How To Be Eaten.

A post-fall fic exploring Will’s past, weaving through time to find Hannibal, love, cannibalism and other drugs.
TW.

The mind perceives existence as a thread unspooling, one event birthing the next, past sculpting present, present carving the future. Yet in dreams, the mind dissolves, slipping between moments, untethered by time, stripped of causality. There, in that formless drift, we glimpse a hidden truth: that life, which appears so linear, is but the rippling echo of a primordial force, a breath from the vast and originless void, where only the great nothing hums.

Here, we are not architects of our future, nor sculptors of our fate. We are first-degree witnesses, adrift on an endless ocean, where waves do not rise from some distant beginning but have always been—moving, colliding, unfolding everywhere at once. And yet, to touch each moment, the mind slows, weaving the illusion of time, a trick of perception that lets us believe in sequence, in order, in a story being written rather than simply revealed.

So Will couldn’t bring himself to blame his mother for everything that had happened in his life. Even when she had plunged his head beneath the water, her trembling hands gripping his small shoulders, he couldn’t find it in himself to resent her. She had whispered fevered prayers, calling upon God to cast out the darkness she believed had taken root inside him. If anything, he wished no one had come to save him. If anything, his mother had been right.

“What a precious little thing, with those big blue eyes,” an old woman cooed, leaning over the stroller where baby Will lay swaddled in blankets.

Elizabeth Graham forced a smile, the corners of her lips twitching as though the muscles had long forgotten how to hold such an expression.

She didn’t think her son was precious. She didn’t think anything of him at all, really. Her body had been hollowed out into a graveyard, and Will was nothing more than another tombstone. Another punishment from God. Another child of the devil sent straight into her womb, a creature she had to purge from this world before he could curse it. But no one believed her. They called her sick. Delusional. Hospitals and medications, white rooms with no edges, bitter liquids forced between clenched teeth.

So she learned to pretend. To be quiet. To smile, to nod. Because if she didn’t, they would take her away again. They would lock her up, and the demon child would be left to wreak his havoc on another family.

So she remained quiet about Will.

Will didn’t think he remembered being a baby. But the sensation of boiling water flooding his nose, blurring his vision, pressing against his skin like a second, searing body…that never left him. Sometimes, even now, he could feel it. Unaware of where the memory came from, only that it lived inside him, dormant until sleep pried open the locked doors of his mind and the truth came spilling through the cracks.

“LIZZIE, NO!” A man’s voice, half-swallowed by the water.

“Let me go! We have to do this!” she yelled, thrashing against his grip, her wet hair plastered to her face in wild strands. She clawed at his arms, but he shoved her back, sending her stumbling against the tile as he lunged toward the water. He pulled baby Will out, cradling the soaked bundle against his chest, his breath coming hard and fast.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmured, brushing dripping strands of hair from Will’s forehead. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay.”

“My God, no wonder you’re such a weird little thing,” Margaret Thatcher scoffed, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke that curled lazily toward the ceiling. She tilted her head, her yellowed, brittle hair cascading over her shoulder in stiff strands. Her long red nails tapped against the armrest as she studied Will with blue-shadowed eyes, lined heavily with kohl.

“I mean, with a mother like that,” she added, taking another slow drag. “Who wouldn’t turn out a little strange?”

Will sat silently beside her, small hands clasped in his lap. Outside the smudged car window, fluorescent gas station lights buzzed faintly in the night. They were waiting for his father, who had gone inside to buy cigarettes. A few years had passed since his mother had been institutionalized, and in that time, Robert had met Margaret in some roadside bar. She had been around ever since—rude, sharp-edged, wrapped in the stale scent of nicotine and whiskey.

“You’ll have a big brother to look after you,” Robert had told him when they loaded their things into the truck, bound for Margaret’s trailer park. “It’ll be good for you.”

Jason was fifteen when Will was five, and he did not look after Will.

Jason thought Will was stupid. A silent, strange little boy who never talked, never fought back. They shared a room, and Jason wasn’t bothered by Will’s presence there, no matter what type of activities he was engaging with. And after a while, he decided Will should participate in his activities, whether he wanted to or not. And so, whenever Will felt the crushing weight of something pressing down on his back, the scent of sweat and old pillowcases thick in the air, he remembered Jason.

Robert and Margaret were heavy drinkers. They would come home in the early hours of the morning, fumbling at the door, voices slurring into incoherence before one of them collapsed in a heap on the couch. Sometimes, they didn’t make it that far. Will had stepped over them more times than he could count, their bodies sprawled on the stained carpet, their breath thick with liquor.

Jason took those moments alone with Will as opportunities to experiment with the human body. Maybe he wanted to be a doctor, who knows? He definitely liked to see what he could fit inside Will, no matter what it was. It was a fun game for Jason, who had a crazed smile on his face throughout the entire time.

This went on for two years, until one night, Will woke to screaming.

He followed the sound, his small feet padding hesitantly across the cold floor. When he reached the kitchen, he froze.

Margaret was clawing at Robert’s arms, her fingers scrabbling for purchase as his hands tightened around her throat. Her face, once flushed with fury, was draining of color, her lips parting soundlessly.

As if something had snapped, her body crumpled, falling heavy against the floor with a dull thud.

Robert turned, chest heaving, eyes dark and unreadable as they landed on Will’s small, rigid form in the doorway.

“You listen to me,” he said, voice steady, almost gentle. He crouched to Will’s level, his large hands bracing against his knees. “If you ever tell anyone about this, you’ll be out on the streets. And you know what happens to little boys out there, don’t you?”

Will’s breath hitched. He said nothing.

Robert nodded as though he had expected the silence. He reached out, resting a heavy hand on Will’s shoulder.

