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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

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. 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​.

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Golden Reel Award. People's Choice Awards. People's Choice Award. Young Artist Awards. In Italia sono disponibili in cofanetti DVD tutte le stagioni della serie, ad eccezione dell'undicesima stagione.

Altri progetti. Da Wikipedia, l'enciclopedia libera. CSI - Scena del crimine. URL consultato il 13 maggio URL consultato il 30 gennaio URL consultato il 20 giugno URL consultato il 20 giugno archiviato dall' url originale il 14 gennaio URL consultato il 15 agosto URL consultato il 27 gennaio URL consultato il 12 settembre URL consultato il 3 ottobre URL consultato il 12 settembre archiviato dall' url originale il 18 ottobre URL consultato il 31 maggio archiviato dall' url originale il 4 maggio URL consultato il 24 agosto URL consultato il 20 aprile archiviato dall' url originale l'11 settembre Altri progetti Wikiquote Wikimedia Commons.

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Fotogramma della sigla utilizzata a partire dalla sesta stagione. Stati Uniti d'America. Anthony E. Jerry Bruckheimer.

CSI: Immortality. Prima stagione. Seconda stagione. Terza stagione. Quarta stagione. Quinta stagione. Sesta stagione.

Settima stagione. Ottava stagione.

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Hannibal bs.to hannibal BS () Ess gehabt, wird doch, sonder allem Zweiffel, der ZXönig Prusias sich zur Begräbnißbey Libyffa legen, mit dieser Aufschrifft: Hier liegt der Hannibal. Litauen, während des zweiten Weltkriegs: Im Alter von zehn Jahren wird Hannibal Lecter Zeuge, wie seine Eltern bei einem Bombenangriff der Nazis ums​. B. S. , ), ja sogar ein Bruchstück aus der Literaturgeschichte der Den Hannibal sucht auch unser Vf. mit mehreren neueren Geschichtschreibern zu.

Bs.to Hannibal Video

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Gottes zweiter Sohn. Recenzije Pravila pisanja recenzija. The desperate, deadly search for a killer makes Clarice confront her please click for source fears as she must confront and befriend convicted psychopathic serial killer Dr. Junge Liebe. Fast zu Hause. Sofie mischt sich ein. Https://e-dev.se/gratis-stream-filme/liebes-land.php Liebe. For Hannibal Lecter the outlook is far more straightforward: a slow, visit web page seduction of the most uniquely captivating omega he's ever encountered. They all drop on the floor and spread their legs for american history x 2 first alpha that looks at. Click here yet…. A monster, deutsch unforgiven, lacks artistry. Dafür ist es aber go here, dass wir untereinander höflich und. The most sensible thing to do now would be to go to bed.

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Bs.to hannibal Agent Schwarz lässt Sofie, Dixie und den Silberfuchs gehen. Gottes zweiter Sohn. Aber Sofie this web page es, Gefühle in ihrem späteren Ich zu wecken. Ein fremdes Zuhause.
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE AND ZOMBIES DEUTSCH 246
DIE REGENTRUDE Hannibal Gaspard Ulliel studiert Medizin und wächst zu einem hochintelligenten jungen Mann heran mit exzellenten Manieren, der getrieben von den Alpträumen der Vergangenheit nur ein Ziel kennt: die Mörder seiner Schwester aufzuspüren und sich auf ebenso grausame Weise an ihnen zu rächen. Genres Abenteuer. Sofie mischt learn more here ein. Clarice Starling, a gutsy FBI trainee haunted by her past, risks her life in https://e-dev.se/serien-online-schauen-stream/ash-vs-evil-dead-stream-deutsch.php attempt to save a missing woman from certain death. Obwohl sie es bedauert, die Reise ausgerechnet jetzt antreten click müssen: ihre Eltern haben beschlossen, dass die Familie gemeinsam Weihnachten https://e-dev.se/filme-german-stream/neue-filme-2014.php, lässt sie sich vom Dach des Turmes ins Hafenbecken fallen - und es funktioniert. Agent Schwarz lässt Sofie, Dixie und den Silberfuchs gehen. Aber Dixie nimmt die Schuld auf sich.

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.

And the rush and the righteousness, and the power and purpose…and the way that the blood looks black in the moonlight. If you ever try to do that to someone else, then I will come back for you.

And I will kill you. The man begins to nod in something like a frenzy before quivering and cowering as he tries to pull away.

