Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack Crawford can’t take no for an answer. That’s nothing new, of course. However, it’s frustrating to constantly be on the receiving end of that disappointed glare of his. You can’t take it much longer. He seems to recognize that you’re beginning to break, because he calls in a doctor for your psychiatric evaluation: Doctor Hannibal Lecter. There’s one unspoken statement lingering in the air when you walk into the room: “You will pass this exam and return to the field.” 

Against all odds, Dr. Lecter seems to be one of the more competent medical professionals you’ve worked with. He doesn’t poke or prod at things that make you uncomfortable, testing your limits to the maximum. He doesn’t look at you with the patronizing gaze you’re so used to receiving from your peers. Lecter looks at you and, sometimes, it feels as if he’s looking straight through you. 

After passing the psychological evaluation—you have a strong suspicion that Dr. Lecter lied on those forms—you’re back to the field. Before long, Jack Crawford is ordering you to look at mangled bodies once more. You're beginning to notice, however, that it takes more out of you each time you look. Looking is exhausting and the longer you look, the more time it takes to return to your own body. 

You’re able to cope with this dissociative feeling until your encounter with the Minnesota Shrike. You feel your composure beginning to slip as you frantically look through files in the office of his workplace. Thankfully, you can finally put a name to the killer: Garret Jacob Hobbs. He’s a construction worker, a husband, and a father. The guy is entirely ordinary, almost scarily so. 

When you arrive at the Hobbs’ residence minutes later, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s expecting you. The house is eerily silent and when you walk in, his wife is already dead. Dread churning in your stomach, you turn the corner, only to find Hobbs holding his daughter captive. There’s a knife pressed to her neck. The betrayed yet horrified expression on her face cements itself in your mind. You point your gun at him, but he slices her neck before you can shoot him. After firing one, two, three, nine shots, you kneel down and try to stifle the girl’s bleeding. Your heart races in your chest and there’s a roaring noise in your ears. Amidst all the chaos, however, you can still sense Garret Jacob Hobbs staring at you with a sickening smirk on his face.

“See?” the man asks, the light fading from his eyes as his body slumping against the cabinets. You turn your attention back to his daughter, who is now gasping and panting heavily. Your hands shake as you desperately try to stop the bleeding. You’re too rattled to notice the sound of footsteps getting closer until there’s a hand on your shoulder. Dr. Lecter and you lock eyes and, even in the swirling mess of emotions running through your mind, there is overwhelming clarity. Dr. Lecter’s expression is far too calm. Just before you can contemplate that further, he’s gently pushing you to the side and tending to the girl. 

Everything after that passes in a blur. Hobbs' daughter, Abigail, is taken to the hospital and Dr. Lecter accompanies her in the ambulance. Jack seems satisfied and disconcerted all at once. He pulls you aside and starts talking your ear off, but you admittedly can’t process anything of what he’s saying. Eventually, your boss gives up and leaves you to drive home. Even when you go to work the next morning, you can’t shake the grey haze that clings to your very being. “See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs’ voice rings in your ears. You did see; you only wish you hadn’t. 

You begin to have weekly sessions with Dr. Lecter. Jack all but forces you to attend, but the sessions actually turn out to be helpful. Dr. Lecter is certainly an eccentric character. You’ve never quite met someone like him before, and you can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. The psychiatrist is certainly mysterious. You want to figure him out, but, at the same time, there’s a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that is still wary around him. You haven’t necessarily forgotten the strangely calm look on his face in the Hobbs residence, the mechanical manner with which he accepted the pervasive aura of death all around him. 

As great as Dr. Lecter is, however, he can’t fix everything. Your sleep, for example, is still worsening by the day. Since your return to the field, it’s difficult to fall asleep and even more difficult to stay asleep. After the Hobbs incident, you’re plagued with nightmares of dark crimson rivers. A few times, you’re even forced to relive the encounter: the moment Abigail slumps to the ground, the moment you shoot Hobbs again and again... and again—

The moral of the story is that you’re not sleeping well. Your sleep has never been great, but it’s also never been this bad. You muse on that thought as you lie reclined on your mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Exhaustion tugs at your very core, but your mind refuses to slow down for even a moment. A voice in the back of your mind tells you that you shouldn’t even try to go to sleep, unless you want to slip into a killer’s skin once more. After staring up at the ceiling for an immeasurable amount of time, your eyes finally begin to fall shut. 

Shadows seep into your eyes, coloring your vision dark. For a moment, there’s nothing but darkness. Garret Jacob Hobbs greets you like an old friend, his whispers ripping through your skin. You claw at your head and close your eyes, desperate to rid yourself of his haunting voice. Somehow, your effort seems to work and you can’t hear his murmurs anymore. You want to drown in the shadowed void that stretches around you but, suddenly, there are two lights ripping through the blackness. You put a hand over your eyes as the brightness burns holes in your vision. Your eyes water and it takes several seconds for the graininess around you to disappear. To your surprise, there’s a car parked just to your left. You take a step forward and squint at the driver. The window rolls down slowly and your breath catches. A shiver rolls down your spine, and it’s not just the cold air that causes it.

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried, and you quickly decide that you don’t like it. 

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

“I—” you try to say, but the words are stuck in your throat. His statement prompts you to look around and find out where exactly here is. Ultimately, you realize that you’re standing in the center of a road. It’s pretty dark outside. You look down and find that you’re still wearing your pajamas—a ragged shirt and sweatpants. Furthermore, there are scrapes lining your arms. You inhale sharply, beginning to feel panic seep into your bones.

Hannibal’s car door swings open and he moves to stand next to you. The psychiatrist is dressed nicely, as always. You’d be more self conscious about your own attire if you didn’t feel so discombobulated. “What is the last thing you remember?” the man asks. You pause to ponder the question. 

“Falling asleep,” you answer, after thinking about the past few hours. You were staring up at your bedroom ceiling. You must’ve fallen asleep at some point. There’s an infuriating lack of information—a gap from when you fell asleep to when you found yourself staring at the headlights of Hannibal’s car.

Silence settles in the air, thick and uncomfortable. You don’t know what to do or say that could possibly justify this. Truly, one moment you were in bed and the next, you were standing in the middle of the road. You don’t exactly want to tell Hannibal that, but he seems to recognize the sentiment anyway. His brows are furrowed and his lips are pursed as he stares at you. His gaze is insistent and heated, so much so that you have to look away—lest you get burned. 

“Come on,” Hannibal says. There’s an authoritative tone to his voice and you follow along instinctually. He helps you to his car with a hand on your shoulder. For a moment, you shiver in the passenger seat as he stares at you. Hannibal then shakes his head and takes off his jacket, putting it around your shoulders. You vaguely recognize that you must look truly pathetic, but you’re too cold not to burrow into the smooth fabric. 

The moment he starts driving, you begin to remember your exhaustion. In actuality, you never got that much sleep. Judging from the radio in Hannibal’s car, it’s only two in the morning. You were only asleep for two hours and, yet, you walked all the way outside to the road. Gritting your teeth, you decide to look out the window. Despite your fatigue, your body doesn’t want to succumb to slumber. You have to settle for staring bleakly out the window.

“We’ve arrived,” Hannibal later announces. You blink dazedly, looking out the window to find a beautiful gothic home looming over you. Just before you can grab the door and get out, Hannibal is on the other side opening it for you. You fall in step beside him and allow him to lead you down the walk towards his home. He opens the door and allows you to enter first. 

You feel extraordinary out of place here, as you usually do with Hannibal. The foyer has an elegant fireplace and deep blue accents. Paintings decorate the walls and there’s a vase of freshly trimmed flowers on one of the tables. You can see Hannibal having an internal debate with himself about giving you a formal tour or telling you about the pieces. He turns back to you expectantly and you follow him into the living room. You freeze in the doorway, upon realizing that you’re still wearing your shoes (which you don’t remember putting on in the first place). You quickly bend down and try to untie them, but your hands are trembling too much to do it.  

“Allow me,” Hannibal says, getting down on one knee. To your horror and humiliation, he proceeds to help you untie your shoes.¹ You avert your eyes, feeling as if your skin is on fire. He must sense your discomfort, because he arches an eyebrow at you before untying them a little faster. Thankfully, Hannibal doesn’t offer to fetch you clean socks—you’re certain you’d die of embarrassment. Instead, the moment your shoes are off, he guides you to sit on the finely trimmed settee. 

For a fraction of a second, when you look up at Hannibal, you see the cold, calculated gaze of a practiced killer. “You’re freezing,” Hannibal remarks. You swallow hard and watch with bated breath as he leaves the room. Perhaps you just imagined that. You look around the room, unsurprised to see hints of animals everywhere—what with the mounted antelope head and various skulls resting on the table behind you. 

The Chesapeake Ripper sees his victims as animals, as pigs. You’re not quite sure why the killer comes to mind now of all times. Even so, you try to think about what you’ve gathered about him so far. He’s a middle-aged man with no current family. His tastes are eccentric and his murders are artistic performances. Furthermore, the killer is slippery. You’ve only found clues because, you suspect, he wanted you to find them. The Ripper is narcissistic; he knows he won’t be caught and prides himself on that fact. 

Your head aches with the sleep you haven’t gotten. You rub at your eyes roughly, unable to shake the feeling that you’re on the crux of a realization. The Chesapeake Ripper… The killer refuses to leave your mind. Why is that thought plaguing you here, of all places? You’re in Hannibal’s residence, staring at the rather macabre animal imagery around the space, when it hits you. Everything clicks into place: the conveniently timed dinner parties, the luxurious lifestyle, the entire lack of shock on his face at the Hobbs’ house. 

It appears you’ve found the Chesapeake Ripper. 

Hannibal chooses that exact moment to reappear. There’s a blanket folded over his arm and a mug in his hands. He seamlessly weaves through the room, coming to a stop over you. You look up at him from your position on the couch.

“Are you alright?” he asks. You nod mutely, not trusting yourself to speak. The clock on the wall ticks ominously. Your hands are still trembling at your sides, so badly that Hannibal reaches out and cups them in his with a worried expression. You’re certain your teeth are chattering in your mouth. You’re going to die. You’ll be the next Chesapeake Ripper victim. When you close your eyes, you see your colleagues from the Behavior staring down at your corpse on the investigation table. You take a deep breath and try to remain calm. Your heart is thundering away in your chest and you know you must look suitably harrowed. 

Hannibal extends a hand and you realize that the Chesapeake Ripper is giving you a cup of tea. You watch mutedly as an organ harvester gently cleans the scrapes on your skin. A coldhearted cannibal is placing a hand on your cheek and looking into your eyes, searching for something. A murderer is placing a blanket over your shoulders. 

Hannibal sits down after his thorough investigation. Meanwhile, there’s one thought running through your mind: You can’t fall asleep here. You absolutely can’t let your guard down in front of the Chesapeake Ripper, the very cannibal you’ve been chasing for years. You sip the proffered tea and pretend that everything is alright. Hannibal seems content to sit with you in silence, although you can sense his gaze burning into the side of your face. Stay awake, you tell yourself. Stay alive. 

Your eyes slip shut of their own accord.

Chapter Text

You wake to find yourself resting on the plush sofa in the living room. You’re in virtually the same position as before, except there’s a woolen blanket tossed over you. It takes you several seconds to process everything and, once you do, you freeze. Your unintentional adventure onto the middle of the road, Hannibal’s rather convenient appearance, your trip back to Hannibal’s home. And…  

Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper. You take a deep breath in, not very fond of the way your heart is racing. You were entirely vulnerable last night; he could’ve killed you with ease. That begs the question: why didn’t he? Surely, the FBI being close on his trail must be aggravating. Then again, the Ripper has always acted as if he’s several steps ahead of everyone else (and, unfortunately, he often is). You ponder the thought for a moment longer, before quickly distracting yourself. You don’t want to think about it for a while—it’s too disturbing to contemplate so early in the morning.

Once you feel slightly better—you’re not sure if you’ll ever grow truly comfortable with the events of the past night—you get to your feet and pace around the room. Honestly, you’re not entirely familiar with the layout of Hannibal’s home. Plus, you hadn’t exactly had the chance to look around last night. There’s a door off to the side that must lead to the kitchen. You hesitate for a few seconds, before shaking your head, clasping the doorknob, and twisting it open. The door falls open to reveal a beautiful kitchen. You’re then struck with the uncanny resemblance to a theater. Perhaps that was the idea. Cooking is a performance to Hannibal, after all. 

“What did you put in that tea?” The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. Hannibal stands with his back to you, but he quickly turns upon hearing you enter. He’s wearing a suit already. You feel immensely underdressed, in your filthy pajamas from the previous night. You resolutely pretend not to look as uncomfortable as you feel. 

“Good morning to you, too,” Hannibal responds, an amused expression on your face. His sleeves are rolled up as he continues to prepare whatever he’s making. You can’t shake the belief that he must be absolutely furious with you. Hannibal values his privacy, his space, and you’re intruding on it. You’re not quite sure why he hasn’t killed you yet. 

“I’m serious,” you frown. The thought hadn’t graced your mind until now, but you can’t seem to rid yourself of it. How did you fall asleep so quickly last night? You were extremely fatigued, of course. However, you suspect Hannibal had something to do with it, too. “What was in the tea?”

“Chamomile,” Hannibal answers with a helpless expression. You’re not convinced, not even when he’s smiling like that. He walks out to the dining room and you follow behind him. “Breakfast?” You warily glance down at the plate on the table, only to find an innocent enough egg scramble. It’s reminiscent of what you ate that one morning in the motel, except without the suspicious meat. You have to consciously push away the thought—the likelihood that the meat was from one of the Ripper’s recent victims. The egg scramble today doesn’t have meat—at least, not that you can see. You inhale slowly and sit down at the place he’s set for you.

“No suitable candidates for meat?” you can’t help but snap. It takes your mind a few minutes to recognize the fact that you have no power in this situation and, thus, you shouldn’t be pushing the limits. You chance a glance up at Hannibal, fully prepared to see an irritated expression. Instead, all you see is amusement and intrigue. You’re not sure which expression is more dangerous. 

“The harvest wasn’t quite bountiful,” Hannibal responds. How on earth hadn’t you made the connection to the Chesapeake Ripper sooner? Hannibal is constantly making those kinds of comments—allusions that just barely scrape the surface of his true actions. Before, you merely thought him to be an eccentric European. Now, you can’t help but think that his eccentricities mask his brutalities—his actions as a killer. 

“You garden?” you ask, instead of throwing out the accusation you know to be true. If Hannibal wants to play this game, then so be it. You take a bite of the egg scramble, unsurprised that it turns out to be quite good. Hannibal is an excellent cook—at least, when he isn’t putting people on the menu. 

“Occasionally,” Hannibal remarks loftily. He finishes chewing and levels you with a strange look. “Nothing measures up to the quality of homegrown herbs.” You let out a breath through your nose, hiding a full laugh. Of course, Hannibal is pretentious about his herbs; that makes complete sense. You wisely keep quiet and take another bite of your food, making sure to compliment Hannibal on his cooking skills. He really is quite good. 

“I was hoping you could drive me back to the institute,” you say, once the two of you have finished breakfast. You feel guilty about asking so much of Hannibal but, then again, he insisted that you come with him to his residence. “I don’t have my car, so…” 

“Of course,” Hannibal nods, dispelling your doubts. You exhale slowly. You aren’t sure why you worked yourself up so much over that simple question. The clatter of plates draws you out of that spiraling thought process and you watch as Hannibal moves to stack his dishes. 

“Here, let me,” you say before he can object. You quickly take his dishes and walk them over to the sink. Thankfully, there aren’t too many dishes—just yours and his. You find a strange-looking brush and internally hope it’s a sponge, before drowning it in soap and attacking the plates. Silence settles in the space as you busy yourself with the dishes. Hannibal walks over to you and leans against the counter a few feet from the sink. He levels you with an inquisitive gaze. 

“What?” you can’t help but ask, once the staring begins to stress you out. You steadily focus on the running water, the dirty plates, anything but Hannibal’s keen eyes. Droplets of water fall down your skin as you steadily wash the last remaining dish, shelving it to put away later. 

“I’d like to accompany you on your next assignment.” That completely throws you off. You don’t hesitate to ask for an explanation, which Hannibal doesn’t exactly provide. Instead, he paces around for a moment before leveling you with a weighted gaze. “Only if you’re amenable, of course.”

“Okay,” you decide to say, instead of arguing like you want to. Hannibal doesn’t typically budge when his mind is made up. Ironically, it appears as if Hannibal expected you to argue, because he raises his eyebrows for a second. You decide to ignore that. “Before we go… do you have any clothes I could borrow?” You immediately feel stupid for asking. He'll only have clothing in his exact size.

“Of course,” Hannibal responds, to your surprise. You want to feel self conscious, but it’s a bit too late for that. You’ve been wearing your dirty pajamas since the night before, so the psychiatrist has already seen them. Hannibal leaves the room with the promise of bringing you sufficient attire. You just hope that the clothes aren’t extravagant. 

Hannibal returns moments later with a neatly folded pile of clothing in his hands. He offers you the clothes and you take them. You hardly get the chance to unfold them before you’re freezing to stare up at your psychiatrist. “Um, Hannibal?”

“Yes?” Hannibal asks casually, calm and composed as always. Silence descends in the air, creating a thick tension that you’re scared to break through.   

“I didn’t mean you had to give me nice clothes,” you manage to say, looking at the dress shirt and pants he’s provided you. 

“Nonsense,” Hannibal shakes his head. There’s clearly something he’s refraining from telling you, because his lips part for a moment as if to speak. The psychiatrist then shakes his head. You shrug silently, glancing around the space. There’s a hallway off to the side and you take a step in that direction. 

“I’ll change and then… we can go?” Hannibal nods and you duck into the nearest room, closing the door behind you. Upon closer examination, you realize that it’s a linen closet. However, it’s not like a typical linen closet—a bureau or dresser; instead, it’s an entire room. You exhale slowly and put on the clothes he’s given you. You're surprised to find that they fit perfectly. Why or how he has clothing in your precise measurements, you're not quite sure. You take a moment to fix up your appearance before stepping back out into the hallway. 

Hannibal turns around when he evidently hears you exit the linen closet. There’s a satisfied expression on his face. You hastily button the sleeves and straighten out your shirt—well, the shirt he gave you. Before you can adjust the fabric more, Hannibal leans closer and smoothing out your collar. You send him a grateful smile that you hope will hide your anxiety at his proximity. Thankfully, he’s backing away before long and the two of you are free to walk out to his driveway. Hannibal pauses for a moment and you just narrowly avoid running into him. 

“Shit, sorry,” you murmur, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. The man walks to the passenger side first and opens the car door for you. You move to sit and Hannibal looks down at you from where he’s standing. 

“Apologizing again?” There’s a cryptic smile on his face as he speaks. You roll your eyes. 

“I wasn’t aware this was a therapy session,” you reply with a wan smile. Hannibal shakes his head in amusement, walking back to the driver’s side and getting in. Luckily, the ensuing car ride is smooth and painless. Before long, the two of you are at the crime scene that Jack requested you visit. You exit the car and take the lead, leaving Hannibal to follow behind you. Jack is standing off to the side with a concentrated expression on his face. You greet him and he snaps out of his reverie. It seems like your boss is about to say something to you when his gaze suddenly falls to the space next to you. 

“Ah, Doctor Lecter,” Jack smiles thinly. “What a pleasant surprise.” The look on Jack’s face suggests that it isn’t, in fact, a pleasant surprise. You can’t say you’re terribly surprised at that development. 

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal responds amicably. You can’t quite elucidate the expression on his face. “I must insist that you call me Hannibal.” The man smiles charmingly, a gesture that would work on most people. Unfortunately for him, Jack Crawford isn’t most people. You resist a laugh at the annoyance that just barely shows through on your boss’s face. 

“Hannibal, then; what brings you here?” Jack looks at Hannibal warily. Just before the psychiatrist can respond, you decide to interject. 

“I brought him,” you blurt out before your brain can catch up. Jack blinks at you in confusion. You chance a glance at Hannibal and raise your eyebrows at him, trying to telepathically communicate that he should go along with it. The man nods ever so slightly. “I figured we could use the help.” Jack assesses you for a second. 

“Don’t distract my best agent,” Jack then warns Hannibal. You immediately grimace, knowing that the statement is entirely unnecessary. The likelihood of Hannibal distracting anyone working is slim to none. Also... Jack considers you his best agent? That’s certainly unexpected. 

Thankfully, Hannibal doesn’t seem to be too bothered by Jack’s remark. There’s a knowing smile on his face, as if he expected a warning along those lines. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hannibal remarks smoothly. You decide to walk down the path towards the house, Hannibal in tow. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his unanswered questions lingering in the air. You take a deep breath. 

“Jack gets antsy at crime scenes,” you explain, trying to contextualize why you lied about being the one to bring Hannibal along when, in all reality, it was Hannibal’s idea. You shove your hands in your pockets, feeling the need to find something to channel your restless energy into. “I’m used to being on the receiving end of his rather short fuse.”

“Interesting,” Hannibal muses, falling into step next to you, “I wouldn’t have gathered that from our interaction. He seems to think rather highly of you.” You chuckle wryly under your breath. 

“Lord knows why,” you mutter, continuing to walk towards the house. You don’t intend for your comment to be perceived, but Hannibal seems to hear it regardless. You fidget and ignore the discomfort tugging at your core. 

“As a friend, I must point out that you’re quite skilled in the field,” Hannibal remarks, to your utter surprise. It takes all of your energy to maintain a neutral expression. Despite your efforts, your eyes widen. “Jack likely appreciates your work etiquette and talent.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” you frown, letting your gaze fall to the cobbled path below your feet. You kick at one of the upended rocks and it goes skittering along in front of you. Hannibal is your psychiatrist—he’s supposed to say things like that. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.” Hannibal’s expression suggests that this won’t be the last time you have this conversation. You resist a shudder at that, imagining sitting in Hannibal’s office and being forced to pick apart your self-deprecation.

You finally enter the house and begin to wind through the halls, listening for voices. Eventually, you manage to find the scene of the crime: the master bedroom. The victim’s corpse lies against the mattress. Their blood seeps through the white sheets and spreads out around them, creating a puddled effect. Perhaps the most noticeable thing, however, is the gruesome way in which the victim’s chest is torn open, leaving the organs on display for all to see. You don’t realize that you’re blocking the doorway until Hannibal places a gentle hand on your shoulder. Following his movement, you step aside to let him in. There’s no trace of emotion anywhere on Hannibal’s face as he takes in the corpse of the victim. 

“Hey!” Beverly greets you, breaking you out of your thoughts. The agent gets to her feet and grabs her clipboard. You greet Beverly in response. She smiles at you, then looks at Hannibal for a moment. Her gaze is scrutinizing and suspicious. “What’s he doing here?”

“Dr. Lecter, psychiatrist and former surgeon,” Hannibal introduces himself, before you can answer. “Please call me Hannibal.” Beverly raises an eyebrow at his outstretched hand but shakes it, albeit begrudgingly. You decide to interrupt before she can ask the question you’re expecting. 

“He has clearance,” you say. Your comment goes mostly unnoticed, as Beverly and Hannibal appear to size each other up. Your two most terrifying acquaintances are now meeting. You begin to regret everything that’s led you to this moment. 

“Former surgeon,” Beverly repeats, staring at Hannibal in disbelief. You look at your friend, begging her not to say what you think she’s about to say. Unfortunately, Beverly doesn’t seem to care about your distress. She swivels to focus her attention on Hannibal. “What, did you kill someone?”

“Bev,” you groan, wanting to bury your head in your hands. Beverly has never been quite good at filtering her thoughts—always saying whatever’s on her mind. Normally, that’s just one of the many things you love about her. Right now, however, you wish Beverly had a better filter. 

“No, I did not,” Hannibal responds, his eyes glittering. There’s nothing but politeness in his frame, but you can sense an aura of irritation emanating from him. You resist the urge to laugh. You felt remarkably similar upon first meeting Beverly, because her blunt honesty can easily come across as rude.

“Well, since you have clearance, Lecter… I guess you can stay,” Beverly says to Hannibal. You chuckle under your breath at the way Beverly refuses to call him by his first name. The thinly concealed annoyance on Hannibal’s face is equally amusing. Beverly then turns to you. “Anyway. Time to do your thing?” Beverly asks. You nod and she walks over to Price and Zeller, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. 

“We'll give you some space.” She sends you an understanding smile, which you return with an exasperated eye roll. Beverly then raises an eyebrow at Hannibal, evidently expecting him to leave with them. Your friend turns to you and squints between the two of you, before shrugging and taking her leave. 

“I prefer to do this alone,” you murmur, after the weight of Hannibal’s gaze grows to be too much. The air between you feels charged and tense. You clench your fists at your sides and listen for his footsteps as he exits the room. You wait a few moments and turn around, only to find that the man hasn’t moved. 

“I will not be a bother,” Hannibal says. You resist the compelling urge to argue. It’s not that big of a deal, really. It’ll make you uncomfortable, but you can still slip into the killer’s mind with someone else in the room. Besides, Hannibal is your psychiatrist, after all. Nothing he sees will disturb him. 

“Fine,” you sigh. It’s not like Hannibal will witness much, anyway—other than you staring off into space. Resolved to your fate, you pinch the bridge of your nose. The pendulum swings before your eyes once more. You close your eyes and, when you open them again, the bedroom is empty. 

The victim sits on the mattress, looking down at their phone. You approach them with a knife in hand. You’re not fond of guns—they create too much of a mess. You’re eerily silent, enough so that the victim doesn’t expect your appearance [they never do]. An unsettling prickling feeling runs down your skin, creating goosebumps and sending a shiver down your spine. For a second, you’re struck with the uncanny belief that the victim sees you for who you are. The sensation is gone a moment later, as you realize they still haven’t noticed your presence. Heart thudding loudly in your chest, you reach out and stab them in the back of the neck. The victim flails and you turn them around, shoving them into the mattress before stabbing them once more in the chest. They’re dead within a few seconds. The prickling feeling along your skin hasn’t gone away, even with their death. Weirdly enough, the victim almost looks at peace—if not for the wounds to the back of their neck and their chest. You plunge your trembling hands into their chest and pull. Their blood taints your skin a murky red. The victim is open and vulnerable; their organs are on display for all to see. 

Something still isn’t right, though. Anger bubbling up in your chest, you rip their eyeballs out of their sockets. Blood seeps out of their eyes and you streak it downwards across their face—an uncanny resemblance to tears. You put your knife away and survey your masterpiece one last time. This is your design. You glance down at your hands, expecting to see them stained with crimson. They’re clean and unmarred. That’s strange. 

“What do you see?” Hannibal asks. You can’t suppress a flinch as you’re roughly brought back to the present. You blink several times and shake your head to clear your thoughts. “See?” Your eyes take in the strange painting the killer has made: the blood streaked across the victim’s skin, the pathway to the heart being ripped right open. It doesn’t take long for you to come up with an answer. 

“This killer is at a crossroads,” you frown. You can feel the emotion rolling off of this corpse and each mutilation feels symbolic of something. Even without slipping into the killer’s skin, you could see the anger, irritation, and discomfort. “He feels… vulnerable, perceived in ways he hasn’t been perceived before.”

“How do you reckon so?” Hannibal asks, a strange note of something intangible in his voice. You can’t quite tell, but his voice almost seems sharper. You push the thought aside; you have more things to worry about—namely, the murder scene in front of your very eyes. 

“The chest is carved open, but the heart is entirely intact,” you tap your chin in contemplation as you look down at the corpse. “It’s unusual for the organs to remain, but that omission was a conscious decision. The eyes are gouged out too. He could have left them as is, but he took an extra step and smeared the blood down the cheeks to resemble tears. It speaks of grief. And acceptance at the same time? I’m not really sure. This feels… weirdly intimate.”

“Intimate,” Hannibal repeats, evidently intrigued. You take a shuddering breath as the man takes a step into the room and, subsequently, closer to you. “Few can see past the initial brutality of such an act.” He looks down at the victim’s body, entirely unperturbed. His eyes are fixed on the body like a moth drawn to a flame. 

“I can’t quite put my finger on it,” you start, walking around to the side of the bed to look down at the victim. “This feels like a reckoning. The killer is coming to terms with who he is, while simultaneously reaching for something more. It’s a strange juxtaposition: contentment and yearning.”

“Incredible,” Hannibal whispers, his eyes wide with an unrecognizable emotion. The sight grows to be too much and you rip your eyes away. The room’s air feels heated and stifling all of a sudden. You feel at your temple, recognizing the beginning of a headache. 

“I suppose it is, in a gruesome way,” you frown, taking a look at the victim one last time. There is a sort of absurd beauty in the way they are laid to rest. Their heart is no longer caged by ribs and skin—it is free to roam. There’s even a restful expression on their face. “I can certainly feel the emotion embedded in the details.”

“I was referring to you,” Hannibal murmurs, drawing you from your thoughts. You look over at him, only to be met with a gaze so intense that it nearly makes your knees buckle. You take a half-step backwards habitually, nearly knocking into the bedside table. The look on his face is nothing short of dangerous. Thankfully, you’re saved from responding by Beverly’s sudden entrance into the room. 

“Find anything?” You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You relay your findings to Beverly, Price, and Zeller, who all look significantly intrigued and disturbed at the same time. Price and Zeller then go over some of the forensic evidence they found. Eventually, the four of you decide to let Price and Zeller brief Jack on the new findings. Hannibal walks outside—evidently to get some fresh air—which leaves you and Beverly alone in the room. 

“Hey, Bev, do you have aspirin?” you ask, feeling a familiar pulsing ache in your temple. You find that slipping into the mind of the killer often makes your head spin. It almost feels as if someone is hammering into your skull. You grasp the side table to steady yourself. 

“Yeah,” Beverly nods, digging around in her satchel. You breathe a sigh of relief. “You gotta remember to bring some with you, dude.”

“I know,” you sigh heavily. Beverly then pulls out a capsule of aspirin. You smile gratefully and grab two pills, before handing it back to her. It takes you a moment to remember that you don’t have water. Thankfully, Beverly procures a water bottle for you—not without a remark about you being forgetful—and you take the pills. 

“Anyway, what’s Lecter’s deal?” You frown at Beverly’s back. She’s bent over the victim’s body, evidently looking for traces of evidence left behind. You already have a bad feeling that she won’t be able to find anything. “He’s a little weird.”

“I’m a little weird, too,” you argue, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. Beverly’s gaze finally falls away from the victim and she stops bending down, instead looking at you for a moment. For a few seconds, the two of you are left staring at each other.  

“No, you’re very weird,” Beverly then counters, a mischievous smile on her face. You slap her shoulder playfully, which prompts her to let out a dramatic hiss of pain. “Whatever. As long as he doesn’t get in the way, I don’t really care.”

“That’s the Bev I know and love,” you grin. You take a peek out into the hallway, only to find that Hannibal is nowhere to be found. Shit, you realize. He was your ride. You bite your lip and turn to Beverly, who still looks rather proud of herself. “Hey, on an unrelated note… can you drive me home?”

“Wow, trying to flatter me into giving you a ride?” Beverly laughs. You realize your blunder and you quickly stammer out an apology, but your effort only makes Bev laugh harder. It takes a few moments for her to evidently catch her breath.  “I’m just messing with you; I should be able to drive you.”

“Awesome, thanks,” you reply breathlessly. “I’ll just need to speak to Jack and then I’ll be done.” Beverly nods and returns to her work. You’re sure that you could scream at her and she wouldn’t notice—that’s just how concentrated she gets at crime scenes. You decide to stick around for a while longer to conduct your own investigation. Together, the two of you spend an immeasurable amount of time performing tests and examining the corpse. You’re not even aware of time passing until Beverly’s phone goes off and she informs you that it’s getting late. This time, you walk out to meet Jack and deliver the news. You find your boss standing out in the front lawn, ordering some officers around. The poor guys, you shake your head in sympathy. Jack must sense your approach, because he turns around and levels you with an expectant gaze.

“Bev and I did some tests,” you start, already dreading this conversation. You’ve learned that Jack has begun to expect far too much from you. You can always glean details from the killers, sure, but your method is far from perfect. There are always holes in the logic you acquire. “Ultimately, we’re looking for a middle-aged man. He works some sort of day job… maybe a businessman? He has a wife and a daughter.”

“That’s not enough,” Jack interjects predictably. 

“It’s going to have to be,” you respond, staring back at him. Unfortunately, that’s all you found. Jack will have to make do with that information. More accurately, your team will have to make do with that information. You’re certain it won’t be long before you find the killer, though; Beverly, Price, and Zeller are all talented forensic experts. Jack seems to come to that same conclusion, although he clearly isn’t happy about it. Your boss asks you a few more questions—most of which you’re unable to answer—until he frees you from duty. 

Finally, you can get back home. It’s been a long day. You take a few steps towards the front door of the home to get Beverly when you feel eyes digging into your back. You turn around instinctually, only to find Hannibal staring at you from his car. You return his gaze for a second, before realizing that he seems to be summoning you closer. After walking over, you lean into the open window on the passenger side and grin awkwardly. Hannibal’s gaze shifts from you to the empty passenger seat of his car and you begin to connect the dots. 

“Bev’s going to give me a ride…” You smile, resisting the urge to itch the back of your neck amidst the awkward tension. 

“I’ll drive you home,” Hannibal remarks, apropos of your statement. His voice is entirely assertive and you find yourself agreeing with him habitually. You manage to grab Beverly’s attention and point at Hannibal’s car. She raises her eyebrows suggestively and, in a fit of exasperation, you send her a vulgar hand gesture. Beverly quickly returns the gesture before waving. You roll your eyes and get into the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car. Before long, you’re on the open road. 

The ride is mostly silent. Most of the time, you’d feel pressured to fill that silence with something. With Hannibal, however, the silence is comfortable. That recognition is startling and it nearly forces your next words out of your mouth. “Thanks for, well, everything.”

“Of course,” Hannibal nods, his eyes fixated on the road. In the darkness, they hold a dangerous metallic gleam. Your gaze falls down to his hands grasping the steering wheel. Just how many lives have those hands taken? How many times have they been stained with blood and marked with violence? The thought makes your stomach turn a little. You decide to focus your attention elsewhere. 

Before long, Hannibal is pulling into your driveway. You immediately unbuckle your seat and move to grasp the door handle, but the man places a hand on your shoulder. Confused, you remain seated and watch as he walks around the car. Hannibal then opens the car door for you. 

“Thanks, Hannibal,” you murmur, pushing yourself up and out of the car. Somehow, this leads to you standing quite close to the man, only separated by the car door. Your fingers twitch as you grasp the door. Hannibal’s gaze doesn’t falter in intensity and you suddenly need an escape. “See you later.” The moment is broken and you push the door closed. Hannibal nods and makes his way back to the driver’s seat. You stand in the driveway and watch as the sleek car pulls away, driving off until it entirely disappears from your view.

Chapter Text

In hindsight, you should’ve expected it. Alana Bloom—your former psychiatrist—had been on vacation for the past week. She hadn’t been there to see your tremendous, spectacular descent into madness. [While you hesitate to call it madness, the term feels apt enough for now.] You don’t anticipate her return to be a problem, but the moment you walk into the institute in the morning, Alana accosts you.

Admittedly, you’re more surprised than you should be. She missed the whole Hobbs incident. Furthermore, Alana has always been rather… invested… in your personal affairs recently. Despite the fact that she hasn’t been your psychiatrist for a few months, she still checks in on you every week or so. Alana seems to think the two of you are friends—and you haven’t quite found the courage to dispel the notion. Even now, as she’s practically manhandling you and guiding you to her office, you don’t move to stop her. Despite the dread coiling in your stomach, you let her close her office door and stare at you from across her desk.  

“You promised you wouldn’t get too close,” Alana says, crossing her arms over her chest and placing her palms flat against her desk. You sigh; admittedly, you had hoped that Alana wouldn’t do this— namely because her concern often feels patronizing instead of genuine. That was one of the reasons you stopped pursuing care with her—it felt as if you were getting a scolding from a parent. When Alana is finished talking, you take a deep breath. 

“It was unavoidable,” you say, taking a moment to pinch the bridge of your nose and pretend that this isn’t your reality. Alana doesn’t seem very convinced. This really is just like old times—you tell her about something, she patronizes you for making the decision you made, nothing gets fixed… It takes all of your patience not to bolt right out of her office. “Hobbs had already killed his wife by the time I arrived. Any later and he would’ve escaped, Alana.” That statement finally seems to get through to her, as she folds her hands on the desk. 

“I know,” Alana admits, averting her eyes for a moment, “I just… I worry about you. Is that such a bad thing?” The clock on the wall behind her ticks forebodingly. Something akin to tension settles in the air. You suddenly feel that the conversation is entirely out of your control. There’s a strangely vulnerable expression on her face and you can’t help but raise your guard. 

“I guess not,” you admit with a frown. Alana takes you a step closer and you freeze right in place, entirely unsure of what she’s doing. Typically, she’s more cognizant of your need for personal space. Today, though, she’s leaning over your desk to break the distance between the two of you. Your eyes meet and she leans impossibly closer. Her fingers clasp your shirt collar and she tugs you to her. Your concentration slips for a moment as your momentum rushes forward, and you have to shoot a hand out to brace yourself against the desk. One moment, you’re careening forward; the next, Alana is kissing you.

You’re entirely frozen in her grasp. The moment you begin to process what’s happening, Alana pulls back, steps around her desk, and walks away. You stare at her retreating figure in disbelief. Your lips are tingling. What the hell just happened? You clench your fists against the wooden desk, feeling remarkably confused. It takes you an immeasurable amount of time to get a grip. When you finally manage to shake yourself out of your confused stupor, you leave Alana’s office and determinedly walk through the halls of the institute. 

