defective hero

Summary:

Mr. Wright’s lofty ideas for prison reform require a hefty amount of testing in order to become reality. And who would make a better guinea pig than Prosecutor Simon Blackquill—a convict for 7 years, recently freed of his charges? Of course, Mr. Wright is rather busy these days… so the responsibility of teaching supplementary lessons on technology and reintegration into society falls to Apollo himself. What a joy.

typical warnings apply!

The brisk air’s silence is only broken by the occasional breath from Hannibal or you. It’s a bit of a cold night, but not unbearable. Hannibal’s suit is torn on one arm. You think there’s blood on your face somewhere. The two of you are almost trapped in this moment. You’re not sure if you want to escape it, but you must. You have to. Right?

Your fingers twitch at your side. Every logical part of you knows what to do: knows to remain here, among the wreckage. Waiting for Jack to arrive. Waiting to be told what to do. Waiting, waiting, waiting. You’ve never had the luxury of taking initiative, of making decisions that truly felt like yours. 

Everything still feels like a blur: your conversation with Dolarhyde, the ensuing fight, Hannibal’s sudden appearance. Hannibal saved your life. He could’ve left you to die… but he didn’t. 

“Thank you,” you manage to say. The remark leaves your lips far too easily.  

“You’re welcome,” Hannibal responds. In that moment, he knows he has you.

“I thought I was about to meet my end,” you admit breathlessly. Your throat burns from Dolarhyde’s grip. You cough, clear your throat. The effort does nothing to quell the nervous energy vibrating along your skin. “A watery grave,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. Your lungs burn from the Dragon’s claws digging into your throat. 

“In your tomb by the sounding sea,” Hannibal says. It takes you a moment to recognize the adjusted line from Annabel Lee. Of course Hannibal’s quoting Edgar Allan Poe. Of course he is. You stare at him for a long moment, wondering just how you’re supposed to respond to that. Then you remember part of a stanza from the poem: 

And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. 

Your stomach turns in unease. “I’m no maiden,” you remind him. 

Hannibal’s attention is so intense, you feel as if you’re being ripped apart. “No,” he agrees. He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by your objection. Perhaps he was expecting it. But your attention is soon captured by a perplexing idea: namely, the reasoning for why he mentioned the poem. Hannibal is hopelessly intentional. He would only make mention of it if it was relevant to the matter at hand. 

There’s one obvious conclusion to come to: one that’s been staring you in the face these long years. You have fought it off at some junctures, embraced it at others. The evidence has been piling up since the moment the two of you met: Hannibal wants to govern your thoughts.

Little does he know, he already does—at least, to a certain extent. Hannibal is always making his presence known in the twisting halls of your mind palace, his steps sure and quiet yet echoing in your ears all the same. 

Your hand twitches at your side. You want to do… something. You’re not quite sure what that something is, but you suspect it to be violent in nature. The knife in your hand feels heavy and light all at once, the blade glimmering in the dim moonlight. Dolarhyde’s blood drips from it, an inky black in the darkness. 

Hannibal locks eyes with you, sees the ferocity dripping from your fingers. Then he laughs delightedly. You want to be annoyed, instinctually. But you recognize the gesture for what it is: he’s amused, almost anticipative. He would not mind if you killed him, you think. 

“Shall we?” Hannibal hums, tearing you away from your thoughts. You blink and come back to yourself, only to find the bloodied pavement where Dolarhyde’s corpse once was to be empty. Hannibal must’ve thrown his body off the cliff, leaving him to sink beneath the treacherous waters below. He evidently disposed of the bloody knife in the same manner; the gun rests at his side. 

With a pointed clearing of his throat, Hannibal demands your attention. You watch as he reaches out, offers you a hand. 

…You take it far too quickly. His grip is deceptively light, but you’re not foolish enough to think you can escape it. Hannibal’s compassion is always illusory. He is always giving you these allowances, as if even the smallest of your actions is only permitted by his approval (or, even, his disapproval). 

If your hand shakes, he makes no mention of it. If your heart races, if your ears ring, if your eyes somehow can’t drift away from his presence at your side… he makes no indication of noticing. But you know he does notice. There is very little that escapes his attention. He is purposefully leaving these things unacknowledged, giving you some semblance of freedom. 