“I did this for you, son.”

Will was young, but he knew his dad hadn’t done it for him. Margaret wasn’t kind, that much was true. She gave him smaller portions at dinner, let his clothes sit unwashed, ignored him when he needed help. She threw away anything that reminded him of his mother—photos, trinkets, even the blanket he had clung to as a child. She forced him to sit through adult movies he was too young to understand and asked him strange questions afterward.

No wonder Jason was sick.

But Robert hadn’t killed her to save Will. He had done it because that was the way they were, him and Margaret. They fought constantly. This time, it had gone too far. And Will believed his father when he told him he’d end up on the streets if he said anything. So he stayed quiet.

He stayed quiet as his father made him stand there while he cut Margaret into pieces, muttering under his breath as he worked, as if she was still arguing with him. Will stayed quiet as he watched Robert fit those pieces into a wooden box like a grotesque puzzle. He stayed quiet when they drove out to an empty stretch of land and buried it beneath the cold dirt. Margaret had been a drunk, a mean and bitter woman. People expected her to disappear. When Robert went around, red-eyed and slurring about how she had left him, no one asked questions. He sent Jason to live with his grandparents. That was that. No one came looking for her. Or if they did, Will never heard about it.

“You got a lighter?”

Will looked up from the dock where he sat, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the boatyard. A boy stood in front of him, dirty blond hair sticking up in places, green eyes catching the light.

Will pulled out his lighter—a cheap gas station one, red and blue—and handed it over. The boy flicked it a couple of times, then lit his cigarette, inhaling deep before flashing a grin. Will didn’t know it then, but he would keep that lighter for years.

They were sixteen when they met, two kids killing time in a place where time stood still. Will’s father worked on boats, fixing motors, and so did Dean’s. But Dean’s dad wasn’t around much. When he was, he was the kind of man people avoided.

Empty afternoons filled with smoke, grease, and books became something else with Dean around. Will had never had friends before—he didn’t like how people looked at him, the way they filled silence with empty words. But Dean was different. Like Will, he carried an invisible weight, the kind only wounded boys could recognize in each other. Will saw it in the way Dean deflected with humor, in the glint of his eyes that only those who fought demons had. But they didn’t talk about it. They didn’t need to.

Instead, they would drive around in Dean’s old car, wind tearing through the open windows, Nirvana blaring from the radio. They climbed onto the roof, lay back, and smoked while staring at the stars. Will didn’t understand, then, the strange tightness in his chest when Dean laughed or the way his skin prickled when Dean’s arm brushed against his own. He only knew he wanted it more.

When Will dozed off in Dean’s car, he would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. Dean’s hands would find his shoulders, grounding him.

“My brother gets those, too,” Dean had said once, voice low.

Will didn’t know much about Dean’s brother. They went to the same school, but Dean never talked about his family. All Will knew was that the nightmares ran in their blood, that his brother was quiet and strange, and that he liked dogs. Like Will.

At home, things got worse. Robert had learned after Margaret that it was easy for a man like him to get away with things. And so he started collecting bones.

Women from bars, the ones no one missed. He’d bring them home, slit their throats, make Will mop the floors. Cut them up. Take a marrow. Dispose of them.

Will learned to shut down. His body moved through the motions like a machine, a vessel emptied of anything human.

Dean talked about running away all the time.

“We can make money easy. I know a few tricks, and we don’t need much,” he’d say, lighting a cigarette, the glow illuminating his sun-kissed skin. “We’ll take my car. Sleep in it if we have to.”

One evening, Dean picked Will up from the boatyard. Will’s hands were trembling. His father had hidden a body earlier that day—the first one that year, in that town—and he couldn’t shake the cold weight of it. He wasn’t hiding it well. Dean noticed.

“We leave tonight,” he said. “I can’t take this anymore either, you know? My dad—he…” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll get rid of them tonight.”

So they left. They drove until the world stretched out wide, until they were nothing but two boys parked in the middle of a canyon, the night vast and open above them. They stayed there, one night, then another.

One morning Will woke to soft, broken sobs in the driver’s seat.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice groggy.

Dean wiped at his face, shook his head like he could brush off the feeling. But he couldn’t.

“I have to go back,” he whispered. “I can’t leave my brother alone.”

And so they turned around.

When Will walked back into the house, Robert didn’t say a word. Just looked at him, long and heavy.

Dean never showed up again. Not at the boatyard. Not at school. Not ever again. All that was left was the blue and red lighter.

Rotten Meat. Chapter Two.

The cold was the first thing Savannah felt. It settled into her skin like an unwanted guest, creeping under the thin blanket, pricking at her fingers and the tips of her ears. She opened her eyes slowly, the room still dark except for the dim light seeping through the thick curtains. The air smelled sterile, vaguely metallic, like something scrubbed too clean. Her breath came out in a soft cloud, barely visible in the pale light.

She took a moment to just exist in it. The quiet. The stillness. A second of peace before the day began. The drawings on her bedside table sat stacked neatly, graphite smudges on the edges of the pages. Proof she was still here, that she hadn’t disappeared into herself entirely. She ran her fingertips over them absentmindedly, grounding herself. The bed beneath her was stiff, unyielding. It wasn’t home.

She missed her father’s breakfast in bed. The way the smell of his coffee would fill the house, strong and sharp, waking her up before his voice ever did. She didn’t miss the Dragon. The thought hit her like ice water, tightening her chest. Her breath caught, quickened. Not now. Not here. If she let it take her, they’d bring the needle. She forced the air back into her lungs slowly, evenly, fighting the tremble in her hands. Breathe through it. Stay in control.

