Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

THIS IS A VIOLENCE-FREE WORKPLACE…

On the wall, there’s a poster that says sexual harassment will not be tolerated. You’re not worried. You would never sexually harass someone, and this is a safe space—you’re here to receive psychotherapy, after all. People feel better after therapy, right?

You walk toward the reception desk, which has a nameplate that says Will Graham. The dark-haired man sitting behind the desk hangs up the phone and directs his attention towards you.

Although he looks to be in his thirties, he has a boyish quality that is instantly endearing. Your anxiety starts creeping up. If it were simply good looks that make you anxious, that would probably be easy enough to self-psychoanalyze. But it’s always been something more than looks. Maybe Dr. Lecter will help with that particular part of your social anxiety.

You were so focused on not collapsing in a panicked mess at the task of navigating a new building in a foreign part of the city, you didn’t have the mental energy to plan what you needed to say to a receptionist. “Uh…” you say, wishing that the receptionist was a touch-screen robot instead of a person. But you want to work on your social anxiety. Better start now.

Will Graham speaks a perfectly formed sentence before you can. “Dr. Lecter will see you now.” He opens his palm to lead the way and steps out from behind the desk. He guides you down the hallway and you follow.

He knocks on the door and opens it. You nod your thanks and he walks back to his desk. You know you’re supposed to take deep breaths to calm yourself down, so you take a deep breath. You only had to interact with him for a short while, and he really wasn’t that intimidating, aside from being the age when men tend to have young children—there’s something about fathers, or men who seem like they would be good fathers, that intimidates you. It like reminds you of what you can never have. Why would a fatherly, attractive man with his shit together pick someone like you? You can barely get ready to leave the house in the morning without having a panic attack.

You breathe all the way out and hold it. You step into the room.

The huge window looks like it’s meant to let in lots of natural light, but it’s winter and it’s been getting dark early; the curtains are open but the glass is like a black mirror. The room is lit gently by a few lamps.

“I’m Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

You look over at who spoke. What strikes you first are his eyes. As he rises from his chair, his height strikes you next. And then his confident stride—you crumble inwardly as you wish you could exude that kind of confidence—and then his handshake.

His hand holds yours like a little hug, but only for the briefest second. He’s polite, but you get a sense of a strong professional boundary between the two of you, which is only maximized by the fact that he’s wearing a bright red-and-green plaid suit and you’re wearing a hoodie and leggings—malleable material in stark contrast with his starched and/or ironed suit or whatever the hell people do to suits.

The creases ironed into his pants look like two needles darting up from his shoes.

Although he had been sitting behind his desk, he guides you over to two armchairs facing each other. He gestures for you to take a seat. When he sits down, his pants accentuate how hard and narrow his thighs are. His torso is broad by comparison. It’s like looking at an oil painting you want to throw yourself into.

You look out the window—you can’t help it, it’s just something you do when you’re anxious—but you just get a black reflection of the room.

“Social anxiety. Panic attacks. Dissociative episodes.” His voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance, although he’s sitting only a few feet in front of you. “Labels meant to help the psychiatrist understand the patient but, more importantly, to help man understand himself.”

You stay quiet. His voice is excellent. You hope he keeps talking so you have something to focus on, like an anchor.

“I am here to help you, not to judge you,” he says. “To help me understand you, tell me, what is it that you want more than anything?”

You glance at his eyes but it’s too intense. You look over in the other direction towards his desk and see a nearly infinite number of framed degrees hanging on the wall, all with his name and shining university emblems on them. He looks like he’s accomplished a lot and has been successful for a long time.

You look down and realize there’s a smudge of the dust from the street along your calf. You rub your legs together to try to brush it off.

You wish you could just point to what you wanted, like an inarticulate child. It’s hard to put things into words. Many things.

                “Some people spend their wholes lives not knowing what they want,” he adds, not because he is uncomfortable with the silence, but because he is gracious. It’s like he’s attuning himself to you.

                “I want a normal life,” you say.

                “What is normal?”

                “Able to take care of myself. Married to someone I love and respect. Kids…” you trail off.

                “And what is standing in your way?”

                “Social anx—“

                “Those are labels meant to simplify the communication of what is standing in your way. I’m interested in learning about you, from you, in your own language.”

                “Language?” Immediately, you think of music and dance. Movement, touch, sound. The animalistic made elegant.

                If you could just—touch him—he’d know what you’ve always wanted.

                “I feel inferior. When I see someone I want. It doesn’t matter if I want to be friends or, um… date them.”

                He pauses, soaking this in, but he doesn’t move. It’s bit like being watched by a lion. Does he expect you to keep talking? Does he want you to keep talking? What should you do?

                “Describe to me a time when you did not feel inferior to someone.”

                “Um, maybe, maybe… animals, when I was little. And, you know, computers. Like, robots.” You gulp. You wish you had a glass of water.

                He keeps watching you.

                “It’s just easier to communicate when there’s a point, you know, like giving or receiving information. Computers don’t really judge you, even if you type in a wrong command. There’s nothing to feel, like, ashamed of.” Your face starts to heat up. You wish you could press your face against the cool glass of the window.

                He gets up and walks over to a water cooler in the far corner of the room. He walks back to you with a tumbler of water.

                A little astonished, you take the cup, thanking him. He’s careful to make sure his fingers don’t brush against yours. Maybe he’s worried about personal boundaries; you recall the poster about harassment. But he carries himself with such dignity, you can’t imagine anyone ever accusing him of anything indecent.

                You drain the cup in one go and feel a little better. Although the water was cool, a little part of you inside warms up—it feels nice to be taken care of. Like he’s protective of you. Maybe he’s just a caring, attentive person in general.

                “’Someone’, to you, is a robot, or an animal?” he clarifies.

                “Well, I’d like it to be a person.”

                “I imagine you must feel quite lonely. How do you deal with your anger?”

                You look up at him, a little shocked by the abrupt change in questioning. “Um… I don’t really get angry.”

                “Anger is a human emotion. Not all of us show it, but we all feel it from time to time. Perhaps you mean to say you do not show your anger.”

                You nod.

                “So then, how do you deal with your anger?”

                “It… it eats me. I just kind of turn into a functionless mess. I don’t like it.”

                “I don’t imagine anyone would enjoy being in that state. And I imagine that wanting something—or someone—and not getting it, would frustrate anyone.”

                “Only if they felt entitled to it.”

                “Do you feel entitled to the things you want? Or, better put, do you think you deserve them?”

                “I… I haven’t done anything worthy of…”

                “What makes one worthy is not doing, but being.”

                You look at him, a little confused.

                “Imagine you or I were speaking to someone who was suicidal. Are you feeling suicidal?”

                “No.”

                “If someone were questioning whether their life were worth living, what would you say? What is the value of human life?”

                “I think it is valuable, yeah.”

                “Is the inherent value of human life dependent on what an individual has done?”

                “I think it doesn’t matter who the… person is, they deserve to… to live.”

                There is the ghost of a smile on his smooth lips. “You are quite moral. Perhaps you are an idealist? No doubt another source of your frustration. So,” he says, “A human is worthy of life not because they ‘do’ but because they ‘are.’ Is this correct with your line of thinking?”

                You nod. “Is that what you think too?”

                “It is not my place to discuss my personal opinions with my patients. I will, however, share with you my professional opinions.”

                “Okay.”

                “Perhaps you want a normal life because it is, in fact, what you believe you deserve. Perhaps you truly yearn for the extraordinary, and that is why you feel undeserving. Because you doubt that you are extraordinary.”

                You want to ask him if he has somehow deciphered your level of extraordinariness, but you remind yourself of what he said about personal opinions. You want to be respectful of his boundaries.

                “I see before me an idealistic, intensely private individual. You are quite brave for opening up to a man you only met a few minutes ago,” he says.

                “It helps that you’re… removed from my life, in a way.”

                He nods. “Everything you say here is confidential, unless you say something that makes me suspect that you or someone else is in danger.”

                You trust his word.

                Below the large window, there’s a couch. You get a flash of an intrusive thought—you and Dr. Lecter sitting beside each other, thighs touching, on the couch—and try to push the thought from your mind before it unravels into something more.

                He notices you drifting away. “Do you need a moment to think?” he asks.

                “No.”

                “You mentioned wanting children. That… will take care of itself in due time.” He makes a gracious gesture downwards in lieu of talking about sex. “Marriage is simply a matter of signing a certificate, but I suspect that you were alluding more to wanting the security of a commitment, an intimate connection with a man, or both. But those are issues to be explored at a later date. For now, let’s focus on your first desire: to be able to take care of yourself. What does this mean to you?”

                “I’m living with my parents. I haven’t been employed in… um. And my diet isn’t very healthy. Microwave…” you add, a little uselessly.

                “You’d like to live independently, and have a sense of purpose and an income.”

                “And the cooking part,” you remind him. He doesn’t strike you as the negligent type, but you want to help him understand what you said and you worry you didn’t say it properly.

                “That speaks for itself.” There’s a flash of something in his eye, but it’s gone before you can figure it out. If there was a magic button you could press to get him to look at you like that again, you’d press it so hard and often, you’d probably wear it out.

                “If I may,” he adds, swiftly approaching his Rolodex on his desk. He removes a card. You think he’s going to refer you to another psychiatrist—you’re that much of a wreck, even the renowned Dr. Lecter can’t help you—but when you take it, you realize it’s a recipe card.

                “French onion macaroni and cheese soup,” he says. “I’d like you to make it yourself. Along with much needed nutrition, cooking for oneself, from scratch, provides one with a sense of accomplishment. I promise.”

                You look at the card. “Should I make a photocopy and…?”

                “You may return it next week during your next session. Friday at 7 pm. I will have Will schedule this if it fits with your schedule.”

                “Yes,” you say, embarrassed that you are free on a night when most other people probably have plans with family or a date or even work. Anything but psychotherapy for their messed up, screwed up selves.

                At least you have something to look forward to. A week should be plenty of time to make Dr. Lecter’s recipe. You try not to get your hopes up, but you hope the food tastes good.

                Maybe you can go to the grocery store on your way home and pick up the ingredients right away.

                You’ve learned it’s dangerous to get excited about things—showing excitement easily leads to losing control, to showing your anxiety and then not being able to put the lid on it again.

                You say goodbye to Dr. Lecter and walk down the hall, trying to emulate his calm way of carrying himself. It feels fake, but it’s nice to think that there’s like a part of him that you can carry with you even when you’re not with him.

                “Have a good evening,” Will Graham says to you from the reception desk as you walk by.

                “You too,” you say. You give him a little smile and he smiles back shyly. Maybe he used to struggle with social anxiety, too. Maybe he used to be one of Dr. Lecter’s patients. Would Dr. Lecter hire one of his former patients? Maybe not, if he’s big on boundaries.

                Once you’re outside the building, you almost collapse. You once read that quote about doing one thing a day that scares you—well, today you did several things that scare you. You had an actual conversation with a respect-worthy, fatherly, attractive man.

                Only he’s your psychiatrist, and he’s only interested in you as he would be in any of his patients.

                It would really be something to know him in his personal life. You wish you could have met him another way—but, then, there’s no way he’d be interested in you. But there’s no doubt about it, if you could have your pick, at this point, you think Dr. Hannibal Lecter is the type of man you’d like to marry.

                You know people who are anxious about driving, but luckily you’ve always cherished the privacy of being in a car by yourself and never really felt too anxious about being in control of what could be considered a weapon when you’re going fast enough. You drive to the grocery store and then go home to cook the recipe. It’s delicious, and you come to trust his judgement a little bit more.

                And yes, it does feel good to cook something from scratch rather than slap something in a microwave. You feel so accomplished, actually, that you decide to get up early the next day and try going to an indoor swimming pool you’ve been meaning to try. You’ve always had a fantasy of meeting friends at public places, but you’re always too shy to approach people and you suspect that you give off aloof vibes and don’t exactly attract people to come talk to you.

                But you won’t wish for the stars. You decide you’ll just be proud of yourself for accomplishing the task of showing up. You won’t even have to get in the water if you don’t want to.

                The indoor pool has an electronic cashier to accept payment. There are two tills, and at the next one over, the person is struggling to figure out how to use their credit card with the system. After you effortlessly make your payment, you step towards them to help them.

                “God, I don’t know how to work these damn machines,” the man says, a little frustrated.

                You try not to let his frustration rub off on you. You put a smile on your face to show him you have benevolent intentions, then gently take his credit card and complete the transaction. You don’t really hear him when he says thank you—you just don’t like to see things, or people, suffer.

                The machine seems a little relieved, too, when the transaction goes through successfully.

Luckily the change rooms are pretty empty. After securing your belongings in a locker, you change into your old bathing suit, shower, and clutch your towel around your body, stepping out into the pool area.

Lots of sun shines through the windows in the high ceiling. You take a deep breath, placing your towel on a bench, and slipping into the water. In order to swim in the deep end, swimmers have to prove to the lifeguard that they can swim five laps in the deep end. You’re afraid of failing and having the lifeguard deny you access to the deep end, so you swim in the shallow end as best you can. You remind yourself that the lifeguard is there for safety, not for judging people. Although it seems like they’re judging people, sitting all the way up there on that chair and then periodically stalking around the pool. There are cameras on the walls, too. You sink into the water up to your neck, just for a sense of cover.

Someone in the deep end is swimming like an Olympic athlete. You stand in the shallow end, watching in awe. The water glides off their hard body and it looks like they’re flying, almost.

After several laps, the person hoists themself up over the edge of the pool. Even though he did what appeared to be an infinite amount of laps, they’re barely panting.

Oh my God, it’s Dr. Lecter. He wears only a small, tight pair of bottoms. Beads of water are indistinguishable from the sweat on his body.

Does he always go to this pool? You’ve never gone to this pool. Will he think you’re stalking him if he sees you?

You turn around quickly so he doesn’t see your face. Should you stay in the pool or jump out and run for it? Which would attract the least attention?

You dunk your head under the water.

“Hey!” You hear the lifeguard call out, but it sounds muffled.

You swim to the corner of the shallow end, hoping to disappear. Hopefully Dr. Lecter has finished his laps and will head into the changerooms in a moment so you can stand up and take a breath. You can only hold on for a few more seconds.

You hear the lifeguard’s whistle. If the water weren’t so cold, your face might heat up. You hope to God the lifeguard understands you’re not drowning, you just are hiding from someone. You lift a hand and wave to the lifeguard to let her know everything’s okay.

Apparently she takes this as a distress signal. Next thing you know, she’s in the water next to you, grabbing onto you and hoisting you onto a floaty thing, then pulls both you and the floaty thing onto the floor beside the pool.

“I’m okay,” you tell her, but it’s too late.

                Everyone is staring, which is bad enough to make you feel like you’re about to panic, but then you look up at the only person who, in this moment, you care about. Dr. Lecter is staring too, and he’s got this slightly pained expression like he’s not sure if he should check to see if you’re okay or if he should stay away and maintain that doctor/patient confidentiality.

                The lifeguard wants you to stay so she can do an assessment on you, but adrenaline forces you to wrangle free and grab your towel. There are signs saying no running, but you dash back to the changerooms.

                The only thing you’re thankful for is that you didn’t completely panic in public.

                When you get home, you make another serving of French onion macaroni and cheese soup to try to make yourself feel capable. But it just reminds you of that pained look in Dr. Lecter’s piercing eyes. You’re dreading Friday now.

                During your next appointment with Dr. Lecter, you expect to see Will Graham at the desk, and he’s there, which helps you feel a little bit more comfortable. On the other hand, if he’s ever not there, the jarring sense of not being able to predict things after all will be probably more damaging than just getting it over with right now.

                He kindly leads you to Dr. Lecter’s office.

                “How are you?” you ask Will, practicing being social with someone you can kind of relate to.

                “Fine. Yourself?”

                “Fine.”

                He gives a quick smile, avoiding eye contact. You let yourself be happy on the inside for having a successful interaction. You remember to smile.

                You open the door to Dr. Lecter’s office, trying to keep that sense of accomplishment with you. But one step inside and your confidence withers.

                He invites you to take your seat across from him. “Good evening,” he says. “I’d like to begin by addressing the incident that happened a little less than a week ago.”

                He remembers. Of course he remembers, you remembered. At first you think it would’ve been more gracious to pretend it never happened, but you actually kind of admire his assertiveness in bringing it up.

                “I was worried about the person who appeared to have been rescued by the lifeguard. When I realized it was you, I stopped myself from approaching. I feared that it would reveal to others the nature of our relationship. All of my patients deserve to have their private information protected from the public, and that private information includes the knowledge that you are my patient. I hope you will forgive me.”

                “It’s okay, I wasn’t actually drowning. I… I actually saw you first, and… I didn’t want you to see me.” You probably sound like an idiot, but you want to be honest with him and practice not being afraid of what other people think. You want therapy to work.

                “You wanted to maintain the boundaries of the doctor-patient relationship.”

                “I didn’t want you to see me in my bathing suit.” You try not to let your eyes wander down his body. His suit covers everything except his hands, neck, and head, but you had at least like two dreams this week about his half-naked hard body, his hair darkened by the water and dripping down his neck...

                You stare out the window.

                He pauses. You wonder if he’s remembering what you looked like half-naked. Not nearly as impressive as he looked, that’s for sure, although beauty is in the eye of the beholder or some shit like that.

                “Do you frequent that pool?” he asks.

                “No, that was the first time—I was just trying to be confident and try new things, you know, like…” You’re not sure how to say you weren’t stalking him while sounding convincing. You find that even when you’re telling the truth, you get so anxious over whether the other person will believe you that the other person ends up misperceiving your anxiety as being proof that you’re lying. If only you were born a sociopath, life would be so much easier.

                “In situations like this, with all due respect, I would advise any patient to frequent another one of our city’s many public pools. How does this plan sound to you?”

                “That’s fine.” You pull the recipe card out of your purse and hand it to him. “I made the soup twice. It was delicious.”

                “Your abrupt attempt to change the subject suggests to me that your discomfort at our chance meeting hangs on you still. When something distresses us, avoidance and distraction are appropriate short-term solutions, but long-term, they can do more damage than good.” He gestures for you to put the card back in your purse. “Your dissociative episodes. Tell me, what precedes these?”

                “Um... just, I don’t know, I guess when some sort of emotion is overwhelming for me. My body reacts to something and I can’t control it, it’s like it’s not even happening to me. I’ll cry and I don’t feel sad. I’ll collapse and I won’t realize it until I’m on the floor. I guess I dissociate whenever my brain decides everything’s just getting too intense. It’s like shutting off.”

                “Your mind is protecting you,” he says. “Some people learn very young that the world is a safe place, filled with people who will protect them and meet their needs. Other children learn different lessons. They adapt to a world that is indifferent, to people who cannot be trusted. You have adapted. And I believe you are more resilient than you would allow yourself to believe.”

                It sounds like something he’d tell anyone, but he sounds genuine. Something inside you flutters and your face flushes.

                “How did it feel, making the soup from scratch?”

                You nod. “You were right, it made me feel… masterful. At least for a little while.”

                “I’d like you to have that feeling as often and for as long as possible. And you can get that feeling from nearly anything. I suggested cooking because you mentioned taking care of yourself as one of your goals. What are you passionate about?”

                “Um…” Somehow ‘Netflix’ doesn’t sound like the right answer. You glance at all the degrees hanging on his wall. He’s a man who spends his free time reading research articles and flying around the world attending conferences, and you’re just someone who lies in bed watching Netflix.

                “Travel,” you finally say. “I’d really love to travel the world. I love learning about other cultures.”

                “Many people feel alien in a strange place. But for those who have felt like foreigners their whole life, a change in environment can feel quite natural. Although one must be wary of falling into the trap of seeking geographic cures. If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

                You haven’t done much travelling and, even if you had, you aren’t nearly as worldly as Dr. Lecter seems to be. Your heart pounds, but you want to practice being brave; he said you were brave, after all. “Where are you from?” You figure the question is innocent enough, since his accent is pretty clear.

                He pauses, like he’s deciding on whether to reveal this piece of personal information. “My home was originally in Lithuania.”

                “What was it like there?”

                “My memories have faded with time; I have not lived there since I was a child.”

                “I think I would want to travel some place where they don’t speak English. I’d love to learn another language.”
                “Language. Sounds made into communication, given meaning. The animalistic made elegant,” he says, and you’re struck by such a strong sense of deju vu it almost knocks you out of the chair. You wrack your brain for memories of last week’s therapy session, trying to determine if you said your thoughts out loud or whether he’s a mind reader.

                He senses you need a moment to think and uses the time to pour you a glass of water. “Hydration is a fundamental aspect of self-care. I hope you’re getting enough water,” he says, passing you the cup.

                “There’s water in wine, right?”

                There’s another flash in his eye, like he caught your joke. It feels like he’s hugging you, even though he isn’t touching you at all. This feels so nice. Why does he have to be your psychiatrist? This is only your second session. Every session that goes by means that you’re one step closer to the termination phase of the doctor/patient relationship. It’ll suck to live without him, but it would also suck to live in that type of relationship forever, the kind where you can’t get close to each other.

                You need therapy, but maybe when therapy is over, and enough time goes by, maybe he won’t abandon you after all. Maybe he’ll decide he wants you for a different kind of relationship.

                He said he thinks you’re worth it, after all, right?

Chapter Text

               The next Friday.

               You can’t go to that awesome public pool anymore, so for exercise, you park a few blocks away from his office and walk the rest of the way. It’s cold, but you’re excited to see him. Even if it started snowing, the snowflakes would probably feel like little kisses melting on your cheeks. You take a deep breath, worried that if he realizes you're excited, he'll figure out you have a crush on him. And if he knows you have a crush on him, that would make you so anxious you wouldn't even be able to bear stepping into his office or anywhere near him ever again.

                There's no way he would ever like you back, so you have to do everything in your power to seem calm, even though you're going to therapy for anxiety. Is he so experienced and educated that he'll be able to tell the difference between clinical anxiety and crush-anxiety?

                When you enter his office, you hand him the recipe card he had you make this past week: creamy au gratin potatoes. You wonder if comfort food is Dr. Lecter’s personal favourite, or whether he’s just been choosing them specially for you. You wish you had the pluckiness to ask him. Maybe if you find a way to phrase it like you’re inquiring about his therapeutic methods? But what if he perceives that as you challenging his authority?

                When he takes the recipe card from you, he seems extra careful not to accidentally touch your hand with his fingertips. His fingers are perfectly manicured. Unfortunately, you’ve taken to chewing your index fingernail; you try to hide it so he doesn’t see it.

                “Freud might have said you have an oral fixation,” he says. You can’t tell if there’s humour or just polite inquisitiveness in his eyes.

                Did he get more gorgeous since the last time you saw him? You quickly take your seat so he can’t see your legs shaking. At least you're staying calm enough to realize when your legs are about to give out.

                He takes his seat opposite you, unbuttoning the one button on his blazer with deft fingers. “Last week we discussed mastery. Feeling superior, even in a single moment in time that no one but yourself will remember, can be very powerful. The effects can carry over into other realms of your life. Feeling inferior, on the other hand, even privately—“ He glances casually at one of his manicured hands. “—can also bleed into other aspects of our lives.”

                You listen intently. There's something about the way he speaks that makes you wish he would talk forever--in any language.

                He holds out his hand, palm up. “Your finger, please.”

                You tentatively place your index finger onto his palm. It feels almost perverse to be touching him for longer than a second, but it doesn’t feel like holding hands. It feels too clinical and the position is too awkward. As the seconds tick, you feel your ears heat up. You try to tell yourself he's not judging you, but you also can't help but imagine the expensive balls he goes to; any woman on his arm would have perfect, beautifully manicured nails. A woman who takes self-care for granted.

                He interrupts your thoughts. “You chew your nail when you feel inferior. Our feelings are always valid, neither right nor wrong. It is our thoughts and behaviours that can often grossly misrepresent reality. I may have the thought that you have more power in your finger than I do in my whole body. Does this thought accurately represent reality?”

                You try not to glance down at his strong, tall body. You’re afraid to lock eyes with him too, in case he figures out what you’re thinking. You keep your gaze on your finger lying a little helplessly in his hand.

                He removes his hand. “Are you willing to try to change the thoughts and behaviours that stand in the way of getting what you want?”

                You put your hands back in your lap and nod.

                “Do you chew your nail in public?” he asks.

                You shake your head.

                “Only when you are alone?”

                You nod.

                “You have found a sense of mastery through cooking, but, you have cooked my recipes for your family, is this correct?”

                You nod, not sure if you should be a little surprised by his guess. Is he complimenting you by assuming you’d be generous? Or maybe he’s upset—did you screw up the homework assignment somehow?