But you have never been free. The thought drags you back to the time spent visiting Hannibal in his cell, irritation and unease and restlessness clawing at your skin and ripping it away. A gilded cage is still a cage, you remember thinking. That same thought haunts you now. You are not a mere onlooker any longer. You are now an accomplice. 

“Where will you go, exactly?” you ask. Your skin is thrumming, urging you to make one final move on the chessboard. (As if the pieces haven’t already been cleared, as if victory hasn’t already been declared.)

Hannibal’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly at your question. You want to laugh. “We will go to Europe,” Hannibal responds. His eyes find yours, as if daring you to argue. 

“Lithuania?” you ask instead, your voice dripping with faux innocence.

Hannibal smiles, a venomous thing. “Italy,” he says, completely dodging your attempt to bring up his past. But, his smooth misdirection is an answer in and of itself. He doesn’t wish to go back to the country he lived in as a child, because it was never a home. Interesting. 

Hannibal’s hand slips from yours when you reach his car, as he opens the passenger door for you before heading around the vehicle to take the driver’s seat. You watch as he calmly starts the car, the engine slowly humming to life. You’re quiet, only observing as he glances behind him and pulls out of the driveway. Despite the knowledge that his attention must be captured by driving, you swear you catch him glancing at you multiple times. The gestures are so quick and subtle that you eventually write them off. 

You’re silent as Hannibal drives, your thoughts running a mile a minute as you attempt to rationalize your own behavior. Why are you letting this happen? 

“No one has captivated me as you do,” he admits, his voice a swift and firm departure from the uncomfortable silence. The confession clings to the air long after it’s uttered. For several minutes, you’re speechless. 

“That’s… not good,” you settle for saying weakly. Somehow, that’s all you can bear to say. 

“It isn’t,” Hannibal agrees. 

“Will you eat me?” you ask slowly, dreading the answer. He has scarred you before—he could easily do it again. 

“No,” he responds with inexplicable certainty. 

“My lungs are inedible, unfortunately,” you say after a few moments, your fingers jittering restlessly against your thigh.  

“Yes, you made sure of that, didn’t you?” Hannibal remarks, referencing your smoking addiction nonchalantly. You inhale sharply, not expecting him to catch on so easily. But you know better than to give him a verbal response, instead clasping your hands in your lap and letting your gaze wander across the scenery outside. Hannibal’s intended destination quickly becomes clear, as he drives down your street and soon pulls into your driveway. 

The familiarity with which he rounds the car and opens your door for you… The strange air of domesticity settling over this moment… You have to make a concerted effort to unlock your front door instead of thinking about such things. 

“You were here recently,” you recall as you enter your home. Just the other day, in fact. You can’t see Hannibal’s expression behind you, can only hear the slight satisfaction in his voice. 

“Yes,” he confirms easily. Hannibal nudges the door shut behind him, polite as always. (He knows better than to leave fingerprints behind. His hands rest at his sides, despite the strange look on his face that almost suggests he wishes to explore the space further.)

“You stole my knife,” you point out as you make your way through the living room, “and took a shower?” You’re sure your disbelief is obvious. 

“The facilities at Baltimore State Hospital left much to be desired.” Hannibal’s gaze wanders across the various surfaces of your home, as if searching for remnants of you. He’s unknowingly chasing after dust and shadows. This house hasn’t felt like a home for a while now. 

“I’m curious about why you decided to come here,” you hum as you head to your bedroom and start packing your bag. Gods, what the hell are you doing? You need to stop, you need to put your foot down and stay here. You’re— You’re throwing your entire life away. Everything you fought for: your career at the FBI, the relationships you cultivated with your coworkers and peers. It will all go down the drain. You have to fight off your spiraling thoughts, refocusing on the conversation. 

“This isn’t the place you would visit to go unnoticed,” you remark, before realizing the error in your thinking aloud. “Wait. You wanted me to notice, didn’t you?”

A smile. “Yes, I did.”

It’s so quiet, he can probably hear you swallow. You bite the inside of your cheek and reach under your nightstand, grabbing your dagger and securing it to the inside of your boot. You try your best to be subtle about it, but in Hannibal’s presence, it’s virtually impossible to do anything unnoticeable. 

“There’s a dagger in your boot,” Hannibal remarks at some point, as you finish gathering your things. 

