Title: Amidst the Hunt

Fandom: Hannibal

Characters: Hannibal, Jack, OMCs, OFCs

Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine! (Except the original ones that are XD)

A/N: For the wonderfully simple prompt: "Hannibal ends up feeding them parts of Abigail."

When Abigail Hobbs is reported missing over a hundred people show up to find her.

Their reasons for being there vary greatly. A large number, dressed in expensive suits inappropriate for the weather, arrive under Jack's orders. They are trainees, leaving the comfort of their classrooms to engage in a manhunt they don't fully understand. Most are told only that they are looking for a dangerous killer. A few bright individuals that catch Jack's eye are told to shoot on sight.

The other half of this mob is made up of local law enforcement, men and women who know all about Abigail Hobbs. They were there when the calls first came in, each detail adding another gruesome layer to the story: Mrs. Hobbs is dead, laid out like a sacrifice on her front porch. Little Abby is in a coma and they say her throat was opened from ear to ear. Was it a burglary? Someone they knew? Yes. It was Mr. Hobbs. He went berserk over breakfast. Except this wasn't a sudden, unexpected tragedy. He was the shrike. He'd been killing girls for years, stuffing their hair into pillows, making tools out of their bones, feeding their flesh to his family. One detective, James Raymore, once had dinner at the Hobbs's residence. He was unable to join the hunt as he had checked himself into a residential treatment center for eating disorders two weeks previously.

Many of these officers consider Abigail to be a sick and potentially dangerous young girl. They walk the woods with hands on their tasers. A few believe Abigail to be a reincarnation of her father and they walk while hefting their guns.

Two things bind these people together. The first is the hunt; the second is their hunger.

It's not a metaphor. They are literally hungry.

Five hours have passed since the search began and they've marked off a four-mile radius around the Hobbs residence. They have not found Abigail but each person had discovered a combination of exhaustion, scratches, aching feet, emotional weariness, and mild hypothermia. They traipse back to the house, conscious of their rumbling stomachs. The garage door is up – a deliberate move by Jack; getting rid of the "CANNIBAL" graffiti – and inside a makeshift kitchen has been set up. The volunteers shuffle inside, drawn by intoxicating smells.

Hannibal Lecter stands with a bowl in one hand and a knife in the other.

"Please," he says, "come in."

None of them acknowledge that they are eating in the garage of a dead family with the clock ticking towards nighttime. The ones who arrive late miss out on a seat and must crowd in along the sides. A young woman wearing only a leather jacket tries to push forward, out of the wind. In the fading light her shins connect with something metallic: a blue bicycle. Her hands recoil from the metal and she leaves streaks of sweat across the rubber. It's Abigail's. It has to be. The woman moves to the other side of the garage, squeezing in beside a man who smells like fertilizer. She won't eat beside the possessions of a girl she's chasing.

They're all uncomfortable in one-way or another. Those that are perceptive find themselves more wary of the lit garage than of the cold. They stand awkwardly where the driveway becomes concrete. Those with true instincts look down at their bowls with furrowed brows.

But they keep eating.

"This is really good," one man whispers. None of them want to speak too loudly. It seems foolish somehow. He toys with the plastic spoon the FBI has provided them with and the scraaaaaaape makes him wince.

"Why thank you, Mr.…?"

"Paden."

"Mr. Paden. It's wonderful to make your acquaintance, though I do wish it had been under better circumstances." Hannibal is the only one speaking at a normal volume. His voice is like a gas, thick and seeping into all corners of the building. Everyone stops to listen.

"You're currently enjoying a leek and potato soup, Mr. Paden. A simple recipe but it is satisfying in its thickness. I was looking for something manageable in these conditions," he gestures to the provisional kitchen behind him, complete with a large, steaming pot that looks like it came from the 30's. "I also hoped to provide something that would warm your stomachs. You'll need it to battle both the cold and this dark assignment." Hannibal gives an approximation of a smile, leaning all his weight onto the table Jack had sent for. After slicing through the thick baguette he hands Mr. Paden and eleven others pieces of crusty bread. They stare at them, allowing crumbs to scatter through their fingers. A few see shapes in the mess that's created and force themselves to look away.