                “Like a well-travelled path, neuronal connections in the brain develop the more we follow a thought over and over. If we think that our actions are only significant when they benefit others, this is a path that can lead us to feel insignificant. There is a gate to this path. Lock it. The other paths will be difficult to walk at first, but I have faith in you. Discover a way to create a feeling of superiority, not in a public theatre, but simply for yourself.”

                 You still don’t think you’re worth it, but you don’t say that out loud. You try to absorb the confident way he talks and just... is. You take a deep breath. You look up at him, wanting to be honest, telling yourself he won’t judge you. But he’s only human, and he has his own thoughts and feelings. “Can I tell you of a time I felt inferior?” you ask.

                “Of course.”

                “Um…” How do you make him feel? What will he think when you tell him…? “I sort of feel inferior around, um…” You glance over at all the degrees hanging on his wall. “You.”

                You inhale, almost not believing what came out of your mouth. You want to blabber on to take the sting out of your words, but it is what it is. You can’t take the words back; to add more would probably just make you sound even more foolish.

                “Me?” he says innocently enough, but you wonder if there’s a bit of pride secretly in the back of his eyes.

                “I think you’re… intimidating.”

                “The doctor-patient relationship has a power balance that is, I’m afraid, most unbalanced. Extraordinarily skewed in favour of the doctor. It is a responsibility that I alone must handle with great caution. It is normal to feel the tension of this imbalance. It is more remarkable that you voiced your discomfort with it the way you did.”

                “I’m sorry.”

                “There is no need to apologize. I would like to congratulate you on your courage. Most of my patients could stand to be even half as brave as you are. Tell me, while we are on the subject of harmful thoughts, have you ever thought that you were inarticulate?”

                Your wide eyes tell him the answer.

                “It would be a tragedy for you to continue to hold this belief about yourself.”

                You want to believe him.  “Fake it till you make it, I guess,” you say. You want to tell him that you're not brave, you're just artless; you can't think of any other way to speak than to be blunt. Is he being generous in his assessment, or does he actually believe you are courageous and articulate? To think that a man as respect-worthy as Dr. Lecter might even hold a tiny bit of respect for a part of you is just...

                It's too much.

                To ground yourself, you glance at his recipe Rolodex.

                He follows your gaze. “The second part of your homework will be coming up with your own recipe,” he says. “Please, let me know how it goes and what dish you choose. And be selfish—don’t bring leftovers to my office.”

                “Okay,” you say, looking down. “Um, I just have a question, sorry.” You look up until you think you see him nod his permission. You're happy you're getting a bit better at being assertive. “The two recipes you gave me, did you pick them because they’re your favourites or because you think they’d be my favourites?”

                “I gave you a taste of what I think you already love,” he replies, his voice a tad low—or maybe it’s just your imagination. You suddenly feel hot and glance out the window. All his answers to your questions make you even more excited to ask more questions--but you can't afford to show your excitement. This isn't a date, this is therapy. You have to be careful that your questions reflect your goals you outlined in the first session. You cannot reveal your crush.

                After the session, you’re walking down the sidewalk to your car. You take deep breaths, trying to get yourself calm enough to drive home.

                A car pulls up beside you and slows down.

                What the hell kind of car is that? It’s big enough for like five people and like at least a few in the trunk. And one strapped to the roof maybe.

                Dr. Lecter is in the driver’s seat. All your hard work at calming yourself down goes to shit. Your heart pounds, but then sinks. Did you do something wrong? Are you walking somewhere you shouldn't be? You want to say hello, but you get the sense that this isn't an ordinary situation. You wait for him to scold you.

                The passenger door opens smoothly and electronically, without him touching it.

                He glances at you as though the two of you have done this a million times. Every time you see him, he's always so at ease in his own skin. How does he do it?

                “Where to?” he asks.

                Seeing him out of context is beyond weird. You hop into the passenger seat and he closes the door, electronically, behind you. Sitting beside him, this close to him in his own vehicle which smells new but also smells like him and maybe the faintest traces of gasoline, it almost feels like he’s driving you to go on a date. Like you could be having any casual two-way conversation with him.

                “I parked a few blocks down,” you reply.

                He’s a good driver. His car is really shock-cushioned so the ride feels like you're floating. You grip the right-hand side of your seat, afraid that you'll dissociate and forget this moment. 

                “Are you wondering how this fits into my policy about boundaries?” he asks.

                “Yeah, um…?”

                “Some professionals would argue that driving a patient in one’s own vehicle constitutes a boundary violation. For other professionals, it is a part of their job. The main questions to ask are: would I do this for any patient, is this in my patient’s best interest, and would we feel comfortable sharing this information with others?”

                You nod three times.

                “I view you no different than I view any of my other patients,” he says.

                He speaks confidently, like it’s a good thing. And you know it’s for the best. At least you got to sit beside him, this close, and breathe the same car air for a little while.

                You gesture to your car when he approaches it.

                “Thank you,” you say. “Good night. Drive safe.”

                He nods and says your first name. “Good night.”

                He waits until you are safely inside your car before driving away.

                You feel dizzy and have to stop at a 7-Eleven just to chill out before you feel comfortable driving the rest of the way home. You wonder, if you hadn’t brought your car, would he have driven you all the way home? What if you lived on the opposite side of the city as him? He already knows where you live, technically, since it’s part of your patient records.

                He knows so much about you, and you barely know anything about him.

                Not a lot of people buy Slurpees in the winter. And not a lot of people fall in love with their psychiatrist.

                The Coke in the Slurpee machine is all liquid, not slush like it’s supposed to be.

                Since you can’t have a Coke Slurpee, you settle for some sort of fruit shit flavour.

                You try not to let your tears fall into your cup. What you truly want has always been out of your reach.

Chapter Text

The Thursday before session four.

You look down at Dr. Lecter’s business card. It’s got a phone number and an email, but those are both for his office—not his personal cell and email. On the other hand, your personal cell number is in your patient records, and your parents’ number is listed as your emergency contact. What would it be like to be able to program his personal cell number into your phone?

What would it be like to have a husband be your emergency contact instead of your parents?

As if your cell phone heard your thoughts, it starts vibrating. An incoming call! The display reads:

                OH SHIT IT’S THE HOT PSYCHI

You wanted to be funny but you ran out of space under “Contact Name”.

You 100% prefer texting, but phone calls are a reality, like pap smears. It’ll be over soon, you tell yourself. But it is Dr. Lecter calling, and you secretly hope he keeps you on the phone for as long as possible, even if your phone anxiety combined with your social anxiety combined with your crush-anxiety means the whole thing is just torture.

“Hello?” you say.

It’s Will Graham’s voice on the other end, not Dr. Lecter’s. Of course his receptionist would be making his phone calls—but you actually entertained the fantasy of Dr. Lecter taking time out of his busy day to call you personally. Wouldn’t it be better to try to get over him so you wouldn’t torture yourself?

“My apologies,” Will says. “Dr. Lecter has asked me to cancel all of his Friday appointments.”

Heart. Freezes.

“He does have Saturday available.”

Accidental excited inhale. Controlled exhalation to counter it.

“Are you able to do 11:00 a.m. or 8:00 p.m.?”

You’re tempted to say 11:00, since that would imply you’re busy on a Saturday night. What kind of respect-worthy, fatherly, attractive man would date a woman who is so unwanted she has zero plans for Saturday night?

Wait a minute. If he had already made plans to whisk away some heiress to a gala or host a cocktail party, he wouldn’t have told Will to offer his patients an 8:00 session.

Will mistakes your pause as a sign of confusion. “Dr. Lecter is offering his patients a variance in timeslots in an effort to be accommodating.”

You’re dying to find out more about Dr. Lecter’s personal life, and you’re not sure how discreet of a receptionist Will is. You have to make all questions sound therapy-related. “Is there anything past 8:00?” you ask, a little shocked at your gumption.

“8:00 is the latest,” Will says, all business.

“Oh, um, maybe I can rearrange some things. I’m kind of busy, um, all day…” The good thing about being so anxious you sound like you’re lying all the time is that, maybe, you have a shot in hell at actually fibbing when you want to. “I think 8:00, yeah, I can just make it.”

After Will hangs up, you have to focus all your energy on not freaking out. You want to impress Dr. Lecter by progressing as quickly as possible—but progress just means he’ll terminate the therapy quicker. And even though you might fib to save face, you’re definitely not okay with lying about being in more distress than you actually are just as a manipulation tactic to get more sessions. Besides your integrity, you get the feeling that he would be able to see right through you—and then he would definitely lose faith in you.

With the extra time on Friday night, instead of watching Netflix, you go online and start looking at apartments. Maybe you can get a loan in order to pay the rent while you look for a job?

Your parents haven’t been charging you rent, simply because they know you’ve had a hard time lately. You spent the past couple weeks recuperating in a psychiatric ward after the worst panic attack of your life. You know you could try to apply for disability leave from your job, but that whole process just seems like a mountain you don’t have the strength to climb. And a part of you knows you know you can’t go back to that particular workplace anyway. Not only was it just too stressful, it really just wasn’t for you.

The medication is helpful, but you don’t want to be on it for the rest of your life. You want to make a change in your life so that you wake up feeling wonderful.

You get another intrusive thought—this time of you in what you imagine Dr. Lecter’s bed could look like—

You refocus your attention on the screen. After finding a few people online looking for roommates (it won’t last forever, and it’s the cheapest option right now), you email them and close your laptop.

Now you have some progress to report to Dr. Lecter tomorrow night!

Your parents’ car breaks down on Friday, so you offer up your car for them to use on Saturday. At the moment, they don’t have plans for Saturday night, but you don’t like the thought of your parents at home without a car. You know, for emergencies. Besides, they’re nice enough to let you live with them rent-free; you’re kind of obligated to be as nice a daughter as possible.

It’s finally Saturday night. The light sheen of snow on the ground twinkles in the moonlight as you walk to your bus stop. You focus on the music coming from your earbuds to distract yourself from how weird it feels to not be driving.

On the bus ride, you flip through the photos you took of the meal you cooked this week: rigatoni with veal Bolognese and butternut squash. You didn’t exactly do the homework correctly; you shared with your parents, but only because you were using their kitchen. And, you know, you love them.

You practice acting calm in case Dr. Lecter doesn’t like the photos or the meal you chose. You have this habit of assuming people are gonna say awful things about you, or just basically reject you, so you kind of write a worst-case-scenario script in your mind, just in case. You trust that Dr. Lecter is too gracious to insult anyone’s cooking even if he hated it, but in a weird way, knowing how kind he is only makes you more scared that he’ll flip unexpectedly and be cruel.

You walk into the reception area of Dr. Lecter’s office, but the reception desk is empty.

You look around for Will. Maybe he’s just at the copier or something.

Nope. He’s gone.

Did you get the time right? You turn around to go back to the door, then halt. You knew one day Will wouldn’t be here. You know it’s irrational to worry that he left because he knew you were coming, and you know he hasn’t actually abandoned you, but it still feels that way.

Why do you have to feel these things? Why can’t you just naturally be calm and… empty? Like a sociopath that doesn’t give a fuck.

You’re in the midst of doing an awkward dance where you’re not sure if you should turn around and leave or go down the hallway to Dr. Lecter’s door, when—

You hear his voice call your name from down the hall.

“I hope you don’t mind. I let Will have the day off. I usually don’t book sessions on Saturdays, but—“

He pauses when he sees how frazzled you are. You hope your eyes look somewhat attractively wide and not alarmingly wide.

A shadow of regret darkens his face. He steps toward you.

“Sorry,” you try to say, although your voice has gone hoarse.

“It’s a break in the routine. I should have warned you,” he says softly.

“No, it’s not your fault. Will deserves a day off.”

He laughs under his breath. “I don’t know about that.”

You glance at the tissue box on Will’s desk. You’re so used to dissociating and then crying without realizing it, you place one hand on your cheek.

But your hand comes away dry.

A little astonished, you feel your face relax. You wonder if you should pinch yourself.

“Allow me to make you a cup of tea,” he offers.

He holds out his hand. You almost place your hand in his—then realize that he’s gesturing the way to his door. You pull your hand back just in time. He doesn’t seem like he saw your error.

When you enter his office, you pull out your phone to show him the photos, but your hand is still shaking. You try to explain what the photos are and give him the phone, but he gently presses the phone back into your hands.

“I made, um, Bolognese—no, butternut squash—“ You have the name in your head, but you’re still a little too anxious to get it out properly.

“I’ll be delighted to look at them later,” he says. “When I saw you standing in the waiting room, you had a look of terror upon your face…”

His words conjure the image of the reception area, and the image is so clear it feels like you’re back there…

Then you’re sucked back to the present moment with a squeeze to your deltoids.

Dr. Lecter’s hands lower from your arms. Too late to enjoy the moment, you realize that he had placed his hands on your arms in order to bring you back.

You touch your arm, as if there were a way to capture the ghost of his hand. “Thank you,” you murmur, blood rushing to your face.

He invites you to the couch by the window. When he sits down, you can see the dark reflection of his broad upper back in the window. You seat yourself beside him with several inches between you two.

“You said you sometimes cry and you don’t realize it. You seemed shocked when you placed a hand on your face,” he says.

“I can’t believe I didn’t cry.”

“Do you feel like crying?”

“No.”

“What are you feeling?”

“Um… kind of… glad.”

He looks at you inquisitively.

“I’m glad to see… you. I mean,” you say. “I was going to go back home if I couldn’t find you.”

“I can’t promise that I will always be here for you. But I can promise that I will always try to be.”

You’re close enough to just barely be able to smell him. He just smells like the best human being ever.

You wish he wouldn’t say things like that. You can feel your heart ripping in two. You’re alone in his office with him at night—and he’s getting paid to talk to you.

“Thank you. I know you’re just doing your job,” you say.

“A job for which I hold nothing but passion.”

You try to breathe as evenly as possible.

“Speaking of jobs,” he says. “I’m afraid I must tell you this, in order to prepare you for the change in the near future. Will is on permanent leave.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

Although he is stoic, he seems to deliberate on how much he should tell you. “Will has decided to continue his education.”

“Oh.” Aside from throwing a wrench in your routine of seeing him when you come for therapy, you actually were growing to like Will. You don’t want to intrude on information that isn’t yours, so even though you want to know what Will would choose to study, you stay quiet in order to be respectful.

Then again, if Will is gone, that means there’s a job opening.

“Who’s taking his place?” you ask as casually as possible, even though your heart is pounding. You tuck your hands under your thighs so he can’t see them shake.

He pauses. His penetrating wolf’s gaze is too much for you; you falter and look down.

“I have arranged to have another receptionist hired,” he says.

Disappointed and missing Will, you pull out your phone, hoping this time he’ll be receptive to seeing your food photos. Maybe you’re just imagining things, but you swear he looks a little relieved when you change the subject.

Every time you flip to a new photo, you check Dr. Lecter’s face for any signs of approval. When you don’t see any, your face falls. You worked so hard on the cooking assignment this week--!

“Oh, also, I might be moving out soon,” you add, trying to be optimistic.

He nods, his gaze softening. In terms of approval, it’ll have to do. You put your phone away.

“You want Will’s old position,” he says.

“I am looking for a job,” you say tentatively.

“I’d be breaking every ethical code if I hired anyone who is or was a patient of mine.”

You hesitate. “I mean, just to play devil’s advocate, it would be in my best interest… you said that was one question to ask if you’re not sure about, you know…”

“The job is 38 hours a week. Even if you had never been a patient of mine, I do not think it would be wise to take on such a demanding responsibility in your present state. So no, it would not be in your best interest.”

You know you’ve crossed a line, and you don’t want to argue with him. You nod respectfully.

He ends the session. When he books the next appointment with you, he offers Friday morning.

Later, you’re walking to your bus stop, feeling a little deflated, not so much because you didn’t get a job working alongside Dr. Lecter basically all day every day, but because you’re afraid you made him uncomfortable.

How do you apologize to your psychiatrist? The sessions are supposed to be about your feelings, not his. So technically you shouldn’t worry about his feelings. In any other situation, it would be considerate to care about others’ feelings—but you shouldn’t with Dr. Lecter. Maybe that’s one of the benefits of therapy; you can analyze why you feel a desperate need to avoid offending others. You can trust your psychiatrist to take care of his own feelings, so you don’t have to. It could be liberating, if you knew how to stop worrying.

You see Dr. Lecter’s car drive past. You don’t know what’s worse: if he didn’t see you at all, or if he saw you and ignored you.

He stops and backs up.

The passenger door glides open like magic.

You look around. No one else is around, and it’s dark. You could be unsafe if you stayed out here all by yourself.

You move closer to his car but don’t enter.

“Where are you parked?” he asks.

“I actually took the bus here. I lent my car to my parents.” Even though he knows your living situation, you’re still embarrassed  that you live with your parents and Dr. Lecter is like the most independent person you’ve ever met.

“How very generous of you.” You’re not sure if he’s mocking you, but when you look into his eyes, he looks 100% sincere.

You’re making a mistake, you know it. But you slip into his car anyway.

You’re about to give him your address, but his fingers fly across the screen in the middle of his dashboard, putting in your correct address. You’re only surprised for a second before realizing that he already knows your address. But—he doesn’t have your record in front of him. Does that mean he memorized your address?

It probably wasn’t hard for him. If he soared through medical school, he probably has the ability to see something once and memorize it.

He stops a block before he gets to your house. “Your parents would see the headlights and question who drove you home,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact; there’s a bit of what appears to be weariness in his eyes.

“I could just tell them a friend drove me home,” you say.

“I don’t want you to lie.”

His words hang in the air.

“I don’t want you to break your rules,” you say. “I appreciate the ride, but—if it makes you… uncomfortable.”

He says your first name gently to interrupt you. “If I am ever uncomfortable with something you have done, I will tell you. In the meantime, please take care of yourself.” His gaze softens. “You’re in a delicate state, despite your strength. This is the moment where addicts relapse, where so much progress can crumble beneath one’s feet. We must tread carefully. Your recovery is my focus. And it should be your focus, as well.”

He pushes a button and the passenger door glides open.

“Good night,” he says.

You slip out of the car. His car remains where it is until you reach your house. Maybe he was waiting to see if you made it home safely.

Your parents don’t ask any questions like “Hey, did your psychiatrist happen to drive you home??”

Dr. Lecter is confusing. One moment he’s cautious and the next thing you know he’s playing with fire.

Or… would Freud say you’re projecting onto him?

Chapter Text

The Thursday before session five.

One of your potential future roommates emailed you back! You and she make plans to meet at her apartment this Saturday afternoon to see if you’re a good fit. You don’t own a ton of stuff; you might have to rent a small U-Haul in order to move everything to the apartment, but mostly you figure you can bring stuff in your car.

Since, other than the occasional errand and your sessions with Dr. Lecter, you don’t really drive anywhere nowadays, you don’t make a fuss when your parents continue to use your car. Taking the bus is a hard adjustment, figuring out the schedules and routes and everything, but it is cheaper than paying for gas and parking. Maybe the medication is helping you to be more clear-headed.

Your parents inform you that their car, unfortunately, was so old and broken down that the mechanic told them they would have to say good-bye to it, unless they wanted to pay a ton for expensive repairs.

“When are you gonna buy a new car?” you ask, ready to offer help if they need it.

“Actually…” they say, and then inform you that there really isn’t money in the budget for a new vehicle. They plan on taking the bus and giving you your car back.

“No, mom and dad, you need a vehicle. How about we share my car?” You’re about to talk about how you’ll divvy up the payments for the insurance, and how everyone will just pay for their own gas and parking, when they tell you…

Uh oh. Their budget, at the moment, can’t even afford the insurance costs of your car.

They explain that they were barely able to accommodate the insurance payments, gas, and repairs for their old car. They would have told you sooner, but they knew you were having a difficult time and didn’t want to put more pressure on you.

“Oh,” you say. “That’s fine, I can pay for whatever you need.” Although as soon as the words come out of your mouth, you regret it. You would do anything for your parents—but, while love isn’t a thing you can run out of, money definitely has the potential to run out. Especially since you’re still unemployed.

You don’t want to stress out your parents, so you don’t discuss your worries with them, but you are worried now about moving out. When you move out and get a job, you’ll almost certainly need a vehicle—but if you move out, that means not only will your parents lose the support of your income, but they will also lose your car! You want to support your parents, but you also really want to be independent. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find a job that pays so well, you’ll be able to live on your own and buy your parents a new car?

The stress of it keeps you awake that night and your sleep is fragmented. You wake up feeling exhausted on Friday morning. When you’re exhausted, you always end up saying stupid things you regret later. You’re super anxious about your session with Dr. Lecter coming up.

You grab an apple to eat on your walk to the bus stop.

You wanted to stop chewing your nail, not only to impress Dr. Lecter but also to bring yourself closer to what you imagine his ideal woman looks like. But you’re so worried about the future that you end up chewing two nails.

Your bus gets caught in traffic beside a park. You look out the window and catch a glimpse of three people enjoying the snow and sunshine—a woman and man who look like they’re married, and their small daughter who looks young enough to believe in Santa Claus and old enough to say it. They look happy and totally unaware that you’re staring at them.

The woman is wearing an attractive jacket and has a body type that is completely opposite of yours. Her hair spills out onto her shoulders and you note that it’s a totally different colour and texture than yours. She looks like she might be around your age, maybe a bit older.

Her husband is nicely put together too, although he isn’t your type. His attractiveness comes more from the way he seems to glow when he looks at his wife and daughter. He has his arm around the woman and, when his daughter runs up to him, his face lights up and he kisses her on the cheek.

He seems like such a great father.

And he chose a woman who is your exact opposite.

You look down at your lap. You remove your finger from your mouth, surprised that you were chewing your nail without realizing it. And in public! Ugh.

You try to tell yourself that maybe their kid has cancer or some shit like that, just to remind yourself that no one is perfect even if they look that way. But this family looks perfect, like they have exactly what they want.

As the traffic lets up and the bus drives away from the park, you catch one last glimpse of the woman throwing her head back and laughing loudly. She’s probably extroverted too—again, your total opposite.

You haven’t told this to anyone before, but sometimes you try to mold yourself into what you expect others will want, just to try to get them to like you. Especially when you have a crush on a guy. If you think he’d like a loud, talkative girl, you try to be that. If you think he’d like a bitchy, feisty chick, you try to be that instead. The main reason you didn’t try that with Dr. Lecter is because you really want therapy to work and, for that to happen, you need to be honest. The other reason is because you really have no hope of imitating the partner that you imagine he would fit with.

When you arrive at Dr. Lecter’s office, he greets you in the reception area. You glance at the desk; there’s still no receptionist. Maybe he’ll decide to save money and not hire anyone at all.

He leads the way to his office and gestures for you to enter first. When you step inside, you look at his desk. There aren’t any picture frames on it.

Wouldn’t someone who had a partner and/or children have photos of them on their desk? So does that mean he’s unmarried without children, or does that mean he does have a partner and kids but doesn’t want to look at them?

There’s lots of sunshine streaming into his office but, as soon as he closes the door, the sun hides behind a bunch of clouds. The light from his lamps dominates.

The two of you take your seats in the armchairs facing each other. His face is pleasant and relaxed. His tie has a gleaming silver pattern on it that plays with the warm light from the lamps.

You lean forward, too tense to relax. You’ve been wearing the exact same outfit to all your sessions. If you wear something nicer, you’re worried he’ll think you’re dressing up for him, which is totally why you’d be doing it, but whatever. And you sure as hell aren’t going to wear anything worse, because you do want him to think you look nice. Even if that is pretty much wishing for the stars.

You’d rather be accused of being an outfit repeater than have him figure out you’re falling in love with him.

Deep breath.

“Tell me what your week has been like,” he says.

You don’t want to sound like you’re complaining, so you don’t leap into your sob story about money troubles and your car. “Stressful,” you say, although an answer like that just means he’ll ask what was stressful about it.

Instead, he asks, “How did you cope with the stress?”

You blink. “Um…”

He looks at you patiently as if the two of you are going to spend all day together instead of a single hour. When you look at him, it’s like time doesn’t exist.

You make eye contact to be polite, but it’s hard to keep yourself from checking out how good the rest of his body looks. His suits must be custom-made by God or Satan or whatever force is bent on twisting your life. “I think, um…” you say, focusing instead on how relaxed his body is and trying to absorb some of his aura. “I think I coped by helping other people, like my parents. It reminded me that I have a lot to give.”

He nods. He is silent, and you’re worried you said something wrong. His gaze trails down to your hand.

You glance down at your bitten fingernails, blood rushing to your face. “Um, I guess I wasn’t very selfish, though.”

“Focusing on oneself is not meant to be a treat. It is a matter of survival,” he says. “Since the dawn of man, those of us who understand that we contain the universe inside ourselves are the ones who place the highest priority on our own needs, the ones who will do anything to survive. You must place yourself first in every situation you are in, consciously, so that it becomes not only a habit but a way of life.”