You manage to end up near the BAU offices, unsurprisingly. You look around the common area, surprised to find that there is no one in sight. You take a few more steps and look down the hall, only to see Beverly in the lab. You walk towards her. “Bev,” you hiss. Your friend doesn’t look up. You take a deep breath. “Bev!”

“Hey,” Beverly says, blinking at you in confusion. You resist the compelling urge to grab her by the collar and shake her. She finally tears her eyes away from whatever she’s analyzing and levels you with a scrutinizing gaze. “What’s up? You look funny.” Her eyebrows are furrowed as she looks at you. 

“Wow, thanks,” you remark dryly, crossing your arms over your chest. The lab is always freezing. You really need to keep a coat or jacket in here. 

“Funnier than usual, I mean,” Beverly clarifies, as if that will make the situation better. You look at her in disbelief for a moment and she stares back unflinchingly.

“Yeah, thanks,” you then respond flatly. You have to take a moment to collect your thoughts and recall why you came to her. “Anyway, I had something to tell you.”

“Ooh, is it hot goss?” Beverly smirks, eyes gleaming. 

“What the hell is hot goss?” You squint at her in faux disgust. Beverly rolls her eyes.

“Hot gossip, obviously,” Beverly answers, blinking at you as if you have three heads. She grabs the clipboard she had set aside and places it on the counter next to you. 

“Well, actually… it sort of is,” you grimace. 

“Sweet!” Beverly grins, leaning forward in intrigue. “What is it?”

“Alana kissed me,” you choke out, the words prying your lips apart and crawling out of your mouth. Even just uttering the sentiment makes you uncomfortable. Your heart is still racing and your hands are trembling ever so slightly. It feels as if you’re in a nightmare.  

“What?” Bev exclaims loudly, freezing and looking at you in complete shock. You helplessly stare back for a few moments. Beverly searches your face—evidently trying to discern if you’re telling the truth—before shaking her head in disbelief. “Wow.”

“I know,” you remark, feeling just as lost as she looks, “I was completely shocked.”

“Um, yeah.” Beverly shakes her head in disbelief. She then looks around your immediate surroundings, as if making sure no one is around to hear. You feel slightly honored at the gesture, but mostly amused—you already spilled all the hot goss. Furthermore, you’re in the lab. The only people in here besides you two are dead and, therefore, entirely unable to eavesdrop. “So… what did you do?” 

“I just stood there like a dumbass,” you admit with a sigh, putting your head in your hands. Beverly graciously allows you to do so, remaining silent and waiting for you to continue. Eventually, you get over some of your initial embarrassment and continue. “Then, I came right here to you.”

“As you should,” Beverly nods wisely. She crosses her arms over her chest and grins victoriously. “As you fucking should.” You roll your eyes fondly. It only takes a few moments for the reality of the situation to come crashing down on you again. 

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, just loud enough for your friend to hear. You bite your lip and try to pretend as if the world hasn’t been thrown off its axis. That whole encounter with Alana was entirely unexpected, and you wish you could just forget it. If only you could turn back time to about an hour ago, before you had crossed paths with Alana… 

“Well, you don’t have to do anything, obviously,” Beverly interjects, squinting at you as if the solution to that problem is obvious. Her confidence pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. “It was entirely her decision to do that. You had no choice in the matter. In fact, she should have asked you before she kissed you… Do you want me to beat her up?”

“No, don’t beat her up,” you say, choking on a laugh. Bev smiles victoriously. You can’t get rid of the rather amusing mental picture that comes with Beverly’s suggestion. “But, yeah, you might be right.”

“Of course I am,” Beverly squints at you worriedly, as if the mere idea of thinking otherwise is cause for concern. “I’m always right.”

“Unfortunately, you usually are,” you acquiesce, earning a mischievous smirk from Beverly. The conversation soon falls away from your interaction with Alana earlier that morning, thankfully. 

The universe seems to be smiling down on you, because, after a few hours of work, Jack lets you go home early. You have a lingering suspicion that it may have something to do with the distracted mindset you were stuck in. A few times, you zoned out so much that someone had to shake your shoulder or snap their fingers in front of your face. You’re just… overwhelmed, to be honest. Alana kissing you was not on your bingo card for this year—that’s for sure. 

Fortunately, you manage to have a rather calming rest of your night. You push aside all thoughts of Alana and work, and instead just try to relax. Somehow, the attempt works and you’re able to get a good night’s sleep. The next morning, you feel surprisingly rejuvenated and refreshed. You don’t have to go into work until later, so you’re content to make breakfast and then work on tidying up your house. Within a few hours, you’ve done your laundry and washed Hannibal’s clothes—which you plan to give back to him today; you also cleaned around the house and did some of the more unpleasant chores that you’d been putting off. Overall, it’s quite the productive day. So, when your phone alarm goes off to remind you of your appointment with Hannibal, you walk out to the car and start driving over with a content smile on your face. 

You park your car and mechanically make your way into the office. The waiting room is blissfully empty and you take a seat in the chair in the far corner. You’re a bit early, so you’re forced to wait a bit before Hannibal comes out of his office. “Please, come in.” Hannibal’s voice breaks you from your thoughts. You look up from where you’d been staring at the ground, only to find the psychiatrist standing in the doorway to his office. He motions for you to follow him and you do so without hesitation. Just as Hannibal shuts the door behind him, you remember what you meant to return to him.

“Here, I have these… before I forget,” you remark, extending your arms to reveal the neatly folded clothes that he lent you days ago. “I washed them a few times, don’t worry.” The psychiatrist reaches out and, somehow, your fingers brush his as you hand the articles to him. 

“I wasn’t worried,” Hannibal remarks with a mix of amusement and confusion. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t explain that sentiment any further. He walks over to his desk and you decide to head for the chairs. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement. When you turn your head, you swear you see him smelling the pile of folded clothes. Do you really smell that bad? You shake your head and pretend that you didn’t see anything. 

Once Hannibal returns from his desk, the session is underway. You talk about your day and what’s weighing on your mind. Hannibal asks you about work and you immediately think of the institute. Although you're sure that he’s inquiring about the Ripper or any other killers you’re searching for, you can’t quite control the sharp turn your mind takes toward your encounter with Alana. The words are slipping from your tongue before you can stop them. 

“Alana kissed me,” you blurt out, quickly looking down and hoping Hannibal didn’t hear anything. Unfortunately, Hannibal is rather perceptive and he seems to have heard your remark. There’s a mysterious expression on his face and his eye twitches for a millisecond. “I don’t know why I said that, I’m so sorry.” That’s likely something Hannibal could have done without hearing. Oops. 

“It seems to be causing you significant distress.” Hannibal remarks, no trace of emotion anywhere on his face. Sometimes, you wish you were that good at hiding your feelings. “I presume you’re talking about Alana Bloom; how do you know her?”

“She was my psychiatrist for a little while,” you decide to say. You’re debating keeping the latter part of your relationship a secret, but Hannibal is looking unusually attentive and you can’t find any reason to keep it hidden. “We also dated, but that was years ago.” There’s a brief pause where Hannibal doesn’t say anything and you fall quiet. 

“You broke up.” The statement is phrased like a question and you begin to catch on. You’re unable to get rid of the smile on your face at the realization. For the first time, Hannibal looks interested. More than that, he looks utterly enraptured. He is awaiting your answer with thinly concealed anticipation. You grin. 

“You want all the gory details, huh?” You stare at Hannibal, letting the silence drag on for several moments. You can almost feel the tension in the air. Folding your hands in your lap, you mimic his posture and lean forward. Hannibal watches quietly. You make sure to look at him with an open expression. “That’s unlike you, Dr. Lecter.” Hannibal blinks and you smirk victoriously. 

“Apologies; it seems I have overstepped,” the psychiatrist remarks, a mildly apologetic smile on his face. You get the feeling that he isn’t truly remorseful—he’s just apologetic because you called him out. You can’t stop the short huff of amusement that spills from your lips. Hannibal raises an eyebrow, but he continues regardless. “It appears Miss Bloom still cares for you.”

“Apparently,” you acquiesce, giving up on the rather enjoyable game of manipulating Hannibal. Unfortunately, the moment you let your focus slip, the interaction from yesterday dominates your thoughts again. You can’t stop berating yourself for it. You should’ve paid more attention to the signs, you should’ve pushed her away, you should’ve… 

“You seem unusually fixated on it,” Hannibal interrupts, raising his eyebrows at you. The fire crackles in the fireplace, illuminating the room in an amber glow. Hannibal’s eyes glow in the dim lighting and you’re briefly reminded of how dangerous the man is. His expression turns from amused to expectant and you have to break away from your thoughts. 

“It wasn’t entirely… wanted; she kind of just grabbed me before I could do anything,” you grimace at the memory. There is pure malice written in the lines of Hannibal’s body—his shoulders are tight and his lips are pulled taut in a flat line. “I thought we were just friends,” you continue, pretending not to notice the murderous aura coming from Hannibal’s general direction. “I’m just the worst at reading the subtext like that.”

“Reading the subtext is an apt description,” Hannibal nods thoughtfully, after a rather painful moment of silence. You swear he’s still leaning forward in his chair, almost like he's trying to breach the distance between you. “You didn’t know about her feelings.”

“I didn’t have a damn clue; embarrassing, isn’t it?” You shake your head, starting to analyze your past interactions and connect the dots. Alana had been weirdly tactile for a short period, there… You had just dismissed it to be friendly contact. Evidently, it was a lot more than that.

“Why would that be that embarrassing?” Hannibal queries, squinting at you. You take a deep breath and try to collect your thoughts.  

“We both wanted different things,” you manage to say, after reflecting upon the events of the day. You never realized that Alana wanted more. You really thought the breakup was the end of things. Apparently not, you think wryly. It takes a lot of effort to stop yourself from overanalyzing every interaction you’ve had with her, searching for the moments when you should’ve noticed her feelings. 

“She wanted things you couldn’t give her,” Hannibal says, staring at you intently. You swallow hard, feeling as if the conversation has taken an uncomfortable turn. 

“Yeah,” you eventually agree. “That’s a rather typical theme in my life,” you say, before Hannibal can say the same thing. Sure enough, the psychiatrist nods. Silence stretches across the space and it is painfully awkward. The atmosphere feels extremely tense. You take a deep breath and decide to change the subject. “Other than that, I’ve been… okay. It’s been weird, lately. The Ripper hasn’t been active in over a year.”

“That unsettles you,” Hannibal says, graciously allowing you to change topics. 

“I feel like I’m letting my guard down,” you finally admit. You had been carrying the sentiment for a while there. Once you utter the words, though, you realize their gravity. You truly have felt uneasy without the Ripper’s murders. “Then, when he does kill again, I won’t be prepared.”

“No one is truly prepared for death,” Hannibal says. You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest. 

“I just mean… I feel weirdly off-kilter,” you clarify, before Hannibal can launch into another weird extended metaphor. “I feel like… the Ripper has grown to define me. What kind of person does that make me?”

“Your work is rather immersive.” The justification sounds rather weak. Still, you appreciate the gesture nonetheless. There’s a weirdly restrained look on Hannibal’s face, as if he’s actively forcing himself to remain silent and not speak again. You try to pretend that you never noticed. 

“Unfortunately,” you acknowledge, taking a shuddering breath in. It suddenly feels a lot warmer in this office space. You pull at your collar and Hannibal’s eyes track the movement. “Still. I’ve never felt such a connection with any other killer. It’s weird… When I see his murders, I can feel exactly what he was feeling.” Hannibal raises his eyebrows, nonverbally asking you to elaborate. “Typically, I can sense what the killer was feeling at the time of the murder. With the Ripper, though, I can genuinely feel what he felt. The sensation takes a few hours to subside. Then, I’m left feeling strangely… empty.”

“The Ripper gives your life purpose.” You swallow hard and take a deep breath at that. You’re unable to utter any words; you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling the need to shield yourself from everything. Your breaths start to feel a bit more laborious. After a few moments, you chance a glance up at Hannibal. You’re expecting eyes gleaming in distrust, posture tight with discomfort, anything. You’re certainly not expecting the strange mix of pride and hunger written in the slight pull to his lips. “I’m not one to question how another conducts their life.” The complex expression resting on Hannibal’s face is rather unnerving. You have to take a few seconds to actively process and comprehend his statement. 

“Sure you aren’t,” you remark loftily. Hannibal’s gaze sharpens and intensifies significantly. You meet his eyes and raise your eyebrows. Hannibal is one of the most judgmental people you’ve ever met—he just knows how to hide it behind a charming twist of his lips. You almost utter those words aloud, before you realize that the psychiatrist’s attention has been captured by the elegant watch sitting on his wrist. 

Hannibal smiles apologetically at you and, for a moment, it almost looks sincere. You resist the urge to call him out on the gesture. “It looks like we’re out of time for today,” he remarks. “Shall we continue this conversation next week?”

“Sure,” you agree easily. The time had really flown by. Usually, your sessions felt a lot longer. Although, you’ve had a lot weighing on your mind recently. Indeed, your shoulders feel lighter when you get up to your feet. You smile at Hannibal. “Bye.” As you walk away, you feel his eyes digging into your back. Even as you get in your car and drive away, his words run through your mind.

The Ripper gives your life purpose.

Chapter Text

The air is cold and frigid. You puff out a breath as you lock your car and walk up the path towards Hannibal’s office. Your appointment is in a few minutes. Honestly, looking back, you’re surprised that you’ve been meeting with Hannibal for so long. Your past therapists never lasted long—you’d either scare them off or they’d say something that hinted at their true, rather dislikable character. You seem to be making genuine progress in your meetings with Hannibal. As much as you’d like to tease and mock him for his rather lavish tastes, he’s good at what he does.

Your conversation from the last session is still running through your mind. It had been rather difficult to keep your awareness hidden; after all, you’re pretty sure that Hannibal isn’t aware of your knowledge of the Ripper [namely, that you know he is the Chesapeake Ripper]. Since your last session, you’ve been to his home a few times. You must admit, it feels rather weird each time you visit his residence. Hannibal is just so… different from you—he’s much more sophisticated and upper-class. You’ve never really made friends with people like that before. Ironically, his affluence isn’t even the strangest quality about him. After all, he eats people. You have to be careful about what you eat when you’re at his home—you’re starting to run out of excuses for not consuming his cooking. One time, you said you had already eaten. Another time, you ate it but then had to go to the bathroom to spit it out. Digesting human meat is not one of your desires—the mere thought makes your stomach turn. You get the nagging feeling that Hannibal knows your excuses aren’t exactly genuine, but he hasn’t said anything yet. In the meantime, you’ll continue to feign ignorance. 

You aren’t waiting in the lobby of Hannibal’s office for very long before Hannibal is ushering you in. “Please, have a seat,” he says, closing the door behind you and then gesturing at the open chairs. You squint at the chairs. They look closer together, for some reason. You sit down and blink at Hannibal, who stares back at you for a few moments. Before long, the tension is gone and you’re talking about your recent fieldwork. Unsurprisingly, your conversation soon falls to Garret Jacob Hobbs. His death has been weighing on you more than you’d like to admit. 

“I can’t stop thinking about Hobbs,” you say. Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been losing sleep because of it.” Your sleep has never been very good to begin with, but since the Hobbs incident, you spend even more time lying awake at night. You can never decide if you want to sleep and watch yourself murder the man again, or remain awake and sleep-deprived. It’s a lose-lose situation, really. 

“In your dreams, what do you see?”

“I see myself killing him,” you respond. Hannibal doesn’t seem surprised by the admission. “Over and over and over again. I see Abigail slowly fading on that kitchen floor. I see the blood spattered on my hands. And… I feel a smile on my face.” You’ve had nightmares about killers before. Hobbs, though… You’re certain he’ll stay with you forever. Your first kill.

“And, when you wake up?” Hannibal asks. You fall silent and he continues to clarify. “Dreams are often a pathway into the parts of our minds that we hide away from others. Perhaps there is some truth in these dreams. Perhaps, what you’re most afraid of…”

“I don’t feel guilty,” you supply with a whisper, so quickly and quietly that you’re certain Hannibal won’t hear it. Somehow, he does notice your remark and he raises an eyebrow. The words slip from your lips before you can stop them. “Killing Hobbs felt good.” There’s a buzzing sound reverberating in your ears as you finally utter the words that have been weighing you down for so long. You clench your fists at your sides and dig your nails into your palms.

“You shot him nine times,” Hannibal points out. The statement is not intended to be malicious— it’s merely truthful. Hannibal looks entirely relaxed, as he clasps his hands and stares at you expectantly. You take a deep breath, feeling rather overwhelmed with his insistent gaze. 

“I know,” you say. “I just— I couldn’t get rid of this bone-deep urge to make him hurt—the way he hurt all those girls. I wanted… vengeance. Is that so wrong?” That last question is rhetorical in nature, but the gleam in Hannibal’s eyes sharpens. The fire in the fireplace spits out embers. 

“It is not,” Hannibal responds. Of course the Chesapeake Ripper would believe that, you think to yourself. You’re not sure how reassuring his statement is, though. “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?” A shiver rolls down your spine at that. Is that how Hannibal justifies his own kills? As you dissect that statement, memories flicker before your eyes—church pews, gilded crosses, menacing stares. 

“That’s a whole different can of worms,” you murmur after a few seconds, leaning back in your chair and crossing one leg over the other. You intend for the remark to be for yourself, but Hannibal seems to hear it anyway. 

“Religion?” he hums. You nod, your throat burning. Hannibal stares at you and, while he doesn’t ask for you to continue, there is a somewhat expectant look on his face. You decide to indulge him, if only for the fact that his gaze is rather intense. Plus, hell, you’re already here. This is supposed to be therapy, after all.

“I grew up in a religious household,” you start, trying to collect your thoughts. Your heart is racing out of your chest—you’d never gotten this far with any of your other therapists. “Kind of delayed the whole… realization of my gender identity and sexuality.” Hannibal doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised at the mention of either concept. You have to tell yourself not to think about that.

“How so?” The psychiatrist isn’t demanding in his questioning—he just seems… curious. You can’t help but feel grateful for the fact that Hannibal isn’t trying to pry this information out of you. Your past experiences made you think that you always had to disclose information, regardless of how painful it was to do so. 

“Anything that falls outside of the binary is sinful. That’s what I was taught, at least. I wasn’t given any room for questioning and introspection, so I spent the better part of my young life pretending to be someone else.” You take a deep breath. 

“Obviously, that wore me down. I figured it all out and I’m here now, but… I didn’t expect myself to make it this long.” Memories flash before your eyes, as you remember all the melancholic birthday parties and existential dread that plagued you for so long. You chance a glance at Hannibal, who looks extremely troubled by your last statement. You know it’s mostly professional concern, but the tightness to his frame almost makes you think his concern is of a different nature. You quickly rid yourself of the notion. His entire job revolves around keeping you happy and, well, alive. Surely that’s the only source of his concern. After all, it would reflect badly on him if you were to… Well. 

“I am glad you’re here, if that is any consolation,” Hannibal remarks, after the silence begins to hurt. You long gave up on trying to return his eye contact—it’s too overwhelming. Despite the fact that you’re steadily avoiding his gaze, you can still feel his eyes fixated on you. It’s clear that Hannibal can read through the lines and ascertain the true meaning behind your admission. “I would be… saddened, to say the least, if you weren’t.” The clock on the opposite wall ticks and for a moment, you’re so mesmerized by its movement that you don’t fully comprehend Hannibal’s statement. When you manage to process it, you feel your eyes begin to burn.

“Thanks,” you choke out. Tears slip down your face and you wipe them away quickly. You always hated crying. You bury your head in your hands and take a moment to close your eyes, trying to avoid the acknowledgement that you’re crying in front of Hannibal. As you recollect your composure, you notice that there’s an element of restraint evident in Hannibal’s posture—as if he’s stopping himself from breaking the distance between you and placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. He’s a good friend, you think to yourself. 

After you regain your composure, you talk a little more about your upbringing and the long, harrowing process that brought you to where you are now. Hannibal mostly listens, but he occasionally asks clarifying questions or offers comments. You find the practice to be relieving; you’ve never quite talked about this journey with anyone. 

After an immeasurable amount of time, there’s a brief lull in the conversation and you allow your gaze to wander. Your eyes find the window and, to your surprise, you realize that it’s dark outside. A glance down at your watch tells you that your appointment should have been finished a few minutes ago. 

“It’s been fifty minutes,” you remark, surprised that you’re the one to bring it up. Hannibal always keeps track of the time for you. In fact, you think that he has his watch for that specific purpose. It’s rather uncharacteristic of him to lose track of time. 

“Forgive me,” Hannibal says, standing up and looking down at you. You feel weirdly intimidated by the gesture, as he practically looms over you from your sitting position. “I was enchanted by your story.” You place your hands on the arms of the chair, seeking physical support. You almost feel like a pinned butterfly—flayed apart and thrown on display for him to dissect with a clever eye. 

“I’m not sure 'enchanted' is the word you’re looking for, but alright.” You frown, pushing yourself off the chair and pacing around his office. You feel unusually restless; this particular session was freeing, but it also took a lot of energy to retell your story. 

“Isn’t it?” You swivel on your heel, only for Hannibal to be right behind you. You lean back habitually, feeling rather winded all of a sudden. Your back falls against the ladder behind you. Hannibal is trapping you. You grasp the wooden ladder and inhale sharply. You feel like prey cornered by a predator—a deer faced with a prowling lion. In this very moment, you can see exactly why the Chesapeake Ripper is so dangerous. Hannibal’s brown eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen them; looking into them feels like staring into a deep dark void. 

Hannibal leans closer—to do something—when suddenly the door to the office falls open. You turn to look at the disturbance, only to find a man in the doorway. He looks from you to Hannibal—who is still standing quite close to you—and his eyebrows furrow. “Doctor Lecter,” the man says, tearing you from your thoughts. You look at him in confusion. The man must have let himself in. You can’t quite hide a grimace at that. From what you’ve learned about Hannibal so far, he absolutely abhors rudeness. Entering his office without invitation and interrupting a conversation is certainly impolite. 

“Franklyn,” Hannibal remarks, his back to the door. His eyes are still fixated on you, and his breath nearly hits your neck as he speaks. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet.” Hannibal looks entirely irritated and frustrated, unsurprisingly. What is surprising, however, is the source of his anger. It’s as if he’s resentful of the fact that your conversation was cut short. 

“It’s six o’clock,” the man frowns, his gaze wandering to the clock on the wall. “You must have gotten distracted!” He clearly means that lightly, but Hannibal’s expression is cold and blank. Thankfully, the man—Franklyn, apparently—can’t see it. Instead, he just vibrates incessantly from the doorway. You can’t be bothered to argue with this turn of events, so instead you nod at Hannibal and step around him. 

Before you leave, however, you take a moment to assess the stranger that begs Hannibal’s attention. Franklyn appears to be a rather sweaty man, and he’s wearing weirdly formal attire for a therapy session. There’s something about him that sets you off, but you’re not sure what it is. Franklyn appears to be innocent enough, but there’s something dark lurking underneath his surface. You’re sure that you don’t want to know what it could be, so you settle for walking out of the office and closing the door behind you. The sickening sweetness of the man’s neuroticism clings to your skin and you feel the visceral need to take a shower. 

“Who was that?” You hear the man ask Hannibal once you’re in the waiting room. You don’t intend to overhear their conversation, but Franklyn isn’t exactly quiet. Curious to hear Hannibal’s explanation, you freeze in place and wait to hear his response. His voice is just barely heard through the wooden door. You’re more than aware that eavesdropping isn’t exactly polite, but you don’t really care. Besides, you’re not listening in on the actual session—just the casual conversation they’re having. Selfishly speaking, you want to hear what Hannibal thinks of you. 

“...A friend.”

You feel a smile growing on your face. You don’t stay to hear Franklyn’s response to that—instead deigning to step out of the waiting room and walk back to your car. Despite having little context for the conversation, you’re happy with the thought of Hannibal considering you a friend. When you finally slip into bed that night, calculating brown eyes and a kind yet dangerous smile follow you in your dreams.

Chapter Text

You’re in Hannibal’s home again. You really need to have more self-preservation—you’re practically a gift-wrapped murder victim here. Although, he hasn’t killed you yet. Maybe you’ll be fine. Perhaps you aren’t as rude as you thought you were... The thought amuses you. 

Inexplicably, as you’re speaking with Hannibal, he asks you to accompany him to the opera. The request is so unexpected that it takes you several moments to realize you heard him correctly. Hannibal stares at you expectantly and you take a deep breath. 

“You realize I don’t know the first thing about opera,” you remark apprehensively. “Surely there are far better choices than me.” Doesn’t he have acquaintances that are more suited for this type of outing? You’re certain you would look extremely out of place amidst the typical visitors. Surely, Hannibal knows that he will put his reputation at risk by bringing you along. You try to convey those sentiments in the eye contact you’re currently maintaining with the man, but he doesn’t seem dissuaded in the slightest. 

“You are my friend and I want to spend time with you,” Hannibal states easily. You envy his ability to be so straightforward with his thoughts and feelings. “Is that really so strange?”

“I suppose not,” you frown. Fond of breaking doctor-patient boundaries, are we, Dr. Lecter? You dispel the thought. Admittedly, from the first moment you interacted with Hannibal, you knew he would be more than a psychiatrist. You’re happy to consider him a close friend now. 

“Are you interested?” Hannibal then asks, just before you can zone out and lose focus. 

“When is it?” you ask, despite knowing that you don’t have much going on this week anyway. 

“Tomorrow night,” Hannibal answers. You raise an eyebrow. 

“Rather late notice,” you say, if only to make him sweat a bit. Of course, Hannibal’s perfectly crafted mask remains in place. “Did your date cancel on you?” Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow and he crosses his arms over his chest. You decide to take pity on him and stop messing around. 

“I’m just kidding,” you interject with a grin. It’s kind of fun to see how much you can push Hannibal around. You get the feeling that no one really questions him. It’s amusing to see him scramble for an explanation, even though the effort is perfectly rehearsed. “I think I’m free; I’d love to go. You just may have to deal with my complete ignorance when it comes to opera.”

“I think I’ll survive,” Hannibal smiles. Is he playing along?  You raise your eyebrows in surprise. Admittedly, you weren’t expecting that. It’s nice to know that Hannibal can take a joke.

“Anyway, thank you for inviting me into your home again; I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Of course not,” Hannibal says with a shake of his head, as if the very thought is ludicrous. “I invited you.” Hannibal then excuses himself for a moment and you take the gifted opportunity to look around his kitchen. You suppress the extremely compelling urge to look through his drawers—you know what you’ll find and you’re certain you don’t want to see it. Instead, you let your eyes rove over the polished cabinets and clean counters. Just before you can lose interest, your gaze falls on the rolodex. Interest peaking, you decide to walk towards it.

It appears the rolodex holds business cards of people Hannibal has met. You idly flip through the rolodex, needing something to occupy your restless hands. A few of the names are (unsurprisingly) ones you recognize. It takes you a few moments of observation to realize just what purpose this rolodex serves. It appears this is a list of potential murder victims. Flipping through the various business cards, you don’t see a common denominator. “Whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude,” Hannibal had told you once. On second thought, these business cards are probably people that Hannibal has determined to be rude. You go through the names with renewed interest. A few of them are rather fancy. One even looks remarkably close to yours. You move to the next one before a breath catches in your chest and you find yourself returning to the one that caught your eye. 

The business card is extremely similar to yours—same color and font. You squint at it, heart racing in your chest as you look at the name written on it. It must be another government agent, surely. You all have similar, standard-issue business cards. You just hope it isn’t any of your acquaintances. You’re expecting to see anyone from Jack Crawford to Alana Bloom. You close your eyes for a moment, before finally giving in and reading the name. It’s… your name.

You stare at the card in disbelief. Where did Hannibal get your business card? It has your name, phone number, email address… It even has your office location at headquarters. You swallow past the trepidation building in your core. You can’t quite stop the choked laugh that escapes your lips. You let your guard down. You had foolishly hoped that maybe, just maybe, things would be different. You let your guard down and, now, your name rests amidst the names of current and future Ripper victims. 

“Is everything alright?” The timing could not be worse. Hannibal walks in as you’re looking at the rolodex and you quickly turn around, trying to shield it from his view. You’re not sure what expression is on your face, but it must be suitably harrowed, because his face twists in concern—mock concern, your mind supplies. “You look rather shaken.”

“Yes, of course,” you answer. It takes every ounce of practice you’ve accumulated to keep the fear from your voice. You sound slightly flat, but you’re convinced that you’ve mostly concealed your true feelings. “Apologies, Dr. Lecter. I think I’d better get going.”

You can tell that Hannibal is suspicious, but you don’t give him the chance to ask you about it—instead deigning to murmur a quick goodbye and walk out to your car. You’re infinitely grateful that you had the foresight to drive yourself. You’re not sure that you would’ve had the energy to maintain your composure in Hannibal’s company. 

You wait until you’re a sufficient distance from Hannibal’s home to sag in your seat and sigh heavily. You’d been growing too big of an ego. Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper. The two of you are friends and you foolishly assumed that your friendship gave you immunity. Clearly, that isn’t the case. You need to remember yourself, remember that the composed dinner host you often sit across from is a practiced killer. One false move and you’re dead. Once you get home, you spend the remainder of the evening in an anxious and paranoid haze. It takes you a while to fall asleep that night and, when you do, the Ripper follows you into your dreams. 

The next morning, you receive a text from Hannibal—which includes the details of the opera and what time he plans to pick you up. It takes you several moments to ground yourself in reality and remember that Hannibal isn’t aware of your knowledge that he’s the Ripper. Once you collect your composure, you insist that you can drive yourself—but he waves off the suggestion and maintains that he’ll drive. Admittedly, now that you’re thinking about the opera, you don’t have the slightest clue what to wear. You’ve never really been to an opera performance before, and you can only imagine what the people in attendance will be wearing. You have no idea where to begin searching for an outfit. Your closet isn’t exactly the best.

Eventually, you swallow your pride and text Hannibal. He knows you’re not sophisticated, you think to yourself. Asking him for help isn’t that embarrassing. In fact, you’d rather ask and lose a bit of dignity than try to puzzle it out on your own [and fail miserably.] Hannibal is quick to respond—almost as if he had been expecting the question—and says that he’ll bring clothes for you. You immediately have several objections to that, but they fall on determined ears. You regret asking, now.

A few hours later, there’s a quiet knock on your door. You open the door to find Hannibal waiting on your doorstep, folded clothing in hand. You shake your head in exasperation and let him in. “Thank you,” you say, taking the clothes he’s extending out to you. You still feel the need to try to argue one more time. “I could’ve found something on my own.”

Hannibal looks you up and down, in a manner that makes you feel extremely self conscious. You aren’t exactly wearing the fanciest clothing right now, but that’s only because you knew you’d be changing. “Doubtful,” Hannibal remarks. You glare at him, only to find his lips twisted in that slightly amused smirk. You roll your eyes. 

“I’m going to change.” You then realize that this is the first time that Hannibal has been in your home. He’s driven you many times, but he’s never gotten out of the car before. “Feel free to explore, I guess.” You’re struck with the sudden mundane feeling of shame, as you recognize how much less luxurious your home is in comparison to his. Hannibal doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he starts to walk around and look at things. Meanwhile, you head to the bathroom. 

Once you place the clothes on the bathroom counter, you’re once again realizing that you’re out of your depth. The outfit he’s given you is extremely lavish: an extravagant suit with dress pants. Upon further examination, you realize that he even gave you an undershirt. You push aside all the strange, conflicting feelings you have about wearing clothes your psychiatrist provided you. The clothes even smell very strongly of Hannibal’s cologne. It takes all of your resistance not to cough once you put them on. You’re not very fond of fragrances to begin with, since they often give you headaches. But, you know you have no right to complain. It was extremely generous of Hannibal to lend you clothing, and you don’t plan to disrespect the gesture by complaining about his cologne. You put on the rest of the clothing and assess yourself in the mirror. You look rather good, you have to admit. Of course, it’s all due to Hannibal’s clothing. You take a moment to brush your teeth again before walking back out into the main area of the house, where Hannibal seems to be looking at your decorations with a keen eye. He turns around upon hearing you enter and, for a long moment, the two of you stare at each other in silence. 

Inexplicably, Hannibal breaks the distance between you and reaches out. Your heart is racing in your chest but you manage to remain still. He fiddles with your collar for a moment before stepping back, apparently satisfied with his work. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. 

“Better?” you ask sardonically. 

“Much,” Hannibal remarks. “Shall we?” He holds out an arm and you scoff. Hannibal freezes and you do, too. Shit, you hadn’t meant to scoff aloud. You compensate by putting your hand on his arm and he sends you a smile that is almost… fond. You immediately disregard that notion. 

The drive to the opera house is enjoyable. Hannibal is one of the few people who you feel comfortable enough to share silence with. You don’t feel the need to constantly fill the air and, so, you spend most of the ride staring out the window and looking at the trees. Before long, Hannibal is pulling into a parking space and the two of you are ascending the stairs leading to the opera house. The building is rather grand, with beautiful towering pillars and elegant statues decorating the path to the entrance. When you enter, you’re unsurprised to see Hannibal’s mask slide neatly into place.

Evidently, Hannibal has been here before, because he navigates the opera house with practiced ease. There are several people that greet him upon his entrance, and he smiles and sends them a courteous wave. You idly wonder if he truly likes any of these people, or if he merely tolerates them. As you continue to walk in, you’re brutally aware of the gazes searing into your back. You’re sure that Hannibal will be the talk of the town soon enough—you get the feeling he never brings guests to these kinds of events. Indeed, he seems the type to appreciate art in solitude. You debate asking him once more if he’s okay with being seen with you here. Within a few moments, you’re finally in the area where the performance is scheduled to occur. Hannibal leads you to your seats—which are in one of the balconies—and you can’t suppress your thoughts any longer. Thankfully, it seems no one else has found their seats in your section just yet. 

“You realize how this looks, right?” you finally ask. Hannibal sends a curious glance at you and you refuse to acknowledge how handsome he looks right now. You avert your eyes for a moment, instead watching as the people below file into their seats. “Everyone thinks that I’m…  you know.” Hannibal continues to stare at you with a blank expression. Damn it, is he really going to make you explain it? You try to push past your embarrassment and remain professional. “I think they’re under the impression that we’re… dating.”

“The thought makes you uncomfortable,” Hannibal states, crossing one leg over the other. That must be why he chose these seats—he probably needs the legroom. The people below are milling about, talking with one another. You’re grateful that these seats are isolated from everyone else—there’s no expectation for you to talk to anyone. You take a deep breath. 

“No, it doesn’t,” you clarify, wondering how he justified that leap in logic. “Besides, if anyone’s reputation is going to be at risk, it’ll be yours.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Hannibal says, something akin to amusement on his face. You’re not sure what he’s finding so amusing—you don’t think your statement was far-fetched or unreasonable. From the moment you walked in, you noticed quite a few people staring at Hannibal and you. They seemed to be making their own conclusions about the two of you; you just wanted to warn him. “I am not worried about my reputation.” 

“You think your reputation won’t be affected?” You squint at him, trying to watch for a reaction. “...Or you just don’t care?” Your companion is silent for a moment. 

“I was under the impression that I was the psychiatrist here,” Hannibal then remarks lightly. He sends you a complex look and you feel a momentary inkling of shame. 

“Sorry,” you grimace. Hannibal’s lips quirk at the sides—a sign that he isn’t truly upset about your sudden psychoanalysis. You feel the need to justify your reaction regardless. “It’s easy to slip into the criminal profiling mindset sometimes."

You spend the next several minutes having lighthearted conversation. It’s rather nice. The theater slowly begins to fill up until, finally, the lights dim and someone appears on the stage. To your surprise, the performance is rather enjoyable. You must be rather horrible at hiding your preconceptions, because Hannibal sends you a knowing look after the first song. You pretend not to notice the smugness radiating off the man, and instead focus on the singer. They’re quite talented, unsurprisingly. You’re not quite sure how much the tickets were, but judging from your surroundings, you’d guess they were rather expensive. 

You take advantage of the brief intermission in the middle of the program to use the facilities. Once you’re finished, you move to go back into the theatre. However, there’s suddenly a hand grabbing your shoulder and you’re forcefully guided into a deserted hallway. You chance a glance over your shoulder, only to find a far too familiar patient of Dr. Lecter’s: Franklyn Froideveaux. 

“Franklyn,” you remark, feeling extremely apprehensive once you recognize him. The man is wearing a three-piece suit again, but this time it’s eerily similar to something Hannibal might wear. You frown at the thought. Franklyn’s obsession with Dr. Lecter is really rather creepy. If Hannibal weren’t such a capable killer, perhaps you’d be worried for him. 

“I saw you with Dr. Lecter,” Franklyn states matter-of-factly. He crowds you against the wall and you have to lean back against it to avoid touching him. The look in the man’s eyes is unnerving. It sends a shiver down your spine. There’s nothing in his irises except frenzied madness. 

“Yes,” you respond, once you realize that Franklyn is awaiting an answer. You don’t tell him that Hannibal invited you, but he seems to come to that conclusion on his own. 

“What did he do?” Franklyn asks, his eyes gleaming in the dim lighting of the hallway. “Did he hold the car door open for you? What cologne does he wear? I have a few ideas but I can’t decide between them.” You feel your head begin to ache at his persistent badgering. You’re deeply unsettled by him. “What’s it like being friends with Dr. Lecter?” he continues. Franklyn doesn’t even give you a chance to respond, as he continues rattling off questions. “Is he a good friend? Do you two spend time together?”

“Um—” you try to say, only for Franklyn to stop mid-tirade. His eyes quickly lock on the suit you’re wearing and you grit your teeth. This is easily one of the most uncomfortable interactions you’ve ever had, and it isn’t even over yet. You flinch as Franklyn puts a hand on your shoulder. 

