The Two Midnight Stars

1. What to do?

(Written in third person).

What was he to do?

Will's cottage. It was perched on a cliff near the coast, his job was working on fixing boats. The boats on the harbour sat on the savage water creaked and went side to side with the stormy wind. Down the other side of the cliff was a little village and a farm, it was homely, safe and remote.
The angry ocean crashed against the bottom side of the cliff, the wind making the roof of the house shudder like an afraid rabbit. Some gulls floated over the tide, the moon beaming onto the clear water below.

A burrowing owl flew from the towering European ash tree, making no sound as it went.  Will, Will Graham, was sitting on his old chipped wooden chair, his head tilted to the side, his eyes filled with some slight coldness but he was clearly deep in thought. His ocean blue eyes followed the owl as it wandered off to hunt. He tapped his fountain pen against the little circular table in front of him. His seven dogs surrounded him, sound asleep on their soft comfortable blankets on the white tiled floor, one dog had its head laid upon Will's foot.

Will sighed, covering his face with his hands, his fingers going through his wavy curly brown hair, a shuddery tight sigh fell from his lips. His thoughts were being irritating tonight.

The clock on the wall quietly ticked, the house was very quiet. It was exactly two in the morning. There was a very light blue ambience in the darkness outside.

'Get out my fucking head' he mumbled to himself, whining deeply in annoyance. His brain was focused on Hannibal. Yes. Hannibal Lecter, the cannibal. His old friend, the one he ever so wrongly fell in love with. His heart ached at the thought of him, he nibbled at his nails anxiously.

He was the one to betray Hannibal. The one who made him get caught. He was the reason that man was now locked up in a tight padded cell, kept away from humanity.

Did he feel bad? Oh yes. He did. It had been just over a year since it happened. Now tonight he was having many differing thoughts in his mind, he couldn't get one thought out particularly.

He wanted to go save Hannibal, bring him home. The place was Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.

As Will was retired from the FBI and had worked closely with Hannibal, he knew no one would strike an investigation if he took him. He could rightly take care of Hannibal and supervise him.

But he didn't want to take care of him like some madman. No.

He wanted Hannibal free. Out of them sickening restraints they held him down with.

Will's eyes stung with tears. This was truly all his fault that this had happened. Bittersweet memories laced through his core, pictures in his mind of him and Hannibal, what they shared, how they connected.

He was so tied up with the FBI and Jack Crawford that he revealed his best friend, his only friend, the only one who made him feel loved. Now he was gone. The one he adored was locked up in some inhumane cage, being watched upon like some monster. A creature.

Will's foot tapped, his heart thrumming in his chest. He knew he was mad himself to want Hannibal back this much. He couldn't do it anymore. He just couldn't.

He kept getting them dreams, the dreams with the ravenstag, he knew Hannibal was still trying to communicate with him.

His now bloodshot eyes looked down at his sleeping dogs, a couple streams of tears rolling down his cheeks.

'I have to save him. I can't have him suffer there.' His voice cracked, a long sob crumbling through him. This ushered the dogs awake, their ears pricking up and they began looking up at him in worry.

'I'm gonna be okay. I'm gonna bring him here. I will.' He nodded, talking more to himself than the dogs.

He shakily stood up, his hand grasping onto the chair, the wood creaking ever so slightly. He slipped on his black leather shoes, doing up the laces with his trembling fingers.

'They'll let me have him. I'm sure of it.' He spoke to himself again, feeling a tad insane. Well. He was wasn't he? He was madly in love with a cannibal, he had so many visions of how people got murdered, his thoughts were hardly tasty.

He stepped near to the front door of his house, his hand ever so slowly grabbing the door handle, he had so many thoughts pacing, he was utterly questioning himself. What was he doing? Was he really going to do this? What was happening to him?

Without another question he opened the front door, stepping outside into the brick winds.