Not that the analogy is any use though — not really. Just like God, to whom elegance is more important than suffering because that is his design.

Behind his eyelids is the face of the dealer, blood-stained and tear-streaked or was it only the rain?

He never said that. And now…here it is again. As if it never went away at all in fact, but has been there the whole time: baited-breathed and hollow-eyed, watchful and wary and patiently lying in wait.

Notice me , it says, this stranger in the mirror. Staggering out the car, he collapses onto his hands and knees at the side of the road and throws up.

It takes Will a long, long time to pull himself together. Carving, sculpting, a Sculptor…oh Christ. So pale and watchful as it was, and so incredibly knowing.

My dark mirror image , thinks Will vaguely; then frowns at himself for being so far-fetched and imaginative.

Stronger painkillers too. Andrew , he thinks with horror. Oh God, how is it even possible? Because surely, somehow, Hannibal will make it okay?

The movement is extremely rapid and causes Will to inadvertently take a step back before reproaching himself for being so stupid and returning to his previous position; and then moving even closer than he was before, just for good measure.

Then he frowns slightly, unsure why he felt compelled to pull away. Why did he do it? From far beyond the fields is the sound of screaming: possibly foxes engaged in battle, or even some fearsome nocturnal bird spearing its prey.

Oh God, those fucking tablets. Then he slowly regards the blood on his face and for a few seconds his eyes appear to flash with a spark of…what?

What would you even call it? Hannibal makes a sympathetic noise before his eyes flick briefly towards the pill bottles and Will flushes and hurriedly stuffs them into his coat pocket.

Well did you hurt yourself? Would you like me to take a look? Not to mention the numerous sagging folds and the hollow at the very top…Jesus.

It looks like a woolly foreskin. Just a scratch. In fact he fully intends to refuse again — and he really does intend to — yet somehow still finds himself following Hannibal into the kitchen without further complaint; even perching obediently on one of the chairs so his head can be tipped back while the cut gets inspected from various angles.

Do you have a first aid kit to hand? It still requires cleaning. But Hannibal, contrary to expectation, makes no attempt to pursue it beyond giving a brisk confirmatory nod although the faint half-smile takes a little longer to fully disappear then just finishes cleaning up the cut in calm silence before stepping back and letting Will get out of the chair.

Honestly; how does he manage it? Are you hungry? Week old roadkill…radioactive zombie roadkill that needed to be taken out with a head shot prior to consumption.

Hannibal, in turn, politely refuses all offers of help so Will just props himself up by the kitchen table and mentally wishes Hannibal good luck in trying to persuade the assembled items of ancient eggs, a wedge of cheese sweltering sadly in its cling-film wrap, and a wilting bag of shop-bought salad to transform themselves into anything resembling an actual meal.

They look like fucking dinosaur eggs. Rather as if, thinks Will incredulously, grating cheese is an act of the upmost solemnity deserving of hallowed lamplight and a soundtrack of choristers Exhibit B: witchcraft.

Oh God, does that mean a lecture is in the offing over the incompatibility of alcohol and head injuries? It probably is.

In fact it almost certainty is. Right, yeah. Hannibal raises his eyebrows expectantly. I believe you wanted to discuss the case. Will makes an affirmative noise, although the reality is that the stress of the past few hours has diluted the impact of that enigmatic scrap of card to such an extent that he can scarcely find the energy to mention it.

The bruising looks more subtle in this light; rather as if an artist has taken a very fine brush and blended shades of amethyst and crimson around all the exquisite bone structure to throw it into sharper relief.

Although it would take an artist of considerable gifts to adequately capture the fierce glint of vitality that makes Will so luscious and luminous despite his obvious exhaustion.

In this respect he decides that Will is almost certainly one of those rare omegas that become aggressive during their heats and attack the alpha.

I suppose the body was discovered in an unusual location? Somewhere far out? So this one was found — where? The countryside? He leans forward, obviously intrigued.

Which is fine, because neither am I. Why not JC on the card? Or, for that matter, HL. Why you? The side effects are even more pronounced then when I last saw you.

Although I suppose it really ought to be The Will — considering there is only one. Have I ever told you that?

How would you prefer to sit? Here as you are? Or on the floor? How very tense you are Will: why is that? Does this make you feel self-conscious?

Will makes a non-committal humming noise then settles his face more comfortably against his knees; completely unaware as he does so that Hannibal is busy inspecting his neck for any bites or scratches that would indicate the attempts of an unknown rival alpha to make a prior claim.

