#hypocratic

⠀ in the center of their mourners' circle, beverly's grave yawns open like a mouth, a dark void into which their collective focus pours. hannibal monitors the display from the fringes of the crowd, letting the grief of beverly's family and friends and acquaintances wash over him in long, rolling waves. he is not unmoved—to the contrary. it had been a shame to end beverly's life, and hannibal had grieved her loss even as he'd tightened his arm around the fragile length of her throat.

⠀ beside him, frederick chilton fidgets gracelessly. hannibal wonders whether it is the service that has so unnerved him or his own proximity—he had taken special care to position himself at frederick's side, curious to see just how deep his discomfort ran. as with any bothersome pest, at some point, hannibal will need to deal with him—to halt the panicked flutter of his wings before the sheer regularity of his quivering threatens the integrity of hannibal's carefully spun web.

⠀ for the time being, though, he intends to enjoy watching frederick wriggle.

⠀ hannibal does not turn his head, but his gaze slides toward frederick for the span of a moment—long enough only for frederick to feel its weight. "death rituals force us to come face-to-face with the truth of our own mortality," he says and parts his lips to better scent the cool graveside air. the promise of rain hovers over them, eliciting a damp, ozonic sweetness from the lichen-crusted gravestones and poorly manicured greenery, as though the cemetery itself has exhaled its grief over beverly katz's death.

⠀ "is it the ritual itself that disturbs you or the associations that the ritual brings?"

⠀ closer to the lidless grave, alana folds consoling arms around a woman hannibal doesn't recognize. tonight, he knows, she will come to his bed seeking a comfort similar to that which she currently offers—a physical testament to her own vitality. as always, the prospect excites him; does not god promise his children both punishment and release?

⠀ "any one of us might have found ourselves in ms. katz's place." hannibal wonders whether frederick has seen the flowers he'd had sent anonymously to the bureau to adorn beverly's memorial shrine—a striking arrangement of chiranthodendron and holly, fennel and yew.

⠀ "still might," he says idly, smoothing a hand down the unwrinkled stomach of his three-piece suit. "as long as the ripper continues to evade us."

Another midlife crisis for Frederick to contend with. Just in time for the ward round.

’ How do you sate thirst without drinking? ‘

The tiny barred windows make it a prison, no matter how much those who forced his intake insisted it's a hospital—a hospital for the criminally insane, but a hospital nonetheless.

Regardless, Griffin isn't insane. If he was, his theory wouldn't have worked, and there'd be more man beneath the floating jumpsuit pacing his cell. The murders and robberies are irrelevant.

"You've got my file. Can you not read it?" he snaps.

He has no access to the news, but Griffin assumes every page is filled with stories of his genius, morons trying to replicate his success, and people cowering in fear over the possibilities he's unleashed. Everyone on earth ought to know who he is, really.

But what's already printed, both in the formal records and beyond, is not what any of this is about.

It can be a little awkward, being left unattended with your friend's boyfriend. You sit, you stare at one another and you think to yourself: the only thing that we have in common is that we both care about the same person. You wonder: What is is that she sees in him? You quietly hope to make a good impression because eventually, she might be forced to pick between you both. Forced to discard you, because he doesn't like you, or the other way around.

It's a stalemate. It's hard, because you want to like him, you do. But in a way, you're a little bit jealous of him, too.

You might think to yourself, a little bitterly: Especially with the age difference, it's very hard to find common ground. I can't think of a single fucking thing to say.

THERE ARE VIP LOUNGES FOR A REASON | NOT ACCEPTING

When you're in the public eye as much as Lawrence is, especially within all the philanthropic circles he runs in, image is everything. Or so his PR guy keeps telling him. "No private jet and for what?" Brows pinch together so tightly, mismatched eyes giving Chilton the most pleading look— have some sympathy for Boston's richest yuppie.

"Delays. All so I can properly face the environmentalists." Hand reaches out into the ether where a dedicated lounge waitress places a Vesper in his hands. A curl of the wrist and it's brought to his lips, the entire scene perfectly choreographed, much like everything else Lawrence was involved in.

"You drink, right?" He asks, like he hadn't been goading him on the white wine at the conference. It was complimentary and the frugality his father tried to instill in him suddenly made an appearance (Waste not, want not). Head rolls back over edge of lounge couch, calling for, "Shelia, darling," Again there's an outstretched hand but this time it gestures to his dear friend, who was no doubt parched and painfully sober. "please bring him something, he's liable to collapse—" Voice lowers a smidge, attempting familiarity. "And what's that risotto thing I saw at the next table?"

"Shrimp risotto Milanese. It has saffron, parmesan, arborio rice—"