You nod, a little bewildered.

“The universe does not compare itself to anything because there is nothing like it. A person whose power comes from within understands that to compare oneself to others is not only a fool’s errand but an addictive path to self-destruction. You mentioned last week that you have a habit of feeling inferior. I would be interested to know how often you compare yourself to other people.”

“All the time,” you say before you can edit yourself.

He asks for a specific example.

Before you know it, you’re spilling the details on the happy family you saw in the park this morning. How you try to pretend to be the person you think others will want.

“Has that been effective in achieving your goals?” he asks.

“No.”

“Then why continually pretend?”

“Because…” you say. “Then if a person rejects me, they’re not really rejecting me. But if I’m... just myself…” You shake your head, looking down. “I’m vulnerable.”

“You are making an assumption about what other people want. Some of my patients harbor delusions that other people can read their minds or that they can hear the thoughts of others. Do you believe you can read minds?”

You shake your head. “I wish,” you kind of laugh.

“You cannot read my mind and I cannot read yours. The heart of another is a dark forest, always. This unknowability is not an obstacle to overcome or a mystery to solve. All that is required of us is that we accept it,” he says. “Then you will be invulnerable. And from that invulnerability will come the quiet power that will attract to you the exact people you need.”

He speaks with such conviction and he looks so comfortable with himself, you instantly believe him. You accidentally inhale a little adoringly—then look out the window, embarrassed, hoping he didn’t notice.

After a few moments of silence, he adds, with a more approachable tone, “I couldn’t help but note that the woman you compared yourself to was the exact opposite of you in appearance. I hope you do not harbor the fantasy of looking like someone else. You are a unique individual.”

You smile a little and look down. “You’re a unique individual, too,” you say.

“Thank you.”

You look up and him and smile, so happy that he didn’t judge you or become upset at your compliment. It really feels like you’re connecting.

Feeling better, you add, “I guess she was pretty, but there’s all kinds of ways to look good. You’re right. If I looked like someone else, then maybe some people would miss the old way I looked.”

He nods gently. Is he agreeing with you, or is he just acknowledging that he heard you? You decide to practice being comfortable with not knowing.

“Tell me more about what has been stressing you. You mentioned you helped your parents this week.”

“Yes…” you say. “I’ve decided I’m going to share my car with them, and maybe give them my car when I move out. They need it more than I do.”

He raises his eyebrows inquisitively.

“Last week when I lent them my car, I thought it would only be until they repaired the new one. But…” You don’t like talking about money, but you also want to be honest with Dr. Lecter. “Their car can’t be repaired. They’re sharing their home with me so I’m sharing my car with them.”

“And you anticipate that this will get in the way of you achieving your goal to live independently.”

You shake your head. Then drop your gaze, already ashamed at lying that little bit. “Actually, yeah, I do. Tomorrow I’m gonna go see an apartment, it’s being rented out by someone looking for a roommate. It’s just… there’s a lot happening right now…” You take a deep breath to try to stop yourself from feeling overwhelmed.

“There is a lot happening. And you’re making it happen. Tell me, what is different now that has emboldened you to make these changes?”

You look out the window. You can see some of his bookshelves out of the corner of your eye. You wonder what each book smells like, how long it would take you to open each one and then put it back on the shelf.

You can’t answer him honestly without embarrassing yourself. But maybe he can handle it. He said not to worry about his feelings.

Your heart pounds and your palms sweat as you imagine yourself telling him that he inspires you.

But the words won’t come out.

You look down, defeated.

You’re not fearless like him, and you want to be.

After several moments, he must get the sense that you’ve shut off. He stands up and walks towards you.

You look up, hoping he can’t smell the fear in your sweat.

He holds his hand out to you, palm up.

You’re scared you’ve misperceived his intention, but you take his hand anyway.

He helps you to your feet.

You’re so shocked, you forget to let go after you stand up.

He doesn’t blink, and then he looks down, letting go of your hand abruptly. He smooths his tie and glances at his watch. “I seem to have lost track of time. Forgive me.”

“That’s okay. These sessions seem to go by kind of quickly…” you say.

“One hour per week is what I offer most patients,” he says.

“Do some people only see you, like, once a month?”

“High levels of acuity require my attention for more than one hour a week. I make exceptions for exceptional patients.”

 You stare at him, forgetting that your heart is pounding.

“I’d like to see you tomorrow,” he says.

“Um, but I thought you said you don’t normally book appointments on Saturdays.”

The sun slips out from behind the clouds and the sunshine awakens all the blood-red tones in his irises. With a total poker face, he says, “What are you… my receptionist?”

You freeze, but it only takes you a second to realize he’s joking. You laugh, covering your mouth self-consciously.

He smiles, revealing canine teeth.

He walks you all the way to the front door and, after saying he has another session he has to go back to his office for, he bids you adieu.

You walk until you reach your bus stop.

Even though you know he’s in his office with another patient right now, an irrational part of you wishes he would drive up like last time and offer you a ride home. But he has to do his job, and you’re understanding of that.

On the bus ride home, the route takes you past a grocery store parking lot. There’s a dad pushing a shopping cart with his toddler sitting in the front part near the handle, only the dad is running and the kid is giggling and squealing, totally delighted with the ride and the attention. It’s whimsical and sweet, this little universe the two of them seem to have in that moment.

The bus continues on.

You decide you’re happy Dr. Lecter doesn’t view you the same way you view him, because otherwise he’d be putting his job at risk. You know you’re not supposed to care about him, but you do… and you would rather live without him than see him lose the career he’s built. He’s helping people, after all.

Maybe tomorrow you’ll come clean. You’ll be brave and request a referral to another psychiatrist.

But secretly, a dark part of you is scared of what your desires have the capacity to make you do. You’ve never been a good actress, and you’re worried that it’s only a matter of time before you act on your feelings and say something stupid to him you can never take back. Instead of tempting him, it would be wise to just remove yourself from the situation in the first place.

You think back to the memory of him holding your hand for those milliseconds. And then you put the memory away, like a book on a shelf, forever.

The driver stops a few feet past the designated area. He apologizes and, when you step off, the untrodden snow crunches under your feet.

Chapter Text

The next day.

You leave your car at home and take the bus to see the apartment. It’s in a safe area and you hope you get it, although you’re worried about who the roommates will be. You only exchanged emails regarding the rent and to set up a time to meet; it’s pretty hard to assess how trustworthy someone is over the internet. You try to talk positively to yourself, telling yourself that hopefully they’ll be good people and not scary or creepy.

Wait… what if they’re awesome but they don’t like you? Not only will you have to find another potential roommate, but you’ll have the sting of being rejected by someone you actually imagined yourself living with.

You get off the bus, walk into the apartment building, and buzz to be let in—but before you can press the buzzer, an astonishingly beautiful young woman walks to the doorway with a radiant smile. She opens the door to let you in.

“Are you…?” She uses your full name.

You nod. “Are you Alana Bloom?”

She nods and gestures for you to follow her upstairs.

“Where’s Beverly?” you ask about the other roommate.

“Upstairs waiting to meet you,” Alana says, walking into the elevator. You follow. Her black curls bounce gently as she walks and her subtle feminine perfume distracts you from the stringent smell of cleaning products in the lobby.

This is definitely the type of woman that Dr. Lecter would date, you think, a little in awe of her but also a little sad.

But you think about what Dr. Lecter said about not being able to read minds. You remind yourself that you really have no idea what he’s attracted to, and Alana Bloom and he have nothing to do with one another.

Alana presses the button for the top floor, the 28^th. There’s a PH next to the button.

“Says PH, but it’s not much of a penthouse,” she says with a bit of a self-deprecating smile and warm eyes. There’s something about her that instantly makes you trust her. You hope she and Beverly like you! You take a deep breath, deciding that it will be best to let them do most of the speaking so that you won’t accidentally say something stupid or embarrassing.

You glance down at your phone to check the time (3:24 p.m.) but also to see if you received a voicemail from Dr. Lecter’s office yet. Even though yesterday he said he wanted to see you again today, he has yet to arrange an appointment! You’re not sure whether you should call him and remind him—would he think you didn’t trust him to take care of those things himself if you did that? You want to do something to relieve this feeling of being abandoned. If he said he wanted to see you but then didn’t book an appointment, is he purposely trying to torture your heart?

Alana compliments your phone case. She looks at you in an approachable way, like she’s inviting you to say something.

“Thanks,” you say.

The elevator door opens.

“Sorry I’m a little quiet today,” she says. “Little tired.” She leaves the statement hanging in the air like a question and looks at you while she leads you to her apartment.

“That’s okay,” you say.

 “Would you like some coffee?” she asks.

You agree just to be polite.

Before Alana can put her key in the lock, the door swings open to reveal a young woman with straight black hair standing confidently on the other side.

She sticks out her hand and introduces herself as Beverly. She’s wearing an expression that suggests she isn’t quite as trusting as Alana, although there’s something about the confidence in her almond eyes and the casual way she carries herself that makes you think she’s cool.

She holds her popcorn bowl out to you, raising an eyebrow. “Dinner?”

You take one kernel.

She laughs, stepping back so you and Alana can come in. “You can take more than that.”

Alana offers to take your jacket. After she puts it away in the closet, she goes to the kitchen, which is like a little hallway to the right of the door.

“Okay, the grand tour,” Beverly says. She walks to the kitchen and opens up the freezer. “This is where the vodka sleeps.”

Alana’s shoulders curl in a little as she giggles lightly. “Very important.” She gives you a look to say that you shouldn’t take Beverly too seriously. “Why don’t you show her her room?”

Beverly leads you to a short hallway. The bathroom door is wide open. There are bottles and containers all over the counter and the shelves of the shower/tub. It’s not messy, it’s just a lot of stuff.

She goes into the bathroom, grabs a handful of black bottles of hair product, and shoves them in the cupboard under the sink. “Look at all this attractive counter space,” she says alluringly, gesturing with her hand. “And we never leave our hair in the drain,” she says loud enough for Alana to hear.

“We also never leave dishes on the balcony,” Alana calls back.

It sounds like they’re joking, so you smile. Beverly winks, like you’re sharing an inside joke. She leads you to your bedroom and Alana catches up, handing you a mug of coffee. You take a sip; she put some sort of delicious creamy sweetener in it and it tastes like dessert.

The bedroom is empty, so you’ll have to bring your bed from home. Other than that, there’s basically enough space for a dresser and that’s pretty much it. The window has a nice view of some trees, though, and faces east so you’ll get to see pink sunrises above the buildings.  

“So,” Beverly says. “What are your flaws that’ll drive us crazy after a week?”

You freeze. Is she joking or serious? If you make a joke, she might take it seriously, so you decide to be serious.

She sees your face and bumps your arm with hers. “It’s not an SAT question, girl. Don’t look so serious.”

“Sorry,” you say.

You hear your phone ring, and realize that you left it in your jacket. Forgetting about the coffee in your hand, you start to dash away, but then coffee spills over onto your hand.

“It’s okay,” Alana says. She grabs a towel from the bathroom to mop up the spill, while Beverly dashes away. In the next moment, the spill is cleaned up and Beverly has her eyebrows furrowed, holding out your phone to you.

“What’s a psych-ee?” she asks.

You could either answer the phone and be rude to Alana and Beverly, or you could let it go to voicemail and potentially miss being able to set up an appointment with Dr. Lecter.

Alana nods to you with reassuring eyes. You take that as her giving her permission, and you head to the living room to answer the phone.

You take a deep breath and end up sounding a little breathless when you say, “Hello?”

Part of you actually kind of hopes to hear Will. Damn it, why do you miss him?

Dr. Lecter’s voice wipes your mind clear from the thought of anyone else.

You want to ask for a referral to another psychiatrist right now, but his tone is brisk, like he has a lot of work to do and can’t talk long. You don’t want to interrupt him, either.

He asks if you’re able to do an 8:00 appointment. You say yes, wanting to be agreeable, although you’re nervous about having another evening appointment, especially on a Saturday night. You’re scared that you might accidentally go into date-mode and that is not what you need, especially when you need to muster up as much courage as you can to ask him for a referral. You have to treat it like a professional conversation, not a break-up.

He does most of the talking. You pretty much just say ‘yes’ or ‘okay’ so that Beverly and Alana don’t overhear enough to figure out who it is or what you’re planning.

All business, he ends the call politely and you hang up.

Was it just you, or he was he being a little too brisk during the phone call? Or maybe he was just responding to your short responses? Did he think you were being rude?

What if he figured out you have a crush on him and is trying to push you away?

If he were to break up—refer you to another psychiatrist, he would probably be gracious enough to do it in person, right? Is that why he made the appointment so last-minute and so soon after yesterday’s session? Because he thinks it will only take a few minutes to break the bad news to you? In the sandwich of glamourous events in his Saturdays, you must be nothing more than a little crumb.

You know you shouldn’t worry, but if you could only figure out the answer to the puzzle, then maybe you’d feel a sense of control over what’s happening.

Beverly and Alana are standing in front of you. “Who was that?” Beverly asks, intrigued. Alana, on the other hand, scans your face and looks a bit concerned.

You don’t want to lie, but you’re also too private to reveal too much up front to people you just met. “Just, um… my doctor.”

“Are they hot?” Beverly asks.

Alana gives her a disapproving look.

“It was on her call display. Right?” Beverly says, looking between you two.

You haven’t gushed to anyone about your crush on Dr. Lecter, mostly because any girls you used to be close friends with have all been busy getting married, having kids, or moving away. Alana and Beverly seem friendly, but you’re scared of overwhelming them. Besides, if you talked about your crush, what if that started a rumour that Dr. Lecter had somehow manipulated you into falling in love with him? He’s not some boy you used to go to high school with, he’s a professional with a lot at stake. You have to do what you can to protect his reputation.

Your thumb taps the screen, changing his contact name in your phone to his actual name. “It was just a joke,” you brush it off. “I dunno.”

“It’s none of our business,” Alana says reassuringly, but her eyes are on your phone.

You push a button to blacken the screen, not sure if she was able to read upside down.

Beverly suggests the three of you go out for dinner, and that she and Alana will pay for you.

Alana speaks up. “Sorry, guys, I actually have plans.” She gives a little regretful tug of her lip, but there’s a hint of excitement in her eyes.

“What? Shut up,” Beverly says. “You are not sorry. Where is he taking you?”

Alana’s cheeks turn pink. “I don’t know yet.”

As you struggle to make meaning out of what they’re saying, any sort of connection you felt to them withers.

“Tell him he’s taking us out for dinner,” Beverly says, then says ‘he’ has to meet you. “This is the night he’s sleeping over,” she insists, like she’s giving Alana a pep talk. “I have to meet him. And he has to meet our new roommate. Right, roomie?” She looks at you encouragingly.

You smile, receptive to her friendliness. “Right.”

Alana pulls out her phone, then frowns, saying she missed a phone call from ‘him’. “My ringer didn’t go off.”

After Beverly and she check that the phone is on sound mode, she grows increasingly more confused as she tries to figure out why the sound isn’t working.

“I think you probably just have to restart it,” you suggest. You’re worried that they’ll think you’re bossy, but Alana follows your advice.

When the phone turns back on, the sound is working again. She smiles at you radiantly. “Thanks.”

You smile and look down. “I like to help.”

“Okay, okay, you got the room,” Beverly laughs, rolling her eyes hyperbolically.

Alana makes a phone call. After she hangs up, you suddenly find yourself with plans to go to Alana and Beverly’s favourite sushi restaurant. Alana is getting a ride with her date, while Beverly will be driving you so that Alana can stay out extra late if it’s, you know, an emergency.

“I don’t think he’d be the type to have sex in the back of a car,” Alana says.

“You never know. Don’t underestimate the quiet ones,” Beverly says. She points to the paperwork you’ll have to go through in order to officially become their roommate. “Fun now, work later.”

They both head to their rooms to change into something nicer for dinner.

You’re trying to work up the courage to speak up—you wore your nice, dark jeans and a longsleeve v-neck tee in an effort to make a crisp but casual impression on your new roommates, but you’re not sure what they’ll wear to dinner.

Alana comes out wearing a cute outfit with a skirt and Beverly wears a leather jacket and dark jeans.

“That’s fine,” Beverly appraises your outfit.

Alana looks at your face and sees that you’re still anxious. “What size are your feet?” she asks. When you tell her, she goes into Beverly’s room and comes out with a pair of three-inch red stiletto heel pumps.

Beverly looks a little mock-offended/half-actually-offended that Alana would go into her room and take something of hers, so she goes into Alana’s room and comes out holding what looks like a sparkling diamond bracelet.

Your mouth drops open. Beverly fastens it around your wrist despite your protestations.

“Don’t worry, it’s not real. Right?” Beverly asks Alana.

Alana smiles. “A lady never tells.”

Part of you wants to watch Alana and Beverly, to try to pick out the best parts and imitate them, in your own way, later. It wouldn’t be to make fun of them or anything, it’s more just about practicing how to act normal. And you have to consciously tell yourself not to imitate Alana just because you think she’d be Dr. Lecter’s type.

You have to be yourself with him.

The three of you grab your coats and head down to the street. Beverly and you head for her car in the parking garage below the building, while Alana heads over to her date’s car.

You and Beverly both want to meet him at his car, just to say hi, but Alana ushers you away, saying she wants alone time with him first and she'll meet you two at the restaurant.

Beverly and you walk away, but you catch a glimpse of the car as it pulls up.

Chapter Text

It’s Will!

You missed him so much and you’re so happy to see him. Surprising yourself, you run over to his beat up old car.

Alana is just getting into the passenger’s seat. She turns to see you running and leaves the door open, welcoming anything you have to say. Her face is brighter now that she’s beside Will.

“Hi,” you say, breathless from the run.

He gives you a little wave, shyly avoiding eye contact.

Does Alana look worried? You can't tell. You’re not sure if revealing how you and Will know each other counts as revealing his private information, but it’s probably better than Alana assuming the two of you are or were romantically involved. You want her to like you and if she sees you as a threat, then it's game over. “Will used to work in the office that my doctor works in,” you say simply.

“Oh,” she says. 

Beverly whistles from the entrance of the garage to get your attention.

The three of you agree you’ll see each other in a few minutes.

When you get in Beverly’s car, her dark eyes watch Will and Alana driving away. She puts her phone down in the cup holder. You glance down at your phone and realize the battery is almost totally drained. You want to ask if Beverly has a charger, but she has a different phone than you, so probably not. You don’t want to seem rude or stupid by asking.

“Just texted Alana,” she says. “Told her we’re gonna beat ‘em to the restaurant.”

Her playful sense of competition is a bit infectious. Normally you stay away from competition, too afraid of losing, but with Beverly it feels fun and nonthreatening.

She steps on the gas.

When you pull into the parking lot of the restaurant, you see Will and Alana just getting out of their car.

Alana catches sight of you and Beverly.

“Get out and run!” Beverly says to you. “We gotta win!”

You laugh but stay seated, too self-conscious to do that.

Alana and Will wait for the two of you by the front doors.

      Alana cocks her head and smiles when you catch up. “Could’ve sworn you promised to beat us here,” she says to Beverly.

      “Lucky for you my partner in crime is a softie,” Beverly says. You smile. Will looks like he’s not sure what to do.

      He holds open the door. You’re the last one to go in before he does. When you thank him, he nods to you. It seems like he held eye contact for a little longer than he usually does, but maybe that’s just in your mind. His eyes are really pretty, though.

      The hostess leads the four of you to a table.

      “Will, she probably thinks you’re a harem leader,” Beverly says when the hostess walks away.

      Will’s cheeks turn a bit pink and he looks down. “Hardly.” He takes hold of Alana’s hand. Alana squeezes his hand back and smiles excitedly.

      You’re dying to know the story behind Will and Alana. “Um, so, like, how did you two meet?” you ask, not wanting to sound nosy.

      “Will and I are both graduate students at the George Washington University,” Alana explains. “We’re in the same forensic psychology class.”

      Your eyes widen at him. “So that’s what you’re studying!” you exclaim before you can help yourself. A part of you panics. You were so excited to see Will and to be hanging out with new friends, you’ve forgotten to maintain control over yourself.

      If you don’t have your control, then what do you have?

      You take a deep breath, deciding that for the rest of the evening, you’ll think before speaking and let others do most of the talking. It’s safer that way.

      Will looks at you. Your stomach twists into a knot. Have you made him uncomfortable? This seems like pretty innocent information to you, but you don’t know how much of himself he’s revealed to Alana. Maybe he’s even more private than you are.

      “I just mean…” You’re not sure how to explain yourself. “Um, Dr.—my doctor kind of told me you had left your job to go back to school, and that’s all I knew. But..”

      Will’s expression falters a little, like a flower in a rain shower. Then he glances at Alana and looks down.

      “Sorry… I shouldn’t have brought it up,” you say, your whole body heating up. You pick up your menu and bury your face in it.

      “That’s okay,” Will says. “I just didn’t know he talked about me.”

      Alana sits up straighter and looks at her menu pointedly. “I think I’ll get the Roe Mix. Little bit of everything.”

      “I’ll split it with you,” Beverly says. Then she looks at Will, like she’s made a mistake. “Er, sorry Will, you guys should share. I’m not used to Alana having a date.”

      Alana’s mouth pops open. “Hey!”

      The server comes to take your orders. You’re so anxious about seeing Dr. Lecter tonight—and planning to ask for a referral—plus your guilt for creating awkwardness at the dinner table, your appetite is practically nonexistent.

      When the food comes out, the three of them see how few egg rolls you ordered. Will uses his chop sticks to pick up one of his sushi rolls and places it gently on your plate.

      You look up at him, touched. He smiles, but his gaze flutters down when you make eye contact.

      Will starts talking about how the FBI is patenting computer software that can read microexpressions on people’s faces, to better gauge what someone is feeling or thinking even if the expression lasts for a millisecond. Your ears perk up at the mention of computers.

      “But there’s no replacement for human empathy,” Alana says, squeezing Will’s hand. She’s so sure of herself, you wish you could be like her. You observe her perfect posture and tuck this image away in your mind to imitate later.

      “A computer isn’t as susceptible to personal bias,” Will says. “Sometimes people overlook what they don’t want to see. And microexpressions don’t last long enough for humans to perceive, anyway.”

      “I think it would be amazing to capture something so fleeting,” you say quietly. Then, to Will, you ask, “Are you helping design the software?”

      He shakes his head. “My minor is in entomology.”

      “He’s being modest,” Alana says. “He’s working on a thesis about how to determine time of death based on insect activity.”

      You blink.

      Beverly puts down her chopsticks and pushes her plate away.

      “Sorry,” Will says, looking at Beverly’s plate.

      “Well, I think the software sounds really interesting,” you say. You know you're not supposed to compare yourself to other people, but it's hard not to. “I wish I could design something that useful…” You feel inferior and insignificant again.

      Will holds eye contact with you for several moments. It jars you. You stare at him because you’re not sure what else to do.

      “Don’t,” he says. “What you’re feeling right now. It’s not worth it.”

      You feel a little disturbed, like he was poking around inside your head. “What am I feeling?” you ask cautiously.

      He eats his last sushi roll and stays quiet.

      “Did I miss something?” Alana asks. She sounds like she’s trying to be cheerful but struggling.

      Beverly exchanges glances with her.

      Although you hardly ate, you feel like you might be sick. What if Alana and Beverly decide not to be roommates with you anymore?

      You get up and excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. As you walk away, you hear Will ask for the cheque.

      You rinse out your mouth and let the cool water flow over your wrists. In your reflection in the huge mirror above the sinks, Alana’s bracelet sparkles on your wrist.

      The bathroom door opens. Alana walks in.

      “Are you all right?” She looks genuinely concerned.

      You don’t know how to apologize for being so awkward without making yourself sound more awkward. You struggle with the clasp on her bracelet. “I better give you this back.”
      “Why?”

      “I feel like I don’t deserve to be roommates with you guys. I’m just…”

      “Hey.” She puts a hand on your wrist to stop your struggle. “What did we do to give you that impression?”

      “Nothing…” You look down. “Sorry.” You take a deep breath. There’s no one else in the bathroom other than the two of you, so you decide to open up to her. “I have a diagnosis of social anxiety and, um… I’m going to therapy. My doctor—the doctor I was on the phone with, he’s a psychiatrist… he’s helping me with…” You wave your hand, already feeling like you’re babbling. But Alana’s blue eyes never stray from yours.

      “It’s okay. Will told me he used to be a receptionist for Dr. Lecter. I didn’t bring it up in case you weren’t comfortable sharing that,” Alana says.

      You exhale, relieved that she isn’t suspicious of your connection to Will.

      “Ready to head back out?” she asks.

      You smile a little.

      “Let’s head back out,“ she says, like she’s taking you under her wing.