Across the room, Amara was already awake, brushing her hair with mechanical precision, bed made as if she’d never slept in it. The sight of her still unsettled Savannah, though she thought she’d be used to it by now. A month of waking up to the same person should have been enough time to adjust. But then again, Amara wasn’t just anyone. She was Amara Lecter. There was something inherently off about her, something that went beyond the cold, composed demeanor. Savannah had always been good at reading people, but Amara wasn’t like other people. She was raised in it. She didn’t know what her dad did, she lived with it, grew up under it, admired it. It made Savannah’s skin crawl, but she didn’t let it show.

“Good morning, Savannah.” Amara’s voice was as smooth as ever, almost pleasant.

“Yeah,” Savannah grunted.

The other girl—Mia—was still curled up under the covers, her dark hair spilling over the pillow. She was pretty. Almost eerily so. Big, swollen lips, thick lashes, skin that looked like it belonged to someone in a magazine. It was strange seeing her here, in a place like this. Her father was all over crime websites, articles, speculation. Will Graham. Savannah remembered her dad reading about him, intrigued by an article about how he had evaded the FBI for so long, how he had manipulated an entire team of trained professionals. They had thought Mia was missing. Had she run with him? Had she been part of it? And if so, how had she ended up here?

The door creaked open at exactly eight, like it always did. The nurses were punctual, strict. If they weren’t in the cafeteria by nine, there’d be consequences. Savannah hated breakfast here. Everything was either soggy or bland. No coffee. No caffeine. It felt cruel.

“Are you coming?” Amara was already moving, slipping through the door.

“Um… yeah, hang on.” Savannah tied her hair up quickly, throwing on a robe and slippers. Her body still felt heavy with sleep.

“Maybe we should wake her up,” she murmured, glancing at Mia.

“Or,” Amara said, not bothering to turn back, “she should learn the consequences of not following the rules on her own.”

Savannah rolled her eyes. Of course Amara would say that. Ignoring her, she leaned down and nudged Mia gently.

“Hey. Sorry, but you gotta get up.”

Mia groaned, rolling over. “Yeah, okay.” Her voice was hoarse with sleep.

Amara disappeared down the hall. Savannah lingered. “I’ll wait for you, so you don’t get lost on the way.” She sat back on the edge of her bed. “But you gotta hurry. They’re annoying about schedules here.”

Mia pushed herself up, running a hand through her tangled hair. Her eyes were impossibly blue, still half-lidded with sleep. Savannah watched as she took a sip of water, pulled on slippers. There was something about her. She wasn’t like Amara—there was no cold calculation, no unsettling detachment. But there was something else.

The walk to the cafeteria was quiet at first, the halls lined with dull, lifeless colors.

“So… was your dad finally caught?” Savannah asked, voice low.

Mia didn’t look at her. “I actually don’t know. I’m trying to find out.”

“Do you think we have access to anything here? News or something?”

Savannah shook her head. “No. They keep us pretty locked away from reality.”

Mia sighed, her fingers twitching slightly against her robe.

Savannah hesitated before speaking again. “So what happened? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Mia blinked. “Huh?”

“With you, I mean. Your dad was a fugitive. They thought you were missing.”

Mia’s expression flickered, something unreadable crossing her face. “Oh. Um.” She hesitated, looking away. “It’s complicated.”

Savannah didn’t push. She knew what it was like to not want to share. “Yeah. No, I get it.”

They turned the corner. The smell of overcooked oats and watered-down juice filled the air. Savannah wrinkled her nose. “Food here’s pretty boring, by the way.”

“That’s fine. I’m used to boring food,” Mia said blankly.

Savannah raised a brow. “Right. Well. That’s… good, I guess.” She glanced toward the cafeteria, spotting Amara sitting alone, eating with slow, deliberate movements. “Amara wasn’t. She didn’t take it well in the beginning.”

Mia smirked. “Yeah, I bet she was really bummed out that they don’t serve people meat here.”

Savannah let out a short laugh. Mia laughed too. It was the first normal moment she’d had in days.

Amara barely looked up as they sat across from her. Her posture was perfect, her grip on the spoon delicate, precise. She looked up at Mia with an unreadable smile.

“Tell me, Mia. Is the bowl of soggy fruit and watered-down sugar with a hint of orange juice to your taste?”

Mia smirked, taking a bite. “It’s fine.”

Amara nodded, satisfied. “So,” she said lightly, “what happened that got your father caught?”

Mia’s expression hardened instantly. “My father was caught?”

“Was he not?” Amara tilted her head. “You’re here. I assumed he was.”

Mia exhaled, shoulders relaxing.

“So he wasn’t, as far as you know?” Amara pressed.

Savannah narrowed her eyes. “Amara. Leave it. She doesn’t know us. Stop poking.”

Amara turned to her with that same sharp smile. “I’m not poking. I’m simply curious.”

Mia looked down at her food. “I used myself as bait so he could run.”

Silence.

Amara’s smile widened. “I hope he did, then.”

Mia’s lips curled slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“Savannah’s dad was obsessed with mine,” Amara added.

Savannah groaned. “Oh, here we go.”

“It’s true,” Amara said smoothly. “Collected articles, wrote letters. He had a shrine.”

Mia raised a brow. “A shrine?”

Savannah sighed. “I never said shrine—”

“You said it was a room with a table full of candles and pictures and letters.”

Mia glanced at Savannah. “Sounds like a shrine to me.”

Silence settled between them.

Mia turned to Amara, voice softer. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Being raised by a cannibal serial killer.”

Amara shrugged. “He’s just my dad to me.”

Mia leaned back, arms crossed.

“I guess… but… how was he? Really? Like… as a father?”

“Lovely. He was the loveliest man I’ve ever known.”