Will leans up into the touch and Hannibal carefully suppresses the sigh of admiration he wants to make and concentrates instead on memorising all the different shades concealed within in: rich bands of chestnut, the occasional coppery strand of auburn and even one or two faint traces of blond entwined with the more prominent sable and chocolate tones.

As it happens Jack Crawford asked if he could come to my office tomorrow. I mean why copycat any of those guys? But someone like him… In his case, I could understand the inspiration of a copycat.

The initial impressions, the instincts, the narrative that had emerged from each imprinting…so vivid and vital when torn from behind the dry typescript and photocopied pages, like a gothic Grand Guignol tragedy performed just for him — the only one who could see it.

They were tableaux: the way something was presented mattered as much to him as what it was he displayed. Sadistic yet virtuosic; theatrical yet meticulous….

Something that warranted exhibition. I lose myself in this stuff sometimes. I must sound so morbid. Besides, it often happens that true tragedy acquires the artistic elements of beauty.

Just try and relax. It makes me sound like a comic book character. This concept in itself is something of a gift and briefly causes Hannibal to close his own eyes in fascinated introspection at the image of a teenaged Will, all long limbs and uncertain passions — the forlorn foal that wistfully grazes away from the rest of the herd — who yearned for connection while fiercely and defiantly eluding it.

Not so much different from now in that respect, yet much more unrestrained in it: like a beautiful wild wave dashing itself against a tidal wall.

Did it Will? The way you walk into the shadows. Collude with them. Converse with them. Then emerge again with your spirit unbroken and your reason preserved.

You have the capacity to wrench ugliness out of the world and leave something beautiful in its place: transforming what is unworthy and useless into something artistic.

Remember, after all, what Nietzsche had cause to observe about it: He who fights with monsters should look to it that he does not himself become a monster.

We can keep you in the role of the warrior seeking justice instead; or would you prefer to be a rebel? You can still keep your perceptions of your monsters to yourself and appreciate their design without becoming them.

That would be seen as an absolute locus of good and evil — as their battleground — yet identity is not merely a process of curating various moralities: it is a representation of art.

A monster, therefore, lacks artistry. Just like the Sculptor, in fact: so artless and graceless and pointless. After all, you know as well as I do that the particular monsters you pursue always end up destroyed by what they are.

Rather I wish to see you…elevated. Not that it really matters. Not that Will ever shows much concern about such seclusion — the way he strides through fields and runs through forests or stands alone on podiums in cavernous auditoriums — yet perhaps the instinct for it lingers regardless.

And anything else besides; you only have to ask. I would always give you whatever you wanted. His head is still almost within touching distance, and Hannibal is surprised — and not entirely pleased — by how tempting it is to try and reach out in order to stroke his face; possibly even begin to twine a strand of hair round his finger.

Look what you have done to me Will Graham , he thinks, slightly amused. Besides, perhaps allowing Hannibal to take them might be interpreted as a gesture of solidarity — of friendship — and is a simple way for Will to demonstrate trust and familiarity in his presence?

If you could just leave them in the cabinet over the sink? Hannibal lingers on for a few seconds more supposedly so he can fasten his coat, but really so he can stare at Will then silently vanishes from the room and prowls up the stairs.

One of the dogs, slumbering across the rug, raises its head to growl resentfully at the intrusion and Hannibal narrows his eyes at it with dislike before swivelling his gaze back to the room again.

And hopefully such artefacts should become completely unnecessary in the long-term, given that he fully intends Will to be able to get all the sense of security and protection he needs from Hannibal himself.

Not that you require all that much , amends Hannibal with interest. Once inside he flicks on the light and places the bottles on the window ledge, regarding them meditatively for a few seconds like someone eyeing up an opponent before a fight, then reaches out to deftly twist the safety locks off both lids.

You should have come to me first , thinks Hannibal as he examines the tiny print on the labels. I would have taken much better care of you.

At least — better than you can provide for yourself. Not that this is especially surprising. Will, as is typical with many omegas, has clearly been conditioned to feel tremendous amounts of shame and guilt around his sexuality and encouraged to only view it in terms of the effect it has on alphas rather than something for him to enjoy on his own terms.

At the thought of this Hannibal permits himself a faint smile, because in the long-term sexual desire is only one amongst a number of other far more interesting impulses and having Will in a position to enjoy his own body is going to be nothing compared to watching him enjoy his own mind.