"Be sure to mop up the remains," Hannibal coaxes them. "There's plenty of bread to go around." To demonstrate he brings his knife down in a high arch, sweeping through another loaf and hitting the table with a thwack!

Mr. Paden does as he's bid, scarping the bottom of his bowl. His bread comes away with a bit of meat on it.

"You added chicken," he grins, looking terribly out of place. "My mom used to do that."

Hannibal pauses in his cutting. He gives Mr. Paden a look that is more serious than his comment deserves, twirling his knife sluggishly.

"Yes," he says. "I did."

The final group doesn't trudge in until 7:00pm. Jack is with them, shaking moisture off his clothes like an overwrought dog. He snatches the bowl Hannibal gives him and somehow the soup is hotter, thicker than it was nearly three hours earlier. Jack shovels spoonfuls into his mouth with vulgar groans of pleasure.

"It's too damn dark out there," he says, taking the bread more sedately. "We'll never find her."

"I fear, Jack, that you will not be finding Abigail Hobbs regardless of the time of day."

Jack pauses, narrowing his eyes. "What makes you say that?"

"Intelligence." Hannibal hands an older woman two bottles of water. He smiles in a self-deprecating manner. "Her intelligence, Jack, not mine. We know that Abigail helped her father kills those girls. There is a very good chance that she also killed Boyle. And, I need not point out, she was able to keep both these facts from us for quite some time." He allows Jack's glare to roll right off his back. "As Dr. Bloom pointed out, Abigail exhibits just enough emotions to prove that she has them yet she also harbors a latent talent for manipulation. Well, perhaps not so very latent. Not now. Tell me, Jack, where is Will?"

Jack scowls at the non sequitur but jerks his thumb towards an area outside the garage. The implication is 'far, far away.'

"I didn't want him here," he says.

"No?"

"No. Not after that… episode on the plane. And I certainly don't want him anywhere near Abigail Hobbs."

"So he's not coming?"

"No, Doctor Lecter."

Hannibal ignores the grumbling, moving towards his pot of soup. The container looks ancient and many would raise a skeptical eyebrow at it having found a home in Hannibal Lecter's kitchen. He enjoys it for its size though. They simply don't make them like this anymore. The pot is so wide it could hold a full-grown sow, or maybe a small girl.

Hannibal stares at the meal he's made and for a second he's angry. He's facing away from Jack but a man off to the right catches the look on his face. He drops his spoon, the plastic making a tiny ting! against the floor. By the time he looks back up Hannibal is composed. He even claps once, jauntily.

"Well," he says, "I suppose I'll just have to take him a doggie bag," and begins pulling out Tupperware.

Jack snorts.

The next ten minutes are spent in silence. Jack continues to eat, happy not to be talking about Will Graham. Hannibal carefully pulls together the leftovers. A square container is filled to the brim with soup and he presses a slice of bread in the middle. It will soak, break, and add wonderful texture. Four slices of dry bread are wrapped in napkins and placed to the side. Hannibal makes a note to himself to whip up some hot chocolate. It will be a nice, lazy compliment to Will's meal.

The rest of the volunteers are so quiet they may as well be furniture. The majority of them hushed at Jack's entrance, wary of their failure and the reaction he'd have to it. A hundred men and women, the best that law enforcement has to offer, outwitted by a girl half – a third – of their age. They keep their heads down, knowing nothing more can be done tonight but hesitant to leave without Jack Crawford's go ahead. So they eat, filling their bellies. Each person eats more then they actually want just so they have something to do.

Jack scrapes the bottom of his bowl. The sound is bone-tired.

"You really don't think we'll find her?" he asks.

Gently, Hannibal pulls the bowl from his grasp and fills it with a second helping. He takes his time, adding extra meat.

"No," he says, "I don't." He hands Jack back the bowl, waiting for him to take a bite.

"But who knows, Jack?" Hannibal says. "Perhaps Abigail is closer than you think."