2000's vibes

Jonah blushed immediately, burying his head in the proverbial sand as he watched her head into the store. How could she be so casual? He could feel his heart rate spiking as he slowed his pace, hoping to avoid seeing her inside. He wasn’t ready to face the embarrassment. When he finally made his way inside, he caught up with Garrett as he wheeled in.

“Garrett!” Jonah said, way too loudly as he realized he hadn’t spoken yet today.

Garrett flinched. “Are you saying ‘hi’, or barking me down?”

“Sorry,” Jonah muttered, “I’m a little on edge.”

“Why? This American Life wouldn’t load in the car?” Garrett demanded.

“I was gonna tell you what happened, but now I feel like you’re just being mean,” Jonah pouted.

“Okay, dude,” Garrett apologized, “What happened?”

Jonah steeled himself. “Okay, so—“ he glanced around, making sure no one was listening. “I… I matched with Riana on Tinder.”

Garrett seemed mildly surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah, but that’s not even the whole story,” Jonah said quickly, “We… Uh…”

His confidence was failing him as Garrett just waited on him to finish his sentence.

“We got to texting,” Jonah explained, “And… Uh.”

It took him a while to explain. Instead of summarizing, he had nervously walked Garrett through a vague but entirely thorough play by play of what had happened over text. Garrett’s eyes widened by the end.

“Shit,” he remarked, at a loss for words.

“‘Shit’?” Jonah questioned, jumpy. “‘Shit’ good, or ‘shit’ bad? Is it ‘shit’ bad?” he asked worriedly.

“I don’t know, it’s ‘shit’ neutral,” Garrett shrugged.

“Neutral?!” Jonah demanded. “How can you be neutral when I basically had phone sex with her! She saw my naked penis!”

“Ew!” Garrett shouted. “Dude. Never say that to me again. And also, what penises aren’t naked?”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Jonah concluded catastrophically, “I should not have done that. That was a huge mistake…”

“Dude. Stop agonizing over this,” Garrett interrupted, “And I’m not just telling you that because you’re stressing me out before I’ve even gotten into work. Yes the age gap’s a little odd, but you’re consenting adults, and it’s only, like, a 10 year gap, in a few years, that’ll barely matter. You didn’t commit a crime. If you really don’t wanna date this girl, or whatever, then just don’t do it. You have a choice.”

“Right,” Jonah nodded slowly, “Right.”

Garrett almost felt bad. He watched Jonah slowly processing everything, too frenzied to really participate in the conversation.

“You’re both grownups,” Garrett said a little more gently, “If you wanna do stuff with her, nobody’s really gonna care enough to stop you.”

Garrett wheeled away, leaving him alone in the parking lot. Jonah’s mind quieted for a moment, as that genuine indifference from Garrett really shifted his perspective on the situation. He still felt extremely guilty, but something told him this wasn’t any different from when he worked himself up over watching a Woody Allen movie.

*****

By the time he saw Riana again, Jonah was still incredibly anxious, but surprisingly coherent. He was finishing up in home goods before the store closed that night when Riana walked made her way down that aisle. His eyes widened.

“Hey!” he said a little loudly.

“Hey,” she smiled.

Jonah was thrown off by how casual she was being, considering they had quite literally sexted less than 24 hours ago.

“Are you… okay?” he asked, nervously looking down at her.

Riana stared, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” Jonah babbled, “I just…”

He looked around again praying nobody was within earshot. Riana didn’t get any less confused, which did not make it easier for him.

“I didn’t get weird last night, did I?” he asked carefully.

“No,” she shook her head with certainty.

“Are you sure?” he responded, “‘Cause that got a little… dirty. Well. Really dirty.”

“Yeah, it did,” Riana grinned.

Jonah blushed, laughing nervously as he tried to steady himself. But between that smile and those batting eyelashes, he knew he didn’t stand a chance.

“No, that’s not what I…” he trailed off politely, “What I’m saying is, I like you. You’re really cool, and very sweet, and pretty, and… honestly you’re so interesting, and could probably teach me about so many things…”

“Yeah, I could,” she exclaimed, smiling a mile wide.

“Hey,” Jonah warned, unable to help the goofy grin on his face. “That’s not helping.”

“Helping what?” she inquired.

“I’m trying to do the right thing, and you’re just standing there all sweet, and cute,” he giggled, with no real complaint to it.

“I’m sorry,” Riana pouted mockingly.

“Don’t do that!” Jonah cried, “I’m trying to do the right thing?”

“What’s the right thing?” she raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know,” he confessed in a whine, “Staying friends?”

“Like, without benefits?” Riana assumed.

Jonah looked around nervously before taking her aside, hand on her back as he lowered his voice.

“Come here, sweetie,” he murmured discreetly.

Riana listened intently as he realized just how naturally that had come out. It was strange. Jonah wasn’t really a pet name kind of guy, with anyone, apart from maybe old women and children. It was weird, but something he didn’t have time to ponder at the moment.

“Now you’re sending mixed signals,” Riana warned.

“I’m sorry,” Jonah apologized, before realizing she was just teasing. “I’m sorry. But… Can we maybe talk about this later? Outside?”

Riana nodded patiently, understanding his concern. “Sure.”

“Sorry,” Jonah said again, “I just…”

“No worries.”

“Just meet me by my car,” he told her, half walking away already.

“I don’t know what car you drive,” she stated.

Jonah paused. “Right. Uh, just meet me out front.”

Riana nodded, watching him walk away. “Okay.

*****

Jonah was standing out by the side, waiting. He perked up immediately when Riana walked out of the store. It was dark, and no one was paying attention to them at all.

“Hey,” Jonah said, sounding relieved.

“Hey,” Riana greeted. “So, what did you wanna say before?”

Jonah had to think for a minute, really not wanting to hurt this girl’s feelings.

“So, I just… I don’t know. I just, I’d feel really bad about doing anything with you,” he confessed.

Riana studied him in a way that made his knees buckle. There really was a genuine, almost pitiful sincerity in his expressive hazel eyes.

“Why?” she asked him.

Jonah paused. “I just… I don’t know, you’re so young.”

“You’re only 32,” she recalled. “That’s young.”

“Maybe,” Jonah considered, “But there’s a huge gap in life experience between 21 and 32. I’ve finished college, and dropped out of business school. You’re only just getting started in your life—”

“So are you,” Riana pointed out.

Jonah stopped, knowing she was basically right. He hated how weirdly grounded and perceptive she was.

“Maybe, but I’m older than you,” he rationalized, “I’ve been an adult for over 10 years, that’s more than a decade. You’ve only just begun.”

She looked up at him, vulnerable for the first time. “Do you really think you’re taking advantage of me?”

That made Jonah’s heart stop in a way he couldn’t describe. He looked down at this lovely, short girl, and he couldn’t imagine being the type of horrible guy he felt like right now.

“No,” he said softly, melting as he leaned down to look at her, “I could never do anything to hurt you.”

There was the truth. It was a good thing, a benevolent thing. But somehow admitting it to her felt more sinister.

“I think you’re a really smart, gentle kind of person, and if I’m being honest, I can’t even seem to imagine myself doing anything but walking on eggshells to make you comfortable,” he chuckled to himself out loud. “I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“I know,” she promised him kindly.

“But… I just don’t know if I would be the right person for you,” he confessed, “I’m older than you, and I don’t know how I’d feel about that yet, and we’re so different. Plus, I don’t even know what my family, or people I know might think—”

“Well, we just met,” Riana pointed out bluntly.

“Right,” Jonah thought. “Right. We just met…”

It was so simple. So stupidly simple. They’d just met. Of course. Why should he be able to give her a direct answer now as to whether not he could date her to eventually marry her and have a family with her? He instantly felt so much better than he’d felt all day.

“I’m not exactly hoping for a spring wedding,” she reminded him.

”Right,” Jonah laughed, “Yeah, we just met.”

“Why don’t we just decide if we like each other first?” she raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Jonah smiled, “That’s probably a good idea.”

He loomed over her more relaxed, with his hands in his pockets. He seemed a lot more at ease, that charming little Keebler elf twinkle in his eye returning.

“We can see if I can handle your white nonsense, and then we’ll go from there,” Riana teased.

“Oh yeah?” Jonah grinned. “Okay. Well. I’ll see if I can handle…”

He couldn’t think of anything he could make fun of this woman for.

“How really fucking pretty you are,” he blurted out breathlessly.

Riana just smiled. “Thank you.”

“Seriously, you’re beautiful,” Jonah stammered, “And you’re… amazing at makeup, it always looks flawless, even before 8 AM.”

Riana laughed. “You’re cute. Really cute.”

“Well, I’m glad you think so,” Jonah beamed. “So… Instead of planning that spring wedding, do you think we could… try for a movie, first?”

“I think that’s a smart idea, yeah,” she agreed.

“Perfect,” he stopped laughing, sincerely glad to be having this moment with her. “Would it be too forward to ask you what you’re doing tonight?”

“Would it be crazy to invite you over?” Riana asked him.

“No,” he assured her, shaking his head as he refused to take his eyes off her. “Not at all.”

-

Detective Joey Quinn was coming home from work, late at night as usual. He was lethargically trudging up the stairs to his apartment, before he heard the vulgar yelling coming from the third floor. Usually he just tuned these sort of things out, but this time, his interest was piqued when he saw into the open door of Apartment 3B. Inside pacing the room was some hot chick, no longer the fat guy that needed a scooter to get around that he’d seen living there before. Of course, Joey could barely see into the open door of the apartment, but the long, bare legs in those short shorts told him everything he needed to know.

Now officially distracted, Joey cautiously went back down the stairs, peering into the open apartment. There she was. The girl was tall and tanned, almost like a model. Typical for Miami, but still distinctive in her own right. She had long dark hair, and wore stylish clothes that really worked on her. Specifically the short, short, short shorts she had on. Joey grinned to himself, knowing he had to introduce himself. But it seemed she had other things going on as she argued on the phone surrounded by unpacked boxes, clearly freshly moved into the building. Joey was very much looking forward to having her as a neighbor. Even if she was a bit scary yelling into the phone.

He couldn’t tell much about her, other than that she was in her 20’s and probably connected to some people that would explain the confidence and leverage that she had. He knew she was probably trouble, not the kind of girl he should be getting mixed up with, but right now, the little wedges, ankle tattoo, and cute pedicure were drowning everything else out.

“If your fucking lazy ass doesn’t send someone by the end of this week—!”

The girl was flabbergasted as her landlord on the other end hung up.

“Fucking asshole!” she scoffed irritably.

Joey smiled as he poked his head in, entering without invitation. “Hey. Sorry to bother ya,” he began.

The girl looked at him with a reasonable surface unpleasantness. “Can I help you?”

“I’m just a neighbor,” Joey said in a disarming tone. “I, uh… Heard you having it out with your landlord there. I know it’s none of my business, but if you ever need anything fixed around here, I could aways call someone for you. If you want,” he added quickly.

“It’s fine,” she replied, expression less on edge. “He’ll probably send someone.”

“Well, of you ever change your mind,” Joey shrugged.

“Thanks.”

This girl wasn’t a natural smiler. But Joey wasn’t looking at her face. He was currently locked in on her chest, nodding as he shamelessly stared.

“Uh-huh,” his mouth sat wide open.

He eventually rejoined the conversation.

“So you’re the new tenant, huh?” he said kind of stupidly.

“Yeah,” she nodded, as if pointing out how obvious it was from the boxes and landlord dispute.

But Joey caught onto none of that.

“What’s your name?” he asked with a smirk. “I’m Joey. By the way.”

“Lana,” she supplied.

He grinned, letting the name roll off his tongue, “Lana. Pretty. It come with a last name?”

“Why?” she crossed her arms, standing in a way that only tantalized him. “You a cop?”

“Yeah,” he smirked, “Detective, actually. Wanna see my handcuffs?”

Lana only laughed, knowing he was a dangerous type. Joey grinned.

“You got a cute laugh, sweetheart,” he thought, “Could I hear more of it sometime?”

“If you keep talking like that,” she replied derisively.

He crossed his arms in amusement. “How old are you, anyway? You’re tiny.”

She looked at him as if expecting a reaction.

“I’m 21.”

Joey had to pause, reconsidering his approach for a second. He was 34. They had almost 15 years between the two of them, and he was a cop. He knew that should’ve been enough to make him behave himself, but in typical Joey fashion, he still lingered.

“Huh. You don’t look that young,” he remarked, before moving on. “What do you do, Lana? You in… school, or something?”

He felt awkward saying it.

“Yeah,” she nodded, “U Miami.”

“Wow. Good school,” he grinned, despite not being sure of that fact. “What do you study?”

“Nursing,” she supplied.

His eyes widened. “Nursing?”

She raised an eyebrow, “What? I don’t look like a nursing student to you?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant at all,” Joey laughed nervously, “I just… Didn’t expect that.”

“Uh-huh,” Lana looked at him, unimpressed.

“Damn, I’m really fumbling over here,” Joey shook his head at himself, “You have a car?”

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“Oh,” he scratched at the back of his head, “Well. If you ever don’t have it, I guess… I could give you a ride?” he asked hopefully.

“Okay,” she said without effort.

“Okay,” Joey laughed, “I should give you a ride sometime, then.”

He looked down at the shorter girl, finding himself embarrassingly distracted. She had long eyelashes, and an unforgiving stare. He continued blabbering on, completely unaware of himself.

“Maybe when you’re car’s at the shop, or you’re drunk at some frat party,” he joked.

“Uh-huh.”

He smiled, “You from Miami?”

“Yeah.”

Joey nodded. “I could tell.”

“Sure,” Lana nodded along indifferently.

He chuckled, still charmed. “Hey, if we’re gonna be neighbors, I should probably get your number, right? In case I wind up with your mail, or something.”

She shook her head. “Right.”

“Here,” he handed over his phone.

Lana took the phone, quickly typing in her digits under the name ‘For Emergencies Only’. This made him laugh.

“Nice to meet you, For Emergencies Only, I’m Joey Quinn.”

“Nice to meet you, Detective Quinn,” she took his hand as he offered it.

He took his phone, calling her number and making her phone right. “Now you got me,” he gave her a knowing smile.

“Mhm,” she nodded.

He practically showed all his teeth, “Let me know if you ever want that ride, okay sweetheart?”

“I’ll let you know,” she promised.

“Good. Gimme a call if that landlord gives you any more trouble,” he showed himself out of the apartment. “Nice meeting you, Lana.”

*****

Eventually, it ended up being Joey who needed the ride first. He had forgotten his keys in his Sergeant’s car, and needed to get to work. He had called Lana early in the morning, and had surprisingly gotten a quick response when she picked up. He figured she had school or something. She drove him to a crime scene as he made flirtatious small talk. When they arrived, he got out with a stupid grin on his face as Sergeant Batista gave him a funny look.

“Another one?” he questioned rolling his eyes as he saw Lana drive away.

“It’s not like that,” Joey insisted, still grinning. “She’s my neighbor. I just met her.”

“I swear, I’ve seen that girl somewhere,” Batista wracked his brain.

“Impossible,” Joey rolled his eyes, “You wish you’ve met a girl like that.”

“Shut up and talk to witnesses,” Batista rolled his eyes, walking off.

-

You stood behind the doors in a rather austere gown, wrapped in northern furs. You were a Stark, through and through. And here you were, about to marry the conveniently widowed Lord of the Vale before the many lords and ladies of the North. Even the Boltons and the Freys were in attendance, despite your earlier betrothal to Ramsay Bolton in exchange for Winterfell. It was an affair to remember.

“You don’t have to do this,” your brother Robb implored. “You don’t have to marry that weasel.”

“I’m a grown woman, Robb.”

“You’re nothing of the sort,” he argued. “You have no business marrying that whoremonger.”

You frowned, reminding yourself no one, not even your family, knew anything of your affairs. Not even your mother.

“I can’t believe it’s come to this with that little rat,” Catelyn Stark hissed. “Say the word, Y/n, and we leave this sordid affair as your father would have wanted.”

“Father isn’t here, Mother,” you sighed emptily. “Life is for the living. And I intend on surviving. If marrying Lord Baelish is what I must do, then so be it.”

Your mother looked at you, conflicted. “You remind me eerily of your father sometimes.”

She held your hand, and you squeezed it back. Then the doors opened, and even across the room, you saw your intended.

Petyr stood at the altar already, dark, beady eyes fixed on his bride. You’d seen that look in his eyes before; the cold winter night he’d first slipped into your chambers to keep you warm. Your mother, brother, and the rest of the Tullys all watched your slow descent, an elegant beauty as you stifled your grin, which only Petyr could divine. He shared in your smugness as well, although he seemed not to priorities his subtlety as much. He wanted to marry you.

“You are my destiny.”

Your mother scowled in his direction as the two of you faced on another. Petyr continued to look down at you with absolute reverence, as well as possession.

