Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: "If space is infinite then there's tons of yous out there and tons of mes."

"I like that thought. Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time." (Rabbit Hole)

Two different Molly Fosters. Two different Will Grahams. Just two out of innumerable possibilities. AU.

Author's Notes: In the movie Red Dragon, Molly and Will are married prior to Hannibal's arrest; in the novel and series, they don't meet until after the good doctor is behind bars. I'm being haunted by both incarnations of the character – the Molly before and the Molly after. This is a fic I've been playing with for a while. It started with the alt version of Molly in 5 Reasons and Holding Back the Night. I've since expanded to include a more canonical version of the character. One part will therefore follow the series; the other will speculate on the third season (when Fuller says Molly will be introduced).

This is about to get experimental.

String Theory

-Great Falls, Virginia-

The first time they met, Will Graham didn't look at her once.

He also brought a urine sample – unsolicited but, given the subject of the appointment, appreciated nonetheless – from the dog in question, mopped up from the living room floor that morning. It was then that Molly Foster learned the only thing weirder than not being looked at was not being looked at while being handed a recycled margarine container full of fresh dog urine.

And the only thing weirder than that was the silence that followed. Will was totally fixated on his dog, his dog was totally fixated on him, and the only indication either were paying any attention was the way they anticipated her. They saw her coming a mile away, even when neither was looking in her general direction.

She called him the next day with the results of the test: urinary tract infection. Will would have to come by and pick up antibiotics. Molly was heading out on a call when he arrived, so she intercepted him at the door to the veterinary office.

He backed away first, almost three feet from her, and his eyes stayed glued to the ground in the opposite direction. Molly might as well have drenched him in gasoline. "Sorry," she said, though she had no idea what for, and then backed out of the doorway to clear a path.

Will kept his head down the entire time.

Two weeks later, Will was back in the office, this time with a honey-coloured collie-cross on the examination table. He was caught somewhere between livid and nauseated, white-knuckled but face twisted in physical pain. He held a reassuring hand on the whimpering dog's back, "Someone just ran her over and then left her on the side of the highway."

"She's going lose the leg," Molly noted sadly. That much was obvious. The mangled limb twitched and kicked on the table in time with every miserable whine. Pulling on her gloves, Molly set to work. "I'll get her something for the pain. You don't..." his eyes were lost in the dog again, and Molly almost didn't see the need in finishing her sentence. He clearly wasn't listening. Except that his posture tilted a second later and he was. "You don't need to stay, you know."

"I know."

There wasn't a shred of competition in his voice. Will had the rare ability to voice certainty without sounding like he was on a power trip, and Molly wasn't sure if that scared or impressed her just yet. "I'm a little surprised you want to," she started gathering supplies, "Most people just drop strays off here like they're playing Knock-Knock-Ginger."

"I'm not like most people."

Molly shook her head, "No, you're not." She couldn't think of a single person Will Graham was really like.

The atmosphere in the room shifted, as if Will had only just realized how aberrant his behaviour really was. He lifted his gaze from the dog and swatted his gaze back and forth over the tiles – searching, imploring. Like an actor who just broke character and was trying to find their way back into a scene. Molly shuffled back and out of the room before giving any indication that she noticed. The dog was suffering; Will could wait.

When she returned, Molly found that he had shifted back into his uncomfortable self. Almost. Will's movements were smoother, less urgent. He stroked the dog as Molly administered the injection. She was even able to hover within inches of him before he pulled away, and this time, Will did so without a look of displeasure.

"Can we start over?" he asked.

Molly looked up from the dog's leg in surprise. Will's head was raised. His eyes were glued to the tile, but they flicked towards her every once in a while to every place that wasn't her eyes: her shoulder, her neck, her hands, her hair. Oddly enough, she didn't feel the least bit catalogued. Something about Will's mannerisms – his subdued expression, the slight furrow in his brow – told her she had already been understood as a whole. He simply struggled to find a part of her that didn't lead to a larger, more expansive story.

"I don't think we ever really started," she remarked pointedly, staring into the blank expanse of his face. Will seemed to grow calmer with every passing moment. It was then Molly's turn to feel insecure. She had never made an introduction two weeks after meeting someone for the first time. "I'm…I'm Dr. Foster. Molly Foster."

"Will Graham," his eyes sprang up at the last second to meet hers before falling back towards the ground.

Social convention steered the rest of their conversation. "Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Graham," Molly said.

He nodded shakily, still not meeting her eyes. "Nice to finally meet you, Dr. Foster."

-Marathon, Florida-

The first time they met, Will Graham didn't look at her once.

Molly had followed a brood of dogs from the beach into the boatyard, catching up with them in a maze of old motors and battered hulls. "Hey," she knelt down amongst them, searching for collars or tags. They looked well fed and groomed, but that didn't mean anything close to the water. Dogs like these were cared for by tourists: fed from their picnic baskets and bathed from play in the ocean. She wasn't about to leave without making sure they were okay.

They licked her cheeks, her collarbone, her neck; they nuzzled her hands, arms, and shoulders. Molly was very quickly overrun. "Oh, hello," she ruffled the neck on a beautiful mottled retriever. "Who's your person, huh? Where's home?"

As if in response, the retriever trotted several paces down the way, turning around only when Molly hadn't started to follow. She rose to her feet and shuffled along through the sand, navigating her way through the remaining dogs towards the retriever.

Beyond the corpses of boats lay a ramshackle trailer. A chill crept down Molly's spine, and a tremor ran through her arms. The place looked vacant, neglected. Ghostly. She got the faintest impression someone had died there, that the dogs were leading her to a body.

The retriever looked back at her from the stoop, still inviting her, but Molly couldn't go any further. Her legs wouldn't move.

A whistle and click drew the retriever's attention. Molly watched as a man walked into view: slight build, brown curls, t-shirt soaked with ocean and perspiration. The owner? She hoped so; the feeling of walking over a grave was growing stronger.

He held a hand out to the retriever as he strode past. Molly knelt back down to be with the rest of the dogs. She felt stupid for asking, but a group this big couldn't belong to just one person. Other people weren't suckers for strays like her. "Hey," she said pleasantly, smiling as the dogs kissed her, "are all of them yours?"

No answer. Molly scrubbed at the scruff of the Jack Russell's neck. Maybe he hadn't heard her. "Pretty sizeable collection. Seven strays?"

Still nothing. The man didn't even turn around. His posture gave no indication she was even being acknowledged. Molly stroked the fluffy border collie to curb her frustration. She didn't like being ignored. "Most people don't even want one."
The man sighed. He still hadn't turned at all, focused as he was on the retriever. "I'm not…I'm not like most people."

Molly smiled, feeling the chill dispel at long last from her bones. She rose from the dogs, brushing the sand from her skirt, "They don't look like Florida dogs."

"They're not," he finally turned to reveal his profile. Molly tried to see more, but he appeared to intentionally keep his body hidden from view. "Who uh…who are you?"

"I'm Molly," she petted another of his mutts. "Molly Foster. I own a shop in town."

Satisfied, he looked back towards his trailer door and started away.

"Who are you?" she called after him.

He stopped. Molly was surprised. She had expected him to keep walking. Instead, she got another glimpse of his profile, enough to see him flash a small, fragile smile. The gesture was forced and sad. Molly felt her heart break. Her mind flittered between two extremes, between relief that there was the man was alive and the terrifying notion that she should have walked away when she had the chance.

"Will," the man said half-heartedly. "My name's Will."
"Nice to meet you, Will," she said.

He nodded. "Nice to meet you too."

Happy reading!