Savannah’s stomach twisted. They all sat there, silent. The weight of Amara’s words pressing into them, filling the empty spaces in their minds.

•

Mia sat stiffly at the desk, her hands pressed flat against the surface, fingers drumming idly as she waited.

The woman at the front desk glanced at her computer.

“Okay, so, you get Doctor Chilton. He’ll see you in a bit.”

Mia’s fingers stilled.

“Chilton?! The head?”

“That’s right,” the woman confirmed.

Mia frowned.

“Usually you’d get Dr. Bloom, but—”

“Wait, wait, wait—Dr. Bloom? As in… Alana Bloom?”

The woman nodded, barely looking up from her screen.

“She works here?”

“Yep. And I guess you already know her, which is why she can’t be your assigned therapist.”

Mia exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair. Damn. Alana would’ve been useful. If she could’ve talked to her, she might have been able to get something—some hint about her father’s whereabouts, or at least how much they knew about him. Instead, she was stuck with Frederick Chilton, which was probably the worst possible outcome.

She sighed, dropping her head back against the chair and waiting to be called in.

And Chilton’s office was sleek, a blend of opulence and cold modernity. The kind of space that suggested wealth and power, but not comfort.

“Mia! Hello.” Chilton’s voice was bright, almost rehearsed, as he rose from behind his desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Mia sat, wary.

“How are you today?”

She shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

“Great.” He smiled like a politician. “How have you been adapting?”

“Fine.”

“And your roommates?”

Mia scoffed, shaking her head. “You put us all together on purpose.”

Chilton’s smile didn’t waver. “I simply thought you might relate to one another. It would be helpful for your adaptation.”

“Relate?” Mia let out a short, bitter laugh. “Hannibal Lecter eats people. The Tooth Fairy kills families. My dad killed an asshole. How is that the same thing?”

Chilton watched her, expression unreadable at first. Then, something flickered—amusement.

“All three are very dangerous, very mysterious, and very intriguing men.”

Mia gave him a dry, unimpressed look. “Right.”

She leaned back in her chair. “You know I’m not telling you anything, right? I know this is just an investigation disguised as therapy.”

Chilton’s brows lifted, his smirk widening. “No, I thought you wouldn’t. After all, you are the daughter of an FBI special agent. You know how things work.”

Mia nodded.

“So tell me about you, instead. How are you feeling, Mia?”

Time crawled in Chilton’s office. Circular conversations. Non-answers. Every question led nowhere, and every answer she gave was twisted into something for him to analyze.

By the time she was dismissed, she felt wrung out and no closer to anything useful.

At dinner, she poked at her food—meatballs and chips—while Savannah took the seat next to her.

“So who’d you get, Dr. Bloom?” Savannah asked, popping a chip into her mouth.

“No. I got Chilton.”

Savannah blinked. “Chilton?! Isn’t he the head of this place?”

Mia nodded. “Yeah.”

“Damn.”

“You got Bloom?”

“Yeah.” Savannah chewed, thoughtful. “They wouldn’t give you her?”

“Conflict of interest. My dad and her were colleagues.”

Across from them, Amara, who had been listening in silence, finally spoke. “Mine too.”

Mia turned to her. “Your dad knew Alana?”

“He was her mentor when she was doing her residency.”

Mia frowned. “So who do you get?”

Amara smiled. “Chilton too.”

“Wait—weren’t your dad and Chilton colleagues too? And they still assigned you to him?”

Amara gave a small shrug. “Chilton’s interests are more important than any conflict in this case.”

Mia scoffed. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

Savannah tilted her head. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Chilton is a pompous poser,” Mia said flatly. “Tried to get an interview with my dad more times than I can count. He’s obsessed with fame. So of course he wants to dig around our heads. We’re just a means to get to our dads.”

Amara smirked. “He’ll get you too, don’t worry.”

Savannah made a face. “I hope not.”

“He probably will, though,” Mia said. “Your dad is still out there. It’s a high-profile case. Chilton is probably dying to talk to you.”

“If he hasn’t already been listening to your sessions,” Amara added casually.

Savannah tensed. “You think he tapped the place?”

Amara grinned. “Wouldn’t put it past him. My dad says he’s… unorthodox.”

Savannah raised an eyebrow. “I don’t even want to know what he means by that.”

Mia exhaled, pushing her tray aside. “I think we’re all about to find out.”

That night, Mia couldn’t sleep.

She turned over in bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind running circles around itself. When she closed her eyes, he was there.

Warm. Next to her. Safe. His presence keeping the cold away.

She clung to that feeling, holding onto it like a lifeline, until exhaustion finally pulled her under.

•

They were already in bed when the door opened.

“Savannah, you need to come with me.”

Michael, the night nurse, stood in the doorway, his voice calm but firm. The room stirred—Amara shifted, Mia sat up, all of them suddenly awake and on edge. Savannah pushed the blanket off and slowly got out of bed, slipping into her robe and slippers.

She hesitated before following him out, but there was no point in asking. She already knew. There was only one reason they’d be pulling her out of bed at this hour.

Her father had been caught.

Michael walked ahead, leading her through the dimly lit corridor. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, their glow harsh against the sterile white walls. Her feet moved on instinct, her pulse drumming in her ears.

They went down the elevator. Stepped out on the first floor. At the end of the hall, he stopped and opened a door.

Inside, a large man in a dark blue suit stood hunched over a table, examining something in front of him. The second she saw him, her body froze, breath catching in her throat.

“Miss Dolarhyde,” he said, turning toward her. “I’m Jack Crawford.”

His voice was steady, weighty, as he flashed an FBI badge.

Savannah’s heart pounded.