“Come here often, dearest?” he whispered a joke before the ceremony commenced.

You murmured slyly, “Are you referring to this altar, or yourself?”

“You are what you are to me.”

Petyr revealed a snarky grin. “I would slit every throat in this room just to marry you one minute sooner.”

“You are my happiness.”

“You’ll have another slit waiting for you soon enough, my dove,” you promised.

Petyr chortled as the ceremony began, “Behave.”

“That’s what you are. You’re my destiny.”

“Only for you,” you whispered to his satisfaction.

“I think you’ll find, what shall be done tonight is something entirely for you.”

“You have my sweet caress.”

You looked up at your husband-to-be with adoration. He grinned shamelessly, pleased with himself as the proceedings began. You joined hands, anointed with the cloth, eyes never leaving each other. You didn’t care about Robb’s disgust, or Catelyn’s sorrow.

“You share my loneliness.”

All that mattered was your happiness, an intimate moment between bride and groom before the very last of tonight’s proceedings. The two of you spoke your wedding vows together, clear as you gazed upon each other, joined for eternity. Forever was a fickle thing, unless it came to Petyr Baelish. You knew his actions were swift and final.

“You are my dream come true.”

As the two of you looked upon each other with nothing but childlike excitement, your mother and brother seemed ready to weep. Or pillage. Or both. But all you could see was the way Petyr looked down at you like something precious. His eyes nearly filled with glassiness as he realized he truly was marrying the love of his life, the Stark he was truly meant to wed. He gently brushed your cheek as you were given permission.

“That’s what you are. You’re my destiny.”

“My heart,” he looked down at you, close to tears.

“My happiness,” you whispered back as the two of you concluded your vows.

No longer willing to wait, Petyr took you in his arms, dipping you as he firmly planted a kiss on your lips. He panted into it, breathing life into your kiss and marriage. Rob glared, your mother looked away in despair. But you were living for it, for him, your hand snaking up into his hair as your fingernails massaged his scalp. Petyr practically purred at the sensation, propping you back up as you both savored the ceremonial kiss. His strong arms rested on your back as you cradled his face roughly in your hands, refusing to let your husband go. Ramsay and the other Boltons seemed to sneer at your happiness, and Petyr’s victory. The two of you were jolted back into reality by the final announcement.

“I love you,” you whispered, holding Petyr close.

“I love you infinitely more,” he promised in a whisper, a certain darkness in his eyes. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, everything that makes me a man.”

“Never leave me,” you warned.

“Not even in death, my sweet,” he said with a wicked grin, his true vow.

“Heaven, and Heaven alone. Can take your love from me.”

“…The Lord Petyr Baelish, and the Lady Y/n Baelish!”

Gasps washed over the Robb, Catelyn, and the Tully camp. Robb gripped his sword, and your mother nearly wailed as the new names were called. You hadn’t told anyone that you had taken Petyr’s name. Even worse than you’d predicted, Robb himself charged the altar, drawing his sword. The room fell silent, as Catelyn rushed to his side, the voice of reason.

“Robb!” she boomed.

But he ignored her.

“You disgusting leech,” Robb accused Petyr, “My sister isn’t yours to infect!”

Petyr met his gaze with only a little smirk as he turned to you, letting you dictate.

“Y/n?!” Robb demanded. “You want to be married to him? Are you out of your fucking mind?!”

“Have care how you speak to the Lady of the Vale,” Petyr said almost in amusement.

“‘Cause I’d be a fool. To ever leave you dear.”

“You little worm,” Catelyn hissed at him.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” you said truthfully. “But my husband is Lord Protector of the Vale. And King in the North.”

“King In North?” Catelyn echoed incredulously. “Have you both lost your minds?!”

“No,” Petyr replied, even-tempered, “But you will.”

Before anyone could move an inch, the Knights of the Vale bolted the doors shut. A wave of panic washed over the room as Catelyn turned to Petyr in fear.

“No!”

Your jaw clenched as a sword sunk itself into Robb. His form lay nearly in halves on the floor. Your mother wailed as the knights acted on their orders from long before, slashing their way through the room. Every Tully man, dead. Then the Boltons. Then Walder Frey. You watched as Petyr merely took your hand in his, squeezing. You stood alongside your husband, not saying a word. Catelyn Stark was the last of the Tullys, and Robb’s reign, left. She beheld you and Petyr in horror, screaming something that sounded nothing like any language.

“And a fool I’d never be.”

“Sorry, Cat,” Petyr absolutely lied.

You hid behind your hand over your mouth, tearing up as you directed with a wave of your hand. Petyr understood automatically, giving the order. Now none of the Tullys remained.

“You are my destiny.”

You watched tearful, saying goodbye to the last of your childhood, your innocence. In an act of deranged service, Petyr covered your eyes for you.

You slowly pushed his hand away, looking upon the carnage for yourself.

“My Lord,” a knight said, paving the way for both of you.

You held to Petyr’s arm as he led you, inspecting the scene as the screaming and panicking continued.

Petyr smiled down upon Ramsay Bolton’s head, picking it up by the hair.

“Would you like to do consummate this union, sweetheart?” Petyr asked with perverse tenderness.

“With pleasure,” you glared at what remained of Ramsay Bolton. “You always did like an audience.”

“You share my reverie.”

Amused, Petyr dropped the head like a hunting dog. He spun you around with the romantic flourish of a prince, and the barbarism of a lover.

“I love you much too truly for my own good,” he said in a raw rasp.

“I would do anything for you,” you told him.

“And yet I would have none of it,” he insisted, brushing back a strand of your hair. “You are all you need to be to make me happy. I would rot in Seven Hells just for a taste of the heaven between your legs. I would burn down this whole world just to breathe in your ashes. I have found someone who truly shares in my love, and my hatred. You’ll feel my love for you long after I’m gone.”

“You are my happiness.”

You stare in bewilderment. You’d won this game of thrones just by marrying.

“You are my life,” you promise in tears, “You are all that’s left for me.”

“That’s what you are. My destiny.”

“Yes. I made contact, planted the tracker,” I relayed.

“Good. Ahead of schedule,” the Man responded. “Lay low.”

“‘Lay low’?” I echoed incredulously. “I have a location, I could end this right now.”

“Do not engage,” the Man ordered firmly. “As of right now, engage sleeper protocol, Mirage.”

My jaw clenched. I really hated working on contract. But that was the gig. Even if it meant waiting an extra who knows how long before getting my 5 million. Whoever the real rich freak was who wanted Soldier Boy dead was someone I didn’t feel like questioning.

“Copy,” I asked readily, “What’s my play?”

“Locate his home base. Plant the bugs. Keep tabs on his contacts, report to me.”

I nodded. “Yes, sir.”

I hung up my burner and got to work. I put on a pair of baggy women’s clothes and got to tracking Soldier Boy. He was still at the motel until early afternoon. As soon as his permanent tracker showed him leaving, I knew what that meant. It was still on him. Ben was making this too easy. I was on my way. I hopped on my bike and arrived within the hour. I parked, checking my phone. Soldier Boy was currently a few blocks away, moving, doing God knows what. I figured he’d be gone a while, smoking, and fucking, and God knows what else, but I was still quick about it. I scanned the scene, surveying my surroundings until I found something useful. It was housekeeping time. I watched as the carts made their rounds, choosing a victim.

I donned the face of an older lady probably about 50 pounds heavier than myself. The clothes still fit. I took off the helmet, resting it on my bike as I tracked a maid with my eyes, locating the supply closet. I waited until she was gone to snag one of the carts, making my own rounds as I checked the tracker on my phone. I found Soldier Boy’s room, looking around before I reached into my pocket for the lock pick I was issued. I inserted into the lock, unlocking the door before readjusting the lock. Sophisticated technology, I had to admit. I got inside, quickly shutting the door behind me and locking it. I stopped dead in my tracks, sniffing irritably. Ew.

The room smelled like dude, beef, and weed. I went through my bag, finding the bugs and extra trackers. I was thorough. I bugged the table, the couch, the bed, the nightstand, and even under the toilet. That one I certainly wouldn’t be wanting back, knowing men. I carefully looked through his few belongings, making sure to remember exactly where I’d found everything, although I was almost certain Soldier Boy wouldn’t think twice about any of it in his constantly drug-addled state. He only had one pair of clothes other than what was currently on his person, which was pretty pathetic, but made my job easy. I planted an additional tracked in the pants pocket. These things were effectively tiny and inconspicuous, they looked like garbage, if anything. I searched the room, not finding anything good. Just garbage, food, and more nothing. I found no weapons, so either he had something on him, or he was completely defenseless. Obviously, I was hoping for the latter, but anticipated the former. I was done in Soldier Boy’s room in minutes. I sent a text.

“Complete.”

I quickly made sure everything was in its right place and left, wearing my own face as I rode home. I had left no trace of myself. As soon as I got back, I was eager to wash the smell, or odor, of Soldier Boy’s room off of me. I opened the door to see an unexpected figure standing by the window. My gun was cocked, loaded, and aimed within a second.

“Stand down, Mirage,” a voice eased sarcastically. “If I was here to kill you, I’d have managed that already.”

“Yeah fucking right,” I muttered, gun pointed straight ahead. “Are you gonna stand there and be target practice, or are you gonna tell me what the fuck the CIA wants with me?”

“Good. So you know who I am, then,” William Butcher concluded with a shit-eating grin.

“Yeah, I know who you are,” I said impatiently, “Now tell me what the fuck you’re doing in my apartment before I pump you full of lead.”

Butcher chuckled, “Aw, come on now, Natasha. I know you’re not gonna kill me.”

I pointed my gun. “That’s not my name.”

“Keep telling yourself, love,” he said indifferently, “Now put that thing down and let’s have us a little chat about our pal, Soldier Boy.”

I scoffed. “I should’ve known you’d come around here soon enough. But I did figure you’d be three steps behind.”

“Ooh, cheeky, cheeky,” Butcher teased. “I always liked you, Natasha. You always had the biggest balls of anyone I ever knew.”

“Stop fucking calling me that,” I whispered.

“Why?” Billy Butcher asked. “You afraid of the truth?”

“That’s not the truth,” I let my finger find the trigger. “You don’t know me.”

“But I do, Natty Nat he baited me. “I know everything. I know Mirage. I know Venus. I know Elena. I know Milena, and I know Natasha,” he concluded.

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t kill you right now,” I reminded him.

“You’re not gonna kill me,” he decided rather confidently.

“No?” I raised an eyebrow behind the gun.

“Nah,” Butcher promised, “You’re not. Because we’re both looking for the same, star-spangled cunt. And you’re gonna give him to me.”

“Yeah, sure,” I agreed, “If you got 5 million dollars to give me.”

“I don’t need to pay you, Natasha,” Butcher said.

I felt my neck twitch. “Don’t… call me that.”

He studied me, laughing to himself. “Getting a little hot and bothered there. Who was that just now?” he wondered. “Some poor woman who rang you up for Monistat?”

I interrupted, “Tell me what the fuck you want, Butcher.”

“I want you… to find Soldier Boy and bring him to me,” he told me.

“And why the fuck would I do that?” I questioned.

Butcher laughed. “You old-timers all really sound the same,” he thought. “I’ll tell you what, Mirage, you are gonna bring me Soldier Boy and cross your little employer because you know that cunt’s good for more than just dying,” he insisted.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to see past his vexing exterior.

“You want Soldier Boy?” he demanded. “You want to do as you please with him, and kill him slow on your own terms?”

“What makes you think I wanna torture Soldier Boy? You know, I really don’t get what the big deal is with that suped-up pretty boy.”

Butcher grinned. “Come on, Natasha. I know what happened back then. I know how you two crossed paths, back in the 70’s.”

I stilled. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Get out, before I beat you to a pulp.”

“Testy,” he remarked in amusement. “Don’t be like that, Nat. Just help me keep tabs on our little friend, and we can both get what we need.”

“Eat shit and die,” I maintained.

He didn’t seem bothered. “Likewise, Natasha. I was right. You are a nasty little bitch. But first. Let’s just help each other out, eh?”

I watched as William Butcher walked straight out the door, knowing he was bulletproof. I glared, not ready to let go of the gun just yet.

*****

I couldn’t sleep that night. Butcher and his mindfucks were keeping me up. I checked on Soldier Boy’s trackers. He was home now. I tapped into the bugs, checking each of them out. I listened in. I heard another voice, in the room. A woman’s. Curious.

What was even more curious, were the sounds I heard. I recognized them instantly, snorting as I grabbed my shit and left. I rode to the motel, not disguised as I wore my own face. A face I’d grown proud of, but still didn’t recognize. I looked around, finding another motel across the street from him. I thought about getting a room there, but decided against it. I didn’t need it. It was better to be out of his reach anyway. I got up onto the roof, digging into my bag. I cracked open a beer and downed it. Then another. Then another. Finally able to unwind, I reached into the bag, pulling out my gun and lazily attaching the scope. I zeroed in on the room, making a little game out of it.

“Gotcha, Soldier Boy,” I grinned. “I could blow your brains out right now. Wanna see? Ooh, ooh! I’m losing control of the trigger…! Woahhhhhh!”

I laughed to myself pathetically, taking pleasure in my little game as I narrowed my eyes, looking into his room.

“Who are you fucking, Soldier Boy?” I asked curiously.

I laughed my ass off when I saw. Soldier Boy was fucking some chick against the window, that much I knew already. But what I wasn’t expecting was all the fucking wrinkles and folds. I saw more white than Mötley Crüe’s coffee table. This chick was old. Probably my age, and not the one on the outside. Still, I couldn’t help but watch as he pounded her from behind, leg up on the AC and everything. He ran a hand through his dark hair, panting profusely, gleaming with sweat. Shit was nasty. In a good way. Sort of. I gasped aloud, covering my mouth as he went deeper, making this old lady scream. I swigged my beer as I tapped into the bugs in the room, finding the best signal.

“Fuck yeah,” Soldier Boy groaned inside, “Oh, fuck yeah! Come on, baby, sit on my face,” he pulled her away from the window.

I died laughing, both horrified and a little aroused as I watched what I could through the window. I downed my beer, using the scope to see what little I could from up on the neighboring rooftop. Sadly, this was probably one of the highlights of my week.

*****

Even the next morning, I received no response from the Man, or whoever I was talking to. I still wasn’t allowed to engage. So, I had nothing to do today, so I decided to kill the time as efficiently as possible. I got a bottle of vodka from the liquor store and washed it down with Arizona. I kept tabs on Soldier Boy. He has managed to get some weird earlier, and was inside smoking. He wasn’t doing much of anything. Bored of living vicariously through Soldier Boy, of all people, I decided to kill time on my tablet, after drinking half a bottle. I had started off watching stupid movies, full of sex and violence, my two favorite things. But then I eventually got bored. I started neglecting the movies and moving onto other things. Pretty soon, I was flipping through actresses, considering pretty faces I wished I could try on.

I scrolled for a while, eventually finding less high profile options. Models, public figures, then finally social media accounts. There were a lot of women in this country, all with their own unique appeal. I eventually stopped on a Facebook post. I did this often. I examined the girl in the middle of the picture. Brunette, in a pretty pink dress. Certainly something to write home about. The caption read, ‘Brittany’s 21st birthday’. I looked at Brittany, her pretty eyes and slim figure. I suddenly grew disinterested. Ideal, but too young, I thought. I forgot about Brittany for a moment, examining the rest of the photo. Then I saw the woman right behind her; taller redhead, probably about late 40’s. And stacked.

I admired this woman greatly, in her classy bandage dress and tall heels, a real Christina Hendricks type. I realized that the Facebook profile was hers. Nadine Bartosz, a corporate lawyer from Illinois. I studied her, admittedly her chest more than anything else, as I felt my features change. I looked in the mirror, now seeing her face staring back at me. Hello, Nadine.

I got bored of not engaging. I grabbed the bottle and downed the liquor, shaking it off. I walked off and dropped my clothes, searching the closet for something that would fit Nadine. I checked Soldier Boy’s location. He was going out tonight, and so was I.

-

“Speak.”

“I have eyes on the target,” I murmured. “Engage?”

I waited, then:

“No.”

“‘No’?” I questioned.

“You’re in Times Square, too many eyes,” The Man responded. “Track him.”

I ignored the fact that I truthfully had no idea how tabs were being kept on me.

“Copy,” I responded. “Do I have permission to engage undercover?”

“Permission to engage undercover.”

Click. I knew what I had to do. I put on another face, a certain lovely waitress. I waited for him to choose somewhere to go, eventually settling on a fast food place. Perfect. I slipped in, unnoticed as I hid my bags and pretended to man the counter.

“Can I get you anything to drink, hon?” I asked in the waitress’s sweet drawl.

Soldier Boy, AKA Ben, barely looked at me. “Beer.”

I grabbed a bottle, slipping a dissolving capsule into it. Temporary. It would only last about a day, as long as it was in his digestive tract, but it would have to do. I figured I could find him before then and plant him with another tracker, no problem. This was the job.