Or, more specifically, any other alphas. Hannibal narrows his eyes into little slits of displeasure at the thought then resumes counting out the pills.

Why does he care so little? And Hannibal, in turn, will have the opportunity to oversee any results in the meantime — what emerges from the chrysalis, as it were — and which is undoubtedly destined to be something impressive.

Something that burns brightly with a lethal luminosity all of its own; something fearless, ruthless and fiercely agile…all it needs is the proper encouragement.

Not that the two things are necessarily so very different: both an expression of constancy and commitment as they are, and both seasoned with devotion to a favoured cause…the murderer and the martyr of the same dedication.

Will stirs fretfully as if unsettled by the force of the scrutiny and Hannibal takes a single step closer to glimpse a clearer view of his face.

That striking face curved around the delicate skull which houses the beautiful mind. And such a beautiful mind; even though Will can only see it as distorted and dysfunctional — as monstrous — and defensible merely in terms of its effectiveness.

But I can show you , thinks Hannibal with calm determination. Turning round he casts one final lingering glance then closes the door behind him to keep Will safely locked inside and silently leaves the house.

In a spectacular new development the TattleCrime can officially confirm that the deranged omega killer known as the Sculptor has raised the stakes by communicating directly with the FBI.

Or, more specifically, with one particular agent: TattleCrime favorite and maverick criminal profiler Will Graham, whose initials were written on a business card found on the body of the most recent victim.

You could basically call it an elephant in the room — the fact that this maniac has chosen a colleague as the one he wants to reach out to.

The fact that the Sculptor has chosen him as someone he wants to make contact with confirms that this is maybe a question the FBI should be asking itself as well….

Jack slams his palm down onto the desktop with a dramatic cracking noise that echoes round the silent room with the same resonance of a gunshot.

I advise them to enjoy it while they can and that they feel it was worth it. Because when I find out who it was — and rest assured I am going to make it my business to find out — I will personally see to it that they never work in law enforcement again.

No doubt she knows who the Sculptor is as well. With those detecting skills she should be heading up the TST.

Or at least — not for myself. But Price is right about the impact on the investigation. They always say a problem shared is a problem halved.

Not that…well. But if you ever did want to talk…? We could go get a coffee? It would be an infomercial for something faintly pitiful that has to work far too hard to convince the viewer that they want to buy it.

Will gives an awkward smile then picks up his briefcase and waves his hand towards the door in a pantomime of someone in a hurry.

Okay then. He emits a little regretful sigh: a soft and airy thing that flutters from his lips like air seeping from a withered balloon.

In this respect Price and Zeller have already arrived and glance up in silent commiseration when he walks in. My name is Will Graham and you ought to know that I am constantly dealing with something worse.

In fact such is their fluency I suspect they possess more than one; enough to supply an entire anatomical museum.

Or a showroom, even, if there was a demand for such things. Skinner flounders for a few seconds and glares accusingly at Zeller and Will in their capacity as bystanders before beginning to repeat his request for the reports — seemingly for no better reason than not knowing what else to say.

Or calm your farm. Or whatever other agricultural metaphor you might prefer. A long pause follows this statement.

Talk about fuel to the fire. Will gives a small smile then resumes aimlessly leafing through his own stack of reports until he hears Zeller repeating his name and glances up again.

Will goes completely still for a few seconds before starting to turn the pages over slightly faster than before. To his disgust Will realises that his hands have started to shake so puts them flat on the table to try and hide it.

Will swallows audibly then nervously darts his tongue over his lower lip. What, not even whether they work here?

He scoops up the final report and dangles it wordlessly in front of Price. The second he sets foot out of the building they descend on him, baying and howling like a pack of jackals and brandishing their cameras and microphones in the manner of medieval knights parading their weaponry before the joust begins.

There he is! And with those three simple words: it starts. Not that it makes that much difference, because ten minutes later it still feels as if he can hear it echoing in his head despite having left them miles behind him.

Once back at the house Will performs the usual rituals of triple-locking the doors and feeding the dogs before slumping onto the sofa in the living room feeling almost unbearably restless and lonely.

Oh God, this fucking day. Then he looks at his phone, feeling almost like a bystander as he watches his hand begin to slowly reach out for it before putting it straight down — then picking it up again — then spending a few seconds twirling it aimlessly between his fingers like a baton until he finally takes a deep breath and hits the call button before he can change his mind.

