#ilmostrc

Should he feel the pang of regret seeing his friend crumble before him upon walking to the scene of the crime? Benoit's knees had buckled, his shoulders folding inward like wet paper. Any person with a modicum of empathy would feel something. Hannibal does, in some tier, but it wasn’t empathy he felt. The twinge of sympathy perhaps. He had self-proclaimed long ago that his existence didn’t exactly match up with all those around him. He was slightly detached, observing humanity through museum glass, but still had the ability to conjure feelings when necessary. Benoit was a man he saw himself leaning towards, a friend who could meet him on a level no other could reach. This was why the husband had to go. Not only that, there was a stemmed jealousy he had tasted from him, which left a bitterness behind. Tonight he had cleansed it. “Benoit, my friend, you should not be here.” An arm reached out and guarded him against walking further upon the scene. “This will do you no good to see.” His wrist wrapped around his bicep, white splash against knuckles. He felt the resistance.

Benoit heard what Hannibal said. He felt the chill of the other man's fingers on his arm, even through his sleeve. Yet, he refused to look at his friend. Those pained, exhausted blue eyes could only stare ahead at the morbidly beautiful sculpture that had been made of Phillip.

The pretty red flowers spilling out of his emptied chest cavity were a much kinder sight than the warm blood that would have poured out there. His eyes were gone, but Benoit knew the shape of that face without them. How often had he traced it while Phillip slept next to him, fingertip memorizing every little line?

The detective wanted to go against his instincts and declare that this couldn't be Phillip. They were going through a rough patch he was ignorant of, maybe, Phillip was gone to sort something out in his heart, Phillip would be back — but the tension in Hannibal's hand and certainty in his smooth voice was damning. Benoit's jaw worked.

Hannibal wouldn't be stopping him if it was anyone else.

Wasn't he, the famous detective, always demanding that reason be followed? If all of the pieces of this scenario were laid out, there was only one conclusion: Phillip was the Ripper's latest victim. His husband was the Ripper's latest victim. That was Phillip's body, positioned with a macabre innocence that made Benoit feel sick.

The murmuring of the other investigators, the pointed gestures toward Benoit, the echoes of their brethren asking gently that Hannibal be the one to remove him — all of that was lost in the first real noise Benoit made since coming into the half - ruined church. He howled, agonized, more animal than man in his grief, and tried to wrestle away from Hannibal. Benoit wanted to hold Phillip's corpse, as if by doing so life could somehow be returned to it. Even in his state, Benoit could not bring himself to hit Hannibal, so he pushed at him weakly. Desperate.

More and more of the individuals around them hushed. Cameras stopped. Footsteps halted. All eyes, though some tried to hide it, were on the detective and his unbridled, terrible pain. When Benoit finally looked away from Phillip, he only sought Hannibal, in some fog believing that the man who was now a dear friend ( and in this scenario, far from a coworker in Benoit's mind ) would understand the message behind his hoarse sounds.

The room occupied by the doctor was distinctive from the others made available for travelers and patrons alike: it lacked the more impersonal standards of the furniture and other amenities, replaced instead by a plethora of keepsakes: there were picture frames over the dresser, a number of dresses and finer fabrics stored in the wardrobe and a couple of jewelry boxes filled with shiny trinkets sitting atop the vanity. The flowers by the window were fresh desert lilies and the delicate linens and patchwork used for the covers suggested that someone had handcrafted these with care and patience.

It looked like a room someone lived in - and that would be the truth, even if Hannibal Lecter was the one currently occupying it as a guest. The town's new doctor arrived under less than optimal conditions to the settlement, being the first individual to require his own assistance. It had been very fortunate that a butcher's assistant was at the inn's card table when disaster struck, luckily able to follow the newcomer's guidance with more ability than the usual farm hand. The owner herself was not entirely useless - Melissa had done her fair share of nursing and was unperturbed by the blood and the aftermath of the improvised surgery.

Now that Hannibal was patched up and recovering, all he needed was time - in addition to a decent diet, some fresh air and sunshine. To allow him to use Melissa's own chambers seemed like the obvious decision: it was the only one available on the ground floor, with the best lodgings being offered upstairs (offering less noise and more privacy, however impossible to reach for a man in his conditions). The woman decided to sleep upstairs instead, having resided at the inn since selling the old house where she had lived with her late husband and taking over the family business.