“There is, yes,” you answer, not bothering to lie. Hannibal already knows. “Never know when you may need it,” you say somewhat breathlessly, affected by his proximity. You quickly brush past him, slinging your bag over your shoulder. After one last look at the life you built, you step through the doorway and settle on the porch. It almost seems to take Hannibal a few moments to recover from your remark, but eventually he emerges from your house and allows you to lock the door behind you. 

You run your fingertips along your keys, the occasional jab of pain grounding you to the present. It’s hard not to sneak glances at Hannibal as he drives, cataloguing anything and everything that has changed since he was last free. But your attention is quickly captured by another unsettling concept: you have no idea what happens next. Hannibal said you’re going to Italy, but how are you going to get there? Airport security these days is no joke—Hannibal wouldn’t stand a chance at traditional international travel. 

Then again, Hannibal doesn’t really do traditional, you realize as he pulls onto what appears to be a small runway. There’s a jet resting in the center of the space. Your brow furrows as you watch Hannibal exit the car and shake hands with some stranger (evidently the pilot). Then his gaze finds yours and you realize you’ve been lingering by the car awkwardly. 

You’re nervous as you head up the steps and settle into the seat across from Hannibal, tense and restless as you look anywhere but at the man across from you. You’re not even sure just where your fear is coming from: uprooting your whole career, leaving your home and job, flying, being in Hannibal’s company… It’s all nerve-wracking. It’s somewhat of a miracle you haven’t fallen headfirst into a panic attack. (And not for lack of trying. Your thoughts have been a hot mess recently.)

“You seem uncomfortable,” Hannibal says as the jet’s engines roar and the plane takes off. If he were one for offense, you think he’d sound offended. But he only sounds contemplative. Perhaps there’s an echo of something in his voice—something resembling genuine emotion. You quickly suppress the thought.

“I am uncomfortable,” you admit. Nothing about this situation is normal or comforting. You’re on a private flight to Europe with the cannibal you spent years hunting down. As the jet climbs higher in the sky, you’re forced to come to terms with the recognition that you will never be able to return to your old life. “I think… I’ll be uncomfortable for a while.”

“You made your choice,” Hannibal states. Is he trying to reassure you or himself? It’s hard to tell. 

“I did,” you nod. You run your fingers along the elegant upholstery of the seat. You’re not used to such luxury. It seems needless, unnecessary. Yet Hannibal appears at home within it, surrounded by elegance and refinement. You have always wondered, in the dead of night, if Hannibal’s refined tastes double as camouflage. You’re not sure if you’ll ever truly know. 

“I’m grateful,” Hannibal states. Your neck nearly snaps with how quickly you look up at him again. Your hands are shaking, you think. You can’t even begin to acknowledge the implications of that statement. 

“I’ve never flown like this before,” you confess, trying to change the subject. Everything’s making you nervous. You can already feel a pressure migraine coming on, searing through your cheekbones and dripping down your jaw. Your adrenaline from the fight is slowly fading, even in Hannibal’s presence—leaving room for fatigue and exhaustion to set in. Your eyes burn when you blink. You don’t know what’s happening. You don’t know what’s happening, you don’t know—

“It’s relaxing,” Hannibal admits, dragging your attention back to him. “Moreso than a normal flight. And far quicker.”

You take a slow breath in, out. Try to remember why you’re here. What you chose. How you’ll proceed. Why you’ve done this to yourself. You’ve never been the best at handling change, yet here you are: hundreds of thousands of miles in the air, across from someone who can and will tear your throat out without hesitation. You’ve made far better decisions. 

“What will you do in Europe?” you question. You don’t need to elaborate. 

“Survive,” Hannibal responds. 

“I can see you thriving,” you remark, glancing out the window and watching as the jet carves a path through the air. The clouds are a pale grey, unassuming. There’s a powerful sense of foreboding clinging to your skin now. Not only have you abandoned your old life, but you’ve abandoned security, safety. Hell, you’ve abandoned your identity. You can’t walk around with the same name anymore. Any progress you made? Gone. It’s terrifying. And… maybe a little bit exhilarating too. 

“Perhaps,” Hannibal acknowledges. 