“Here you go, sweet cheeks. Someone else will be with you in a minute.”

He finally looked up, giving me a funny but appreciative look as he took the bottle and chugged. This was too easy. I was out the door in seconds. Upon arriving at what was now officially home a while later, I sat down, turning on my tablet as I looked at Soldier Boy’s tracker. Still in Times Square. What was he doing? I watched him slowly lap back and forth for a couple hours until I finally caught something that may be of use to me. He walked off until he found himself somewhere a bit seedier. Sapphire Times Square. I looked it up. Strip club. I perused the internet, searching for pictures and videos of similar places until I found a promising new face. Ruby, a pretty Latina who knew how to move. I sat there in front of my mirror, Ruby’s face taking over mine as I got to work on my makeup.

*****

Ruby made her way to the theater district in a trench coat, covering an obscene ensemble I’d put together back home with what I had. As soon as I found Sapphire Times Square, I made it past the bouncers, stashing my coat away as I walked the floor, in sparkly black lingerie and platform heels, the best I could do. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the heavy blue and pink lighting of the room. I picked up a tray, working the floor until I had eyes on Soldier Boy. I found him, sitting off in the corner like some kind of perverted hermit. I made my way over, not letting other dancers see my face as I bent over in front of him, speaking in Ruby’s voice. It was surprisingly deep.

“Hey there, stud,” I beamed.

That sounded a little weird to the men around us, but not to Soldier Boy. He just looked up at me coolly, as if trying to figure me out.

“Can I get you anything? A dance? Another drink?” I asked in a sultry hum.

He smirked after looking me up and down, seeming satisfied. “Lemme get a good look at you. Shaved? Damn. Well. Why don’t you come sit on my lap, doll?”

“Twenty bucks,” I teased.

Why not make a little cash? Soldier Boy fished through his pockets, finding $25. And 13 cents.

“This is all that I got,” he said transparently.

“Right here,” I smiled, presenting the waistband of my lingerie. “The coins you can keep. I don’t want an infection.”

“Shame. I was thinking of where to put those. There you go, doll.”

He grinned, tucking the bills into the garment as he pulled it back, letting it slap against my skin. I took a seat in his lap, setting against him as he adjusted himself, making a show of it as he subtly thrusted his hips upward.

“You feel that?” he asked in a low tone.

“It’s hard not to,” I giggled, playing the part.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he snickered to himself before looking up at me.

Ben studied me for a moment, his eyes a bit lost. I could tell that, as licentious and perverted as he really was, there was still something else going on underneath the surface, like part of him didn’t really wanna be there. A hand tightened on my hip as he held me, almost like a lifeline. He looked up at me.

“What’s your name?”

“Ruby,” I replied.

“Ruby,” he echoed the sound. “How old are you, Ruby?”

I took a guess. “Twenty-six.”

He gave a small chortle. “Just a baby.”

“You want me to be your baby?” I asked softly, grinding myself down on his lap as my hands rested on his shoulders.

His eyes flashed for a quick second before he cleared his throat. “I don’t think I got enough money for you, kid.”

That sounded a little odd too, but I didn’t stress it. We were both a little out of our element, millennium wise.

“Aw, that’s alright,” I said sweetly, “I can still spare a few minutes for you.”

Ben eyed me almost suspiciously. “You know, I don’t do that pity crap. I don’t need to be some dancer’s charity case, I fought in… somewhere,” he concluded strongly.

Clearly trying to hide his identity. He was running, from someone. I played it smart.

“Oh, no, no,” I promised him, “That’s not what this is. You already paid me. And truth be told, I think you’re real cute.”

I gently cupped his cheek, practically feeling the muscles mold into a smirk under my hand.

“Besides, I kinda got a thing for guys in uniform,” I confessed, making him perk up.

“Is that so?” he inquired.

I nodded, feeling his hand on my ass. “Mhm.”

“Well. If you like uniforms, then I’m your man,” he agreed. “I wore one for years. Gave it my entire life.”

“How brave,” I said just a little stupidly, brushing at his chest with my hand.

“What about you, sweet thing? What’s your baggage?” Soldier Boy asked me.

“My ‘baggage’?” I wondered.

“You know,” he continued on, “The kinda fucked up shit that happened in your life made you decide to dance butt-booty naked on strangers.”

I thought about my answer for a while, arriving at something closer to the truth than I was used to with my targets.

I looked down at his chest as I spoke, “I guess it was growing up ugly.”

“Ugly?” Ben seemed to laugh at the thought. “I’m looking at you right now, sweetheart, and you’re a far cry from ugly.”

“I looked different when I was young,” I assured him.

“What happened?” he questioned. “You get new tits or something?”

I chuckled looking at him pointedly. “No, those are real.”

As far as I knew. They felt real. Soldier Boy gave them a good squeeze, smirking as if it were for good measure.

“You’re damn right they are,” he agreed with pride.

“I was an awkward kid. Dark features, bushy brows. People called me ugly up until I was 16,” I said honestly. “I figured out how to shape my brows, do makeup. Then things took a turn. People called me pretty, boys wanted to fuck me. Sure, it’s degrading to pretty girls, but when you grow up ugly…”

Ben tilted his head curiously.

“Being valued just for your looks is a dream,” I concluded.

He gently brushed my bottom lip. “You’re a sad little girl, aren’t you?”

“I’m happy enough,” I promised.

“Yeah?” he looked into my eyes with pretty green ones. “You make enough money to get your skanky clothes, and go shopping, and pay off school, or whatever the fuck it is you do?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

Soldier Boy let out a bitter laugh, looking around us at all the flashing lights and eye-catching costumes.

“You know, I don’t fucking recognize this world around me,” he thought aloud.

“You need some fresh air?”

“I’m not talking about this club,” he assured me. “I’m talking about this age. The screens, the plastic, the fucking polyester cum rags people walk around in these days. Where are the real men? They’re all wearing cotton, and rhinestones these days. And where are the real women? They’re all so bare, and brainless. Where’s the kickback, the personality? All I see is face paint, and plastic, and silicone, and whatever the fuck.”

“Maybe you’re just looking in the wrong places,” I offered.

“Yeah,” Ben considered gruffly. “Maybe. Fucking shithole. This isn’t real New York. No ma’am.”

“Tell me about it,” I cooed. “What’s in like in your eyes?”

“It was free, sweetheart,” he declared proudly. “Free, and shameless, and alive. Not this weird, robotic, Terminator shit that’s going on now.”

“Sounds beautiful,” I thought, looking around the room. “Sometimes I wonder what this place would be like, without all that. The screens, and the whatever. Just dancing, and drinking, and fun.”

“Yeah,” he realized sympathetically. “I think you’re too young to remember times like that.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“It’s funny,” he tracked my expression, “Telling a pretty young thing about times before.”

“Yeah,” I giggled teasingly, squirming in his lap, “Tell me about the war, Grandpa.”

Ben let out a low chuckle, spanking me. “Stop squirming!” he said with excitement.

I giggled as he buried his face in my chest, slowly inhaling my perfume and personal scent as he motorboated rather aggressively.

“Mmm. Musk, and fucking sweetness. You smell like a fucking candle. And that’s a compliment,” he insisted.

“You have pretty eyes,” I observed.

“Yeah?” he remarked, amused. “You got pretty tits.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Lemme ask you something, Ruby, you got any dreams?” he asked me, searching deep in my eyes. “Super cool, amazing things. Things you think that will complete you once you get them?”

“Maybe,” I shrugged.

“Well I’ll tell you what, Ruby,” Ben monologued, “Those things? House, car, job, whatever the fuck it is you want? You’re probably not gonna get it. And even if you somehow do, it’s not gonna be like you thought. It’s just gonna suck, and then you’re gonna feel empty. And then one day, you’re gonna die.”

I saw the hurt in his eyes, the genuine spite towards life and people he felt that made him this way.

“I know,” I said softly.

“Is that why you shake your ass for money?” he deduced, punctuating with a gentle smack.

I still sat comfortably in his lap.

“I guess so,” I answered lightly.

“Well, it’s a nice ass, doll,” he sighed, sounding lonely as he held up a joint.

He sparked up without asking permission as I sat in his lap, playing with his hair as he took a long rip. Soldier Boy grabbed me by the hair, blowing the smoke in my mouth. I didn’t fight, taking the second hand smoke as our lips stayed inches apart. He released me as he exhaled softly, looking up at me. In a small act of almost tenderness, he brushed a strand of hair out of my face.

“I might be high as fucking giraffe balls at this point, but I think I get it now,” he murmured.

“Get what?” I asked him.

He messily stroked my cheek. “That sad, cute little look in your eyes. Makes me wanna kiss you stupid and give you all my money.”

I chuckled.

“That’s not a compliment,” Ben added quickly. “Shit also makes me wanna slap you if you ever vex me.”

“Do I vex you?” I asked.

He stopped. “No.”

“Do you want to hit me anyways?”

Ben shook his head. “No.”

He took another hit of his joint.

“Then what do you want from me?”

He thought for a moment, giving me only one word. “Warmth.”

“Okay,” I agreed, sitting on him dutifully.

“Not the sharpest tool in the shed, are you, doll?” he studied me finally.

“No,” I gave a tiny smile.

He grinned, coughing slightly from the weed. “Oh, you must be a fucking genius.”

“Maybe,” I offered with a giggle.

“Yeah, I bet you are,” he decided. “Little 26 year-old girl, robbing an old soldier for his last dollar. Some fucking con, little girl.”

“I do okay,” I supplied.

“I’ll bet you do,” he chortled to himself, giving my ass a playful slap.

We sat in silence for a beat as he kept his hands on my ass, looking up at me with a genuine satisfaction like I was his stiff drink after a long day. But it would seem something else was stiff.

“You know, you’re not bad company, pretty girl,” Soldier Boy told me. “Just what I needed after all this bullshit.”

“You’re good company too,” I said in a sweet voice.

He smiled, admiring me as his large fingers carded through my hair. I made him think he was my favorite thing in the world, treasuring his touch like it meant something.

“Say, doll. I don’t have a single cent left to my name, but you think I could convince you to sit on my face for a bit?” he asked hopefully. “Let me tickle that little button with my nose, feel you squirming on my face like a fish outta water? I think you’ll find I can hold my breath an impressive amount of time.”

I smiled. “No. Sorry, stud.”

He sighed to himself. “Yeah, I didn’t think so. Well. Thanks for the company anyhow. And the ass.”

He patted it gently, staring off into nothing. I watched him with morbid curiosity as he massaged and squeezed, high out of his mind and not noticing, through all the squirming and the grinding, the tiny tracker I slipped into his pocket. Poor guy seemed genuinely pleased just to have company. I almost felt bad for him. He seemed to want to cling to whatever had tits and a pulse in that moment to ease his anxiety. He settled for any peace of mind he could, even if it was all a mirage.

-

The tall, familiar figure of Eric Northman stood out there, waiting for her. Her eyes widened when she saw the vampire, knowing the congregation would lose their minds if they saw the owner of a prolific vampire bar lurking outside. But Eric only smiled. He mouthed something, and somehow she just knew it was ‘Come here’. Mona looked around cautiously, making herself as small as possible as she squeezed past through the pews, heading towards what seemed like the bathroom. She snuck outside as she found Eric leaning against a tree outside.

“Evening,” he said charmingly.

“Eric. You know they don’t like vampires over here,” she reminded him.

Eric smiled. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I don’t care.”

Mona couldn’t help but smirk as she stepped closer. Eric surveyed her, amused by her prim and proper church attire, complete with the black dress, the headband, and the gold cross, stacked with a cute string of pearls around her neck. He chuckled to himself.

“You look every bit the good little Christian girl,” he remarked.

“We’re Catholic,” Mona said.

Eric corrected himself. “Tomato, genocide.”

Mona giggled. “Served cold, with a side of little boys.”

Eric laughed, genuinely surprised. “You’re terrible, you know that?”

She looked at him fondly, suddenly very glad he’d showed up as he came closer.

“Have your parents been treating you alright?” he asked her.

“Yeah,” Mona nodded slowly. “They haven’t talked to me much at all.”

Eric smiled. “And God grants you another miracle.”

She nodded, her tone bittersweet. “Right?”

He could see the pain in her eyes.

“Why don’t you take a walk with me?” Eric offered. “Play hooky.”

Mona looked around tentative. He could tell she wanted to get away, desperately, but he also understood that with the cult members circling, it was a bit of a risk.

“I don’t know,” she said in a hushed tone, “They think I’m in the bathroom right now, if I’m gone for more than three seconds, they’ll start sending search parties,” she relayed her troubles.

Eric was aware of the danger Mona was consistently in, giving her a soft, nonchalant smile he hoped would be more comforting than dismissive.

“Then how about I borrow you for two seconds?” he bargained. “Hmm?”

Mona looked up at him, nodding. “Thank you.”

He said nothing as she walked alongside him away from the church and any prying eyes. Eric looked down at her beside him, observing how much taller he was at 6’4”.

“Thank you for still trying,” Mona said again, her gratitude seeming to go deeper than his understanding.

“Why would I not?” he asked her.

She let out a quiet sigh. “If you think my parents are strict now, you should’ve seen them when I was an actual kid. I wasn’t allowed to do anything. Everything was always about me being a whore, and an affront to God. I couldn’t date, go to school dances, talk to any boys at all. It didn’t happen often, but even when a boy did like me, and got me flowers, or asked me out, they always gave up, after a couple times at the most,” she recalled.

Eric seemed almost affected.

“What was the longest someone ever tried?”

Mona smiled sadly. “One boy slipped me notes for about a couple weeks. But then my dad found them. And, well… you know how that goes.”

He did know. Which was why he didn’t press any further, for now. But he still wanted to know more about her. Not just her suffering, but her. Her likes, her dislikes. Things that he could just listen to and absorb in an autotelic fashion.

“Can I ask you a question that might seem inappropriate?” Eric piped up.

Mona agreed, “Sure.”

“How old were you when you had your first kiss?” he wondered.

Mona almost laughed, surprised by the question. She appreciated that he was thoughtful enough to preface it with a warning.

“I was thirteen,” she told him.

“Thirteen,” Eric echoed curiously, “That seems like a normal age.”

“It is,” she agreed, “I was able to sneak it. From this boy that was in my gym class, under the bleachers. We went there during basketball.”

Eric smiled in amusement. “Cute.”

She could sense a slight sarcasm, but it didn’t bother her.

“How old were you?” she asked in turn.

Eric pondered, almost surprised by the question. “I hardly think about that sort of thing anymore.”

“Right,” Mona considered.

“…But I think I was maybe eleven,” he offered.

“Hmm.”

Mona appreciated the effort. They walked, starting to circle back towards the church. It didn’t take long for Eric to ruin the moment.

“Are you a virgin?” he blurted out.

Mona balked. “Excuse me?”

“I asked if you were a virgin,” Eric enunciated sarcastically.

She looked up at him stifling a laugh, “Why would you ask me that, Eric?”

“Just making conversation,” he looked down upon her with a genuine curiosity.

“About my alleged virginity?” she quipped.

“‘Alleged’. Now you really sound like a Catholic,” he smirked.

Mona shook her head. “I’m not answering that.”

“Only a virgin wouldn’t answer that,” he reminded her.

“Please. Virgin or not, I don’t need some greedy vampire up in my business,” she stated.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” Eric teased airily, “I don’t judge. You’ll find I’m very sex, and non-sex, positive.”

Mona stopped in front of him. “Why are you so curious about my virginity anyway?”

“Because,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow. “‘Because’ what?”

“Because I want to know just how much you’ve lived,” he answered honestly.

Mona studied him for a moment, finding an irresistible sincerity in his blue eyes. Eric Northman really was the most beautiful person she’d ever seen, man or woman. She thought he was unlike anyone who had ever lived, and carried a certain elegance most men of today couldn’t bear the weight of. She wanted to talk to him, to know him, but a part of her knew that few people this handsome and this eager ever had honorable intentions. She knew from experience.

“Maybe I’ll tell you the real answer someday,” she conceded.

Eric seemed satisfied. “And I look forward to that day.”

“What?” she questioned, his persistent eye contact throwing her off.

“What?” he echoed.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m just looking at you,” he insisted.

“Why?” Mona demanded incredulously.

“Because you’re lovely,” he replied. “And people like to look at other people who are lovely.”

Mona realized her disadvantage. She didn’t know much about people and what they liked to do with other people. Compared to most people her age, she didn’t have enough experience with them to truly understand what she was looking at when it happened. And that was something that always set her on edge, especially around Eric Northman. She seemed to pout as he calmly observed her smaller frame and striking features.

“Do I scare you?” Eric asked bluntly.

Mona softened. “No.”

He nodded. “Good.”

“Do I tempt you?” she asked him.

For once he looked like he didn’t know how to answer, contemplating before speaking.