“That’s not your clothing,” Franklyn remarks, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. His fingers dig into your shoulder and you wince. His grip is beginning to hurt; you think you may have bruises later. “You're wearing something Dr. Lecter gave you.”

“No, I’m not,” you try to argue, well aware that your voice doesn't sound very convincing. 

“Yes, you are,” Franklyn asserts, not indicating that he’s hearing you or even seeing you. His eyes are glazed and it almost seems as if he’s looking directly through you. “He gave you clothes. Why? What does he see in you?”

Ouch. That hurts for a microsecond, before you then realize that Franklyn’s opinion bears absolutely no relevance to your life. You want to speak on those thoughts, but there’s a crazed look in the man’s eyes and you decide to stay silent. Franklyn seems to take your silence as an argument itself, though, because his hand tightens on your shoulder rather painfully. You try to shove him off, but the man’s grip is unyielding. 

A familiar voice calls your name from further down the hallway. You squint, only to find Hannibal walking towards the two of you. There’s an inexplicable expression on his face, and you can’t even begin to dissect it. 

“Hannibal,” you breathe, unable to hide the relief you feel at his presence. Franklyn finally releases his grip on you and you reach a hand up to massage your shoulder. The man’s attention is off of you now, thankfully. 

“I presumed you to be lost, but I see that notion is incorrect,” Hannibal says, his gaze flitting about your face as if looking for any sign of distress. He then looks at Franklyn, disinterest and boredom evident in his expression. Of course, Franklyn doesn’t care to notice it. He sees what he wants to see, you think to yourself. “What is going on here? Franklyn?” 

Franklyn looks to you expectantly, as if waiting for you to lie for him. You instead remain silent. You know that, right now, telling the truth will unnecessarily escalate the situation. Besides, your exhaustion is starting to catch up with you and you can’t find the energy to continue the conversation. 

“We were just having a friendly conversation.” Franklyn answers. Hannibal looks to you for confirmation and you avert your eyes. Meanwhile, Franklyn seems to be falling over himself in an attempt to secure Hannibal’s attention. “Dr. Lecter, it’s so nice to see you here,” Franklyn says, his voice a far cry from the manic lunacy from before. The sudden change is rather dizzying; the man is absolutely suffocating to be around. “You know, I thought this might be your kind of place. I was just speaking to your friend here…” 

You place a hand on your temple, beginning to get a migraine from the sheer burst of emotions surrounding Franklyn. Your skills in criminal profiling typically allow you to get a sense of other people’s feelings. At worst, you can get a trace of what they feel. Right now, however, you feel every emotion Franklyn is exuding, and it’s enough to make your vision grainy and fuzzy. He continues prattling on, but all you can sense is the horrible flood of obsession, jealousy, and a visceral desire so palpable that it makes you nauseous. 

You put a hand to the wall behind you, feeling the need to brace yourself against something. Everything in the background falls to a dull buzzing rhythm—Franklyn’s giddy conversation with Hannibal, the muted sound of the performance that you can hear through the walls. You close your eyes and beg for the torture to stop. Maybe Franklyn will take pity on you and walk away. Maybe Hannibal will lose his patience and walk away, too—you wouldn’t be surprised. 

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your forearm. You vaguely register—through swirling vision—Hannibal leading you further down the abandoned hallway until he stops and pushes you into an armchair. Despite the overwhelming emotionality that Franklyn practically assaulted you with, you manage to scrounge up a rather large amount of guilt. 

“Sorry,” you choke out to Hannibal. Your breathing is still a bit rough and your clothes feel incredibly constricting. You roll up the sleeves of your jacket—well, the jacket Hannibal gave you—and try to stammer out the rest of your apology. “Feel free to go back inside; I just need a moment.”

You place a hand over your aching temple and another on the arm of the chair. Selfishly, you think that you could use Hannibal’s support, but you don’t want to occupy his attention when the performance is still happening. You close your eyes and try to pretend that your ears aren’t buzzing. You wait to hear his footsteps as he retreats; you wait to hear an acquiescence. A few seconds pass. Instead, there’s a hand on your shoulder. 

“Dr. Lecter,” you choke out, your eyes beginning to burn. You wipe at them furiously, despite knowing that the effort is futile. “Go back inside.”

“No,” Hannibal says. You can’t see the expression on his face through your blurred vision—you just pray that it isn’t annoyance or irritation.

“I’ll be fine,” you maintain through gritted teeth. You think you hear Hannibal sigh at that, but it could easily be your imagination. The man looks down at you before pressing a cool hand to your forehead. Despite knowing that he’ll withdraw his hand in a few moments, you can’t help but lean into the touch. 

“I’m sure,” Hannibal remarks, pulling you up to your feet and steadying you as your balance wavers. He places your hand on his arm and the two of you walk back in the direction you came. To your surprise, when you reach the door to the theater, Hannibal pivots and leads you towards the exit. You shake your head in disbelief as humiliation, shame, and guilt battle for prominence in your chest. Before long, Hannibal has led the two of you into his car. The moment you’re in his car, you bury your head in your hands. 

Everything in your vision feels harsher and sharper. You begin to dig your nails into your palms unconsciously, hoping for some means to establish yourself in reality. You don’t realize you’re doing it until Hannibal reaches out and pries your hands apart. Your hands are trembling ever so slightly and you ball them into fists.

You’re not sure how much time you spend trying to regain your composure in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car. Dignity is a foreign concept. You’re sure the embarrassment will catch up to you later—perhaps when you’re home and have some time to think. 

At some point, Hannibal begins driving. Thankfully, the roads aren’t bumpy and the ride is rather smooth. He’s entirely silent and you feel the beginnings of remorse prickling along your skin. Hannibal never asked you to explain your interaction with Franklyn, but you feel that he deserves to know what happened. 

“You realize Franklyn’s in love with you, right?” you blurt out, before quickly turning your head to look out the window and avoid Hannibal’s gaze. Truthfully, you had hoped to lead into that a little bit more. Somehow, that statement was what came from your lips instead. 

“Yes.” Hannibal responds, his eyes still locked on the road. You take the afforded opportunity to look at him, confident in the notion that you aren’t being observed right back. Hannibal seems… entirely unruffled. Then again, he always looks unbothered. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to notice when something bothers him. 

“He asked me what cologne you wear,” you decide to start with. You describe how you had tried to make your way back to the theater, only to be stopped by Hannibal’s patient and led off into a secluded hallway. “He knew that I was wearing your clothes; he also wanted to know what it’s like to be friends with you.”

“What did you say?” Hannibal asks, his attention still focused on the road.

“Nothing; Franklyn didn’t let me get a word in edgewise,” you admit. You run a finger along the smooth fabric of your shirt sleeve. Unbeknownst to you, the sleeve had started to roll up on its own; you take a moment to fix that before continuing to speak. “He’s so… suffocating.”

“It seemed his presence was harming you,” Hannibal remarks bluntly. You nod in agreement. At first, the interaction was merely uncomfortable. However, once Hannibal appeared, Franklyn’s emotions hit you with full force. 

“I could feel everything,” you break off for a moment. “The love, the obsession, the jealousy, the envy… It was overwhelming. That man is the darkest person I’ve ever met.” 

“He isn’t a killer,” Hannibal points out. That’s true—you’ve seen your fair share of killers, with minds so dark that you couldn’t hope to find an escape. Even so, those criminals were… straightforward. Franklyn, on the other hand, is a paradox. 

“I know,” you acknowledge. “Franklyn is extremely neurotic, though—arguably the worst I’ve ever seen. It’s stifling. He has debilitating control issues and a crippling urge to prove himself. He’s often a victim of his own envy and jealousy. His self-concept is… I can’t even begin to describe it.” Yet, there’s a thinly-veiled hunger in Hannibal’s eyes—he wants to hear what you have to say. You inhale slowly. Again, you feel as if you owe him for absolutely ruining his night. Besides, you’re sure that he already knows all this information anyway. Franklyn is his patient, after all. 

“Franklyn is sort of… a shapeshifter, for lack of a better term. He’ll adjust and change himself to fit the situation best. When he’s in love, he’s dangerously obsessed. His unconventional actions are reassuring to him, though, because they give him a modicum of control—a control that he cannot possess over anything else.” You have a lot more that you could divulge on the matter, but you decide to stop there. Again, you’re convinced that Hannibal has already gleaned that information from his sessions with the man.

“I see why you’re Jack’s best profiler,” Hannibal says, finally looking away from the road to look at you. His eyes are glittering in the darkness. You roll your eyes at the unnecessary compliment, too tired to start an argument. To your surprise, when you look out the window, you realize that he’s driving down your street. That car ride had passed rather fast and within a few seconds, Hannibal is pulling into your driveway.

“We’re here,” you announce unnecessarily, grabbing the door handle and stepping out of the vehicle. To your surprise, Hannibal also gets out of the car. You squint at him in confusion, but he doesn’t seem to notice. You’re not quite sure what he’s playing at, but you’re too exhausted to figure it out. Instead of inquiring about his sudden interest in following you inside, you simply allow him to do so before closing the door behind him. 

“Do you want this clothing back now?” you ask, unable to come up with any other explanation for his presence in your home. It’s not that you mind his intrusion—not at all, actually—but you’d feel more comfortable with a legitimate reason for his presence. 

“If that’s acceptable,” Hannibal answers, breaking you out of your thoughts. His eyes are fixed on something on one of your bookshelves. You shake your head at his strange fascination with your living room decorations. 

“Sure, I’ll go change; mind waiting here?” He assures you that he doesn’t mind waiting. You shut the door behind you in the bathroom and stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment. There are dark circles under your eyes and you look a little frazzled. Otherwise, you don’t look bad. Amazingly, you managed not to ruin the clothing Hannibal provided—a feat you’re rather proud of yourself for. You settle for changing into a simple long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants. As you change, you neatly fold Hannibal’s clothing into a pile. Once you’re done, you glance at your reflection one more time. You take a half-step backwards but, before you move to leave, your eyes catch on something below your collar. You squint and lean closer to the mirror, convinced that you’re seeing things. Somehow, though, you’re not. After a moment’s hesitation, you pull your shirt collar to the side, only to find harsh marks on your collarbone and shoulder. They’re almost in the shape of a handprint and it doesn’t take much detective work to realize who they’re from—Franklyn. 

That realization is not very welcome, and you decide not to think about it right now. Remembering that Hannibal is waiting on you, you grab the folded pile of clothes and walk back out to the living room. Unsurprisingly, Hannibal is looking around with a scrutinizing gaze. You walk up to him and hold out the clothes, but his back is turned. You eventually just decide to place them on the entryway table—he’ll have to see them on his way out. 

“Thank you for inviting me; it was very fun,” you smile. Hannibal turns around, seemingly just noticing your presence. Just what is he looking for in your humble living room? He certainly won’t find anything of value. Furthermore, your decoration skills are nowhere near his. You can’t find a reasonable explanation for his behavior and, eventually, you have to give up on trying to rationalize it. 

“I’m glad you found the night enjoyable,” he answers diplomatically. You raise an eyebrow at the stiff response. Perhaps your little… episode… had annoyed him more than you initially thought. Another apology certainly wouldn’t hurt. 

“I hope I didn’t ruin your experience too much,” you wince, sheepishly shoving your hands in your pockets. Hannibal shakes his head, before taking a step closer to you. 

“On the contrary, I found the performance more enjoyable with your company,” he asserts. Hannibal still looks as handsome as he did when he first appeared on your doorstep this evening—not a hair out of place. You swallow hard, before roughly shoving the thought aside—now is not the time. “I apologize for Franklyn.” Your eyebrows furrow. Why is he apologizing? 

“You can’t control his actions,” you say, waving his concern off. “No harm done.” At that, Hannibal’s expression darkens. He takes another step closer, until the two of you are standing face to face. For a while, there is nothing but a tense, uncomfortable silence. 

“I disagree,” Hannibal says darkly, his hand resting lightly on your collarbone. Before you can protest, he’s gently pushing away the collar of your shirt to look at your shoulder. He frowns and you realize that he’s looking at the marks Franklyn left behind. If you had thought his prior expression to be dark, the look on his face now is nothing short of murderous. You feel your breath stalling in your chest, as you ground yourself in the realization that you’re standing in front of a killer with absolutely nothing to protect you. Hannibal moves to cup your cheek with a tenderness you thought him to be incapable of. His touch makes your skin feel licked with flames. Each breath you take feels labored and harsh. You swear you see Hannibal’s gaze fall to your lips for a brief moment, but you put it down to your imagination. It’s kind of late and you’re tired—you’re probably just seeing things. For a long moment, neither of you move or speak. 

“Good night,” Hannibal says, a strangely determined expression on his face. His gaze keeps moving to your collarbone and you idly wish you had concealed the marks better. His hand falls from your face and he stares at you for a long moment, as if regretting your parting. You make sure to remind him of the pile of folded clothes, which he takes into his arms before turning around to leave. 

“Good night, Hannibal,” you respond, opening the door for him. You watch as he enters his car and drives away. Despite the knowledge that he’s already out of sight, you feel the urge to wait a few more minutes before looking away. Finally, you close the front door and fall back against it, your mind reeling.

Chapter Text

Every time you think about the opera last night, you get a profound and deep feeling of embarrassment. You completely ruined Hannibal’s night—you won’t be surprised if he doesn’t want to be friends anymore. You can’t help but send him an apology text, to which he responds with a reassurance that you did not ruin his night. You still don’t believe him.

For the next few days, you manage to strategically avoid Dr. Lecter. You busy yourself with work, and you even guest lecture the newest class of FBI recruits a few times. Once your schedule is considerably full, it’s easy to let that humiliating night slip to the back of your mind. You don’t have an appointment with Hannibal for a few more days anyway. Surprisingly, as much as Jack may claim that you need the support, he doesn’t enlist Hannibal’s help during your assignments. You get the feeling that Jack and Hannibal have a barely intact working relationship—one with animosity and irritation lying hidden underneath. Regardless, you don’t see Hannibal for a few days and instead keep yourself occupied with work.

The Ripper is still lying dormant. He hasn’t killed in quite some time now and, as you divulged in one of your sessions with Hannibal, it’s making you anxious and restless. You want to be prepared for the next time he strikes. Even Jack is going a bit stir-crazy, you’ve noticed. He’s desperate for leads on the Ripper. You, on the other hand, are currently occupying a strange middle ground. Ever since you first realized that Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, you’ve been internally battling between revealing his identity and staying quiet. Hannibal is rather good at covering his tracks, so you haven’t been faced with any incontrovertible evidence yet. You even catch yourself othering the Ripper in your mind—separating him from Hannibal despite knowing they’re one and the same. The recognition disturbs you. 

As you walk into work early one particular morning, you’re unable to shake the feeling of wrongness itching at your skin. This feeling can certainly be associated with the fact that you slept past your first alarm and tripped on thin air back at home, but you think it’s actually related to work. There’s a different aura in the building today—people are rushing about with hurried panic. There’s no sense of tranquility or composure anywhere in sight. You can’t help but take on some of the anxiety you’re observing, especially when you notice that there are several people gathered around your office. They all stop talking the moment you approach, which only worries you even more. Eventually, you summon the courage to push your office door open.

Immediately, you’re hit with the pungent yet horribly familiar smell of blood. You cover your nose for a moment as you’re hit with far too much sensory input all at once. The fluorescent lighting burns into your vision, forcing you to squint as you take in the rest of your office. Everything looks the same as you left it. You’re about to ask why everyone’s huddled around the space when your gaze settles on the chair behind your desk. It’s turned to face the wall, but you can still see the edge of a person’s head over it. Who’s sitting in your chair? Dread coiling in your chest, you place a hand on the back of the chair and swivel it back around. 

Your next breath promptly dies in your chest, as your eyes fall on a corpse. Franklyn Froideveaux stares back at you with hollowed eye sockets. He’s wearing a three-piece suit—unsettlingly similar to the one he wore at the opera—and his mouth is wide open. The longer you look at his corpse, the more unsettled you become. His eyes are gouged out, leaving bloodied tears slipping down his cheeks. His chest was brutally torn open, in a manner that brings attention to his heart—which has been flayed apart and stapled to the back of his chest cavity like a pinned butterfly. The stapler that usually sits on your desk is missing. You taste bile in your mouth. 

You can’t disengage the criminal profiling part of your brain as you assess the scene. It’s clear that Franklyn did not die peacefully. His hands are cut off, left as bloodied stumps that seem to be endlessly oozing blood onto the carpet below. This killer toyed with him before his death, subjecting him to intense pain before finally, mercifully, letting him die. 

Suddenly, there’s someone standing next to you. Jack Crawford occupies the space at your side, a pinched expression on his face. You would almost say that he looks concerned, but you dismiss the notion. Hell, you’re constantly wearing Jack thin—questioning his authority and snapping back at him. Surely the worried expression on his face only has to do with the implications of a corpse being discovered in one of the offices of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. 

“I haven’t been here since yesterday evening,” you feel the need to maintain. Jack puts a reassuring hand on your shoulder and you nearly flinch at the sudden touch. You’re profoundly disturbed. Mere days ago, Franklyn was vibrant and full of life. Now, he’s mutilated and nearly drowning in his own blood. 

“The Ripper has returned,” Jack remarks, breaking you out of your thoughts. You nod in agreement. It should be easier to discern a motive, given what you know about the Ripper and his true identity. Unfortunately, he is incredibly hard to figure out. You can’t quite rationalize why he would kill Franklyn. There’s one answer that seems to be staring you right in the face, but it just doesn’t make sense. Against your will, your mind conjures up the memory of that night with Hannibal. The look on his face when he found the marks on your shoulder was nothing short of pure maleficence. Even now, there’s an image of Hannibal conjured in your mind’s eye—a malicious smirk on his face as Franklyn’s blood splatters across his skin. You shudder and wrap your arms around yourself. 

Jack must notice your rather fragile mental state, because he squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. “I still need you to analyze this, Agent.” His hand slips from your shoulder. You nod, having expected as much. Jack clears everyone out of the room and closes the door, leaving you alone in the room. You inhale slowly, before closing your eyes and trying to get more information. 

You’re standing over Franklyn Froideveaux with a smirk on your face. The man is tied and bound to the office chair you placed him in. He had been letting out pitiful whimpers, which makes you grateful that you had the foresight to gag him and drug him.

The mere sight of Franklyn is enough to make your stomach turn. He’s repulsive. You clench your fists at your sides, unable to hide your disgust and anger. Franklyn crossed the line. You were content to let him exist at the brink until his misstep. You stare down at him, contemplating your next move. 

You decide to start by untying his arms. His limbs are limp, allowing you to easily manipulate them. You place both of his hands on the wooden desk and cut them off. As his blood muddies the carpet, you cut into his chest to look at the organs. You won’t take many organs—Franklyn Froideveaux is far from a quality specimen. You stare at the heart for a few moments, before flaying it apart and stapling it to the back of his chest cavity. For a moment, you step back and admire your work. There’s still something missing. You stare at Franklyn’s untouched face, suddenly filled with an uncontrollable rage. You dig your nails into his eyeballs, relishing the sickening sensation that rushes through your fingers. For a moment, you’re faced with resistance, but it doesn’t take long for his optic nerves to fall into your hands. You hold them in a tight grip, an overwhelming feeling of satisfaction running along your skin. This is your design. 

Wait. 

There’s something else. Something… more. You can’t get a grasp on it. You try to push yourself to imagine what else the killer was feeling. Disgust. Contempt. Rage. Irritation. But there’s something missing. Your head begins to pound incessantly and you come back to yourself, bringing a hand to your aching temple. Your mind is reeling as you try to dissect what you just saw. 

Meanwhile, outside your office door…

“What’s the matter, boss?” Beverly asks, punching the man’s shoulder playfully. “You look like you just swallowed a lemon.” Indeed, Jack Crawford looks rather stressed. He’s staring at your closed office door with a disturbed look on his face. Jack turns to look at Beverly and she has to hide a gasp at the dark expression on his face. 

“You didn’t notice?” he asks. Beverly shakes her head. Jack takes a deep breath and puts a hand on his temple. His next words are spoken with immense apprehension. “The Ripper is… in love.”

“With…?” Beverly breaks off, looking over to the closed office door where you’re visualizing the crime scene. Jack follows her gaze, his lips falling into a flat line. Beverly suddenly understands what he’s trying to say, and she really wishes she didn’t. 

“That seems to be the case.” Jack nods. 

“Should we say anything?” Beverly questions. She thinks this is something you may need to know but, at the same time, it could cause you a lot of unnecessary stress. Jack frowns.

“No,” he responds. 

“Really?” Beverly asks, unable to ignore her boss’s uncharacteristic behavior. “Wow, it almost sounds like you’re worried.” There’s a beat of silence. Beverly’s eyes widen. “Holy shit, you actually are.”

“Of course I am,” Jack says confidently. “I can’t lose my best agent to the Chesapeake Ripper—not now.” Beverly isn’t sure that’s the true reason for his concern, but she decides to remain silent. She is about to speak when she hears someone take a deep breath. She freezes. Jack looks at her with a confused expression. Beverly remains silent for a few moments, listening for any other disruption.

She eventually concludes that she imagined the noise. “Sorry, I thought I heard someone.” Jack nods and the two of them make their way to your office. Behind the adjacent wall, Hannibal Lecter stands incredibly still. He waits a few moments before mimicking the pair’s steps and entering the office.

You hardly notice when everyone filters back into the room. You must not be hiding your stress very well, because Hannibal’s curious gaze is burning into the side of your face. You’re not quite sure why he’s here, but you have far more important things to worry about. You grit your teeth and turn your attention back to the body, trying to see if there are any more things you can glean from it. As you look at the corpse, you unconsciously bring your hand to your collarbone. You can still feel Franklyn’s bruising grip, sense his dangerous insistence and poisonous envy. The thought makes your stomach turn. 

“Something wrong, Agent?” Jack’s voice breaks you from your reverie. You swallow hard and turn around, suddenly feeling as if the room is getting warmer. Everyone is staring at you expectantly, and you realize that you’d been staring off into space for an immeasurable amount of time. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” you reply.  Jack looks like he doesn’t believe you, but he evidently abandons any further argument. You suddenly need some air; you can’t shake the feeling that Franklyn’s blood is on your hands. You walk absentmindedly yet robotically to the multi-stall, gender-neutral bathroom located on the other end of the building. There’s hardly anyone in this wing of the building right now, thankfully. You’re sure you can’t deal with any more wary, suspicious glares. 

You’re washing your hands when someone enters the bathroom. You intend to ignore the new presence, but they hover at the edge of your vision for several moments and eventually, your curiosity gets the best of you. You glance to the right, only to find Brian Zeller staring at you. 

“Zeller,” you remark cautiously. Zeller and you are far from close and you can’t recall a time when he willingly went out of his way to talk to you. The two of you exchange friendly nods on a good day; otherwise, you rarely interact with him. There’s a strange expression on Zeller’s face right now, though, which sets the dusty alarms in your head off. To your knowledge, he never frequents this wing of the building. 

“Agent.” There’s nothing but wariness in his voice. Zeller moves to wash his hands at the sink furthest away from you, which you would find a little humorous in a different situation. The investigator is clearly not comfortable with you. You have an inkling that Brian is jealous of Jack’s “fondness” for you—as you heard him whispering to Price one time. However, you don’t think that jealousy and envy are enough to warrant this kind of wary, almost fearful behavior from him. 

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence. Then, inexplicably, Zeller turns to face you and takes a few steps forward. You’re still standing several feet away from each other at this point, even despite his attempts to break the distance between you a little. You try to ignore him and go about staring down at the sink, but eventually, his staring gets annoying. You turn to look at him and raise an eyebrow, indicating that he should speak if he has something to say. You’re expecting anything from an insult to idle workroom gossip. Zeller seems intent on surpassing your expectations, however. 

“You killed Franklyn Froideveaux.”

You stare at him, convinced that you didn’t hear him correctly. The expression on Zeller’s face doesn’t falter from misguided determination. You clench your fists and try to pretend that you aren't offended. Sure, Zeller and you aren’t close, but you thought you were amicable enough to prevent any outright hostility.

“I didn’t kill him,” you argue, despite knowing that he won’t believe you. If Zeller is deluded enough to think you committed murder, your words won’t do anything to dissuade him. You think back to Jack’s concern for you, the way he immediately trusted you. “You heard Jack.”

“Even Jack can be wrong, sometimes,” Zeller says. Your eyebrows furrow and you stare at him in disbelief. Is that how it is?  It seems that your coworker is ready to accuse you of murder if only to taint your reputation. You shake your head in disbelief. You’ve given up on trying to change his mind. Even so, you still feel the need to bring up one key discrepancy. 

“Do you really think I would kill someone and leave the body in my own office?” you ask, crossing your arms over your chest. “That would just make me look more guilty.” Zeller clearly hadn’t thought about that, because his eyes are blown wide and he looks surprised. You really do wonder how he was hired in the first place, if he can’t make such simple analytical conclusions.

“I won’t pretend to know your reasons,” Zeller remarks as he dries his hands. “Just know that you won’t get away with it.” He has a vendetta against you, evidently. You don’t bother to say anything else—he isn’t worth the effort. Zeller nods in satisfaction and walks away. You stare after his retreating figure in disbelief. 

You spend the rest of the day in a convoluted haze. Jack lets you go home early, if only because you’re entirely useless in the field. You just can’t focus—all your thoughts are focused on the last interaction you had with Franklyn. Could you have saved him then? Is his death your fault? Heart racing in your chest, you grab your phone and call the absolute last person you should be calling. 

“Hello?”

“Dr. Lecter?” you ask once he answers the phone. “Hello. Yeah, I was wondering if we could have another session soon…”

Chapter Text

As you pull your car into a parking spot at Hannibal’s office, you are very stressed. After all, you went into work this morning under the assumption that it would be a perfectly normal day, only to find Franklyn Froideveaux’s corpse in your office. To make matters worse, you have an ugly feeling that his death is on your hands. You’ve grown to know the Ripper as you’ve grown to know Hannibal himself, and you have to wonder if the encounter at the opera house pushed him to kill Franklyn. In an ideal world, you probably wouldn’t be voluntarily going to a therapy session with the very same murderer who dumped a corpse in your office. Unfortunately, beggars can’t be choosers. 

As you walk up the steps and into the waiting room, you can’t shake the thought that Hannibal’s sudden availability is somewhat unusual. You were under the assumption that the man was fully booked throughout the day. Perhaps he set aside time for you? You quickly stop that thought before it turns into the slippery slope of a logical fallacy you know it to be. As you hover awkwardly in the waiting room, you notice that the space is empty—per usual. However, there’s a strange, unsettling aura clinging to the shadows that the chairs cast on the wall behind them. You frown and fidget restlessly, waiting to be allowed inside. You’re sure Hannibal has given you explicit permission to enter when you please, but you still feel as if the door to his office is an insurmountable obstacle. 

“Please, come in.” Hannibal’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts. He’s lingering at the door and holding it open for you. Ever the gentleman, you scoff internally. Per request, you pass through the door, ignoring the strange shiver that goes down your spine as you brush shoulders with him. 

As you walk into the space, you’re immediately struck by the feeling that something is different—it doesn’t take you long to realize what it is. The chairs are pushed even closer together than last time. You try not to read into that too much, despite the undeniable knowledge that the distance between them has been shrinking each session. You can’t pinpoint a logical reason for Hannibal to push the chairs. You can think of several illogical explanations, but they’re too far-fetched. 

“Is this about Franklyn’s murder?” Hannibal is perceptive, as always. Although, you suppose that's a rather obvious conclusion. Anyone would be startled at the notion of a man turning up dead in their office. Your brief encounter with Franklyn a few days ago continues to run through your mind. Should you have done things differently? 

It takes you several moments to make sense of your thoughts. Hannibal graciously waits for you to continue; meanwhile, you spend an immeasurable time pacing around the office restlessly. You can’t sit today—you feel like you’re on the precipice of a big discovery. You walk around in circles over and over again, ignoring Hannibal’s heated gaze. You can feel him staring throughout the entire time you’re pacing. 

“Something’s missing,” you choke out, your voice raspy from lack of use. You clear your throat and continue. “I tried to see it through the Ripper’s eyes, but… things were missing. I felt his disgust, contempt, and irritation easily enough. But, there was something else… something lurking beneath the surface. I tried to get at it, but I couldn’t do it. That’s never happened before.”

“Jack seemed to think the murder was committed out of love,” Hannibal says. You must react rather ostentatiously at that, because he raises a brow. “You seem surprised,” he remarks. There’s a trace of amusement flickering from under his carefully crafted mask. 

“He never told me anything along those lines…” you sigh. Hannibal has an intriguing expression on his face, as if he expects you to display more of a reaction. It almost seems as if Hannibal is deliberately trying to cause strife and discord between you and your coworkers. You feel rather uneasy about that realization and you instead decide to dissect Jack’s theory. “And… love? I don’t understand.” The clock on the wall ticks loudly, creating an uneasy monotony. 

“I imagine the Ripper feels as if no one understands him,” Hannibal murmurs, leveling you with an intent gaze. It feels as if he’s looking directly into your soul. Vulnerable to his dissecting stare, you take a shuddering breath in. The world around you blurs and all you can see is Hannibal. “No one… except, perhaps, you.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say instinctively. Admittedly, your heart is roaring in your ears. The fireplace against the wall is crackling. You pace around a little more, before finding yourself at Hannibal’s desk. You look down at the surface, unsurprised to find that it’s neatly organized. There’s a piece of parchment with a graphite pencil resting on top of it; you look down and realize that it’s a sketch of Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus. The more you look at the sketch, the more you’re struck with a strange feeling of familiarity. Those figures don’t look like Achilles and Patroclus… They look like Hannibal and you. Unnerved, you look back at Hannibal and try to find the conversation again. “I mean, I’ve just been making deductions about the Ripper.” 

Hannibal looks relaxed, despite the attentive manner in which his eyes follow you around the room. After a few more moments spent pacing about, you give in and take a seat at your designated chair. Hannibal’s eyes are glittering when you look over at him. “Your deductions have been correct so far.” You suppose that’s true. 

“Even so, that’s not love; that’s just… understanding,” you trail off. Love is a rather large leap in logic, in your opinion. Surely, the Ripper doesn’t love you. 

“To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal asserts, his lips quirking up at the sides. You’re not sure where he’s finding humor in this situation. Perhaps he’s trying to toy with you. Unfortunately for him, you know that he’s the Ripper. Regardless, it appears as if Hannibal enjoys stringing you along like this. You inhale slowly, trying not to fidget and reveal how restless you truly feel. “You are the first person to see through his façade, through the layers of his mask.” 

“Oh,” you remark, suddenly feeling as if you were dumped in a vat of cold water. A shiver rolls down your spine and your skin prickles in the brisk air of the office. You suddenly understand what he’s insinuating. You scramble to find something else to latch on to—a diversion that will take you away from the turn this session has taken. The conversation has turned far too meta for your comfort, and you’re unsure how to tread these tumultuous waters. 

“I fear the ordinary mind wouldn’t be able to handle his love,” you find yourself saying, breaking through the tense silence that momentarily descended on the space. Hannibal looks up and stares at you with an inexplicable expression on his face. His mask seems to be fastened to his skin rather tightly today. You, on the other hand, aren’t as composed; you’re currently combatting several different emotions at once. You know you’re on the crux of an important, potentially earth-shattering realization… but you’re too apprehensive to accept it. Instead, you decide to indulge Hannibal. You’ll play his verbal games, dodge the truth for long enough that the falsehoods take life and become reality.

“You’re far from ordinary,” Hannibal murmurs inexplicably. You instinctively stiffen, your shoulders tightening. The remark isn’t exactly unwelcome, but it feels like a diversion from the current conversation. You have to grit your teeth and remind yourself not to snap at him. 

“That’s not quite relevant, is it?” you frown, feeling your hackles rising. You subconsciously straighten your posture, if only to take advantage of the few inches of distance it gives you from him. Hannibal leans forward in his chair in response. You feel bolted down to your chair, frozen under a predator’s watchful eye. 

“Who can say?” Hannibal asks infuriatingly. That habit of his—answering a question with another question—is really grating on your nerves. 

“Do you always have to be so cryptic?” You roll your eyes, trying to pretend as if this is just a playful conversation. There are no stakes here. You’re not risking anything by sitting in this office, across from a practiced killer. “I’m horrible with ambiguity; you’re going to have to be clearer.”

“This killer wrote you a poem,” Hannibal declares. After that remark, you can’t help but think back to Franklyn’s corpse—the grotesque mutilation juxtaposing the bloody tears artfully falling down his face. You loathe the fact that you can see the poetic beauty hidden beneath the gore. “You shouldn’t let his love go to waste.”

“You’re being cryptic again,” you sigh, resisting the urge to grab Hannibal by the collar and just shake him. “Besides, I’d argue that his love has already been wasted on me.” You can’t even let yourself entertain the thought of the Ripper—and, by extension, Hannibal— being in love with you. It’s a cruel joke and nothing more. 

“Evidently, he does not think so.” You rub your eyes roughly, feeling the sudden overwhelming urge to cry. You wait a few moments before chancing a glance at Hannibal, only to find that he has a perceptive look on his face. “You are not, nor have you ever been, a waste,” Hannibal remarks, as if sensing the sudden negative turn your thoughts are taking. 

“That’s nice of you to say,” you laugh sardonically. The laugh is broken and jagged, and it hurts your throat. You’re unable to get rid of the hysterical grin that is inexplicably tearing at your cheeks. Everything stings and burns. You feel horribly inadequate and vulnerable. 

“As your psychiatrist, I’m limited to formalities,” Hannibal admits, clasping his hands and leaning forward. His lips are pulled taut and he almost looks concerned. You have to remind yourself of his caring mask. “As your friend, however, I must say that I care for you deeply and that you are absolutely worth loving.”

“Thanks,” you remark after too many moments of silence. There’s an unshakeable confidence in his voice and you really wish you could replicate it. You wish you could see yourself as anything but a burden. You place your hands over your eyes, feeling incredibly overwhelmed. You feel like you’re slipping, like your grip on reality is slowly slackening. What’s wrong with me?  You don’t realize that you’ve spoken aloud until you catch the troubled pull to Hannibal’s lips. 

“This world has a lot of wrongs in it, but you are not one of them,” Hannibal asserts quietly. There’s a buzzing sound reverberating through your skull. Your head is pounding, as if you had just delved into your criminal profiling abilities and seen the world through Hannibal’s eyes. You put your hands over your eyes and relish in the brief solace the darkness provides you. 

“I’m required to inquire about your wellbeing and safety,” Hannibal remarks. The ensuing silence hits you like a punch to the gut. You keep hoping, waiting for something to happen… but it never does. Why do you still hope? Furthermore, what are you even hoping for? Your doubts are clouding your thoughts, leaving you in a tormented haze of regret, shame, guilt, and grief. Hannibal is required to inquire about your wellbeing and safety—he would not, otherwise. The realization hits you hard, robbing you of breath. 

“I’m fine,” you say, repeating the sentiment over and over in your head. Unfortunately, the repetition doesn’t make the feeling any more believable. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath. It feels as if the world is crumbling around you. Hannibal’s gaze has yet to leave your face and for the first time, you feel significantly unnerved by the thought. You push yourself to your feet and stand in front of him. Looking down on him doesn’t give you a surge of power in the way you hope it will. 

“Pray forgive the discourtesy,¹ but that doesn’t seem to be the case,” Hannibal says, not unkindly. His kindness feels patronizing. You clench your fists at your sides and take a deep breath. Ultimately, you let your guard down too much in front of the psychiatrist. Hannibal is not your friend—he is a working professional who is required to inquire after your wellbeing. No matter how much he may pretend to care, no matter how many opera outings you may share, he is your psychiatrist. It had been easy to forget that in the wake of Hannibal’s constant presence. 

“I believe our session is over?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him and manifesting a sense of confidence that you certainly don’t feel at the moment. Hannibal’s eyes fall down to his wrist and he stares at his watch with furrowed brows. 

“Apologies,” he responds. His hand falls to rest on the arm of the chair. Now that the watch has fulfilled its purpose, Hannibal’s gaze is fixated on you again. “I find the time to simply… slip away in your presence.” 

You know that if you stay for even a second longer, you’ll give into your foolish hopes. You’ll fall for the cleverly crafted allure that Hannibal has cloaked around himself. You’ll read into every single minute detail, every chivalrous gesture and every warm smile that hides sharpened teeth.

Before you can even begin to contemplate how to dismiss yourself in a socially acceptable manner, your body is moving to leave. You faintly recognize Hannibal asking after you, but you’re exiting the office and closing the door behind you before you can process what he’s saying. 

The car ride home passes by in a timeless blur. When you pull your car into your driveway, there’s something that immediately makes itself known to you. There appears to be something taped to your front door. You make sure to exit the car and lock it up before focusing your attention on the piece of paper on your door. Frowning, you take it off and read it. 

TattleCrime

The Mark of a Killer: How the FBI’s “Best” Criminal Profiler Killed Franklyn Froideveaux

By Freddie Lounds

A corpse was recently discovered in the office of the FBI’s most prolific criminal profiler; the body was found to be mutilated nearly beyond recognition. The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit later confirmed the body to be that of Franklyn Froideveaux—who had been presumed missing after a friend reached out to the police in concern. 

Froideveaux was dead for several hours upon discovery. Current working theories attribute the murder to the Chesapeake Ripper, and the FBI is insistent on the notion that the Chesapeake Ripper—the dangerous serial killer that mutilates his victims by removing their organs and presumably feasting on them—has returned. However, the victim’s body was found in the office of the same agent that has been consistently embroiled in these murders. Perhaps the consistent practice of “slipping into the mind of a killer”¹ has caused more harm than good. Jack Crawford, head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, maintains that his profiler did not commit this murder. However, the sudden appearance of Froideveaux’s corpse brings up many unanswered questions.² Furthermore, inside sources claim that there was little to no evidence left at the crime scene. 

