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vixnovacoda · 3 months ago

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Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 11

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: ~2k

CW/TW: NSFW 18+, graphic, disturbing content, dissociation, canon-typical violence.

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5][Chapter 6][Chapter 7][Chapter 8][Chapter 9][Chapter 10]

[ao3 version here]

They were barely through the second glass when Hannibal tried to change the topic from favourite wine flavours and European countrysides. He lowered the wine from his lips, holding it how a trained hand would. “We’ve yet to touch upon the subject of your parents,” he said abruptly.

“Or yours,” returned Emma with the clashing of her nails against her wine glass resounding loud against the vastness that was Hannibal’s living room and its gothic decadence. The whole place was decadent, an oasis in concrete, filth-filled Baltimore - there was no sensible way that being a psychiatrist paid for this all on its own. It was made clear then that she didn’t know him well at all. Just bits of him.

He took his time drinking, body turned to face her as he sat upright and perfectly poised on the other end of the sofa. The whole time, he sipped while she gulped. Not once had he broken form like a careful man being a gentleman with nothing to give away. “You don’t like opening up, do you?” assumed Emma.

Then it broke briefly. Hannibal looked away from her. She could barely see the look in his eye, but it was clear enough by how he chose to focus on the skulls of dead prey, their lives having been taken away from man to be used as decoration, that he was questioning something. Maybe letting her inside this room while he had still been awake. It wasn’t clear what exactly. It was never always clear with him. Hannibal Lecter, the man who chooses horse hooves for chair feet. The man who designed his living room to be a forest; his hunting grounds. A place meant for calmness or to take home a meal. But she knew she said something he wasn’t expecting.

“Then in that, we share,” came to utter Hannibal unexpectedly.

“I suppose,” responded her. “However, I just simply don’t like getting close to people.” She lingered on him as the open fire painted the contours of his face like it were some greco-roman sculpture. If his head wasn’t so attached to his body she’d donate it to sit amongst the greats at a museum. “… Not anymore.”

“Am I not ‘people’?” asked Hannibal in his usual manner, in his usual way that had you giving more of yourself up to him than he ever would; charming. Hannibal’s words were a bait she openly ate from.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

His head slanted, ever curious. “And what is your assumption so far?”

The details of his sculpted lines turned less blurred. “A hunter,” she answered, her hand grabbing the back of the sofa between them as her body shifted closer. “You wait. You watch with care. You stand in a world of prey and take the ones you need in search of something, maybe you enjoy it, maybe it brings you calm. Either way, you’re alone.”

“I am?”

“It’s hard to find someone willing to hunt alongside.”

The firewood crackled in the silence where they were at a stand still. Embers broke and sparks flittered, seen reflected in the only clear thing of that man she called a hunter, his eyes. Deep, dark forces of nature. Flecks of red. So much red in them. So… familiar.

A bathtub, marbled by blood spilling, pouring over under my knees. I sit in it. I stare. There’s the body, then me. Fingers dip like toes in water, testing the climate. Eyes float to the surface. Iris of blue turned a glaring red. I bend closer, and it almost bleeds into my own.

A hunger.

That’s what it was. She had seen it before back in that house she was supposed to call home. Years passed where she might have almost forgotten. But, how could she when he was right there in front of her to remind her. Hannibal had that same look in his eyes, she was sure, and not a reflection like Will. Just, similar. Which meant he was one of the only people that understood her and what she felt. He had to. He just—

With a grip larger than her own, Hannibal coerced the half-empty glass from her teetering grasp before she could taint the expensive upholstery or the remnants of his stripped-down suit – in which the shirt (a couple buttons undone) and trousers remained – and there she remained without moving an inch. Any closer and their knees would be touching. Then, a buzzing, tingling. A warmth filled her cheeks. She couldn’t help herself, but what was she doing? She barely knew this man she labelled as a friend mere hours ago.

Embarrassment swallowed whatever feeling she had while reality came rearing its head in. “But, what do I know? Maybe I am just projecting,” Emma stammered and lurched herself back, resting her tiring body over what was her side of the furniture. “Or deflecting the original question. After all, there's a lot of revealing oneself in discussing parentage, no hiding from the truth where the pieces come together. Even when buried, it never dies.” Though she wished it did. Then none of this would ever have happened. No pain. No tragedy. No dead Alex.

The alcohol made light work with her, festering in all the nooks and crannies of her body, and the unrest fashioned lead from her frame as she slumped with a heave, spine curving against the armrest. Emma never believed in spirits, but as her heart felt cold while the tips of her fingers and the fireplace burnt, she might have sworn it was Alex. But she would never be so cruel to leave Emma at odds and staring at where heaven laid between the clouds that was Hannibal's ceiling for an answer. It had been this way not too long ago in the spare bedroom Hannibal had provided. Wide-eyed and brain ticking, she had stared at that ceiling. Unable to sleep, Emma was the one to search for the bottom of a bottle and Hannibal the one who indulged her thirst by uncorking a vintage when he probably shouldn’t have.