“Some people don’t want to survive.” An observation. You should stop there. This conversation is quickly veering into dangerous territory, and you’re the one to blame. You need to stop talking, you need to keep your lips pressed shut firmly enough to hurt, you need your teeth to dig into your gums and rip them to shreds, you need need need need— “Sometimes it has to be fought off… the urge to welcome death.” 

This time, Hannibal’s eyes snap to yours. You’re digging your nails into the skin of your palms. You can’t meet his eyes—don’t want to see the comprehension reflected in them. It must be nice, you think to yourself, to not have all the answers. To still have that kind of wanderlust, that hunger for knowledge without recognizing the consequences. But Hannibal and you are somewhat similar in that regard: you have both been burdened with knowing better. 

“I presumed you were feeling better.” Hannibal’s voice is an anchor to reality and a departure from it all at once. 

You shrug, your tongue locking itself to the roof of your mouth. It’s easy to forget that Hannibal was once your therapist. You used to discuss things like this with him. You used to have someone like that to talk to: someone who understood you. 

“Tell me,” he implores you. 

So you do.

You’re not so deluded as to think it’ll be the same as before—it clearly isn’t. It’s very different. But it’s… good. You don’t have to keep such a close eye on your words. You don’t have to speak in riddles. You don’t have to tiptoe around the Ripper and the conflicted feelings he stirs within you. Because Hannibal and you are on the same level now. You no longer have an advantage—a notion that is both frightening and relieving. 

“You don’t fully trust me,” Hannibal says some time later, when you’ve ripped yourself apart and hastily put the misshapen pieces back together. 

It takes you far too long to respond. “No,” you confess. Although, it’s hardly a confession if you’re both aware of it. 

“Wise of you,” he acknowledges. You laugh at the thought. Wise. You haven’t been truly wise in a long, long time. 

As your exhaustion from the day’s events threatens to overtake you, your thoughts begin to leave your lips unfiltered. “I’d prefer that you didn’t take my other kidney. Just so we’re clear.” Your eyelids are stinging. You’re so, so tired. (A kind of fatigue you know sleep can’t fix.)

“Perfectly,” Hannibal says, far too sincerely for your liking. Then a wry smile rises on his lips. “And I’m afraid you need that one, my dear.” 

“For now,” you mutter darkly. Hannibal chuckles. You don’t think you said anything particularly funny. Then again, Hannibal’s amusement is often confusing. 

You fall asleep too quickly to see the fondness glimmering in his eyes.

You wake some time later to a headache and a prickling feeling across your skin. As your surroundings begin to clarify, you remember yourself. You’re flying to Italy with Hannibal Lecter. And… he’s staring at you intently. 

“Were you watching me sleep?” you ask, not sure if you want to hear the answer. 

“Yes.” Hannibal doesn’t bother to deny it. 

You just sigh.

“I’m surprised you were able to sleep,” Hannibal remarks. The way he utters that statement makes you think he’s preventing himself from saying more. 

“Why?” you eventually ask, taking the bait. 

“We are at our most vulnerable, in our sleep,” he answers. 

“I’m very tired,” you justify. Neither of you believe it. 

“Sure.”

You roll your eyes. Hannibal just smiles. He looks weirdly content—and has appeared that way ever since you first took his hand. Does your company really provide him with so much joy? You can only hope you live long enough to find out.

Your new home in Europe is… more lavish than you were expecting. Hannibal brings you to a stately home, two floors with elegant architecture and arched doorways. It doesn’t rid you of the foreboding in your chest—the bone-deep feeling that something will go wrong. As time passes and you start to acclimate to this new environment, you slowly unlearn that paranoia and wariness. But it takes effort. 

Against all odds, the FBI doesn’t come looking for you. You have to wonder if everyone thinks you’re dead—that you fell into the raging waters beneath the cliffside, as you were fighting Dolarhyde. You’re not nearly as remorseful about the whole thing as you thought you would be. You’re starting to learn that your old life was… Well. It was good. You made it for yourself. But somewhere along the way, you grew bored and bogged down by the same routine that was supposed to comfort you. 

Despite the FBI’s continued search for Hannibal, he lives a life of charismatic luxury here in Europe—as he charms many of the locals. Few are suspicious of him; everyone loves him. It’s somewhat amusing to see Hannibal like this—he seems so much more in his element. He frequently attends art exhibitions and dinner parties. You prefer to remain in the periphery, detached from the luxury and pretense of it all. (As if that will somehow absolve you of your countless sins. As if your crimes can ever be forgiven.)

