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flock-of-cassowaries · 15 days ago

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Anyone else ever think about the fact that in this scene…

…Will is basically telling a real woman to fuck off after she (gently and reasonably) invites him to reconsider the wisdom of his continuing affection for Hannibal?

And then when she’s gone, he goes back to hanging out with his imaginary projection of Abigail Hobbs.

And his projection of Abigail very conveniently understands and endorses Will’s continued attraction to Hannibal.

Which is a little bit weird, given that the real Abigail Hobbs was terrorized, held captive, and murdered by Hannibal.

“She just gets me.” BITCH THAT’S BECAUSE YOU MADE HER UP.

Honestly, I think it’s one of Will’s ugliest moments as a character.

It’s also extremely illustrative of how much Will is willing to lie to himself, even when those lies are unconscionably self-serving, and how easily he deprioritizes other people when he really, really wants something for himself.

On the surface, it’s a weird failing for a character so defined by his empathy.

[ How does Will’s empathy just turn off? ]

But it makes sense to me when I think of Will’s relationship to empathy as being analogous to my own relationship to risk-avoidance.

I have OCD. I exist in a constant state of low-level terror that if I am not careful enough, I will die prematurely, and it will be My Fault.

But sometimes, I do things like stand on a rickety cat tree in front of a second floor picture window to put up Christmas lights. Which, objectively, is a risk most people probably wouldn’t take.

And I think it’s just that I’m so used to ignoring false-alarms of the “THIS WILL SURELY LEAD TO YOUR DEATH!” variety that I just sometimes, subconsciously, decide ‘Fuck it’, and do whatever the fuck will get me to my goal the fastest. Because I am just so tired and frustrated and overwhelmed.

If we see Will’s empathy as a burdensome and intrusive thing - a distracting and often distressing mental process which he usually can’t turn off, and which makes his life much more painful - it kind of makes sense that under the right amount of stress (e.g. the kind he gets from thinking about Hannibal Lecter), he would be liable to just flip into emergency-override ‘Fuck it’ mode.

[ Abigail, Molly, and Will’s resentment of the perceived expectation of masculinity ]

I also think it’s really interesting to compare the lie he tells himself about Abigail (“the girl Hannibal literally murdered would want him and I to be happy together”) to Will’s other big lie (“She knows enough”).

Both Abigail and Molly are women who Will feels a sense of duty to, and who make him feel like he has to perform a stereotypically cis-het neurotypical masculine role - Abigail, as a father, and Molly, as a husband and step-father.

I think it’s possible to read Will as resenting both the duty, and the (perceived) pressure to perform cis-het neurotypical masculinity. And if we read him this way, I think it’s possible to extrapolate that his resentment of the “burdens” associated to these women for Will also made it easier for him to subconsciously justify lying about / to them.

#will graham #will graham character analysis #will graham’s ugly flaws #will graham’s treatment of women #will graham and masculinity #emotionally constipated self-deceiving piece of shit will graham #my deeply dysfunctional beloved #alana made the right choice tho #wheeled herself outta that kitchen and became a lesbian #fuck em #alana bloom #abigail hobbs #molly graham #molly foster graham #nbc hannibal #hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal analysis #Hannibal s3

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martyrdeer · 20 days ago

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MERRY CHRISTMAS, PLEASE DON'T CALL

synopsis: in a jennifer’s body-inspired au, the bond between will graham and hannibal lecter is tested when hannibal returns from a traumatizing encounter after being kidnapped by a satanic cult, irrevocably changed. throughout the christmas season, will finds herself drawn deeper into the mystery of what hannibal has become—both terrified and captivated by her.

with each passing day, humanity and monstrosity blurs for hannibal. and will must confront not only hannibal’s sinister nature but also her own lingering feelings. their twisted connection comes to a head amid the shimmer of holiday lights, culminating in hannibal’s reckoning.

word count is 2.4k!! read part two, here!!

I spent a lonesome night in a bustling crowd, in my psychiatrist’s overburdened home. A glass of opulent, caramel-laden whiskey rested in my calloused hands, which mirrored my vitality. Among the people, I observed my psychiatrist, Hannibal, from afar on her leather sofa. If it weren’t for Jack Crawford, who had been concerned for my well-being a year prior, I’d be at my own abode, with my own dogs, sipping on my own whiskey—not this elitist kind that felt like it was mocking me.

This was a Christmas party, actually. The cinnamon aroma was the second thing that overwhelmed me. My front teeth dug into my bottom lip as I refrained from talking. So far, only two people have spoken to me: Jack and Beverly. I took a chug of the whiskey, continuing to watch Hannibal.

Since I arrived, she hadn’t said a word to me. I wasn’t sure if that was a bad or good thing yet. It unsettled me to see her outside of a professional setting. Usually, when she annoyingly attempted to gain access to my brain, she wore a tailored suit. Now, it was a red, knee-length dress with a belt resembling Santa’s. Her graying brown hair fell past her shoulders as she gleamed at her guests. Meanwhile, I glowered at them.