“Why are we still awake?” questioned Emma. Why am I alive?

Hannibal’s voice waded through the confused silence like an echo. “I think only you can answer that one.” Followed by the pour of more wine. Drop after drop.

It wasn’t a difficult answer when there was pause and alcohol in the air and the warmth of another who was in reach. She knew, like she had never known before. “… Company,” admitted her with newfound lucidity being consciously aware could never give her. “The world sounds different when I’m with you.”

“What does it sound like?”

“Like… Like a symphony.”

The sofa sighed under the shifting of his weight as she swore he moved closer. “Harmony. When the right notes mix with the right instruments under the direction of the conductor, it is a cacophony of delight that is profound to the senses,” assuaged Hannibal.

Makes a part of you from deep inside feel as if you could finally breathe , added Emma mid-thought.

“Everything in sync. Everything right.”

“See, you understand.” Too drunk with enlightenment under her breath to care, Emma threw herself upright to the rhythm of a bounce and eureka. “You’re the only one who sees me. Is it so bad to want to understand why? To be curious as to what you have buried when you’ve already begun digging up mine? Tell me anything of your parents, then I shall tell you mine. Is that so hard?” pressed Emma as she leaned forward, hunching slightly like a blind beggar to assuage and bend his gaze from above as predators pretending to be as innocent as prey ought to often do. This was the time. She was sure. He’d finally give a little; a test to their bond. To their friendship. Or whatever it was that they had and pretending was friendship. Survival.

He looked at her.

She looked back.

And there was that look again. That hunger . When was the last time either of them had consumed? Too long, but Emma’s hunger was stronger, enough to beat Hannibal by a mile. He sighed through seething teeth. Just this once. That’s all she needed. That’s all she’ll get. “It was snowing the last time I saw them. Our home was covered in thick layers of its pure colour that you could barely see the horizon at dawn. A guise of innocent ongoings, one might say, or the blessing of god,” divulged Hannibbal, straining, like he was slicing off a part of him and serving it up to her raw on a platter. The act softened her. It was the closest she had gotten to understanding him, and sure, he could have been lying to get her to divulge something deeply personal. But only God would do that and he wasn’t God. He was far better than Him.

Emma swallowed the hardened lump of salt in her throat. “There was a storm when my mother was murdered. It flooded our moors like an ocean. No one could leave,” she confessed.

“Did you think it a blessing?” he asked.

“Did you?”

They stared amidst a revealing quiet, their eyes piercing through reflections.

“Death is no blessing. It is just death,” spoke Emma through dry lips, suddenly more thirsty than she’d ever been.

Hannibal slid her lipstick-stained glass across the table. “I find that it is an end and a beginning.”

“That’s one way to think about it, certainly.” Nodded along Emma half-heartedly and took glass to mouth; rapid and fast. Anything to completely satiate herself to completion. It wasn’t often she had told someone about her mother and she did not like this strange feeling that came to occupy her because of it. This bitter bile stuck within her like a rot, like a shame. Her fist clenched the wine glass stem with ferociousness. “I prefer to just let death be death.”

“My, you really are a persistent force in the face of a battle, Emma Darcy,” commented Hannibal, with his sliver of admiration seeming all too genuine.

Suddenly smiling and all too proud, Emma said, “I get that a lot. People are often surprised to find how unwilling I am to lie down and play dead.” She raised her glass almost triumphantly as she pushed down the rising rot.

“And nor should you be forced to be something you are not.” Peering past the lip of the glass, she could see the beginnings of a smug smile like he knew something she didn’t. But, no sooner than downing the wine glass’s remains did the red liquid wash away the sight and her vision blur around the corners with a swallow. Light-headed and weightless. Unaware and buzzing. She didn’t seek to stop. The alcohol numbed the pain of her chrysalis – the pain that followed her existence, the pain she had come to stop. The change that was the end of her. Though it was less of a change or evolution and more of a breaking free from an ill-fitted cage.

“Emma, are you still there?” came the sound of Hannibal’s dulcet voice, distant and far off, ringing and echoing, come to pull her back to the surface.

“Yes.” She tried to follow it. Dragging, squeezing. Rising, and rising, and, then, free. Blinking away an old layer of a blurred world and struggling to centre her body upright, she repeats herself with a newfound conviction. “Yes, I always have been.”

With reality rearing back in, she could feel the palm of his hand on her forehead, the other on the small of her back, as the warmth of his body melding with the closeness of hers. The beginning of early daylight cracked into rays behind Hannibal’s head and seeped into the smile that flitted across his lips. This version of herself, the one that had been begging to be let out – the one that found an easy way through the cracks of drunkenness – owed its life to him, and she matched his delight with awe and thankfulness at her saviour.

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