Hannibal answers on the second ring. All right then, give it a more vigorous name. Call it impulsive. Will laughs outright at this then stretches his legs out even further and flexes his toes as he feels himself starting to relax.

I nearly punched a journalist this afternoon. Will shifts the phone to the other ear. Yes indeed; if you had told me you had spent all afternoon thrashing journalist I should not have been surprised at all.

Will sighs several times, but with a little more persuasion finally relents and tells Hannibal about the TattleCrime article and the lingering air of suspicion from Skinner — although neglects to mention the mysterious visitor at the lab on the grounds that it would mean telling him about Andrew as well, which as confessing goes is far too much to cope with in a single sitting.

On the contrary; you should try and cultivate a state of…anticipation. To learn to tolerate uncertainty and cultivate an open state of mind that can allow for enigmas and inconsistencies.

Perhaps the part that lives in the mirror, pale and patient and watchful Then he blinks a few times and forces himself to refocus on the conversation while silently reproaching himself for being so stupid.

Your new supply of tablets? High risk of course, considering the illegality; but enterprising nonetheless. Meeting your more emotional needs, on the other hand You liked it so much before.

Perhaps people often touch you in kindness? Then he also realises it never occurred to him to ask what the concert was — let alone what sort of dress code is required — and mentally yells at himself all over again for being so unbelievably inept and gauche.

Will stares critically at the reflection for a few more seconds and the reflection stares critically back — at which point Will decides that there has to be more to life than gazing at yourself in a cell phone screen while telling yourself to fuck off, so drops it on the sofa and dashes upstairs to get changed instead, trying not to laugh when all the dogs get the wrong idea and come charging up after him.

The dogs leap up and joyfully pursue Will when he goes downstairs again, so he says goodbye to them all before giving them assorted instructions for behaving themselves in a way that he sometimes feels vaguely self-conscious over but can still never stop doing because he loves the dogs and talking to them as if they can understand him is just one of several ways of expressing it.

Specifically: a shadowy human figure. How is it even possible? Then he takes a few more steps and strains his eyes in to the depths of the shadows that pool and curdle in the corners like spilled ink.

Still nothing. No flicker of movement, no tell-tale sound of breathing, no hint of footsteps — just…nothing.

Will takes another breath, so deep this time that the icy air stings his throat, then exhales it all out again in a long vaporous stream.

Tick tock tick tock , on and on: until the time runs out and the hour glass shatters and everything finally comes together and ignites. Then he spends a few more seconds experimenting with the possibility of taking all the things that are troubling him and trying to substitute anger as a response to them instead of fear.

Not the whole thing. At the idea of this Will automatically glances at his reflection and the sensation is rather an odd one: the awareness of this fearful, furtive aspect that inhabits its own separate space and requires safety and soothing at the hands of a more competent and self-assured part.

If anything they seem to exist in an uneasy state of conflict, manipulating and discouraging one another and taking it in turns to be the one in the mirror on the basis of who happens to be feeling the most exultant that day; and who, in turn, is the most bewildered and demoralized.

The self that has empathy, autonomy, imagination and inspiration and which has fought its way through numerous trials with resolution and fortitude — which has steered its own course, made its own rules, and conceded to no one — and emerged at the end of it all from sundry miseries and horrors fundamentally unbowed and unbroken.

Starting the engine Will casts another glance in the rear view mirror and then finally pulls away: preparing to resume the next stage of a journey which, like so many others, will have Hannibal waiting for him at the end of it.

Will spends the rest of the journey in a state of grim determination to put the events of the past hour behind him.

Yet despite his best efforts the assorted insights linger round the edge of his consciousness with the same nagging urgency as a rotten tooth and he ultimately grows so broodily preoccupied with examining them then pushing them away, then guiltily allowing them to creep back in again for another inspection that he ends up taking the wrong exit off the freeway and carries on for several miles before realising his mistake.

Although Will was anticipating something like this his sense of disappointment is still acute, and for a few seconds he struggles with a genuine surge of unhappiness over it.

But I wanted to , thinks Will forlornly. I honestly did. Is it? No, definitely not. Not at all. Even that stupid old bastard with the moustache and the ball aversion would be doing it.

I should put a bell on you. At any rate, you are very welcome to try. I was trying to get your attention when you arrived but you seemed rather preoccupied.

Impossible, after all, to imagine him grinning and waving like a normal person. Not that a choice between witless and hysterical is all that appealing…talk about being caught between shit and shite.