      When you arrive at the table, each of you has a cheque in place of your plates. You pick up your cheque to see how much you owe, but Alana and Beverly both speak at the same time: “I got it.”

      You try to pay for your own meal, but they lightly argue with you. They end up each paying for half of your cheque. You thank them, feeling more secure that they actually like you and want to keep you as a roommate and maybe even a friend.

      “It was nice to see you,” you tell Will.

      “You too,” he says. You smile, feeling like maybe the evening hasn’t been as much of a disaster as you thought.

      It’s easier to be pessimistic, because then you don’t risk feeling the sting of disappointment. But being pessimistic also affects how you approach things, and you want to approach life like someone who is so used to success that they expect it. Someone who is fearless enough to be optimistic.

      Will and Alana head off together, while you and Beverly head back to her car.

      There’s a new moon out tonight and it’s darker outside than usual. You rub your hands together, already chilled. Beverly turns on the heat in her car immediately.

      When the two of you shut the car doors, you disclose to her what you disclosed to Alana about your diagnosis, just to be fair.

      “That must suck. But it’s all good,” she says. “Anything you need, just lemme know.”

      “Thank you,” you say, happy that she’s so supportive and cool.

      You tell her about your appointment at 8:00 and ask if she could drop you off there instead of driving you home.

      As she drives, she says, “Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of him.” She looks at your shocked face and laughs. “Kidding. But seriously. How hot? 0 to 10.”

      “Um...” You look out the window and squeeze your legs together. “Where 10 is I’m asking for a referral to another psychiatrist?”
      At the red light, she brakes so hard your seatbelt bites into your body. “Shut up.”

      “What?”

      “Don’t chicken out like that. He’s helping you, right?”

      You nod.

      “So don’t give up a good thing. You can handle this.”

      “But what if he refers me to someone else?”

      “Let him. You can only control yourself,” Beverly says. “And if no doctors'll take you, Alana’s studying psychiatry, you can be her guinea pig.”

      You’re still anxious, but you’re grateful that Beverly is so understanding.

      “Are you going to school?” she asks.

      “No…”

      “You seemed interested when Will talked about that software. Ever thought of studying computer science?”

      “Maybe. I’m afraid of not being able to keep up with the other students… I like to study things on my own, if that makes sense.”

      She’s been so supportive, you expect her to agree, but instead she says, “Hey, if you’re good at something, you never know. You don’t wanna be on your deathbed regretting stuff.”

      When she pulls up in front of Dr. Lecter’s office building, she pulls out her phone, taps it a few times, then says, “I texted Alana to see if Will’s sleeping over. She hasn’t texted back yet. I dunno if that’s a good or bad sign.”

      “You don’t have to wait for me, you can go home,” you offer.

      “You sure?”

      You nod.

      You walk into the building and turn around to wave at her through the window.

      She waves and drives away.

      The first floor lobby usually has lots of people in it, but tonight it’s deserted. Weird. But after sitting in that loud restaurant, you’re kind of grateful for the silence.

      You take the elevator to Dr. Lecter’s floor, expecting him to welcome you cheerily as usual.

      But when the elevator door opens, the reception area is entirely dark.

Chapter Text

     The light from the elevator creeps out. It's barely enough to illuminate Dr. Lecter standing across the room, staring at you. He’s standing too still. The dim light highlights the intensity of his eyes. Aside from his shoes, he wears only pants and a dress shirt, instead of his usual suit. Your heart quickens.

      The elevator door starts to close, so you step into the room. The door slides shut behind you. You’re afraid of the dark, but you know that the good doctor would never hurt you.

      You planned on being polite and letting him speak first, but you’re too anxious to stay quiet. “Why are the lights off?”

      He surveys you. If he likes or dislikes your high heels and elegant bracelet, his face doesn't register it either way. “Tell me why you want a referral to another psychiatrist.”

      Part of you is frustrated that he’s ignoring your question, but a larger part of you is afraid. You feel the strangest kind of naked, not where he can see through your clothes but where he can see through your skull. You already had the creepy feeling of Will being inside your mind; it's too much to bear Dr. Lecter knowing what you're about to say before you say it.

      The question of how did he know is on the tip of your tongue, but you’re discouraged by how easily he ignored your first question. You feel helpless, like a butterfly unable to flap its wings against sharp pins.

      When you need to escape but physically can’t, your brain makes you dissociate.

      But you don’t want to leave. You want to stay with him, for as long as he’ll have you.

      “Well…” You wait for your legs to give out, for panic to become your master.

      But... your body doesn’t abandon you.

      Wow. Every breath feels like a super hit of oxygen.

      Having total control of your actions, even under stress, makes you feel like some sort of war hero who’s conquered the enemy. Did therapy help you? Or was it love? You can't imagine having gotten to this point without his help.

      You feel like laughing, but you don’t. “Because," you say. "I’ve fallen in love with you.”

      Your lips part, and maybe some distant part of you is surprised by your words, but you’re too heady on this feeling of power to feel frightened.

      You’re confident you’ve said the one thing that will shut him out of your life forever. You won’t have to bear the sting of losing and you won’t have to torture yourself with the impossible fantasy of winning, because you’ve forfeited.

      And, more importantly, his career and reputation will stay intact. He can tell people you’re the sexually inappropriate, delusional patient, and he’s the professional doctor who handled the matter swiftly and effectively.

      Perhaps the break-up paperwork can be emailed, so you won't have to bother him anymore.

      You know you’re not truly as distant about the situation as you want to be. It just hurts less to act like you don’t care. If you let yourself feel how much you care, you’d be on the floor right now, like the loser you don't want to be.

      You turn around and push the button to open the elevator door. As you step inside, you wish the lights had been on in the reception area so you could take one last look at this place where you severed a piece of your heart.

      And then--

      He’s beside you in the elevator.

      You jump, surprised by how silently and swiftly he must have moved to catch up to you.

      The door closes. He blocks the button pad, leaning casually against the wall.

      Even though he’s so much taller than you—and stronger, and his shoulders are broader, and he’s better looking, and he smells amazing, ugh—you feel like he could do anything to you and you’d be able to handle it.

      “Why are the lights out?” you ask again, emboldened.

      “Because I wanted to do this,” he says, and you’re not sure what he’s referring to, until—

      His strong hands grip either side of your face and he kisses you.

      Somehow your hands float onto his, and then he guides you to the wall, pressing the length of his body against you, including his groin…!

      You gasp, breaking the kiss. You can barely think about... that part of him. It's... incredibly hard already, and he’s so masterful, it’s overwhelming. You could lose yourself to him, be possessed by him, so easily. It feels like a dream.

      “Sorry,” you say, worried that he might have mistaken your action as a sign that he’s a bad kisser or something. “I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid of... myself.”

      “You are afraid of me,” he says. “You’re afraid of what I’ll think of you. What I’ll do to you. You’re trembling.”

      He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. You shiver when his gentle fingertips brush against your earlobe. You move your hand to his chest. You want to feel his heartbeat, to remind yourself that he’s human. “No. I feel safe with you.”

      There is something like amusement in his subtle smile. “Is that so?” He presses his erection harder against you. You’re scared of how much you want to touch it, but you need to maintain control over yourself. This is all happening so suddenly. The universe doesn't just dole out good things like this. Does it? Even if it does, you're not sure what his limits are, what he'll let you get away with. “What if I wanted you to be a little afraid? Would you obey?” he asks.

      “I thought you told me not to care about your feelings," you say.

      He grips the sides of your face, opening your jaw, and kisses you again. His tongue traces your lips until you part them, helpless, and then his tongue enters you. You run your hands along his arms, scared to touch anything else. His breaths become more laboured.

      You wonder how heavy he would feel if he laid on top of you. There isn’t enough space in the elevator to lie down. You think of the couch in his office…

      You could be optimistic and think that his kisses mean he wants you sexually, that maybe he’s not playing a trick on you or your delusional fantasies are making you misperceive his intentions. Or you could use your usual pessimism to shield you from the eventual disappointment. You already tried hitting the self-destruct button to push him away, but it only brought him closer. Maybe the more you work at destroying your relationship with him, the more twisted and brilliant it will become. Does anything in reality work like that?

      He’s kissing you so elegantly, what if you offend his delicate sensibilities with your unrefined horniness?

      He drags his mouth along your jawline. “You’re an expert at doing what you’re not supposed to do,” he says, his breath warming your ear.

      You slip your hands down his solid torso, your head swimming at the touch of the subtle mountains and valleys of his hard abdominal muscles which are so delicious you wish you had taste buds in your fingertips. You wrap your arms around his back, feeling as many of his back muscles as he’ll let you. Every inch that he gives you thrills you.

      There’s too much of his body you want to explore at once.

      Almost experimentally, you place a hand on his erection.

      He lifts the hair away from your neck, then drags his sharp teeth over your skin and bites your neck.

      You can't help it--you let out a little cry. Is this his limit?

      “Is that what I have to do," he says. “to get you to lose yourself? Do I have to hurt you?”

      Why does the pain feel so good? You caress his erection through his smooth pants, deciding you’ll continue until he makes you stop. In this dream—it must be a dream, you never get this close to perfection in reality—you’ll press the self-destruct button over and over, until it stops feeling so amazing.

      The mirrors in the elevator have steamed up. The reflection of the two of you looks like one blob.

      You want him sweating above you, just so you can lick your own skin and taste his sweat. You try to drink in his heavy breaths. “Would you make it hurt?" you ask. "Or would you be gentle? If...” Your face heats up when you hear your voice tremble. “If you made love to me?”

      His wolf’s gaze penetrates you, slips up and down your body as though he’s already undressing you. His voice is like a shivery moan in your ear. “Do you want me to make love to you?”

      You’re shaking, fear wracking your body in this too-warm elevator. He has the power to crush you and a part of you is ashamed for handing him this key to your soul, for knowing that he probably knows he has this power over you and is still acting gracious about it.

      He leans away from you, disconnecting your bodies, taking the heat with him. He presses a button to make the door open and walks out, abandoning you.

      Your heart sinks to the floor and you feel the first waves of panic. You’ve pushed him too far. You knew the dream couldn’t last. Trying not to cry with disappointment and shame, you push the button to go down to the first floor.

      Before the door closes, he slips his arm inside and takes your hand. Almost laughing at you, a string of foreign words spill from his lips; it sounds like Japanese.

      You blink, trying to sniffle away a tear without being too obvious. “Um, sorry?”

      He takes both your hands and pulls you into his chest. “It’s something my aunt used to say to me. It means: what on earth are you doing, silly child?”

      “Oh.” Your whole body heats up, ashamed at how travelling down your usual pessimistic path actually embarrassed you rather than protecting you.

      You take a deep breath. Maybe it’s okay to be optimistic. At least for the next five minutes.

      Then he growls something, a shorter sentence, in a different language, and sweeps you off your feet and into his arms. You think you hear the word princess but he’s so tall, it's dizzying to be up so high, you focus on holding onto him tightly.

      You blink at him, a little lost in the music of his tongue. But then, you were the one who said you wanted to learn a different language.

      “’Dragons only kidnap princesses’,” he says. “An old Lithuanian saying.”

      Somewhere deep within you, a knot unties. A smile blossoms on your face, but you’re not nervous enough to laugh like you usually would. You grip his hard, broad shoulders, barely able to feel a hint of perspiration through his dress shirt. It makes you dizzy to wonder if he’s excited.

      He looks like he’s about to reply, but gets distracted by your smile.

      The elevator door slides shut, slowly stealing the light.

      He carries you away into the darkness, down the hall and through the threshold of his office door.

Chapter Text

      He sets you down on your feet, keeping an arm around your shoulders. With a—click—he locks the door. Even though you’re pretty sure you have the floor to yourselves, if not the entire building, it gives you an extra sense of security. But should you really feel this safe, locked away at night with a man you know almost nothing about?

      You wait for him to flick on a lamp, but he doesn’t. You sort of know the layout of his office by heart… so he must surely know his way around in the dark. His lips tickle your ear. “Why don’t you find a hiding place?” His tone is both playful and dangerous.

      Your head swims, caught off guard. You feel silly, wanting to laugh again, but you trust him. “Will you come find me?”

      He smiles and you feel the point of his canine tooth against your earlobe.

      Then his arm is gone from your shoulders, the security of its weight gone too. You realize how, in the darkness, a part of you feels afraid not knowing where he is.

      You want to stay still, just so you can grab him as soon as he turns around. But you also want to obey him…

      When he speaks, you can tell he’s turned his back and is still beside you. “You have five seconds.”

      After an awkward deliberation in your head, you slip off your heels and tiptoe across the room to sit on his couch. You would’ve been more creative with a hiding spot if you weren’t so down to fuck.

      He’s taking longer than five seconds. Maybe he’s lighting the fireplace behind his desk? That would be romantic… The curtains are shut behind you. Maybe he’ll open them so you can gaze at the stars?

      Strong arms grab your waist from behind. “I told you to hide,” he growls against your ear.

      With deft fingers, he unzips your jacket and throws it aside. You hear it slump on the floor. He sits behind you, his hard thighs on either side of your hips. As quick as a scalpel unzips flesh, he slips your shirt over your head and presses your back against his chest. You feel his warm skin against yours; he’s already unbuttoned his shirt all the way. You let out a small cry, surprised and turned on.

      You reach your arms back to bury them in his hair. “You didn’t tell me where to hide,” you say, turning your face, wanting to kiss him.

      He evades your mouth, brushing your hair over your shoulder. It tickles and you shiver. His gentle fingertips explore the tops of your breasts. “You need specifics?” he almost laughs. Then he shoves his hands up into the cups of your bra. “Put your hands on my cock.”

      You reach behind you, head swimming with how easy it is to obey him—

      And then he’s gone!

      You fall backwards momentarily. Your heart sinks, feeling ashamed at how needy you let yourself get. You spin around on the couch, reaching out.

      His hands find yours and he guides them towards his hips.

      Oh, he’s standing.

      You rip his belt off, too horny to worry about overwhelming him with your eagerness. Before his belt hits the floor, you’ve got his fly down and you can hear his breath becoming more laboured—just how you like it.

      You caress his silk-covered erection, placing your mouth near the side of it, a hair’s width away from kissing it. When you speak, you make your voice sound innocent and breathy so the warm, wet air from your mouth sinks through the silk. “Do you want me to hide this, too?”

      His erection jumps. It’s all you can do to stop yourself from putting your mouth on it. If he can torture you, then maybe you can torture him? It’s worth the experiment.

      And you still don’t know what his limits are.

      As you caress it, you feel the silk become damp at its head. Sacrificing one of your hands, you push his pants down to the floor and then quickly put your hand back on his cock. You know love-making should be slow and special, but your fear of him changing his mind or losing the passion of the moment makes you want him urgently.

      He smells so delicious. Before you can stop yourself, you trace your nose and lips over his balls. “You smell good,” you sigh, more of your warm breath sinking into him. He groans. Cold sweat collects all over your body. It chills you to think you have the power to turn him on like this.

      What if you do something wrong and lose that power?

      You slip your hands to his waistband, abandoning his erection to more breathy groans coming from above. The silk texture of his briefs is so foreign to your Wal-Mart-worshipping ass and you’re having fun playing with it. You pull the fabric down, letting it slide along his erection without revealing it, then pull it back up. Continuing to rub his erection with the silk—and the occasional addition of your lips over the silk—you lay your cheek against his thigh to feel his muscles twitch.

      He says, “I have another appointment after this, so you’d better hurry up.”

      You freeze. Your hands drop. All the air leaves your lungs. “Wh… what?” Suddenly helpless, humiliated, your breath hitches as you try not to panic.

      He pushes you down and straddles your hips, angling your bodies so you lay lengthwise on the couch. “I’m joking,” he says in a low voice, sliding his hands up your waist, over your breasts. He chuckles darkly at how seriously you took him.

      Ugh, is he sadistic or what?

      You turn your head to the side, feeling like you’re about to die. He bites your neck and you cry out, as if that was what it took to get your heart beating again.

      “What would you do,” he asks, unbuttoning your jeans, coaxing them down your legs. “if someone walked in on us, doing this?”

      “Um… I thought you locked the—the door?”

      “Imagine they have a key. Or they’re so desperate to watch us, they break down the door.”

      “Um…” Is he talking for real or just playing? His poker face and matching voice are driving you crazy.

      For all you know, there’s an entire audience lining the walls hidden by the dark. Dr. Lecter may have an exhibitionistic streak, but you’re definitely more private.

      “You hate being observed, but you’ve allowed me to peer into your mind,” he says. “You’ve exposed yourself to me already so intimately—feeling your bare flesh beneath mine is just icing on the cake.”

      You weren’t expecting to have someone see your underwear today, so you hope he isn’t judging your plain cotton bikini briefs. You try not to think that his ideal woman might wear a matching, expensive lace bra and panty set—but the thought barely skips the surface of your mind. You tell yourself that he wants you. Because you've been brave enough to be yourself around him instead of pretending to be someone else.

      You were so focused on his hands near your underwear, you barely noticed one hand slip up to the closure of your bra. In half a second, he unhooks it with one hand and rips it off.

      Fuck--!

      He slips one hand into your hair and the other glides over where your thigh meets your crotch.

      You turn your head and guide his fingers to your mouth, tasting them, letting them play with your lips. He makes a fist in your hair and tugs near the scalp, hurting you again.

      You can’t think.

      When his fingers are wet by your tongue, he removes his hand and slips it down to your other lips, pushing your underwear aside. “I’d love to have you for dessert,” he says, his mouth moving from your neck to your armpit. He sniffs long and audibly as if you’re a glass of the best wine on earth. Your face heats up, embarrassed that he’s smelling you, but he looks like he loves it. You place your hands on his back, feeling his ribcage swell, in awe of how much he seems to be enjoying you.

      He moves his mouth down your body, slipping your underwear down your legs, his fingertips tickling and dancing along your legs unpredictably.

      “Are you going to—go down on me?” you ask, realizing too late that your curiosity might have sounded like a demand.

      His mouth pauses at the skin below your belly button.

      Oh no! Have you offended him?

      “You’re trembling again,” he says. Your underwear whispers against your feet; he bites your toes before tossing your underwear aside. “So much so that I could hold my tongue flat against you and you could come all on your own. You barely need me.” He grins against the inside of your thigh.

      “No,” you say before you can stop yourself.

      “No you don’t want to come?” He reaches up, hands dancing up your torso, but he stops just before reaching your breasts and instead dances around them.

      You hear yourself breathing erratically and are totally embarrassed. “No, I—I want to…”

      “But you’re afraid of losing control, aren’t you?” His breath is hot and wet against your pussy, and you’ll die if you don’t feel his lips--!

      You reach out, wanting to caress his hair, but he moves his head away. You feel like crying. Why is he being so frustrating?

      He says your name, urgently, then licks up your pussy.

      You cry out, hands freezing in the air.

      “What a pity,” he says. “You taste…”

      Heart freezes.

      “… magnificent.”

      Your muscles dissolve. You thrust your hips up but he evades you again. Exhausted already, your hips sink back down, and then—

      He licks your pussy, tongue flat and slippery.

      “Oh--!” Your heart beats out of control and you turn your head to the side, trying to stay as still as possible so he’ll keep eating you.

      He brings his thumbs up to take some of your wetness, sliding them along your folds until it feels like he has three tongues, licking and caressing you with the perfect pressure.

      You can’t help it, you rock your pelvis. Part of you feels a little scared at how vulnerable he makes you. It feels wonderful and terrifying for him to have this power over you.

      He pauses.

      “You said no,” he says, his tone teasing but you’re too frustrated to tolerate it. “I don’t take that lightly.”

      “No—I meant, I need… you,” you say.

      “Do you? Or do you simply need me to take control? So you don’t have to be ashamed when you lose control? A princess who can say she was kidnapped by the dragon, rather than admit that she gave herself willingly. Will you give yourself to me?” He growls your name. “Or do you want me to take you?”

      You try to form a sentence, but he clamps his hand over your mouth.

      “Don’t tell me. Show me your answer.” He holds his wet tongue against your folds.

      You grind, once, with your hips.

      He doesn’t move.

      The harder you press against his mouth, the more pressure there is against your pussy. You try out slightly different angles, exploring how amazing each one makes you feel.

      “Slip your tongue inside me,” you say.

      Something wet slips inside your pussy and you cry out—but it feels like his tongue is still against your clit. Which one is his thumb??

      You rock your pelvis in a smooth, continuous motion, not believing how great it feels. It’s like sitting on a fluid throne. Any time you slow down or your cries die down, he sucks your clit—but only for a second, just short enough to make you wonder if he really did it or you simply hallucinated. But it keeps you going.

      You don’t even know if you’ll orgasm, and you don’t care.

      You’re not even listening to yourself when you come. You might have called him King or Lord or God knows what—but all you know is that you keep saying it over and over until, several minutes later, your orgasm dies down.

      You sink, wet and spent, against his couch. You wonder if its luxe velvet is the same stuff that's inside coffins.

      He prowls up your body. As much as you’re exhausted, he seems invigorated. You feel helpless underneath his energy and strength.

      When his face is above yours, you breathe, “That was wonderful.”

      His shoulders are broad enough to fit perfectly on either side of yours. He puts his hands on either side of your face, burying his fingers in your hair. “You’re wonderful.”

      Your face flushes. You grip his waist, trying not to tremble with what little energy you have.

      He puts your legs around his waist and slides his erection along the outside of your folds. He says something short and sweet-sounding. Is he speaking Lithuanian? Although your mind is curious, your heart doesn’t need the translation. You close your eyes.

      “I’ll give you just the head,” he says. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to handle all of me.”

      You can’t tell if he’s teasing or not. You want all of him, everything he’ll give you, but you’re too weak to protest. You manage to breathe, “Y—yes...”

      Slowly, he slides a fraction of his erection inside.

      You try to pull his waist closer to you, but he doesn’t budge. You whimper, too weak to even thrust your hips up. Your frustration physically hurts. “Faster.”

      It’s dark yet you can still feel his gaze penetrating your eyes. “Slowly,” he says. “So we can savour this moment.”

      He pulls out and you cry helplessly.

      He slides back into you, filling you just a little deeper this time.

      “More, please--!”

      He bites your neck and pulls out.

      “I’m sorry--!” Your body is quivering, empty without him.

      “Patience is a virtue,” he says. “I thought you were virtuous?”

      He slides into you, slower, but deeper. Every millimetre makes you pray he won’t stop.

      He stops. Like a ripple effect, you feel yourself adjust to his width. You want more, but now you’re scared of how deep he’s capable of going. You’re too helpless either way to do anything about it.

      “Hmm. My mistake,” he says, pulling out.

      He feeds himself inside you again, even deeper but frustratingly languorous. You try to keep quiet, but a tiny breath escapes you: “Harder.”

      “Do you know how I can resist your wishes when you beg so beautifully?” he asks, but his tone is that of a teacher’s. He grips your jaw, forcing your mouth open. Some of the sweat from his chin falls on your tongue and you taste his salt.

      He twists his hips, making you cry out helplessly.

      “Because,” he says. “I don’t care what you want. Not tonight. Tonight, you are here… for my pleasure.”

      He growls something else in a foreign tongue and drives himself into you, making you scream. You’re so wet, both of your entire pelvic areas are soaked.

      From that point on, he makes love to you hard with long, soul-rending strokes that threaten to kill you with every violent thrust.

      But you could die right now. Between this and heaven, there is no difference.

*

      You’re not sure how long he made love to you, but the two of you eventually rolled onto the floor and collapsed into each other. When you wake up, your head is on his chest and he appears to be asleep, his arm around you possessively. You feel safe in his arms, but you can see the light beginning to peek through the slit in the curtains.

      You gently untwine yourself from his body and slip over to the window, pushing the curtain aside. All you see is pink.

      The sunrise is glorious. You inhale in adoration and feel insignificant, but in a way that makes you forget all your worries. Your hair must be a mess and you’re totally naked and in need of a shower, but you’re just one tiny human being on this giant planet, marvelling at the purple and indigo clouds in the pink sky, the top of the sun barely visible through the snow-caked evergreen trees; a lot of snow must have fallen while you and Dr. Lecter were distracted. The white deciduous trees are naked but not shivering. And the office buildings, achingly man-made, pale in comparison to the magnificent, singular sun.

      As the sun wakes up, the pink, purple and indigo tones slowly surrender to a glorious, steady blue.

      You hear the scratch of pencil against paper behind you.

      You turn around and see Dr. Lecter sitting at his desk, his face relaxed. What is he writing? You freeze. He can’t be preparing for an appointment on a Sunday, can he? Is he going to kick you out? You dash over to your clothes strewn across the room, foolishly putting your pants on before your underwear and then having to take your pants off again.

      He looks up, gazing at you pleasantly with faint amusement. “Good morning.”