“Yes, but not how you think. Come on, it’s getting late.”

He rested a hand on her back, leading her from the woods. Mona was disappointed to have to go back to church, and not just because of the sweaty sermon. She wanted to stay out all night, and talk to Eric. Even in small talk, he was the most interesting thing she’d ever heard. When they returned, she froze upon realizing that her parents had, in fact, caught onto her absence.

“Mona.”

Her eyes widened as she heard her father’s voice. Eric stiffened, slowly dropping his hand from her back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” her mother demanded loudly.

“I went on a walk,” Mona responded defensively.

“During mass! With who?!” Salvador Garcia narrowed his eyes toward Eric.

Mona stood by his side, despite his discomfort.

“A friend.”

“And what kind of ‘friend’ is this?” Marisol Garcia demanded.

“The kind who knows when he’s not wanted,” Eric cut in coolly, turning to Mona. “You should get back to your mass.”

She looked up at him in protest, wanting to stay with him, but knowing it was never going to happen.

“I’ll see you later,” she insisted optimistically.

Eric looked down at her with a certain odd tenderness. “Good girl.”

Before she knew it he was gone, flying off to his bar in Shreveport. Her parents gasped in abhorrence, in shock at the presence of the vampire.

“A vampire?!” Salvador exclaimed. “Are you fucking insane?!”

“Are you?” she argued back.

“Stop talking,” Marisol interrupted. “Now.”

“I went on a walk with a friend, I didn’t get pregnant,” Mona scoffed.

“You don’t speak to us like that,” Salvador warned. “If we weren’t at God’s house, I would slap you for speaking like a whore.”

“We’re missing mass,” Marisol interrupted, “Mona, get inside and we’ll talk about this later.”

Mona resisted as much as she could, feeling her mother’s stern, punishing grip as they led her back inside.

-

“You want me to kill Soldier Boy?” I echoed. “American superhero and World War II veteran?”

We sat in a booth at a local restaurant, discreetly meeting in a public place.

“Will that be a problem?” The Man asked coolly.

“No,” I said decisively, taking the photo on the table. “Won’t be a problem.”

He smiled. “I thought you’d say that. I can assure you, you’ll be compensated generously for your trouble, and your… discretion.”

I gave an empty smile as I ripped open a packet of sugar, dumping it into my coffee. “I know I will.”

My eyes followed him as he got up, walked down the aisle disappearing into the crowd with ease. I sipped my coffee, with only a little creamer, and only one packet of sugar, looking down at the cash I had in my pocket. $7.83.

Enough for french fries, or a side of eggs and toast. I asked for a side of eggs and toast, and a waiter rushed to the back. Minutes later, a pretty waitress brought me my eggs and toast, with a slice of cherry pie.

“I’m sorry, I just ordered the eggs and toast,” I corrected courteously.

“No you didn’t. You had the cherry pie. And you already paid for it too,” she told me, with a confident little wink.

I smirked. “Well, aren’t you a sweet thing?”

She gave me a curious look, then spoke in a detectable southern accent. “A girl like you deserves a little treat.”

I gave her a quick once-over, “I can see that.”

She glanced at the patch on my rucksack, “Marine, yeah?”

I’d stolen it, but I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

If that weren’t true, this would feel like stolen valor.

“Good for you, sweetheart. What division?” she asked me.

I just smiled knowingly. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Okay,” she chuckled dismissively, “Well. If you ever do feel like talking. I grew up in a military family. Army. My husband, too.”

“Husband,” I thought. “Shame.”

She looked at me like I should’ve known better. “Now, I’m probably old enough to be your mother,” she warned me cheekily.

“The blacker the berry,” I quipped, before catching myself smugly. “Wait. Wrong one, but still applies here.”

She just laughed, shaking her head. “You’re a fun one, I’ll give you that. I got other tables, but you go ahead and holler if you need anything.”

“I’ll probably head out after this,” I said honestly. “You probably won’t see my face again, but I promise I’ll be back if I’m ever in the neighborhood and need a nice soda pop.”

She laughed, leaving to make her rounds, “Soda pop? Just how old are you? You don’t look older than my tattoos.”

“Can I see them?” I asked hopefully.

She just gave me a teasing tilt of the head.

“Alright. I concede.”

She watched me throw $7.83 on the table. I gave her one last smile, even if she was already gone. That was the last I saw of her. I liked kind people. Oddly enough I’d survived on the kindness of others, whether they knew it or not. o men on the street outside a building on my ride around the city. Both were a couple of middle class types, sipping coffee on their way to wherever. I watched them, hopping off my bike, helmet still on as I barreled down the street right into one of them. Coffee splattered everywhere.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed.

Both men were drenched in coffee. One of them exclaimed loudly as it dripped down his perfect white shirt, while the other shook it off quickly.

“It’s okay, it was an accident,” he breathed calmly.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” the other man exclaimed. “Watch where you’re fucking going!”

I waved at the first man, rushing into the building they had come out of. I waited until the other man left to check his wallet. His driver’s license said ‘Dennis Bank’. When I entered the lobby, seeing inside my black helmet, I looked in the mirror: Dennis.

He would be helping me with my work today. Random, but that was the point on this one. I suspiciously moved past the few people in front of the front desk, still spotted by the concierge as I made my way to the elevators, now about 5’9” with broad shoulders. I made sure to move like someone worried about security cameras. I pressed the 6th floor, making my way up as I looked for room 621. Dennis’s room, as was on the key card. I entered, pulling a few wads of cash from the zipped pocket of my pocket. $40,000 worth. I threw the cash into the duffel bag in the closet. I grabbed my burner phone, complete with the incriminating texts about today, and threw it in for good measure.

Then I made my way up to the 10th floor. I found the room, just as housekeeping was leaving. I barred the door, speaking as Dennis. “Sorry, I just need to grab my wallet.”

The cleaning lady just smiled at me before leaving with the cart, doing her best to ignore the helmet. I waited, for about two hours before I checked my watch and expected my guest. At 9:17, I heard a key card click, and the door opened. A man named Jared Spitzer walked through the door, jumping when he saw me.

“Who the fuck are you?!”

Bang.

I watched the bullet fired from my Sig as it pierced a hole in his head. Wasting no time, I shoved the gun back in my waistband. I hurried out of the room and shut the door, dashing into an elevator with one other man. I breathed slowly, as he turned and gave me a look before facing forward and ignoring my presence. The second we reached the lobby, I left in a brisk stroll, riding the wall as I slipped past the front desk. I didn’t take off the helmet until I left the building and walked two whole blocks down before disappearing into an empty alleyway. For good measure, I dropped Dennis’s work badge I’d found in his wallet onto the ground somewhere. Goodbye, Dennis. Have fun doing 25 to life.

I’d done this quite literally a thousand times before. I found the nearest ATM, pulling out each of the cards I found in Dennis’s wallet. I withdrew as much cash as I could. $5,000. Not bad.

I ditched the cards and slipped out, now 5’4” and Chinese, running back down the street to where I’d parked my bike, helmet in hand. I rode off without wasting any time. I wasn’t 5’7” again until I reached a shitty apartment building where I made my way up to an apartment that belonged to a little red dot I’d found on a neighborhood watch site that I already killed two days ago. I dumped my rucksack onto the table and counted my cash. $5,000.

I went into the bathroom and threw off my baggy men’s clothes, looking into the mirror. Sometimes I almost forgot what I looked like. I got into the warm shower, closing my eyes as I brushed my wet hair back.

*****

After a quick shower, I dried my hair, got dressed, and got a ride to a decent shopping area. I had about $5,000 to spend. I’d come far in life. And in the last two days. I mostly bought some reliable basics, but I made sure to get a few fancier pieces should I need them for anything. Once I’d finished shopping for the essentials, I checked the burner phone in my pocket. Sure enough, there it was. A transfer to my account. $60,000. I let slip a little smirk. Fuck the basics. We’re going to Chanel.

I had to buy different things, in different sizes. And genders. I’d covered all my bases, and was now just basking in the feeling of being rich again, at least for my lifestyle. I had a hundred bags with me, and called a car to pick me up. I could afford it now. I checked my account. I still had enough to last me a while. Even then, getting my hands on a few hundred or thousand here and there wasn’t hard. I was standing around waiting for the car as I looked around. Just a bunch of rich women with nothing better to do, either in their day or during their vacation. One woman in particular caught my eye. She was about my height, the real one, and she was a sort of slim thick with perfect skin and an expensive looking hairdo. A genuine Anok Yai type. I smiled to myself. I’d have to become her sometime.

I’d been doing this for a long time. A very long time. I’ve gone by many names, but I was born Milena. In 1956. I’ve existed for years, as Milena, then Mila, then Venus, then Mirage and Elena, but very little has changed. This has always been my job, no matter what I’ve called it, and I’m not going away anytime soon. I rode my bike around the city, searching. And surprisingly, I found him, wandering around Times Square. Too easy.

-

“Do you like your new desk, Katherine?”

I smiled. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he said warmly, still playing, “I thought you deserved your own space to handle my appointments. Is it comfortable enough for you?”

I felt his fingertips go to my back brace.

“Mhm. I’m good,” I promised him.

He seemed satisfied. “Good girl. You seem happy,” he noted.

“I am,” I promised. “I’m glad to be working. And not at somewhere I have to wear a visor, or a weird vest.”

“No, I couldn’t picture you somewhere like that,” Hannibal agreed attentively, “You should be somewhere you can let your hair down,” he twirled kicks of my hair, reinforcing the soft curls.

The way he handled me was enjoyable, and amusing to me.

“Skirts are a good look for you,” he added, before backing away. “Well. I don’t mean to take up your time, I’ll let you fill out the schedule.”

“I already did,” I replied, pulling the book from the drawer. “I followed the example you left me.

I handed it to him as he flipped through it in surprise, observing the delicate cursive that had penciled in all his appointments for this month. He seemed genuinely impressed.

“Well. It seems I’ve finally met my match in meticulous itineraries,” Hannibal expressed eagerly, handing back the book. “I’m impressed, thank you, Katherine.”

“It’s my job,” I pointed out lightly.

“You truly have a knack for comprehensive penmanship, your organization was efficient even in comparison to my own,” he admitted. “You seem the type to have been just as ahead of the curve in school.”

The idea left a strange taste in my mouth. I guess I looked a little like I’d sucked on a lemon as he leaned down curiously.

“Is that a sensitive subject?” he wondered. “If so, I do apologize.”

“No, it’s fine,” I assured him indifferently. “I just… Well, I’m much better at being an adult than being a child.”

His brows furrowed as he pulled a chair over, setting it next to me as he leaned in, still feeling much bigger than me.

“Well now I must admit, you have me quite curious,” he contemplated, “How do you mean?”

He always looked at me like that, as he leaned in close. He looked at me like we had all the time in the world to talk.

“I… don’t have very fond memories of school,” I thought back, “Or childhood in general.”

“I understand. You’ve expressed to me some of the issues you had with your mother, and your brother estranged,” he listened inquisitively, his tone softening. “How was school difficult for you as a child?”

“Well, it wasn’t so much school as it was life,” I told him, remembering. “My mom always made me feel like she didn’t like me. And not for any particular reason at all. Just like I was doing things wrong, like I just wasn’t someone she’d even wanna be around if she didn’t, you know, have you.”

I rested my hand on the desk, feeling anxious having to put this into words, to audition my complaint. His hand covered mine on the desk, trying to ease my discomfort.

“And what was it you think she didn’t like about you?” he coaxed it out gently.

“Just… the way I did things, the way I did my homework,” I confessed, the feeling familiar to me, “She used to always look over my shoulder, and criticize everything. The way I held my pencil, the way I processed every thought. You know, I was originally left-handed. Until she made me switch.”

“She made you switch?” Hannibal’s eyes seemed to narrow a bit.

I nodded. “When I was four, or five. I started writing, holding the pencil. She saw me writing, and just…” I had difficulty speaking. “She took the pen out of my hand. She made me put my left hand behind my back, and write with the other one.”

“And was it ever addressed again? Did she ever tell you why?” he asked me.

“She said she thought I’d have a harder time being left-handed,” I shrugged.

Hannibal analyzed silently for a moment, “I see. She was worried nothing would feel as though it were made for you, and she took it under her control.”

I made a bitter little noise, “That sounds right.”

“You know, many would strongly discourage switching a child’s dominant hand. It’s been linked to disrupting brain development at an early age. This can affect many different traits,” he explained. “Problem-solving, motor skills. Even confidence.”

I swallowed.

He sensed some sort of tension, “But perhaps those are thoughts we shouldn’t entertain at this stage.”

“Maybe not.”

He nodded. “Would you say you still find yourself obsessing over how you do things? How you think, how you approach problem-solving. Even how you hold your pen?” he asked me honestly.

I stopped. “Yeah,” I said. “All of it. Every second. Every day.”

“What would you say it feels like to you?” Hannibal questioned. “Having those thoughts every day?”

I didn’t have to think about it at all.

“It feels like I’m clenching my fist, but with my entire body. It feels like I have to have this on me all the time,” I grimaced, glancing down at the back brace.

Hannibal looked at it understandingly.

“It feels like I need something constricting me at all times, controlling where I go and what I do just so I can feel fine,” my voice took on a jagged edge.

His hand returned to my hair, caressing the blonde curls. He was petting me, soothing me like a hissing cat.

“And would you say that feeling bothers you?” he inquired. “The need for… restriction? Constraint?”

I shake my head. “No. No, if anything it’s a relief. Not having to wonder what’s good or bad, and make the right choice so no one hurts me.”

Hannibal made a subtle face, almost pouting at me as he took in my answer. From anyone else I would’ve been sure they were mocking me, but with him I never could tell. His features quickly returned to normal as he pulled his hand back, thinking.

“Katherine, may I be candid with you for a moment?” he began. “As a professional?”

I nodded.

“From the conversations we’ve had up until this point, as well as observing you myself, I think what you might be experiencing are symptoms of a comorbidity, working in concert with your schizophrenia,” he explained.

“What is it you think I have?” I questioned.

His resolve strengthened. “I think you have obsessive-compulsive disorder.”

“OCD,” I spoke. “You think so?”

“You don’t seem perturbed,” he observed plainly.

“I’ve heard weirder thoughts,” I replied. “Out of all the things people have tried to stick me with, this one makes more sense.”

He frowned sympathetically. “You’re at peace with who you are, then.”

“Is this all I’ll ever be?”

He reassured me, “That’s not a bad thing. Trauma slowly heals over time, but we can only run so far from who we are. We can work at your compulsions and get to the root of your anxieties, but if you’re simply someone who needs a bit of… constriction, I see no reason to try and correct that.”

I blinked. “You don’t?”

“Not at all,” he stated, “I told you, I’m an unconventional psychiatrist.”

He let slip a small grin as I laughed a little.

“I have no intention of stifling any of your desires,” he disclosed, tilting his head at me, “If anything, I suppose as a natural disciplinarian, if you’re one who needs a specific kind of… structure to feel comfortable, by all means I’m… happy to provide that for you,” he practically purred.

“You would really be that for me?” I asked, already knowing that answer.

He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve become… indispensable to me,” he concluded, “I think you’ll find I’m quickly running out of things I wouldn’t do for you.”

He gave an affectionate tilt of his head, studying me just as much as he was admiring me.

-

“Katherine,” Hannibal Lecter panted in my ear, pressing himself against me, “I’ve never wanted any asset or acclaim as much as I want you.”

I thought I was losing my mind, dreaming of his clinical obsession, and his heady seduction. I woke in a sweat, frantically thrashing about in my bed. I could barely remember my dream, other than the insane snippet. I felt like I was losing my grip on reality since I’d slowly stopped taking my medication, constantly inventing my own torment. My heart was racing, and I wanted to scream. Not only did I wake up feeling an uncomfortable amount of adrenaline, but I felt guilty. Hannibal had been kind enough to help me rebuild my life practically free of charge, and here I was dreaming and fantasizing about him like some sort of sex-crazed schoolgirl.

I was so distraught by my own repressed feelings that I didn’t even question why Hannibal was already in my room. He was already standing beside my bed with a soft concern, hesitant to touch me.

“Katherine,” he called to me, “It’s time to wake up now. You’re having another one of your night terrors.”

“Hannibal,” I panted, “I didn’t mean to bother you—”

“You’re not bothering me,” he said with certainty, “You were just having a very bad dream. Come, sit up. Just take slow, deep breaths.”

I nodded, sniffling as I sat up against the headboard. He sat down with me, taking a place next to me as he looked down at me, not judging at all. I started to cry, not understanding what was happening at all. I was dreaming about Hannibal. Why would it be a nightmare? I wasn’t panicked in the dream. I was only afraid when I woke up to him in my bedroom.

I sobbed, “I’m sorry.”

“Shhh,” he gently brushed my hair back, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Somehow it didn’t feel reassuring to me.

“What was I dreaming about?” tears streamed down my face.