“Please, sit,” he said, motioning to a chair.

She stepped inside hesitantly, the air in the room suddenly feeling heavier. Michael shut the door behind her.

“Miss Dolarhyde, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She lowered herself into the chair, hands gripping the robe around her, though about correcting him on her name but…He was probably getting it wrong on purpose. He didn’t sit.

“Um… don’t I need a lawyer or something?” Her voice felt small in the room.

“Do you have one, Miss Dolarhyde?”

She exhaled. “No.”

“I’m not infringing on any of your rights by asking you questions. You can refuse, of course. But it would be helpful if you didn’t.”

His tone wasn’t aggressive. He didn’t need it to be. His presence alone filled the space, a quiet kind of authority pressing down on her.

“I already told the police everything I know.”

“Tell me.”

Finally, he took a seat across from her, folding his hands on the table.

Savannah hesitated. Why did she have to do this again?

“Miss Dolarhyde,” Crawford said, voice even, “another family has been killed.”

The words hit like ice in her veins. Her entire body went rigid.

“I just came from the scene. Five people.”

He reached into a folder and slid several photographs across the table toward her. The images blurred in her vision—blood, bodies, the aftermath of something too horrific to fully process.

Her stomach turned violently. She tore her eyes away.

Crawford pulled the photos back.

“I need you to tell me everything you know. We need anything.”

Savannah shook her head quickly. “But I can’t help! I don’t—I don’t know anything useful!”

“You know there’s a pattern, right?” he interrupts.

She swallowed, shaking her head.

“He kills every full moon,” he said simply. “Which means, Miss Dolarhyde, that we have about twenty-eight days until another family is brutally slaughtered. So if you could, please, tell me anything. Anything.”

Savannah swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight, clogged. She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself.

“He burned down the house,” she started, voice dull, mechanical. “I wasn’t there. He left me a text message, told me to go to an address—Grandma’s house.”

She paused, gathering herself. “I went. He wasn’t there. There was only a note. I gave it to the authorities already. That’s it.”

Crawford studied her. “Why weren’t you at the house when he set it on fire? Where were you?”

She hesitated but knew there was no point in lying.

“I… I was at a motel.”

“You ran away,” Crawford said.

She nodded.

“Why?”

She swallowed again.

“Because I was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

She shifted in her seat, the back of her neck prickling.

“I saw things in the attic.”

Crawford’s expression sharpened. “What did you see, Savannah?”

She looked away. “Just… I don’t know. Things. Weird stuff. Writings. Disturbing stuff. Look, there was no evidence of anything, it just freaked me out a little, so I left. For a while.”

“What freaked you out?” he pressed. “What was so weird about what you saw?”

She clenched her jaw. He already knew. She could tell. He just wanted to hear her say it.

“Didn’t you read my statement?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

“I want to hear it from you,” he said, voice calm, patient.

She exhaled sharply.

“There was a bunch of weird shit about Hannibal Lecter.”

A sickness coiled in her stomach just thinking about it.

“Letters. Articles. Photos.”

“He was a fan,” Crawford said.

Savannah let out a humorless laugh.

“He was in love with him.”

Crawford’s eyes stayed on her. “What makes you say that?”

“The stuff he wrote,” she said, exasperated. “They were love letters to that fucking monster.”

She caught herself getting agitated and inhaled slowly, trying to breathe through it.

“You realize we can’t verify any of this, right?” Crawford said. “He burned the house down. Everything with it. You’re the only source we have of whatever was inside his mind.”

Savannah scoffed, leaning back in her chair.

“Then you’re out of luck, Agent.” Her voice was bitter, tired. “I told you everything I know. I didn’t know what he was doing. I just thought he was odd. But I’m odd too, so.” She shrugged. “He never left any evidence where I could see it. I didn’t know.”

Crawford studied her, then leaned forward.

“You weren’t raised by him, correct? You moved in with him when you were sixteen.”

She nodded.

“My mom died. Cancer,” she added, fidgeting slightly.

His expression flickered—something unreadable, gone in an instant.

“That’s when he found me,” she muttered. “I had no one else, so…”

She trailed off.

“We’re trying to figure out how he’s choosing the families,” Crawford said after a beat. “But our best profiler is on the run too.”

Will Graham.

“You’re sharing a room with his daughter. Mia.”

“But I don’t know anything either. She doesn’t talk about him.”

Crawford nodded, staring at her, then the ceiling, deep in thought. She could see it—the quiet frustration, the desperation carefully masked behind his composure.

“We’ll keep in touch,” he finally said, rising from his chair.

And then he was gone.

Savannah sat there for a long moment, her body shaking on the inside. Slowly, she dropped her head into her hands.

He wasn’t caught.

He was still out there.

“What happened?” Mia asked the second Savannah walked back into the room.

She sat on the bed, rubbing her arms, still feeling the chill of that interrogation room.

“Another family,” she said quietly.

Mia stiffened. “I thought they caught him.”

“Yeah,” Savannah breathed. “Me too.”

Mia sighed, rubbing her temples.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

Savannah let out a weak, bitter laugh. “Are you? Are we?”

Mia didn’t answer.

From her bed, Amara just watched them, silent.

•

Mia was walking through the woods with her father. The morning light filtered through the trees, dappling their path with gold. The dogs trotted ahead, sniffing the ground, tails wagging. She felt his presence beside her, steady and warm. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She smiled up at him, and he smiled back. Something shifts. His smile widened unnaturally, and blood was pouring from between his teeth, dripping down his chin, staining his collar.

Mia woke up with a sharp inhale, heart pounding. Her father’s scent clung to her like a ghost.