      As you search for your underwear, you hear him get up. He holds something out to you and you assume it’ll be your underwear, until you look over.

      He holds out the paper to you. It’s a sketch of you standing at the window, only your hair is flowing and goddess-like and there’s no way your backside looks that good. He’s beyond a gifted artist—the window and curtains look like a photograph—and if it weren’t for the fact that you look like a sex princess, you’d say the drawing was alarmingly realistic.

      “You’re really gifted. I’ve never seen anyone draw that amazing. But… that can’t be me,” you say, squeezing your legs together thinking of how long he must have been staring, unbeknownst to you, at your naked body from his desk. “I—you make me look, um, like Aphrodite.”

      He glances casually down your body. You freeze under his gaze in the daylight. “I draw what I see.” He heads back to his desk, placing the paper in a drawer and locking it. “Would you have an easier time seeing yourself as Persephone?”

      You’re too embarrassed to reply, so you busy yourself picking up your clothes.

      He dresses himself then helps you dress yourself.

      “Are you hungry?” he asks, his tone caring, as if he has all day to tend to your needs. Like the sunrise, there is a singular magnificence in the blood-red sparks dancing in his irises.

Chapter Text

                The two of you head outside and he leads you to his car in his reserved parking stall. He walks to the driver’s side. A little part of you is disappointed that he didn’t open the passenger door for you.

                He clicks a button on his key/remote. Both doors open at once, electronically.

                Sweet.

                When you’re in the car, you assume he’ll take you out to a restaurant but don’t want to ask in case that’s rude. Plus, you trust his judgement and it’s kind of relaxing to let someone else handle the steering wheel, so to speak.

                A part of you assumed that, after you slept with him, you wouldn’t be so nervous around him anymore. But instead, your anxiety has only increased—plus it’s mixed with this head-over-heels feeling. How can you have seen him naked, yet feel like he’s still such a mystery? But having someone’s body isn’t the same as having his mind. And that was likely the only time he’ll ever sleep with you. He has so much self-control and is so wise, he probably won’t make that mistake again. Everyone, even respectable doctors, are overcome with passion once in a while. You try to be grateful for the one night he gave you.

                You take a deep breath, breathing in the new-car-leather/gasoline smell, and try to absorb some of his calmness.

                He drives to a posh suburban neighbourhood and pulls into a large driveway. The house is super nice and--oh my God, this has to be his house!

                You’re too scared to say anything, and he isn’t saying anything; he’s acting as natural as if you come over all the time.

                There’s a person who’s almost done shovelling the snow off the driveway. Dr. Lecter rolls down his window and the person turns around.

                Oh my God, it’s Will.

                You recognize his beat-up old car parked on the street.

                Dr. Lecter waves at him and parks in the garage. “Will is still my employee, but now his responsibilities better fit his academic schedule.”

                He’s acting casual and you’re trying so hard to follow his lead, but you’re scared of what's going to happen. Will has now seen you and Dr. Lecter together—in his car, driving to his house on a Sunday morning. Will is more than smart enough to put two and two together. You’re frozen in your seat. What if Will reports Dr. Lecter?

                The passenger door opens on its own, but Dr. Lecter comes around to your side and offers you his hand. “Will is a man you can trust,” he adds, and his eyes feel like they’re seeing into your soul.

                You nod, hoping Dr. Lecter is right.

                He takes your hand and leads you over to Will to say hello.

                Will’s cheeks are pink—from the cold? Or maybe he feels awkward and embarrassed like you do?

                “You must be hungry,” Dr. Lecter offers, with almost the same tone he used when saying something similar to you earlier. A little part of your heart sinks. Does the good doctor collect people? You told yourself it was dangerous to hope that he thought you were special.

                Will shakes his head.

                Dr. Lecter offers to take his shovel and invites Will in for “A simple cup of coffee, then. You look cold.”

                Will looks shyly at him, then at you.

                You try to control your breath and focus on what it feels like to have the ground under your feet. It’s not Will’s fault that Dr. Lecter will never love you back. Plus you really like Will, and it’s nice to see him. You smile at him. “I’d like it if you... joined us.”

                Will's eyes soften a touch. “Thanks.” He rubs his hands together. He’s not wearing mittens and his hands are red. He looks like he worked himself really hard. He must have gotten here super early. You know it's none of your business, but you hope Alana had a nice night with him; Alana would probably understand that her boyfriend had to work in the morning. And Dr. Lecter is too kind for you to imagine him being a slave driver. Maybe Will just has an amazing work ethic? Why else would he be motivated to work so hard?

                Inside the house, Dr. Lecter leads you to the kitchen and invites you and Will to take seats on the bar stools at the counter. He makes a black coffee for Will and hot chocolate for you.

With a flourish, he adds brandy and marshmallows to your drink.

Will’s head is bowed, his curls hiding his face a little. “He’s good at knowing what people want, isn’t he?”

“An old recipe of intuition, logic, and daring to test the universe,” Dr. Lecter says.

You feel undeserving that your drink got so much extra attention compared to Will’s, so you offer him a sip.

He declines. “Nothing too sweet for me, thanks.”

                Too late, you realize that someone who wasn’t so comfortable with Will probably wouldn’t have offered him a sip of her drink.

But Dr. Lecter doesn’t seem fazed by what you said.

He hands you a loaf of fresh bread and a serrated knife. “You can slice this as thick as you like,” he says in low voice. Then he whips together a mix of eggs (he’s able to crack open an egg with one hand, wow), cream, cinnamon, vanilla, nutmeg, with a dash of salt. With his back turned, he asks, “How is Alana?”

                 “Good,” you and Will both say at the same time. You glance at Will but he avoids eye contact. Realizing too late that that question wasn’t meant for you, even though you never told Dr. Lecter the names of your new roommates, you duck your head, embarrassed that your eagerness to have a conversation with Dr. Lecter overrode your rationality.

                Maybe you spoke too quietly for him to hear, but Dr. Lecter ignores your error and gives Will some green apples to slice. You want to ask him how Dr. Lecter knows about Alana, but there’s only one way: Will must have told him they were dating.

                But a good boss would normally know a bit about his employees’ personal lives, right? The fact that Dr. Lecter asked about Alana could simply mean that he was being polite, following up on a single time that Will mentioned his girlfriend’s name.

                Then again… Dr. Lecter also doesn’t seem fazed by the fact that you also know Alana. How much has Will revealed about his own personal life and the people in it?

                If you hadn’t slept with Dr. Lecter, maybe you'd be better at being more clear-headed when thinking about his relationship with Will.

                In no time at all, Dr. Lecter creates a beautiful platter of apple-and-brie stuffed French toast.

                The three of you eat at the dining room table. The dining room has a really dark colour scheme and could be really ominous if it weren't for all the sunshine streaming in the huge window behind Dr. Lecter, at the head of the table.

                “It’s delicious,” Will says around a mouthful.

                You're too nervous to help yourself to seconds, even though you totally agree with Will. “I never thought that… um, Granny Smith apples could go with cheese,” you say, hoping it doesn’t sound like an insult. Worried, you add, “Like, it’s good.”

                “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so," Dr. Lecter says, raising his water glass.

                Will raises his glass, too, like they’re on the same wavelength. Feeling awkward and wanting to keep up with them, you do the same.

                “A French toast,” Dr. Lecter says. “To the unthinkable.”

                Will echoes him and you mouth the words, too shy to say anything.

                After breakfast, Will offers to drive you home. You follow him to the front door, but Dr. Lecter takes your hand and asks you to stay. After the two of you say good-bye to Will, he says, “You forgot something.”

                Gently, he brushes something—probably the powdered sugar which he generously sprinkled on your French toast but not Will’s—off your chin.

                The touch of his thumb sends your heart racing. “Sorry." Your face burns.

                He gazes at you, his thumb lingering near your lips. “You remind me of him.”

                You blink, freezing.

                He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Would you like to know how I knew you were going to request a referral?”

                It takes you a couple seconds to boot up your brain. God, why does yesterday seem like years ago? “Yes.”

                “I didn’t.”

                You frown.

                “I guessed that you were planning to ask for a referral because of the distance you were pushing between the two of us, increasingly so with each session. And then, when I helped you up, held your hand, I saw it in your eyes. It was the same look that I saw in Will’s eyes, three years ago, when he was my patient.”

                You feel dizzy and have to put your hand on the wall. “You hired a patient?”

                “I hired a former patient. The day after I saw that look in his eyes, he requested a referral. We both agreed it was best. Will has become a good friend of mine. Our busy lives mean that the only time we see each other is during working hours. Work can be tedious, as life is, sometimes. Friendship makes the hours…” Subtly, he licks your sugar off his thumb. “Sweeter. And it is imperative that I work alongside those I trust.”

                “I'm happy you trust Will." You glance away. "Do you trust me?”

                “How can I, when you do not trust yourself?” he says. “A referral would not be in your best interest. I believe that you still have a lot of work to do, and that I am the most capable at helping you. Namely, with your compulsion to destroy what frightens you and flee what you cannot destroy.”

                You look down.

                “But you are free to terminate our relationship, if you feel that is best,” he says.

                You’re about to chew your fingernail, but then catch yourself. You hold your hand firmly near your side. “As long as we keep it professional,” you make yourself say. You refuse to let yourself get hurt, not when you can see it coming from a mile away; you're not being pessimistic, you're being realistic.

                “Of course,” he says. He bows his head down to yours, grasping your jaw, his fingers brushing against your earlobes and hair. “Right after this.” He kisses you gently.

                You don’t realize you’ve closed your eyes and placed your hands on his waist until he breaks the kiss. The taste of the sugar from his mouth is still on your tongue.

                He grasps your wrists and removes your hands from his waist. You lean into him, wanting him to sweep you off your feet and carry you away to his bedroom. He still hasn’t shown you the upstairs...

                “Your roommates must be worried about you.” He gets your coat from the closet and helps you into it, then puts on his own coat. He leads the way to his car and you follow in the path that Will shovelled.

Chapter Text

                You spend the rest of Sunday plus Monday moving all your stuff over to your new place! Beverly and Alana are super cool and even helped. Being busy helps take your mind off of Dr. Lecter, but then he sends you an email saying your next session is Friday at 11:00 a.m.

                How are you going to wait that long?? You want to call him, but you don’t want to seem needy when he clearly doesn’t feel as intensely about you as you do about him. Plus, you want to respect how busy he is with his job. A little part of you wishes you could fit into his lifestyle…

                Instead of watching Netflix, you search for job opportunities on your computer. You’re determined to get a job, not only for practical reasons, but because you now have the added wisdom of knowing a little bit more about what you want to do. You look at computer-related jobs. You apply to all the electronics stores in the city, even the ones that aren’t looking for new hires. You try to channel the confidence that Dr. Lecter exudes as a way to inspire yourself.

Then, remembering what he said about you not believing you deserve the extraordinary, you apply for jobs that sound a lot more interesting and creative but would probably never want to take the risk of hiring someone with your lack of formal education in the field. Some of the other jobs are in different countries: Japan, Canada, Australia… You would miss your family and new friends, but it wouldn’t last forever. Plus, as much as you’d love to marry Dr. Lecter and have children with him, you tell yourself that that is an impossible goal. What if the man who will love you back is in another country? What if you’re meant to raise your children in another part of the world? You’ve never understood American culture, despite being raised here; it would be cool to raise your kids in another culture that hopefully made more sense, or at least one that cut you more slack for being so different.

But in your heart, secretly, your dream job is being the good doctor’s receptionist. You’d probably be too anxious to even answer the phones properly, but at least you’d get to be close to him.

Your brain says: if you didn’t love him—hadn’t slept with him—would you still want that job?

You shouldn’t let a man who doesn’t return your love affect the rest of your life.

                Before midnight, you email job applications to 87 employers. And then, exhausted, you fall asleep.

                On Tuesday morning, you do everything you can think of to distract yourself while still being productive: cleaning, looking up recipes and making meals in advance for Alana and Beverly (it’s a nice thing to do, and you want them to like you). But the day feels like it won’t end.

                If you’re idle for too long, you know you’ll be tempted to email your resume to Dr. Lecter and ask him to hire you. That would be a disaster, considering how adamant he was about not hiring you.

                Then again… just because you don’t work for him doesn’t mean you can’t help him…

                That evening, Alana knocks on your door, interrupting your fevered typing on your computer. She lets you know that she’s inviting Will over to spend the night; he caught the flu from working so hard outside in the cold, and she plans to nurture him back to health. She explains that she doesn’t want him driving when he’s so sick, so he’ll have to make fewer trips if he just comes and stays here rather than picking her up to go back to his place.

                It’s kind of sweet that Alana is so nurturing... It seems like she and Will will probably get married and have kids in no time. She’ll be such a great mom.

Will you be a good mother someday?

Alana doesn’t mention if it’s her idea or Will’s idea, but she seems nice enough that she would have offered. Will doesn’t strike you as the type to readily accept being babied… maybe Alana is more stubborn than you thought, assuming she had to convince him to come over to be taken care of.

                Not wanting to pry, you tell her you’re okay with Will coming over and that you’ll keep to your room.

                “What are you working on?” she asks.

                “Um…” She can’t see your computer screen from where she’s standing; you’ve pulled your dresser over to your bed, in lieu of a desk. You’re sitting on the bed and your high-power gaming laptop sits on the dresser. You want to be honest with your new friend, but you worry about her judging you, especially since you want her approval. “I’m working on a project for, um… my doctor. He doesn’t have a receptionist and I feel bad that he has to take on all that extra work. I just thought I’d try to make his life a little easier by… creating a self-serve appointment booking program. There’s already lots out there that I could install for him too… but, I don’t know, I kind of think he deserves, like, a personalized one…” You look down, feeling your face heating up. This is the closest you’ve come to gushing about Dr. Lecter to a friend.

                “Wow. Seems like a huge project. Can’t believe he’d ask you to do that for him.”

                “Actually… it was my idea. I haven’t told him, I just got the idea today. It’s more just something to do to take my mind off of, um…” You glance down at your bitten fingernail. “It’ll probably suck, but at least it’s something I like doing. I’ve coded my own games before, but this is the first time I’ll be coding something like this, and specifically for someone else.”

                She smiles. “Kind of like a gift.”

                You smile, relieved that she isn’t judging you for dedicating so much of your free time to a man who isn’t thinking about you right now.

                “I think it’ll be great,” she says. “And you should show me your games sometime.” Her phone buzzes and she checks the screen. “Will’s here. I’ll let you get back to work. Don’t worry about us, we’ll just stay in my room.” She nods goodbye and shuts your door.

                As the hours go on, you continue typing while occasionally hearing Will run to the bathroom to throw up. Poor guy.

                Someone knocks on your door.

                “Hi, Alana,” you say. “Come in.”

                Will pokes his head in. Wow, he looks really pale and thin.

                “Oh, hi, Will. Are you okay?” You hope you sound compassionate, not impatient.

                You expect Alana to be right behind him, but she's not there.

                “Alana’s making chicken noodle soup. Do you want a bowl?” he asks.

                You shake your head.

                He shuts the door behind him. “I just want to talk to you, I hope that’s all right.”

                You nod. You don’t have any chairs in your room and feel bad that he has to stand, so you invite him to sit beside you on your bed. It’s maybe a little too intimate to be having another girl’s boyfriend sitting on your bed, but he’s the one who wanted to talk and it would be rude to leave him standing.

                You’re nervous about what he could want to discuss with you, especially without Alana around. There’s something about the wary look in his eyes that makes you apprehensive, but you try to seem welcoming.

                “Sunday morning,” he says.

                “Alana said you caught the flu from working so long in the cold.”

                He bows his head and brings his hand to his mouth, almost as if he’s going to be sick.

                You glance at your trash bin. “Do you—need--?”

                He shakes his head and takes a deep breath, almost as if he’s not sure when he’ll throw up again. He glances at your computer screen and furrows his brow.

                “Oh—I’m just, um, it’s just—“ You wave your hand and move to close the laptop, but then second-guess yourself. Hiding the appointment booking program would just make you look guilty, so you leave it open. Maybe Will won’t know what it is.

                “It’s a lot more sophisticated than the pen-and-paper method he had me using,” Will says quietly.

                You keep your mouth shut, embarrassed that he guessed what you were doing. But, hey, that probably means the outline of your user interface is simple and straightforward!

                Will surveys you. “You’re in love with him.”

                You freeze. He said it so simply, and yet it feels like he’s poking around inside your soul. “He said I remind him of you,” you say. “But you kind of remind me of him. You, um, have a lot in common.”

                He shakes his head, looking down. “I’m still in love with him.”

                Your eyes widen. “But… Alana…?”

                He sneezes and you scramble around for a Kleenex, but he waves it away. He looks so pale, and his usual curly hair has lost some of its bounce. You want to hug him, but restrain yourself.

“She asked me out during our first class together,” Will says. “I hadn’t gone out with a girl since high school. Always got along better with women but… never fell in love with one. Alana’s the kind men fall for—I could feel that desire emanating from the other men in our class. Could feel how much she wanted me. I wanted to be the man she thought I was.” He stares at his hands. “Being gay isn’t a choice but… God, I wish it was. Maybe then I wouldn’t be so lonely. She said she loved me. Tonight.” He runs his hands through his hair. “I can’t hurt her. I never meant to lead her on. I just wanted to fall for a woman and I thought she'd be the one.”

                Totally caught off guard. You’re not sure what to say, other than “Thank you for trusting me enough to—to tell me.”

                “Thank you for allowing me to tell you.” He exhales slowly. “You’re the first person I’ve come out to. I know she's your friend. Wouldn’t blame you if you felt the need to tell her. That’s a pretty big secret to keep.” He lets out a little self-deprecating laugh. “I was selfish, unloading this burden onto you.”

                You shake your head adamantly, without hesitation. “I would never tell anyone. It's not a burden.”

                He glances up at you. His eyes are beautiful, even if they are a little red. “Just—don’t keep my secret out of fear that I’ll reveal yours. Hannibal and I are still… friends, and I would never spread secrets about his personal life. I didn’t bring up Sunday morning as a way to blackmail you, I just wanted to share my experience so you don’t make the same mistake I did. About falling in love with him.”

                It seems futile to argue at this point, especially considering you’ve spent all day creating a gift for him, but you ask, “How do you know I’m in love with him?”

                Will’s blue-green eyes search you and yet seem to look through you at the same time. “Pure empathy.”

                Your face burns. “Am I that obvious?”

                His eyes are kind. “No. I just… see you.”

“I’m sorry Dr. Lecter broke your heart. I wish people could choose who they fell in love with, too.” You put your hand on Will’s without thinking.

You hear Alana call from the hallway, “Soup’s getting cold!”

Will tears his hand away. Standing up and glancing at the door, he says, “Hannibal doesn’t fall in love. He just—“

Alana knocks and walks in without waiting for either of you to invite her. She frowns at the two of you—looking at you, in particular, a little longer than she normally does. “I made enough soup for everyone,” she says, but her voice lacks the warmth from before.

“Uh—“ Will says, then runs past Alana and into the bathroom. You can hear him throwing up in the toilet.

She furrows her brows at you, looking worried. “What were you two talking about?”

“Um.” She can probably sense the mood in the room better than you ever could. You don’t want to lie to her, but you’re not sure how to tell the truth in a way that will satisfy her and protect Will’s privacy. You wish you were better at thinking under pressure.

She waits for you to respond but, after several moments of silence, Will comes out of the bathroom. “Just offered her a bowl of soup and asked about her computer games that you’d mentioned,” Will explains to her.

Hopefully that response, especially coming from her boyfriend rather than you, satisfies her. You don’t want Alana to get hurt any more than Will does, but he has put you in a difficult spot now. Is it his responsibility to tell Alana that he doesn’t return her feelings? Or is that something you should do, as a good friend?

In front of you, Alana kisses him. “How are you feeling?”

Will thinks for a moment. “Lighter.” There’s a gentle smile in his eyes. “Better.”

She keeps her body facing him, but looks at you and asks, “Want me to bring you a bowl?”

Wanting to be as agreeable as possible so that she isn't suspicious about you and Will, you say yes.

Alana walks away, saying to him, “I know you’re feeling better, but maybe just stay in my room. I don’t want her or Bev getting sick.”

She forgets to bring you a bowl of soup, but you don’t want to bother her. Or Will.

                Not able to concentrate on the computer program anymore, you close your laptop and lie down in bed. You fall asleep eventually, wishing Friday could come as fast as possible so you can talk about this with Dr. Lecter. You hug your pillow, wishing that you could fall asleep with him, talk to him every night... at least, when he wasn’t busy with work. You wouldn’t ask for too much of his time, though—even a few minutes each night would be a gift.

You’re happy that Will trusted you enough to share something so deeply personal… A part of you prays that, one day, he finds a man who loves him back. You hope things work out well for both him and Alana. You focus on being optimistic so your stomach doesn’t tie itself into knots, worrying about what will happen when Will does work up the courage to tell Alana his secret. Or the disasters that could happen if he doesn't tell her.

Chapter Text

                The Thursday evening before session six.

                You want to turn your phone off and shove your phone to the back of your closet so you aren’t tempted to call Dr. Lecter, but if you turn your phone off you might miss calls from potential employers!

                In any case, you end up not receiving any calls from potential employers nor Dr. Lecter. Your phone sits on the dresser beside your bed temptingly. You focus on your computer until your eyes burn but, eventually, you need to take a break.

                You were determined to finish the appointment booking program in time for your session, but it’s turning out to be a bigger task than you expected. Part of you considers discussing with him the option of downloading an existing program from the internet—there’s lots of free ones that are good. But you’re worried that he would perceive that as you telling him what to do. You want him to know you respect his authority and would die if he believed otherwise! Anyway, he’s so smart, he probably already considered using an existing program. Whereas it would be different if he received a gift of his own custom-made program. Even if he never used it, it would let him know that you’re thinking of him; the program would be one of a kind, just like him… He’d be smart enough to perceive that hidden message and hopefully it would make him feel good.

But then you think of all the hard work you’ve put into it. Is it really fair to devote so much of your time to something that won’t be used? Your program probably won’t be that good anyway. What if he ends up thinking that you’re super rude by putting him in a difficult spot: he’d have to risk hurting your feelings by refusing your program. But hopefully he knows that you’re resilient enough to handle the rejection.

                You close your laptop and head out to the living room. Alana is reading a book in the living room and Beverly is making a snack in the kitchen. You ask them if they want to watch a movie with you.

                Beverly just looks at you and slams the microwave door shut at the same time Alana gives you a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes and says “Maybe later.”

                You’re getting a weird vibe from them. The old you would have retreated back into the safety of your bedroom, but the new you, the one that wants to be as fearless as Dr. Lecter, makes you stay. You don’t know what you’ll say, but you just know you can’t let yourself run.

                Even though you’re getting the feeling that they’re mad at you, you don’t want to assume everything is about you. They might have had something bad happen today that doesn’t involve you. In any case, you want to be compassionate. “Is everything okay?” you ask, not sure how to open up the conversation.

                Beverly walks past you with a bowl of popcorn without offering you any. But that’s okay, it’s her popcorn, you’re not entitled to it.

                She sits beside Alana on the couch and offers her some.

Alana declines, looking a little woozy. “Yeah. Just not feeling so well.” Actually, she does look kind of pale. “You don’t look so well either.”

                “I guess I’ve just been working too hard. I should sleep.”

                Beverly is staring at the TV, which isn’t on. “Sure you didn’t catch what Will had?” she says a little too assertively.

                You sense that there’s some subtext to what she said, but when your anxiety creeps up you usually end up responding to the explicit message rather than the ambiguous subtext stuff. “I’ve got a pretty good immune system,” you reply.

                “You spent a lot of time with him,” Beverly counters.

                “No I didn’t,” you say, confused. You fight the instinct to run away, but you can’t help but shrink against the entrance to the living room.

Beverly wasn’t even home on Tuesday night, how does she know? Alana must have told her. It’s great that they’re such close friends, but it also kinda feels like they’ve teamed up against you.

                You can’t let your brain go down that neuronal path. Lock that gate. No one is against anyone, you’re all just having a conversation. And you started the conversation because you’re assertive now.

                “Then why do you look worse than Alana does?” Beverly asks.

                “Well, that’s always the case…” you say, trying to make a joke.

But they don’t even smile.

                You want to ask Alana if you can talk in private. You know it’ll probably offend Beverly, but Beverly’s passive aggressive jabs are really ruining your confidence.

                Alana puts down her book. Oh good, has she read your mind?

                “Can’t be around that popcorn right now,” she says, speed-walking past you. She darts into the bathroom and shuts the door.

                Beverly turns on the TV and pumps up the volume a couple notches higher than it needs to be. Is that your cue to leave?

                She finally makes eye contact with you, which makes you feel good, but then she cocks her head in a way that indicates she wants you to come closer. Anxiety sticks you to your spot.