“I don’t know,” Hannibal admitted, “Dreams are often lost to us when we wake, scientifically, we dream every night, but only ever remember a handful. Perhaps in this case, it would be better to let a sleeping dog lie.”

I couldn’t console myself as he brushed at my hair, “I saw different things,” I remembered in a panic.

“What things, Katherine?” he asked attentively.

“My mom’s old house,” I cried, “The stairs, and the vase under the orchid painting. It was broken on the floor. And a needle… definitely a needle.”

“Hmm. Perhaps your brain is still stuck on the accident that occurred at your mother’s house,” he provided, “It’s only natural you should have some unresolved feelings both about the accident, and your mother’s passing.”

I grew frustrated, “It wasn’t an accident!”

Hannibal seemed almost surprised by my sudden outburst.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I sobbed, “I didn’t fall off a ladder! I know I didn’t, I never did any work on the rose bushes at that house! Why else would I have seen the stairs, someone pushed me! Someone tried to kill me!”

“Shhh, shhhh-shhhh,” Hannibal gathered me into his lap with ease, petting my head like a cat. “Just breathe. You’re safe now.”

“You believe me?” I questioned desperately. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”

Hannibal thought. “I think that what you saw in your dream sounds very specific. The stairs, a broken vase. If you’re certain you had no reason to be a ladder, I suppose it’s entirely possible someone tried to hurt you, and you’re struggling to remember what had happened, and who did it.”

“Thank you,” I choked through sobs.

“Of course, the only question that remains is, why would this person go to such great lengths to cover it up?” he explained. “You were found my the police unconscious next to a ladder by the window, which would’ve meant that someone had to knock you unconscious, find a ladder, and create the scene outside.”

“I don’t know,” I heaved, my head still resting on his lap. “All I know is, someone wants to hurt me.”

“And who would do that?” he whispered sweetly, soothing me. “Who would have reason to hurt such a gentle creature?”

“I don’t know,” I confessed hysterically, “But something’s not right. I know it.”

“It’ll be alright,” Hannibal assured me. “Perhaps the truth will come out. It usually does. But for now… you’re safe here with me. No one will harm so much as a hair on your head as long as I’m here. You don’t even have to leave the house, if you don’t want to.”

I felt more pathetic as he lightly scratched my head than I have in a long time. But still, I did feel safe.

“Listen to me, Katherine,” he vowed. “If someone truly did make an attempt on your life, I promise you I will personally do everything in my power to ensure they are brought to justice by the proper authorities.”

“Thank you,” I sighed out loud, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he maintained, “You’ve been through an ordeal.”

I nodded, listening to him as he spoke.

“If we ever do find a monster that would do this to you,” he murmured, his fingers tracing the scar on my calf, “I’ll take care of it myself.”

“Okay,” I sobbed with relief.

He looked down at me crumbling in his lap, taking pity on me.

“You’re alright,” he cooed, “You’re just feeling anxious. Perhaps it was wrong of me to wean you off of your medication without something to cushion you.”

I listened silently as I fell apart in his lap, shaking.

“I’ll prescribe you something to ease the stress,” he decided, carefully laying me back down on the bed, “Stay here, and I’ll find you something to calm your nerves for the time being.”

I felt like some poor housewife in the Victorian era, taking ill.

I nodded. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Hannibal said firmly, “We’ll make this as seamless as possible for you. I don’t want you to suffer.”

I stared into his dark eyes. “That’s the kind of thing we say about animals we’re an to eat.”

“Ah, there she is,” he purred with a slight grin, “Such a delightful sense of humor. But even without eating people, I still think you look quite delicious.”

I smiled, genuinely comforted by his tongue-in-cheek way.

“Just relax. I’ll bring you your medicine,” Hannibal announced.

“Okay,” I agreed.

He left, disappearing into the hallway as I slowly laid back against the pillows. White silk. Hannibal had said they would be best for my hair. I closed my eyes, enveloping myself in the soft warmth of the bed he’d made for me. When Hannibal returned with some pills in a little white cup, I had no idea what they were, but as soon as I took them I felt much more at ease, falling back asleep that morning to wake up much later in the early evening.

*****

Hannibal didn’t wake me. I found the end of my long slumber on my own, opening my eyes to see that the clock said about 5 PM. I was in awe at how calmly I’d slept, without any nightmares or disturbance at all. I wandered downstairs, only to find that Hannibal had already finished making dinner for us.

“I thought you had appointments until 6,” I remarked.

He smiled, setting the last of the dishes on the dining table. “I thought I’d cancel, and make sure you were feeling rested. Sit, eat.”

I smiled gratefully as he set down a plate for me, then himself before sitting.

“This smells amazing,” I breathed, “What is it?”

“A simple lamb curry, with jasmine rice,” he told me, pouring me a glass of wine. “I thought you’d appreciate a staple.”

I looked at him. “The medication helped.”

“I’m glad,” he returned my graciousness. “I much prefer a smile on your face. Why don’t you replenish yourself, and then we’ll do something together?”

I agreed, eagerly digging into the simple feast. This was my home, and nothing seemed out of place in that moment.

-

“Exquisite,” he hissed quietly. “I can’t wait to show you off to my guests.”

I smiled as he looked at me through the mirror, taking my hand as he closed his eyes, kissing it gently.

“You’re sure I’m not intruding on your dinner?”

“Nonsense,” he assured me, “You live here. Jack’s a friend of mine, he’ll adore you.”

He seemed so certain of it, as he kept my hand in his, his lips still pressed to my knuckles as he grinned at our reflection.

“Why don’t you go see what I’ve picked out for you on the bed? I’ll go start on the courses for tonight,” he gave me a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re the best I’ve ever had,” I told him honestly.

“I should hope so,” he decided with pride, heading downstairs.

I went to my bedroom to look for the surprise he’d left on my bed. And there it was. An outfit for the intimate dinner party, a delicious black dress he’d surely had picked up from the expensive part of town. It was a bit more formal than I was expecting, with a longer length skirt and a smart collar. The neckline was high, but with a slit across the chest that made it slightly more revealing, but still elegant. I saw that he had also gotten me a new pair of shoes, fresh in the box. I examined the pair of matching heels, admiring the sleek pointed toes, and optimal height. I smiled to myself, sitting down at the vanity as I dug through new makeup. Eventually Hannibal came up to check on me, standing behind me in the mirror.

“It looks even better than I imagined,” he purred. “Perfection.”

I nervously felt at the back brace over my dress. “This feels wrong.”

“Why?” he questioned. “It’s natural you should still need it.”

“It doesn’t ruin the dress?” I asked.

It was thick and gaudy, like an additional skeleton over my clothes.

“No,” his fingers felt at the thick plastic material. “It’s… refined on you, striking. You look quite smart. It gives you an interesting silhouette, like a corset, only more pronounced. It really is attractive, in its own right.”

I nodded appreciatively. “If you’re sure you want me downstairs.”

“Of course I want you,” he promised.

*****

Hannibal set the table, looking up as he heard the doorbell.

“Could you get that for me, please?”

I nodded, anxiously making my way over to the door. I opened it, greeting our guests for him.

“Hi,” I said with a smile, hoping to be disarming.

The man seemed surprised by me.

“Hi,” he said quickly, putting on a charming smile, “And who might you be?”

Hannibal came up behind me as I felt his hand on my back brace.

“Right on time,” he said pleasantly. “This is my new secretary, Katherine Sarizy.”

“Katherine,” Jack recognized, “I’ve heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

I smiled, surprised at that. Hannibal led them inside as we made our way to the dining room.

“Katherine, meet Jack Crawford, and his lovely wife, Bella,” Hannibal introduced me.

“Nice to meet you,” I shook hands.

“You’re Hannibal’s new secretary?” Bella asked me almost incredulously.

I nodded warmly.

“You’re…” she looked at me almost surreally. “Tall.”

She seemed unable to settle on an adjective. Jack agreed, as we all laughed.

“In heels, maybe,” I observed, also seeing she was probably taller than me.

Hannibal sat everyone down as he paused behind my chair, breathing me in slowly.

“I do love the smell of Mizensir on you,” he spoke quietly as Bella seemed to notice.

Hannibal poured wine for everyone, looking up. “Katherine, would you mind grabbing the plates from the kitchen?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

I got up, relieved that he was giving me something to do. I fetched the plates, carefully setting them all down in front of us. Jack seemed to look down at my back brace, wondering about the injury. I noticed, but continued to sit down to eat with them as they made polite conversation.

“Roast pheasant, with a bread stuffing and watercress salad,” I announced with a smile.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Bella doesn’t eat meat,” Jack spoke up on her behalf.

“Oh, my mistake,” Hannibal corrected promptly. “Here. A full salad course.”

“Thank you,” Bella replied curtly, before turning to me. “You look familiar, but I don’t know from where.”

“Here,” I helped him fix her plate, too preoccupied with trying to be the perfect server.

Hannibal gave me a grateful look, effectively reassuring me that everything was alright.

“Hannibal, why have you been keeping this poor girl from us?” Jack jested. “She seems absolutely delightful.”

I chuckled awkwardly.

“Oh, I try not to bore Katherine with my business, she sees enough of me as it is,” he joked. “She hears enough about my work without indulging my little dinner parties. But I can assure you, you’ll be seeing a lot more of her from now on. She’s something of a hidden gem.”

Bella gave me a smile, which I returned in kind.

“Are you from around here, Katherine?” Jack engaged me curiously.

“I am,” I confirmed, “Although I lived in LA while I was in college. I moved back recently.”

“Oh, what were you doing in LA?” Jack asked me.

“I used to act,” I explained.

“Oh, that’s where I know you from,” Bella realized.

Hannibal looked at her curiously, not sure where the casual conversation was headed.

“Where?” I wondered, genuinely not sure.

“That detective show,” she recalled, “You were the girl that stabbed the police officer. You got to kiss Jackson Warner,” she teased.

“Right!” her husband added, “We used to always watch that show before bed.”

Hannibal masked his own thoughts with a calculated smile, looking over at me.

“It seems you made quite the impression in your little cameo.”

Looking at Jack and Bella, I should’ve been blushing at the praise. But looking at Hannibal suddenly made me very self-conscious.

“It was two episodes,” I laughed nervously.

“Even one would be impressive,” Jack expressed.

“Especially if you’re kissing the leading man,” Bella reasoned.

Hannibal stiffened.

“I hardly recognized you with the blonde. It’s stunning, by the way,” Jack said in a friendly tone.

“Yes,” Hannibal chimed in before I could, “She’s a brand new person now.”

I painted on a smile to hide how overwhelmed I was with the entire event, staring down at the pretty shoes that had been chosen for me like a doll. I should’ve hated this, but I didn’t. Not at all.

-

I held the book in my hands, “Look!”

“You know bloody well I can’t.”

The ringing was piercing my ears, I was restless to convince him as we mended the Vanishing Cabinet. I sighed, dropping the book.

“‘Blood has been spilt from an ancient wound’,” I repeated, “The book says that my ancestor, Elia Selwyn, accidentally killed his best friend. The ultimate betrayal. That’s what gave him the idea for Protego Diabolica. But what the book doesn’t specify, is whether or not said best friend needs to stay dead.”

“This is too far, Elise, even for you,” Draco warned, “This is insanity. A crime. A dangerous one, at that, you could kill someone, land yourself in Azkaban for life!”

“Not if I pull it off!” I reasoned. “A potion can stop the heart, and the Draught of Living Death can induce a coma before that potion takes effect!”

“And that’s if you pull it off!” he shouted. “If you do this, you can’t make a mistake! Are you honestly telling me you think you can do that?”

“What about you?” I questioned. “Do you think you could?”

Draco didn’t answer. He considered the plan, muttering as he examined a hole in the cabinet.

“How would you even ‘kill’ Blaise?” he demanded. “In private. Without him knowing.”

“I could slip him something at dinner, something that takes longer to take effect,” I thought. “Then, I could get him to the dorms, and give him the Draught. And when he comes to, I can Obliviate him.”

“Obliviate him?” Draco gawked. “This plan gets worse and worse by the minute! You’re telling me you think you can Obliviate someone’s memory without overshooting by fifteen years?!”

“I’ve done it before,” I argued.

“When?” he questioned.

“Exactly,” I smiled.

He paused, his mind completely overwhelmed with irritation before he shook his head with determination.

“Elise. You can’t just kill your best friend temporarily,” Draco rationalized, “Think of what you’re saying.

The ringing grew louder.

“What choice do we really have?” I pointed out. “Without this book, it could take us months, if that, to mend this cabinet and kill Dumbledore. And even then, there’s no telling what’ll happen to us. If I manage to unlock these secrets, we could find a way to end this quickly, without being sent to Azkaban,” I emphasized.

Draco blinked. “Well, we can’t kill Blaise.”

I frowned. “Then what would you have me do?”

“Kill me,” Draco decided, dropping what he was doing.

I stared. “What?”

“Kill me, then,” he insisted, “If you think you can bring me back, then kill me instead. It’ll be easier, and you won’t have to Obliviate me.”

I considered it for a moment, wondering if it would truly work. If it did, it would mean I wouldn’t have to kill Blaise. It would mean I didn’t have to have this memory of someone who wouldn’t share it with me. I looked at him, considering this truest of crimes.

“You think you’re my best friend?” I asked quietly.

He thought about it, “I could be.”

“We do spend a lot of time together,” I admitted.

“You can’t kill Blaise,” Draco said through a lump in his throat, “We can’t lose someone else.”

“You’d let me kill you?” I questioned in disbelief.

Draco wasn’t the type to let anyone do anything. Let alone me. He was troubled, but still.

“I trust you,” he spoke finally. “More than I do a lot of people.”

It was silent for a moment.

“I’ll make it count,” I told him.

“You really think you could pull it off?”

The ringing grew louder and louder in my ears. It wanted me to.

“I can,” I nodded with gentle conviction.

He seemed to understand we didn’t have many other options.

“I believe you,” Draco decided, his voice a mere whisper. “We can’t lose this war.”

“No,” I agreed.

“If I fail…” he shook his head. “My father’ll rot.”

“Mine, too. But in a different way,” I conceded.

“My father’s managed to do everything for me, for my mum, for sixteen years,” he thought. “And now, I can’t do this one thing for him.”

I took his hand in mine, squeezing as his eyes widened slightly. He squeezed back this time, holding onto the gesture.

“We’ll make them proud,” I insisted.

His brows furrowed. “Do you really believe that?”

I sighed. “Maybe not. We can never predict other people. But we do have a say in us. What we do. I think there are certain achievements you can make where… It just doesn’t matter. There are things you can do that are so great no one can deny you. There are people who are so great, they forget all about whatever made them as angry as they are.”

“Like who?”

“Dumbledore,” I thought. “Grindelwald. The Dark Lord,” I murmured.

Draco looked at me, blue eyes full of trouble. “I don’t know if I want to be that great.”

“Most people don’t get to choose.”

“We should,” he declared, “We should decide right here and now what we’re willing to do to win this war, to survive, because I’m afraid that one day, it’ll be too late to decide,” his eyes darted back and forth.

“That’s a good point,” I agreed.

“What are you willing to do, Elise?” he asked fearfully.

I held his hand in mine. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

I waited for an answer from him, but he just held onto my hand, as if taking it all in. My answer seemed to guide him, as he accepted it, and what we had to do. But either way, I couldn’t hear him over the shrieking in my ears, drowning me out of my own body. This right here, this was it for me. I’d made my decision.

-

I sighed. “This book is powerful. Deadly powerful. I don’t know what it is, or what’s in it, but I know it has something to do with my family. Elia Selwyn was a spell inventor, he created Protego Diabolica, the one Grindelwald used to separate his supporters from the liars.”

Draco and I were alone at the banks by the Black Lake, where no one would stumble upon us.

“So this spell. It’s a deadly ring of fire, and it kills off anyone who wants to hurt you?” he asked.

“Yes. Anyone who walks through the ring of fire around you would burn, except for your allies,” I nodded.

“So, it’s not exactly the kind of spell you can practice, then,” Draco surmised.

“No,” I agreed. “But based on what the Grey Lady said… I think it might be what I need to be able to read this book,” I held it carefully in my hands.

“Why do you need to see what’s in this book so badly?” Draco questioned. “We’re fine without it, it’s not like there aren’t a hundred ways to kill an old man.”

“Not an old man at Hogwarts,” I reminded him, “Besides, it’s Albus Dumbledore, only a fool would forget that fact. I don’t think a Fanged Frisbee will do it.”

“All we need is…” even he didn’t know. “Poison, or a cursed object, or worst case scenario, a Killing Curse. All you’re doing with this book is wasting time when we could be figuring out all that.”

“This book could give us the key to fighting all that out in a single day,” I reasoned, “Besides. Do you really think it’s going to end there? You think we’ll just cast one spell, and the Dark Lord will pat us on the back? We do this, Malfoy, and there’ll be more to do, more at stake, and a war we still have to survive. I don’t know about you, but I’m not going into this blind. If we’re going to kill the greatest wizard to ever live, we’re going to do it the right way.”

