Hannipurr (inspired by BrokenDeathAngel)

Run.

Run.

RUN.

Faster.

They are right behind you.

You can’t give up now.

Don’t go that way!!!! You’ll lead them back to the den!

He shouldn’t have snuck into that yard, he realized now. He’d just been so tempted by that big fuzzy sweater, just lying there on the edge of the porch. He’d ignored all of his insticts and everything that the pack had taught him and now he was paying the price. He’d been caught and was now being chased through the woods by the probable owner of that warm, soft-looking sweater.

His eyes quickly found a small hole in the ground and counted himself lucky for his small size; as one of the smallest in the pack, he was often able to fit into tight spaces and it would certainly aid him now.

He immediately darted into the hollow and curled into an even smaller ball. Now he was thankful for being the runt of his litter; it may have been the reason no one wanted to adopt him and he was abandoned but now he has his pack!

They fed him and protected him and accepted the sad, soggy little kitten as their own. And he couldn’t wait until he could get out of this hole and-

PAINPAINPAINPAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Will shot upright, clutching his tail to his chest, in an instinctual, albeit pointless attempt to shield it from pain.

It was far too late for that.

In his mind the dream memory continued to play out in vivid detail; the man not noticing him and continuing to walk on, but- but the kitten had made a mistake, hadn’t thought to tuck his tail which was now crushed and trapped under the man’s heavy boot.

It was the worst pain he had ever felt, and yet it still managed to go up a few more notches as the man spun on his heel to look for the source of the stifled cry of pain. He felt something break then.

The man quickly looked down and found the kitten halfway out of his little hiding place, with tears streaming down his dirtied cheeks. The foot was immediately removed, but the damage was done. The final third of the little one’s tail was very clearly broken, the limp hang of it emphasized by the wet, dirt-matted fur.

After that the man had gently picked little Will up and taken him back home, where, although the man could neither fix the kitten’s tail or afford a vet, he took care of the kitten. He cleaned him up, fed him, apologized countless times to the little creature who was now so much smaller and sweeter than he’d believed the little set of ears and paws trying to swipe his favorite sweater had belonged to. The man had just believed it to be a raccoon, not a kitten, just barely old enough to be away from his mother. Little had he known that the boy’s mother had long ago abandoned him and he was only alive thanks to a local pack of dogs which had adopted him as their own.

Hours later, the man had given little Will the sweater, along with a standing open door; for as long as the man lived there in that old house, Will would be allowed asylum there. And he’d used it several times when the winters were just too much for him. The nice man, Mr. Graham, had even built a little ramshackle hut for the pack, because although they naturally had thicker fur and could deal with the Virginian winters, that did not mean that they had to. But the kitten had to stay inside; his coat was also thick, and soft and fluffy, but he was still never strong enough to survive the sometimes harsh winters.

Mr. Graham had seemingly adopted the kitten, having “joint custody” of him with the pack. So he taught the little thing, fed him, treated him as the child that he would never have. And when, years later, Will went off for the Police Academy, Mr. Graham was the one encouraging him on the way out the door. He had even brought the pack (on leashes) to Will’s graduation ceremony, with tears in his eyes which he would deny to his last day.

Everything had been going too well.

Tragedy had been overdue and it had hit the small cat hard.

Twice.

First had been the incident with the gun. He’d been on one of his first assignments, a robbery. The man had had a gun. And with one simple gunshot, he had lost part of his left ear, part of his hearing, and part of his peace of mind. He jumped at the littlest movements, panicked whenever someone touched him on his left side and he hadn’t been able to hear them approach. He had lost his position on the force and returned to Mr. Graham’s house in Wolftrap.

But Fate hadn’t been done with him. Two years later, it had taken Mr. Graham with a mix of old age and a terrible flu. And Will was now alone, in the house which the man had left to him, with only his pack for company. He did not seek outside contact, just remained in Wolftrap with his pack, fishing and fixing boat motors.

Until Jack Crawford entered the picture and turned the little cat’s life back upside down once more. Murdered girls. Brunettes. Brown eyes. Wind-chafed skin. Tortoiseshells. Not exactly a rare breed of cat, and it left the FBI scratching their heads over whether or not the gender mattered in the killer’s victims, as all tortoiseshell cats were female.

The case had been… haunting.

Her father. Her father had tried to… to kill his own kitten. It gave poor Will vicious flashbacks of his own mother abandoning him. And then, on that train of thought, of nice Mr. Graham, who helped raise him, a father in every way but genetics. And how he died and now Will was all alone and- and how they first met. How that thick hiking boot crushed and kinked his tail. He’d been having nightmares about that moment for a week.

But not all was bad, he reminded himself as he pawed blindly for his phone on the nightstand, found it, and dialed.

No, not all was bad, he’d found a new friend.

Possibly, he corrected as the dial tone echoed into his right ear. He didn’t like using the phone; he could only hold it up to his right ear and that left him entirely vulnerable without the use of his only working ear.

“Hello?”

At the sound of the voice which was very quickly becoming very familiar to Will, his shoulders relaxed, the phantom pain in his tail dulled to a low throb. He breathed a little sigh of relief, hoping it wasn’t picked up and sent by the receiver.

"H-hello, Dr. Lecter.”

“Ah, my dear Will,” Hannibal all but purred into the phone; Will’s cheeks went pink, “How may I help you at this early hour?”

Will opened his mouth- then paused, and glanced at the bedside clock… and promptly flushed a far deeper red, “Oh– oh Doctor Lector, I am so sorry– I-I hadn’t even thought, I’m sorry to have disturbed you at this hour. I can call tomorrow, or-or whenever is good with you- not three in the morning– gods I am sorry. You must’ve been asleep and-“

“Not at all,” the older cat cut in smoothly, finally forced to interrupt the increasingly distressed rambling. Really, the poor thing seemed close to tears, and Hannibal couldn’t have sweet little Will thinking that he was cross with him. No, the little one needed to know that he could always count on Hannibal, could go to him and need his presence and guidance at any time of day – or night. His kitten needed to trust him. After all, Hannibal would be his mate in a few short months if he had his way.

Oh, how utterly lovely the little thing had been when Hannibal had first seen him in Jack Crawford’s office. Those soft ears, perfectly imperfect and pressed flat to the sides of his head, timid and upset and trying to hide within the forest of chocolate curls atop Will’s head. A fuzzy, fragile tail, small and twitchy with an endearing little kink not far from the tip. That lithe frame, that porcelain skin, like a classic Grecian beauty. And those eyes. Those big, cautious, hurt, innocent, beautiful– no, no… breathtaking eyes.

Hannibal wanted. Whether it be on his bed or on his table – or both, Hannibal had to have this little creature.