                You think of Dr. Lecter and his relaxed body language. You take a deep breath and sit down beside Beverly. You feel fake but she can’t read your mind; if you are able to convey even a fraction of the confidence Dr. Lecter naturally conveys, then no matter how this conversation goes, it will be a victory.

                She offers you the bowl. Surprised, you take a kernel, then remember how last time she encouraged you to take more, so you take a handful instead, wanting to be polite.

                “Look,” she says, her voice low. “Alana’s too nice to say anything. But. She told me what happened Tuesday night.”

                “What--?”

                You hear Alana throw up in the toilet. Beverly looks in the direction of the bathroom and then back at you, her dark eyes conveying a no-bullshit tone. “She’s upset.”

                You get the sense that they’re accusing you of doing something you didn’t do, and the indignity of it makes you more assertive. “I was sitting in my room, Will came in saying he wanted to talk, we talked for a few minutes while Alana made chicken noodle soup.”

                “She said she found the two of you on your bed.”

                “I asked him if he wanted to sit on my bed because I don’t have any chairs.”

                She cocks her head. “She said he told her it was his idea to sit on your bed. I wonder why your stories don’t match up.”

                How much has Alana been talking about this with Will and Beverly??

The popcorn is cold in your hand. You don’t like arguing; you hate conflict, you hate seeing people upset, and you can never think straight when you’re put on the spot. You don’t know what strategy would be more effective: showing vulnerability to Beverly or being tough?

Dr. Lecter would know exactly what to do. What would he do?

He would confront Alana, since she’s the source, right? But you would feel bad confronting someone who’s so sick.

Even though the popcorn is sweaty from your palm, you eat it to give yourself a moment to think. You look down, trying to imagine Dr. Lecter is talking to you.

Alana is upset because she is in love with her boyfriend who doesn’t love her back. She’s probably feeling frustrated and doesn’t want to take it all out on Will because that would risk pushing him away, but she needs to vent, so she talks to her best friend.

The toilet flushes and the sink runs. You only have a few seconds before Alana comes back out. But maybe she’ll go straight to her bedroom?

“I know you’re just being loyal to your friend,” you say slowly, not wanting to stutter. Beverly’s eyes are staring straight at you. You clasp your hands in your lap, pretending one of them is Dr. Lecter’s hand. “I’m loyal to you and Alana too because you guys are my friends. I trust you, but it doesn’t seem like you trust me. What do I need to do that will get you to trust me?”

The bathroom door opens.

Alana walks out and sees you two sitting close on the couch. She can probably tell from your faces what you’re talking about; she is way better at reading subtext than you’ll ever be. She stands in front of the TV and Beverly shuts it off.

Beverly looks at her, then at you. “What exactly did Will say to you?”

It would be so easy to tell them. It’s the truth, after all. Even if they didn’t believe it.

But you swore to Will you’d keep his secret. Even if you say anything that hints that Will told you a secret, you won’t be able to get Alana and Beverly off your back.

You’re feeling outnumbered. Would Dr. Lecter think this feeling is justified? You want to include Beverly in the conversation so they both know you’re being open, but you would feel less pressured if it were just you and Alana.

You look between the two of them. “I think I need to tell this to Alana in private.”

Beverly looks like she’s about to say something, but Alana gives her a look.

You follow Alana to her bedroom.

Alana closes her bedroom door behind you. Her room smells really nice, like flowers and vanilla, and it’s a bit bigger than yours. Her double bed is neatly made with a dark purple patterned bedspread—a little more dramatic than you’d think she’s go for. There’s a lot of makeup organized on her dresser, which is surprising because she looks like she doesn’t wear a lot of makeup. You don’t see the diamond bracelet you borrowed anywhere. Beverly must be really good friends with her to have known where she hides it.

She pulls out her desk chair so you have a place to sit, then sits on her bed. “Don’t want you to get my germs. You actually don’t look that sick,” she concedes, sighing. She leans against her pillows and puts her feet up, looking exhausted.

You actually do feel a bit sick, especially after hearing her retching, but you don’t want to focus on yourself right now. You want to help Alana. “Are you okay?” you ask. You know she feels threatened by your relationship with Will and is basically starting some passive-aggressive gossip fight with you, but you can’t help but feel bad for her.

Her blue eyes look even bluer because of how red they are. She’s quiet for a long time and you wonder if she’s going to run to the bathroom again, when—

A tear runs down her face. She hastily swipes at it.

You lean forward, feeling your chest tighten like you can feel her pain. “Oh my God, Alana.” You’re not sure whether the queasiness in your stomach is from empathy.

“I don’t know—I don’t know what to do.” She’s clearly trying hard not to cry. Even though your heart breaks for her, you’re touched that she’s willing to be so vulnerable in front of you. “I cried myself to sleep last night. I don’t want Will and I to break up.”

“I don’t want you to break up either,” you say, and your heart means it even though your brain knows it’s probably going to happen.

“Don’t know if he told you, I said ‘I love you’ to him.” She looks at you. “Did he tell you he didn’t say anything back?”

“That’s the worst,” you say. Dr. Lecter would say that, right? Would he be able to dodge the question altogether?

Alana waits for you to continue.

You try to figure out how much you can tell her without betraying Will’s confidence. “He… he said… All I know is that you said you love him. He’s really private, he didn’t tell me much.”

“He is private. At first I thought he was mysterious but now he’s just frustrating. Couldn’t just sit there while he didn’t say anything, so I got up to make him some soup. Turn around and he’s in your room. Timing is just…” She sighs.

“I’m glad we’re talking about it.” You try to arrange some eloquent words in your head. “You sound jealous.”

You freeze. Oh my God, could you have said anything worse? Why do some things sound so much better in your head? You’ve probably put her on the defensive now.

“I mean—you shouldn’t be jealous,” you add. “Like, you’re so gorgeous—and you and Will are perfect for each other—“ You shut yourself up, realizing that in your effort to be nice you actually kind of strayed into fibbing territory. She is gorgeous, but the two of them just aren’t meant to be, no matter how badly you want it to work out well for Alana.

Alana wipes her eyes, laughing a little self-deprecatingly and shaking her head at your compliment. “Then how come guys don’t talk to me? I had to make the first move on Will. If I hadn’t he probably wouldn’t have talked to me.”

“He did tell me that every guy in your class was staring at you. I mean, I haven’t been to your class, but it seems like everyone wants you.”

She looks at you hopefully. “He told you that?”

You nod.

“If he weren’t so honest I’d think he was full of crap. Sometimes I think he’s like a one-way mirror.” She gets a distant look in her eyes. “He can see everyone so clearly, and yet…” She sighs. “Just seems like you were the one person he let behind that mirror.”

Maybe it’s just the flowers and vanilla smell in her room, but you feel dizzy. She doesn’t have a trash bin in her room.

Alana clutches her stomach, leaning forward and looking alert. Then she lays back down. “Shouldn’t have kissed him, I knew I was gonna get sick. You know, I was so worried, I actually kinda thought he kissed you.”

You laugh.

“But you’re not sick.” She smiles.

“Well, the flu is airborne,” you say. “Just having him here exposed us all.”

“Right. Guess I’m not thinking clearly. Probably just tired.”

You’re about to ask her if she wants to watch a movie or just head straight to bed, when—

You leap up, scared you won’t make it to the bathroom on time. You yank open the door and rush over in time to puke all over the bathroom floor. Your face burns, totally humiliated. You start looking through the cabinet under the sink for cleaning products.

Beverly walks over and looks down at you. “Wow.”

“S—sorry,” you say, not able to look at her. The popcorn smell clings to her and, combined with the cleaning product smell, makes you even more nauseous. You haven’t had dinner yet and now you wonder if you’ll ever be able to eat again.

Alana pads over and exchanges glances with her.

“Do you feel sick, Bev?” she asks.

“I feel fine,” Beverly replies. “Did she say what Will said?”

“He didn’t tell her anything.”

“Maybe we got it wrong,” Beverly says. “Maybe she’s the one who told him something.”

“Oh my God, stop it!” You leap up, wiping at your chin. You don’t even want to look at your reflection in the bathroom mirror because you probably look like hell. You tried so hard to act like Dr. Lecter and it didn’t get you anywhere—Beverly and Alana are still suspicious of you. You’re scared of what could fly out of your mouth, but you can’t stay silent. “Talk to your boyfriend, Alana! I don’t have feelings for him, I never touched him, I don’t want him!”

You stare down at the half-cleaned mess on the floor, but Beverly and Alana are so stunned at your outburst, it’s like they’ve forgotten about the mess.

In the silence, you realize that, for the first time that you can remember, you actually showed your anger.

Does this mean you need anger management classes?

You remember what you told Dr. Lecter, about how you never showed your anger, that it eats you instead. All those little holes inside you that came from crying or hiding whenever you felt mad, just to spare other people, suddenly fill. You feel whole and intact, like a solid person standing up to two people.

 You tried your best. And you failed. If Alana and Beverly hate you, then that’s their problem. It’ll suck to have to move out, but you don’t care what they ask you to do.

 “I’m in love with someone else,” you say.

Alana darts towards you. Despite your anger, you feel a spark of hope. You open your arms to hug her. Has she forgiven you?

She darts around you and kneels over the toilet to puke.

You cringe. Some of your puke got on the bottom of her foot. Oh my God, what a mess.

Beverly shifts her weight to one foot and crosses her arms. “Fucking Christ.”

She marches to the kitchen. You hear the freezer door open normally but then slam shut hard enough to jostle the fridge.

She returns to find Alana lying in the bathtub, legs up and facing the ceiling like a dead animal, and you on your hands and knees trying to clean up.

“I’ll be at the bar, bitches,” Beverly says, leather jacket already in hand.

She slams the front door.

Alana’s leg is hanging over the edge of the tub, so you gently wipe the puke off her foot with a fresh paper towel.

Her eyeliner is smudged a little on one of her eyes. You didn't even know she was wearing eyeliner.

“I’ll talk to Will,” she says.

Chapter Text

Friday.

You and Alana spent the whole night throwing up.

So much for finishing that computer program in time.

In the morning, Alana says she’s going to skip her classes for the day. You pick up your phone so you can call Dr. Lecter’s office. You could email, but it’s urgent that he know you won’t make it today, and you actually really want to hear his voice!

You were hoping to feel a little bit better but, with this flu combined with total lack of sleep, there’s no way you’re in any shape to see him, no matter how much you want to. Besides, what if you get him sick? All you’re missing is your sessions, but if Dr. Lecter gets sick, he’ll have to cancel all his sessions and miss whatever other professional shit he’s got going on. Even though the next time you’ll see him, you won’t have the flu anymore (hopefully!), you pray that he got his flu shot or already came into contact with Will or someone and has developed the antibodies for this year’s flu strain.

You think about how Will let Alana nurse him back to health. Would Dr. Lecter let you…?

Would he let anyone?

                You try to imagine Dr. Lecter getting sick. You know he’s just human so he must get sick from time to time, although you can’t picture it. In your mind, there’s something about him that seems superhuman.

                You write what you plan to say to him on a piece of paper so that when you get nervous, you’ll remember what to say.

The call goes to voicemail. It’s Will’s pre-recorded voice that asks you to leave a message.

                You want your message to sound as professional as possible in case he hired a new receptionist who will end up hearing your message. You state the facts and then end the message.

                Even though it’s just after 9:00 and the sun is pouring through the fabric of your cheap-ass curtains, you put the phone on your bedside table and try to get some sleep.

                About 30 minutes later, your phone starts ringing.

                Is it --?!

                You check the screen. But it’s not him, it’s some random number with your city’s area code. Well, hopefully it’s a potential employer calling you! Even though you normally don’t take calls from strange numbers, you’re determined to get a job and to show potential employers that you’re a confident person who won’t waste their time.

                “Hello, this is…” You answer with your name, using a tone that you hope sounds calm and professional, even though you’re exhausted and nauseous.

                “Good morning,” he says.

                You bolt upright in bed. Re-check the screen. Press it to your ear again. “Dr. Lecter?” you ask, breathless. Did he get a new office number?

                “I’m sorry to hear you’ve fallen ill. I wish you a speedy recovery. In the meantime, I hope you are feeling up to the task of taking a stroll to the lobby of your apartment building.”

                You sit there with your mouth open. Heart pounding.

                “I promise you won’t be disappointed,” he adds.

                You try to calm down. You thought for sure he would be too busy to acknowledge your voicemail, and now not only has he returned your call but he’s asking you to do something?

                “Um, okay,” you say, running a hand through your messy hair. You climb out of bed, keeping the phone pressed against your ear so you can chat with him the whole time you walk downstairs. You really missed talking to him.

                He thanks you and ends the call. You try not to let your heart sink.

                You slip on your old shoes and take your keys and phone with you to see whatever’s going on down in the lobby. It’s just past the hour when most of the (employed) people in your building have already left for work, so luckily no one shares the elevator with you. You’d be a bit embarrassed if any of your neighbours saw you in your pajamas, but you’ve seen some of them in sweatpants and lounge clothes, so it’s not out of the ordinary for this building.

                The lobby of this building is pretty sweet, it’s got lots of couches, generic greyscale paintings, and the far wall is just a huge window so the trees outside look like part of the decorations. You don’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

                Through the huge window, you see his car parked at the entrance.

                Your entire body heats up. You don’t have enough time to go back upstairs and make yourself look better and you’re not really sure what he wants anyway, so you take a deep breath and walk up to the door. You don’t have your jacket with you, so you don’t step outside.

                He looks over. You fold your arms across your body self-consciously.

                The passenger door opens automatically and he gives a subtle head nod, asking you to get in.

                Even though it’s cold outside, it’ll only take a second to dash into his car. You push open the front door and leap into his car, the passenger door sliding closed after you.

                “Hey,” you say, too anxious and confused to keep quiet.

                He’s wearing neatly ironed pants, a crisp wool coat, and a silk scarf that is tied in a totally symmetrical way. He doesn’t wear a hat or earmuffs, but his ears aren’t even red. There’s a touch of extra colour in his cheeks but it just makes him look like a vampire who drank a blood energy-drink. It’s like God is his makeup artist.

He glances down your body. You wonder if the cold has hardened your nipples.

“Sorry,” you look down at your pajamas.

“It is entirely my fault. I failed to warn you of my intentions,” he says. “I also failed to provide you with a more private way of contacting me. Given our night together, it’s the least a gentleman would have done. I hope you will forgive me.” He gives you a smile and drives away.

You look back at the building. You want to ask where you’re going, but you trust him. He must have assumed that you don’t have any plans for the day since you’re sick. Maybe he’s taking you to a general doctor for an assessment? He knows you gave your car to your parents; maybe he’s just going the extra mile as a psychiatrist by ensuring his (favourite?) patient is getting the medical attention she needs.

You’re able to believe he’s fond of you, sure. But winning his love or long-term commitment are the impossible things.

You look at him, confused. You check the call history on your phone and see the random number he used earlier.

Without glancing at your phone, he knows what you’re looking at. “You may call my private mobile number in case of any emergency.”

“Define emergency?”

“At 3:00 a.m., you’re unable to sleep, perhaps you need a bedtime story.” He slips his hand casually into yours. The touch almost makes you drop your phone and you can’t speak for the rest of the drive.

Instead of taking you to a doctor’s office, he drives you to his home. This time, Will isn’t on the driveway… but what if he’s inside?

Before opening the passenger door for you, he takes off his coat and slips it over your shoulders. You can’t help but smile, probably looking like a fool. You tuck your arms into the sleeves so you can feel as much as his second-hand warmth as possible.

He guides you by the hand to his front door. When you look down, you note the polished leather of his shoes and try to forget that your shoes look like hot crap.

When you get inside, he shows you where the bathroom is on the first floor. Then he settles you in the living room on his couch with a plush throw blanket that smells like clean laundry. He tells you to wait a moment while he gets his thermometer.

During his absence, you check out his living room. The furniture is cream-coloured and soft enough to sink into and never be able to pull yourself out of. There’s a flat-screen TV, lurking like a black mirror low against the wall, but it doesn’t dominate the room like in some people’s living rooms. His dark curtains are open, welcoming the light but they’re way better quality than yours; he could probably make it look like nighttime if he shut them.

He takes your temperature, then takes a deep breath through his nose while looking at the reading. At first you worry that that meant you have a fever, but he assures you your temperature is normal. He doesn’t show you the thermometer’s tiny screen and part of your mind is curious about the actual number. Although it’s kind of nice to feel taken care of, like he’s got it all under control.

“Thank you,” you say.

“You’re welcome. Have you had breakfast?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know if I’d be able to keep it down.”

He says he’ll get you a glass of ginger ale and some crackers. You watch his tall figure depart into the kitchen. His shiny belt winks at you in the light.

On the heavy coffee table in front of the couch, there are some magazines neatly fanned out. The top one says VOGUE but the words on the cover look like Italian. You pray to God you can hear him speak Italian sometime, that would be so—

Okay, focus. He’s just doing you a favour by keeping you out of an already-infected hospital or general doctor’s office. Or maybe he’s doing his fellow doctors a favour by not adding you to their caseload?

You try not to feel guilty for taking up Dr. Lecter’s time, even though it was his idea to come here. You wonder when he’ll have to leave to go back to his office. Your session technically would’ve ended at noon, so his next appointment should be shortly after that, unless he breaks for lunch…

He returns with exactly what he promised you. The crystal tumbler of ginger ale sparkles in the sunshine.

He observes the stiff way you’re sitting. Even though he wrapped a blanket around your shoulders, you still feel weird just chilling in his living room.

“Make yourself at home. I don’t have another appointment until 1:30,” he says.

“Okay,” you say. Testing him, you put your sock-clad feet on his couch so you can lie down, but he seems pleased with this.

You feel awkward just lying there. All the other magazines have gourmet food on the covers. You’re curious about the recipes, but it’s just too surprising that he’s got a Vogue on his table, so you pick that up instead. The spine says dicembre 2018. You don’t speak Italian but translating that is like a no-brainer.

Wow, it’s been December for like a minute and he’s already got the current edition?

There’s an impossibly tall, skinny female model on the cover. Your heart sinks. Maybe Vogue is his version of that swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated.

He looks like he’s about to go back into the kitchen but pauses. Politely, he says a long sentence that sounds like a bunch of ch’s. All you hear is the last word which you’re pretty sure was ‘italiano’.

You hold his gaze for a few seconds. You’re kind of astonished that he thinks you’re that fluent in Italian. In the awkward silence, you start giggling.

He smiles, amused, and heads into the kitchen. “I prefer to start lunch prep early as it often takes over an hour. I’ll check on you shortly, but in the meantime, let me know if you need anything.”

You nod and he leaves you.

If you weren’t sick, would he have taken you to his bedroom? Then again, would he have invited you here if you weren’t sick?

When ten minutes go by and he’s still in the kitchen, your giddiness wears off a bit and you remember how exhausted you are. The magazine slips a little in your hand. The first time, you catch it. But the second time it slips…

You wake up. The sun has moved over the house so it’s no longer shining in the window. The house smells delicious from lunch. What did he end up making?

You check your phone. You have a new voicemail and—

2:17 pm!? Oh my God, he probably left you here, not wanting to wake you up even though you totally overstayed your welcome. He said you could chill here but he didn’t say fall asleep!

The voicemail is from another random number. How many different numbers does he have? The area code doesn’t look familiar, though.

You listen to the voicemail, expecting his voice and a message saying he’s back at the office. But instead, you hear a strange woman’s voice with a slight Japanese accent telling you that she saw your resume and that she’s sent you an email to arrange a time to conduct a job interview via telephone. But your sleep-and-flu-addled brain must be mishearing her: did she say the job is in Tokyo?

You search your brain. You did apply for 87 jobs and it takes you a moment to remember but, yes, she is indeed calling from a company that you applied to. This was one of the jobs that sounded like a lot of responsibility, but also a lot of freedom to be creative. It was to be a robotics technician, helping develop artificial intelligence. Definitely a lot more amazing (and better paying) than selling stuff at the local electronics store.

The first employer to call you back and they’re all the way in Japan. Holy shit. She sounds really interested in you, too. Is this a joke?

You Google the caller’s area code and it pops up as Tokyo.

“No fucking way,” you say. Ordinarily you wouldn’t swear in front of someone, but since you’re in his house alone…

“You’re awake.”

You jump off the couch, startled.

Dr. Lecter chuckles. He’s sitting in a chair that's kind of behind your head, so you didn’t see him at first. He’s got his legs crossed and has his tablet in his lap.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to swear like that.” You pick up the throw blanket that slid to the ground and try to place it back on the couch as neatly as possible. The Vogue magazine is back on the table; he must have placed it there.

He has probably hosted tons of elegant cocktail parties in here with people who wouldn’t dare to use rude language. “I just got a job offer from—in Tokyo—Japan. Well, just a job interview, I dunno—Um, I thought you had an appointment?”

He waits patiently for you to finish. “You looked like you needed some rest. I cancelled the rest of my appointments for today.”

Your eyes widen and you sit down. You’re too stunned to speak.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. It looks like none of your anxiety has rubbed off on him, and you wish you were that impervious to others’ displays of emotions.

You take a quick inventory of your body. Even though you’re anxious, you can still feel your whole body, and it’s pretty cool to not dissociate. You look at him, optimistic.

“Will said his flu cleared up in less than 24 hours,” he adds reassuringly.

“I’m happy to hear he’s feeling better,” you say. You try to distract yourself from the unexpected twinge in your heart from hearing Dr. Lecter imply that he’s been in recent contact with Will. You glance at the coffee table.

There’s a little origami bunny rabbit sitting there, made from a glossy white page from a magazine. It looks like it’s sniffing at the air, wondering whether it’s safe or if it should run away. You’re surprised Dr. Lecter would make something that cute; you’d think he’d fold like a wolf or at least something carnivorous, although you’re not sure where this association comes from… It probably has more to do with your perception of him than who he is as a person.

He picks up the rabbit and places it in your hands. He puts his tablet on the table and sits beside you on the couch.

You figure Will probably told Dr. Lecter that he spent Tuesday night at Alana’s… but how much of his conversation with you did he reveal? You’re not sure if Will would want Dr. Lecter to know that he said the good doctor ‘doesn’t fall in love,’ but Will’s words are still haunting you.

Sitting so close to Dr. Lecter while he’s fully dressed and you’re in your flimsy pajamas makes it hard to think, but you choose your words carefully. “Um… can I ask you a personal question?”

His face is stoic.

“I’m just curious about you.” You hope your palms don’t sweat and ruin the bunny.

“What is it that you’re curious about?”

“Um… I’m just wondering if you've ever, um, been in love? Or, like, loved, like…?” You feel yourself crumble and put the bunny back on the table to distract from how hard your hands are shaking. You can’t seem to put the bunny on its feet, so it just lays there awkwardly on its side, like it’s ready to be eaten.

He’s quiet for a long time, like he’s debating what to tell you. You try to be comfortable with the silence and focus on breathing normally.

“There is only one person. Her name was Mischa.”

Your heart falls to the floor. Is that his ex-wife or wife or--?

“She was my younger sister. She died. She was only five years old.”

“I’m so sorry,” you say. Even though his face reveals nothing, it’s like someone’s slapped your whole body with the pain he must feel inside.

He is silent for several more moments. “She was very ill. She never saw anything outside of our home in the countryside of Lithuania. Perhaps it is because of her that I have spent my lifetime searching for ways to cure the illnesses in other people. I was her protector, and I failed her.”

Without thinking, you place your hand on his. His eyes meet yours and, for a moment, you could swear he looks genuinely speechless.

You’re not sure what to say, but the silence doesn’t feel awkward anymore. You’re not sure how long you sit there with him, your hands gently holding each other’s.

“Mischa…” you hear yourself repeat. You feel tears form at your eyes. It's a relief to know what your body is doing, to have it be congruent with what you’re feeling.

He places his hands on either side of your jaw. His eyes are dry, like he already used up all his tears long ago.

 “Back home there was a type of moth that fed exclusively on the tears of mammals. Many people feared them, but it is difficult to fear anything after the worst has happened to you. Still, I did not like them. When I learned to stop crying, the moths learned to stop visiting me.”

You expect him to wipe away your tears but he doesn't. It almost looks like he’s examining them.

Before you can focus on the soothing touch of his hands, he removes them.

You remind yourself that you shouldn’t want him to kiss you. Even though he’s close enough to still catch your flu, a kiss would pretty much seal the deal.

“Hannibal,” you say without thinking, then freeze, unsure of how he’ll react to you addressing him by his first name.

There’s a part of him that seems a bit lost in thought, although he focuses 100% of his attention on you.

He stands up and offers you his hand. “Please have a seat in the dining room. I’ve kept lunch warm in the oven.”