Draco let out a long huff. “I suppose it’s a bit daft to assume we won’t have to cover this up once it’s done with.”

“I’m sure the book can tell us how to free ourselves of the Trace, and all,” I thought. “Then there’s no way we’ll risk Azkaban.”

He seemed troubled, head practically buried in the sand by the lake as he stared down at his shoes.

“You’re right. We shouldn’t leave that all up to chance, that’s what got my father where he is,” he muttered, clenching his jaw.

I reached for his hand as he looked up, flinching at my touch. “Draco, we can survive this. And with this book on our side, maybe we can win,” I assured him, “I can feel it.”

He studied me with pursed lips, searching my eyes for any semblance of sanity. He couldn’t ignore the bags under my eyes.

“Have you slept at all this week?” he breathed.

“I’ve slept enough,” I assured him.

“You can’t keep doing this, Elise,” he shook his head, “It’s not proper. That damned book, it’s probably driven a thousand people mad before you.”

“But they don’t have what I have,” I insisted. “I’ve studied spells, I’ve studied Dark spells, I know magic.”

“You know how spell inventors die, Elise?” Draco reminded me, “They blow themselves up. Doing something stupid, and reckless.”

“I know what I’m doing,” I argued, “I studied that spell, for hours! I can cast it when the time comes.”

“So you’ll try it out when?” he shouted, “When the Dark Lord knocks at your door?! That seems a brilliant plan!”

“You don’t believe me?” I sprung from the ground, reaching in my boot, “Watch me! I’ll cast it right now!”

“Selwyn!” Draco yelled as I stepped back towards the lake, “Selwyn don’t be stupid—!”

I aimed my wand, “Protego Diabolica!”

He stopped suddenly as the ground began to shake for a split second. Draco stuck his arms out to steady himself, feeling something off.

“What the hell was that?!” he snapped. “What did you do?!”

His eyes widened as the ground around me sizzled, leaves burning up into ash. I gasped as blackened flames rose from beside me, enveloping me in the force field. Draco ran back, watching as the flames grew taller, maybe a few inches off the ground. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. I laughed in disbelief as the magic engulfed me, not scalding, but cold. It was a difficult sort of thing to explain. Draco looked at me, afraid to move.

“Bloody hell,” he murmured, “You actually fucking did it.”

I laughed as I looked down at the book, wand still aimed, “I did it! Oh, I fucking did it!”

“Now you’ve really lost it,” Draco muttered.

I laughed as I watched the surreal flames flickering, burning up and reaching the book. I stopped, flicking my wand as the flames went away. Instead of catching on fire, the blank pages of the book only remained splotched by black. But not ash. Ink. I leapt, grabbing the book as Draco came running.

“What happened?” he stared.

He still couldn’t read it. I cradled the book in my hands, brushing at the black ink that appeared on the page, written in English. I gasped, finally able to understand the book’s message. A long message appeared, with a very distinct heading.

“The Chamber of Secrets,” I whispered.

“That chamber Slytherin built?” Draco thought. “What about it?”

I scanned the picture page quickly, “Venom! That’s it! Basilisk venom!”

“What does Basilisk venom have to do with any of this?” he demanded impatiently.

“The Grey Lady said the venom is always in the antidote,” I answered, “I need Basilisk venom if I’m going to read this book.”

“So what’s your plan? Pop on down to the Chamber of Secrets and suck the venom out of a dead snake?!” he mocked.

“Come on,” I grabbed my book, speeding towards the castle.

Draco stopped. “Wait. You’re not actually going to do that, are you?! Selwyn! Wait!” he called, running after me. “Are you seriously going to dissect the dead snake?!”

*****

Draco had to follow me all the way to the girls’ bathroom on the second floor. He stood beside me as I read off the page, hissing in the fluid language. He jumped as stone disappeared into the floor, giving way to a hidden entrance in the ground. A giant, gaping chasm. We couldn’t see the bottom.

“What the hell was that?!” he yelled at me. “Now you’re a Parselmouth?”

“Don’t be stupid,” I muttered, “The password was on the page.”

“And did it happen to come with a pronunciation?” he asked expectantly.

I paused. It was a good question, but we didn’t have time.

“Come on.”

“‘Come on’ what?” Draco cried, “It’s just a giant hole—!”

He screamed as I reached for his hand, jumping over the edge. We both feel deep down the dark hole, until we landed somewhere in a giant sea of what could only be bone. Draco yelled, trying to jump up over the murky water.

“Selwyn, what the fuck?!” he boomed. “Next time you decide to go on a wet suicide mission, do be sure not to drag me along with you…! Oh, hell, what is this?!”

We both struggled to stand in the water, stuck in what appeared to be rock, bone, and skin. Snakeskin.

“Oh, fucking hell!” Draco realized, throwing the skin off of him. “Yuck! I’m all wet!”

I rolled my eyes as he fiddled with his wet clothes.

“Come on!” I grabbed onto him, bag slung over my shoulder. “We don’t have time for this.”

We walked knee-deep in the water. We waded through and hiked our way out. We ran towards what we saw was a giant effigy of Salazar Slytherin.

“Bloody hell,” Draco stared. “It’s… awful.”

“It’s beautiful,” I admitted, oddly enchanted by the austere architecture.

“There’s something… deeply unsettling about all this,” Draco said cautiously, “I don’t like this. Not one bit, we should leave.”

“Not without that Basilisk venom,” I charged toward the collapsed skeleton.

He looked around in disgust. “I really hate this, Elise. I’m soaking wet.”

“Shut up,” I ignored him in my search.

I looked at him startled as he anxiously clutched onto my hand.

“Draco. We’re going to be fine. The Basilisk is dead. Just make sure nothing else is in here,” I told him, crouching down by the snake.

I produced a leather glove from my bag, poking around the remains of the creature. I found the head, and the teeth that remained. Wincing, I reached for one, snatching it out with a loud snap. Draco grimaced as I held the fang in my hand.

“What the hell do I do with this?” I thought aloud.

“No idea, now can we get the hell out of here?” Draco rushed me.

I looked down at the empty book, then at the fang in my hand with unease.

“Fine,” I relented, stuffing it in my bag.

Just for safety, I plucked a few more from the Basilisk’s mouth, keeping the fangs just in case I needed them. He tugged on my arm frantically. I listened to his silent plea, as we exited the Chamber of Secrets.

*****

“I can’t believe you convinced me to do that,” Draco laughed surreally, drying his hair with a towel. “You’re a fucking lunatic.”

He tossed the towel down on my bed as he looked at me sitting up against the pillows, reading through the book. My hair was wet after my shower, and I was in my nightgown pouring through the book for answers.

“You find anything else in that hellish book of yours?” he sat down beside me.

“No,” I mumbled in frustration, “Just more of the same.”

He frowned. “And you thought, what, more words would magically appear on the page?”

He stopped, realizing the irony.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he snatched the book from my hands, “You’re just staring at the same pages, you’re not going to find anything else. It’s late, why don’t you just get some sleep for the first time in ages? I’ve been working nonstop on that cabinet, and you need it just as bad as I do.”

“I’m telling you, I can find the answer,” I argued, “I have all the pieces already, I’m sure of it.”

“Then you can put the book down for a few hours,” he stated, throwing it down, “Just get some sleep, and look through it again in the morning.”

“Right,” I murmured.

“We’ll have plenty of time to kill ourselves tomorrow,” Draco remarked bitterly.

I watched him as he left. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Elise,” he reached for the doorknob.

“Draco,” I protested.

He stopped, looking back at me exhaustedly. “What?”

“Thank you,” I said softly, looking down at the book at the foot of my bed.

He nodded softly, not saying much else. He left my room, turning off the light for me as I sat there.

-

“You brought that thing with you?! Are you mad?!” Draco exclaimed.

“What?” I questioned quietly. “No one knows what it is!”

“Fucking hell,” Draco rubbed at his face.

He finally looked at me, eyes narrowing as I drank my juice, flipping through the pages. The low hum in my ears had remained all through the night.

“Merlin’s beard, did you even sleep?” he demanded, seeing the bags underneath my eyes.

“No,” I muttered, preoccupied as I tried to read the runes. “It’s fine.”

“Bloody hell, are you tied to that thing?” Draco stared.

“It’s called ‘The Tome of The Profane’.”

“Oh, the Tome of the Profane,” Draco echoed sarcastically, “How promising!”

Crabbe and Goyle just sat there stupidly, the entire conversation going over their heads.

“I know there’s something in here that’ll help us,” I insisted, “The Dark Lord himself wanted this thing, but even he couldn’t find it.”

Draco blinked, trying to understand what he was looking at. “Selwyn.”

“Just a minute,” I muttered, “Let me find it.”

“Selwyn, those pages are blank,” Draco cut me off.

I paused, looking down at the book, then back up at him.

“You can’t read them?” I asked him.

“Are you barking?!” he exclaimed. “No, I can’t read blank pages!”

“Only I can read it,” I realized, recalling writing my own name in blood on one of the pages.

“Oh, so it’s a mysterious book titled ‘The Tome of the Profane’, that only you can read! Fantastic, anything else I’m missing?” he thundered.

“I got the pages to reveal themselves to me by writing my name in it in blood,” I murmured as I studied the strange symbols written inside.

Draco sat with his mouth agape, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Bloody hell.”

But I couldn’t hear him. The loud hum was still sounding in my ears. No one else could hear it, but I could. The call of the book. It was mine, it wanted me. Draco just shook his head as he tried to return to his breakfast.

*****

In between classes, I’d scoured the Ancient Runes textbooks, and nothing. These weren’t even ancient runes in the book. The language was something else, something old, and foreign. Something lost. After class, I had even gone back to the library for other books on translation, and nothing. This language, whatever it was, was completely unknown to all the information at Hogwarts. The more lost I became, the more weary I grew. This book, it was something old, and forbidden. Draco grew tired of me as I went through all of the books in the Room of Requirement, not even finding anything in there. I don’t think he understood how astonishingly worrisome that was.

“Elise, will you get off your arse and help me already?” Draco snapped as he mended the cabinet.

“Can’t,” I told him, “I have to find out what language this is.”

None of the books showed even a single common symbol between the ones in the tome. The ringing grew painful again.

“Then you may as well not even be here,” Draco spat.

I nearly laughed aloud. That was it.

“Exactly!” I jumped up off the table. “Brilliant!”

I grabbed my bag and ran out of the room as Draco gasped in disbelief, shaking his head as he returned to his work.

*****

It felt like a step in the wrong direction, but I went back to the common room in search of answers.

“I know nothing of this tome you speak of,” the Bloody Baron maintained coldly.

“Do you know who would?” I held up the volume. “Dumbledore, Snape?”

The fearsome spirit flew closer to me, his nose inches from mine. I could actually feel his coldness, the bitter remnants of his soul.

“If this book of yours is truly as ancient and buried as you claim, you ought to seek out someone much older,” he concluded ominously.

“Who, then?” I asked him.

The Baron responded shortly, “You’ll find her atop Ravenclaw Tower.”

The bloody ghost flew away from me without another word, but that was all I needed. I raced off to Ravenclaw Tower, scheming as I managed an Invisibility Charm. I watched a girl and boy enter. I rushed in behind them, only to be rebuffed by some sort of magic in the entrance. The charm wore off, and I stood before the eagle knocker as it asked me the riddle.

“The Basilisk,” I recalled the answer the girl had given.

The door opened, and I crept inside, invisible once more. I made my way up the tower before I found her, making myself known.

“Helena Ravenclaw?” I spoke gently.

She whipped around, having been gazing out the window. “Who are you? I don’t know you,” she stared at me with certainty.

“My name is Elise Selwyn,” I stepped closer disarmingly. “I’ve come to speak to you about something.”

“Selwyn,” the Grey Lady echoed, her face paling. “I’ve known Selwyns before, I won’t speak to you!”

“It’s alright,” I promised her, as she backed away from me, “I’m not here to hurt you, or pester you. I just needed some help.”

“You’re in Slytherin House, are you not?” she demanded.

“Yes, I am,” I nodded. “But I promise, whatever you’re afraid of, I’m not like the others. I just need your help, I’ll return the favor, if you need me to.”

She floated still, cautiously coming down as she listened to what I had to say.

“What do you need help with?” she murmured.

“I found a book. It’s powerful, but I can’t read the language it’s written in,” I explained. “It’s not in Ancient Runes, or any of the other books I can find here at Hogwarts.”

“This book,” Helena’s brows furrowed, “Do you have it?”

I nodded. “Here.”

I pulled the book from my bag, holding it up for her to see. She came closer, eyes narrowing as she examined it. It was a split second before she recoiled.

“What kind of dark magic is that?!” she snarled, “How did you even find that?”

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” I whispered soothingly, “I’m not here to hurt you…”

I paused, thinking.

“Can this even hurt you?” I wondered.

“If that’s what it seems to be, it can do a great many things,” she scowled. “Evil magic, nothing that should be within these walls. How it even came to be here is beyond me, you Selwyns…”

“What about my family?” I asked her. “Who did you know before me?”

She regarded me with distaste. “I won’t help you.”

“Helena, I’m not my family,” I promised her, “I don’t know what my ancestors could have possibly done, to you or anyone else, but I promise you, I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to understand,” I pleaded.

Her lip quivered, “If you do ever manage to read that book, I’m sure you’ll find out exactly what you want to know.”

“How can I read it?” I inquired. “I signed my name in the book. In blood. But it still won’t reveal its secrets to me, I’ve tried every spell.”

Helena gasped, “Blood. You gave it your blood.”

I nodded solemnly.

“Selwyn, what a foul house of heretics! I take it back!” she cried. “I won’t tell you, I won’t help you, I won’t even look at you! Get away from me, at once—!”

“Helena,” I hissed imperiously.

The hysterical woman stopped, as if she had blood that could run cold. She looked at me with such abhorrence, such fear, that I had no idea what I could’ve done to inspire.

“Your mother was one of the most renowned scholars in history,” I urged, “You know what’s at stake. I know you know something about this book, and I need to know what that is. Otherwise, I won’t be able to complete the mission I’m supposed to.”

Helena glanced down at the sleeve of my jacket, sniffing with a knowing fear.

“You don’t look anything like the Selwyn I knew,” she professed, “You look like him. The last boy who came seeking my help. You look just like him! Same hair, same face, same voice.”

“Helena, I don’t know what’s going to happen to me if I can’t find what’s in this book,” I reminded her, “If I fail, you know what they’ll do to me. You know what will happen, and this book will fall into the wrong hands, and you know they’ll be much, much worse than I am. Please, Helena. Help me put an end to this,” I begged.

She trembled with fear, her voice becoming something hoarse and labored, “Blood has been spilt from an ancient wound,” she breathed. “The antidote always contains the venom.”

I blinked, processing what she’d said. I looked up at her.

“Thank you, Helena,” I offered amiably.

Still, she looked at me with such hatred, as if I’d done something to her all those years ago when she was alive. She couldn’t get away from me fast enough, soaring up towards the window as she became nothing but a mist. I remembered her words clearly.

Blood had been spilt from an ancient wound.

I’d given the book my blood, and someone from my family line had hurt her, or the world, gravely.

The antidote always contains the venom.

The solution relates back to the problem.

I thought long and hard, trying to decipher how I could find a solution from what I knew. I left Ravenclaw Tower in a hurry, making my way down to the library. I knew the problem had to lie in my ancestry, it was just a question of who, and what. I gathered every book I could on the Sacred 28 families in addition to my own, scouring them for information surrounding the 11th century and on. There had to be something there. It was hours before I found a name, someone who may have even been the very Selwyn Rowena Ravenclaw’s daughter was referring to.

Elia Selwyn, spell inventor born October 1106, died May 1154. He had lived around the same time as Helena, born a while after, and had attended Hogwarts. He was a Slytherin, among some of the first. I scanned through the information on the spells he’d created. Dark magic, it seemed. Apparently he didn’t have too much luck, most of his invented spells turning out to be either impractical, or incomplete. Then, I finally found something of interest. His invention of Protego Diabolica, an extreme defensive charm popularized by dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald. I looked around me before swiftly tearing the page from the book and pocketing it. I kept a couple of the books I’d found, returning the others to Madam Pince before leaving.

I stayed up all night once again, reading everything I could about Elia Selwyn and the spell he’d created. It wasn’t much to go off of, but I’d figured out what I needed to know what had to be done next.

-

“That feels nice,” I admitted to him.

He smiled, holding each piece of my hair with careful tenderness as he works the brush through the ends before smoothing it through the length.

“As does your hair,” he praised, “It’s quite soft. You’ve taken good care of it. You’re a thoughtful person. I admire that about you.”

“Thank you… It’s surprising you know how to do hair,” I watched him.