(There was safety in numbers and in being within the city, she told people; besides, living alone at their small house away from downtown reminded her too much of the man who had shared the place with her - staying busy and close to the inn was the best for her mind and soul, or so Melissa would say to anyone who asked.)

A couple of knocks to the door announced her arrival, waiting until the doctor's verbal authorization was granted for her to come inside. The brunette then appeared, sparing the man a warm smile while efficiently balancing a tray on the hand unoccupied with the door, opening and closing it swiftly. There was the pleasing aroma of something fresh from the kitchens, mixing in with an added breeze when the woman concerned herself with the windows for a bit, placing the tray over an empty chair and pulling curtains to make room for extra sunlight.

"How are you feeling, doctor Lecter?" the woman asked the temporary patient, turning on her heels to pick up the tray and claim the seat for herself, dragging herself closer to the inn's illustrious guest. That was meal prepared for him, with a good venison stew, some roasted potatoes and even the occasional greens from the farms nearby, as well as water and a piece of apple pie - a luxury when fresh fruit was available, and probably brought to the doctor as a sign of how valued his position was.

This wasn't the first time she found herself stepping through the threshold of a church. It was a strange sensation, how similar it could always seem and yet it differed each and every time. Each branch of any church, of any religious gathering, always was a little individualistic in how they interpreted things.

What did this place believe? It was a question that lingered in her mind as the heavy doors shut behind the agent. Nestor stepped off to the side, out of the way as she lingered near the entrance. Amber eyes lifted, shining like an angel's cleansing flame. She took in the stained glass, the decorum of old wood hand carved with such passion. Her interest in religion matched her cynicism towards it in equal measure. But the effort put into these buildings of worship never ceased to amaze her, even during such grim circumstances. While she didn't personally understand the appeal of believing in such things, she could appreciate aspects of what it has managed to inspire in people.

Dainty white gloves traced the back of a pew as she walked, taking in the sight of a few people here to pray. Did they even understand the act of praying, she wondered? The many people she has come across that knelt in subservience never ceased to amaze her. Religion. Cult. It all blurred together sometimes in her line of work. How many times has she stood here? How many more times would she find herself in such a place, trying to solve problems no one else wanted to deal with.

Unusual crimes had been committed, gruesome murders - all of which held a religious undertone, she had noticed. Conveniently, this very church was at the center of all the crime scene locations. Either it was a heavy handed coincidence or her elusive killer didn't feel the need to hide something so clearly important to them.

"May I speak with the head priest of this establishment?" Soft words were spoken to one of the nuns as Nestor wore a gentle smile. Her demeanor polite, patient, unassuming. Would it be frowned upon how often she took advantage of how others perceived her? Her eyes followed the nun as she excused herself and left to seek out the head of this church. Her mind curiously wondered just what they'd be like. Difficult or cooperative? Open or closed off? Informed or ignorant? Black or white, or some variant of grey?

@il-mostrc

There was blood all over his shirt, coming from the shot he received on his shoulder. The O'Driscolls had lost his trail, but if he didn't find a doctor soon, that wound could get worse. He tried to remove the bullet with a knife, but it was shattered inside -- it needed a careful removal.

The young woman was a skilled talker, but not when it comes to matters concerning herself, any attempt to do so made her feel small, and vulnerable, like a bird with a broken wing.

Doesn't doubt Dr. Lecter had already ascertained that, the man had a rather piercing gaze, it was almost as if he was staring into her soul. That too, made her feel small. Sophia shrugs her shoulders, attempting to shake off the doctor's observation.

❝ I wouldn't know where to start ❞

THE SOUNDS OF NIGHTMARES / Accepting

❛ so, what do i owe this pleasure? ❜

❝Ah, fiddlesticks — ! I'm, I'm sorry, Dr. Lecter, seems I put the cart before the horse. Forgot my manners.❞ Benoit shifted his coat to his other arm and stretched out his hand. The visitor's tag clipped to his sweater vest moved with the same excitement that he seemed to exude.

❝I'm Benoit Blanc. Detective.❞ Suddenly, the reason for him stepping off of that elevator and into this lobby was crystal clear. There was an impossible case out there somewhere ( an amusing, wonderful notion ), and the FBI had asked one of the world's best to give his opinion. It wasn't Benoit's first time in this building — but it was the first time that he crossed paths with someone he considered to be a bona fide celebrity.