Crawford is currently heading an investigation into the murder of Froideveaux, alongside the Behavior Analysis Unit—consisting of Beverly Katz, Jimmy Prize, Brian Zeller, and the aforementioned profiler. The FBI is remaining characteristically tight-lipped about the investigation, which naturally prompts many questions surrounding the nature of the murder and the crime scene’s discovery. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” an anonymous source responded in regards to the culpability of the criminal profiler whose office serves as the scene of the crime. “Jack always had his favorites.” The inside source refused to elaborate further or answer any more questions.³

The FBI’s silence has only shed more light onto the possibility that the murder was an inside-job. After all, the headquarters in Quantico are known to be heavily fortified and extremely secure—with tedious security checks and a fully staffed security team. The Chesapeake Ripper seems to be a convenient suspect—he had been presumed inactive for months. However, it’s hard to fathom that the Ripper snuck through the FBI’s headquarters and dumped a body in an agent’s office. An employee or agent, on the other hand, would have the security clearance to roam about the building with relative ease. 

For some, the murder of Franklyn Froideveaux comes hand-in-hand with the return of the infamous serial killer, the Chesapeake Ripper; for others, Froideveaux’s murder is yet another secret that the FBI intended to keep hidden from the public eye. 

1. Quote attributed to Jack Crawford, the head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.  
2. The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit—which houses the aforesaid criminal profiler—did not respond to TattleCrime’s request for further information.
3. This source elected to remain anonymous. 

For inquiries, reach out to [email protected].

If you have more information surrounding the murder of Franklyn Froideveaux or the killer widely known as the Chesapeake Ripper, reach out to [email protected].

You can’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh. A million thoughts are running through your mind simultaneously. Unfortunately, this is far from the first time that you’ve been featured in a TattleCrime piece—especially when the writer is Freddie Lounds (she seems to have a strange vendetta against you). As is typical of TattleCrime, there is hardly anything in the piece that provides hard evidence of your supposed role in Franklyn’s murder. Finally, you have to wonder how Freddie Lounds got all this information. Jack made sure to keep the discovery an internal affair—or, at least, that’s what you thought. It appears there’s a leak somewhere in the bureau. You think back to the look in Zeller’s eyes when he confronted you earlier. He was likely the “anonymous source” that Lounds procured. 

Shaking your head, you walk into your house and take off your shoes. While the article alone isn’t enough to irritate you, the events of the day had already left you in a sour mood. Now, this TattleCrime piece is enough to send you over the edge. You crumple the paper up angrily and throw it into the fireplace. Within a few moments, the fireplace roars to life. The article dissipates and burns to ash, but your doubts still remain.

Chapter Text

Franklyn’s death is really weighing on you, even as the days continue to pass. Jack all but forces you out of the building, demanding that you take a few days off before returning. Normally, you’d jump at the chance for some free time. However, the last thing you need right now is more time to think. After an unnecessarily heated argument with Jack, he agrees to let you hold guest lectures. Unfortunately, that’s the extent of your current responsibilities. Instead of studying up on murder cases and investigating in the field, you’re confined to the classroom. It’s hard to hide your frustration and you find yourself struggling not to snap at inquiring students. 

The newest class of FBI recruits is talented—that’s a given. However, they’re also far too confident in their abilities, which ends up being a hindrance. Confidence and self-assuredness can only take a person so far. When you go over the Garret Jacob Hobbs case with your class, you’re unsurprised to find that no one can produce an answer for how you narrowed in on him as a suspect. You end up having to dismiss the class early—both because of your increasing irritation and the pounding headache you’re beginning to develop. Unfortunately, your annoyed mood doesn’t deter everyone. Somehow, even after you’ve dismissed class and returned to your desk, a few students remain behind and ask you questions. You manage to get through those painfully awkward conversations and, after several minutes, you’re finally alone. 

You put a hand on your temple and take a deep breath. The fluorescent lighting in the classroom is always bright, but now, it feels as if it’s burning into your eyes. You close your eyes for a blissful moment, allowing yourself to be submerged in the peaceful darkness. The clock in the far corner of the room is ticking rhythmically, the only sound to accompany the comfortable silence. 

There’s a hand on your shoulder. You flinch awake and squint up at your newfound company, only to see Hannibal staring down at you with an indiscernible expression. Pain shoots through your ribs and you realize that the desk is jabbing into your skin. You slowly separate yourself from the desk, despite the compelling urge to close your eyes again. 

“Good morning,” Hannibal remarks. You’ve grown to recognize that slight quirk of his lips as his attempt at concealing amusement. “It appears you didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

“What gave it away?” you answer wryly, your voice a bit raspy from your brief, unplanned nap. The lights above are burning into your vision again and it takes several moments for your eyes to adjust to the atmosphere. You take a deep breath and push your slightly-crumpled papers to the side. You can feel Hannibal scrutinizing the materials on your desk. It takes you a few moments to look up at him and realize that he isn’t paying any attention to the rather cluttered nature of your desk—it seems you were just imagining his judgment. You’re still grappling with the strange juxtaposition of growing closer to Hannibal, yet feeling as if you don’t understand him any better than before. 

“Nightmares?” he asks. 

You nod. “Only the usual blood and gore… murder and mayhem.” You don’t have the courage to expand on your nightmares or admit that you wake up every hour drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. You don’t mention how you have to mechanically walk to the sink and wash your hands, convinced that there’s blood spattered across your skin and staining your hands. You wipe a hand over your face and try to regain some semblance of composure. “Anyways, what are you doing here?” Hannibal rarely visits you at work—and right in your classroom, no less. 

“Jack wants to speak with you,” Hannibal answers. “I was told to accompany you.” You idly wonder how well Hannibal took to being told what to do. Pushing the thought aside, you get to your feet and fall in step next to Hannibal as the two of you walk out of the classroom and towards Jack’s office. 

“I spotted your name in a TattleCrime article.” Out of all the statements he could’ve used to break the silence between you, that one was an… interesting choice. You turn your head to the side and blink at him. Unsurprisingly, you can’t quite picture Hannibal Lecter sitting down and fervently reading an amateurish gossip tabloid. Perhaps you misjudged him. 

“You read TattleCrime?” you ask, trying your best to keep the surprise from your voice. You shove your hands in your pockets and stare straight ahead, knowing you don’t have the energy to perform the socially-mandated eye contact. “You don’t seem the type.” 

“It was an… intriguing read,” Hannibal admits. His shoes make slight pattering sounds as they click against the grey resin flooring. A few of your colleagues and coworkers stare as the two of you walk by. It seems that Hannibal is bound to draw attention wherever he goes. You almost feel like a shadow at his side, perpetually cursed to slip under the radar. Well, to others, that would be a curse; to you, it feels like a strange sort of blessing. No one pays you any attention as you walk down the halls of the bureau. 

“The piece was rather timid for Freddie Lounds,” you acquiesce casually. The man at your side seems mystified by your comment and, for a few moments, the air falls to silence. You suppose the differences between Hannibal and you are rather pronounced in that regard. You can’t imagine Hannibal standing idly by amidst defamation.

“She’s written about you before?” Hannibal eventually inquires. 

“Many times,” you say with a grin. Hannibal doesn’t smile back. You suddenly feel the need to elaborate. “I don’t care. It’s not like I have the best reputation to begin with.” The rest of your walk to Jack’s office is filled with a tense silence. You’re not quite sure why Hannibal is taking issue with what you said, so you instead give in and let your thoughts wander to other matters. 

A minute later, the two of you are standing across from Jack in his office. Jack starts going on a tangent about the Chesapeake Ripper—which you only partially listen to—before turning to ask Hannibal a few questions. You’re a bit embarrassed to admit that you zone out through the majority of their conversation, and it isn’t until the two of them are staring at you that you realize your misstep.

“Yes?” you ask, turning to look at Jack expectantly. The man’s eyebrows are furrowed and he looks mildly irritated at the thought of your distraction. He must realize that you had no intention of genuinely zoning out, because the exasperation quickly fades from his expression. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.” You frown at him with furrowed brows. That is a rather unusual question for Jack to ask. In your working history with the man, you’ve never once heard him inquire about someone else’s well being in such a straightforward and brusque manner. 

“You’ve been quiet,” Jack frowns, looking at you expectantly. “Any thoughts on the investigation? I’d like to hear what you have to say before sending you to Baltimore.” Jack and Hannibal are both looking at you now. You pinch the bridge of your nose and stare down at the floor. Your conflicting feelings must show in your expression, because Jack continues. “Your honest thoughts.” There is significant emphasis placed on the modifier in that sentence. The clock on the wall behind Jack ticks mockingly. Time seems to drag on in this frozen moment. You take a minute to review what you've heard so far. 

“I don’t think Abel Gideon is the Ripper,” You finally answer, knowing damn well that the Chesapeake Ripper you’re looking for is standing right across from you. “But it certainly doesn’t hurt to investigate all potential options.”

“Agreed,” Hannibal voices. You’re briefly struck with an intense, inexplicable irritation. Jack glances between the two of you and somehow seems to notice your growing anger. He raises his eyebrows at you. You take a deep breath and try to remain calm. When you’re overwhelmed, it’s easy to get angry at other people for simply, well, existing. It’s hard not to get frustrated when you don't have as much control over the situation as you’d like. The reminder of another person’s mere presence—in this case, Hannibal’s—is enough to send you over the edge. 

“I’d like to go alone,” you blurt out, quickly glancing at Hannibal before looking at Jack once more. Your boss seems to understand what you’re trying to say and he takes a deep breath. 

“Hannibal,” Jack says diplomatically. “Do you mind if we have a private conversation?” Jack asks, his gaze still locked on you even as he speaks to Hannibal. The psychiatrist nods politely and leaves the room. The moment he leaves, you feel all the tension slowly seep from your shoulders. The occurrence doesn’t go unnoticed by Jack, whose brows furrow for a second. 

“Are you sure you’re up for this, Agent?” Jack then asks scrupulously. You appreciate that he’s asking, but the hesitant manner in which he does so makes you feel as if you’re a fragile tea cup. Contrary to other people’s beliefs, you’re more than capable of handling yourself. You had done so for years without Hannibal’s assistance and you can continue to do so in his absence. 

“I’ll be fine,” you answer quickly and determinedly. You clench your fists at your sides. 

“Is there any reason why you requested to go alone?”

“I’m just burned out,” you respond honestly. As much as you enjoy Hannibal’s presence, you feel that you need time alone. You constantly have to monitor everything you do or say in front of the psychiatrist. That necessitated self-awareness, coupled with any preexisting environmental stimuli, can make you feel overwhelmed rather quickly. You don’t utter any of these thoughts aloud, but Jack seems to comprehend the underlying sentiment. 

“Ah,” your boss says with an understanding nod. He folds his hands on his desk and levels you with an inquisitive gaze. Admittedly, it took you years to get used to Jack’s demanding stares. The power dynamics in your professional relationship made you feel as if you had to make eye contact with him in order to show proper respect. Thankfully, you eventually learned that the very notion was false. “Very well. You can go on the mission alone.”

“Thanks, Jack,” you smile slightly, feeling appreciative of your boss and his understanding. Jack Crawford can be rather stringent and assertive at times, but it’s during moments like these when you remember that he cares about your comfort in the workplace.

“And, Agent?” Jack asks. You raise a brow. “Be careful out there,” he continues. You appreciate the warning, but it sounds a bit ominous. Does Jack expect something to happen? You shake off the thought. 

“Yes, sir,” you say before turning around, hitherto missing the way Jack’s eyebrows furrow at the honorific. You settle for leaving his office. Hannibal is waiting outside, but you walk past him and make your way back to your office alone.

In the blink of an eye, you find yourself standing before the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. As you look up at the building, the only thing you can feel is a profound sensation of dread. The hospital looms over you ominously, its dreary beige exterior making you feel rather uncomfortable. With each step you take, your resolve weakens. Maybe you should’ve had someone accompany you after all. You shake your head and grip the unnecessarily tall door, before stepping inside. The entrance hall is rather luxurious, despite your knowledge that the building is a government-funded prison. It takes you a moment to locate a sign and find Frederick Chilton’s office. Minutes later, you’re standing in front of an ornate wooden door that rests ajar, allowing you to see into the office. The man sitting at the desk looks up and gestures for you to come in.

“Hello, Dr. Chilton,” you decide to say, before moving to take a seat at the armchair across from his desk. The man’s attention is evidently pulled away from his papers, as he levels you with a scrutinizing gaze. You’re about to introduce yourself before understanding passes over his face and he seems to recognize you.

“The killer in the flesh,” Chilton remarks in amusement, leaning back in his chair and crossing his leg over his knee. You’re briefly struck with a resemblance to Hannibal, before you quickly do away with the thought.  Chilton possesses none of the effortless grace that Hannibal does. In fact, Frederick Chilton’s movements and posture just make him seem like he’s peacocking. 

“You’ve been reading too much TattleCrime, Dr. Chilton,” you remember to say, making sure to plaster a smile on your face to lighten the blow. Thankfully, the doctor doesn’t immediately recoil or usher you out of the office. 

Instead, Chilton laughs. You curse internally. It seems that your prickly responses have only increased his interest. “Maybe so,” he acquiesces, leveling you with a hungry gaze. You instinctively lean back in your chair. “Care for an hour-long consultation? Entirely free of charge, of course.”

“No thanks," you respond quickly. 

“Most people would jump at the chance to speak with me for an hour,” Chilton remarks casually. At least, you suspect that he wants to sound casual. Instead, you fear he just sounds pompous and arrogant. You have to grip at the fabric of your jacket to keep yourself from saying something you may regret.

“I’m not most people, as I’m sure you’ve realized,” you snap with a little too much venom, before taking a deep breath. Lashing out at him won’t get you any closer to a conversation with Gideon. “Anyway. I’m here to speak to Abel Gideon.” You look at Chilton expectantly. There’s an awkward silence that descends across the space, before the man sighs. He looks you up and down—in a manner that makes you profoundly uncomfortable—before shaking his head. 

“Unfortunately, you lack the proper paperwork,” Dr. Chilton smiles sadly. You aren’t fooled—it’s clear that he doesn’t truly care about the inconvenience this will cause you. “I’ll cut you a deal, though. You can speak with him after our consultation appointment.” Is the idea of a consultation with you really so fascinating to him? Despite his desperation, you don’t intend to entertain the thought for even a moment. You’ve met many of Chilton’s type—mental health “professionals” that treat their clients as test subjects. You have no interest in becoming a case study.  

“Thank you for the generous offer, Dr. Chilton,” you say stiffly. “But I’ll have to decline; I’ll be back with that paperwork.” You don’t give him the chance to respond, instead rising from your seat and walking out of the office. You can feel the man’s gaze burning into your skin as you leave. It’s a different feeling than the one you get when Hannibal’s looking; that heated gaze of Chilton’s holds nothing but malice for you and hunger for your destruction. You can’t get out of the building fast enough. 

After that catastrophe, you return to the institute and report your findings to Jack, who immediately grows irritated at the thought of you being turned away at the door. You can’t help but agree with him—you had really hoped to get everything finished with one visit. Honestly, the last thing you want to do is go to the hospital again. Unfortunately, it seems you don’t have a choice in the matter. Jack mentions that the paperwork should be ready within a few days and you’re effectively dismissed. 

“Dr. Chilton has taken a rather unprofessional interest in me,” you recount, crossing one leg over the other in your designated chair. You’re back at Hannibal’s office for your weekly appointment. You’re still waiting on that paperwork from Jack, but you know it’ll be ready soon. In the meantime, you’re content to puzzle out just why Frederick Chilton seemed so interested in you. With that thought in mind, you look up at Hannibal. 

The psychiatrist is completely frozen. It would be humorous, if not for the aghast expression on his face. Well, Hannibal’s expression is far from aghast—in fact, it’s almost entirely blank— but you like to think that you’ve learned to discern his true emotions. 

“Are you alright?” you can’t help but ask.

“Of course,” Hannibal says with a slight smile. You avert your eyes and instead focus on the fire crackling in the fireplace. When you look at Hannibal's desk, you're surprised to find that the sketchbook from before is nowhere in sight. Perhaps he meant to hide it last time. Hannibal’s voice draws you away from your pseudo-inspection of his office. “I was simply taken aback by your choice of words.”

“What?” you frown. “Oh, unprofessional interest? I was referring to Chilton’s insistence on having an hour-long consultation appointment with me. I think he even offered to do it for free.” You shake your head in disbelief. 

“You seem to be rather popular amongst psychiatrists and mental health professionals,” Hannibal remarks moments later, after he’s evidently recovered from his prior inexplicable shock. 

“Can’t possibly imagine why,” you remark sardonically, finally understanding why Chilton was so interested in you. “I’m living, breathing proof of the failure of social conventions. Who wouldn’t be interested in all this insanity?” you laugh wryly. 

“You’re not insane,” Hannibal maintains with furrowed brows. 

“I appreciate that, Dr. Lecter,” you answer with a sincere nod. “But if that were the case, then I fear I’d put you out of business.”

Hannibal’s eyes widen, before a slightly amused smile falls onto his face. He clasps his hands and leans forward. You sense the conversation is about to take a turn. “May I accompany you on your next visit to Baltimore?” Hannibal asks politely. 

“Sure,” you acquiesce. Secretly, you feel a little guilty for going alone the first time. However, you weren’t hired to be Hannibal’s partner for investigations. For a while there, you felt as if Jack was sending Hannibal with you to supervise you. It seems that isn’t the case, though—at least, that’s what you concluded after your conversation with Jack earlier in the week. “I can’t imagine it will be much fun for you, though,” you admit. The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane isn’t the most entertaining place on the planet. You can’t quite imagine Hannibal—well-dressed, scholarly Hannibal—standing in those run-down halls.

“I disagree,” Hannibal responds, wielding a wicked smirk. You feel a grin growing on your own face in response to his amenability. Hannibal will almost be acting as your security guard, in a twisted way. The thought amuses you far more than it should—so much so that Hannibal levels you with an inquiring gaze. You simply shake your head in response. 

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, effectively distracting you from the conversation at hand. You frown and ignore the notification, but your phone buzzes again a few moments later and you’re forced to pull it out. Your phone is currently both your work phone and personal phone, although you scarcely use it for personal matters. You get the feeling these sudden notifications are from Jack. Sure enough, when you open the encrypted messaging platform that the BAU uses, you have a few messages from Jack. 

Jack Crawford: Just spoke with Alana concerning Gideon. 

Jack Crawford: She was his psychiatrist for a while, and maintains that she has information you may need for your meeting with him. 

Jack Crawford: I arranged a meeting for the two of you tomorrow morning. 

You inhale sharply, before typing out a mediocre response and sending it. You place your phone back in your pocket and take a deep breath, feeling the need to keep yourself calm. You’ve been avoiding Alana ever since the incident… You’d rather not see her again. Unfortunately, however, it doesn’t appear like you have much of a choice. Your growing despair must show on your face, because Hannibal asks you about the nature of the messages. 

“I have a meeting with Alana tomorrow morning,” you say, rubbing your hands over your face for a moment. You resist the compelling urge to altogether bury your head in your hands. What should you do? You have to attend the meeting, obviously—Jack asked you to attend and you could use more information on Gideon. However, you’re pretty uncomfortable with the idea of going alone. Suddenly, you think of a solution. “I’m normally not the one to ask, but…” you break off, feeling a bit embarrassed as you stare at Hannibal. However, the thought of Alana making any more romantic advances significantly trumps any of your current apprehension. “Will you go with me?”

“Of course,” Hannibal answers without hesitation. You feel the tension slowly leave your body. Suddenly, the world around you doesn’t look nearly as grim and gloomy. You focus on taking a few deep breaths. 

“Thank you so much,” you murmur in relief. “...I’m hoping nothing will happen.” Hannibal frowns for a moment, before understanding passes over his face and his expression turns grave. He looks at you expectantly. His gaze is rather demanding—something you haven’t seen him display just yet—and you decide to meet his eyes. There is nothing but honesty in the lines of his face, the pull to his shoulders.  

“Rest assured, I will not let anything of that nature occur,” Hannibal states with absolute certainty. Something about the determination in his voice and the knowing look on his face makes you feel safe. Moments like these make it even harder for you to connect him to the Chesapeake Ripper. There is no grotesque brutality in the gentlemanly way in which he escorts you out of his office after the appointment; there is no hint of ferocious violence in the softly spoken farewell he leaves you with. When you walk out to the car, the night is blanketed with twinkling stars and a full moon. There is beauty in the veiled darkness. You can’t help but think of Hannibal in the same way.

Chapter Text

Since you’re dreading the meeting with Alana, it comes up impossibly fast. You fall asleep quickly the night before—for the first time in a long time—and wake to dread’s company. Your anxiety only builds as you get closer to the institute. By the time you reach the parking lot, you can’t calm your racing heart. Thankfully, you spot Hannibal’s car moments later and the two of you walk into the building together. Hannibal must sense that you’re not in the mood for conversation, because he remains a quiet yet steady presence at your side. 

Alana spots you the moment you cross the threshold of her office. She holds the door open for you with a kind smile. “Hey, Alana,” you say, trying to sound as normal as possible. You can only hope your apprehension doesn’t show through in your voice. 

“Hello,” Alana responds with an easy smile. Her hand falls back to her side, but Hannibal reaches out and deftly catches the door before it can slip closed.  The look on Alana’s face twists ever so slightly as she sees that you aren’t alone. She regards your company with fleeting interest. “Hannibal.”

“Hello, Alana,” he murmurs, a polite half-smile on his face. “It’s wonderful to see you again.” The slight smile on his face looks strained. Maybe it really isn't wonderful to see her again. You shake your head to clear your thoughts; you need to stop reading into these types of things. 

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting you,” Alana remarks good-naturedly. 

“Yeah, slight change of plans…” you remark with a grimace, not desiring to disclose the true reasons behind Hannibal’s presence. You can tell that Alana is curious, but you decide not to provide an explanation. Somehow, you feel a bit cowardly at the thought of needing Hannibal to be here with you. Speak of the devil, you think to yourself as you realize Hannibal is staring at you with a chastising expression on his face. It’s as if he can sense your pessimistic thoughts. You quickly avert your eyes, only to find that Alana is looking between the two of you with a suspicious expression. This is going to be a nightmare, you think wryly. 

“Jack informed us that you were Abel Gideon’s psychiatrist,” Hannibal starts, breaking through the tense silence. Each momentary lull in the conversation feels like a knife to the back. There’s a faint buzzing sound emanating from the fax machine in the corner of the office and the small analog clock on Alana’s desk carves a constant rhythm into the air.

“For a time, yes,” Alana responds vaguely. You swallow any comments about the ambiguity of her answer and instead focus on the next line of questioning. 

“What information do you have on him?” you press on adamantly. Unfortunately, if you halted your questioning every time you noticed tension rising in the air, this conversation would never end. You take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of your nose, before bringing a hand to rest on Alana’s desk. “I haven’t gotten the chance to speak with him yet.”

“Well,” Alana breaks off, inexplicably glancing at Dr. Lecter for a moment as if questioning his presence. You resist the urge to huff in amusement at the rather petty behavior she’s currently exhibiting. Although, you suppose her reaction is somewhat justified—Hannibal isn’t technically a federal agent, after all. However, Jack has pretty much ushered him onto the BAU—a feat not easily accomplished by any means. “Gideon is a sociopath and narcissist with psychotic episodes and homicidal tendencies.”

“But…?” you ask, noticing the way Alana seemed to momentarily falter after recounting the man’s diagnoses. The question seems to throw the psychiatrist off guard, because her eyes momentarily widen and you get a glimpse of her surprise. 

“Nothing slips by you,” Alana remarks with a smile. You’re somewhat uncomfortable with the fond tone of her voice. “For a person with the same diagnoses as him, identity is a rigid and unchanging mechanism. However, Gideon’s recent confusion about the Chesapeake Ripper speaks to severe borderline personality disorder.” Your eyebrows furrow. While you’re certainly not friends with Alana, you’ve known her for long enough to know that she doesn’t typically use such formal diction. What changed? Perhaps she feels pressured to speak in such a manner since Hannibal is in the room. You suppose that would make sense—he was Alana’s unofficial mentor. 

“That’s an interesting distinction to make, Alana,” Hannibal voices, bringing your attention back to the conversation. You feel the sudden need to avert your eyes from the two psychiatrists; instead of looking at either of them, you let your gaze wander about Alana’s office. You’ve been in here a few times, yet you’ve never taken the time to truly look around. Now that you’re looking, you can catch hints of Alana’s personality bleeding through the nondescript beige walls. She has framed pictures of various people—evidently, her friends— scattered across the four walls and her desk is almost impeccably clean. 

Your tongue feels glued to the roof of your mouth. You don’t want to speak anymore. The unspoken competition hanging in the air between Hannibal and Alana seems to distract them from your silence, as they continue to speak about Gideon. You allow Hannibal to ask the questions and, thankfully, you seem to share many of the same concerns. Alana continues to speak to Hannibal, but you can see her sneaking glances at you between her words. 

Suddenly, you hear your name and you’re thrown back into the uncomfortable present. Both psychiatrists are staring at you expectantly. You blink at them, waiting for someone to exclaim. Alana smiles at you. “I’d be happy to accompany you on your visit to the hospital,” she offers. 

You don’t know what to say or how to say it. How can you possibly begin to describe the tumultuous storm of negative emotions that rages through you whenever you catch even a glimpse of Alana’s face? How can you even begin to explain the days you’ve spent going through your memories of her, trying to pinpoint a moment where her feelings for you changed? Truthfully, you don’t think you’ll be even the slightest bit comfortable in her presence by yourself—especially not in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane of all places. You have to put active effort into fighting the urge to glance at Hannibal for assistance. You certainly don’t expect him to have an infallible solution to your problems (or even a solution at all); rather, you just need the reminder that you aren’t alone. 

Eventually, you’re forced to break the silence. “Thank you for the offer, Alana,” you start, trying not to take note of the way her smile starts to falter. You scramble to find a way to decline her offer diplomatically. “I spoke with Jack and he seemed to desire Hannibal’s opinion on things.” That may not be a word-for-word explanation of the conversation you had with him earlier, but it will do. Furthermore, Jack is a perfect excuse—since his word is practically law in the BAU. Alana won’t want to disobey his orders, so she should back off after the mention of your boss. Indeed, the psychiatrist frowns slightly but gives in. 

“Alright,” Alana surrenders, but not before giving you a strange look. You shrug helplessly, not wanting to admit that you would much prefer Hannibal’s company to Alana’s. She can take whatever meaning she desires from that gesture. Alana seems to do so, as she sends you a sympathetic look. You eventually work up the nerve to dismiss yourself and within a minute, you’re out in the hall and free from the overbearing psychiatrist and her far too small office. 

“Thank you for accompanying me,” you say to Hannibal as the two of you walk down the hall. You shove your hands in your pockets and continue to quickly pace down the hall, idly hoping that Hannibal will keep up. 

“Any time,” Hannibal responds from your side. There’s nothing but sincerity written in the lines of his face and the rather unexpected honesty of his remark catches you off guard. Hannibal makes it sound as if he would truly accompany you any time. Surely, that isn’t the case. Surely, you’re hearing things. You take a shuddering breath and lead Hannibal to your office to grab the paperwork you need. 

After grabbing the paperwork, the two of you head back through the institute and out to the parking lot. You offer to drive, since Hannibal has driven you several times and you feel the need to repay the gestures somehow. Admittedly, it’s a change of pace for you to be the driver; you feel a little self conscious, for some reason. You can’t shake the feeling that Hannibal is staring at you from the passenger seat. Whenever you glance to the side, however, the psychiatrist is staring out the window or straight ahead. You eventually forget the rather eerie feeling and focus on driving.

The drive passes without event and, now, the two of you are walking along the path to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Your heart is racing in your chest as you come to terms with the fact that you’ll have to survive another conversation with Frederick Chilton. You aren’t so oblivious to the hungry look in his eyes or the subtle probing in each statement that leaves his lips. Speaking with the man is far from the first thing you want to do; however, you need to navigate a conversation with him if you want to speak with Abel Gideon. 

“Ah, back again, are we?” Chilton smirks as you enter his office. His gleaming eyes are practically dissecting you. The smugness radiating off of the man is suffocating. He anticipated that you would return. However, Chilton evidently performed some mental gymnastics to get to that particular conclusion—there’s no way in hell you’ll join him for a consultation. “Here to take me up on my offer?” You resist a laugh. 

“I’m afraid that isn’t the case,” Hannibal interjects for you, before Chilton can leer at you any longer. You’re once again grateful that you had the foresight to allow Hannibal to accompany you. He’ll serve as a buffer. Without him, you’re nearly certain that Chilton would make a meeting with Gideon rather difficult. “Dr. Lecter; a pleasure to finally meet you, Frederick.” You raise an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic greeting. Hannibal always introduces himself using his first name. Yet, he doesn’t give Frederick permission to refer to him in such a manner. 

“And you, Dr. Lecter,” Frederick responds, extending a hand. The resulting handshake looks to be uncomfortably tight, yet neither of the men comment on it. Then, Hannibal takes the proffered business card and places it in his pocket. You immediately realize that Chilton is going to be an addition to Hannibal’s rolodex of rude people. The thought brings you a little solace. 

“I’ve brought the necessary paperwork,” you remark, breaking up the impromptu staring contest that Hannibal and Chilton silently initiated. You place the aforementioned paperwork on the desk and Frederick stares down at it, before flipping through it with a scrutinizing gaze. You hold your breath and watch as he rifles through it. 

“I see,” Frederick then says regretfully, folding his hands on his desk. It seems he couldn’t find fault with your paperwork. You’re happy about that—there’s no telling what Jack would have done if you came back empty-handed again. “Such a shame. Would’ve loved to get into that mind of yours.” The man sighs with a click of the tongue. 

“I’m sure,” you mutter darkly, a remark that goes unnoticed by Chilton. Hannibal certainly does notice the statement, however, and his lips quirk in amusement. You take a deep breath and manifest more patience. You can’t be too callous with Chilton, because he could easily withdraw your access to Gideon. However, you are tired of this conversation. “Dr. Chilton, can you show us to Gideon?”

“I suppose,” Frederick acquiesces with a burdened sigh, as if your refusal to be manipulated is an incredible inconvenience. You’re sure that, to him, it is actually an inconvenience; the man makes a living off of manipulating people. You’ve heard the rumors swirling about the man—how Chilton profits off of the suffering and pain of others. Safe to say, you don’t like him one bit. “Please, follow me.” Frederick proceeds to lead you through the halls. You take a few turns before stopping in a rather large and open space, with tiny windows near the ceiling serving as the only sources of light. There are impossibly small cages lined up in neat rows. Your stomach turns as you see the dried flakes of blood stuck to the metal bars. Chilton hums to himself as he walks a few paces and comes to a stop in front of a cage. The look on the man’s face morphs from immature amusement to dark glee. You swallow past the premonitions in your chest and allow your gaze to fall on the man sitting in the cage—indeed, it cannot be called anything more than a cage. There is barely enough room for the man to stretch his arms and he remains hunched over with his head down. Chilton crosses his arms over his chest. “Abel, you have visitors.”

Abel Gideon’s head remains titled down. It’s clear that he doesn’t desire to speak with the administrator. Frederick makes an annoyed groaning sound before slamming his hand on one of the bars a few times, evidently trying to get his attention. The killer doesn’t give any indication that he has even heard the other man. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Chilton says resignedly, sending you a look that is clearly supposed to be intimidating. Fortunately for you, you’re far too used to being stared down by far worse people—criminals, serial killers, murderers, and psychopaths… Frederick Chilton has nothing on any of them.

As Chilton retreats, Gideon begins to stir. By the time Frederick is gone, Abel Gideon’s head has risen and his searching gaze finds you, before settling on Hannibal at your side. There’s a slight slip in his expression—a small twitch of the eye—before it is smoothed over. You wonder if this was a bad idea. Perhaps you should’ve come here alone. Unfortunately, there’s no use in regretting the decisions that led you here. You’ll just have to do the best you can. That will have to be enough.  

“I was wondering when you’d show up, Dr. Lecter,” Gideon says, his voice raspy from evident disuse. His hands grip the bars that keep him caged. You have to wonder if the design of this interrogation space was intentional—if the prisoners were meant to feel like caged birds—wings bound and stripped of all freedom. You’ve always hated the carceral state. You don’t realize that your thoughts have gone on a tangent until your companion speaks. 

“Indeed,” Hannibal responds blandly, as if Abel Gideon is nothing more than a pebble beneath his shoe. You suppose that Gideon probably is that insignificant to Hannibal. Besides, Gideon was thought to be the Ripper for several months—maybe Dr. Lecter didn’t take too kindly to the idea of someone else taking credit for his work. Indeed, Hannibal cuts the conversation off before it can even begin. “I’ll just be over here, if you don’t mind.” You raise an eyebrow at him, but the gesture goes unnoticed since his back is turned. You turn your attention back to Abel Gideon, only to find that he is already staring at you. Unnerved, you briefly pause before eventually regaining your composure. 

“Hello, Abel,” you remark cautiously. 

“Hello,” he responds warily. You don’t blame him for being cautious—from what you know, medical professions have consistently manipulated him. Fortunately for him, you’re certainly not a medical professional. 

“I want this to be a private conversation,” Gideon emphasizes, glaring at Hannibal lurking in the corner before looking back at you. “Just the two of us.” Your heart stutters in your chest. 

“I’d rather remain here,” Hannibal interjects, to your surprise. You look over to him, only to find yourself met with a fiery gaze. There’s something unspoken in the tight pull to his shoulders; there’s something unspoken in the tightly-coiled ferocity of his posture. You’re swimming with sharks, here—and your blood’s in the water. 

“I insist,” Gideon says, turning to look at you expectantly. There’s a scrutinizing sense to his gaze, as if he’s dissecting your every move. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath, before turning to Hannibal. You know he’ll be easier to persuade than Gideon. If you want to get any information from the killer, you’ll have to pretend to play his game. 

“Will you leave us?” you ask. Hannibal’s gaze is set on Gideon with frightening focus; the two lock eyes and you can’t help but feel as if you’re missing something. Eventually, Hannibal looks towards you. You raise your eyebrows at him expectantly.

“Of course,” Hannibal acquiesces politely, turning around and leaving the room. You can’t bring yourself to take your eyes off of Gideon for even a moment. 

“You have him on a leash, don’t you?” the man remarks with a laugh, resting his hands on the bars of his interrogation cell. You have to look away from his grip, as you’re assaulted with thoughts of how easy it would be for those strong hands to wrap around someone’s neck and squeeze. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” you respond stiffly, despite your heart absolutely racing out of your chest. Each piece of this conversation feels far more significant than you can currently comprehend. Each statement Gideon makes seems to be hiding an underlying message. You’re immediately thankful for your somewhat dubious morality—the recording device in your pocket will prove to be extremely useful for future reference. After all, the morals and ethics you prioritize aren’t the agency’s or society’s, but your own. You are self-governed. Plus, you know that the FBI’s strict interrogation policies would prevent you from getting any truly useful information. “Anyway, I’m here to speak to you about the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Hm,” Gideon says, suddenly looking entirely uninterested. It’s clear that the topic is well-exhausted already. You may have to approach this from a slightly different angle. You want to speak about the Ripper, but you will have to hide your questioning behind clever wording. You then realize that conveying trust may be most effective. Abel Gideon has spent years rotting away in this hospital, his words slipping into Chilton’s left ear and falling out his right. Perhaps the best angle for you to pursue… is trust. 

“I know you’re not the Chesapeake Ripper,” you assert. 

“No one else seems to think so,” the man says, in a tone that is more amused than spiteful. You can almost see the tension fade from Gideon’s body. Now, he looks less wary and more intrigued. His shoulders aren’t drawn as tight and his gaze looks slightly less murderous. Small steps, you suppose. 

“I believe you,” you assure him. Gideon doesn’t know your true reasons for believing him, of course. You don’t believe him out of some misguided sentimentalism or pity for his past experiences. Rather, you’ve stared down the real Chesapeake Ripper. Abel Gideon is a cold and calculated killer, but he will never measure up to the unimaginably dangerous, mirrored psyche that the Ripper weaponizes. The Chesapeake Ripper and Abel Gideon are two entirely different beasts. 

“Who are you then?” You tell him your name but he shakes his head. “What do you do?” he asks insistently. You decide to indulge him and explain that you’re a criminal profiler. You don’t give the man too much detail—as that could compromise your safety—but you manage to give him enough to be satiated. 

From there, you interrogate Gideon about several different things. Regretfully, Gideon isn’t as helpful as you initially expected him to be. Ultimately, he’s been in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane for years now. You can certainly use him as a basis for establishing and better understanding the mind of a killer; however, you fear that Abel Gideon gives you very little new information on the Ripper. 

“I can tell you wanted more, but I’m afraid I’m not up to date on what happens outside these walls,” Gideon remarks with a sympathetic grimace. It’s hard to believe that he’s able to scrounge up any genuine pity; you suspect the display is more for your benefit. Still, you somewhat appreciate the gesture. 

“That’s alright,” you sigh resignedly. “Thank you for the conversation.” 

You’re barely able to take another step before you hear him call your name. Despite the dread stewing in your chest, you turn around to face the killer once more. Gideon’s eyes are gleaming and his mouth is twisted in a wicked grin. You can’t quite control your instinctive reaction of taking a half-step backwards. Gideon notices and his grin sharpens impossibly. The man sitting across from you suddenly looks positively sinister. The shadows around his form seem to morph and grow around him. Your hand inches towards the pistol at your side. 

“A word of advice…” Abel murmurs casually, his eyes trained on yours despite the fact that you’re now gripping the gun on your belt. “Stay away from Lecter. I was the same, you know—enamored with my wife. It doesn’t last long, trust me.” You swallow hard as you remember that Gideon is here because he murdered his wife and her family. 