“It’s not much different than anything else I’ve done with the human body,” he said, making my skin crawl a bit. “It just requires precision, and a gentle touch.”

I watched as he began to section my hair. He efficiently split it into even parts before grabbing some of the many different products he’d had delivered, more than prepared to help take me from black to genuine platinum blonde.

“This won’t be too harsh on my hair?” I thought.

“No, not using the proper methods and precautions,” he reminded me. “It’ll just require a couple of sessions or so.”

I couldn’t help but laugh softly as I felt him brush the cold product through my hair. He saw this, looking up at me as he continued working.

“Comfortable?” he asked as I sat on the stool.

I nodded. “I’m good.”

He continued working the bleach through my hair, every now and then applying the thin foils. He was very thorough in his intimate process, treating my hair with the utmost tenderness. I knew this was beyond strange, whatever was between us. But I didn’t want it to end.

“You’re gentle,” I spoke softly.

He answered shortly, “It’s hard not to be, with you.”

*****

After my hair was bleached, I washed it out and used what I had to make sure it wouldn’t damage my hair in the long term. It was looking okay, now a slightly brassy light color as I took another look in the mirror, carefully brushing through the long strands. They were I wrapped myself in a towel as I walked down the hall to my permanent bedroom upstairs, closing the door behind me. I stopped in front of the full length mirror, dropping the towel as I looked at myself. It wasn’t just my hair color that was unfamiliar. My leg was scarred in a few places. The stitches were no longer visible, but the jagged scars were still looking monstrous.

I grimaced at the sight of myself, unable to come to terms with it all. The scars on my leg seemed to change the way I looked at the rest of it. My hips looked bigger, and my shoulders felt awkward to me. The only thing that still looked right to me was my breasts, which I’ve been told are my best feature. I exhaled softly, cupping the soft flesh as I tried to familiarize myself. I nearly jumped as I saw a face behind me reflected in the mirror. Hannibal.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized suddenly, having just walked into the room, “I should have knocked…”

Neither of us said anything, both frozen in front of the mirror as I covered myself. He seemed guilty, but still didn’t back out of the room. Instead he looked at me, wanting to reassure me.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he stated politely, “I apologize.”

“You didn’t,” I breathed.

“No?” he questioned, clearly not believing me.

I didn’t answer right away. I glanced into the mirror, seeing as he slowly rested his hands on my waist, steadying me.

“It’s alright,” he said.

He didn’t make another move, not actively trying to seduce me, but still engaging me. I didn’t protest as he felt my skin with his wrinkled but soft hands. I could feel them trailing up my sides, then back down to my waist.

“You look beautiful,” he pressed a kiss to my cheek. “This color actually suits you.”

“I think it’s awkward,” I thought.

“Maybe. But you’re also just not used to it,” he brushed my arm, almost tickling me. “We’ll get it to the right color soon enough.”

That wasn’t what was on my mind as his knuckles ghosted over my thigh.

“Are you happy?” he wondered in a hushed tone.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Here,” he cooed, pressing against my back, “With me.”

He enveloped me in a strong, certain hold as his knuckles trailed back up to my face.

“Yes,” I confessed. “Very.”

“Good,” he maintained, nuzzling against my neck.

I could feel his nose.

“I want to keep you safe,” he pressed his lips to my neck, “Happy. Shielded from the rest of the world, for as long as you want.”

I relaxed into his touch, not wanting to go anywhere else. Being here with him was intoxicating, like nothing I’d ever felt in my life. He’d barely touched me, but still I felt better than I had with any of my old boyfriends.

“You are… a fascinating little creature,” he professed. “I could study you for the rest of my life and never stop learning.”

He kissed down my neck, little wet kisses that made me feel like putty in his arms.

“Relax,” he encouraged me, “I’m not expecting anything.”

I paused. “You’re not?”

“No,” he maintained. “Seduction for me is a steady investment. Whatever I give you… is yours to keep.”

I breathed as he kissed my neck, closing my eyes. His strong arms tightened around me as I felt him firm against my back. His hand snaked up my thigh as I suddenly felt him blowing cold air into my ear. I shuddered involuntarily, out of instinct. He just smiled knowingly.

“I apologize,” he expressed, “I couldn’t resist.”

“It’s alright,” I responded coolly.

I didn’t mind it at all.

“Do you know how many nerve endings there are that make up the human body?” he quizzed me.

“No.”

I shivered as I felt him tickling my forearm, his hands still slow and teasing in their exploration.

“Up to a hundred billion,” he informed me, kissing in the crook of my neck, “Up to a hundred billion nerve endings in your body… A hundred billion different places for you to feel me.”

I let out a breath as he playfully nipped at my earlobe.

“There are so many fascinatingly horrifying things about the human body,” I remarked.

“A wise observation,” he added, “The human body provides torture just as it does pleasure. Either way, sometimes the only way to know how is to just… take it all apart.”

It felt so sensual and sinister all at once as he grasped my hip firmly, his fingers digging playfully into the flesh.

“Every day, I learn more about you,” Hannibal said in a low tone, lightly dragging his nails up my thigh. “With every touch, every pause, every reaction. You’re my most satisfying case file, just an open book begging to be poured over.”

I sighed at his nips at my neck.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re giving out already,” he purred, returning to his simple kisses. “We’ve hardly begun. You’ll make me think I’ve broken you.”

It was a terrifying thought, but an appealing one.

“I plan to give you everything you could possibly want for,” he promised.

I looked at him. “Why?”

He nuzzled against my shoulder, burying his face. “This satisfaction I feel is difficult to explain. Like creating something wonderful, or watching a flower bloom. I must confess, it’s… exhilarating, experiencing you as something I’ve crafted with my own hands.”

“I’m your monster,” I thought, looking down at the gash on my leg.

He didn’t seem disturbed at all.

“I’m sure you’ll find I’m the monster,” he said evenly.

That worried me as he kissed at my neck, teasing me with his hands sneaking up my thighs.

“But you’re the doctor,” I reminded him.

He smiled against my cheek, nipping at my earlobe. “The doctor is the monster, remember?”

I looked in the mirror as he lavished me with affection, the genuine satisfaction on his face clear. I felt him hard against my back, tempting me with his condescending comfort.

“You have such delicate skin. Like silk. Delectable… It must be heaven being inside you. Tell me, my dear, are you wet?” he whispered softly in my ear. “Oh, you are…”

My thighs pressed together in surprise.

“Good,” he said, pulling away.

I froze as he took away the warmth of his touch. He didn’t seem to be doing it very intentionally, backing off as he retired for the night.

“Why don’t you lie down for the night?” he told me. “See if you can conjure up some pleasurable dreams.”

I watched as he stood by the door.

“Goodnight, Katherine,” he bid me kindly.

“Goodnight,” I thought as he left the room, closing the door.

I had no idea why he did the things that he did.

*****

I had laid down for the night, trying to sleep. I was starting to have trouble without my medication. I was fitful for about an hour or so, before I woke up in a sweat. I thrashed back and forth, desperate for relief. My arms flailed about before I heard a voice grounding me.

“Katherine. Katherine,” Hannibal coaxed me awake.

I jumped up with a start, sitting up beside him. He was right there as if he’d never left, wearing his luxurious nightclothes.

“Hannibal?” I questioned. “What are you doing back here?”

“Back?” he echoed, confused.

I steadied myself, rubbing at my temples. “You were here before I went to bed.”

“After we rinsed your hair?” he asked, brushing it soothingly.

I shook my head, “No, no. Before I went to sleep. You walked in…”

He frowned. “I think you might still be in a bit of a dream state,” he said comfortingly, “Why don’t you lie back down? I can stay until you fall asleep, if you’d like.”

I stopped. Hannibal was in the room earlier, before I’d gone to sleep. I remembered that. What happened in front of the mirror. Losing my mind with exhaustion, I struggled to remember if he’d even said it seconds ago, but it was no use. Hannibal sat closer, letting me rest my head on his shoulder as I felt myself growing weary already. He was too soft and cool to deny. I laid my head down and closed my eyes, feeling his fingers in my hair. He was satisfied with himself, pulling me against him as he covered the both of us with the blanket.

“Just relax,” he cooed. “I’m here…”

Sleep seemed to wash over me as he held me. He stroked my soft skin, letting me melt into his embrace.

-

In physical therapy, and in my odd conversations with Hannibal that denied categorization as well as structure. He was my doctor, and my employer and landlord, but he still took pleasure in me, in other capacities. He was particularly enthusiastic, for his demeanor, when it was time for me to get my cast off. I still had my back brace, but at least I was without crutches, and could be back in heels soon enough. Hannibal had encouraged me to dress up for the occasion, and I wore my soft pink blouse, and pencil skirt. I think he liked it on me.

“I’m pleased they allowed me to take the cast off for you,” Hannibal expressed as we sat in his office. “It’ll allow for a much more intimate celebration.”

He allowed for me to sit up on the desk in front of him, which I did tentatively. I looked down at him as he carefully removed my shoe without asking.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” I stated for the record.

“I know that,” he promised. “But I would like to. As your doctor, I take great pride in your accomplishments.”

“I thought you weren’t my doctor,” I teased him.

He gave a smile of amusement. “Perhaps I simply can’t help myself sometimes.”

His subtle Hannibal cheerfulness was infectious as he gently patted my ankle.

“Are you ready?”

I nodded, sucking in a breath. “Let’s do it.”

He carefully gathered his tools, electing for a small medical saw. I think he saw my hesitation.

“It’s quite alright,” he said evenly, “I’m quite good with my hands.”

“Right. You were a surgeon,” I reminded myself out loud.

“I’ve got you,” he assured, looking up at me. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”

I stared down at him kneeling in front of me at my feet, saw in his hands. I listened and grasped his shoulder, feeling the broad muscles under my touch. He was steady like that. Hannibal held my gaze as he talked me through the process, not wanting to alarm me.

“This won’t hurt at all,” he stated. “You’re safe. This is a happy day.”

“Happy day,” I echoed, “Right.”

“I’m going to count to three,” he provided. “One. Two…”

I braced myself as he sawed through the cast, removing it with a surprising ease. I gasped as I finally felt the cool air on my leg again, laughing a little as Hannibal himself indulged in a smile, removing the thick cast as he gently caressed my leg.

“There we go. All gone,” he announced finally. “You’re free.”

I chuckled as he took in the sight of my bare skin, his touch lingering. He gave me a thoughtful once-over, leaning in as he pressed a chaste kiss to my ankle. He caught himself, looking up as if in shame.

“Forgive me,” he said, “Professional curiosity.”

I ignored it. “Right.”

He nodded promptly as I stood. “You’re looking better already.”

“I still have the back brace,” I pointed out, shifting uncomfortably at the pressure on my lower spine.

He agreed silently, his gaze shifting down. “Well. It’ll be off soon. For now, you can at least enjoy your leg.”

I sighed, glancing down at the unfamiliar, scarred limb. “I think it may take some getting used to.”

“Why?” he asked cluelessly.

I answered by looking down at it, and he understood.

“The stitches,” he thought aloud. “Sure. But you understand, the scars’ll fade.”

“Will they?” I asked in a low tone.

“Well, I don’t know,” he pivoted pleasantly, “Let me have a look.”

He guided me, turning me around as I faced the desk.

“Hands on the desk for me, please.”

I hesitated before placing them on the desk as he asked, allowing him to examine as I bent forward. It was a perverse little moment, but it felt safe with him. I stifled a reaction, of some sort, when I felt his cold, smooth hands lifting up my skirt, revealing what I knew to be the long, jagged scar up my thigh. I sniffled quietly at the thought of the ugly black stitching disrupting the smoothness of my skin. I tensed as I felt his fingertips grazing the healing wound, which I’m sure he noticed, but didn’t acknowledge. His touch was clinical, appraising. There was no additional intimacy to it, which was an admitted relief.

“You’re in good hands,” he promised quietly. “Just let me examine you…”

I knew that wasn’t something he’d ordinarily say. I let out the breath I was holding in as he seemed to massage the skin, tracing the trajectory of my injuries down to my knee.

“They’re deep, but healing nicely,” he told me, “They won’t be more than a pinkish purple here and there.”

Still, that image didn’t comfort me as I sniffled. But I felt a strange sense of relief wash over me as I felt his hand on my back.

“Shhhhh, shhh,” he eased. “Just relax yourself.”

I closed my eyes as he pressed gently on the back brace, letting me bend at the hips. His hands explored the skin of my thighs, trying to comfort me. He rubbed at my lower back. I sucked in a breath again, before he prudently skipped over my body, going back to my thighs as he massaged the skin.

“Apologies,” he said quickly, recusing himself as usual, “I have a surgeon’s fascination.”

I nodded, not questioning it further.

“Come, let’s get you something to eat,” he said eagerly. “I have no appointments this evening. I’ve planned a very special dinner for us. It’s a special occasion, after all.”

I couldn’t help but smile, feeling at home with him.”

*****

I took my seat at the table as Hannibal set plates down in front of us.

“Your favorite,” he declared warmly, “Salmon baked in a crust, with a simple pasta.”

I melted at the elaborate dish, and the elegant lemons.

“It’s perfect,” I expressed, “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he promised, sitting and pouring us white wine. “In life, one must find excuses to celebrate, yes?”

I smiled as we clinked our glasses together. He peered at me over his glass, observing the ensemble I had picked out at his request.

“You look lovely this evening, Katherine,” Hannibal remarked.

“Thank you,” I smiled. “It’s good to play dress up again.”

He mirrored my pleasant affectation. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t do so every day. It’s important to romanticize your own life.”

“I like feeling put together,” I nodded. “It makes me feel like I’m doing something with my life. Even if I’m not.”

“You’re doing plenty with your life,” he insisted. “Moving back home, changing careers, recovering from a tremendous injury. You have many great achievements to be proud of.”

“That’s true,” I considered. “I guess I do feel… healed, in a way, at least. Like I’m starting to come out of that chrysalis.”

Hannibal seemed glad at that. “Well. Now that your recovery phase is gradually coming to its end. You have much more exciting things to consider.”

“Like what?” I wondered. “Aside from… walking, and having a new job.”

“That’s for you to decide,” he reasoned. “You’re in control now. You always have been. What you want to do, and who you want to be is completely up to you. There’s an entire world of possibilities waiting for you.”

“I…” it escaped me. “I don’t know if my priorities are fucked up, but there are things that I want that make absolutely no sense right now.”

“Then let us make sense of them together,” he encouraged, “That’s what I’m here for.”

I took in his point. I genuinely thought about it for a moment, trying to come up with the one thing I needed to feel more like my old self again. Or at least myself.

“I think I want to look different,” I confessed, “Like you said before. I want to be… a new version of myself. I wanna find the version I’m supposed to be.”

“The elevated version of yourself,” he completed simply.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “That, exactly.”

He gave his support as he ate, “If that’s what you want, then that’s exactly what you should do. Come up with a new inspiration, a new look.”

“I can’t exactly come up with a rebrand using three suitcases worth of stuff,” I pointed out.

“Then take my card,” Hannibal suggested nonchalantly, “Look around, go shopping, if you’re feeling up to it.”

I blinked in confusion. “Seriously?”

I couldn’t fathom a better response.

“I’ll give you the credit card,” he offered, “There’s no limit on it.”

“I can’t do that,” I sighed, the generosity of it all stressing me out.

I was seriously putting myself in debt, and not even the kind that could be quantified, at this point. None of this even existed on paper, for all I knew, I could be selling my firstborn.

“Why not?” he shrugged, “I’m not using it.”

“No, keep your money,” I told him, “I’m putting you out enough as is.”

“No, you’re not,” he promised. “I haven’t given you anything I can’t afford to, three times over, at that. You’re not in any debt to me, everything I’ve given to you, done for you, has been entirely a gift, no strings attached whatsoever. Go on and find what you want, you deserve it after all you’ve been through.”

“But what if I don’t know what I want?” I questioned with sincerity. “I mean. I know I can’t wait to wear heels again, and I think I’d make a pretty decent blonde. But other than that, I have no idea what I want in life.”

“Then we’ll start there,” he cut me off, reassuring me.

I sighed, pondering the last of my glamorous-on-a-budget life. “I don’t know if I feel like going to some uppity salon yet.”

“Then we’ll bring the salon to you,” he decided extravagantly.

I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds expensive.”

“Hardly,” he spoke confidently. “I can do it myself.”

I laughed. “You know how to do hair?”

“I used to perform spinal surgery,” Hannibal reasoned, “I’ll learn.”

“Right,” I thought humorously.

“I think I can handle bleach and some foils,” he deduced. “Now enjoy your dinner, you wouldn’t want it to get cold.”

I looked at him as I ate the rich meal he’d cooked for us, this new, odd relationship so foreign and alien to me. I felt like Frankenstein’s monster, being broken down for parts and put back together from scarred, perverted flesh.