Strangely enough, Hannibal hasn’t been nearly as active as he was before. He still seems to indulge in the occasional human organ, which you adamantly refuse to acknowledge or participate in. But his appetite here in Italy seems far less voracious than it was in America. While before, it seemed like he was trying to attract attention, now Hannibal seems content with slipping under the radar. Almost as if… he was trying to remain firmly fixed in someone’s sights… and now that he is… 

You shake your head. It’ll do you no good to get distracted by these thoughts. The truth of the matter is that you still feel out of place. Hannibal has created something of a place for himself here. But you… you still feel like an outsider. You’re not sure what it is, exactly. Maybe it’s just the fact that Hannibal’s type of people aren’t really your type of people. Dinner parties aren’t your scene. But it’s hardly proper to complain about having more than you could ever need. Right? Who cares if you lost your old life, your friends, yourself? Because you have Hannibal. And that’s enough. Right?

These thoughts run through your mind as you stare at Hannibal one night, watching him read quietly on the bed. You’re standing in the middle of the room, unable to tear your eyes away from him. He’s captivating. You’ve denied yourself that truth for years now. Hannibal is beautiful. But… beautiful things are often dangerous.

“Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me,” Hannibal recites from his well-loved copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. You blink and look over at him, only to find he’s already looking at you. “I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit.” There’s an accountability lingering in his gaze. This isn’t a mere recitation. There’s a question written between the lines of that statement.

“You’d be surprised,” you mutter wryly before you can stop yourself, before you can hide the strange expression ripping through the skin of your face. You try to move past it, but it’s too late: Hannibal has already fixated on your reaction. You’ve already tripped his snare. 

“Would I be surprised?” Hannibal muses, looking up from his book once more as he focuses on you. Your lips are pressed together firmly as you stare at him. If Hannibal is bothered by your silence, he doesn’t show it. “You have killed before,” he states instead. “Garret Jacob Hobbs, Frederick Chilton, Abel Gideon.”

You try to fight the strange compulsion of honesty brewing in your chest. But you’re fooling yourself. You have never been able to hide from Hannibal for very long. The two of you see each other far too well. And as you rifle through your thoughts, Hannibal just waits in silence. (He waited for years—a few minutes is child’s play.) 

The name tears through your esophagus on its way up your throat, shredding your skin and filling your mouth with the taste of blood and bile. “Clark Ingram.” 

Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow. He looks mildly perplexed. “Who?” You have to fight off a laugh at the unapologetic confusion on his face. It’s hardly obvious, but you’ve grown used to reading between the lines of his expressions. Right now, he seems both bewildered and slightly irritated by his own ignorance. 

“He was a psychiatrist,” you explain slowly, nearly tripping over the words. “He killed over a dozen people, buried their corpses in a field.” Your hands move about restlessly as you try to gather your thoughts, fighting off the nauseating memory of the victims’ bodies buried in a symmetrical line across that grassy plain. 

“And he deserved death,” Hannibal hums. It’s a question, despite the certainty with which he speaks. 

“Yes,” you confirm, your fists clenching at the memory of his cruelty. You remember the horrible pit in your stomach at the sight of the burial grounds he created for his victims. There’s the familiar sting of acid at the back of your throat. “Prison would not have been enough for him.” You feel a familiar prickling in your eyes, tears building. You settle for clenching your jaw and fighting the frustration off. 

“Prison is dehumanizing; it may have been enough.” Ah, and Hannibal’s speaking from experience now, isn’t he? You struggle not to let out a sarcastic remark at his comment. He senses you don’t like that answer. Before you can say anything more—make a dig at Hannibal and his insatiable pride—he’s continuing to speak.

“You wanted to see him die,” Hannibal maintains, almost narrating as he gets up and takes a step closer to you. His book rests entirely abandoned on the bed, his attention captured elsewhere. His eyes almost seem to glimmer, even in the dim light. “At your own hand.” 

