, takes a step forward in a gesture of casual possessiveness that makes Will want to scream. Not in this shitty town.

You should be paying him. The dealer, as predicted, falls for it immediately. None of them are shy.

They all drop on the floor and spread their legs for the first alpha that looks at them. Something about the ominous tone of voice makes the dealer glance warily at him, and Will bites his lip at being stupid enough to let his true feelings show before ducking his head even further until the tip of his chin is touching his chest.

Grumbling mutinously the betas begin to assemble their assorted belongings of bags and beer cans then take their time in ambling towards the top of the alleyway, yelling the occasional mocking comment to Will as they go.

You have to tell me how omegas work. Okay, for starters: is it only the alphas that get you excited or can anyone do it? Yeah, you with me now?

You like the sound of that, huh baby? Now come here I want you up against the wall. Time to get yourself ready. Omegas are meant to be delicate.

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  1. Nach meiner Meinung sind Sie nicht recht. Ich biete es an, zu besprechen. Schreiben Sie mir in PM, wir werden reden.

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