His big - time friends had spoken of Dr. Lecter before and even pointed him out at one or two social functions. In the same breath, they told Benoit of his mysterious dinner parties ; it would be a lie for the good detective to say he hadn't been chasing one of those invitations for a while now, given his love of good food and intriguing company.

Americans were deeply interested in the intimate affairs of others, Melissa mused while scrolling through a website full of candid shots and gossip of the worst quality, replacing what the tabloids did for a part of the UK and the ancient social columns of printed newspaper. The fact that certain cable channels were dedicated only to the latest rumor about a famous individual and that so many social media accounts had gone viral was proof of how profitable that seemed to be for those working behind the scenes.

The countess' digits moved over the tablet, zooming in on the relevant picture and re-examining it from a different angle. In her opinion, it was a beautiful thing - the evidence of a truly passionate embrace between lovers who had decided not to wait to make it to the bedroom, instead holding each other near the dining table. Unfortunately, not all curtains had been dutifully drawn - the one overlooked window had been turned into an opportunity by a paparazzi to take the picture that now graced the website along many others of different targets.

Hannibal's face was not visible as Melissa's in that angle - but his other characteristic features left little to be imagined, including the scene (his home was, after all, famous among the local society for the dinner parties he was celebrated for hosting). Humming softly, the countess left the gadget aside once she was satisfied with the visual inspection, producing instead a piece of paper from the nearby purse, neatly folded into four little squares.

"Alessandro tracked this man down - the 'J. Weiss' credited for the pictures seems to be this man, a certain Jonathan Crispin Weiss," the brunette absent-mindedly played with the paper, her focus however remaining solely on Hannibal. The Forteguerri butler was a trusted employee - and a longtime servant of Melissa, even before the deceased count. He was discreet and efficient, and his connections with the local Italian community in Baltimore had not needed long to flourish and yield results.

Now, almost a year after Melissa's arrival, the butler had barely met any obstacles while investigating the identity of the man who had started to publish pictures of his employer and her paramour without authorization. They were not a secret - not after the last seasonal events, at least; but it didn't mean that either of them enjoyed being featured online like that.

Or more accurately - the countess could not care less about what people thought of her, or whatever business she conducted behind closed doors (those surrounding Melissa either enjoyed the freedom she provided or were hypnotized by the allure of her past; perhaps both). But the woman had always been very keen to protect Hannibal's professional standing and place in society - dragging him along was never something that sit well with the countess, and to have now paparazzi after them was a nuisance.

"He is a freelancer... I wonder if one of your friends hired him," the woman said without any judgement in her voice, merely curious. Some of Hannibal's acquaintances had been known to approach Melissa in public with rather pointed questions and obvious interest. Perhaps his private nature (including the way he carried his own relationships) had helped transform the foreigner newcomer into some sort of evil witch, enchanting the desired bachelor and luring him into danger.

The countess smiled pleasantly - if only these people knew the truth; as the doctor himself had said once, she was hardly the lioness in the room.

"He has turned into a considerable annoyance, wouldn't you agree? The fact he has not asked for money or tried to blackmail either of us suggests that he cannot be silenced through financial means," the piece of paper was then handed to Hannibal, almost like a quiet offering. it had the full name of that photographer, as well as his address and license plate number. Alessandro was nothing if not perfectly capable when assisting outside his housekeeping duties.

unscripted asks . always accepting

Your ask was so much fun to think about because my immediate response was 'no' (Melissa typically doesn't give nicknames to people) but then I realized that, in a way, her way of calling others could perhaps be seen that way.

To summarize, Melissa has some habits re. those she has affections for, and they would materialize for Hannibal in the following ways:

shortening first names: 'Hannibal' becoming 'Han' is not unlikely to happen, but definitely not the most common out of these options (simply because it feels less personal - anyone could come up with that).

using (professional) titles: Melissa likes to drop formal titles when they are uncalled for, either as a tease or as term of endearment. Hannibal would get called 'doctor' (and even 'doctor Lecter') or alternatively 'my lord', 'lord Lecter' (in reference to his own noble bloodline) in private/intimate scenarios and with very different innuendo when compared to the way these are used publicly.