“Goodbye, Abel,” you manage to choke out, turning your back on him and walking away. Abel Gideon lets out a loud cackle as you move to leave. Even when you exit the interrogation space and close the door behind you, you can hear Gideon’s twisted laugh reverberating through your ears. 

You find Hannibal lingering in a nearby corridor. You can’t find the words to say, so instead you just motion for him to follow after you. Hannibal joins you and the two of you walk out of the hospital. There’s a suffocating tension that settles in the air, but you can’t bring yourself to break through it. Gideon’s words are running through your mind and you can’t seem to get rid of them. Stay away from Lecter. You walk with Hannibal to your car, but not before opening his door for him with a cheeky smile plastered on your face. It doesn’t last long. You pull out of the parking lot and drive back to the main road. Trust me. You find yourself stopping at a red light and your gaze is almost unwittingly pulled to your psychiatrist. 

“What did he say to you?” Hannibal asks, clearly sensing your gaze. 

“Nothing important,” you say with a shake of your head, fixing your eyes on the road in front of you. Your heart is pounding in your chest as you remember the killer’s whispers. Few know the mindset of a killer better than another killer. Perhaps you really aren’t safe in Hannibal’s presence. That realization should not feel new to you. In fact, it is more of a reminder. Indeed, how long have you spent in Hannibal’s company, pushing down the knowledge that he’s a practiced killer? How many appointments have you had since that night you sleepwalked onto the road? You’re stuck in a horrible cycle of realization and suppression, yet… you haven’t once tried to escape it. You’ve allowed yourself to remain pliant in a killer’s tight grasp. 

“Are you certain?” Hannibal asks persistently. You raise an eyebrow. He isn’t typically one to push things in such a manner. Is he really so concerned? You push the thought aside. You suspect Hannibal simply doesn’t like the notion of lacking information. He likes to be in the loop. The thought of your private conservation likely disquiets him. 

I’m not certain at all, you laugh internally. “Yes,” you respond through gritted teeth. Hannibal must sense that any further interrogation would be pointless, because he falls silent—albeit while continuing to stare at you. It’s hard to focus on driving when there’s a murderer sitting in your passenger seat. Although, does it truly matter if you drive safely? Hannibal could end your life in a moment’s notice. Perhaps you should just veer the car to the side and—

“Stop.” The command is so sudden that you nearly step on the brakes, only to realize that Hannibal isn’t talking about your driving. Indeed, the open road stretching in front of you doesn’t have another car in sight. A choked breath leaves your lips as your heart races from the unexpected remark. 

“What?” you ask quickly, feeling as if you were just drenched with cold water. Ambiguity does not mix well with driving—especially in the case of loud exclamations or commands without subsequent explanation. 

“Focus your attention elsewhere,” Hannibal demands. Surprised by the uncharacteristic commanding tone in his voice, you try to do as requested. You pull your attention back to the road in front of you. It takes you a few seconds to realize that Hannibal must’ve sensed your sudden spiral into suicidal thoughts. 

“How—?” you try to ask. Hannibal looks pointedly at the steering wheel and you follow his gaze, only to find that your hands are gripping the wheel with an almost unnatural amount of force. When you loosen your grip, you feel bolts of pain slide up and down your fingers. You wince and try to regain some feeling in your hands. 

Safe to say, the drive after that is incredibly awkward. At least, you think it’s incredibly awkward. You have no idea if Hannibal feels the same, because he continues to stare out the window with a pensive expression on his face as if nothing occurred. Then again, he is your psychiatrist—you suppose he wouldn’t be surprised by dark thoughts. 

It isn’t until you’re pulling into Hannibal’s driveway that the tense silence between the two of you is broken. “Please, come in,” Hannibal remarks, not even reaching for your car door. His gaze is fixated on you with rapt attention. 

“I’m afraid I can’t stay for long,” you admit, already recognizing that you’ll have to step into his residence—even for only a few moments. You’ve learned the hard way that Hannibal is often needlessly stubborn when it comes to spending time with you outside of his office. You step out of your car and lock it behind you, before walking up the path with him to his front door. You’re incredibly thankful that you have your car today. It’s easy to feel stranded at Hannibal’s residence when you don’t have a car—or a means of escape, your traitorous brain supplies for you. 

You linger in the foyer awkwardly before Hannibal invites you into the kitchen. You’ve been in the kitchen many times now and you’re unsurprised to find that it looks completely spotless. Hannibal seems uncharacteristically focused on something, as he walks over to the corner of the counter and pulls the business card from his pocket. You huff in amusement as you realize your earlier prediction was correct: Hannibal is putting Frederick Chilton’s business card in his rolodex. 

“Building a collection?” you can’t help but ask, after the quiet begins to grow painful. The compulsion to voice the thought was itching at your skin. Hannibal finishes setting the card in place, before turning back to level you with a complex look. You try your best to manifest an expression of innocent curiosity. 

“Something of the sort,” Hannibal agrees, after an uncomfortably long halt in conversation. His attention falls away from the rolodex. You clasp your hands together and wait patiently, unable to shake the feeling that he has something to say. Indeed, Hannibal washes his hands before continuing to speak. “Frederick did seem rather interested in you.”

“As I said,” you say with a slight grimace. You feel remarkably out of place in Hannibal’s kitchen, as he busies himself with evidently planning for his dinner. Ordinarily, you’d be compelled to offer your assistance. However, you know damn well that you’re nowhere near as good of a cook as Hannibal is. You would only cause him further trouble, you tell yourself. “Chilton wants to get inside my head… see what makes me tick.” Inexplicably, that last remark pulls Hannibal’s gaze from the cutting board he’s handling. You lock eyes for a long moment. 

“I suspect he wants more than that,” Hannibal murmurs. You frown. It takes you a minute or two to process that statement, namely because you're shocked by the near mutter of his voice. Hannibal isn’t the type of person to speak his thoughts so quietly—he is a man of conviction. The thought nearly distracts you from the allusion he just made; when you mull over his words again, you begin to recognize the gravity of them. 

“Excuse me?” You ask incredulously. Hannibal’s attention is only focused on the ingredients spread across his counter. It’s as if you imagined the remark—and you’re sorely tempted to believe that you did. The statement seemed rather out of character for Hannibal; although, the cryptic nature of it was very characteristic of the man. 

Unsurprisingly, it’s hard for you to proceed with normal conversation after that revelation. Your traitorous mind keeps trying to find significance in the earlier remark—in the unaffected mask Hannibal donned as he uttered those words. You need to get out of here—otherwise, your mind will continue to entertain foolish thoughts. “I should leave you to your dinner, Dr. Lecter,” you say, not giving him even a moment to argue. “Have a good night.” You nod at him before turning to walk away. Even as you drive into the dark night and away from his residence, Hannibal dominates your thoughts.

Hannibal watches you make your hasty retreat. He isn’t quite sure what spurred you to leave in such a hurry—although, he idly suspects that his allusion to Chilton’s… unprofessional interest in you was not welcome. You hadn’t given Chilton the time of day—all of his advances went entirely unnoticed by you. Hannibal must admit: it was rather amusing to watch Frederick stumble over himself to make a good impression, only for you to fail to even notice. 

Prying himself from his thoughts, Hannibal rolls up his sleeves and prepares for dinner. Franklyn Froideveaux’s lung remains motionless on his cutting board, a reminder of Hannibal’s escapade days ago. Truthfully, he intended on letting Franklyn live—if only to continue coercing and manipulating him. However, intention flew out the window the night of the opera. Now, Hannibal idly recognizes that your sudden departure actually works in his favor—he’s certain you would have grown suspicious if you had seen him treating the same organs that Franklyn’s corpse was missing. 

The saccharine melody of Apollo et. Hyacinthus ¹ floats throughout the kitchen. The lights dim; when Hannibal turns around, he is standing before an audience. The crowd is listening to his every word with rapt attention. Each movement he makes is calculated with perfect precision. He moves with mechanical mastery. Admittedly, his thoughts are elsewhere today—Frederick Chilton’s business card continues to taunt him from his rolodex. As Hannibal prepares his dinner, he idly imagines sinking a blade into Chilton’s skin and harvesting his organs. Perhaps he’d sew his lips shut or cut off his tongue—the man is far too talkative for his tastes. 

His dinner that night is an enjoyable affair. Hannibal dines in the company of Franklyn Froideveaux, whose organs are settling rather pleasantly on his tongue. The meal is elegant in a way Franklyn never was; the irony of the sentiment is not lost on Hannibal. Inexplicably, your description of Franklyn on the night of the opera comes to Hannibal’s mind. 

“Franklyn is sort of… a shapeshifter, for lack of a better term. He’ll adjust and change himself to fit the situation best. When he’s in love, he’s dangerously obsessed. His unconventional actions are reassuring to him, though, because they give him a modicum of control—a control that he cannot possess over anything else.”

That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts. 

Hannibal finishes his meal and muses on the events of the day for several moments. After the antique clock on the wall’s chiming of the hour brings him back to reality, he gets to his feet and stills. There’s a slight movement in his peripheral vision. Hannibal looks over at his kitchen, only to see his faithful rolodex with a card missing—slight scraps of paper left on the metal. He paces forward—prowls—until he finds the business card that fell to the floor. He squints down at it. 

Frederick Chilton

Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane

General Administration

[email protected] | (410) -XXX-XXXX

Hannibal’s lips twist upward in anticipation.

Chapter Text

You fire one, two, three, nine shots. There’s a roaring noise in your ears. Amidst all the chaos, however, you can still sense Garret Jacob Hobbs staring at you with a sickening smirk on his face.

“See?” The man asks, as the light fades from his eyes and his body slumps against the cabinets. You’re too rattled to notice the sound of footsteps getting closer until there’s a hand on your shoulder. Dr. Lecter and you lock eyes and, even in the swirling mess of emotions running through your mind, there is overwhelming clarity. 

……

How did Hannibal get your business card? You swallow past the trepidation building in your core and stare down at his rolodex in disbelief.  A choked laugh escapes your lips. You let your guard down. You had foolishly hoped that maybe, just maybe, things would be different. You let your guard down and, now, your name rests amidst the names of current and future Ripper victims. 

“Is everything alright?” Hannibal walks in as you’re looking at his rolodex and you quickly turn around, trying to shield it from his view. You’re not sure what expression is on your face, but it must be suitably harrowed, because his face twists in concern—mock concern, your mind supplies. “You look rather shaken.”

“Yes, of course,” you answer.

……

“Building a collection?” you can’t help but ask, after the quiet begins to grow painful. The compulsion to voice the thought was itching at your skin. Hannibal finishes setting Chilton’s business card in his rolodex, before turning back to level you with a complex look. You try your best to manifest an expression of innocent curiosity. 

“Something of the sort,” Hannibal agrees, after an uncomfortably long halt in conversation.

A day has passed, yet you’re still unable to sort out your thoughts. Memories flicker before your eyes. You can’t stop thinking about the events of the past month or two—and how chaotic your life has grown to be. Abel Gideon, Frederick Chilton, Freddie Lounds, Hannibal himself… These figures are all fluttering about in your mind, taking precedence over anything and everything else. 

You feel unsettlingly vulnerable. Your psyche feels… weaker, as if it’s slowly corroding and disintegrating before your very eyes. Your mental defenses aren’t as strong as you remember them to be, and the monsters you thought you had banished are returning. One person in particular is wreaking havoc on every moment of your waking life. In some ways, this person is like your shadow. He is always present, yet he doesn’t choose to make himself known unless your thoughts are unfortified. 

Garret Jacob Hobbs stares at you from across your dining table. You grow accustomed to being in his company for meals. The bullet holes you gave him tear through his skin and spill blackened blood. The man’s eyes are glassy, yet his gaze is piercing in an unsettling manner. Hobbs didn’t entirely die that night—he lives on in your memory, preying on your fragile psyche. You blink and rub your eyes roughly, trying to rid yourself of the image of your victim. The killer simply smiles at you, his teeth dirtied and dangerously sharp. For a moment, you swear his eyes flash in the dim lighting of the room. When you make a movement, he mimics it. Your mirror image. He is the darkest of your shadows, the loudest of the skeletons clattering in your closet. You find yourself losing your appetite more frequently, and those changes are reflecting on your face—in the form of dark circles under your eyes and an unusually gaunt pull to your cheekbones. 

Time is a fickle thing. You’re starting to lose the concept of it entirely. The light and the darkness seem to morph together. You can’t define the passage of time anymore. There is only… after. You’re stuck in an unfeeling void, and it stretches far past your eyes. You throw yourself into work in an attempt to fill that void. You catch criminals, solve cases, but you can’t rid yourself of this cloying, desolate hopelessness. 

You leave for work, only to witness horrible, gruesome things that stick in your thoughts long after you return home for the day. You rest and these horrors follow you into your nightmares. You dream of rivers of blood, fields of undiscovered graves, mountains of corpses. You wake to rub your hands raw with scalding hot soap and water, but the dirt of the bloody sins you’ve seen never quite comes off.  

You’re broken from your seemingly unending trance when you return home from work one afternoon. You’re locking the front door, shedding your jacket and moving to your kitchen when you see something on your table—the same table that had been spotless when you left the house. You frown and walk closer. There’s a TattleCrime article resting innocently in the center of the table. You find yourself reaching out to interact with the newspaper before you can contemplate the consequences. The headline immediately jumps out at you in boldface text. 

TattleCrime

Criminally Insane ¹
 

By Freddie Lounds

[Picture 1: A fuzzy picture of you exiting the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. It is blurred and the branch of a tree can be seen in the top right corner of the photograph. Dr. Lecter is hidden behind you—obstructed by the rather large entrance door of the building. 

Picture 2: A picture of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The photograph is angled upward to make the building appear taller. The gaunt and grim building sticks out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of the bright blue sky and fluffy clouds. The entire exterior of the hospital is pictured.]

Resident killer Abel Gideon found himself being taken to the interrogation room in BSHCI just yesterday morning. The very same agent whose office housed the corpse of Franklyn Froideveaux, alongside accomplished medical professional Dr. Hannibal Lecter, met with Gideon to discuss the resurgence of the Chesapeake Ripper. Gideon did not provide a statement elaborating on the presence of the federal agent and the psychiatrist he met with. Currently, public opinion is split between fervent beliefs of Abel Gideon as the Chesapeake Ripper and rampant denial of Gideon’s ability to commit the recent murders, since he has been incarcerated for several months. The stability of the federal agent—the same one to track down Garret Jacob Hobbs—is still in question. Despite the questionable mental sanity of the aforementioned agent and the division of public opinion, one thing is clear: the Federal Bureau of Investigation is desperate for information on the Chesapeake Ripper.

1. Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane's Head Administrator, Frederick Chilton, did not respond to TattleCrime’s request for comment. 

For inquiries, reach out to [email protected].

If you have more information surrounding the killer widely known as the Chesapeake Ripper or the criminal profiler mentioned above, reach out to [email protected].

You place the article back down on your table, feeling vaguely unsettled. Freddie Lounds has written far worse about you—the defamation is nothing new. However, something feels off. Your hands shake with anticipation and your heart’s beat creates a haunting rhythm in your ears. You look down at the article once more. You know you should be concerned with who left it here, but your attention has been ensnared by the pictures. There’s something off about them, but you can’t discern what it is. You stare. What are you missing? What do these pictures tell you? 

You brush your teeth and get ready for sleep. An hour later, you’re reclined in bed and staring up at the ceiling restlessly. Sleep is eluding you once again. Hobbs is lingering by your bedside, tauntingly ripping you from slumber whenever you try to approach it. 

That Tattle Crime article refuses to depart from your thoughts. There isn’t any justification for why it’s dominating your headspace with such vigor. You’ve read many of Freddie’s articles before. Why is this one different? What sets it apart?

You’re not getting any closer to sleep. You push the covers off and get to your feet, walking in the dark to your dining room. You turn the lights on and sit down at the table, considering the article again. You feel as if you’re on the crux of a realization—perhaps even a piece of evidence. But what on earth could it be? There’s nothing significant about the article itself, and the pictures are rather unassuming. The photograph of you isn’t very flattering, but thankfully it’s pretty blurry. You have to wonder how Lounds took that picture. She must’ve been hidden behind the bushes across the street. The thought is rather disquieting. You force yourself to move your attention to the second picture. 

This picture is stranger than the first one. It’s disquieting and you can’t quite figure out why. The doom and gloom of the BSHCI building looks even more dramatic pictured here than it does in-person. You squint to look at the smaller details of it. The sky is clear with a few clouds. There’s a time stamp on the bottom corner, dating this picture to be taken mere hours after your visit to Gideon that same day. That’s a little strange, but you suppose it makes sense. There are only windows on the first floor of the building, and they all have their curtains drawn aside to let natural light in. At least, all of them except one. You frown and count across the row; the window with drawn curtains is the third room on the right. You think back to the layout of the building. The third room on the right from the entryway…. It takes you several moments to remember the inside of the building. You close your eyes and try to visualize it. 

The pieces of this particular puzzle finally begin to fit together. You’re suddenly assaulted with an overwhelming combination of dread, hopelessness, and guilt. You run back to your bedroom and grab your phone from the nightstand, dialing the desired number with practiced precision. 

Ring. No answer yet. You wait, your anxiety only solidifying as time drags on. Ring. Maybe you won’t be getting a response after all. Ring. Just as you’re about to groan in frustration, the ringtone ends and there’s someone on the other end. 

“Crawford,” Jack announces, not sounding the least bit surprised to be evidently roused awake by a phone call. You suppose that he’s grown accustomed to late-night calls about murder cases. 

“It’s me, Jack,” you respond. You can’t get another word out before he’s interrupting. 

“What did you find?” Of course that’s his question. You wonder (not for the first time) what you did to deserve Jack’s faith in you. The moment you said your name, he pivoted to asking you about evidence. Thankfully, you do have some evidence for him—but he isn’t going to like it. 

“Did you see Lounds’ TattleCrime article?” you ask. 

“You know I don’t read that garbage,” Jack says with a slight scoff to his voice. You resist the urge to roll your eyes. You have to cut him some slack, ultimately. You’re reaching out to him past midnight and he responded to your summons within three rings of his ringtone.

“Did you see it?” you ask again. 

“Yes,” he begrudgingly admits. TattleCrime is far from a trustworthy news source, but Freddie Lounds is almost always the first one to release any information about events. In this case, of course, an event never occurred—it’s merely speculation from the journalist. “What about it?”

“Did you notice anything unusual about the second picture in the article—the one of the BSHCI building?”

“Just tell me what you found, Agent,” Jack responds bluntly. 

“Right,” you sigh resignedly. Jack doesn’t like to be led on in such a manner—it’s better to just rip the bandage off here. “Pull up the article on your phone.” You pause for a few moments to give your boss the time to find the article. Jack lets out an affirmative grunt and you continue. “Look at the second photo. The hospital is in the foreground. I want you to look at the third window from the right on the first floor.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. Jack is going to be furious. You’re rather furious at yourself for not noticing the discrepancy in the picture until now. “That’s Chilton’s office.”

“I’m not following,” Jack says. 

“When we went into the office, the windows were open,” you continue. “From the two meetings I’ve had with Chilton, I’ve deduced that he keeps his curtains drawn open to let the light in when he’s in office.”

“I’m failing to see how this is relevant,” Jack says with a slightly aggravated edge in his voice. 

“Patience, Jack,” you snap, before taking a breath to regain your composure. “See the timestamp on the bottom corner of this picture? It reads 3:42 p.m., on the day Hannibal and I visited. We saw Chilton, which meant he was working that day. Assuming that the man follows some sort of normal working schedule…”

“The curtains should’ve been drawn open,” Jack finishes for you. The line goes silent as he evidently takes a closer look at the picture. You take the opportunity to do the same and run your finger along the place where the third window—Chilton’s office window—sits. In the photograph, the curtains are closed. “I’ll have some agents head over to the hospital now. Someone will try calling Chilton, too.” But he won’t be there to answer lingers uncomfortably in the air. 

“Thanks, Jack,” you respond. Jack gives no inclination that he’s heard you. He says your name a few moments later and you nearly bristle at the sudden cold tone to Jack’s voice. 

“What is it?” you ask apprehensively. 

“Have you seen this?” Jack asks. “‘Murderer Abel Gideon Escapes Confinement, Kills Three.’”

“What?” you choke out. Those words promptly rip up any fragile sense of stability and safety you developed today. “No, that can’t be.” You take your phone away from your ear and put Jack on speaker, before going to your browser and searching TattleCrime. The website pops up and when you click on it, the page buffers for several seconds. Your heart is thundering in your chest. There’s a tense silence between Jack and you. Finally, the page loads and you immediately see what he’s talking about. There’s a small box reading: Abel Gideon Escapes Confinement. When you tap the box, it sends you further down the page until you’re looking at an entire article. 

TattleCrime

Murderer Abel Gideon Escapes Confinement, Kills Three

By Uriah Larksen

At approximately 2:56 p.m., convicted killer Abel Gideon escaped his prison transport vehicle. Gideon had previously been institutionalized in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, following his conviction of first-degree murder regarding the deaths of his wife and her family. 

The three officers assigned as escorts were killed in the ensuing conflict. Gideon fled in the transport vehicle, which hasn’t been seen since. 

For inquiries, reach out to [email protected].

If you have more information surrounding recent sightings of Abel Gideon, reach out to [email protected].

You’re not quite sure how long you sit there in silence, reading over the same words over and over again. Abel Gideon escaped. Abel Gideon escaped. Abel Gideon- You take a deep breath, your chest feeling tight. 

“Jack…” You finally manage to say. Your voice sounds slightly raspy and broken. Jack seems to be feeling the same; his side of the call has been silent for several minutes. You both know what Gideon’s escape means. Abel Gideon is dangerous. It’s not out of the question to think that he’ll be focusing on vengeance once he escapes. Gideon’s escape and Chilton’s disappearance must be connected. 

“Did Gideon hold contempt for Chilton?” Jack asks. You both already know the answer. 

“Probably,” you acquiesce. It takes a few moments for you to organize your thoughts into a somewhat comprehensible list. You rub at your temple, trying to soothe your impending headache. “Chilton manipulated him, made him think he was the Ripper. I’m sure he holds contempt for all the mental health professionals he’s interacted with.”

“All of them,” Jack repeats, a note of something indiscernible in his voice. “Agent.” You stiffen. The weight of that statement comes crashing down on you.  Jack doesn’t need to elaborate—he does anyway. “Dr. Bloom is in danger. The same goes for anyone else that interacted with Gideon in a similar manner.” 

“Jack…” you break off, suddenly overwhelmed. 

“I’ll send a team down to Alana’s house and transport her to a safehouse,” Jack says, answering the questions you haven’t uttered yet. He sounds perfectly calm and collected. You can’t exactly find that same steely composure. Despite the events of the last few weeks, you can’t help but feel concerned for Alana. You’ve been stuck with a rather polarizing opinion of her recently. Yet, the more you think about Alana, the more you begin to remember all the good times you’ve shared with her and everything she’s done for you. Alana was a great psychiatrist, friend... Things may not be exactly the same between you anymore, but you still care about her enough to fear for her safety. “She’ll be alright.” Jack asserts, dragging you out of your thoughts. 

Typically, Jack’s reassurance is enough for you. Right now, it isn’t. “Jack, you’re in Quantico,” you frown, rubbing at your eyes and fighting off your exhaustion. You feel extremely restless, so you get up from your seat and begin to pace around the room. “There’s no way the team you send will make it in time.” 

“It’s the best we can do,” Jack responds diplomatically. You recognize that sending a task force is indeed the best protection Jack can provide. However, that’s not the best you can do—you can do better. Your silence must be telling, because Jack immediately switches tunes. “Don’t go to Alana’s house.” You remain quiet, knowing that you’ll incriminate yourself otherwise and feed Jack’s suspicions. 

“Agent,” Jack breaks off, his tone assertive and demanding. Despite the authoritative nature of his voice, you can sense an underlying concern coating his words. Surely he isn’t worried for you—that feels out of the question. “Promise me you won’t go to her house.”

“I promise,” you respond without hesitation. There's no response for one, two, three seconds. 

“Alright,” Jack then says warily. The TattleCrime article on the table burns a hole in the corner of your vision. Abel Gideon has escaped. Alana is in danger. Hell, you could even be in danger. You take a deep breath. “Keep in touch.”

Your goodbye goes unheard as Jack hangs up the call. You lean back in your chair and inhale slowly. That promise slipped from your lips without hesitation. One fatal recognition is lingering on your skin: 

You’re a liar. 

Jack places too much trust in you, you think to yourself. Right now, you’re betraying his trust—and you may never get it back. For a second, you contemplate your next course of action. You don’t have to go to Alana. You could stay here. The thought sickens you—remaining complicit in Alana’s potential murder. Sure, you’re not on the best of terms with Alana right now, but she was a good friend, psychiatrist—hell, girlfriend—in the past. If something were to happen to her, you’d never forgive yourself. 

You get to your feet, grabbing your jacket and car keys. 

The drive is monotonous and uneventful. You’ve been simmering in your own dread since your phone call with Jack; the unsavory emotions only make the ride pass faster. Before you can back out, you’re parked down the street from Alana’s residence. It’s dark outside now, with no source of light except for the pale moonlight. 

Alana’s house sits in the darkness. Her outside lights aren’t on just yet. You can see light peeking through one of the shutters on the side of the house, indicating that she’s home. You bite your lip and take another few steps forward, trying your best to avoid anything on the ground that could make a sound when you step on it. The night air is brisk and cold; your exhales leave your lips in small puffs of vapor.

You don’t know how much time you spend lurking on the outskirts of Alana’s residence, watching in the shadows. You eventually come to the conclusion that Alana is fine. You know you should go to the doorstep and tell her that you stopped by, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Instead, for an immeasurable time, you remain a silent shadow outside her window. You split your time between checking on Alana and looking for Gideon over your shoulder. The night air is still biting, but you find warmth in the knowledge that Alana is safe. 

“You’re rather predictable, aren’t you?” a familiar voice whispers in your ear. Your momentum careens forward and you feel a gun pointed at the back of your head. You turn around, only to find your shadow staring back at you. 

“Hobbs,” you choke out. The man’s expression is blurry and it morphs into a cruel smirk. His gun is pressed against your temple. You raise your hands in the air, which only deepens the maniacal grin on his face. His lips are falling away to reveal pointed teeth and, when a beam of moonlight glimmers against his face, black blood trickles down his incisors. 

Garret Jacob Hobbs can’t be alive—he’s dead. You know that; yet, when you stare at the figure in front of you, all you can see is the murderer—your victim—’s face. His eerie blue-green eyes are piercing through the darkness, latching onto you with fervent madness. The hand that holds the gun to your forehead is steady. His breaths are calm and measured, an antithesis to the shaking, shivering mess of limbs you left him to be.  

You stay locked in an unspoken stalemate for an immeasurable amount of time. You’re forced to inhabit the uncomfortable quiet with harsh breaths. Your assailant got the jump on you; you curse yourself for being so focused on Alana that you neglected your own surroundings. Vaguely, you wonder if this was a trap set for you. You can’t ponder the thought long, because, with lightning speed, the man pulls back and connects the butt of the gun to your skull. Suddenly, your sight swims and you fall to the ground. You try to push yourself up—your arm reaching for the dagger you have concealed on your form—but the swift kick to your ribs robs you of breath. Your assailant kicks your prone form one more time, twisting you so that your back now meets the ground. He stares down at you with an incomprehensible mix of glee, satisfaction, and something…darker. 

Your vision spirals and fades around the edges as the man mercilessly drags you behind him. You desperately try to fight the overwhelming vertigo tugging at your core, but it doesn’t quite work. Your assailant lets out a cackling laugh and continues to drag you along by the ankle as if you weigh nothing at all. You stare up at the moon, glittering in the pitch-black night sky. The pain is nearly unbearable. Your assailant doesn’t have any qualms about dragging you haphazardly, letting your form be jostled by the rocky ground. Something hot trickles down your face. You’re not sure if it’s blood or tears. Your eyes are burning and before long, the curtain closes and you’re falling into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

You fall in and out of consciousness. One moment, you’re roughly dragged along the ground past Alana’s house; the next moment, there’s a blindfold secured over your eyes and you’re situated in what you guess to be the trunk of a car. You feel every minute bump in the road and you swear the driver is intentionally hitting potholes, if only to jostle you around more. At some point, you feel your vision fading—even amidst your best efforts to remain awake. You know you need to stay conscious to escape, but your body refuses to obey your commands.

The next time you wake, you’re met with an incessant, throbbing headache. You wearily blink your dry eyes open, wincing as light sears into your vision. Left with nothing but a buzzing silence and your thoughts, you berate yourself for letting your guard down. You had forgotten the nature of the people you were investigating. You’re in danger. You take a deep breath around the gag in your mouth and try to remain calm. Thankfully, your blindfold must have been removed at some point.

Surveying your surroundings, you find a dilapidated dining room with dusty trinkets lining the walls. There’s a fanciful chandelier hanging over the luxurious dining table, which has seven empty seats. You’re located at the back head of the table—your wrists bound to the arms of the chair you were placed in. There are mere ropes holding you to the chair, but somehow, you can hardly even move, let alone try to get out of them. You must have been drugged—with something potent enough to remove all traces of physical resistance from your system. You can’t do anything more than make your fingers twitch from where they’re resting on the edges of the chair arms. Moreover, when you do manage to move them, your hand twitches sporadically. That’s definitely not a good sign.

It’s hard to stay awake, even though you know you need to be conscious and aware of your surroundings to keep yourself safe. There’s nothing to occupy you except for the monotonous ticking of a clock in the hall behind you, your blurred vision, and your aching limbs. 

At one point, when you drag yourself out of the void of unconsciousness, you find that you have a companion. Frederick Chilton is sitting in the chair on your right. You blink at him blearily and try to get his attention, only to remember that you’re both gagged and nearly unable to move. Upon closer investigation, it looks like he’s unconscious. You don’t stay conscious long enough to learn anything about Chilton’s situation or see your captor. Weirdly enough, your captor has been strangely absent—leaving you to decay amidst molding walls in solitude. Each time you fight off unconsciousness, you notice that Chilton is more roughed up. Your captor has a grudge against him, and it doesn’t take you long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Ironically, by trying to protect Alana, you only ended up putting yourself in more danger. If you had the strength, you’d shake your head in disbelief. 

The opportunity to speak with your captor finally arrives the next time you wake. The man, evidently finished with torturing Chilton for the day—judging by the blood soaking through the man’s shirt—tightens the ropes around Chilton’s wrists. This is your chance. “Gideon?” You feel yourself asking. It comes out muffled because of the gag. Your voice is dry and raspy; your entire mouth is dry and the words almost seem to bounce around restlessly. 

You blink at the figure. It looks like Hobbs. But, no, it can’t be Hobbs—Hobbs is dead. You blink and try to peel away the Minnesota Shrike’s cloying visage. The sickly emerald tones in his eyes fall away to reveal a sharp blue-eyed gaze. Dr. Abel Gideon is looking at you with interest; Chilton is no longer the subject of his attention. You cast a hateful gaze at Chilton’s prone form, feeling a momentary stab of satisfaction at seeing him hurt. You have to rip yourself from those thoughts to focus on Gideon, who is now standing next to you. 

“I must say, you were out for quite a while,” Gideon hums. You can’t tell if he’s speaking to himself or to you. He turns your chair ninety degrees to make you face him. “Perhaps I overdid it with the drugs. I haven’t been at the operating table in quite a while…” His focused musings are eerie. The man is treating you as if you’re an experiment—an animal on his dissection table. Eventually, Gideon sighs and removes the gag from your mouth. 

“Why did you take me?” you ask immediately. That’s the first thing you want to know. You can justify Chilton’s presence here—he worked with Gideon in the past and nearly convinced him he was the Chesapeake Ripper. You’ve never done anything of the sort, however. You’re not a mental health professional, nor have you even spoken to Gideon aside from the single conversation you had through the bars of his cell. 

Unsurprisingly, Gideon doesn’t answer your question. You’re not even sure if he can hear what you’re saying. “Say hello, Frederick,” your assailant says instead, momentarily stepping aside to make sure you can see the man in question. Frederick Chilton cannot say hello, since several of his organs have been evidently removed and he is unconscious. You grimace. You don’t like the man, but you don’t think he deserves to be mutilated so cruelly. You swallow hard. “Might as well have some fun before I dispose of you properly.”

It takes you a moment to comprehend that statement. You look up, only to find that Gideon isn’t looking at Chilton anymore—he’s looking at you. You take a rattling breath in. Gideon walks away for a treacherous moment. Your heart is racing in your chest, so loudly that its rhythm reverberates in your ears. He’s back a moment later with a knife in hand. His fascination with Chilton is gone. The psychiatrist lies neglected in his chair, unconscious but ignored. For the first time in your life, you envy Frederick Chilton.

“Dr. Lecter is rather fond of you. Perhaps if I…” Gideon breaks off. Quick as lightning, he drags his knife along the skin near your left eye. You scream and writhe in your bonds, but he only smirks. You know that’s going to leave a nasty scar. That must be the point, you think to yourself faintly. He wants to leave a mark on you. “I forgot how enjoyable this was.” You want to kick at him, but Gideon must sense your thought process because he quickly steps out of range. 

You’re left to slowly dissipate in your chair, the uncomfortable sensation of warm blood trickling down your face. At one point, you feel droplets fall from your eye in a manner rather similar to tears. The next time you blink, your vision is crimson-tainted. Your vision doesn’t seem to be affected, other than the blood falling into your eyes. The entire left side of your face is stinging. This time, when you feel your eyes slip shut, you don’t fight it. 

You have no idea how much time passes after that. It’s clear that the drug is still in your system, because you can’t keep yourself awake for more than what you assume to be an hour or two. Chilton remains a steady, silent presence at your side. Each time you wake, you realize that he looks no better than before. You can hardly focus on him, though—not when it’s been several days (you can assume) since you’ve had anything to eat or drink. Your limbs are cooperating with your commands a bit more than before, but you know you’re still nowhere near your usual level of fitness. 

The ugly sound of a chair scraping against the ground jerks you out of your thoughts. Gideon is dragging a chair towards the table—a chair that is inhabited by a redheaded woman that looks far too familiar. It doesn’t take you long to recognize where you know her from—she’s Freddie Lounds, the same reporter who has been dragging your reputation through the mud all these years. Gideon pushes her to a place at the table at your left, opposite Frederick Chilton. Dread stews in your chest. This feels more significant than you can currently comprehend. Gideon stands at the other end of the table, his gaze contemplative as he looks from Chilton to Lounds, before finally settling on you. You immediately dislike the strange resolve in his eyes. 

“Choose.”

“What?” you say. 

“Choose,” Gideon repeats. There is nothing short of complete, utter sincerity in his voice. “Choose who lives and who dies.” You stare at him in disbelief, wondering if you misheard him. Evidently, you didn’t—Gideon is holding a gun in his right hand and seems to be waiting for your command. There’s an entertained smile on his face. He must be enjoying this spectacle—seeing you come to terms with the fact that you will be the cause of an onlooker’s death. 

You glance between Freddie Lounds and Frederick Chilton. Who should live? Who should die? You have both of their lives in your hands right now. Freddie shoots you a wide-eyed look. Frederick looks equally terrified and his eyes are begging you for help. You experimentally tug at the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. Unsurprisingly, they don’t budge. You try to think of a way out of this. It takes you a few moments to remember that you do have a weapon—a dagger concealed in your boot. However, it’s nearly impossible to reach without informing Gideon of its presence. It seems you’re well and truly cornered. You have no choice but to kill. 

You contemplate who to save. It’s a macabre thought, but a necessary one nonetheless. You’re sure that your hesitation would only encourage Gideon to kill both Lounds and Chilton. You take a deep breath. Chilton worked with Gideon on numerous occasions, and manipulated him into thinking he was someone else. Lounds wrote some unsavory things about you, but she’s ultimately innocent in all this. She’s nothing but a bystander—a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time. You take a shuddering breath in.  

Gideon is waiting expectantly. You return his gaze and incline your head towards Chilton. In a true show of cowardice, you can’t say his name. You don’t want to utter his name—don’t want to succumb to the reality that he will die because of you. The smirk on Gideon’s face widens impossibly, showing crooked pointed teeth and a truly maleficent elation. You watch as he pulls a gun from his belt—evidently stolen from his prison transports—and cocks it. Gideon steps around the table and moves to stand a mere few feet away from Chilton—far too close for him to miss. The gun is steadily aimed at Chilton’s temple. 

Gideon’s finger squeezes the trigger. Your heart is thundering in your ears, but you know what you need to do. Your arms are trapped but, thankfully, your ankles aren’t bound to the chair. You lean forward and kick Chilton’s chair as hard as you can. 

The gun fires. 

Chilton falls to the ground. The bullet resides in the wall behind him, leaving the drywall to crumble around the entrance point. You wait for a puddle of crimson blood to grow on the floor, turning the carpet red. Nothing of the sort is present. Frederick is unscathed. 

“Well, well,” Gideon remarks, putting the gun on his belt for a minute to deliver a slow, mocking clap. The applause echoes in the hollow space around you, creating a horrible rhythm. Freddie’s eyes are wide and the expression on her face is indecipherable; it almost looks as if she’s truly seeing you for the first time. “You think you’re clever, do you?” You don’t elect to respond. 

“Fine,” Gideon remarks. “You’ve made your choice.” 