In the dining room, he pulls out the chair kitty corner to the head of the table and gestures for you to take a seat. He brings out two dishes and says it’s fricassee of hare. "Hares are usually shy and isolated creatures, but their spring mating ritual makes them most conspicuous to humans in March and April. Given the time of year, this one," he explains, "was a little harder to find."

Instead of serving just water or even hot chocolate like last time, this time he pours you each a glass of red wine.

He holds up his wine glass. “Alla vostra salute,” he says, slowly enough for you to catch the individual words. “To your health.”

You copy his gesture and try to murmur the same thing.

After you both take a sip, he smiles with the side of his mouth. “Your accent isn’t half bad.”

Even though you’re still somber from learning about his sister, hearing his approval of something you did makes you feel nice. You bow your head to hide your smile. “Yours is terrible.”

He laughs.

You look up, affording yourself a peek, and find yourself lost in his smile.

Chapter Text

                Dr. Lecter drives you home. You still feel exhausted and sick but don’t want to throw up the meal that he so graciously cooked for you, so you go straight to bed, hoping that if you’re asleep your body won’t remind your brain that it’s sick.

                Alana and Beverly aren’t home. It’s nice to have the place to yourself.

                Before falling asleep, you usually play with your phone, but today you use your phone to send an email to the job recruiter. You let them know that you’re totally interested. She emails back saying that she can schedule a job interview for tomorrow. She seems super chill, saying that if a Saturday doesn’t work for you that’s fine, but she works like 60 hours a week so working on Saturdays is pretty much a given for her. She schedules an interview for 9:00 am Tokyo time, 8:00 pm Baltimore time.

                The same time your fateful session with Dr. Lecter was, almost a week ago. But with her, you’ll definitely be professional.

                On your calendar, you mark down the time of the interview and see that you’re also supposed to start your period tomorrow. You got in the habit of tracking it back in high school, which was fun in an OCD way, the same way you enjoyed meticulously diapering, “feeding” and burping your teddy bears and dolls when you were a kid. That doll that peed when you pressed its belly was so cool. It didn’t work when you put chocolate pudding in it, though.

Even though you dreamed of having babies, even at that tender age, you kind of scared yourself by breaking half the dolls you were given to play with. You didn’t break them on purpose, you were just curious!

When you and Dr. Lecter spent the night together, neither of you mentioned a condom. He didn't use one, but he’s too smart to forget a thing like that; he must have made a conscious decision, maybe being gracious by doing whatever you wanted to do. But you didn’t forget, you just…

                This is the reason you’re scared of your own desires: because of how destructive they can be.

                You fall asleep restlessly, feeling guilty that you could destroy Dr. Lecter’s life with a pregnancy. If he had a baby with a patient, he would lose his license, his career, and maybe even his professional and social circles… Nevermind the fact that if he wanted to get married and have kids, he probably would’ve done it by now. He is a bit older than you are.

                You have nightmares of miscarriages and abortions the whole night, waking up almost every hour jerkily, shaking, tears on your face. You check your phone for the time: 3:00 am. You remember what Dr. Lecter said about how you could call him if you had an emergency…

                You run to the bathroom to throw up. It’s officially been more than 24 hours, your flu should’ve cleared up.

                You’ll buy a pregnancy test tomorrow. And then you’ll try to tackle the impossible task of deciding whether you should tell him.

                You take a few deep breaths on your way back to the bedroom, glad that you’re able to defer your panicking to a later time. Is it easier now because of therapy? Or is it easy because, instead of panic, you actually feel…

                Excited?

                You tell yourself what Dr. Lecter told you about how feelings are always valid. You pretend that it’s okay to feel excited about the prospect of having a baby.

And then you sleep peacefully.

                In the morning, you run to the drugstore that’s down the street and buy chocolate, tampons and a pregnancy test.

                You know it’s totally possible to get a negative result. You’re probably jumping the gun on this one. In any case, you re-enter the apartment with the pregnancy test box under your hoodie so Beverly and Alana don’t realize what you’ve got. Your heart twinges, wishing you hadn’t had a fight with them. Wishing you were married. If the circumstances were different, you could share your excitement with other people.

                Alana’s in the kitchen making coffee and Beverly is at the table eating brunch. You walk by them without saying anything.

                Alana approaches you, placing a gentle hand on your arm. “Want some eggs?” she says, blue eyes compassionate.

                “I’m still sick,” you say. You’re not technically lying, since you are still nauseous and you’ve got a headache. You’re worried that if she gets too close she’ll realize you’re hiding something under your hoodie. You pull away.

                “Isn’t it a 24-hour thing?” Beverly interjects, slicing into her eggs. “That’s what Alana told me.”

                “I’m fine now, but everyone’s different,” Alana says. She keeps her arm on yours and nods in the direction of the table, inviting you to sit.

                You look at Beverly, who’s glaring at you.

                Alana realizes you aren’t budging. Her hand falls away from you and her shoulders sag slightly. “I talked to Will,” she says. “I’m sorry. I told Beverly what he told me. What he told you.”

                You regard her for a moment.

                “Just wanted to say that I thought that was… very classy of you,” Alana continues. “And I should’ve trusted you, instead of trying to force you to tell me that Will was…”

                “Thank you,” you say. Even though you’re dying to use the pregnancy test, you empathize with the genuine remorse in Alana’s eyes. “I appreciate your apology.” 

                “I’ll make you dinner tonight,” Alana offers.

                “I have a job interview at 8:00, but I’ll be free—“

                Alana starts freaking out excitedly for you and asks about the details. You tell her how pumped you are about the job, what it entails, and where it is.

                Beverly looks up from her food. “All the way in Tokyo? Sure it’s not a scam?”

                Alana gives her a look, then turns back to you. “We’re excited for you,” she says.

                You try to ignore Beverly and simply say thank you to Alana. Alana says she’ll make you a cup of tea and some toast, and you dash off to the bathroom. You hear Beverly’s knife scrape across her plate.

                In the bathroom, you follow the instructions on the pamphlet inside the box. You only bought one test and you want to do this perfectly. The noise the wrapper makes reminds you of unwrapping a tampon and the little cap on the stick sounds like uncapping a lipstick. Even though this is your first time handling a pregnancy test, something about it seems intuitive.

                Someone knocks on the door. “I gotta pee,” Beverly says. “Hurry up.”

                What the hell is her problem? You try to remain composed and relaxed enough to pee on the stick. You stay in the bathroom until you get a reading on the test, even though you could probably take it to your bedroom. Maybe an evil part of you wants to make Beverly wait. You try not to be worried about what will happen if she gets angry at you. She already seems mad at you, anyway.

You remember your old friends describing to you how nervous and excited they were when they were first finding out they were pregnant. Back before they had kids, they actually had the time to hang out with their single friends. There’s a distant part of you that feels nervous but… maybe it’s because you used up all your anxious energy last night, but you feel calm.

Two lines appear in the little window. Like two people.

You place a hand on your stomach. I’m not alone anymore.

You wonder if you should jump up and down or panic or cry or collapse... But your body is quiet. It's like a part of you that has always been restless finally settles.

You tuck the wrapper, test, and pamphlet back in the box and tuck it under your hoodie. You’ll throw it away in your room so that Beverly and Alana won’t see the tell-tale garbage in the bathroom.

When you open the bathroom door, Beverly is standing there. You jump.

She pushes past you into the bathroom. You exit, but she drags you back in and shuts the door.

“Hey!” you exclaim.

“I don’t actually have to pee,” she says, regarding you coolly. “Alana’s on the balcony. She can’t hear us through the door.”

She seems calm, but her behaviour is freaking you out. “What?”

“You’re good at keeping secrets.” She rolls her eyes. “Look, it was really noble of you to not blab to us that Will’s gay, blah blah blah.”

“Thanks for the apology,” you say, your hand on the doorknob.

“Come on. What’s under your hoodie.”

You pull the door open and head for your bedroom.

She follows you.

You don’t quite have the ferocity to slam your door in her face, but at least your bedroom is a more comfortable space to talk. You sit on your bed, the box poking your abdomen.

Beverly looks around your room with her arms crossed, her dark eyes hard as shields. She looks at you with contempt. “Quit the bullshit. I’ve been pregnant too, I know what it looks like.”

Your eyes widen. You don’t know if she just had a lucky guess and is trying to call your bluff, but you don’t want to lie to her. You remove the box from your hoodie, relieved that it isn’t poking you anymore, and set it beside you on the bed. “I wasn’t trying to bullshit anyone, I just wanted some privacy,” you say.

“Yeah, you’ve been real discreet. Your phone rings and all I see is an announcement that someone hot is calling, then you tell me all about your hot psychiatrist, then you announce to us that you’re in love. And now you’re pregnant. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Your gut drops. Was there some subconscious part of you that wanted someone to find out? Are you that selfish? You glance at the door, wanting to escape. You don’t know how long you sit there, frozen. There’s a distant part of your mind, a safer place, calling to you, but you squeeze your bedsheets. You need to stay here, not for yourself, but to protect Dr. Lecter. “Why are you upset?” Maybe if you focus the conversation on Beverly, you can re-direct her.

Beverly sits on your bed and picks up the pregnancy test box, examining it. “This is the same brand I used. It’s good,” she says. Then, “I’m here to help you, girl. Alana’s never been pregnant. She wouldn’t understand this. Not like someone who’s actually been through it.”

As far as you know, Beverly doesn’t have a kid. Even though her behaviour has made you mad, your heart still feels a twinge of sympathy for her. Was it a miscarriage or adoption or…?

“I never told anyone I was pregnant,” she says. “I would’ve told Alana, but she said she personally would never get an abortion even though she understood it was the right choice for some people. I just didn’t feel like I could tell her without it ruining our friendship. I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just saying examine your circumstances.”

You refuse to tell her any more personal information, wary of how she’ll use it. You refocus the conversation back on her. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. What was that like?”

She leans her back against the wall and you wonder if she’s relieved that you weren’t judgemental about her getting an abortion. “It fucking sucked. I really didn’t have a choice. I wasn’t gonna drop out of university. And—“ she sighs, an edge of irritation in her voice, although you’re not sure if she’s irritated at you or herself.

Normally you’d be quiet until the other person gathered their thoughts, but her attack on you (plus her lack of an apology for how she treated you on Thursday) has left you feeling less than kind towards her. “What?”

“Just some professor. Will and Alana are in his class now. Alana knows I had a crush on him but she doesn’t know we fucked. I thought he’d leave his wife for me. Stupid, right?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” you say, hoping she’ll calm down. “Were you in love?”

She scoffs. “Whatever that is. Who knows.” She shifts her eyes toward you, testingly. “Are you judging me for sleeping with a married dude?”

You shake your head. “I don’t like judging people. It makes me feel like I’m superior to them and I’m not. And I wasn’t there, I don’t know what happened. Maybe anyone would’ve acted the way you and he did.”

She blinks like she was caught off guard. “Whatever,” she says. “If I hadn’t had an abortion, it would’ve ruined my life. His life. And his family's lives.”

She seems so angry about it. “Did you tell him about it?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I was stupid.”

You have to look at her for a moment to realize she’s not being sarcastic.

“We’d had sex a bunch of times. I thought he was serious about me,” she says. “He told me to ‘get rid of it’.“

You try not to imagine Dr. Lecter saying something similar to you. “Oh my God,” you say sympathetically. You reach out to touch her arm—

“I don’t need petting,” she says, standing up.

“Okay, sorry,” you say. You tell yourself not to take it personally. “You’re stronger than I am,” you say in an effort to make her feel better.

She shakes her head. “I asked Will where he used to work. I know it’s Lecter. He’s not that hot, by the way.”

Your jaw drops. You're too stunned to think of something to say.

“He won't make you happy, I'll tell you that right now," she says. "Take a few weeks to think it over. I'll drive you to the clinic if you decide to be smart about this."

You stand up, feeling like you need to defend not only your honour but the good doctor’s as well. You try to stop your hands from shaking. “You know what I think, Bev? I think you’re angry at yourself and you’re projecting it onto me. I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you, but that doesn’t mean you have to take it out on other people.” Too late, you wonder if it would've been smarter to try to appear calmer.

She tips her chin up casually. “That sounds like something a psychiatrist would say,” she says. She pulls your door open and tosses a glance back. “Good luck with your job interview.”

You let her leave, needing some time alone to calm down.

Although you feel like crap, you conduct yourself as professionally as possible during the job interview. The recruiter says she’ll get back to you within a couple days to say if you’re officially hired or not. You never have any idea of how well job interviews go. The 'old you' would've laid in bed, exhausted... but your life is different now. You're so close to having almost everything you want... just in a way that you never expected.

You search the internet for apartments near the company’s address and download an app to help you learn Japanese. You think of other ways to learn the language...

You remember that one sentence Dr. Lecter said to you in Japanese. Are those the only words he knows? 

After deliberating with yourself, you call him, holding your breath. You hope it doesn't go to voicemail!

He picks up on the third ring. “Good evening.” It’s quiet in the background. Is he at home?

“Konichiwa,” you say, your voice hoarse. Balancing your laptop on your lap, you look at Google translate; you had typed in ‘Beverly knows about us’ to see how you could explain your emergency to Dr. Lecter. But she doesn't have any evidence, unless Dr. Lecter's medical board makes your baby take a DNA test. The worst that could happen is that Beverly reports him, but how seriously would the medical board take her allegation? You know you need to tell him, but how do you say that you want to keep the baby that could destroy him?

Would the unselfish action really be to have an abortion? You could move out of Beverly and Alana's apartment, then lie to Beverly and say you got an abortion, and then never speak to her or Alana again. How would she be able to tell if you were lying?

You swallow the lump in your throat.

You start to type ‘I’m pregnant’ into Google translate to see what it looks like in Japanese, not sure if you’ll actually say it or not.

While you’re typing, he says, “Let’s start with subarashi. It means wonderful.”

Your heart feels like crumbling.

I'm not like her. I lied—she’s not stronger than me.

You won't let her ruin your and Hannibal's lives.

Chapter Text

                You hear Beverly shout to Alana from the foyer that she’s headed to the bar. You relax a little, knowing that she’s out of the apartment now.

You want to tell him about Beverly, but if you do then he’ll ask what clues she’s using to guess about your relationship—and the biggest clue she used was your pregnancy, so you can’t really tell Dr. Lecter one without the other. On the other hand, you can’t bring yourself to just come out and tell him you’re pregnant without knowing a bit more about what’s on his mind.

“Have you ever wanted kids?” you ask, not knowing any way to be other than blunt.

                “What makes you think I haven’t had some already?”

                You freeze.

                He chuckles. “I’m joking. I’ve never had children, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered it. What makes you so curious?”

                “Um… Well, you know that I want… kids, one day. And I’m just…”

                “… seeing if our goals align? You’re making it sound as though your happiness hinges on mine.”

                “Well, it sort of does. I want you to be happy and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I ruined… anything that you had built.”

                “You are making an assumption that the life I have makes me happy.”

                You pause, not sure how to respond. “Are… are you not happy?”

                He is silent for several moments. “You know, it doesn’t matter how many charity balls or concerts I attend, how many people fill my dining room, I always thought that what rendered each one hollow was boredom. But as I age I have come to realize that it is loneliness, not boredom, that brings the emptiness I have sought so desperately to escape. I used to think that Mischa made life interesting and that was what kept boredom at bay during my childhood. But now perhaps I am comfortable enough with the vulnerability of my own mortality to admit that… it was my love for her that shielded me from loneliness. And it is the lack of love in my life, for so long, that has made loneliness a dear but dreadful friend.”

                You clutch the phone to your ear, wishing you could hold him in person or at least see him. The wind howls against your window and the light from your bedside lamp flickers. If there is a power outage, you wouldn’t be afraid of the dark, so long as you could hear his voice.

                “Encephalitis has a smell, as does cancer,” he says.

You frown, confused.

“And pregnancy.”

                Your jaw drops.

                “Heat, sweetness, and freshly baked bread,” he says. “Respectively.”

                You’re shaking, praying you won’t start crying. He must know. “I’m sorry.” You’re not sure what else to say.

                “For ruining my life? Is that what you think?” He almost sounds like he’s teasing you. His ability to stay calm is boggling your mind. “I had no idea you were so powerful.”

                “I’m not saying that, I’m just—“

                “We’re both adults, we both consented to unprotected sex,” he says. “What do you want to do?”

                “I—I—I want the baby. But I’m a patient.” You straighten your back and lower your voice. “My roommate saw me with the pregnancy test and she said she thinks you’re… that it’s yours.”

                “Was it Alana or Beverly Katz?”

                Did Will tell him her last name too? “Beverly.”

                “The ambitious young woman who studied under Dr. Chilton. Yes, I remember him speaking of her quite fondly. Then again, Frederick spoke of many women fondly.”

                Although his tone is neutral, a chill runs down your spine. It’s the first time you’ve heard the ghost of venom in Dr. Lecter’s voice. Is Dr. Chilton one of his colleagues? “Beverly said she had an affair with a professor but she didn’t say his name.” You’re not sure if you should feel bad for spilling this detail that Beverly told you, but she did threaten Dr. Lecter, and at this point you feel willing to tell him anything. “I feel like she’s angry enough to do pretty much anything. I’m scared she’s going to report you. She doesn’t have any evidence, but if I have… if we have the baby…”

                He pauses, as if contemplating this. “I’ll be 50 in January. Half a century. Makes a man think.”

                He sounds so leisurely, whereas you are struggling to be even a fraction of how calm he is. “… What?” you ask, trying not to feel helpless. You feel like his mind must work a hundred times faster than a regular person’s.

                “If I became incapacitated, it wouldn’t be psychiatry or even medicine in general that I would miss,” he muses, as if he has all the time in the world. “If I lost the use of my hands, I would miss cooking. If I lost my vision, I would miss being able to look at the trees, or even water, whenever I wanted. What does it mean, to be trapped? To me, prison is being in a cell, alone, with nothing to keep me company except my memories. But my life is not half over. It is half begun. I know now how to honour Mischa’s memory. I would be most honoured if you would join me, in the second half of my life, so that we could raise our daughter together.”

                The phone drops from your hand and you scramble to pick it up. “Oh my God,” you stutter. “This—this is over the phone. Hannibal, you’d be giving up—how long have you--?“

                “Surgery, psychiatry. Lithuania, France, America. Simply phases of life. What will the next one bring, I wonder? I have contemplated retiring for some time. I would have done it sooner had I not been afraid of boredom. Or loneliness,” he adds, a chuckle under his breath. “Please take all the time you need to think about my offer. Now, I imagine you have had a long day. Enough chatting for tonight. Please get some rest.”

                “Okay.” You’re so stunned, you agree. You’re silent in case he has anything else to say. When he doesn’t, you say, “Good night, Hannibal.”

                “Ta, darling.”

                He hangs up.

                Several minutes go by before you’re able to feel the bed under your crossed legs.

You don’t know how you’ll tell your parents.

You don’t know what you’ll do for work.

You stare out your bedroom window, standing between the glass and the curtain, and watch the snowstorm blow in.

You know that there are people who drive regardless of the weather but, for their sakes or maybe to assuage your own guilt for envying their fearlessness, you say a short prayer.

                Alana knocks on your door and you let her in.

                “Can’t get a hold of Bev,” she says.

                “She went out.”

                “I know, but in this weather?”

                “Are you worried about her?”

                “Aren’t you?” Alana’s gaze is a bit judgemental. “Forecast says there’s a blizzard warning.”

                You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, self-conscious that your face might not look as worried as Alana’s does. You are worried, not for Beverly specifically but for all drivers. “Neither of us have a car. What can we do?”

                “Not saying we should go out looking for her.”

                “Does she normally go out when she knows there’s a blizzard coming?”

                “She was talking about meeting some guy at the bar. Didn’t want to stand him up.” She appraises you.

                The hint of judgment in her eyes makes your spine stiffen. Even a few weeks ago, you would’ve faltered and looked down, but you challenge yourself to maintain Alana’s gaze. “If Beverly needs help, she can call us or someone else. She’s resourceful.”

                She waits a few seconds and comments, “You’ve changed.”

                Instinctively, you want to assure her that you haven’t changed. But instead you tell yourself that other people’s opinions of you don’t matter. Taking a deep breath, you say, “Yes. I think I have.”

                She puts her hand on the doorknob, pausing for a moment as if she thought of something to say.

“Let me know if she texts you,” she says and then exits, shutting your door quietly.

Later that night as you’re trying to fall asleep, there is a power outage. You look outside your window and it’s so dark, it seems like the whole city has died. The two pinpricks of light from your laptop and phone glow in the silence.

Chapter Text

                The next morning.

                Someone bangs frantically on your bedroom door. It’s still dark outside.

                “Come in,” you say. Not that your pajamas are ultra-revealing or anything, but you notice how you don’t clutch the blanket to your neck in modesty or shyness. Maybe Dr. Lecter’s confidence and exhibitionism have finally rubbed off on you.

                Alana opens the door. The light is on in the hall, so the power must have come back on. The shadows cast on her face highlight how little she’s slept. She looks as though she’s trying to keep as calm as possible, although there’s fear and confusion in her eyes.

                The first thing you wonder is whether Hannibal is all right.

                “Bev got into a car accident. Her mom just phoned me from the hospital,” she says.

                She seems as though she’s waiting for you to say something.

If you were more awake, maybe you’d know what to say. Or maybe it’s because you don’t care about Beverly as much as you feel you should. Part of you is a little afraid of how comfortable you’re getting with this new side of yourself, the one that doesn’t care how cold you can be. Although you try to be nonjudgmental, you can be judgmental sometimes.

                “The bus to take us to the hospital leaves in twenty minutes.” Alana looks you up and down, as if she’s assessing your sleep-fucked appearance.

You check your phone. “Oh my God, it’s not even 7:00.”

“Don’t have to come. Just thought I’d let you know that our friend got hurt.” Without waiting for your response, she closes the door.

                You want to fall back asleep, searching for a part of yourself that could take pleasure in knowing that Beverly got hurt… but there is none. All you can think about is Alana’s scared, sad eyes, and the fact that it seems like neither of you truly know what condition Beverly is in.

                Empathy and curiosity motivate you to haul yourself out of bed.

                Twenty minutes later, you catch up to Alana at the bus stop across the street. She looks surprised and you’re not sure whether it’s because you got ready so quickly or because you decided to come.

                She gives a little, weary look of gratitude. 

                When you were admitted to a psych ward, you stayed at a relatively small hospital near the edge of the city—not the huge, central one Beverly is in. When you enter through the main entrance, the cold follows you inside and you walk up to a touch-screen information booth.

But Alana says she’ll lead the way; Bev’s mom gave her directions to her room. There’s no reason not to trust Alana, so you follow her.

Hospitals are kind of freaky—they’re sterilized and colour-bland to the point of sensory deprivation, and yet the rushing, darting human activity is pure sensory overload. The fluorescent light in the windowless hallways is strong enough to slowly erode a person’s sense of time.

                Even though she’s usually chatty, Alana keeps quiet and focused during the walk… until she discovers the two of you have taken a wrong turn.

                She looks like she's struggling to keep it together, but she gracefully leads you back onto the right path.

                Until you take another wrong turn.

                Alana pulls out her phone.

                “Are you calling Beverly’s mom?” you ask.

                “Bev,” she says.

                Faintly, you can hear it ring five times and then go to voicemail.

                Alana’s back slumps against the wall. You’re about to suggest calling Bev’s mom or trying to find a map, when—

                Alana pounds her fists backwards against the wall. Some passersby stare, walking quickly.

                Deflated, she looks at them and then at you. “Sorry.”

                “That’s okay,” you say. You stand beside her. Part of you wishes you were as nice as Alana, so that you could actually care more about Beverly, but maybe feeling detached is actually an asset in this situation. “I know you’re just worried about your friend.”

                “Our…” she begins, as if to correct you. Then her brow furrows. “She’s not still upset at you over me and Will, is she?”

                “No.” You look down. You know you should focus on the conversation, but you wonder when your baby bump is going to show. A streak of excitement runs through you. It feels incongruent when Alana is so distressed and you’re in a hospital full of sick people and harried employees.

                Alana shakes her head, confused. “You’re smiling.”

                You didn’t think you were, but maybe she’s extra perceptive to that stuff, like that facial expression software Will had talked about. You don’t waste the energy scolding yourself for being a tad selfish at this point. “Because you don’t have to worry,” you say, letting your smile relax on your face. “Just follow me. I’ll lead the way.”

                You wait for her to argue. Maybe it’s just because she’s exhausted and desperate, but she follows you to a touch-screen map on the wall.

                She clutches her head looking at it, as if the huge screen and all the possible areas you could click are making her head swim.

