' ᶤ ᵃᵐ ᵗʰᵉ ᵇᵉᵃˢᵗ ᶤ ʷᵒʳˢʰᶤᵖ ⁻

HAVE      THE     LAMBS      STOPPED        SCREAMING ?      a      study      of      hannibal       lecter    from   the    thomas   harris   book   series   &    nbc  hannibal. rules     /    written  by  mr . moon.   est. 2015.   

for once,  harleen stays put.  even the thought of lowering herself to the ground overwhelms her,  her body begging for just a few minutes of rest.   her mind,  too,  is desperate for rest —- the adrenaline that carried her all the way here is finally starting to taper,  and harley is glad to give the burden of decision wholly to hannibal.  if she does as he says,  the outcome becomes his responsibility. 

trauma.  the word burns through her skin,  drips into her bloodstream,  starts to erode away her soul. she wants to reject his assessment.  if being locked in a bathroom for three days at seven didn’t traumatize her —- if letting thugs beat her father to death at sixteen didn’t —- then how could this?  how could she have escaped the consequences of her upbringing for twenty-seven years only to be damaged now? 

( she didn’t escape.  she was never going to escape. ) 

when hannibal returns,  harleen’s staring at his knife block.  she keeps staring until he’s right in front of her,  and it’s only reluctantly that she turns back to him.  harleen quinzel is tired of being afraid.  she shakes her head,  lips pressing tightly together. “ do you have any ibuprofen? ” she wants to feel it.  as long as her body hurts,  her heart won’t.

harleen wants to look away,  wants to let her admission slip out of her as a whisper and float away somewhere they’ll both forget about it.  we don’t have to talk about it, she wants to plead.  instead,  she stares hannibal straight in the eyes and tells him what she should have told him weeks ago. “ it will when they find out i covered the cameras and let him out of his straitjacket.  i told the guards not to interrupt our sessions,  hannibal.  i’m responsible for this. ”

an  unspeakable  look  fights  it’s  way  onto  hannibal’s  stoic  face,  the  corner’s  of  his  mouth  pulled  taut.     harley  covered  the  camera’s.   she  let  him  out  of  the  strait  jacket.   the  absolute  foolishness  of  it  all  draws  him  back,   turning  his  head  towards  the  clock  on  the  wall.    the  sound  of  ticking  accompanies  the  disappointment  he  feels,   a  divine  hold  on  his  high  expectations.    what  is  done  out  of  love  is  beyond  good  &  evil,   yet  it  was  the  stupidity  that  he  cannot  abide  by  -  

❝   i   .  .  .     i  can’t  be  connected  to  this.   ❞       the  hand  with  the  pills  closes,   pocketing  them.    he  uses  this  feigned  indifference  to  grab  the  bag,  snapping  it  closed.

❝   tell  me  you  didn’t  drive  your  car  here,  harley.    ❞

self  preservation  pulls  the  threading  of  his  mask  back  together,  cleanly  cleaving  himself  a  foot  of  room  from  the  woman.    a  moment  later  he  picks  the  bag  up,   only  to  place  it  back  onto  the  counter  with  a  dull  thud,   the  white - knuckled  grip  becoming  tighter.   hannibal  hangs  his  head,   sighing.

𝒀𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮   𝑨𝑺𝑲𝑺  :     ❛❛   i no longer know where i end and you begin.  you’ve wound yourself around my soul so tightly,  you’re all i feel anymore.   ❜❜

@desanguined​​

❛❛      it feels that way  ,   ❜❜      hannibal  sways  through  his  garden,  arms  held  out  at  his  side,  faintly  touching  the  tops  of  the  plant  life  that  lined  the  path.   around  his  head,  a  black  cloth,  obscuring  his  vision.        ❛❛   doesn’t  it ?     ❜❜    

❛❛    when  your  world  is  no  longer  your  body,  your  mind  cannot  help  but  to  expand  into  the  corner’s  like  water.   without  one  sense,  all  the  others  are  heightened.    touch,  smell,  taste.  ❜❜

a  gentle  hand  caresses  a  lock  of  lucien’s  pale  hair,  swiftly  moving  past  him  with  but  a  whisper  on  his  heels  to  show  that  he  was  there  at  all.        hannibal  moves  like  silk,  stepping  past  the  fountain,  just  barely  skimming  his  toes  along  the  marble.

it’s normal to avoid physical contact after enduring an attack.  harley would reassure any of her patients of that.  she isn’t sure what it says about herself that she feels more unease from hannibal’s hands leaving her waist than from the lift itself.  