He sighs to himself then gazes unhappily at Hannibal over the top of his glasses, completely unaware of how appealing the gesture makes him look.

Although I suppose we must take our consolations where we can. And for those few seconds, it feels like for once it might actually be true.

In the end they never do go into the auditorium, opting instead to stay in the bar and continue talking until Will finally realises that the concert will be about to start.

But yes — thank you. A glass of the Barolo. This makes Will smile again so Hannibal administers another slow smile of his own then leans a little further back against his seat to acquire a better view whilst wondering how anyone can possibly contrive to be so bright-eyed and lively and so very, very charming.

The bar is still fairly busy with theatre goers, socialites and assorted dignitaries — the usual crowd at an evening like this — and the fact that most of them are alphas makes him aware of a sharp desire to coil himself round Will to keep him away from them.

Besides, allowing Will to roam around means he gets to savour the sight of him striding determinedly through the throng: looking neither left nor right and refusing to concede even the smallest piece of ground by moving aside for anyone, like a particularly bright comet slicing through a panorama of far dimmer and less impressive stars.

Will, in turn, pays absolutely no attention to the alphas and remains oblivious not only to how several of them glance at him approvingly but the way that Hannibal who is certainly not oblivious narrows his eyes into little slits of displeasure at the sight of it.

Everything just feels so natural and easy — even the headaches and abdominal pain are nowhere near as bad as usual — and the resulting flare of optimism has kindled a strong temptation to finally confide in Hannibal about Andrew.

Bar dolino? Beau jolais? Excuse me! The questioner obviously feels the same because he flounders a bit then falls silent, which immediately makes Will feel guilty and try to summon a slightly more genuine smile in response.

If you wish you may try and count them — my complete and utter absence of fucks. Then he throws Will a rather defiant look as if challenging him to do anything about this: completely unaware that Will had already been trying to work out a way of getting Hannibal to take him off his hands and that heading over is entirely consistent with this goal, so — bring it on.

Hannibal, in turn, gifts Franklyn with one of his most serenely inscrutable smiles followed up with a long, leisurely stare for good measure and neglects to answer.

I was only interested in what you said before. The idea of being defended. Sorry I guess. With an effort he softens his tone and forces himself to relax his posture until he looks more confiding and casual again.

All these assumptions we have. They keep omegas badly confined — alphas too, though to a much lesser degree — and insist that because our biology has evolved a certain way then we are obliged to live our lives in the service of it.

And yet by the same logic one could claim that if death is natural — and really, what could be considered more natural than death?

See what happens when we appeal to Mother Nature to set our standards for morality? All our hospitals would close.

The Sculptor, for instance: he is merely indulging an ingrained capacity to destroy. It is a capacity that exists in all of us.

It is natural. His error is that he does it in such an artless, graceless, pointless way. You described it yourself that evening in your house in regards the Chesapeake series.

Described it so eloquently, Will; so ardently. You were appealing to your own perception. Becoming too intimate with it?

The ecstasy of it: indulging all our dark desires. Just another impulse which is entirely natural; as the Sculptor would no doubt attest if he were here.

So natural as they are and so secretly stashed away within your skull. I can almost imagine them: merging in ways that are corrupted and yet so beautifully and artfully displayed.

Will now leans back himself and regards Hannibal meditatively. Artworks are orphan things; their parents create them then abandon their offspring for an audience to describe and interpret.

Eric Szmanda interpreta Greg Sanders. Robert David Hall interpreta Albert Robbins. Wallace Langham interpreta David Hodges.

Lauren Lee Smith interpreta Riley Adams. Laurence Fishburne interpreta Raymond Langston. Liz Vassey interpreta Wendy Simms.

Elisabeth Harnois interpreta Morgan Brody. Ted Danson interpreta D. Elizabeth Shue interpreta Julie Finlay. Environmental Media Award.

Golden Reel Award. People's Choice Awards. People's Choice Award. Young Artist Awards. In Italia sono disponibili in cofanetti DVD tutte le stagioni della serie, ad eccezione dell'undicesima stagione.

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Fotogramma della sigla utilizzata a partire dalla sesta stagione. Stati Uniti d'America. Anthony E. Jerry Bruckheimer.

Bs.to Hannibal

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  1. Shaktiktilar

    09.10.2019 — 15:20

    Ich weiГџ, wie man handeln muss...

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