“Nothing premeditated,” you clarify. Like it really matters. “I went to speak with one of the stable hands who had been present when they found a victim. He was acting a bit strangely, guarding the corpse of the horse she was found in. They had taken the dead foal from the mother’s womb, leaving it empty. But it wasn’t empty when I arrived.”

“Ingram was in there,” you recall with disgust. You can almost feel the heat swarming around you, the disgusting humidity of the organs wrapping around your form. You’ve had nightmares about it—being torn from the horse’s womb, only to find Hannibal, Gideon, the Dragon, Ingram, Chilton staring down at you. “I cut him out. He lunged at the stable hand, I raised my gun.” If Hannibal notices you’re keeping the description of this “stable hand” infuriatingly vague, he doesn’t comment. You’re grateful—Peter Bernardone is one of the few people you like. (One of the many people you lost, to this seemingly insurmountable distance, to this new life.)

“You shot him,” Hannibal concludes for you. 

You don’t bother answering that. “I thought of you,” you blurt out instead before you can stop yourself. Hannibal’s eyes are glittering dangerously now. You feel like a fish on a hook, speared through the roof of your mouth as you’re slowly dragged to the predator in front of you. “If you would stop me. It was a few years ago,” you recall. “I think you would have.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal acknowledges. A quirk of his lips, another step forward. “I would’ve hated to do it.” 

“I know,” you murmur. You haven’t budged, despite Hannibal’s approach. “But it doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.”

“He is,” he acquiesces, seeming almost pleased. “There was no one to stop you.”

“No,” you agree after a moment.

“Did he beg for his life?” Hannibal asks lightly. By the tone of his voice, you would almost say the question is casual and innocent. But it is far from innocuous. You know Hannibal is building the scene in his head, imagining the blood splattered at your feet from Ingram’s rapid gestures; the fury running through your veins; the eerie stillness with which you held your weapon. 

“Yes, he begged,” you say, the words ringing through the air with the force of a gunshot. 

“You didn’t listen,” Hannibal smiles. Another jolt of fear. He takes another step, settling before you. There is comprehension, understanding, intrigue, excitement, obsession in his eyes. You should not have told him this. 

“I didn’t listen,” you remember to confirm, when he raises a brow expectantly. 

“You think of him often,” Hannibal asserts, a smirk teasing his lips. 

“The light leaving his eyes, the look on his face… the pit in my stomach,” you answer, the words tasting bitter as you utter them. 

“It made you feel alive,” Hannibal observes.

“...Yes,” you say very quietly. He still hears it, because the distance between the two of you has been rendered inconsequential. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond verbally, but his hand carves a tauntingly slow path through the air. You don’t flinch, although you know you should. When did your body stop reacting to Hannibal warily? When did you grow to accept his intimidating presence? When did you abandon self-preservation and allow yourself to remain pliant beneath his grip? You used to recoil, writhe, fight and escape it. But now, you just freeze. 

Hannibal’s eyes explore your face. His hand rests on your shoulder after a visible moment’s contemplation. 

“I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man should ever give to a friend,” Hannibal admits in the quiet air. Another recitation, yet he utters it with such emotion and nuance that you find it hard to connect to another’s words. 

“I have never been quite sure,” you admit after a moment, swallowing hard. The air feels stiff and warm, heavy and uncompromising. “—what we are.” 

“You said I am an enigma,” Hannibal remembers. “In kind, you are something of a mystery to me.” 

“I can’t be a mystery forever,” you answer, trying to make him understand the fundamental disconnect between you both. “You, maybe. But not me.” You have kept things from Hannibal, but it will only be so long before he rips your ribs apart and lays your soul bare. He will lose interest eventually. 

Hannibal frowns at the statement. “A misguided notion,” he chastises you, his hand tracing the line of your shoulder. Your heart stutters in your chest. Everything around you seems to freeze in anticipation. His hand finds your collarbone, your throat, your jaw. “You have been, and always will be, endlessly fascinating to me.”

Before you can process that statement, Hannibal’s hand slips from your face and he walks away, leaving you to stare after him yet again. How many times have you watched him retreat? Yet… he comes back each and every time. Yet, no matter what you say or do, he returns to you. You had always likened yourself to a puppet on his string… but is he not the same? Is he not tethered to you, in return? 

“You have him on a leash, don’t you?” Abel Gideon had said once. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.” 