-

But it couldn’t be. Hannibal’s bedroom was upstairs. I laid my head down and went back to sleep. I had dreamt that night that I was alone in the woods, chased by something I couldn’t see. Like a wolf, or maybe a bear. Or something more sinister. Either way, I woke with a start. Sweating, screaming. I almost cried out, the sound getting caught in my throat. I woke up to Hannibal already sitting on the bed beside me.

“Katherine?” he looked after me worriedly. “Are you alright? Come, sit up. Slowly, now.”

His firm hand rested on my back, as I slowly came to, turning to look at him.

“Hannibal?” I said groggily.

“You were having a fit when I came downstairs to check on you,” he said thoughtfully. “Nightmare?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’m not sure about what, though.”

“Dreams can be an insightful glimpse into our minds,” he thought, “And our bodies.”

I looked down. My leg was trembling, as if… Well. other nighttime activities. But this was more like pain. Then I felt it, the sting of the stitches in my leg. I gasped, wincing as his hand rested on my thigh to steady me.

“Shhh,” he soothed quietly. “You’re alright. No one’s going to hurt you.”

I looked at him. “Why would you say that?”

He was silent for a moment, not giving anything away. He hesitated, before giving his opinion.

“Do you remember what you said to me when I first visited you in the hospital?” he reminded me.

I paused. “I never fell from a ladder,” I said knowingly.

“Do you remember anything about what happened to you that day?” he asked. “When you got home, how you got injured.”

I swallows the lump in my throat. “No. Not at all.”

“Does this feel like it could be something you’ve repressed?” he inquired. “Or is it something completely scrubbed from your memory? As if you’d been in an altered state.”

“I…”

I gasped as it came flooding back. Or at least some of it.

“I do remember falling,” I answered. “But it wasn’t from a ladder. And I wasn’t injured.”

“Was there someone else with you? At your mother’s house?”

I wracked my brain, trying to think. I couldn’t remember anything. How the accident happened, how I got to the hospital. I didn’t even remember telling him about my condition, or anything.

“I don’t know,” I confessed. “But I do know I wasn’t injured.”

“Nothing was severely broken when you fell?” he clarified. “You were conscious? Able to move?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Whatever happened to me… It wasn’t a fall.”

He seemed to process this information, but said nothing as his hand squeezed my thigh. I felt myself trembling, my whole body this time as I sobbed. I had no idea what was happening to me. Or what had happened. I was losing it. I felt mortified as Hannibal pulled me closer to him, gently cradling me in her arms as my head rested on my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I sobbed quieyly.

“No need for apologies,” he said firmly. “You’re safe here with me. This is your home now.”

I sniffled, shaking in his arms. Hannibal Lecter was truly my home now. My doctor, my employer, my landlord, my emotional support. There wasn’t a single thing he didn’t know how to do for me. And that was frightening.

“It’s alright,” he promised me, “You’re going to be alright.”

I let myself collapse into him, crying as he brushed my hair. I had no memory of how I managed to soothe myself, or how I fell asleep.

*****

Weeks Later

Hannibal was, surprisingly, a godsend during my physical therapy. He was there for just about every step of the way, so long as he could help it.

“Carefully, now, Katherine,” he guided down the stairs. “We shouldn’t agitate your spinal fracture. It’s quite the load-bearing injury.”

I nodded, holding onto his arm as we walked slowly. My temporary bedroom was downstairs, but the physical therapist thought it’d be a good idea to try to get back into the swing of walking again, at least in small doses. Hannibal made sure to help me with that, not wanting to risk my getting injured while he’s away or working. He was meticulous and particular in that way.

“I can’t wait to function like a human again,” I gritted my teeth through the pain. “I promise you’ll have a functional secretary soon.”

He smiled at my determination. “Don’t stress it, you’ll be back to feeling like yourself in no time.”

We finally made it down the stairs, and Hannibal triumphantly sat me down on the last step, sitting beside me.

“We did it,” he said warmly, shouldering the burden. “You’re quite literally one step closer.”

“I know someone did this to me,” I said finally.

Hannibal looked at me with a soft concern. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know,” I shook my head. “I don’t remember anything about that day, but… I know when someone’s trying to kill me.”

My eyes burned with rage. But he didn’t seem disturbed by it at all. He simply kept that same, stoic look on his face, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“And how is that?” he asked therapeutically. “Has someone made an attempt on your life before?”

I sniffled. “My grandmother,” I said certainly. “She tried to convince my mother I had Asperger’s… and it pretty much worked. My mother watched me every second of the day. Corrected how I brushed my teeth in the morning. How I did my hair, how I solved math worksheets, how I walked. Then, when I was twelve, or thirteen, she couldn’t wait to get me on medication.”

Hannibal’s demeanor softened. “And she kept you, what? Focused? Docile? Wired?” he asked me.

“I don’t know,” I resigned. “All of it? Maybe docile?”

“I’m going to suggest something radical,” Hannibal decided calmly.

I looked up at him.

“I think that, starting today, we should wean you off of all of your medications, in order to get you to a clean slate so that we might assess the current problem together,” he determined.

I looked at him worriedly. “You want to take me off of my schizophrenia medication?”

“I understand it sounds intense,” he acknowledged. “But I think really delving into your innate neurological functions as an adult would be highly beneficial. To your treatment, to your state of mind.”

“But that’ll… be a withdrawal,” I said, “What if my symptoms get worse?”

“Then we’ll do what we need to to accommodate you,” he assured me.

“What if I’m in a state for weeks? What if I can’t even get back to work?” I questioned fearfully.

“Then I suppose you’ll need a care team who can support all of your needs,” he remarked with a smile.

He was talking about himself. I stared at him, in awe of the fascination he had with me. I really was his project.

“Whatever you need, I assure you I can provide for you,” he stated. “The comfort of your bed. A warm meal. A shoulder to cry on, some words of affirmation when things feel uncertain. Together, we can give you the kind of treatment no mere psychiatrist could provide.”

I laughed. “You’re telling me you’re prepared to deal with me? Schizophrenic me is a disturbed mess.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not easily disturbed,” Hannibal maintained promptly. “I have no intention of judging you or abandoning you. We’ll find a solution that’s helpful to you in the long term. Together,” he promised.

I nodded softly. “Together.”

He looked at me with something that was almost sympathetic. “Together,” he insisted in a whisper, brushing softly at my hair. “I’ll be right by your side every step of the way. Like a phantom limb.”

I looked into his dark eyes, letting him corrupt the bounds of what was possible for me.

“What a pleasure it must be to be a part of you, Katherine.”

I chuckled. “It’s funny you still call me Katherine.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he asked, “It’s your name.”

“Most people call me Kate.”

“But that’s not who you truly are,” he said, “Kate Beckett is a persona. A convenient fiction invented to serve the small purpose of navigating college theater.”

“Right,” I thought.

“Besides. Kate’s are common. Crowd-pleasing. You’re something else entirely,” he brushed my cheek with his hand, “You’re Katherine Sarizy. That’s how you should present yourself to the world, because that’s how I know you,” he shared.

I studied him carefully. “I like Katherine,” I said.

“I do too,” he whispered, letting the words die just as they reached me. “I like calling you Katherine.”

His hand caressed mine in a comforting gesture, as if we were a unit, braving this all together.

-

“We’ll deal with that when I show you to your room. Come, you must be hungry. I’ll make us something to eat,” he invited me into the kitchen.

“You really don’t have to,” I melted at the thought, “You’ve done so much for me already.”

“Nonsense, I cook for everyone who enters my home. Sit, please. Eat, drink… make yourself at home.”

He took my crutches, setting them against the wall as I sat at the counter. He poured me a glass of red wine, and I couldn’t help but listen. I took a sip, savoring it.

“You know the proper way to hold a wine glass. Smart girl.”

“This is… amazing,” I admitted, “Thank you.”

“It’s vintage,” he said, “Simple, familiar. Befitting of this occasion. To us,” he toasted.

“To us,” I repeated, not really sure what that meant.

I sipped, nearly blushing at the way he looked at me over his glass. It was intimate, the way we locked eyes as his lips touched the glass. He put on some music, and I couldn’t believe it. This really could be my life. Hannibal and I had a great conversation as he made dinner, and we came to a solid, confirmed agreement about our whole arrangement, the paperwork for which would be drawn up within a week. By the time he sat me at the dinner table next to him, we were ready to begin our lives as… whatever this was.

“Fuck me, this is… decadent,” I stared at the outrageously artistic plate before me.

It was genuinely Michelin level food and presentation. A single, wealthy psychiatrist willing to take me on as a live-in secretary and patient. There had to be something horribly wrong with him. He chuckled at the compliment, presenting me with the food and sitting beside me.

“It’s pan-seared duck breast, with a cherry-port reduction,” he shared. “Do tell me if you like it.”

I dug in. “I love it.”

“I’m glad,” he smiled as we ate.

“You’re seriously spoiling me,” I reminded him.

He looked at me with something I couldn’t recognize, taking his napkin and dabbing at the bit of sauce at the corner of my mouth.

“Something tells me you’re the sort of person who could use a bit of spoiling,” he said in a low murmur.

I didn’t know what to say.

“If I may,” Hannibal began as he ate, “I’d like to propose we start with our first… unofficial session, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Depends on what you want to know about me,” I confessed.

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Everything,” he promised, enjoying his meal. “We’ve all the time in the world.”

My gaze softened. “We do, don’t we?”

“Why don’t we start small? For the sake of our blooming friendship,” he suggested. “You’re an actress. Why don’t you tell me your favorite film?”

“I don’t know if I’m an actress anymore,” I laughed nervously, “But… honestly my favorite is Dead Ringers. Cronenberg.”

“Cronenberg,” he expressed with familiarity, “A refined choice indeed. And may I ask what led you to that conclusion?”

I smile. “I don’t know. I think as… twisted as it obviously is, I think there was just something so intimate about it. Male twin gynecologists who initially share a patient romantically, but then end up stuck together more so than with anyone else. Not to mention… I thought the medical aspect was its own thing entirely.”

His curiosity seemed piqued. “The medical aspect? You mean aesthetically, and… well, how would you describe it? Physically? Sexually?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Would you say that sort of thing interests you? In that sensational capacity?”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe. He made it look so… intimate.”

“Interesting,” he thought aloud, before moving on. “Before, you said you had… an incident that led you to move away from acting. Would you mind if I asked you about that?” Hannibal treaded carefully.

“No,” I answered calmly. “I just…”

He waited at the edge of his seat.

“My mother died,” I said bluntly, “Left me a small inheritance. But I just… Couldn’t handle the loss, we had a complicated relationship. I had a breakdown onstage. Made a fool of myself. Called everyone cunts. So, I left.”

Hannibal seemed amused. “A wise choice.”

“Was it?” I pointed out.

“Still,” he conceded, “Not many people know when to admit it’s finally time for a change.”

“Yeah. It took me a year to make those changes,” I confessed. “After my mother died, I froze for about a year. I didn’t do anything, I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t even clean my apartment… I just wanted my life to stay exactly as it was when she died. Just so I could believe that maybe she wasn’t.”

Hannibal’s brows furrowed. “Is change something you’ve had difficulty with in the past?”

I nodded. “When it comes to burnout, yes. I do everything in my power to fight it. No matter how little sense it makes.”

His brain did a few quick deductions. “Let me ask frankly, have your doctors ever considered the possibility of an anxiety disorder? I know you’ve mentioned it in the past.”

“Yeah,” I answered truthfully. “They’ve explored comorbidities. Depression, anxiety. Then some sort of ‘mood disorder’. And then, for a while, they thought I was bulimic. But really, I was anorexic. They just categorized it that way because of the purging.”

He understood immediately. “You’re saying the driving force behind your eating disorder was not a desire to binge without consequence, but an irrational fear of gaining weight?” he surmised.

“Yes,” I smiled.

He really was the perfect doctor for me.

“Katherine, I think you might exhibit many of the textbook signs of obsessive-compulsive disorder, possibly even a precursor for your schizophrenia,” he deduced. “Does that diagnosis sound improbable to you at all?”

I paused. “I guess I’ve never thought about it.”

He crossed his legs in contemplation. “Would you say your everyday behavior, and ‘self-talk’ is guided by your fears? Your need for control?”

“Are you supposed to ask me this outright?” I wondered.

“Anything is fair game between friends,” he reminded me.

I considered slowly. “Right. Well…”

The question lingered. He seemed interested in this sudden pause.

“I think I put a lot of stock in creating my own life,” I told him.

“I see,” he remarked. “You like to control your environment. To you, change is not something you must adapt to, but something that must adapt to you. Your willingness to surrender to the tide changes with the seasons.”

He saw no protest in me.

“Tell me where you are in that journey, Katherine,” he invited me, “Are you in a stunted eternal summer? Or are you in the autumn of your life, prepared to let everything fall from the trees, and be swept away until spring comes, and breathes new life?”

I blinked. “I think I’m here because I’m finally ready for change.”

He smiled. “Very good.”

“Is it?” I studied him.

He shifted in his seat. “What is it you’re wanting to change? Just your living situation, as we’ve already done together? Your career path, your daily routine? Or perhaps your looks?” he presented.

“My looks?” I questioned.

“It’s not unusual that after a major life event we try to take control of our lives aesthetically,” Hannibal reasoned, “Our bodies are an externalized version of ourselves, how we present ourselves to the world. Especially for women.”

He was right.

“You think I could change?” I asked.

“Well, of course I don’t think you need to,” he replied, “You’re quite attractive even for a young actress, and you seem quite a refined reflection of your inner self.”

I found his interest in me fascinating, in a strange way.

“I guess I do change my appearance often, when I’m going through a new phase in life,” I realized.

“And what is it you change?” he asked me. “Your clothes? Your makeup? Your hair?”

“My hair?” I echoed. “Well. I’ve had the same hair for years.”

“And it suits you,” he supplied, “The style is simple, but quite chic should you choose to dress it up a bit. And your hair seems naturally very dark. Black is a good color on you. Neutral, elegant. Have you always stood by that?”

“Mm, I guess I had lighter highlights when I was in high school,” I recalled.

“Interesting,” Hannibal pondered. “Have you ever… considered going lighter?”

“Lighter?” the thought seemed to catch me off guard. “I mean… Honestly, no. Even as an actor, people have always known me by my black hair.”

“I can see that,” he said. “You seem to be the kind of person who would carefully cultivate a brand. A persona. Moody pout, long dark curls. Is that the Katherine Sarizy your audiences have known?”

“I didn’t act under that name,” I disclosed.

“No?” Hannibal asked. “Under what name did you perform?”

“I was Kate Beckett,” I explained.

“Kate Beckett?” he got a taste for it at the tip of his tongue. “Simple, hardly provincial… Where did the name Beckett come from?”

“Um…” I thought. “Honestly, the first play I did in college, they mixed me up with another girl, and said my name was Beckett. But I liked it, so I never changed it.”

“A pragmatic choice,” he commended, “Going with something simple, relatable…”

“I’m half-Japanese,” I reasoned, “I’m used to being on the outside. I wanted to be someone who could fit in.”

“Why fit in when you stand out so beautifully?” Hannibal argued bluntly. “You have a striking face, and a voluptuous silhouette. You’re a very classical sort of beauty, it’s no wonder you played Elvira Condomine. Why be a Ruth?”

“Why, indeed,” I remarked sarcastically.

“You know in the play, Elvira is a blonde,” he stated. “I think you’d make a fantastic platinum blonde.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, “You sound like one of my girlfriends.”

“You have some left?” he pried.

I stiffened. “No.”

He allowed us both a moment to breathe, letting us both have a moment to recollect ourselves.

“You take an interest in me,” I observed plainly. “Not just my therapy, not just my wellbeing. But all of it.”

“You,” he agreed resolutely. “I’m interested in you.”

“Why?” I asked. “You want to change me?”

“I want to awaken you,” he corrected. “I want to evolve you. To heal you,” he offered.

I looked at him in disbelief, expression conflicted.

“And I hope I’ve given you the delicate sick house in which you can do so,” he professed.

“What do you, have some sort of Munchausen by proxy?” I chuckled bitterly.

He gave a sad sort of reassurance. “No,” he resigned, “I don’t want this place to be your captor. I want it to be your chrysalis.”

Hannibal was so beautifully indecipherable.

“I want this to be your resting place, because you are truly…” he breathed. “A delicate little butterfly. That I can only hope to see flutter in the wind.”

“You think I could be that happy?” I questioned skeptically.

“I think if you allowed yourself, yes,” he answered. “But I suppose, maybe you’ve spent your life asking others for permission. Maybe my place is to… give you that permission. It’s not necessarily in my nature to be overtly nurturing, but for you, I could try. Given time, we could find the heart of your dissatisfaction and turn you into something truly… elevated. Exalted,” he exhausted the possibility.

I watched him curiously as he raised his glass of wine to me, full of optimism.

“To our shared chrysalis,” he professed, as I raised my glass in concert. “You may make a nurturer out of me yet.”

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