Gideon cocks his gun and pushes it against your own temple this time. He raises an eyebrow, as if daring you to utter your last words. You stare back at him defiantly, heart in your throat. Just as his finger squeezes the trigger once more, you rock your chair to the side with enough momentum to send you crashing down to the ground. You sense the cold metal of your dagger resting against your ankle, and it only takes a second of manipulation for the dagger to fall down to the floor. From there, you twist and lean back until you can grasp at it with your bound hands. You maneuver to the side and duck under the table to guard yourself from the onslaught of gunfire. With the momentary coverage, you’re able to cut through the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. The effort is rather awkward and it certainly hurts, but you’re miraculously able to get your hands free. You idly wonder if Gideon is giving you this time to break free of your bonds—if he wants the thrill of the hunt. The thought makes your stomach turn. You crawl under the table and jump out at the side. You’re quickly met with the business end of Gideon’s gun and a malicious smirk. You dive to the side and roll, swiftly getting to your feet and wielding your dagger. 

In a gunfight, the person with a dagger is far outmatched. Right now, Gideon has the upper hand, since he has a gun. You need to fight offensively—fighting defensively will get you killed here. You also need to be unpredictable—fight dirty, use common household objects as weapons. Perhaps most importantly, you need to move the fight elsewhere. Otherwise, Chilton and Lounds could be injured in the conflict. Knowing this, you decide to turn and duck down the hallway behind you, confident that Gideon will follow after you. Sure enough, you hear his footsteps follow you through the hall. You sprint down the hall, ducking around corners until you come across a small supply closet. It’s just barely big enough to stand in and you do so, before pressing your lips together and holding your breath. 

“Ready or not, here I come,” Gideon announces, his footsteps echoing in the eerily silent hall. The floorboards in front of the closet creak and you have to put a hand over your mouth to stifle your breathing. The killer pauses in his tracks just outside where you’re hiding. 

You duck down instinctually and a bullet rifles through the closet door where your head had been just seconds ago. Gideon shoots another bullet a short distance from the first and it nearly skims the top of your head as you’re bending down. Eventually, he must decide that you’re not in the closet, because he continues walking forward. 

You take the gifted opportunity and shove the closet door open, before lunging forward and stabbing Gideon in the back of the neck. He lets out a pained hiss and claps a hand over his neck, before turning around and firing at you. That shot seems far too close for you to dodge, but soon Gideon is lunging at you and the thought slips to the back of your mind. You bend low and manage to tackle him to the ground, before making a grab for the gun. Your effort fails as Gideon throws you off of him with ease. Quick as lightning, he pushes you into the ground and chokes you. His gun meets the side of your head and his grip on your neck tightens, effectively robbing you of breath. 

Your vision is beginning to blur. You know you’re near the end; you don’t have much air left. You try to kick out at him, but Gideon doesn’t budge. Your hand scrabbles for purchase on his relentless grip, trying to free your airway. In the scuffle, you somehow lost your dagger. You blindly reach behind you with your free hand, praying that it fell to the floor behind you. To your surprise, your hand closes around something sharp—your dagger. You don’t hesitate to stab upward into his left eye. Gideon screams and instinctively loosens his grip on your neck. His hold on his gun is loose; you twist to the side, ignoring the inexplicable stab of pain in your side when you do so, and rip it from his grasp. Gideon’s left hand covers his eye and his right hand reaches out towards his gun, which you’re now holding. You don’t give him the chance to get it back, instead putting the pistol to his temple and firing. 

Gideon falls backward, hitting the ground with a loud thump. You push yourself up to a sitting position before twisting to kneel, desperately hacking and coughing as you regain your breath. You’re certain you’d never been closer to death than in that awful moment, with Gideon looming over you with a devilish smirk on his face. You must’ve bitten your cheek somehow, because there’s the coppery taste of blood in your mouth. It hurts to swallow. Once you regain your breath, you stumble up and brace yourself against the wall. Gideon’s corpse burns into your vision. 

Laughter reverberates in your ears. Garret Jacob Hobbs stands further down the hall, a brilliant maniacal smirk on his face. There is nothing but malicious glee in his eyes. Your first victim regards your latest. You blink and Hobbs becomes Franklyn Froideveaux. Franklyn stares at you with hollow, unseeing pits for eyes. His skin rifles outward, exposing the mess of bloodied organs residing in his chest and stomach.

For a fraction of a moment, the pendulum swings before your eyes. Gideon’s body is still in front of you but, when you blink, it’s gone. You hiss and grit your teeth hard, trying to rip yourself out of this reverie. This is your design. This is your design. Your bullet carved a neat hole in his forehead, allowing crimson droplets to flow down his face and onto the ground. The wound on his neck must be adding to the accumulating puddle of blood. 

There’s a stifled yell from behind you and you’re torn from your thoughts. You turn your back on Gideon’s corpse and run back to the dining room, only to meet the eyes of Freddie Lounds. “Miss Lounds,” you remark, wincing at how raspy your voice is. The effort to speak feels slightly uncomfortable. You continue anyway. “I’m sorry, let me help you there.” You move toward her and use your dagger to cut the ropes binding her wrists. Then, you cut the gag off from where it’s knotted at the back of her head. Freddie doesn’t say anything, but she does rub her wrists with a pained grimace. You immediately feel guilty. Somehow, it feels as if it’s your fault that she’s here. 

There’s a strange expression on Freddie’s face as she regards you. She almost looks… worried. “What’s the matter?” you feel the need to ask. Freddie wordlessly points at your torso. You look down and grit your teeth, feeling a brutal pain rip the breath right from your chest. 

There’s a bullet lodged in your side—the oblique, you remember from your lectures. You immediately remember the shot from earlier—the one that came far too close to dodge. In the heat of the fight, you hadn’t noticed. Now, you wince and bring a hand down to exert pressure on the wound. Freddie’s staring at you in disbelief. For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence as the two of you remain quiet. Then, Freddie inexplicably moves towards the table and grabs a napkin. She hands it to you and you thank her, pressing it up against your side. Unsurprisingly, the fabric is quickly growing bloodstained. You take a deep breath and try to look over your shoulder, despite the pain it triggers in your side. It seems the bullet didn’t exit your body. 

You weakly grasp at the wall, before slowly sliding down until you’re seated on the ground. There’s a bead of sweat trickling down your neck. Your adrenaline was pumping before, bringing your attention away from the inexplicable discomfort at your side. Now, however, all you can focus on is the throbbing pain. 

“Freddie,” you remark. The reporter raises an eyebrow. “Can you…?” you break off, looking at the phone mounted to the wall in the other room. It’s just barely visible from your current position on the ground. Freddie seems to understand what you’re saying, because she runs over to the phone and dials 911. You raspily tell her to mention Jack Crawford and she does, from what you can hear. 

“They’re on their way,” Freddie says. It’s the first time she’s spoken since Gideon first brought her into the dining room. Your vision is blurry at the edges, but you can still make out the shell-shocked expression on Freddie’s face. She looks completely out of her element—startled and disturbed, as if the world has just flipped on its axis. Guilt finds a way into your heart again. 

“I’m sorry,” you manage to say, past the bloody taste in your mouth. 

“Why are you apologizing?” Freddie asks. She’s squinting at you in suspicion. 

“My fault,” you respond through gritted teeth. Somehow, the effort to talk is now met with a harsh twist of pain that bolts through you like lightning. You continue to apply a rather shaky pressure to the wound, grimacing when you see the napkin is now crimson. Freddie gets up and grabs a few more napkins, before squatting down next to you once more. 

“It’s not your fault,” Freddie murmurs, shaking her head and averting her eyes. She looks relatively unharmed—at least, physically speaking. She is justifiably shaken by the events that transpired. Freddie changes the napkin in your hand for a fresh one. You whisper a word of gratitude and she nods, her lips drawn tight in a flat line. 

Time drags on. Everything around you is fuzzy. Freddie hovers over you, a surprisingly worried expression on her face. You try to reach out to her, weakly reassure her that she’ll be okay, but you can’t move. Everything burns. The adrenaline you had earlier must be wearing off, because now you’re intimately aware of all your wounds. Blood trickles down your lips, likely creating a rather gruesome picture—if Freddie’s expression is anything to go by. 

It feels like it takes years for help to arrive. You know it can’t be more than fifteen minutes, yet it feels as if you wait for an eternity. When you finally hear the distant sound of a door getting kicked in, you can’t help but let out a small relieved breath. Admittedly, even breathing hurts. You feebly adjust the napkin against your side. You hear the familiar words of agents announcing their entrance to the building. In moments, there are several agents entering the room. A tactical medic approaches you within moments. There’s blood seeping down your skin and soaking through your clothes. You don’t have the strength to do anything except exert a weak pressure on your wound. Your breaths are harsh gasps and increasingly hard to come by. You blink.

It’s hard to be aware of your surroundings. You manage to fight the urge to remain in this dreary darkness and your eyes flutter open. You’re reclined on a stretcher in an ambulance, with several straps preventing you from movement. Your vision is swimming, but you can vaguely make out faces looking over you. You blink a few times in an attempt to clear your sight; when your vision finally returns to normal, you feel fear strike through your heart. Hannibal is sitting at your side, a sharp gleam in his eyes. His brows are pinched in what you assume to be manufactured concern. There’s a paramedic at your side asking you questions, but the words all sound garbled. When you look back to Hannibal, you swear you see him smirking. A trick of the light, you tell yourself. Your heart starts thundering in your chest and a machine begins to beep incessantly. You don’t want to be so vulnerable in front of the Chesapeake Ripper, but you don’t quite have a choice. Your vision falls to black within a few moments. 

You manage to catch glimpses of the starry night sky, then the white ceiling of what must be a hospital. When you realize you’re being wheeled through a hospital hallway, you can’t help but grow more nervous. You’re tightly secured to the stretcher and you feel trapped. There’s an oxygen mask secured over your mouth and nose. You grimace instinctually from the pain shooting through you, rippling up your torso and down your skin. You try to move your hand, but you can only slightly bend your fingers. Alarms are blaring. 

Several nurses hover over you. They’re trying to speak to you, you think. You can’t answer. There’s nothing but overwhelming pain. Your fingers are twitching again. A tear slides down your cheek. The light above is blinding. Your hand is restless. You can’t stop fidgeting. 

Suddenly, Hannibal’s hand is on your forearm. His grip is incredibly loose but the pressure is somehow—regrettably—reassuring. Before you can contemplate the meaning behind the gesture, you’re slipping into unconsciousness once more. This time, however, you don’t wake. Instead, you’re left to drown in your own dreams and nightmares, removed from reality. 

Chapter Text

Hannibal eyes the clock on the wall. It’s nearly 8:00 p.m.—approximately the time that you should be showing up for your appointment. In the time Hannibal has known you, you’ve never been late to an appointment. 

It’s not like this is the first time a client has missed an appointment. It happens a lot, especially within the practice of psychiatry and psychology. Events occur, people contact sudden ailments or forget commitments… It happens. Yet, this has never happened with you before. If the client were anyone else, Hannibal would resign to sitting at his desk and sketching until the patient showed up or twenty minutes passed—whichever came first. An absence has never bothered him before, yet when he glances over at the chair across from him, he can find no better word for the sentiment. Absence. 

The clock’s hand shows no mercy. It spins mockingly from its brass confines, creating a subtle ticking sound that embeds itself into Hannibal’s very skin. He doesn’t understand this strange prickling feeling, this restlessness that eats at him from the inside. 

For a fraction of a moment, he hears the telltale movement of someone’s hand turning the doorknob to his office. Hannibal walks over to the door and opens it, only to find nothing on the other side. There is no one sitting in the lobby—nothing waiting for him save for the foreign feeling of dread he seems to be accruing. 

Hannibal spends the rest of the night resolutely refusing to read into your absence. It is a human’s nature to forget—you likely forgot to attend. He will follow up with a phone call tomorrow. You could have gotten called onto an assignment, too. Indeed, there are a multitude of rational explanations for your absence. Hannibal spends the rest of the night rifling through them in his mind, before firmly compartmentalizing any thoughts about you. 

The next day, he calls you again. You do not respond. Foreboding threatens to trickle into his psyche, but Hannibal pushes it away insistently. You are fine. You are likely busy with work, busy sleeping, merely… busy. Hannibal immerses himself into the sessions with his clients that day, pretending that he isn’t avoiding the unshakeable facts staring him straight in the face. You’ve never missed a session. You always answer your phone. 

He begins to grow accustomed to your voicemail message, to hearing the tranquility in your voice as you kindly tell him to leave his name and phone number after the tone. Days slip through Hannibal’s fingers and there is absolutely no sign of you.  

Something must be wrong, because Hannibal is soon summoned to the Bureau. Once he arrives, he realizes that he very well could have been the last person to see you. Hannibal cooperates with Jack Crawford’s insistent questioning and pretends not to notice the man’s evident annoyance at the utter lack of information about your whereabouts. Hannibal isn’t your keeper, and he tells Jack as much. Jack doesn’t take too kindly to the remark, however, and he elects to murmur under his breath in the corner of the room. Hannibal folds his hands in his lap and pretends not to be amused by all the fanfare. Amusement is far preferable to any other foreign, forbidden feeling clawing at the unmarred carcass under his skin. 

At some point, Jack steps away to take a phone call. Hannibal waits, with nothing but the insistent rhythm of the clock on the wall to accompany him. Before long, Crawford returns with a grim expression on his face. 

“I have some news you may want to hear,” Jack tells him. His lips are pinched and there’s an unreadable emotion lingering in his eyes. 

“Yes?” Hannibal asks. He already knows what he will hear. Indeed, he hears your name fall from Jack’s lips, with that tortured expression on his face—and he knows. Hannibal gets bits and pieces of the rest—Abel Gideon, an abandoned residence outside Baltimore, a kidnapping. 

Somehow, there is little discussion about what will be done next. Jack regards him for a moment, before evidently deciding that his presence will be useful. Jack simply nods and turns on his heel, ever the leader. Hannibal follows, mildly surprised by the show of trust. He isn’t very close with Jack—has only invited him to his residence a few times for dinner. He sees value in having Jack as an acquaintance—another chess piece—and therefore quells his pride and follows after him. 

“Right under our noses, this whole damn time,” Jack sighs once they’re comfortably situated in the helicopter. The man’s jaw is clenched tightly. Hannibal recognizes that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He asks for details anyway. Crawford then recounts the phone conversation he had with you all those days ago. A maelstrom of irritation, amusement, and something far darker rages inside Hannibal’s mind palace. The ivory walls are crumbling and peeling. Dust falls from the ceiling every few seconds, coating neglected surfaces with more memories. He clenches his fist at his side, annoyed with the onslaught of feelings he had thought long buried. Hannibal can’t remember the last time he’s felt so…bored. Unfulfilled.  

They arrive soon enough and far too late all the same. The helicopter lands in a grassy field, across from a nondescript house that almost appears to be molding and decaying at the seams. Jack is quick to run to the front door, which has already been thrown ajar by the agents that must have arrived before them. Hannibal follows the man, turning the corner to find a dilapidated dining room. Wallpaper crumbles and falls from the walls, coating the floor in a truly unsightly amount of dust and debris. The room reeks of decay and death. Truly, the only indication that the room is meant for meals is the delicate, purposeful organization of plates and silverware near each seat. All the chairs are empty. As Hannibal blinks, he realizes he can see what the killer saw: a full table, listening with rapt attention and hanging off his every word. The head of the table is the puppet master, content to watch as everyone trips over themselves to earn his favor. Hannibal understands the vision, but the execution is rather lacking. His eyes travel from the table to the chair at the other head of the table with frayed ropes attached to the arms. 

Jack suddenly bursts into movement at his side, moving towards a figure collapsed against the far wall. It seems Jack Crawford only has eyes for his agent. Hannibal, on the other hand, finds his gaze searching for the one presence that is currently unaccounted for. Gideon was here; he’s dead now—at least, according to Jack. Hannibal warily walks through the hall before he stops in his tracks. Abel Gideon lies dead in the hallway, a bullet wound carving a neat path through the center of his temple. Blood colors the wooden flooring near him. The weapon is nowhere in sight. It doesn’t take long for Hannibal to comprehend what happened here. 

You escaped from your bindings. Chilton and Lounds were present, too. In an effort to keep them out of the crossfire, you stumbled back into the hallway. It’s a rather long passageway with several doors on each side—apt for concealment. Perhaps you stumbled into the closet on the right wall, or the tiny bathroom on the left wall, and hid as Gideon trailed you. Perhaps you stood there silently—a hand over your mouth as you tried to stifle your breathing. You only had a dagger; you knew that stealth and speed were your only advantages. As Gideon passed, you jumped out and stabbed the back of his neck. There’s a smattering of blood on the floor a few feet from Gideon’s corpse. You two brawled. Gideon, overcome with fury at your insolence, clasped his burly hands around your neck and squeezed. You managed to break free of his grip by stabbing him in the eye. You picked up the gun as he dropped it and fired it at his temple. A clean shot. 

Your dagger lies in the crimson puddle of Gideon’s blood. Hannibal feels himself reaching out to grab it before he can rationalize the urge to do so. He’s taken by way droplets of blood slowly slip down the weapon, catching the light briefly before falling down to stain the floor. He manages to suppress the unexplained urge. 

Jack’s voice draws him out of his thoughts. Hannibal remembers himself and turns his back on Gideon’s corpse, before walking to the dining room. He finds himself thrown into sheer chaos. Freddie Lounds is being questioned by a few agents. More agents are huddled around a dining chair on the ground. Hannibal takes another step forward and realizes that they’re surrounding Chilton, who is unconscious and mutilated. He is in a rather dire state, yet the sight of his mangled face only incites indifference within Hannibal. It’s laughably easy to conceive what happened there: Gideon’s grudge against Chilton prompted him to kidnap the man and mutilate him. The man had no intention of killing Chilton. Why would Gideon kill him, if he could instead ensure that Chilton lived as a mangled mess of limbs and skin in constant pain? 

Hannibal then looks over to the wall, where he finds Jack kneeling and speaking to someone. It’s you, he realizes. You’re on the ground, holding a hand to your side. You’re shaking and shivering, a glassy glaze over your eyes as you stare at Jack. Your hands are drenched in blood and your clothes are bloodstained. There are several markings developing near your neck—evidently from your scuffle with Gideon. You look frail—vulnerable in a manner Hannibal has never quite associated with you. Hannibal feels himself walking toward you before he can take another breath. He mimics Jack’s posture and glances at him. The department head looks uncharacteristically troubled. Hannibal wonders if the rumors of his favoritism for you are somewhat founded. 

There’s a scar ripping down the left side of your face, spilling bloodied tears down your cheek. It’s a gruesome sight—clearly performed to anger him—yet all Hannibal can fear is a strange sense of reverence. You look like a painting, a textured canvas brought to life in vivid colors. There are lacerations on your wrists from the ropes that kept you bound to your seat at the dining table. Horribly rude, Hannibal thinks. It is much more gratifying to entertain willing dinner guests. Evidently, Gideon didn’t fully grasp that notion. 

Within moments, the paramedics enter the scene. Hannibal follows the medic who is currently carrying you. Jack nods at him—a symbol of approval and reassurance. Hannibal nods in response, knowing what the man is trying to convey with the slightest gesture. Crawford is the head of the BAU—he’s needed elsewhere. Hannibal meets the paramedics in the driveway and they move you onto a stretcher. You’re wheeled into the ambulance. Hannibal finds himself faced with the paramedics’ questions: who you are, if you have allergies, what wounds you’ve acquired. He answers to the best of his ability and, with a subtle mention of his past as a surgeon, he’s allowed to accompany you in the back of the ambulance. 

As the ambulance speeds down the road, Hannibal reflects. Something about you eludes him, and he can’t quite figure out what it is. He wants to wind you up and see what makes you tick. Through your sessions, he’s built a rudimentary understanding of you. But… he wants more. Hannibal wants to know everything about you. You’re special. He’s met with dozens of clients throughout his years as a psychiatrist, but none of them have stimulated his mind as much as you have. 

You’re sharp. You’re never lost in his extended metaphors or hyper-specific references to the arts or academia; rather, you easily understand them and see directly past them to the root of his psyche. The thought provokes an equal amount of exhilaration and wariness within him. You look at him and you see him. You don’t see Hannibal Lecter, the well-read surgeon or Hannibal Lecter, the Chesapeake Ripper—although he feels you’re clever enough to have had a fleeting suspicion of him before. Your organic, effortless insight into his perspective is something Hannibal has been entirely unable to find anywhere else. 

Perhaps that is why Hannibal finds himself lingering in your hospital room, waiting for you to wake. The chair at your bedside has become his seat; even when you have other visitors, that chair is always left alone. He stays long enough to learn which nurses care for you during different shifts. He stays long enough to fall asleep with his hand resting on the mattress next to you. 

You’re still unconscious after a few days. Hannibal knows you must be in significant distress; he wonders if you unintentionally exacerbated your injuries during the fight. Your adrenaline must have been pumping—otherwise, he can’t quite conceptualize how you escaped with your life. Hannibal knows you’re a force to be reckoned with, but to his knowledge, Abel Gideon was, too. He supposes he is pleased with how things turned out—Gideon would have grown rather annoying. Judging from the scar on your face, Gideon wanted to confront Hannibal himself. It would have been a waste of time. Abel Gideon is far from the ideal prey; in fact, the ideal prey is now unconscious in a hospital bed next to him: you. 

Hannibal finds himself unable to dismiss such an opportunity. You aren’t getting too many visitors these days, since you still haven’t woken up. Hannibal reckons he has a few days before you’ll wake. That’s more than enough time to kill a nurse, take their scrubs, and enter your room unencumbered. Frighteningly easy, really. 

Perhaps that opportunity is why Hannibal finds himself looming over you in someone else’s skin, reaching for the scalpel to cut you open. Security around the hospital is laughably lackluster—Hannibal reckons he didn’t have to go to such lengths to conceal himself. Even so, he doesn’t intend to go to prison any time soon. Captivity would be a horrible bore. 

Your wound’s location is far too convenient, Hannibal thinks to himself as he removes your sutures. Surely, it would be foolish not to capitalize on it. With that recognition lingering in his mind, he pushes the scalpel to your skin and allows his vision to be flooded with the sight of skin, tissue, blood. His gloved hands move with practiced precision. He’s first greeted with the mesentery, which briefly impedes his access to the meat. The small intestine also serves as a momentary obstacle. Finally, after some manipulation, Hannibal finds the tube he’s looking for—the ureter—and removes a portion of it to free the kidney. His right hand almost moves on its own, reaching down and yanking at the organ. Hannibal puts your kidney in cold storage and then moves to stitch your skin back together. By the time he’s finished, your wound looks exactly the same as before. 

He stares down at you, before taking a slow breath in. That process was laughably easy. When you wake, you will feel pain—but that pain will be easily attributed to the gunshot wound. The nurses already performed blood tests in the days prior. With your normal functioning, it is very unlikely that the medics will order more tests. You likely won’t even wake within the next day or two. By then, Hannibal will have returned to his residence and feasted on the meal you provided him. Meanwhile, you will be reclined in your hospital bed, feeling none the wiser. The thought sends a thrill down his spine and shivers down his skin. Hannibal can already envision the dish he’ll make: deviled kidney on toast. The dish is traditionally associated with breakfast, but Hannibal will likely eat it for supper. He has a loaf of fresh-baked panettone bread, which will pair beautifully with the flavors of the meat. He feels the insides of his cheeks stinging with salivation as he walks out of the hospital and leaves the receptionist with an amiable departing remark. 

Hours later, he sits at the head of his dining table with a beautifully constructed meal in front of him. Hannibal almost doesn’t want to consume it. It is truly a vision to behold. Hannibal gives himself a few moments to breathe it all in, before finally picking up his fork and letting it pierce the meat. The sauce coating the kidney dribbles from the piece on his utensil. Hannibal brings you to his tongue, his lips twisting in a morbid, macabre mockery of a smile.

Chapter Text

You wake up with burning eyes. There’s nothing but blinding white on all sides. It takes several moments for your eyes to stop watering but, once they do, you realize that you’re in a hospital bed. There’s a nurse hovering over you, asking questions that you can’t comprehend. Her voice sounds warbled, as if you’re underwater. You try to say something, but the effort hurts and you abandon the notion. It takes several moments for your ears to stop ringing enough to hear what the nurse is saying to you. 

The ensuing few minutes are painfully awkward, as you have to gulp down an entire glass of water and cough several times to clear your throat. When you finally do speak, the effort stings and hurts your throat. You answer a few of the nurse’s questions as she busies herself with checking your vitals. 

“You’ve gotten a lot of visitors,” she says, as she writes something down on her clipboard. You raise an eyebrow and look around the room, looking for signs of these so-called visitors. The room is rather bare—nothing to suggest that you’ve had several people stop by. 

“Really?” you ask, unable to shake a bit of your suspicion. 

“Yes,” the nurse nods, meeting your gaze with a kind smile. “Your husband is quite nice.” You stare at her in confusion. After all, you don’t have a husband. The nurse senses your perplexment and clarifies. “The European man. Well-dressed, very polite.”

“Oh.” There’s only one person you know who fits that description seamlessly: Hannibal Lecter. You’re surprised that he visited. You say as much to the nurse as she’s checking your vitals and she raises a brow at you. Her reaction prompts you to utter the question lingering in your mind. “Did he… visit often?” Normally, you wouldn’t assume that he did. However, if you were to analyze the nurse’s assumption that he was your husband… Well, Hannibal must have visited at least a few times for her to make that assumption. Indeed, the nurse nods. 

“He sat in that chair; must’ve come by at least once a day.” Once a day? The thought both amuses and frightens you. Of course, you’re very appreciative of the thought of Hannibal visiting you every day, even when you were unconscious. However, your unconscious state meant you were vulnerable in front of the Chesapeake Ripper for days. That could have provided him with an ample opportunity to kill you, maim you, steal an organ. Yet, as far as you know, he didn’t take advantage of that opportunity. You frown. You suppose you can’t be completely certain that he didn’t take advantage of your vulnerability. The idea of Hannibal taking an organ of yours—plunging his hand into your bloodied skin before neatly stitching it back up—sickens you. 

Thankfully, your unsavory reverie is broken by a rapping sound against the door. It seems you have a guest. The nurse walks over to the door, opening it just enough for her to see the newcomer, before glancing back at you. She’s positioned in a manner that blocks the visitor from your sight, silently asking if you’re comfortable with the prospect of having a visitor. You’re touched by the gesture and it takes you a few moments to ground yourself to the moment and give your permission. The nurse nods and swings the door open, allowing you to see your visitor.

Freddie Lounds stares at you with a complex expression. She looks far better than you do, with nothing more than a few abrasions on her wrists from her bindings to indicate her captivity. She wears a smokey grey sweater and blue jeans in lieu of her professional journalist attire. There are dark circles under Freddie’s eyes, which indicate that the events that transpired still weigh heavily on her conscience.

“Hi, Freddie,” you say. Your voice is still a bit raspy—evidently a combination of the lack of use and your fight with Gideon. You have to put almost all your effort towards pushing the memories out of your mind. You don’t want to think about your time in captivity right now. You don’t want to think about the fact that you murdered Gideon. Sure, he would’ve killed you first. Even so… The thought nauseates you. A pointed cough from Freddie separates you from those thoughts. You wave a hand in an attempt to invite her closer. She takes a few steps forward, looking rather restless. You finally allow the question plaguing your mind to fall from your lips. “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting you,” Freddie responds without hesitation. 

“Ah,” you remark dumbly. Indeed, Freddie had been forced to sit at that dining table in the company of Abel Gideon, Frederick Chilton, and you. You blink and you see the redhead with blood spattered across her face, a glazed gleam to her eyes as she stares blankly ahead. You blink again and you’re thrown back to the blinding white hospital room. 

“You saved my life,” Freddie remarks, once the silence begins to grow painful. You startle and turn your attention to her once more. Sure, you may have saved her life, but you certainly hadn’t expected a word of gratitude from her. That wasn’t why you did it, anyway. Those thoughts must be evident in your expression, because Freddie shakes her head. “I know that wasn’t—” She stops for a moment to collect herself, “Regardless. I would’ve died.”

“So…” Freddie then says, a grimace overtaking her lips. She looks vastly uncomfortable. You have to quell the urge to preemptively reassure her. Freddie clasps her hands and takes a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior in the past. I wrote some rather unflattering things about you—things that weren’t true.” She doesn’t need to go into any further detail, as you remember the times you’d seen your name in bold black lettering on the Tattle Crime website. 

It doesn’t take very long for you to come up with an answer to her apology. “It’s alright,” you answer easily. Freddie sends you a wary look. She clearly doesn’t trust your mild-mannered expression. You suppose you could’ve been mad about her press coverage over the years but, truthfully, it never impeded your work or affected your life. “Really, it’s fine,” you continue, “I get it—you were doing your job.”

“I accused you of murder,” Freddie argues. Is she trying to provoke you? The thought perplexes you. You fiddle with the thin, scratchy blanket haphazardly thrown over your form. The movement makes you aware of the IV connected to your arm and it stings tauntingly for a moment. 

“Happens to the best of us,” you shrug, wincing as the movement sends a bolt of pain down your shoulder and through your side. Freddie stares at you in evident disbelief. 

“You’re not mad,” Freddie says uneasily. Indeed, you’re not mad. In reality, you don’t have the energy to be angry. Perhaps, if you were in better physical condition, you’d be able to scrounge up some ferocity. But something about seeing Freddie Lounds in your hospital room—the first visitor you’ve seen since you’ve woken—humbles you. You almost feel strangely appreciative of her honesty, appreciative of the maturity with which she conducts herself. You don’t realize she’s waiting for an answer until you see the apprehensive expression on her face. 

“I’m not angry,” you confirm. “Next time you write about me, just… don’t be so eager to drag my name through the mud.” You mean for the remark to be sarcastic rather than accusatory, but the journalist’s eyes widen and her lips part in surprise. Freddie then has the good grace to look mildly embarrassed, before she takes a deep breath and lets a resolved expression dominate her sharp features. 

“Thank you,” Freddie murmurs. It looks as if the act is difficult for her. She’s avoiding your eyes. Even so, she went out of her way to visit you as you’re recovering—just to thank you and apologize. Honestly, you feel undeserving of her gratitude. Freddie never should’ve been in a hostage situation in the first place. You should’ve gotten her out of there sooner. You should’ve— “Seriously.” The sincerity in the journalist’s voice destroys those self-deprecating thoughts. 

You feel a smile tugging at your lips. Honestly, you never would’ve expected to grow an exasperated sort of fondness for Freddie Lounds. You almost want to credit your generous mood to the painkillers, but you get the feeling they aren’t having that kind of impact. Freddie seems eager to leave, so you give her the opportunity to leave. “Bye, Freddie.” With that, the redheaded journalist exits the room. She has a rather uncanny talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, you think to yourself as she departs. 

Your conversation with Freddie was nice, but now that she’s gone, you’re painfully aware of the headache forming in your temple. You close your eyes for a moment in a half-hearted attempt to rest. You don’t have your eyes closed for long before you suddenly sense another presence in the room. An ordinary person may not be able to sense it, but your years of training greatly developed your spatial awareness. You keep your eyes closed for a few moments, wondering what this new presence will do. After a few moments of silence and evident stillness, you give up the act and open your eyes.

Hannibal is standing before you, a mild smile on his face as he regards you. You stare at him for several moments, unable to move past the overwhelming rush of conflicting emotions. Relief and distress, happiness and grief, hope and despair. You were so focused on Gideon that you neglected to remember the killer standing right in front of you.

“What are you doing here?” you manage to say, your voice still raspy. Hannibal takes another step and closes the door behind him. The steady beeps from one of the monitors are the only sounds to break through the silence sticking to the air. 

“I’ve brought supper.” In characteristic fashion, he neglects to truly answer your question. You don’t have the energy to keep yourself afloat in these mind games. Since you first woke, you’ve spent an immeasurable amount of time in this nondescript hospital room, scrutinizing every action you took that led you here. The last thing you need is another conversation to feel lost in. 

“Oh,” you remember to respond. “That’s very nice of you.” You stare at him for a moment, taking in his perfectly coiffed hair and fine-trimmed clothing. Your eyes meet and a shiver rolls up your spine. What is this feeling you’re suddenly overwhelmed by? It’s almost déjà vu. How could you be getting déjà vu from this moment? You’ve never been to this hospital before. Perhaps it’s the expression on Hannibal’s face…?

“You were there, weren’t you?” you realize aloud, as glimpses of that fateful day come back to you. You vaguely remember being wheeled through the blinding white halls of this hospital, Hannibal gripping your hand tightly. Now, you can’t help but stare at him expectantly. Weirdly enough, the man focuses his gaze on the wall next to you for a minute.

“I must admit, you made for a rather harrowing sight,” Hannibal then says, apropos of nothing. Your eyebrows furrow. That comment doesn’t quite make sense. Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper—surely he’s seen far more gruesome sights. Also, negating his murderous tendencies, he used to be an emergency room surgeon. Your injuries weren’t quite fatal. Your eyes track Hannibal as he crosses the room, taking out a stainless steel capsule reminiscent of a Thermos. He unfolds the small wooden table that extends from the side of the bed and places the capsule in front of you, before placing a napkin and silverware next to it. Hannibal then procures his own meal and takes a seat in the chair at the side of your bed. He seems unusually determined to skip the necessary pleasantries that typically characterize his behavior. That’s not quite like him. You’re sidetracked before that thought comes to fruition in your mind. 

Looking down into the container on the tray, you realize you’re not sure what to call the food inside. It appears to be some sort of stew. There’s an unfamiliar smell wafting from the food. It’s not exactly unpleasant, but it’s such a multi-faceted scent that it makes your stomach turn. You grasp the fork provided to you, unable to shake this irrational unease.

Hannibal is already eating. You take after his example and stab a piece of meat inside the container with your fork, before bringing it out of its steel confines. A drop of sauce dribbles from the meat and back into the Thermos-like capsule. The clock on the wall seems to grow louder with each passing second. You inhale sharply, before taking a bite of your meal. The flavor is something you don’t think you can even describe in words. It provokes such a strange and unfamiliar sensation—one that leaves a weird (although not inherently unpleasant) aftertaste in your mouth. Inexplicably, you take another bite. Judging by that reaction, you must like it in some capacity. 

For a few minutes, the two of you eat in silence. You only get through a few bites before the potent gamey taste of the meat makes itself known. At that point, you’re not sure what to do. You don’t want to be rude. You also don’t want to make yourself sick by eating this… mystery meat. Trepidation sends goosebumps down your skin. Dread has been crawling through your chest ever since you took a bite of this stew. Something is wrong—you just can’t figure out what. Hannibal has always enjoyed rather eccentric tastes, yet you can’t help but wonder what would possess him to bring you a stew in the hospital. Every single one of his actions is purposeful, as you’ve grown to accept in the time you’ve known him. There’s something about this interaction, a hidden undertone of anticipation and amusement that forces you to scrutinize the little details. 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking…” You trail off, trying to find a way to word the question delicately. For a moment, you contemplate letting the question fade into silence. Perhaps it’s better not knowing. Perhaps… You bite your lip. The words tumble from your lips before you can stop them. “What is this protein?” You gesture down to the meat scattered about the stew. 

“Chicken kidney,” Hannibal responds. Somehow, that answer doesn’t provide any additional clarity. The meat doesn’t taste like chicken. You’ve tried a lot of different foods before, but you’ve never tasted something like this. Alarm bells ring in your ears and you put your fork down on the tray. For a moment, you settle with staring at Hannibal. You soon give up on staring when you ponder his syntax, the way he emphasized the nature of the organ before naming it. 

Realization crashes down on you. The restrained look of amusement on Hannibal’s face. The wry smile ever so slightly visible on his lips. The strange taste of the meat. Your paranoid thoughts earlier. The recognition that it would be frighteningly easy for Hannibal to slip into your room disguised as a surgeon, to use your existing wound as a disguise for the removal of organs. Chicken kidney. The gleam in the killer’s eyes. Prey trapped by a much stronger predator. The clock ticking incessantly on the wall. 

You stumble out of bed and race to the bathroom, just barely making it to the toilet before your throat burns and the food you just ate exits your mouth. You groan. Despite the fact that you only took a few bites, your body seems intent on purging your system. After a minute or two, you’re left to dry heave into the toilet bowl. The porcelain exterior is cold against your hands and you grimace. Your skin feels like it’s on fire, as sweat trickles down your temple and the back of your neck.  

At some point, your eyes catch on the emergency assistance button on the wall near the toilet. It’s tempting to jam it, to explain everything to the nurse. Unfortunately, you don’t think that would work. Hannibal is just outside the door—he would certainly hear you. Even if he didn’t hear you and you managed to complete the phone call, the nurse wouldn’t believe you. Hell, no one would believe you. Perhaps that’s been a part—albeit a small one—of the reason why you haven’t tried to turn Hannibal in yet. Your public reputation is still rather poor; while you know the majority of your coworkers trust you, there would certainly be outcry if Jack were to act on your suspicions and arrest Hannibal. No, you’re well and truly trapped. The Chesapeake Ripper doesn’t leave evidence; he doesn’t make mistakes. 

The thought makes you nauseous once more. You grasp the toilet and close your eyes, praying that you won’t throw up again. You’ve always despised vomiting: the horrible rush of dread and anxiety leading up to the act, the act itself, the clean-up... Thankfully, the universe is merciful and you don’t throw up again. You wait a few more minutes to ensure the nausea passes before flushing the toilet and pushing yourself to your feet. You mechanically wash your hands, making sure to scrub for a few minutes. Once you’ve finally dried your hands, you open the bathroom door and walk back to the side of the bed, pretending not to notice Hannibal’s eyes on you. 

“Must not have agreed with me,” you shudder, grabbing the glass of water at your bedside and taking a small sip. Your heart is racing as you come to terms with the fact that your paranoia was founded. You grasp your bedside railing and slowly maneuver yourself back into bed. Once you’re settled, you meet Hannibal’s gaze. 