After breakfast, the three of them—Mia, Savannah, and Amara—wandered through the garden. The sun was warm but distant, filtering weakly through the trees that lined the perimeter. The air smelled of damp grass and earth, the sharp scent of freshly turned soil from the garden beds. Their shoes crunched lightly over the gravel path as they walked without urgency, as if they had nowhere else to be. Because they didn’t.

“You know about this stuff, right?” Savannah asked suddenly, turning to Mia.

Mia glanced at her. “What stuff?”

“Like law, crimes, and stuff.”

Mia shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“So what’s gonna happen to us?” Savannah pressed. “How long will they keep us? What’s the procedure?”

Mia sighed, tilting her face up to the sky, letting the sun warm her eyelids for a moment as she thought. Then she exhaled and answered.

“We’re under material witness hold. The prosecution probably claims that we’re under ‘protective custody’ while they assess whether we’re victims, accomplices, or withholding information.”

Savannah crossed her arms. “So… we’re not officially arrested?”

“No, which means we don’t have the right to a speedy trial.” Mia kept her voice even, but there was something cold in her tone. “And since we’re not in prison, we can’t demand immediate release like a normal prisoner would.” She took a slow breath. “And… the FBI and prosecution are probably filing for extensions on our psychiatric evaluations, because of ‘new developments’ in the case.”

“Great. So that means we’re stuck here indefinitely?” Savannah asked, exasperation creeping into her voice.

“Not necessarily,” Amara said lightly.

Mia turned to her. “No, not necessarily for you.” She leaned in slightly, her eyes locking onto Amara’s. “You’re here until your father’s trial. You’re here because they already know you knew. They’re just trying to prove it.”

Amara didn’t blink. Her expression remained eerily calm. “I’m here because Dr. Chilton wants to write a book on my father.”

Mia smirked slightly. “Amara, you’re done, you know that, right?”

Amara smiled too, but it wasn’t real. Her posture was too composed, her breathing too measured. She was holding something back.

“It’s only a matter of time until they prove you were complicit,” Mia continued, watching her closely. “You’re just lucky you were underage for most of it, but…”

“My father said I would be fine,” Amara interrupted, voice smooth, unaffected. “So.” A small pause. “I will be fine.”

Savannah stared at her. “How can you be so calm about this? You’re in, like… the worst situation out of all of us.”

“She’s not calm,” Mia said, still watching Amara.

Amara finally turned her head, arching a brow. “Ohh, the profiler’s daughter is profiling,” she teased.

Mia smiled. “Yes, divert the conversation, Amara.”

Amara looked away, still smiling, but it wasn’t amusement. Mia knew the game. She recognized it in herself too.

“Anyway,” Mia said, shifting gears, “how did you get here? I heard your dad burned down your house.” She turned to Savannah.

Savannah hesitated for half a second. “Um, yeah.”

“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it,” Mia said.

“No, it’s okay. Might as well.” Savannah exhaled, rubbing her arms as if warding off a chill. “Police found me at my grandmother’s house when they were looking for my father. He’d already been gone by then.”

Mia nodded. “Right. I read your statement.”

Savannah frowned slightly. “You did?” Then her expression shifted, as if remembering something. “Oh, right. I keep forgetting who your dad is.”

Mia hesitated before speaking. “My dad was asked to lead your dad’s case.”

Savannah’s brows shot up. “Really?!”

“Yeah. Before… before everything happened.” Mia’s voice faltered slightly, like stepping over broken glass. She didn’t say more.

Savannah absorbed that. “But he refused?”

Mia nodded. “Kept informed, but… he was trying to get out, you know.”

“That job was a burden to your father, wasn’t it?” Amara asked, her tone soft but knowing.

Mia looked at her for a moment, then glanced away. She didn’t answer.

Master post for all things Milk Blog:

Metas

Analysis

Headcanons: #headcanon #headcanons

Essays

Rotten Meat Fanfic:

Archive of our Own link

Rotten Meat Chapter 3.

TW: Ed

Amara knelt before the toilet, fingers pressed lightly against the cool porcelain, and emptied the remnants of lunch into the water. Her body rejecting the food without fuss, as if it had learned its role in this routine. A simple expulsion of unwanted matter. She observed the bile swirling away, the acid having done its work, the muscles contracting just as they should. She wiped her mouth delicately, straightened her posture, and exhaled. Then she stood, smoothing her clothes, used the mouthwash and walked out.

The world beyond the bathroom was stale, thick with the scent of disinfectant and muted voices. She found Mia and Savannah in the recreational room, the air dense with static from the overhead lights. They were on the floor, cross-legged, heads bent over some board game.

Savannah glanced up first. “Oh great, there you are.”

“We were thinking about something,” Mia added, turning slightly toward her. Amara gave a single nod, encouraging her to continue.

“We need codes,” Savannah said. “We don’t know if they’re listening or not.”

Amara tilted her head slightly, interested but unsurprised.

They assigned colors first, mouthing the meanings.

Red for her father.

Green for Savannah’s.

Blue for Will Graham.

Yellow for Chilton.

Then some hand gestures—subtle, easy to fold into natural movement. The flick of a wrist, the tuck of a thumb against the palm, the absent-minded tap of fingers against an arm. Do you have any news? A tug at the earlobe. A casual scratch of the wrist. Small things that would pass unnoticed by those unfamiliar.

Amara watched Mia carefully as they worked through the signals. She was sharp. Too sharp. Her mind moved with a precision that was unsettlingly familiar. Strategic, methodical. This wasn’t just intelligence—this was learned behavior. A mirror of something inherited. Amara recognized it because she carried the same affliction. She knows too much. The thought nestled into the corners of her mind.

