#brighterrors

It had been quite possible that Malcolm would not have come alone -- a variance from his typical recklessness, but still a possibility. The probability of him coming alone was increased by the fact that what had happened was intensely personal. Out of curiosity, Hannibal had provided the equivalent of bread crumbs... pulling up a corner of the veil and allowing Malcolm to catch the scent.

To realize that he was being toyed with, not only by his father but by Hannibal. The revelation that Hannibal was the one corresponding with his father would be a blow in itself. The realization of what that truly meant would come.

Hannibal’s predictions of Malcolm’s behavior proved correct. The man had arrived, alone, with the open intention of talking it through. It was true that Malcolm could be dangerous, if he ever did follow Martin down that path. Easily so. But there was something within him that was patient, kind. Something that yearned to connect with the humanity behind blood stained skin and the glint of knives. Something that just... wanted to understand.

There was nothing to understand with Hannibal. He killed because he had teethed on death and because it entertained him. He killed with the same impassive attitude towards it as God Himself -- what was one human life in the face of all there was in the world? What were Hannibal’s actions in the face of the destruction wrought by a hurricane or the collapse of a church on His most ardent worshipers?

Surprising Malcolm Bright would not be an easy task. The man was nervous and hyper vigilant. Armed, and skilled with hand to hand combat should he be unarmed. He presented an interesting challenge to Hannibal. He had still been thinking about this even as the younger man stepped into the murky darkness of his home and called his name.

He’d made the final decision to engage. Malcolm was skilled, a prolific student of the blade... but Hannibal had been wielding a katana since before the younger man was born. The fight was worth the decision. It had been so long since Hannibal had tangled with someone who was a match for him in this way, so long since he had had an adversary as capable of improvising weapons as Bright. But ultimately, Hannibal was able to use his experience and his size to his advantage.

It was satisfying, in a fateful way, to push the steel of the katana through Malcolm’s abdomen and pin him to the wall. Malcolm dropped the fire poker he had been using to defend himself and Hannibal nodded to him with an exhaled breath of exertion, “I wondered if you would get the katana away from me. You almost did. I admire that, Malcolm. And I regret this. You could have been something great. It is what your father wanted for you.”

Another press of the blade, and blood started to seep between Malcolm’s lips, “I also thought it fitting, to kill you in this way. You might be interested... I killed my first victim with this very word in 1980.”

Jack had not expected to find himself in this situation with Jessica Whitly crying on his shoulder, her fingers gripping the lapel of his coat. He had not expected to get this call. No...but he had been on the airplane before he could really let it sink in, on his way to New York.

Where the brilliant young man he’d recruited to the BAU despite his flaws, despite being warned against it, had been found dead. It was something no parent should ever go through, but Jessica Whitly had already gone through things that no wife should have to. She’d woken up to a splitting headache and the feeling that something was off in her home. After a thorough search, she had found something she had never wanted to see.

@brighterrors​​ said:   ‘ you can’t keep blaming yourself… ‘ (I feel like she needs to hear this from her son 🥺)

eyes dart away immediately,  distress all too clear in her expression as she takes in a shaky breath  —  doing everything she can to keep herself steady.  it’s something she’s heard from her therapist,  from gil,  from anyone she’s opened up to over the years   (   though the list is an incredibly short one   ).   but to hear it from her son?  from malcolm,  who’s been hurt by...  by all of this so deeply?  to a degree she’s not certain she even understands?  well,  that’s different.  

is it really,  though?  because the guilt seems only to increase at his words.  words are only words,  it’s the argument she almost uses  —  before she fully recalls just who she’s talking to.  malcolm’s a student of human behavior,  and in moments like these she hates how little she can hide from him.  maybe that’s why she still can’t meet his gaze   (   she’s sure it’s piercing,  with blue eyes so similar to hers with the unshakable feeling he’s seeing straight into her soul   ),   intently studying her own hands.  brow’s furrowed as she tries to think of any substantial argument,  instead only a few come her typical shield rising in perfect time with the quick phrase.

“why stop now?  it’s worked well enough for me so far,”