                “What’s her room number?” you ask, playing with the screen to see how it responds. It looks like it starts out with a general aerial view of the hospital, then you can click on the floor you want, and then you can click on certain wards. There isn’t a search function, which is something that you would’ve included. Interacting with a robot has always felt more intuitive than talking to a person. Words get in the way sometimes.

You tap on the emergency room. “Is she in the ER?”

                Alana shakes her head and says Beverly’s been admitted to acute care.

                “That’s on the main floor,” you say, looking at the screen. “We’re close.” You smile reassuringly at her. She seems receptive to you taking charge. Even though you aren’t looking forward to seeing Beverly, you’re happy that you could at least help Alana. You would feel bad if she just gave up on herself, alone, in the middle of this huge hospital.

                Alana follows you to the acute care ward. After Alana checks you both in with the front desk, the nurse offers to lead you to Beverly’s room.

 “That’s okay,” you say to the nurse. “You guys are busy. We know where her room is.”

                Alana looks at you like she’s astonished at how confident you sound. Or maybe you’re the only one who’s astonished.

When you get to Beverly’s room, you expect to see her mom or other family members there. But other than her roommates in the next beds, she’s alone. She’s in the bed closest to the door but furthest from the window. The weak sunrise barely reaches her bed.

You’re not sure if she’s awake or not; her arm is hooked up to a fluid bag and a huge cast is on her right leg. There’s also a bandage on her left cheekbone.

Alana rushes over and gives her a hug. It isn’t until Beverly puts a hand on her arm that you realize she’s conscious. You stand there awkwardly, keeping your distance.

“All right all right, I’m not dying,” Beverly croaks.

Alana reaches for the cup of water on her tray and angles the straw towards Beverly’s lips, coaxing her to drink.

You know you should offer your sympathy, but you can’t bring yourself to fake it.

You try to imagine what the car crash would've looked like for her to end up with a broken right leg and a wound on the left side of her face.

Beverly’s eyes meet yours. “Alana dragged you here, didn’t she?”

You want to say how Beverly’s guess isn’t totally wrong, but the truth is that you don’t think anybody could make you do something now that you didn’t want to do. “It was my choice to come.”

Maybe Alana sensed something in your or Beverly’s tones, because she asks, “Is everything all right between you two?” She looks at Beverly. “You’re not still upset with her, are you?”

Beverly sighs. A health care aide comes in with breakfast trays. Beverly holds out her hand to get the aide’s attention and gets served first. Beverly picks up the plastic knife, but the scrambled eggs are so loose they practically fall apart when she looks at them.

She puts the knife down. “I wasn’t expecting her to come.”

“I don’t have to be here,” you say. She’s making you want to leave.

“Stay,” Beverly says. You blink, surprised. “We need to talk,” she says.

Alana starts to stand up to give you privacy, but Beverly puts a hand on her thigh to stop her.

“The guy I planned to meet at the bar,” Beverly says. “I met him in the parking lot. I wouldn’t sleep with him. He did this to me.” She touches the bandage on her face.

Alana’s eyes widen all the way.

“I got in his car so we could talk. Didn’t expect him to hightail it outta there. Slid through the intersection in the storm. His neck got fucked up but otherwise he’s fine.” She scratches the skin around her cast. “Asshole.”

“You got in a car with a man you barely knew?” Alana asks.

                “He’s an ex.”

                Alana stares at the bandage. “Are you going to file a police report?”

                “It’s not a big deal. What, you think I can’t handle this?”

                “It’s not about what you can handle, it’s about your ex breaking the law,” Alana says. “How many other women has he done this to? We need to tell the police so that he can be prevented from doing this to you, or anyone else, in the future."

Beverly glances at you but only for the briefest moment. “Look, I just need to be alone right now.”

“Which ex was it?” Alana asks.

“Why? So you can report him? Not happening.”

Alana sighs. "Ultimately, it's your decision. I just wish you would tell me."

Beverly drinks her juice, refusing to say more. Alana looks at you for help.

She might have a million exes or she might have one but, in any case, what Dr. Lecter said about Dr. Frederick Chilton pops into your mind. You know Beverly said Alana doesn’t know about her and Dr. Chilton and, despite Beverly’s treatment of you, you still can’t bring yourself to reveal her secret in front of her best friend.

It’s a long shot, but you remember Dr. Lecter’s philosophy about daring to test the universe. It could be risky but, if you do this subtly, you can find out more information without embarrassing anyone.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” you say, heading to the door.

“There’s one here,” Alana says.

“That one’s for patients,” you say, remembering the rule about hygiene and cross-contamination from your weeks in a psychiatric ward. You want to be respectful of the rules but, more importantly, you want a private place to do a Google image search on your phone.

The common bathroom is a few steps outside the ward. You don’t actually go in; you just want the nurses to see you leaving the ward.

You type Dr. Frederick Chilton into the search bar. If he’s a colleague of Dr. Lecter’s he probably has at least one photo on the internet.

Dr. Lecter’s photos pop up too, if you search for them, showing times he’s stood at a podium leading seminars, to closer-up shots of his face alongside articles published on foodie websites. It’s weird, but you haven’t felt tempted to stare at them. The photographs are nice but they don't seem to capture the intensity of being in his presence.

Google offers you lots of different Frederick Chiltons, but you trust the one that’s on the George Washington University website’s faculty page. His profile page shows a man wearing a suit that doesn’t seem to fit him, not because of an improper cut but just because of the way he carries himself, as if he’s used to wearing plastic. His chin is tilted a little too high to look natural.

                You walk back onto the ward. When you were in a psych ward, there was an old-fashioned chalkboard with patients’ first names and who their nurses were. But this ward looks too high-tech for chalkboards. There’s nothing you can see that would give you a hint as to whether any Fredericks were staying here.

                You’re a little scared of embarrassing yourself, but you can be bold even if you’re afraid. You think about how Dr. Lecter said yesterday that he tried so hard to escape loneliness. You thought all along that he feared nothing—but he is afraid of something. He’s just really good at hiding it.

                You approach the nursing desk. It’s a different nurse than last time, but you’re prepared to get weird looks or an outright rejection for asking for someone who’s not even a patient here. “I’m here for Dr. Frederick Chilton.”

                “Are you one of his students?”

                If the car crash happened only last night, why would the nurse assume you were a student rather than a family member? Does Dr. Chilton not have any daughters?

“Yes,” you answer. Your heart races. You shouldn’t be lying like this. This cannot end well.

                “He won’t stop talking about you.” The nurse mistakes your barely-concealed fear for shock. “Not you specifically. Students in general. Never met a professor who loves his students more than he does. Had a class with him, once. Teaching is three-quarters theatre, you know that? Chilton sure did.”

                The nurse leads you down the hall, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen a few times. “Don’t tell my manager I’m using my cell.” He smiles. “You saw Chilton’s tweet?”

The nurse shows you what appears to be Dr. Chilton’s Twitter feed. At 6:15 a.m., he tweeted that he was in the hospital due to the weather “hating” him and ruining his Sunday.

Everyone is welcome to visit me and help turn my weekend right around, concludes his tweet.

You’re grateful that the nurse isn’t suspicious of you, but you worry about Dr. Chilton’s possible reaction when he sees you—and doesn’t recognize you.

As you follow the nurse down the hall, you count the steps until you’re busted.

He leads you to a room with four men in it, each in their own beds.

“Looks like he’s sleeping,” he says in a gentle tone, looking at the man wearing a neck brace. He’s in one of the middle beds. The yellow curtains are part-way drawn and the sunshine filters through, casting only yellow on his face.

Like a sallow egg, Dr. Frederick Chilton’s head sits atop the neck brace. Yesterday’s pomade makes his hair look like a cheap crown.

“That’s okay. I’ll come back later,” you say a little too quickly.

You stare at Dr. Chilton, not believing that it was this easy. The universe has to be playing a joke on you.

You feel a rush of achievement, but it doesn’t last for too long until it’s replaced by feeling sick. Maybe it’s just morning sickness.

“Want me to walk you back?” the nurse offers.

“Sure, thank you.” Not only do you feel bad for lying, you also feel sick about seeing the man who allegedly laid hands on Beverly, pressured her to have sex, and told her to get an abortion. Do you feel sick out of empathy for Beverly? Or are you sick because of how easily it could happen to any woman—yourself included?

As you’re walking, Alana emerges from Beverly’s room.

“Thought you got lost,” she says.

Your face grows warm.

A patient approaches the nurse and he gets distracted. Alana walks you back to Beverly’s room.

You wonder what kind of person you’d have to be to make some sort of threat to Beverly. You just feel really bad for her and can’t imagine yourself making some sort of I know your secret ultimatum, the way that she did to you.

You don’t feel comfortable enough to sit on the edge of her bed. You sit on the chair beside her.

She sees the look in your eyes. For an instant, you wonder if she knows. She must know that Dr. Chilton got admitted to the same ward as her; they probably got sent to the emergency room together.

Beverly’s hard to read, but you can tell she doesn’t trust you.

“Alana is right. This needs to be reported to the police. But," you say, "you don’t have to be the one to do that. I know that if the roles were reversed, you would report someone who had hurt me.”

Her body stiffens.

Is the most powerful person in the room the one who cares the least?

“Do whatever you want, Beverly,” you say. “I know you’re scared. Everyone is. But I’m not.”

You stand up.

Alana stares at you.

You exit.

You expect her to stay behind with Beverly but, at the last second, she follows you.

Once you’re off the ward, Alana says, “This isn’t the Beverly I know.”

You remember what Beverly said about how she never told Alana about the abortion. And you remember what Dr. Lecter said, all those weeks ago: the heart of another is a dark forest, always.

You walk to the bus stop. When your bus comes, Alana chooses the seat right over the heater. She rubs her hands together, trying to warm up. You don’t feel cold, so you offer her your scarf.

Alana winds the scarf around her neck, her brows furrowed. “Figured Will was private from the moment I met him. But Bev? She doesn’t keep secrets. Why won’t she tell me who her ex is?”

“Was it because I was there?”

She shakes her head. “I asked her again while you were in the bathroom. I don’t know what’s happened. Not last night, I mean just between her and I.” The weak sunshine slanting through the bus windows makes her blue eyes look paler than usual. “Kind of envy you. You can take apart a computer and see what’s inside. Can’t do that with people. Not yet, at least.”

“Maybe that’s for the best,” you say. “And… with computers, when you take them apart, it’s not like you suddenly know everything. I think one of the reasons why I love computers and robots is because of how much I don’t understand. If I knew everything, there’d be nothing left to learn. It’s the mystery that keeps me coming back.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever been a fan of mysteries,” she says. “Such as how much you’ve changed since I met you.”

You decide to be as honest as you can be. “I’ve spent two weeks in a psychiatric facility and six weeks in therapy because… I wanted to change. And it really helped. I feel better. I think, actually… it’s time to end my therapy with Dr. Lecter.”

“That’s great!” You can tell she’s trying to be happy for you, even though she’s distraught about Beverly being hurt. “You know, good-byes are always the hardest. How are you gonna handle it?”

“I dunno, I usually don’t let myself get attached. Good-byes aren’t that hard for me. But… to be honest, if I get the job in Tokyo, I’ll have to move out…”

“Of course.”

“But if I don’t… I think I’ll move out anyway.”

“Why do you want to leave? Because of Beverly?” She shakes her head. “Don’t know what happened, but we can fix this.”

You smile. “I’m going to miss you, Alana.”

The bus stops and a man, woman, and two young girls get on. They look like a family. They sit at the front of the bus and they all start talking animatedly. The father puts his arm around the daughter sitting next to him. The gesture looks so comfortable and protective, it makes you smile.

You don’t know whether you’ll have a girl or a boy, but it seems like Hannibal really wants a girl. You hope that, even if this one’s a boy, he’ll be okay with trying again for a girl. It seems like there are so many good fathers out there. You can imagine Hannibal being the best.

Watching how relaxed the father is with his family helps you relax enough to risk being a bit more vulnerable with Alana. “Can I tell you something?” You wait for her to nod, then continue. “When I first met you, I kind of wanted to be like you. You seemed kind of perfect. Until I saw you puke everywhere.”

Her eyes widen and she laughs. “Tell me you’re kidding, please. Oh, tell you what. I’ll raise the ante. I’m so embarrassed at how insecure I was over Will… To be honest, a large part of it was because of how you look.”

You blink.

“You're a knock-out.”

Your entire body heats up. You can’t remember the last time someone—especially another woman—blatantly flattered your appearance. “Alana…” you stammer.

When you get off the bus, she says, “We’re still going to be friends after you move.”

Maybe she needs a friend right now more than you do. Does she feel like she's lost Beverly?

“Yeah. We’ll stay friends,” you say.

Chapter Text

                Later that day.

                Although it’s late afternoon, the sun has already pretty much set. People in the neighbouring apartment buildings have started decorating their balconies and windows with Christmas lights. The little sprinkles of rainbow colours, only a short distance from your bedroom window, are like a mirror to the stars. It doesn't feel as dark as it actually is in your room.

You’re finishing the self-serve booking program when your phone rings. You immediately think of Hannibal and check the call display, but—

                It’s Will!

                A smile relaxes on your face. “Hey!”

                “Hi.” He uses your first name and sounds happy to hear your voice. “How are you?”

                “I’m…” You try to push Beverly from your mind. “Okay. I’m just working on that appointment booking software I told you about.”

                “Even though Hannibal is retiring?”

                He told Will? Of course he did, they’re friends. Maybe he even told Will before he told you. You search yourself for jealousy, but it’s hard to feel jealous when you like Will so much. Besides, the last thing you want, at the end of your therapy journey, is to feel insecure. While it’s true that you trust Dr. Lecter, more importantly, you trust yourself.

                “Yeah,” you say, almost laughing. “I don’t know.”

                “You keep your promises. Even the ones you make only to yourself,” he says. “I like that.”

You like hearing his approval. You glance down at your nails. You’ve been so occupied lately that you hadn’t noticed that you’d stopped chewing them. “Alana said you two talked and made up,” you say. “And that you’re over the flu. I’m happy things worked out okay. How have you been?”

                “Actually… I haven’t been thinking about Alana much. I’ve been thinking about… Hannibal. I’ve noticed a change. He… he’s happier.”

He seems to need a moment to organize his thoughts.

“I think he’s in love with you,” he says.

The Christmas lights twinkle a little more brightly.

                You trust Will too much to believe he would tell you anything other than the truth. You know you’re a fool at this point for planning to have a baby with a man who may not love you back; he hasn’t said ‘I love you’ or proposed or even talked about moving in together. But despite the uncertainty, you’re too certain of your love for him to deny what your heart needs. “But you said he couldn’t fall in love.”

                “I said he doesn’t fall in love, not that he couldn’t. Hannibal’s… heart, his soul, whatever you want to call it, is unlike anyone else’s I’ve ever met. Trying to understand it… is like looking through a dark lens. He was more aware of this than anyone. But he was comfortable with the darkness. That’s how I knew he’d fallen in love: when he became a little less comfortable with it. Now the lens is a bit lighter. But only slightly.”

                You’re silent in case he has anything else to say. “I hope you're right. I know you love him too…” Although it feels so freeing to have someone to talk to about this, you don’t want to hurt Will by sounding like you’re bragging or anything.

“Always. And… I’m glad he found someone who made his soul a little easier to see.”

He sounds truly genuine.

“I don’t know if he told you…" you say. "I haven't exactly told this to anyone except Hannibal..." You try to ignore your trembling hands. “We’re going to have a baby.” It feels so huge to say it out loud! You’re too excited about being pregnant to keep it a secret, especially not from a friend like Will.

                “Baby Mischa,” he says. “Or William.”

                You gasp. “Oh my God! Did he say that?”

                You can almost hear him smiling. “He didn’t have to.”

                It feels so good to have a friend to share the excitement with. “Will, it really means a lot to me to have your blessing. Thank you.”

                “My pleasure.”

                When you get off the phone, you write an email to Dr. Lecter asking that your therapy be terminated. You want to discuss something with him over the phone—but you don’t want to put that in writing in case his emails serve as official documents. They are on his work email, after all. But it’s Sunday night and you’re not sure if he’s busy. Even though you’re technically not a patient anymore, you still don’t want to accidentally disturb him.

                Five minutes after you send the email, your phone rings.

                It's Hannibal! Your heart leaps. Is his call a coincidence or did he read the email already? Did he sense you wanted to talk to him or does he just want to talk to you?

                Out loud, he reads your stilted, formally written email. Maybe you were trying too hard to sound professional.

There’s the barest trace of mockery in his tone. “It’s been awhile since anyone wrote me such a unique love poem.”

                You can sense he’s teasing, so you laugh. “I was just thinking about calling you. I didn’t know if you were busy.”

                “I’m incredibly busy.” You hear him un-cork a wine bottle; the sound faintly echoes off the hard surfaces of his kitchen. You listen in case there are voices in the background, but you can’t hear any.

                You’re not sure if he’s still teasing.

                “What would you like to talk about?” he asks.

                “Um… the job recruiter said she’d call me tomorrow if I got the job in Tokyo. I haven’t got any calls or emails from any other potential employers… and I’m kind of excited about being a robotics technician—if they want me. I’m trying to be optimistic. But, I’m just wondering… would that be okay with you? If I moved? I want to raise our baby together and if you want me to stay here, I will. I just want to know what to tell the job recruiter if she calls tomorrow.”

                “Are you asking me to move to Tokyo with you?”

                “Well… not if you don’t want to.”

                “What if I wanted to?”

                “Then… yes.” You place a hand on your abdomen. “Have you lived there before? I know you speak the language, but…”

                “I was fluent when I lived with my aunt. Although we lived in France, she was originally from Japan. She taught me the language partly, I think, as a way to maintain her own fluency. She always intended on returning home. When I moved to America to pursue psychiatry, I was fortunate enough to be able to afford a home just outside of Tokyo for her to live on, so she could be close to her family.”

                “Do you have other family in Japan?” You feel happy at the thought of him being closer to family; you’re not sure if he has any here in the States.

                He pauses and you wonder if he took a sip of wine. “I use the term ‘aunt’ affectionately rather than literally. She is my uncle’s widow. I have no living blood ties.”

                “Not yet.”

                “Not yet.” It sounds like he’s smiling. “My understanding of Japanese culture is that Christmas is treated in much the same way that Valentine’s Day is treated here. Christmas Eve is only two weeks away. Are you expecting any Valentines this December?”

                “You never know.”

                “No, you never do… Now that I think of it, I haven’t seen my aunt in years. Would you like to meet her? I have no doubt that she would love to meet you. And Mischa.”

                “Yes, of course. But what if I don’t get the job?”

                “Then I guess you’ll be following me to Japan, rather than the other way around. So, who’s following who? You may decide.”

                “I’ll follow you.”

                “Now, why didn’t you include that in your email? It would’ve made for a lovelier poem.”

The feather-light teasing in his tone is easy to gently relay back. “Next time.”

You wonder if he’s smiling, approving of the confidence in your tone. “Will told me today that he thinks I’ve changed,” he says. “What do you think?”

“I think we’ve both changed.”

“Yes. I agree. Good night, darling.”

“Good night. Hannibal.”

When you fall asleep, you dream that you have twin boys named William and Graham.

Chapter Text

                The next day.

                Your new employer calls you with good news! You call Hannibal immediately after getting the call and he buys two tickets to Tokyo.

You tell your parents and Alana about your relationship with Hannibal and the pregnancy. They are happy for you, although your parents warn you that you shouldn’t expect other people—and society at large—to be so supportive.

                “The first thing they’ll see is the age difference,” your parents say, looking between you and Hannibal.

                You’re in your parents’ living room, sitting on the couch beside Hannibal. Your parents sit across from you. The setting sun casts bars of light through the window blinds; you never realized how prison-like your former life was. In your heart, you’re saying good-bye to this home. “That’s okay,” you say.

                “You’re not afraid of starting a family in a country where you don’t even speak the language?”

                You smile. “I can learn.”

                Hannibal assures your parents that he is fluent enough, and that his aunt has been proficient in Japanese all her life and can teach you, the way she taught him.

                “Won’t you miss us?” they ask.

                “We’ll visit,” you say. “You’ll be the only grandparents the baby will have.”

Your parents pass a glance between them. “What will you tell people when they ask how you met?”

                “The truth,” Hannibal says, adding that he has retired from psychiatry and has enough money saved up to stay at home to support his new family, while you work in your new job.

                “You’re not afraid of what people will think?”

                A silence hangs in the room.

Hannibal looks at you, politely letting you respond first. You wonder if he, too, is curious about your answer.

“No. I’m not afraid,” you say. Your face relaxes into a smile. “Not anymore.”

                Your parents hug you good-bye. Hannibal shakes their hand.

It’s only because you know your parents so well that you can tell that they’re a little bit intimidated by him. It seems he has that effect on people, even though he is gracious and polite. Aside from his height, style, and facial features, the most striking thing about him, you’ve learned, is that he follows his own compass. He’s the most inspiring person you’ve ever met.

You’re grateful that you have a life with him now, and that your parents are happy for you.

*

                Eight months later.

Your new employer gives you maternity leave. In the weeks before your due date, you and Hannibal go shopping for baby supplies. Tokyo has a Wal-Mart too and the most fun thing is walking down the baby clothing aisle. Those teeny onesies are so cute you almost start crying and Hannibal lets you buy more than you could ever need.

You give birth to healthy twins: a girl and a boy. You’re super excited; you’ve always thought twins are so lucky, being born with a built-in friend.

You name the girl Mischa and the boy William. They are so adorable and look a bit like their daddy. You’re relieved that their cheekbones didn’t slice your vadge on the way out.

                The day after bringing the babies home from the hospital, Hannibal and you are admiring them in their bassinets in your bedroom.

“Let’s go exploring,” Hannibal says. It seems like a whim, but you trust him.

You tuck William and Mischa into a stroller while Hannibal packs some homemade snacks.

He leads you, on foot, out of his aunt’s house and towards a park nearby with lush flower gardens. The trees provide gentle shade and the leaves tickle the afternoon sun. As you walk, Hannibal teaches the babies the names of the flowers in Japanese.

He pushes the stroller towards a wooden bench and invites you to sit. You pick up William; Hannibal holds Mischa. The park is full of people walking by, but you feel safe and peaceful, like the park belongs to you. Like the world is yours.

William and Mischa are so incredibly precious. Your heart feels full.

Mischa starts to fuss, so Hannibal pulls a bottle out of the stroller and feeds it to her. The image of him being so nurturing is so powerful, you can’t look away. After a few moments, like magic, Mischa is soothed.

A teenage girl pauses, several metres away, and looks at the four of you. The concerns your parents broached wander into your mind, briefly. But she has that same look that you imagine you had when you would look at fathers and their happy families. It’s been almost a year since you looked at another family with that same sense of curiosity, admiration, and longing.

You give a little smile to the girl. You don’t know her, but you feel as though you do.

She ducks her head, embarrassed to be caught staring, and continues on her way.

After Mischa has had her fill, Hannibal removes the bottle from her tiny perfect lips.

Your heart feels so full, you can’t help saying: “I love you.” You’re looking at Hannibal but, really, you’re speaking to him, to your children, and to the universe.

You remember the only other time you said ‘I love you,’ all those months ago, and how he never said it back. How you hadn’t been looking for him to say the same thing. But now you want him to declare his love for you, too. Will he?

He looks at you and you hold your breath.

                Mischa and William burp at the same time, even though Mischa’s the only one who ate so far.

Both you and Hannibal laugh softly. You relax and remember to breathe again.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his gentle fingertips singing against your skin. “I love you.”

You sigh. You feel complete. William begins to doze against your heartbeat. “Now I have everything,” you say, and kiss his tiny, soft forehead.

                Hannibal takes a moment to contemplate this. “I am missing something.”

                Your heart drops.

                Keeping Mischa secure in his arms, he retrieves a small box from his pocket and presents it to you. “Open it.”

                William and Mischa watch you open the box, their wide eyes mirroring your own.

Inside is a beautiful engagement ring. The trees whispering, the babies breathing—everything seems to move in slow motion.

                “I neglected to tell you,” he says, “that one of my conditions for spending the rest of our lives together would be taking you as my wife.”

Part of you wonders if you feel at all lost in this situation, but you don’t. It feels like destiny, and your movements feel instinctual on a spiritual level.

You remove the ring from the box. Before you put it on, you let its stone play with the warm sunshine.

William’s eyes fixate on the little rainbows dancing in the stone. Mischa’s gaze goes to your eyes, as if waiting for your response. It’s already evident that she’s inherited her daddy’s piercing gaze.

“You didn’t neglect anything,” you say softly. “We had the same understanding.”

                It’s not so intimidating to make eye contact with him anymore.  It’s beautiful to see him smile.

                He holds your hand protectively, the one newly claimed by his ring.

                “Now I have everything,” he says, and kisses you.