“ you don’t know him like i do, ”  she shakes her head,  excuse like lead on her tongue,  heavy and poisonous.  her split lip throbs,  and it is enough to shake her from the justifications that will soon kill harleen quinzel.  “ i can hear myself saying that,  but i can’t stop myself. it’s textbook. i know he’s in my head,  but i can’t get him out. ” 

it’s the steadiness,  she realizes.  there is something purposeful in the way he touches her,  so different from the frenzied chaos that directs joker’s every move.  hannibal’s hands foreshadow his intentions in a way joker’s never have – the latter is just as likely to attempt to lobotomize her with the tip of her heel than to set it aside. 

most men who find themselves between her thighs are there to take something.  hannibal,  she knows,  is there only to give her back herself.  she wouldn’t look away if she could,  holding his gaze,  letting what she finds there anchor her.  with joker,  her world has fallen off its axis.  with hannibal,  earth finds a way to spin on.  her lips forms a silent ‘oh,’  which morphs into the smallest hint of a smile.  is there anything more human than these brief moments of delight in the midst of life-altering tragedy? harleen lifts her left hand to hannibal’s face,  thumb brushing his cheek in an equally silent ‘thank you’ before she drops it back into her lap.  “ harley quinn,  force of nature.  i’ll add that to my business card. ”

harley only feels whole for a few seconds before her aching body reminds her of what she’s lost,  of what she’s going to lose.  still,  it is enough to remind her that hope is something to be chased. “ hannibal? ”  harley asks,  voice soft again.  “ i think i dislocated my shoulder.  and i think they’re going to take my medical license away. ” 

hannibal  does  not  touch  harley  like  a  doctor  would,   but  with  the  hands  of  a  father,  guiding;  first  he  turns  her  head  to  the  left,  scouring  her  face  for  anything  further  than  bruising,  making  note  of  the  supplies  he  would  be  needing;    blood  flakes  off  as  he  turns  her  jaw  to  the  right,  extending  his  touch  to  her  neck.    the  bruises  are  worse  here,  almost  black,  large,  gripping  finger  indents  along  her  trachea.   his  own  pointer  finger  brushes  the  splash  of  morbid  color,   pleased  to  find  that  even  the  man’s  grip  on  her  here  had  no  been  to  kill  -  she  could  still  speak.   

❝   harleen   .  .  .     i’m  not  here  to  cast  judgement  on  what’s  been  done.   but  what  i  am  here  for  is  to  reassure  you  that  what  you’re  thinking  right  now  .  .  .  what  you’re  feeling,   it’s  entirely  in  the  realm  of  normality.    trauma  will  change  you,    this  will  change  you:     how  can  i  possibly  be  upset  with  you,   right  now?  ❞     when  harley  reaches  to  return  the  touch,   hannibal  steps  back,  her  soft,  pale  fingers  just  barely  caressing  his  cheek  as  he  recollects  himself.  

❝   stay  right  there.   i’m  going  to  get  my  supplies.     ❞

he’s  only  been  gone  a  few  minutes  before  he  returns  with  an  antique  leather  doctor’s  bag  in  hand.   it’s  set  on  the  counter  beside  the  woman,  snapping  open  with  a  small  flick  to  the  latch.   hannibal  holds  out  his  hand  palm  up,  three  white  pills  sitting  side  by  side.   

“ i thought we were under agreement not to lead each other astray. ”  there’s that smile again,  smug satisfaction winning out over mischief.  ms. quinzel is getting used to getting what she wants. “ anyways,  doctor,  i spent three hours in a room with victor zsasz today.  threats don’t work on me anymore.”

there’s something familiar in the way he looks at her,  and it sends a chill down her spine.  she used to be able to tell between the good kind and the bad kind,  but they’re pretty much the same,  now.  harleen leans forward in her chair,  an eager audience. she takes a sip of her own drink in encouragement.

she watches,  patiently,  until he takes that single,  dreadful sip – the smile on her face is one he’ll recognize,  that of a kind therapist,  guiding her patient through one of heir fears.  once the ordeal is over,  she hops up,    striding across the room and settling in the chair behind his desk.  this indicates that there will be a lot less talking and a lot more spinning.  she’s already starting to twist back and forth a little bit,  her forearms planted on his desk keeping her from making a full circle. 

“ okay,  what do you think?  want to try another flavor next week? ”

hannibal’s  first  impression  comes  with  a  sharp,  cloying  feeling  at  the  back  of  his  throat;  the  sensation  curls  up  into  his  head  and  for  a  moment  he  simply  swallows  it  back,  wincing  when  the  taste  dissolves  but  the  cold  stays.    as  expected,  it  was  all  syrup  and  sugar.   he  didn’t  taste  the  coke  nor  did  it  have  any  resembling  taste  to  cherry,  but  it  wasn’t  entirely  unpleasant.   hannibal  still  curls  his  top  lip,  

❝   if  i  decline  your  offer  for  a  new  flavor   would  you  truly  cease  with  these  valiant  efforts  or  should  i  expect  something  worse  next  week?  ❞     there’s  something  akin  to  amusement  in  the  inflection  of  his  voice,   not  so  aloof  as  he’d  just  been.   as  hannibal  takes  another  sip  he  also  turns  his  body  to  follow  the  woman,  quick  to  keep  her  in  his  line  of  vision.