You had dismissed the remark at the time, thought it an exaggeration or a joke. But now, as you stare at the neglected book on the bed you share with Hannibal, you have to wonder if it holds a semblance of truth. 

On quiet nights like these, Hannibal loves to remind you that you wouldn’t have been able to evade him for long. He never would have been far, supposedly. In another world—one in which you didn’t abandon your friends and betray the FBI—you would be frightened at the thought. But in this solitary existence shared only between you and Hannibal, the thought is comforting. 

Despite Hannibal’s reassurances, it’s easy to still wonder if you made the right choice. You miss your friends: Beverly; Freddie; hell, even Jack. This life with Hannibal is lavish, luxurious… but it is also lonely. It’s just the two of you: forever bound to each other with unspeakable acts of cruelty. 

…Then again, there are far worse fates.

You still have nightmares, for example. But now, there is someone to wake you from them—someone to hold you in gentle (bloodstained) hands and reassure you that everything will be alright. You still have your doubts, but then you see the way Hannibal looks at you: as if you’re his entire world. You think you will soon be utterly consumed by him. And your worst fear is that you won’t oppose him—rather, you’ll invite him to unhinge his jaw and engulf you. You fear you won’t flee or fight, but instead embrace the pain. 

Because there is nothing else left for you. Because it is just the two of you, bonded to one another through cruelty, pride, pain, antipathy. You are enmeshed in bloodied skin; murky waters concealing unknown depths; fleeting, vicious smiles; and unspoken vulnerabilities lingering in the air. 

Hannibal Lecter defines you. His voice reaches your ears, even in the begrudging silence of your solitude. “I imagine the Ripper feels as if no one understands him,” he told you in his office all those years ago. Sometimes, you can close your eyes and see his expectant gaze; feel those damn armchairs inching closer and closer together. “No one, except, perhaps, you.”

“...That’s not love,” you had said, despite suspecting otherwise. If only you had known just how far you would fall. Just how much of yourself would be lost, in the hunt to decipher someone else. “That’s just… understanding.” 

“To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal stated with certainty. 

“I fear the ordinary mind wouldn’t be able to handle his love,” you reasoned. 

“You’re far from ordinary,” Hannibal argued. 

Looking back, you had known what he meant—but you didn’t want to believe it. Hell, you had known Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper from that fateful night when he found you sleepwalking on the road. Yet, you ignored the facts for so long… and for what? For those circular conversations, late at night in his extravagant office? For those tense moments, when the silence just seemed to drag on forever? For Franklyn Froideveaux’s corpse, neatly gift-wrapped and placed in your office—practically addressed to your attention?  

While Franklyn’s murder may have been the first poem Hannibal wrote for you, it’s certainly not the last. And you soon find yourself devouring the words with rapt attention, profound feelings settling in your chest amidst the phantom wreckage of your old life. 

You haven’t been the same since Hannibal Lecter. The moment you locked eyes in Jack’s office, your destiny had been written in elegant swooping lines. 

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

ENDNOTES:

I am a SLUT for Edgar Allan Poe and Oscar Wilde, y’all. It had to be done. This fic is self-indulgent. Also. I’m very proud of the “I’m no maiden” line, since it works for readers of any gender!!! For anyone who identifies other than female, it’s more literal; but it even works for fem readers, as the line then asserts the reader’s autonomy and independence. Mwahhahahha!

I really hope the conversations between Hannibal & the reader were as confusing, circular, and twisted as I wanted them to be. Sobs. I tried my best to cultivate a persistent tension throughout the entire chapter 🙏

Anyways, wow. Wow. I can’t believe we’re at the end. This is crazy. I’ve greatly enjoyed each and every moment of writing this story, and I’m so honored by all the attention and engagement it’s gotten. All of your likes, reblogs, and comments have kept me going. My life has changed a lot since I first started writing this series, but the one constant is the enjoyment I’ve gotten from writing these fics.

I’m so so grateful for your support. I really hope you enjoyed this series as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave a comment if you did! I’d love to hear it. <3

I’ll still be around, writing reader-insert pieces. Hannibal is never far from my mind, so there will likely be more oneshots to come. And who knows, maybe I’ll get that second ending for this story posted eventually. I have an Abigail oneshot idea too. But no promises!!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you! 🖤🔪

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