After recreation time, they moved outside, taking their usual places in the sun. The warmth stretched over her skin, dulling the sharp edges of her thoughts. It was almost pleasant.

Amara didn’t flinch as Nurse Kelly approached.

“Come with me.”

Her pulse didn’t shift, her expression didn’t betray the tension curling low in her ribs. She rose fluidly, neither slow nor hurried. The girls were watching. Savannah’s brows drawn together, Mia’s gaze slightly narrowed, concerned.

She didn’t offer them reassurance. She just followed.

The walk to the first floor was silent, the hallways unnervingly clean. She had already deduced what this was—likely a meeting, maybe legal, maybe clinical. The door opened, and she was led inside.

Byron Metcalf sat at the table, his briefcase at his side, suit crisp despite the dull setting.

“Amara, hi.”

She slid into the chair across from him. “Any development on the case?”

“Nothing new,” he said. “Chilton’s still agreed to contribute to the plea. But I do have good news for you.”

Her brows lifted, not eager, but attentive.

“I was able to get an authorization for visitations.”

She froze—not visibly, but internally. She had to contain it, the sharp rush of anticipation, the flood of something dangerously close to relief.

“When can I go?” she asked, voice measured.

“Soon. Not today, but tomorrow, perhaps. I came to get Chilton’s signature on it, actually.”

Her lips parted slightly, a question forming, but then—of course.

“Chilton’s…” she began, then exhaled. “He’s the jailor, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

She tapped a finger against her knee beneath the table, grounding herself.

“Yeah, about that…” the lawyer started.

She cut him off, her tone smooth. “Don’t worry. I’ll be mindful of what I say.”

“I’m sure you will.” He nodded, satisfied. “Don’t talk about the case or charges.”

“I won’t,” she said, attentive, controlled.

With that, they parted, and Amara walked away with the weight of something both exhilarating and dreadful pressing against her ribs. She was going to see him. After so long, after so much distance carved between them, she would finally sit across from him. She had missed him—terribly. But a tight knot of nerves curled in her stomach. The unknown of it. The strangeness of the circumstances.

She found the girls still outside, their anxiety tangible even before they spoke.

“So? Everything okay?” Savannah asked immediately.

“It’s fine. I might get to see my dad tomorrow.”

Savannah’s mouth fell open.

“What? Are you serious?” Mia’s brows lifted, exasperated.

“Yellow approved it under the pretense of analyzing me psychologically,” she explained.

The girls exchanged looks, absorbing this.

“They probably think interactions with him might provide further insights into your psychological state,” Mia said, expression unreadable.

Amara smiled faintly and nodded.

“So they think you’re stupid?” Savannah asked flatly.

“They’ll monitor the visits, most likely,” Mia added.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Amara’s voice was light. It didn’t matter. She just wanted to see him.

The thought settled into her chest, warm and consuming. She was picturing it now—the way he would greet her, the way his voice would wrap around her name like it always had. But before she could slip too far into it, Mia’s voice cut through the haze.

“You should prepare yourself.”

Amara blinked, subtly shaking her head, refocusing. “Prepare?”

“You do realize you won’t see your dad as… the dad you’re used to, right?”

The words slowed her breath.

Mia’s voice was calm, careful. “He’ll be in a prison suit. Hair cut off. Maybe even in chains. And he will be behind bars.”

A sharp ache bloomed in Amara’s chest, unexpected and vicious. Trapped. Powerless. The words struck something deep, twisting her stomach. Nausea flickered at the edges of her consciousness, exacerbated by her already weakened state. She sat down, pressing her fingers against her temple.

Savannah shifted, uneasy. “Damn.”

Mia settled beside her on the bench, rubbing her back in slow, grounding motions.

Amara swallowed hard. “I’m sure he will be just as graceful and elegant as he always is,” she said, but the words felt thin.

Mia watched her carefully. “Still… you seem attached to him. It won’t be easy to see him like that.”

Trapped. Powerless. The words echoed, nauseating.

Amara exhaled shakily, forcing composure.

Mia softened. “Sorry. I just… wanted you to be prepared.”

Amara turned to her, still fighting against the heat behind her eyes. Forcing the tension from her face, she gave a small, practiced smile.

“Yeah, no, it’s—” She inhaled. “Thank you, Mia.”

•

She couldn’t help the tang of jealousy she felt from Amara. She would get to see her dad. But then also, a quiet relief—because Hannibal was locked up and her dad was still free. That was some consolation. She wondered how long the separation would take before she actually preferred him to get caught. She stored the thought away.

They ate breakfast in silence. The anxiety sat between them like an extra chair at the table. The confirmation hadn’t come yet, but Mia knew Amara would get it. She was good at hiding her emotions, but Mia could see it boiling under her skin.

Nurse Kelly approached. Amara was already standing up before her name was even called.

“Mia.”

They all froze.

She pointed at herself. The nurse nodded impatiently.

She followed.

The first floor. A stale room. Jack Crawford sat inside. Mia strode in, the anger already stirring under her ribs.

“Jack.”

“Mia.” He held out a hand. She sat across from him instead. He stared, then smiled bitterly, sat down too.

“Don’t worry. We haven’t caught him.” His eyes flicked to her restless fingers tapping on the table. She forced herself to stop and exhaled. Thank god.

“We have a proposition.”

Her brow lifted. Skeptical.

“Tell us where to find Will, and we will work a deal for him if he helps us catch Francis Dolarhyde.”

The corner of her lips curled.

“I don’t know where he is.”

“You know where he could be.”

“I don’t.”

“Mia. Families are getting brutally slaughtered—”

“I know. I share a room with his daughter, whom you exposed to the horrific crime scene pictures, by the way.” She leaned forward, smiling bitterly.