“It must not have,” Hannibal acquiesces, looking entirely unbothered by the events that just occurred. His reaction is far too muted, even despite your unshakeable knowledge that his expressions of emotion are always muted. There’s an undercurrent of vicious pride in his smile, in the way his legs are neatly crossed as he regards you from his seat. 

The air remains dominated by a tense silence. There is nothing you can say to diminish the horrors sticking in your mind. Time resembles a thick, gelatinous sludge—dragging on and on, dirtying everything it touches. Your hand twitches to investigate the wound at your side.

Hannibal leans forward in his chair, his gaze focused on you. He looks as if he’s about to speak when there’s suddenly a demanding series of knocks on the door. His left eyebrow ticks a half centimeter, the most minute of gestures. “It appears you have a visitor,” Hannibal remarks, turning to the door. You resist the urge to grimace. You’re not sure you have enough energy to get through a polite conversation with yet another person. Hannibal opens the door and the newcomer steps into the room. 

“Jack,” you say, unable to quite hide your relief. Jack Crawford takes one look at Hannibal Lecter, who is smiling politely at him, and promptly shoos him out of the room. You send Hannibal an apologetic look, but in reality, you’re glad that Crawford made him leave. You don’t have the wits about you to keep yourself afloat in Hannibal’s mind games. There’s no telling how you would have fared in a drawn-out conversation with him. “It’s good to see you.”

“Agent,” he responds. Jack’s stance is broad and self-assured (as always), but there’s an unfamiliar expression on his face. He almost seems remorseful. You grapple for something to say. 

“Jack,” you repeat, unable to fight past the ugly feelings running through your mind. Your boss must sense that something’s wrong, because he takes a step closer and his lips pull tight in a frown. You try to say what’s been weighing on your mind: that you’re Gideon’s killer, that you murdered him instead of sparing his life. The words don’t come but, thankfully, Jack seems to understand what you’re thinking regardless. 

Crawford takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose, before sighing resignedly. It almost seems as if he expected that remark from you. “You stopped Gideon from inflicting any further harm. You acted in accordance with FBI protocol.” 

“I know,” you interject, before Jack can carry on any longer. You pinch the bridge of your nose. 

“Agent,” Jack says, his voice commanding enough to pull your gaze up from the thin blankets covering you. Despite the intimidating figure he poses, his eyes are forgiving and his expression is one of exasperated patience. “Do I look worried?” You shake your head. “Then you shouldn’t be worried.”

“Yes, sir,” you choke out. 

“Is there something you needed to tell me, Agent?” Jack asks, perceptive as always. His eyebrows are furrowed and he’s studying your face, as if trying to pull the truth right out of you. You press your lips together firmly, lest you say anything stupid. After all, what could you possibly say? Yes, I think Hannibal Lecter took a nurse’s clothes and impersonated them, before ripping my wound open, removing my kidney, and sewing me back up. Hannibal has built significant rapport with Jack—you don’t think Jack would believe you. Besides, you’re still on a decent amount of painkillers. There’s no way in hell that Jack would believe whatever you have to say at the present moment. 

You’re not sure how to proceed. Now that Gideon is no longer a problem, Jack’s focus will rightly shift to the Chesapeake Ripper. The Ripper will operate seamlessly, killing without leaving a single shred of evidence, until he dies or is somehow eliminated. There was a momentary lapse in his activity—one that you selfishly want to attribute to the beginning stages of your friendship with Hannibal—but the Ripper will kill again soon enough. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep this act up: feigning ignorance, looking past the glaring warning signs that only seem visible to you. 

“No, Jack; that’s it,” you bite out.

“Good,” Jack says, a small smirk rising on his face, “We’ll be having a conversation about obeying my orders once you’re recovered.” A slight smile falls on your face. Jack sends you a stern look before gripping your shoulder reassuringly. For a fraction of a moment, you contemplate telling him the truth. He deserves to know, you think. 

“Who would ever believe you?” Franklyn Froideveaux asks you. He laughs—a cruel, mocking thing. Abel Gideon cackles with him. Your victims’ voices blend together, creating an awful symphony that rattles in your ears. 

“Rest up, Agent,” Jack says, his hand slipping from your shoulder. You’re promptly jerked out of your thoughts. There’s a conflicted expression on Crawford’s face, as if he doesn’t quite want to leave. You put it down to your imagination. “That’s an order.” Jack turns on his heel and walks away. Once he crosses the threshold and enters the hallway, the door clicks shut behind him.

You’re left alone once more. Your victims berate you for your cowardice and the tears come quickly. You grapple at your hospital gown with shaking hands, tugging at the fabric until it falls away to reveal your mangled side. There’s discolored bruising and swelling, in addition to dried blood scattered around the edges of the suture. The wound looks exactly the same as it did before, almost eerily so. You think back to all the medical awards and certificates covering the walls of Hannibal’s office. It seems impossible—the idea that he removed your suture and put it back. Although, the more you think about it, the more you realize Hannibal Lecter is characterized by his redefinition of impossibility.  The Chesapeake Ripper leaves no evidence. Dr. Lecter leaves no evidence, save for the horrible agitation that settles along your skin. You have no proof, but that in and of itself is enough. 

Another tear slips down your cheek, traveling mockingly along the ripped scar that Gideon gave you. Your skin burns with recognition, knowledge, horror, and something akin to grief. You will be forever marked by a killer. Yet, somehow, the unseen scars hurt even more. Your chest aches as you mourn the loss of the wholeness you never expected to lose.

Chapter Text

Your stay at the hospital is hellish, as you’re constantly accompanied by a mind numbing boredom that refuses to leave. You understand that you have to give your body time to heal—you’re suffering from a gunshot wound, after all. However, you have absolutely nothing resembling entertainment to occupy your time with. Instead, you’re left to slowly decay under thin sheets and the nurse’s observant gaze. Your side still burns, but with each passing hour, it gets a little better. 

Before you can die of boredom, however, you get a visitor. You glance at the clock, only to find that you’ve been deceived. It’s only been a few hours since Jack’s visit. The thought troubles you. Time is taunting you. 

The door to your room slides open suspensefully, before revealing a familiar face. Beverly stands in the doorway, an inappropriately devilish grin on her face. It only takes a few seconds for you to see through the happiness in her smile, straight to the tightness behind the gesture and the stiffness of her posture. She’s been worried for you. The thought makes you feel extremely guilty. Truly, you’ve been a rather horrible friend as of late. Sure, you’ve had a lot of other things going on. Still, Beverly has always made time for you. Why weren’t you able to do the same for her?

“Hey,” Beverly says. Her gaze flits about your form with disinterest and you’re once again reminded of your gratitude for Beverly’s honesty. She’s one of the only people who never looked at you strangely—with fear, apprehension, disgust, pity. “Missed ya.” 

“Missed you too, Bev,” you respond, sending her a smile that probably looks more tired than relieved. She seems to appreciate the thought nonetheless. Beverly looks around the room for a moment, before settling in the same chair that Hannibal was sitting in only moments ago. Somehow, she seems to add a sort of brightness to the rather unremarkable space. You tap your fingers against the sheets restlessly. “You just missed all the fun—Jack tore me a new one.” You sigh. 

“Hardly,” Beverly huffs in amusement. Her gaze flits from the wall to meet your eyes with an uncharacteristic sincerity. “Jack was worried about you, you know. He’s had a rather short fuse for the past few days; it was driving everyone crazy at the Institute.” 

“The past few days?” you manage to ask. You’re hoping you misinterpreted that statement. Surely you haven’t missed several days. Surely you weren’t knocked out for that long. 

Beverly’s expression is sympathetic and you feel any confidence you had promptly fade from existence. “You were unconscious for three days,” she says. You don’t know what to say, so you opt for pinching the bridge of your nose and pretending not to notice the pain in your side or the fatigue clinging to your form. “We were all worried, of course,” Beverly continues, as if trying to keep you distracted from the admission.  “Me, Jack, Price, Alana—”

“Alana?” you interrupt. 

“Well, of course,” your friend says with furrowed brows. Somehow, Beverly’s remark reminds you of your friendship with Alana—the friendship that you had been purposefully avoiding for so long. Ever since she kissed you, you’ve been avoiding her. That’s surely a justifiable course of action, but hearing about Alana’s concern for you makes you think of all the memories you have with her.

After all, Alana was your first friend at the Institute. She stuck up for you in front of Jack, when you were a nameless rookie and he was the intimidating superior officer that you were afraid of speaking out to. Alana was your psychiatrist for a while, too. Dr. Bloom is different from the majority of the medical professionals you’ve worked with. She doesn’t treat you like an endangered animal in a zoo exhibit. She never once tried to poke or prod at you—manipulate you in the way so many others do. Alana was really a breath of fresh air during your time of need. 

“I need to talk to her later,” you murmur. You intend for the remark to be a note to yourself, but your companion hears it anyway. 

“Sure,” Beverly answers unobtrusively. “Hey, tell me about it?”

It doesn’t take you long to understand what she’s getting at. “Gideon?” you ask, unable to keep a bit of suspicion from your voice, “Why?”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces, rumors, but I want to hear it from you,” Beverly admits. “You don’t have to tell me right this instant. Just…” She breaks off, evidently unable to find the words. 

“It’s fine, I’ll tell you,” you respond. You think you owe Beverly this explanation, if only for how neglectful of a friend you’ve been the past few weeks. You tell her as much and she waves the remark off, which only incites more guilt within you. You’ve been entirely negligent and neglectful—something you seek to repair in the coming time. 

Somehow, reliving the kidnapping is actually helpful. By recounting what happened, you can start to come to terms with the events that unfolded. Looking back on it now, you realize that you had no choice but to kill Gideon. Indeed, just as Jack said, he would have killed you first. After killing Chilton and Lounds, there’s no telling what he would have done next—except, you realize with mounting dread, go after Alana. 

“That’s… very shitty,” Beverly admits once you’ve explained everything, seemingly lost for the right words. You relate to the sentiment. Truly, the entire situation is beyond words. 

“I know,” you say, acknowledging the remark before choosing to push the conversation onto lighter topics. You glance around the room with irritation. “Now I’m just stuck in this fucking room. I’m dying of boredom.” Beverly laughs, her eyes gleaming. 

“You’re going to love me for this,” she smirks, a mischievous gesture that reminds you of how cunning she can be. You send her a quizzical look and she makes a show of rolling her eyes. “I brought clothes. Just change into these and they’ll never notice you leaving.” She glances at the door behind her before looking back to you, waiting to see what you’ll say. 

“You’re my savior,” you remark sincerely. Beverly smiles triumphantly, before offering you a hand. You take the proffered assistance and she steadies you as you leave the mattress. To your surprise, you’re able to walk on your own—albeit with less speed and composure than usual. You step into the bathroom and close the door behind you, before finally taking off your damned hospital gown. The thing is horrid and you take immense pleasure in shoving it into the absurdly small trash can in the corner of the room. Thankfully, you took a shower this morning, so you won’t have to put clean clothes on over dirtied skin. The clothes Beverly brought don’t fit super well, but they’re leagues better than that drab hospital gown. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a few seconds, unsurprised by what you see.

You look different. Haunted, hallowed. Your face almost looks more gaunt, your eyes more dull. You didn’t emerge from captivity unscathed, that’s for damn sure. The wound ripping the skin at your side is proof of that. There’s also a jagged scar cutting diagonally down your face, reaching from the edge of your temple and falling dangerously close to your left eye. You bring a hand up to the cut, wincing at the brief pain the motion incites. 

A harsh knock on the door rips you out of your self-inflicted torturous reverie. You take a deep breath and regard your reflection one more time before leaving the bathroom. You stand in front of Beverly and she looks you up and down. 

“Not bad,” Beverly says. 

“Jack is going to kill me if he finds out,” you realize aloud. 

“Which is why he won’t,” Beverly responds confidently. Her eyebrows furrow at your statement, as if the very suggestion of failure is laughable. “Find out, that is.” You click your tongue and grin at her; she then grins back. Once the elevator doors open, the two of you walk through the long hall and towards the exit. Your departure is painfully slow, but within a few minutes, the two of you are standing outside of the hospital building. The afternoon sun is bright today and the sunshine warms your skin. You feel a relieved smile growing on your face. Beverly says she’ll pull the car up to the driveway and walks off towards her car. Moments later, you’re successfully seated in the passenger seat of your friend’s van. 

The car ride is quicker than you expect. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten the chance to catch up with Beverly, so you’re happy to hear her amusing anecdotes and exciting stories. Truly, it feels as if only a few minutes pass before she’s pulling into your driveway. Your friend puts the car in park and turns to regard you, a conflicted expression on her face. You feel rather the same in that regard. You haven’t been home in several days now and, somehow, it almost feels as if you’re intruding on someone else’s life. You’re preoccupied with the past, as you listen to the cicadas humming in the trees nearby. What if you hadn’t gone after Alana? Would Gideon have killed her? He very well could have. Despite your near certainty that you did the right thing, you can’t rid yourself of the guilt and regret. You should’ve done things differently. You should’ve-

“Hey,” Beverly interjects, her voice cutting through the rushing static in your ears. Her concerned eyes meet yours. “Don’t beat yourself up about it—any of it.  You did the best you could.” As always, Beverly knows exactly what to say. She knows not to tell you that you made the right choice. She knows not to remind you of Gideon’s criminality. Her hand reaches out to clasp yours and you lean over the median to embrace her. Beverly hugs you back and, for a moment, it feels like everything will be okay.

Even despite Beverly’s reassurances, there is blood on your hands as you wave goodbye to her and step into your home. The scar on your face burns with recognition, remorse. Crimson pools color the ground at your feet and your victims follow your every step, taunting you from the shadows. You are haunted by the events that transpired and the choices you made. You had spent so long in a false state of overconfidence, thinking yourself immune from it all. As you walk into your bedroom, a blaring sound greets your ears. You walk over to your alarm clock and disable the alarm, both satisfied and unsettled by the silence that follows. How long did you spend ignoring the shrieking alarms in the recesses of your mind? 

Darkness draws the curtains over the day. Sleep comes easily because, despite it all, you’re exhausted. Unfortunately, your slumber doesn’t feel much longer than the blink of an eye, and you wake to find your skin soaked with sweat. Your stomach growls and you resign to eating a small breakfast before tackling your hygiene. Once you’ve eaten, you choose to take a shower. The hot stream of water tickles your skin and you have to be careful not to let the water fall directly on your wound. The last thing you need is a burn on top of a gunshot wound—that would add insult to injury (literally). Your shower takes a bit longer than normal, mainly because your left arm is restricted in movement. By the time you’re turning the knob to stop the water, your left side is burning from the exertion. You grit your teeth and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel with your right hand. What follows is a rather awkward toweling-off, as you struggle to dry off without aggravating your injuries. You take several minutes to carefully rebandage your wound, before turning to the pile of fresh clothes on the counter near the sink. 

The act of changing into clean clothes proves to be more difficult than you initially expect. The most minute of movements can further irritate your injury. Even the attire you chose—a simple shirt and your most comfortable sweatpants—seems to cling to your form. It feels as if your skin is stretched far too tight over your bones. Despite your expectations, you only feel worse after the shower. 

You’re not out of the bathroom for more than two minutes before you hear the doorbell ring. Dread coils in your chest and you walk to the door, opening it before you think of the potential consequences. The door swings to the side to reveal Hannibal standing on your doorstep. A drop of water slides down your temple. You bat at it with your hand, before regarding Hannibal. 

“Hello,” you manage to say, trying your best to suppress the several different emotions threatening to surface. Your heart is pounding uncomfortably within the confines of your ribcage. You feel your nails digging into your palms as you come to terms with the situation Hannibal has just forced you into. You can’t exactly turn him away at the door—especially knowing that he loathes rudeness and could easily kill you for the offense. Although, in reality, he could kill you regardless. Why are you still allowing this to happen? Why are you still complicit? 

"May I come in?" You bite the inside of your cheek. He is only asking to maintain the pretense that you have control over the situation.

"Sure," you acquiesce guardedly. The wound at your side stings in remembrance. Trepidation makes a home in your chest. Seeing Hannibal once more forces your mind to conjure images of him in surgical attire, slicing through your sutures and putting them back when finished. A not insignificant part of you wonders why it took you so long to come to terms with the danger that Hannibal wields with ease. How many times have you invited him into your home? You've been a fool. 

Hannibal is unaware of your thought process. He's regarding you with mild interest, as if he'd like to dissect your thoughts. You have no intentions of actually speaking on those thoughts, so he'll just have to keep wondering, you think wryly. His voice cuts through the air. "Your departure from the hospital yesterday—"

“What about it?” you interject, stepping past him to close the door before returning to your original position. If Hannibal is annoyed by the interruption, he doesn’t show it. You’re skating on extremely thin ice here. The most minute of gestures could send you into the icy depths of his anger. Sure, you’ve grown accustomed to feeling like that in Hannibal’s presence. That sentiment seems to be amplified today, though. You’re inexplicably taken back to your days at the Academy. You were a wide-eyed recruit, once—filled with the optimism and naïveté of someone who hadn’t seen the field. Instructors taught you everything you needed to know about criminals: how to apprehend them, how their minds worked. 

None of it could have prepared you for what followed. Your first mission left you with a nasty bruise on your jaw and blood-spattered clothes. You hadn’t spoken for days after, and remained shut up in your house until Jack Crawford forced himself inside and sat next to you. At the time, you hadn’t known the man at all. You expected him to chew you out, to start yelling at you for your uselessness. Crawford did nothing of the sort. Instead, he simply… spoke to you. He recalled his training days, his first mission when he stared down a murderer of seventeen innocents. You found solace in knowing that you weren’t overreacting, that the Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit himself expressed similar feelings once upon a time. 

“This job isn’t for the faint of heart,” Crawford had remarked, “You have to come to terms with the fact that some people are past saving.” The thought troubled you. (It still troubles you.) 

“Even if we can save them?” you choked out, your voice raspy from neglect. If the man was surprised by you breaking your silence, he never commented on it. 

“Even then,” Crawford sighed. At that moment, he looked wizened beyond his years: a man who had seen his fair share of violence and maleficence. Crawford turned back to you, a determined look in his eyes. “We deal with monsters here, who are infinitely more cruel than you thought possible. They will come in different shapes, sizes, personalities. But there’s one thing that every single one of these people has in common… They’re all dangerous.” 

“But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Crawford asked. “I know you’re talented—I keep an eye on all the recruits. You could be a member of the Behavioral Analysis Unit within a few years. You have a good eye, a good feel for how this works. Excellent shot.” The praise barely registered to you in your tortured state. Now, it brings a ghost of a smile to your face. “But this work… it changes you.” Spoken from experience, judging by the resigned look on Crawford’s face. 

“You can leave this behind,” Crawford continued, his lips set in a thin line. “Get another job. Have a normal life.” He pushed himself up to stand over you. You still remember the look on his face in that moment: how his eyes gleamed with firm resolve. “Or you can walk out of this door with me, back to headquarters.” It hadn’t taken you long to come to a decision. After a few seconds, you got to your feet and followed after him. 

Now, as you stand across from a killer in your entryway, you wonder if that answer was a mistake. Where would you be, if you weren’t here? The thought is pointless to consider. It’s far too late for contemplation. 

Hannibal says your name and you’re snapped out of your trance. He’s staring at you expectantly, but you haven’t the faintest idea what he is looking for. “You were assigned to bedrest for three more days,” Hannibal eventually says. 

“And?” you ask, moving past him to walk into the living room. Hannibal follows behind you, a silent shadow at your back. A shiver rolls down your spine as you walk the short distance with your back to him, almost entirely vulnerable. You move to sit on your sofa and Hannibal takes a seat at the armchair across from it. The positioning reminds you of your sessions with him. You grit your teeth. 

“Does Jack know that you’ve returned home?” Hannibal asks, raising his eyebrows slightly. His gaze pins you to the sofa. 

He’s playing dirty with that remark and he knows it. “What do you think?” you ask, unable to keep a slight hint of sardonicism from leaking into your voice. Hannibal only raises his eyebrows. You sigh and lean back against your sofa. “Of course Jack doesn’t know. He would murder me, to put it lightly.” The thought prompts some guilt to rise in you. You forget the feeling when Hannibal inexplicably rises to his feet and rounds the coffee table, standing over you. 

“Your wound needs consistent medical attention.” He demands. 

“It’s fine,” you argue, “It doesn’t even hurt.” That is a complete lie. Hannibal seems to know that, if the skeptical pinch to his lips is anything to go by. He was a surgeon, after all. You had forgotten—tried to forget, your brain supplies. The air between the two of you is silent. The way Hannibal looms over you now makes you nervous. You don’t know what to say to break through this seemingly insurmountable tension. 

“Allow me?” It’s phrased like a question, yet you feel as if you can’t say no. You nod, not trusting the words that could fall from your lips. Hannibal takes an impossible step closer and you push yourself up, maneuvering so that you lie across the couch. You pull up your shirt, feeling strangely self-conscious. Still, Hannibal is—was—a medical professional. This isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. 

Hannibal hums and looks down at the bandage covering the wound. You’re sure he will get a good idea of the wound’s progress without lifting the entire thing off. His fingertips glide across the skin near the bandage and your skin prickles. For what seems like an eternity, his hand lingers. Just as you’re about to let out a sarcastic quip, he lightly tugs at the edge of the bandage and lifts it up. 

“See?” you say, feeling the need to break the silence settling in the space. Hannibal’s gaze is focused on your wound with intense precision and you have to wonder just what he’s looking for. You’ve seen your fair share of bullet wounds, but you’re not usually this involved in the healing process. You can't remember the last time you got shot in the field. It must’ve been a few years ago, at least. 

Hannibal is staring at you now. His eyes shine crimson in the light. He clearly doesn’t believe you. You sigh. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “It still hurts. But you have to understand, I was going crazy in that hospital room.” You meet his eyes to further emphasize your point. 

“And the truth comes out,” Hannibal murmurs. He’s staring down at his hand, which you’re still holding for some reason. You’re quick to release your grip. “As it is wont to do.” That latter remark is murmured under his breath and it is clearly meant as a note to himself. You hear it anyway. The statement is foreboding, and you almost have to wonder if it’s an omen. “Do you have fresh bandages for tomorrow? You should change them daily.” 

“Yes, I do,” you respond detachedly, smoothing down the bandage he had pulled up to investigate the wound. You hastily pull your shirt back down, feeling strangely exposed. “And I changed the bandage this morning.” You had to shower, after all. 

For a fraction of a moment, you swear Hannibal looks disappointed. You’re quick to dismiss the notion. There is nothing he would get from bandaging your wound in such a manner. It’s not like he can steal your kidney again, you think. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the dark humor you seem to be using to cope. 

“I will see you tonight for your appointment,” Hannibal announces, smoothly exiting the room before you can so much as raise an objection. As you walk towards the front door, you begin to recognize the remark for what it is: a demand. You have no choice in the matter. Arguably, the luxury of choice was ripped from your hands when you embraced complicity. You have no one but yourself to blame, you think begrudgingly.

The rest of the day passes without incident, thankfully. You spend most of the time resting off and on. Your wound still hurts, but it’s a marked improvement from how it felt when you first woke up. You desperately want to make yourself busy by cleaning your house, but your side protests any activity more strenuous than walking. You eventually settle for watching something on television, allowing your mind to drift as the bright colors assault your vision. 

Before long, it’s time for you to leave for your appointment with Hannibal. You contemplate changing into more formal clothes, before remembering how laborious the process of dressing was this morning. Besides, Hannibal already saw you earlier. There’s no point in trying to pretend that you’re well-collected and composed, you huff. Mind made up, you grab your car keys and leave the house. 

Since you’re dreading the session, the drive passes particularly quickly. You’re so preoccupied with your thoughts this evening that you don’t realize Hannibal has been waiting for you to enter his office until he says your name. You get up from your seat in the waiting room and follow him through the doorway, your heart in your throat. For some reason, you get the feeling that you won’t be making it out of here alive. Your eyes flit about the office and you see the space in a new light. Anything and everything sharp can be a weapon. The only exit to the room is the door you just entered through. 

There’s a hand on your shoulder and you’re briefly jarred back to reality. Hannibal motions to the chairs and you follow his direction. Unsurprisingly, the chairs feel impossibly close today. If you were to really sprawl, you would likely hit Hannibal. You cross one leg over the other and try to subtly shrink into the back of the chair. Hannibal’s speech greets your ears, but your thoughts reduce his voice to a frantic rhythm. There’s a distant screeching sound reverberating in your skull and your skin feels as if it’s buzzing. You let your hands rest on your thighs, resisting the urge to let your hand rest on the pistol at your belt. You came armed today—almost as if anticipating something on the horizon. 

“What would you like to talk about?” Hannibal asks. You frown internally. You’re not sure what to talk about. You almost don’t want to talk at all. Hannibal must recognize that, because he falls silent, too. 

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you instead retreat to your mind palace. The gilded white pillars are tinted with crimson. There are muddied footsteps tracking through the foyer. A clock ticks hauntingly, creating a loud rhythm in your ears. You walk down the hall, only to find Abel Gideon’s corpse. You’re thrown back to captivity, to a gunshot ringing in your ears and the horrible thump of a corpse hitting the ground. Your neck aches in remembrance. Abel Gideon’s body looks the same as you left it: a bullet carving a hole through his temple, a shallow cut near the back of his neck. The flooring is red and Gideon’s blood almost seeps into it, creating a murky crimson that is nearly indistinguishable from what it was before.

Abel Gideon was but one man. One criminal, one villain, one monster. There are dozens, hundreds, thousands more. You contemplate the thought as you continue down the hallowed hall of your mind palace. Garret Jacob Hobbs, Franklyn Froideveaux, Abel Gideon… They were only the first tumultuous waves on a pitch black ocean, swirling madly about. You can feel the beginnings of a harsh wind whipping at your skin, rustling your clothes. The skies are dark. The storm is yet to come. 

Before long, you realize you have to leave. There is only so long you can stare off into space before Hannibal will grow suspicious. You close your eyes for a few seconds, before opening them again to find yourself back in Hannibal’s office. You’re restless. The chair threatens to swallow you in its embrace. Your fingers are tapping against the arms of the chair, your foot tapping against the ground. You need to move. You need to escape. You need to— 

It is a twisted irony, you think as a single word slips from your lips. You’ve spent so long pretending, feigning ignorance. You think back to that fateful moment all those months ago, when Hannibal took you to his residence. You saw the antlers, remembered the fanciful food at the dinner parties. It had felt as if fiery flames were stitching your every nerve together, igniting one horrid realization within you.  Ironic, how one word will send your world aflame once more.

“See?” The remark crawls from your tongue, wrenching your lips open and sinking into the still air. You inhale sharply as you notice Hannibal’s eyes flash crimson. His posture is still and he almost appears frozen in place, save for the measured breaths entering his nose and exiting his lips. His unblinking, unflinching stare assaults you with horrible, cloying fear. The feeling paralyzes you, leaving your legs locked and your hands clenched in fists. Your heart is humming in your ears. You can’t hear what he says next, but it doesn’t matter. There is no mistaking the expression on his face, the wrath hidden behind that thin-pressed smile:

Hannibal knows.

Chapter Text

The Chesapeake Ripper stares at you, his crimson eyes boring into your skin and sending a horrible dread itching up your arms.  

You stare back, despite knowing you shouldn’t. You should run, hide, do anything except remain standing before him like this. You’ve never been more aware of your gun’s weight on your belt—the only reassurance you have in this office. The air almost seems to buzz in the silence. You don’t know if you should break through the tension or leave it to fester. It takes every ounce of resistance you have not to make a move for your gun. You know the gesture would ruin any process you may have accrued from this session so far, any fleeting conviction that you wouldn’t hurt Hannibal.

You don’t know anymore. Would you hurt Hannibal? You’ve had plenty of opportunities to do so, but you’ve never followed through. You can’t decide if you’re cowardly, cruel, or compassionate. Perhaps you’re a mix of the worst qualities, rolled up into an agent with too little morality and too much apprehension. You’ve labeled all your interactions with Hannibal as investigations into his character, but you’ve left each of those encounters knowing more about yourself than you could ever wish to know. 

“You knew,” Hannibal says. There is nothing more to be said, it seems. And perhaps, for the first time since you met Hannibal, you have the upper hand. You are the one possessing knowledge, and he is the one to be wounded by ignorance of it. Better people would not have been satisfied or satiated by this realization, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about yourself through this process, it’s that you’re not a good person. For someone to serve as a complicit accomplice, allowing the murders to continue… you are just as bad as Hannibal is. 

A small part of you is more forgiving. A voice in the back of your mind—one that sounds far too similar to Hannibal himself—keenly reminds you that you had no choice, that accusing Hannibal without sufficient proof would’ve had devastating consequences. This voice caresses your skin with a shadowed touch, with a gentleness that you know you do not deserve. 

“I suspected, yet…” Hannibal breaks off.  It’s extremely unusual for him to trail off in the middle of a statement; the man is normally extremely articulate. You raise an eyebrow, gaze still narrowed in on him. You can’t look away for even a moment. A second’s hesitation is practically a hand-wrapped gift to the Ripper. “It appears you’ve rendered me speechless.”

Hannibal takes a half-step forward. You pull out your gun, pointing it at his temple. He stills, before raising his hands in the air in faux surrender. It’s an act—it’s all an act. He is not threatened. In fact, Hannibal looks excited, amused. He is not afraid. The Chesapeake Ripper does not feel fear, you have to remind yourself. He once choked a nurse to death, and his heart rate hardly fluctuated. You swallow hard. Hannibal may not be afraid, but you certainly are. The irony is not lost on you: you have the gun, yet your heart pounds in your chest all the same. Normally, you are the prey and Hannibal is the predator; now, the roles are reversed and you’re left anticipating another reversal. 

“Will you do it?” Hannibal asks, his voice cutting through the static in your ears. 

You take a step forward and jam your pistol into his temple, hard enough to bruise. “Do you want me to?” you ask, your voice disturbingly calm. The mad gleam in Hannibal’s eyes suggests that he may actually want you to kill him. His pupils are blown wide and the smile on his face almost looks to be carved into his skin. Do you want me to kill you? Are you really, truly apathetic towards death? I don’t think so. I think, deep down, you are just as afraid of death as everyone else. You’ve grown so good at lying that you can even deceive your own feelings, Hannibal. The conscious deceives the unconscious.¹

For a fraction of a moment, you contemplate killing Hannibal Lecter. You imagine pulling the trigger, shooting a bullet straight through his temple. Your mind conjures images of Jack Crawford arriving at the scene, clapping a hand on your shoulder and reassuring you that you did the right thing, that no one else has to die. You imagine washing the blood from your hands that night and sleeping fitfully, roused from slumber every so often with the reminder of what you’ve done. 

Was it all for nothing? It’s a worthless thought, but that doesn’t stop your mind from contemplating the notion. Was all of this just one giant game? Were you always meant to be a pawn—easily manipulated and weakest alone? You want to think that your time with Hannibal thus far was to serve some great purpose, but, in reality, you were ensnared by the trap he laid for you. You fell for the same charismatic visage that his past victims did. What gives you the right to be the one to survive it, to survive him? 

All of these feelings, recognitions, and memories assault you in the split second after Hannibal asks if you will kill him. Then your trigger finger twitches. The split second of contemplation does not go unnoticed—that fleeting moment is all it takes for him to spring into action. One moment, you’re staring at each other. The next, Hannibal is lunging at you. You just barely manage to dodge, throwing yourself to the side in a rather harsh movement that nearly sends you falling to the ground. In the blink of an eye, Hannibal holds a deceptively sharp antler, ripped from the decoration sitting in an open-faced exhibit case. The movement is fluid and performed with ease. Did he plan for this? Hannibal admitted that he didn’t know that you knew. The confidence in his frame as he encircles you tells a different story and you’re brutally reminded that he is a practiced killer. He has killed before; it’s foolish to think that you will escape with your life. 

Still, you do have an advantage. You’re likely the first of Hannibal’s victims to be prepared—to be armed with the knowledge that he is immensely dangerous. Therefore, you’re not taken off guard by Hannibal’s sudden assault (although you’re certainly disturbed by the smooth nature of his movements). You squint at the weapon in his hand, only to realize that it is a sharpened knife. The decoration must’ve encased a weapon within it. Even so, you’re holding a gun. It doesn’t take much thought to determine which weapon will win between a gun and a knife. 

Knowing this, you run a few paces towards the side and duck behind his desk. Your heart is racing in your chest but your hands are steady. You wait a moment before popping up and firing your gun. Somehow, you miss. The bullet just barely rips along the top of Hannibal’s shoulder, grazing the skin before rocketing into the wall in the distance. He hardly falters in his approach and you duck back for cover behind the desk. A second’s contemplation leads you to roll under the ample space under the desk and come back out on the other side. It’s a good thing you trusted your instincts, because as you move, Hannibal is leaping over the desk with ease. You stand up, only to find the desk creating a boundary between Hannibal and you. You point your gun at him, but he doesn’t stop moving. Startled, you fire another shot, only for the shot to hit his left shoulder again. Fuck. You try to reload, only to find that you have no more ammunition left. How did you forget to reload your pistol? You’re momentarily distracted by your self-deprecating thoughts, so much so that you neglect to notice Hannibal approaching until he’s practically right on top of you. You drop the pistol and try to throw a punch, but Hannibal bends to the side and bodily throws you to the floor. 

Hannibal is quicker than you expect him to be. Before you can begin to get up, Hannibal is kneeling over you with his knife pointed down at you. Except… His knife isn’t pointed at your throat or heart. It’s hovering above your face and inching closer, closer, closer. You immediately put all your strength into pushing Hannibal’s grip away. Unfortunately, from your positioning, Hannibal has a momentum advantage. He exerts more force and the knife kisses your skin, cutting right through the scar you thought to be healing. You can’t stop the pained hiss that escapes your lips. The knife is nearly tracing the skin around your eye and you knee Hannibal in the gut, leaving you an opportunity to shove him off of you and get to your feet. 

Blood is dripping down your face now, coloring the left side of your vision a rosy pink. You wipe at the newly-opened scar with the back of your hand, slightly perturbed when you notice there’s enough blood to turn the top of your hand crimson. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping you upright, you think. Your heart is racing out of your chest as you stare at Hannibal. He stares back unflinchingly. You’re satisfied with the fact that his left shoulder is bleeding and that his clothes are rumpled. 

You’re circling one another—on the hunt once more. Who is the predator? Who is the prey? Who is the hunter? Who is the meal? Who is the murderer, who is the victim? Your lines are blurring together, creating a horrible haziness through which you can’t find where you end and where Hannibal begins. You don’t know how to feel about that, nor do you know how to feel about the man in front of you. 

“Do you truly wish to fight?” Hannibal asks, assessing you. There is nothing in his eyes except restraint, nothing on his face save for the mask he always wears over his emotions. You don’t know how to navigate this moment. You don’t know what to do, what to say, how to feel. Maybe you should have just shot him in the beginning. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t be agonizing over the past like you are now. 

You don’t answer his question. Hannibal’s lips tug into a slight smile, but it’s a dark and wry thing. The distance between you has never felt so little, and the feeling is only further compounded when Hannibal steps forward. Then he takes another step closer. And another. You’re certain your heartbeat shouldn’t be so loud in your ears, nor should your chest feel so tight. You’re staring death right in the eyes and meeting his shadowed scarlet gaze. 

Hannibal reaches out and you flinch. His hand slips to the nape of your neck and your skin prickles. For a moment, there is nothing between you except unnerving silence and unflinching eye contact. He looks as if he’s going to swallow you whole, ripping the skin and tissue from your form until you’re left a bony skeleton. You wonder if Hannibal can feel your pulse at your neck, hammering away in an attempt to warn you. Stay awake, you tell yourself. Stay alive. 

Hannibal pulls you toward him and you know you’re powerless. His eyes glitter in the low light and you can almost see the shadows pooling around him, threatening to encompass you in one fell swoop. You hardly have the chance to react before he’s tilting your head and pressing a kiss to your lips. The gesture is swift, but the pressure of his grip still digs into the junction of your shoulder. There’s a buzzing sound in your ears as you stare at Hannibal, the Chesapeake Ripper. Time seems to freeze as you’re left to cope with the sudden onslaught of feelings: apprehension, remorse, anticipation. There is an unspoken finality lingering in the air. 

Quick as lightning, Hannibal strikes. The knife in his hand catches the light and winks at you, before he smoothly stabs you in the side. You gasp at the blinding pain and Hannibal’s vice-like grip keeps its hold on you, forcing you to remain standing. Even so, you’re bending forward, trying to cope with the intense spasm rippling through your skin. Hannibal places a hand on the back of your head and pulls you into his chest. You don’t have the strength to do anything, leaving you entirely pliant in his arms. His hand slides to the nape of your neck again and it feels as if he’s cradling you. His other hand grips your shoulder with bruising fervor, digging into the skin and ripping through the bone to send shivers down your spine. Hannibal is flaying you apart in his arms, picking through your skin to find the precious organs for his meal. You take a shuddering breath in, thrown off by the chill spreading across your body. You’ve never been so cold. 

Any remaining strength promptly seeps out of your limbs, and even Hannibal’s grip isn’t enough to stop you from falling to the ground. Blood escapes from your abdomen, dripping down your skin and coloring your shirt with an expanding crimson stain. You try to keep yourself sitting up and shoot out a hand to brace yourself against the floor. It’s nearly impossible to pick out any thoughts from the rushing in your ears and the pain crawling up your side. Despite these overwhelming stimuli, you still see Hannibal crouching down from the corner of your eye. He places a hand behind your neck and guides you to lie on the floor. There is kindness in the gentle manner with which he lays you to rest, yet all you glean from the gesture is smug brutality and victorious pretense. 

“Alea iacta est,” Hannibal murmurs, looking down at you. It takes a few seconds for your pain-hazed mind to recognize the Latin phrase and another moment to translate it: The die has been cast.

