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Title: Sitting Duck
By: angstytimelord
Pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham
Fandom: Hannibal
Rating: PG-13
Table: writers_choice
Prompt: #182, Mess
Author's Note: Sequel to "Covetous."
Disclaimer: This is entirely a product of my own imagination, and I make no profit from it. I do not own the lovely Hannibal Lecter or Will Graham, unfortunately, just borrowing them for a while. Please do not sue.


He was a mess. An utter, complete, total mess.

There was someone out there in the woods in front of his house. Watching his home. Watching him. He was sure of it; he had seen the shadowy figure when he'd stepped out onto the porch just a few minutes ago. He knew that he was being observed.

Will shuddered, letting the curtain fall back into place and turning away from the window. He wasn't sure if he should call anyone or not, but he was going to.

First, he would call Hannibal, and tell hm what was going on. Then he'd call Jack, and explain to him that someone was outside, and that he thought they might have malicious intent. Then he would sit here and wait for help to arrive.

That was all he could do, at the moment.

He wasn't going to try to take on whoever this might be by himself; the man could be a lot stronger than he was physically, and he wouldn't force a confrontation.

And he wasn't going to start mindlessly shooting, either. That would be worse than stupid; what if the person outside his home was a first-class marksman? He could end up dead long before anyone could get here to help him. That wasn't what he wanted.

No, what he wanted was to flush this person out into the open, have him surrounded by cops, and be sure to find out just who he was and what he was doing.

Will took one deep breath, then another. So far, whoever the person was, they hadn't tried to get inside the house -- but they obviously knew that he was aware of their presence. He'd made that clear by frowning as he scanned the woods, and then quickly going back inside.

Going back in, closing and locking the front door, and making sure that all the windows were locked before pulling the curtains across them made it obvious that he knew someone was there.

Maybe that hadn't been the smartest thing to do.

Yes, it had, he told himself firmly. If he hadn't pulled the curtains, he would have given this person a target. And if he hadn't gone back inside, he'd be a sitting duck.

Of course, if the man was a marksman, then he probably already was. He was holding his own gun, but his hands were clammy, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He was just waiting for a shot to ring out; he was expecting it, straining to hear it.

But so far, it was quiet. He couldn't even hear anyone walking around the house, even though all of his senses, every nerve, was acute and alert.

Whoever was out there, Will didn't doubt that they meant him harm. They wouldn't be skulking around in the woods outside of his home if they didn't.

When he'd talked to Hannibal, he hadn't put forth the idea that this could happen. He wondered if the other man was on his way now, if he'd gotten the voice mail that Will had left. He might still be with a patient, not knowing what was going on here.

He knew that as soon as Hannibal got that message, he would come to Wolf Trap, even if meant canceling an appointment. He just hoped that Hannibal would get the message soon.

He wanted Hannibal here, close to him.

All right, maybe he was jumping at shadows. Maybe it was weak to want his boyfriend near him. But he was scared. Really scared. He was alone, and he needed help.

Yes, he was a decent shot. But he had no idea if this person might try to break into his house, or come after him in some different way. And he had no idea if they were alone, or if there were other people in the woods with them, all of them aiming for one target.

When Jack and the police arrived, then he'd be safe. Whoever was out there would be surrounded by officers of the law, and they would be caught.

But until then, he was a trembling, terrified mess. He didn't know why he was so frightened of this person; he only knew that he was.

No, he knew why. Because this man had killed so many young men who looked like him, or at the very least, resembled him enough to make the connection. It was obious that Will was the one he was after, the one he had wanted dead all along.

At least, he was fairly sure of that. But what if he was wrong? What if there was some other, more insidious, plan going through this killer's mind?

His empathy should have already been able to divine that plan. But that hadn't happened.

That fact n itself was frightening; knowing that his empathy wasn't working with this killer, at least not in its usual way, made him feel less sure of himself. Maybe his empathy was starting to wind down, like a watch that needed a new battery.

No, that shouldn't happen. He should be able to see into this killer's mind, but for some reason, that mind was shrouded in mystery, hidden from his abilities.

That was another reason that he felt like such a mess, he realized. His empathy seemed to be failing him somehow, and that was something he had always counted on. He felt as though a part of himself was going missing, a part that he couldn't afford to lose.

The thought that he could lose what made him special was terrifying.

Will reluctantly left his post at the window, going to sit on the couch and taking a deep breath. He felt so helpless, unable to do anything or go anywhere.

He had to stay here and wait for the cavalry to arrive. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as though he was simply sitting here waiting to be tossed around on a stormy sea, with little or not control over what might happen. He hated that feeling. He hated not being able to take action.

He had to force himself to be calm, Will told himself firmly. He couldn't lose it, not now. He couldn't let himself become a helpless, vulnerable mess.

Because if he did it now, then he might never be anything else.