Jack sighed. “I do what I have to. Traumatizing one person with pictures is fine by me if I get to save many others.”

Mia scoffed.

“Oh yeah, no, I’m familiar with your moral compass, Jack. I know how much you don’t give a shit about individuals.”

Jack sighed again. Smiled back, forcefully.

“Mia, I am begging you.”

“Jack.” She interrupted. “I don’t know anything.”

His eyes squinted slightly. He wanted to yell but held back.

“How’s therapy?”

“With Chilton?” She scoffed.

“That ain’t therapy, and we both know it, Jack. He’s picking my dad’s brain through mine.”

Jack studied her.

“You talk about my moral compass, that I don’t care about individuals, but you’re the same. You’re allowing people to die for—”

“I’m not allowing anything, Jack.” She cut him off calmly. “You are. It’s your job to stop him, and you’re failing.” She smiled.

He sighed, loudly this time.

“Are we done?”

He nodded, looking away. Annoyed.

She stood and left.

Back in the room, she told the girls what had happened.

Savannah looked concerned. “The case is getting worse by the day.”

Mia nodded. “They’re likely going to push for the death sentence unless he gets an insanity plea.”

Savannah hesitated. “What does that mean exactly?”

“It’s a legal strategy that allows a defendant to claim that he isn’t guilty of a crime due to mental illness. It’s an affirmative defense, meaning the defendant admits to having committed the crime but claims he wasn’t mentally responsible,” Amara explained.

“Your dad’s trying for that, right?”

She nodded.

“How does it work?”

“The defendant has to prove insanity by a preponderance of evidence. A jury decides whether he’s proven his claim. If found guilty but insane, the judge may commit him to a mental hospital,” Mia explained.

The weight of it settled.

Amara’s voice was calm. “Do you want him to try for the plea?”

Savannah looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

“You’re not very close to him, then.” Amara’s voice was even.

“Amara.” Mia’s tone was sharp.

“I am. Was. I…” Savannah trailed off.

“You don’t have to answer.” Mia cut in.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.“ Amara exhaled lightly. "To me, it’s not a plausible thought to desire justice on my father. I know he hurt people, but…” She inhaled, smile thin, eyes distant. “I simply cannot desire for him to be dead.”

Mia understood.

Savannah probably did too but didn’t know how to process it.

Almost five in the afternoon, Amara’s name was finally called. She moved calmly, but Mia could feel the tension thrumming under her skin.

“Good luck,” Savannah said, soft smile.

Mia motioned the code for mind what you say.

Amara nodded, inhaled deep, left.

Savannah exhaled dramatically. “Great. Now we’ll melt away from anxiety until she gets back.” She flopped onto the bed.

“It will be fine,” Mia said, mechanical. Mind already elsewhere.

Savannah hesitated. “Do you think he’ll get it? The plea, I mean.”

Mia turned to her.

“Didn’t wanna ask in front of her.”

“Right.” She nodded. “Yeah. I think he will. Chilton’s writing it. He’s interested in Hannibal. He’ll do what he can to keep him.”

She lay down. Closed her eyes.

Behind her eyelids, in the darkness, in the silence, there was only her father. Filling every empty space.

She tried sending something. A futile attempt at telepathy.

I got you, Daddy. Stay safe.

The mornings start the same. Always the same.

Will wakes early, before the sun stretches over the trees, before the world is fully awake. The house is quiet, still heavy with sleep. He showers quickly, lets the hot water burn the stiffness from his muscles, then pulls on his uniform—belt heavy on his hips, badge clipped in place.

In the kitchen, he makes breakfast. Simple, but good. Scrambled eggs, toast, some fruit. Black coffee for himself. Juice for her. The smell fills the house, warm and familiar.

He steps back into the room, where she is a tangle of limbs and blankets, face buried in her pillow. She doesn’t stir when he calls her name, doesn’t move when he nudges her shoulder. A sigh, then he lifts her, warm and boneless with sleep, and carries her to the kitchen. She curls up in his lap, head against his chest, eyes still closed as she blindly reaches for her fork.

She eats like that—half-asleep, slow.

After breakfast, the routine continues. She brushes her teeth, sat on the sink, eyes barely open, and he stands behind her, working a brush through her long, dark hair, gentle but efficient. She checks her bag like always: blankie, teddy, book, notebook, pencils, juice, fruit in a small plastic container. Everything in its place. Everything accounted for.

Then it’s time to go.

They leave the house as the sky softens to morning blue. The drive to the station is quiet. She watches the world through the window, half-lost in whatever stories live in her head.

At the station, she stays with Shayla—the woman in the copying machine room, who has a soft spot for Mia and an endless supply of lollipops. Will checks in, grabs his assignments. The day unfolds in shifts—patrols, reports, long hours of waiting broken by moments of chaos.

Mia naps around four, curled in one of the worn chairs in Shayla’s office, and if Will is there—caught up in paperwork, his eyes burning from too many hours in front of a screen—he pulls her into his arms. She sleeps against his chest, small, warm, the weight of her a reminder that the world isn’t all bad.

By seven, maybe eight, the day is done. He carries her to the car, her arms wrapped around his neck, breath soft against his shoulder.

At home, she doesn’t wake when he sets her in bed, doesn’t stir when he tucks the blanket around her. He watches her for a moment, something heavy settling in his chest, then changes, sits on the edge of the bed.

Tomorrow, they’ll do it all again.

Rotten Meat is officially on AO3.

Thank you @suchawrathfullamb

To read, just click on the title. It’s revised and full of new, amazing details by Lamb, so make sure you reread even if you already read all three chapters (there’s also a new part added).

Rotten will be updated tonight :)