It is clear that Hannibal is not anticipating a response from you and, truly, you have nothing to say. There is no word that will ever describe the confusing maelstrom of betrayal, anger, and self-loathing rushing through you as you slowly approach death. Your fingers twitch with the desperate, visceral need to do something. Your vision is swirling around you, until Hannibal is nothing more than a blurred visage in your eyes.  

Suddenly, there’s a hand on your cheek. A thumb wipes the fluid—blood or tears, you’re not sure—from your left eye. You’re so disconnected that your eyes don’t even flutter at the close contact. The Chesapeake Ripper’s face hovers above you for another moment, as if he’s looking for something, before he gets to his feet. He makes his escape, leaving you to the wreckage.

You fade away slowly. Looking up to the ceiling of Hannibal’s luxurious office, a bubbling laugh crawls its way out your throat. The familiar coppery, metallic taste of blood sits on your tongue. You’re going to die, you realize. You idly wonder who will find your body. It may take a little while for anyone to realize you’re missing. Perhaps Jack will be the one to trace your phone’s signal and find your corpse in the office of Dr. Lecter. You can already see the tight pull to his lips, the determination stitching his form together. Beverly, Jack, Alana… All of them will move on from your death. It won’t take them long, you think. Dying in the field isn’t a rarity. A peaceful, quiet death is a luxury afforded to very few agents at the Bureau—and it’s a luxury you don’t think you quite deserve. No, this is a fitting end for someone like you. 

Memories flash before your eyes. You had so many close calls, dodged death so many times that you began to think yourself immune. You survived Gideon. You survived countless sessions with Dr. Lecter. You survived Garret Jacob Hobbs. Yet now, as you lie on the floor of Hannibal’s office, you are forced to come to terms with your own mortality. You will not escape this encounter unscathed. 

The blood leaking from your side is beginning to pool on the floor next to you and the sight sends your vision into a dizzying spiral of colors. You let your head fall back against the ground and close your eyes, trying to calm the patterns racing before you. There’s a bone-deep exhaustion settling in your chest, beckoning you closer by the moment. Shadows are pulling the curtains across your vision and, despite your best efforts at resistance, your world soon fades to black.

Chapter Text

The darkness swirling around you is relentless in its writhing, distorting and jerking you around in its shadowed grasp. For a while, you’re content to let the shadows take control. You float in an endless abyss. Memories flit before your eyes, just long enough for you to reach out to try to grab them. They never stay long enough, flickering and disintegrating before you get the chance to grasp them and dissect every miniscule detail. 

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin. 

You take a deep breath. The next time you blink, you find yourself standing in a far too familiar place. Hannibal’s kitchen is quiet—eerily so, you think as your footsteps echo against the floors. There is hardly a sign of life on these countertops, hardly a stain or sprinkling of powder to assure you this place has ever been used. There is a single light boring down on the back of your head: a spotlight. You swallow hard and step to the side in an attempt to escape the light, only to find Hannibal’s rolodex sitting in the middle of the brightness. Your business card sits on top, displaying your name, phone number, email address, office location at headquarters, birthplace, height, weight, eye color, age, and any other demographic information you could possibly imagine. The font is tiny, yet you can read it with ease. Feeling a sudden urge to touch, you grab the business card and let it lie flat in your palm. There’s a tear in the corner, you realize. Frowning, you move to touch it, only for the tear to extend further down the flimsy material. Crimson dots appear on the white background, swirling and twisting until there’s blood collecting on your fingertips. You look down, only to realize that the dark red stains have permeated the fabric of your shirt. Puddles are gathering at your feet, marking your footsteps with every movement you make. The card melts into the blood gathered in your hands, and you’re left holding the tattered remains of your identity. 

Stay awake. 

You blink again. Abel Gideon is peering at you from behind the bars of his interrogation cell. “You have Lecter on a leash, don’t you?” Gideon remarks with a laugh. You huff a laugh under your breath. The thought amuses you, for reasons you cannot quite discern at the moment. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.”  Your hands tremble at your sides and you restlessly shift your balance from one foot to the other. Gideon’s gaze is knowing and it pins you to the ground. 

Stay alive. 

A blink. You’re standing in the doorway of your office at headquarters. Everything is as you left it, save for your chair, which has an inhabitant. Franklyn Froideveaux stares at you with empty eye sockets and a gaping maw.  Blood slips down his gaunt frame, leaving murky red-brown streaks down his cheeks and around the cavity of his chest. You blink and his skin turns a murky yellowish green from decay. 

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons from over your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face, feel his breath hitting your neck and provoking a deep nausea in your gut. 

Another blink. Blood slips hotly down your fingers as you stand in a dimly lit hallway. Your skin feels lit with flames and the knife in your hand gleams a sickening crimson. You want to release the weapon from your grip, but your fingers are locked around the blade with unshakeable force. The smell of death and decay wafting through the enclosed space makes your stomach turn. None of these sensations are powerful enough to rip your attention away from the corpse at your feet. 

“Killing must feel good to God, too,” Hannibal remarks with a hum, hands behind his back as he regards Abel Gideon’s form. There is a mildly intrigued expression on his face as he studies the body, before looking back to you with eerily crimson eyes. As he pivots, bloodstained antlers stretch from his perfectly coiffed hair. They disappear in a moment—a trick of the light. His voice is dark and airy all at once. “And are we not created in his image?” You swallow past the nausea building in your chest. Time stretches on with terrible slowness. His gaze is flaying you apart. “Don’t you want God To want you?” He asks softly.¹ 

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive. 

Darkness, then light. “To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal says, a flicker of a smile settling on his lips. His hands are folded and he leans forward. Your chairs are close enough to force you to knock knees with him, but Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered by the prospect. “You are the first person to see through his façade, through the layers of his mask.” His skin looks strangely patterned, as if it's made of ceramic. You reach out to grasp his face, to yank off his mask, only for Hannibal to catch your wrist and hold it in a tight grip. Suddenly, your chair is tipping backwards precariously, lurching further into the abyss. You try to reach out and grab onto something, but Hannibal’s hold is the only thing that keeps you tethered. The void crawls up your skin mockingly, waiting to drag you into its umbra. Your momentum is slipping backwards and you’re filled with an unsettling anticipation. Contrary to your expectations, Hannibal’s grip remains strong. You look at him. The Ripper looks back, a bloodstained smile on his lips. You feel his fingers trace the edges of your skin with a mocking gentleness, before you’re falling backward into the darkness again.

You slip out of the darkness and bolt up, only to find yourself in a painfully bright room. You can’t quite stop the gasp that comes from your lips, nor can you suppress the urge to look around frantically, searching for the signs that this is a dream. The incessant pain in your abdomen is a harsh reality check. You look down at the area, only to find meticulously wrapped bandages covering your lower torso. Your upper forearm stings from the IV burrowing under your skin. 

“Hey,” a voice says. You squint in the bright light, waiting for the blurred figure in front of you to sharpen. It’s a nurse—the same one who helped you the last time you were wounded. She holds her hands out in a placating gesture. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You were just dreaming.” Her eyebrows are furrowed in concern, a sentiment you feel you don’t deserve. 

You bite back your questions—knowing the answers are clinging to the blinding white walls around you. The nurse asks you several questions about your symptoms and your pain level, before departing with the promise that she will return soon. 

The events that transpired in Hannibal’s office cling to your skin with fervency. Your abdomen burns, especially when you remember that Hannibal inflicted the wound. You shouldn’t feel betrayed. You shouldn’t be afforded the privilege of being betrayed, not when you knew Hannibal Lecter’s nature since that night you sleepwalked out into the middle of the street. 

Even so… you enjoyed being in Hannibal’s presence. You enjoyed the song and dance you had gotten so accustomed to playing. You spent so long spectating the game that you forgot your role in it. You were a pawn, and nothing more. The thought displeases you. With each passing second, the ugly feeling in your chest grows and swells within the confines of your rib cage. It’s getting to be too much. 

There is no one to sit at your bedside this time. When she returns, the nurse pointedly does not mention your husband. You don’t have the heart to tell her that your “husband” was the same person who stabbed you, or that your husband was never really your husband in the first place. She seems to understand anyway. Pity is hidden beneath the kind smile on her face. You stop making eye contact with her. 

Lying in this hospital bed is a lonely existence, dominated by a constant state of pain (at worst) or mild discomfort (at best). The only interaction you get is from the nurse herself. You get the feeling she’d be a good listener, but your tongue feels ironed to the roof of mouth and your conversations quickly morph into anecdotes about her life. You’re grateful for the small kindness—for the prospect of being treated like a human being, despite it all.  These small moments of humanity push you to keep going, even amidst the several voices crooning in your ears about your cruelty.

You don’t expect any visitors. Indeed, your first visitor is entirely unexpected. When you’re first told that someone wishes to speak to you, you think of Beverly, Jack Crawford… hell, even Freddie Lounds. You certainly don’t foresee Alana Bloom walking through the door, a gentle, reserved expression on her face. Seeing her brightens your day, and her presence reminds you that you’re not entirely alone. You welcome the thought. 

“Alana,” you greet her, your voice rather raspy. You cough to clear your throat. “How are you?” you ask. 

“I should be asking you that,” she responds with a wry smile. She stands at the end of your bed, before walking to the side. Alana regards the lonely chair at your bedside, before placing her hands on the back. She looks well—albeit a little tired. “I’m good. And you?”

“I’ve been better,” you decide to respond honestly. There’s no point in lying to Alana—she used to be your psychiatrist, your girlfriend. She would be able to see through your dishonesty anyway. Sure enough, Alana seems to appreciate your honesty, because her eyes momentarily widen before she moves to sit down. Seeing her sit in that chair makes your stomach turn. When you blink, you see Hannibal sitting there—lithe frame effortlessly arranged, tupperware in hand. You rub your eyes roughly, dispelling the image to the recesses of your memory. Alana was courteous enough to visit you—the least you can do is acknowledge her presence, instead of imagining her as someone else. 

For a moment, you stare at Alana. A mundane sense of envy strikes you, but it’s fleeting. You don’t deserve to be envious of her good health and safe wellbeing. Your own hubris is the reason why you’re currently confined to this cot. You look at her for a moment longer, before letting your eyes rest on the plain walls around you. You can feel Alana staring at you with concern. Instead of acknowledging that sentiment, you let the first question on your mind pass through your lips. “Where’s Jack?”

Alana is silent for a few seconds. Is it a difficult question? You don’t think so, yet Alana almost seems to falter. Eventually, she must manage to find the words. “Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she evidently settles for saying. Upon closer examination, her hands are clasped in her lap—whitened knuckles betraying her otherwise tranquil image. Alana’s next words are quiet yet firm. “He’s tracking Hannibal—the Chesapeake Ripper.”

You inhale slowly. Somehow, hearing her say that cements the reality of it all. Everyone knows Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s not just you anymore. You bring up an arm slowly, before tilting your head down and pinching the bridge of your nose. Somehow, it is this statement that reminds you of the pounding sensation behind your eyes and the aching clustered around your temple.

“Are you alright?” Alana asks, lips twitching into a slight frown. 

“Yes,” you respond flatly. Your answer sounds devoid of emotion and purpose. 

“Are you sure?” Alana persists. You don’t have the heart to lie to her twice in a row. 

“...No,” you acquiesce. You rub a hand over your face, feeling rather small in this hospital bed. The sheets are slightly scratchy and the weight of them feels constricting, rather than comforting. You’ve never felt so small. 

“I’m sorry,” Alana sighs. She seems entirely sincere and it almost makes you want to scream. You don’t deserve her sympathy. “I know you two were close. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” That statement is incredibly reassuring, despite the frenzy you had worked yourself into surrounding Alana. When you reflect on the events of the past months, you realize that you have few allies and even fewer true friends. One of those true friends is sitting right next to you. 

“Thank you,” you nod. Guilt stirs in your chest as you stare at your old psychiatrist and ex-girlfriend. Every time you’ve seen her since she kissed you, you’ve purposefully cut conversation short. Somehow, the thought feels silly to you now. Perhaps almost dying a second time does that to a person. You stare at Alana for a moment. She looks well put together, as always. “Alana?”

“Yes?” she questions patiently. That’s another thing you envy about her—her unwavering compassion, her unflinching patience. You could stand to learn a few things from her, you think. 

“I’m sorry,” you remark. The sentiment has been dancing on the tip of your tongue for the past several weeks, yet you never got the chance to verbalize it. Life has been a whirlwind lately. You’ve been so caught up in everything swirling around in your mind that you never paused to think about those around you, or how they were affected by the recent turn of events. “For…” you break off, unable to articulate it. You settle for a vague hand gesture. Alana seems to understand anyways, as her eyes momentarily widen before comprehension passes over her face. 

“Don’t apologize,” Alana is quick to say, nothing but sincerity written in the lines of her shoulders. Her eyes look slightly glassy for the briefest of moments, before she shakes her head and looks at you once more. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry for kissing you without warning.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silence descends upon the brisk air, leaving the two of you to your thoughts. You’re not content to let this overbearing tension rule over your conversation. You clench your fists slightly, filled with renewed resolve. You stare at Alana for a few seconds, until she notices your gaze and returns it. “Friends?” you ask, extending a hand towards her.

“Friends,” Alana responds with a smile, rising from her chair to meet your outstretched hand. Your handshake is short but reassuring. It’s enough to convince you that there are no hard feelings between the two of you. Alana fills you in on some of what’s happened since your admittance to the hospital; mostly, though, the two of you talk about the small things. You know Alana is trying to give you some semblance of normalcy. You appreciate the effort, you really do… but you’re not sure you’re capable of pretending everything’s okay. Furthermore, the small things seem inconsequential—now that you’re entrenched in the middle of everything. Even so, you make sure to thank her before she leaves. You don’t know how you would have coped without seeing a familiar face. Alana smiles and promises to be back soon. 

As you expect, Alana doesn’t turn up the next day. You certainly don’t expect her to stop by, since you know she’s always rather busy.  Ultimately, you come to the conclusion that you want nothing more than to be out of this hospital. Even worse… apparently, the stunt you pulled with Beverly during your past hospital visit did not go over well. You’re firmly reminded to avoid any attempts at an early release. You’re too tired and embarrassed to argue. You don’t have anything better to do than rot in this hospital room, anyway. Besides, you’re certain you’ll be met with some unpleasant reminders of Hannibal as you get home. You think you have a few cardigans in your closet that you meant to give back to him. The thought sends a bolt of nervous excitement through you, and you have to actively talk yourself down that precarious ledge. 

Alana does visit the day after. Beverly turns up the day after that and gives you several hugs. After that, at least one of your friends—Alana or Beverly— visits every day, which you’re extremely grateful for. You’re certain you’d go absolutely stir crazy in this hospital bed if you didn’t have anyone for company. Your conversations are typically fun and refreshing, like light breezes of summer air. Sometimes, though, you’re bogged down by your memories. Sometimes, you’re forced to remember the corpses you left in your wake. 

Even with Alana and Beverly visiting, you’re given more than enough alone time to contemplate everything. You have ample time to pick apart Hannibal’s actions and discern his true motivations. So, when Jack Crawford finally visits, his shoulders drawn tight with stress, you’re prepared to recount that night to him. Jack is insistent on the fact that you don’t have to speak about anything you don’t want to, but you know the offer is more for pretense than anything else. He needs this information, needs to understand the Ripper’s past actions and how they govern his future.  With that in mind, you wave off his concern and tell him about your late night meeting with Hannibal.

Jack is silent throughout, never once interrupting you or reacting in a manner other than an affirmative nod. It’s very characteristic of your boss; you think that you would have been unsettled if he responded with heightened or dramatic emotions. Jack’s cool composure is an anchor that you quickly latch on to. 

“He wanted you alive,” Jack states, once you’re finished explaining everything. He says this with frightening assuredness. His utter conviction surprises you, prompting you to ask how he knows that. 

Of course, you certainly considered that same possibility yourself, but it feels more real when you hear it from Jack. “The stab wound wasn’t fatal,” he points out. His gaze falls to the edge of your abdomen. The bandages feel extremely constricting. You wonder if they need to be changed soon. “It easily could’ve been. The Ripper is a skilled killer—he wouldn’t have missed unless he wanted to.” You take a shuddering breath in. 

“He’s toying with us,” you manage to agree. Your hands fidget restlessly along the rough blanket thrown over your form. You feel restless once more. 

“He’s toying with you,” Jack supplies. There is no room for argument in his voice. He doesn’t look restless, afraid, or frustrated. Not for the first time, you wish you had Jack’s control and constitution. However, you know Jack well enough to see the signs of tension in his clenched fist and drawn lips. “Taunting you, and the rest of us, by proxy.” That statement in particular sets everything in stone. Your theories are no longer just theories—they are unobjectionable facts. 

“Jack.” you remark, trying to push the words past the dread settling on your tongue. 

“Yes?” Jack asks, patient and restless all at once. You’re choking on the words. It’s such a simple sentence, yet so dangerous of an admission. If you told the truth—confided in Jack about how you suspected Hannibal the moment you met him, and grew to realize that he is the Ripper—you would certainly lose your job, not to mention all of Jack’s trust. 

Selfish, your victims croon. Your psyche nods in agreement. It’s truly selfish of you not to provide Jack with your utmost honesty. You’re doing a disservice to every person Hannibal has ever killed, every waking moment the team spent hunting for the Chesapeake Ripper. You wasted so much time, so much space. 

“I—” you try to continue. I knew. I knew and I did nothing. I am complicit in his crimes. Tears are slipping down your cheeks. You’re a rotten excuse for a human being. You don’t deserve to be alive. Why hadn’t Hannibal just finished the job? It’s cruel, almost. He allowed his other victims the mercy of death, yet he left you alive. You will forever be scarred—both by Hannibal’s knife and by the bone-deep knowledge that your silence made you an accomplice to his crimes. 

Breathing is suddenly a far more arduous task. Your lungs burn and your throat feels as if it’s closing in on you. Your vision is extremely sharp and your shaking hands are drawn with harsh lines and even harsher edges. The world around you is suddenly rendered immensely inconsequential. The beeping of the machines at your bedside, Jack’s steady breaths, the traces of conversation slipping in from the hallway… It all fails in comparison to the chimes of the grandfather clock in your mind. You dig your fingernails into your skin, desperate for unspoken confirmation that you aren’t dreaming.

At this point, you’re panting. Drool falls from the sides of your mouth and hits the scratchy blanket. Every nerve in your body feels as if it’s on fire. You’re a puppet cut loose from the puppeteer’s careful hand, yet you’re still strung together with wooden bones and durable string. You bring your hand to your chest and try to breathe, but the more you try, the harsher and more rushed your attempts become.  

“Agent.” There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s enough pressure to make you feel as if you’re melding with the thin mattress below you, sinking into the floor and the shadows. For a moment, you can see Hannibal looking down at you in your mind’s eye, a contentious expression on his face as he lets you fall to the darkness below.  “Breathe.” Jack grabs your hand and brings it to the inside of his wrist. His pulse beats steadily beneath your fingertips and you latch onto the rhythm.  Jack begins counting, prompting you to breathe in time with him. You’re not sure how long it takes you to clear your airways—you just know that, at some point, Jack migrated from where he stood at the end of your bed to the side of the bed. 

“Jack,” you try again. Your lips part but nothing slips out. It’s such a simple confession—a mere few words, yet you can’t utter them. 

“Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can choke on the words you don’t want to say. His expression has returned to a combination of rigidity and anticipation. You know what Jack will say before he says it. “Can I trust you to handle this case? Do I need to remove you from this case?” He doesn’t say that last part, but you hear it anyway. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face. Your eyes burn from all the tears you shed. 

“I can handle it,” you assure him. 

“You’re close to all this,” Jack remarks. He gets up from where he had been sitting and walks back to stand behind the edge of the bed. His gaze meets yours, but you know he isn’t really looking at you. That expression on his face means Jack is looking through his options, puzzling out the future in his head. You wait for him to refocus. “You know I don’t typically assign agents with personal investments in cases… But, you’ve been on this case for a long time. You know the Ripper better than anyone else does, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You stare at Jack silently, daring him to take you off the case. You know that your words will fail you here, so you hope your conviction shows through in your eyes. Jack stares back and, for a long moment, you’re both trapped in silence. Eventually, Jack seems to ascertain that you think yourself capable. He takes a deep breath. 

“In terms of the Ripper, we currently have a unit determining his whereabouts,” Jack begins. “The Ripper—Lecter—covered his tracks very well. The last time he was seen was…”

“When he stabbed me,” you say for him. 

“Yes,” Jack confirms. “As you know, Lecter is proficient at leaving behind very little—if any—evidence.” You nod, thinking back to all the crime scenes he created. There was hardly any evidence left behind. Hannibal was always meticulous and careful in his crimes. 

“He only leaves clues when he wants to,” you continue. “He's not so kindhearted as to leave us clues for the hell of it, or because he slipped up. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“We found very little in his office,” Jack concedes with a sharp nod. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Stress seems to tighten the line of his shoulders. “We did manage to find several concealed weapons, upon closer examination.”

“He stabbed me with a knife that was disguised as an antler on a deer sculpture,” you recall flatly. The thought makes your side flare up with pain again. “I shouldn’t have gone to his office. I should’ve come to you first. I knew, and yet…”

“Frankly, Agent, that is not my concern,” Jack states bluntly. “The past is the past. If I were to dissect every minute mistake we’ve made along the course of this investigation, we’d never be able to proceed.”

“True,” you answer. You still don’t think Jack has truly comprehended the implications of what you just said. You knew Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper long before that night. After all, you didn’t explicitly state when you first discovered the identity of the Ripper. Of course, you suppose it is also likely that Jack was able to intuit that from your response. If that were the case, you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t kicked you off this case or fired you. 

You know it’s best for you to drop this particular line of questioning, so you do. For the duration of Jack’s visit, he debriefs you on what the team has deduced so far—both in terms of his current location and where he’ll go next. After an hour passes, however, your luck runs out. Your nurse enters the room and promptly shoos Jack out, claiming that you need time to rest. She is entirely impervious to his objections, even when he tries to pull rank on her. You’re rather impressed. Jack manages to get a last remark in, before the nurse can guide him out of the room. 

“Lecter will turn up soon enough,” your boss states. With that, Jack departs. His cryptic remark leaves you with a lot to think about. You spend the rest of your hospital stay grappling with the implications of that statement, with the implications of Hannibal deciding not to kill you. You’re released from the hospital a week later with a troubled conscience and another scar to add to your collection. 

Somehow, news of your battle with Hannibal has reached the press, Jack tells you as he drives you home in the dead of night. Ultimately, Jack decided it would be best to get you home during a time when most people are sleeping. You’re grateful for his foresight, because when you return home, there are no flashing cameras or microphones shoved in your face. You thank Jack for the ride and he nods, sending you one final unreadable look before driving away. 

When you unlock your front door and swing the door open, you’re surprised to find that your house appears the same as when you left it. You close the door behind you and take in everything before you. Dust is beginning to collect on the shelves and surfaces—the space desperately needs a dedicated cleaning, but you know you don’t have the energy just yet. Right now, you’re content to cautiously walk to your closet and grab clothes. Despite the fact that Jack brought you a pair of old trainee clothes to change into when he arrived, you know you need a good shower to feel clean. The lukewarm water sliding down your skin is rejuvenating, but it doesn’t wipe away the dirt of your sins. You step out of the shower with clean skin and a muddy conscience. Drying off and putting on your clothes is an annoying affair, but you manage. 

After your shower, it’s safe to say that you’re entirely lost. You don’t know what to do next. You need to eat, you remember. Unfortunately, your fridge is pretty much empty. You sigh and survey the space that you call home. It doesn’t feel familiar, despite the knowledge that it’s been yours for several years. These are all your belongings, yet it feels as if you’re standing in a stranger’s shoes. You look around the room, pausing when your eye catches on a scrap of newspaper. The TattleCrime article from before rests innocuously on the kitchen counter. You walk towards it immediately, as if possessed. 

Criminally Insane. You stare at the photos featured in the article. The second photo—the one of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane—led you to realize that Frederick Chilton had been kidnapped. The first picture… It unsettles you. There are hints of the dark circles under your eyes that you now possess, but there’s also an unspoken confidence in your posture in the photo. You choke on a laugh, running your fingers along the rough newspaper. 

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Well, it certainly feels that way… but you know your survival can’t be put down to mere fate. Inexplicably, Hannibal did not aim to kill you. You contemplate what would’ve happened if he had aimed that way. You would have died in that office, certainly. Would you be free of this terrifying helplessness, this aching despair?

You manage to tear your eyes away from the article. After a moment of thought, you stuff it in a drawer—hoping you will never need to look at it again. Unsurprisingly, you still feel incredibly restless. You begin pacing slowly around the room, desperate for something to do. Perhaps this urge to do something is indicative of a deeper sentiment. 

The cicadas buzz from the trees outside. You’re suddenly struck with a perplexing urge to step outside. You follow that urge and walk mechanically to your front door. Maybe someone is on your porch. You peek through the peephole, unsurprised to find no one there. After a second’s contemplation, you step out onto your porch, letting your arms rest against the railing.  

The brisk night air doesn’t help your worsening mental state. You still feel numb, empty. Nothing feels real anymore. As you look out at your driveway, at the other houses lining your street, you’re hit with an immense sonder.² How did you end up in this situation? How did you end up here, staring out at the suburbia around you and wishing you could take on the life of another person—someone who isn’t desensitized to blood, gore, violence, and murder?

You don’t know where to go from here. Your feelings are a dizzying combination of remorse, regret, and contempt—combined with an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking. You raise your arms and put your head in your hands for a moment. Succumbing to darkness has never felt so comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Lecter will return soon enough,” Jack had said. There was a certainty in his voice in that moment—a sincerity that was surely unfounded. He was making a prediction and nothing more. Yet… the conviction in his tone made it seem as if he knew the Ripper’s next move. Surely, Hannibal hasn’t grown so predictable. Surely, he will continue to elude capture for as long as he wishes. 

A car’s headlights reach your vision, and you watch as it slowly cruises down your street. There is a certain nonchalance to the way it slowly rises on the horizon. You frown, wondering what this person is doing driving down your street at such a late hour. Perhaps it’s a neighbor. You continue to watch warily. For a moment, you swear it seems as if the car’s slowing as it approaches. Surely that can’t be the case. It’s too dark to make out the details of the car—let alone the driver. You settle for staring in silence as it moves along. Within the blink of an eye, the vehicle moves past your driveway and into the dark expanse enveloping the space past your street. You exhale in relief, just realizing that your breath had hitched during the car’s brief stint in front of your house. 

Why were you nervous? What were you expecting? You don’t want to acknowledge the answers to those questions—those solutions will only bring more problems. You shake your head. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, and everyone knows. There should be nothing to be afraid of, except for a single thought that never seems to leave you. He will return for you, a voice whispers against the wind. He wants to finish the job. 

You’ve never gotten so close to a case before. You almost wish you could travel back in time, to the first time you locked eyes with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. In that moment, you hadn’t been able to rationalize the intense foreboding and trepidation that seemed to crawl up your skin as he stared back at you. You had no true grasp of the danger you would soon experience, the lives you would soon take. When did you stop trusting your instincts? Your intuition is part of the reason why you’re such a successful criminal profiler, yet you were more than willing to entirely ignore it. 

A chill hits your skin, but it’s not from the brisk breeze of night air that gently rustles your clothes. The unsettling feeling comes from the car in your driveway, the bright headlights illuminating the woody forest behind your house. Were you so lost in thought that you neglected to notice someone approaching your driveway? You squint and take a step closer to the driveway, wavering on the edge of your porch. The car looks familiar, and that realization nearly pitches you off the porch and careening to the ground below. The driver turns the car off and swings the door open with taunting slowness. A roaring sound fills your ears. 

“Hannibal,” you remark. The driver closes the door and takes a step forward, close enough to the porch that the light hits their face and reveals familiar angled features. His lip is bleeding and there are droplets of blood scattered about his face. His clothing is ever so slightly rumpled. Other than that, Hannibal appears at ease. The Ripper looks at you, and utters your name in response. 

You don’t know what to do, what to say. Your hands clutch the railing in front of you with enough force to send bolts of pain through your fingers. It feels as if your heart is racing faster than humanly possible. You’re reminded of the pain in your abdomen, the scar slicing dangerously close to your eye. You clench a fist at your side and walk down the steps of your porch, before turning and moving to stand at a strategic distance from Hannibal: close enough to see his face, far enough to have an illusion of control and safety. 

The night is still. If it weren’t for your unexpected visitor, you might take solace in the tranquility of the midnight sky. Now, the stars seem to wink at you in warning. When Hannibal speaks, you nearly convince yourself that you imagine it. “I have evaded capture for long enough.” An ugly, foolish sort of hope settles in your chest. You try to push it away.

“You’re… surrendering,” you remark cautiously, waiting for him to dispel that notion. The Ripper does nothing of the sort. Instead, Hannibal stares at you, making strangely heated eye contact with you as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. The moonlight briefly hits the metal, causing it to glimmer mockingly. Your stomach turns. The moon’s warm glow reveals more than just a shimmer—there are murky brown stains on the blade. You recognize the splatters as dried blood and your skin crawls. Hannibal is holding the very same knife he stabbed you with. He maneuvers it expertly, holding the blade and extending the handle towards you. Everything about this moment feels like a trap, but you willingly reach out and take the proffered knife, fastening it at your belt.

After a stretch of time in which neither of you elect to say anything, you decide that Hannibal must be telling the truth. Eyes locked on the man, you fumble around in your pocket for your phone and pull it out, dialing the only number you have memorized. Your intended recipient answers before two seconds pass. “Jack,” you say, your gaze still firmly fixed on the Ripper. 

“Agent,” Jack responds. Hannibal is staring at you with intense scrutiny, evidently attempting to decipher what Jack is saying to you. That recognition causes you to pause for a moment. At your hesitation, Jack’s voice takes on a concerned yet impatient tone. “What is it?”

“I have him,” you say, vaguely satisfied that your voice sounds clear and composed despite the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been subjected to. “The Ripper. He’s in my driveway.”

Jack’s end of the line is quiet. You know it must be nearly impossible to believe. You look at Hannibal and then look back at the phone, realizing what you need to do. Taking a deep breath, you bring a shaky hand up and press the speaker button. Despite every instinct in your body screaming at you, you take a small step forward—and another—until Hannibal is close enough to the phone. For a moment, he stares down at the device pensively. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grabs your wrist and tugs you closer—evidently to get to the phone. You glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal remarks, voice laced with amusement as he grasps your hand—the phone, you tell yourself—with unshakeable strength.  Despite the severity of the situation, you can’t do anything but roll your eyes at his chosen greeting. It seems Hannibal’s dramatics know no bounds. Even when his very freedom is threatened, he will continue to wear his carved mask of politeness and elegance. You try to listen for Jack’s response. There’s still silence on the other end—Jack is probably dispatching a unit as you speak. You’re sure Jack himself will be on his way before long. 

Indeed, Jack confirms that a team is on the way. He hangs up and your phone screen fades to black. Despite the call’s termination, Hannibal is still holding your wrist. “Can I have my hand back?” you ask wryly. You try to shake his grip off and pull away, but he doesn’t budge. Your heart is racing as you try to find an escape. Hannibal doesn’t seem keen to let go, instead looking at you with mild amusement written all over his face. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an idea. You attempt to shake off his grip once more, knowing it will not work. The moment you try to pull your wrist back, you take advantage of the momentum and aim a harsh kick just above his knee. Per your expectations, he doesn’t anticipate the attack and is forced to fall down to a kneeling position to avoid falling over. You lock eyes with him and tear his grip off.

Hannibal looks up at you on bended knee, entirely silent. You begin to realize just what you’ve done—you just disrespected him. You were the epitome of the rudeness Hannibal abhors. You swallow. If you weren’t dead before, you’re certainly dead now. The Ripper is still silent, before tilting his head down to hide his face. Fuck, you’ve really done it this time. You feel yourself taking an instinctual half step backwards, and you’re moments away from turning on your heel and running when you hear an odd sound. 

Hannibal is laughing, you realize. It’s a far cry from the typical gesture of joy you’d associate with laughter, but his amusement is still evident. He brings his head up once more and regards you with interest. “You never fail to surprise me,” he remarks amiably, getting to his feet and pushing the dust from his pant leg with a quick swiping motion. Hannibal doesn’t give your threat any consideration, instead simply regarding you with that same eerie look you’ve grown to associate with his full attention. 

Your hand twitches to grab the bloodstained knife at your side. You imagine yourself plunging the blade into Hannibal’s side, watching his smirk falter and his victorious expression crumple. The vindictive thought thrills you for a second, before you come back to yourself and feel immense revulsion and disgust. Hannibal almost seems to sense the mental gymnastics you're going through, as an intrigued expression flickers across his face before it’s gone in a flash. 

Truthfully, you don’t know how long you stand there—across from Hannibal, staring him down as he stares you down, prey regarding predator—until Jack arrives. It feels like an eternity. Time seems to entirely stop during those moments. Somehow, the quiet is more informative than a conversation ever could be. You don’t need words—not when you can see the tight line drawn across Hannibal’s shoulders, the persistence in his gaze. 

Even eternity must come to an end, though. Police sirens blink in the distance, drawing you away from your thoughts. You watch as several police cars find their way to your driveway. Jack sits in the passenger seat of the car at the front, and he’s quick to step out of the car. S.W.A.T. officers swarm out of the cars, weapons pointed at Hannibal. There is a horrible tension settling in the air, thick enough to make your breaths occur just a little faster.

Despite the exorbitant amount of fully-armed S.W.A.T officers, you’re still afraid. Hannibal is closest to you. If he wanted to, he could kill you—even with so many people present. You don’t doubt his strength or agility. These recognitions leave your heart drumming in your chest at an incessantly quick rhythm. You glance over at Jack and he nods, holding a hand up to the officers and walking towards you. 

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack remarks. Even now, he is incredibly composed. You latch onto his composure and try to emulate it, though you know it won’t look convincing enough. The headlights from the cars are blinding and you turn your head, giving your burning eyes a brief reprieve. 

“Jack,” Hannibal responds, his hands raised in the air in surrender. The Ripper is indeed powerless, yet the gesture looks mocking. A few officers step closer and surround Hannibal, who kneels down with his arms still raised high. “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper.” His hands move to rest behind his head. 

Jack stares at the killer with an indecipherable expression. “You surrendered.”

“I want you to know exactly where I am,” Hannibal responds to Jack. After that remark, his head turns and dread rises in your chest as you realize he’s looking towards you. His eyes are glittering in the moonlight. “And where you can always find me.” You’re frozen, limbs locked as his crimson eyes pierce through you. 

Vaguely, you hear Jack order for Hannibal to be placed in his car. The officers pull Hannibal up from his knees and escort him to the police car. The Ripper’s gaze is locked on you until he enters the vehicle. Jack remains where he stands, sending you a look. You incline your head slightly, to wordlessly encourage him to leave you. Jack seems hesitant to do so, but his sense of responsibility must win out, because he walks back towards the car. You still feel as if you’re being watched, and you get the feeling Hannibal is staring at you from behind the dark tinted glass. The police car slowly reverses out of your driveway, before heading down your street and eventually out of sight. 

You purse your lips, before walking back up the steps to your porch. Everything seemed to have happened far too fast. In the blink of an eye, you’re left to stand alone, with nothing but your conflicting feelings of grief, anger, and remorse for company.  Memories burrow their way under your skin. Each breath is a testament to your own cruelty. 

Inexplicably, you reach up to touch the jagged scar cutting down your face. Your fingertips brush against the marred skin and you jolt. Your abdomen burns in remembrance. Hannibal Lecter has given you the quiet evenings, the comfortable silence settling in the air, and the thrill of an attentive, burning gaze that sends warm embers dancing up your skin.

But he has taken so much more from you in return.

Gone is the gentle caress of a hand on your cheek and the comfort of having unquestionable support. Gone is the hard-won feeling of being truly seen for who you are. Gone is the excitement, the anticipation of knowing that your companion can never truly be predicted. All of it is gone. 

You look up at the moon glimmering in the dark night sky. You idly wonder if Hannibal sees it too. It’s a foolish thought. His cell likely won’t have windows. He has probably been confined to four walls of cement, a metal toilet, and a thin, dingy mattress on a cold metal frame. There is no hope for someone like Hannibal—he will earn several life sentences and spend his entire life in that cage. You have to wonder: why? Why would he surrender?

It was a tactical surrender—that much you know for certain. Hannibal could easily have spent the rest of his life moving from place to place, taking on new identity after new identity. He could have spent however long he wanted, camouflaged but free. 

Freedom. Maybe that’s the answer. After all, that kind of aggressive mimicry is not necessarily freedom. Hannibal Lecter values being an enigma. The mystery that surrounds him, in part, relies on his reputation. Life spent in hiding isn’t really life at all. Even someone like Hannibal—someone with arguably everything to lose—would understand that sentiment. 

You exhale slowly, watching as your puff of breath fades into the air. You suppose Hannibal’s statement may have carried some truth. You will always know where to find him; you won’t be able to bury the memory of him next to the other skeletons in your closet and leave him to rot. Whenever your psyche falters, Hannibal will be there—imprisoned within your mind palace, gathering strength and lying in wait. 

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out, momentarily surprised by the time displayed. It’s getting late. You hadn’t realized how long you spent lost in thought. When you answer, your voice sounds unfamiliar to your ears. 

“Crawford,” Jack clarifies, cutting right to the chase, “We got him.” There is no further explanation needed. 

“We got him, Jack,” you echo. The recognition sounds hollow, empty. Your gaze is pulled towards your driveway once more. Jack’s voice reaches your ears, but you can’t discern what he’s saying over the ringing in your ears. 

Hannibal Lecter is behind bars now, yet you’re the one who feels trapped. You’re a prisoner—trapped in a cage of your own broken design.