Since she was taking her sweet time, I sauntered toward her. As I stood close to her, the Chanel Coromandel overtook my senses. She must have applied more than an excessive amount because my eyes began to sting. I coughed as she finished chatting with another guest. When she noticed my presence, she presented that sickly sweet smile to me.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” my voice echoed through her ears. A strained smile seemed to be plastered on my face for the rest of the evening. Hannibal tilted her head, her pearly whites shimmering. For someone who had recently experienced a traumatic event, she appeared to be doing well.

“Hello, Will, thank you for coming,” she replied.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” I muttered, my fingers tightening around my glass. I hoped my sarcasm didn’t drip through too much. Although, Hannibal seemed to appreciate it—a short laugh escaped under her breath. But it faded when I opened my mouth anew.

“How are you doing, by the way? From the outside, it seems like nothing happened.”

Hannibal’s sweet glimmer disappeared, a slight frustration rising in her. She shot me a look she didn’t mean to, sighing, then casually brushed it off with a playful roll of her eyes. Despite her jaw tightening, she giggled artificially. It wasn’t rocket science to figure out she was exhausted from the frantic worrying and pestering questions.

Two months ago, Jack and I had been chasing a satanic cult sacrificing young women—virgins, apparently, their favorite pastime. For supposed brilliant Satanists, they also excelled in stupidity. They were careless about covering their tracks. At one of the crime scenes, Beverly discovered an empty beer can. Back at the lab, after DNA testing, she traced it to an eighteen-year-old boy, Jerry Reynolds.

Jerry Reynolds was a flourishing member of a rock band to the blind eye. But as the moon rose, he was the youngest and most immature member of the murderous cult. From my standpoint, he was groomed into it by his elder brother, who happened to be the leader. Besides the two, it was a quartet. The others were Jerry’s friends, equally as idiotic as him. His older brother, Taylor, was simply a lion preying on his prey.

For some reason I’ll never comprehend, Jack brought Hannibal to Minnesota. To this day, he swears it was to gain a better understanding of the evil minds at hand from a psychological perspective—as if mine wasn’t good enough for him.

On our second night visiting, after Jack allowed Hannibal to interview Taylor, he kidnapped her. When we arrested him, soaked in her blood, he was chanting verses for his Lord. In his interrogation, he revealed that he was so captivated by Hannibal he didn’t care if she was a virgin. He just wanted to mark her as his in the only way he knew how.

Jack and I found Hannibal in the woods, not far from where the ritual took place. Gory injuries and dirt covered her whole body. It was surprising she was still alive. When we approached her, she vomited black fluid before attempting to bite me. To the best of my knowledge, it was a defensive mechanism. At the hospital, the doctors assured us the cultists had likely fed her something. Yet the suspicion continued to settle in the pit of my stomach.

“I’m healed, Will,” she claimed, almost scolding me for caring. My eyes squinted at her as I brought the glass to my mouth. The whiskey rolled smoothly down my throat. In the back of my mind, I recalled how alarmingly rapid her recovery had been. After lingering weakly in the hospital for a month, she returned home. In under a week, her complexion was shimmering. The great Hannibal Lecter had staged a comeback.

“I know. I just wanted to make sure,” I responded apologetically. “Not a lot of people would throw a Christmas party. If it were me, I’d sail across the Atlantic Ocean with an endless supply of booze.”

I uttered a hollow laugh to ease the tension. Unlike most of our time together, I was psychoanalyzing her—the stiffness in her expression, the quiet noise of her teeth grinding, her golden-brown eyes staring off into the distance.

“Well, I guess I’m not the type of person who dwells on things,” Hannibal hissed.

Will’s whiskey-stained lips curled into a smirk. It was pleasant to be on the other side.

“I wasn’t aware you indulged in dissociation,” I probed at her.

The vexation bubbled inside her; I could sense it. Since that night in the forest, I knew her every ache. She was so easy to rile up lately. Though, I couldn’t blame her. Another unhealthy coping mechanism she must have gained. If I were her, I’d have shunned everyone by now. But with her image, she likely felt pressured to maintain it.

Hannibal spoke, her tone clipped, as though the words themselves resisted being spoken. “Will, your intellect may allow you to parse the minds of others, but it offers no sight into mine. Understanding this—what I endure—remains beyond your grasp.”

I met Hannibal’s angered gaze. “Maybe I don’t have your... perspective, Hannibal.” My voice was low but firm, ensuring no one else could overhear. My lips inched closer to her ear.

I continued, “But I see more than you think. I understand what it means to wear a mask—how it feels to live in the shadow of what you refuse to confront. So don’t mistake my silence for ignorance.”

To give her a taste of her own medicine, I paused, letting my words linger between us. My piercing glare swept her from head to toe. Before walking away, I countered, setting my glass down in front of her, “You’re not the only one who’s been through hell, Hannibal.”

I departed soon after, slipping through the door as if I’d never been there. Something I did frequently—and quite well—in social situations like this. I wasn’t battling my inner rage the way Hannibal was. I just knew my presence wasn’t welcome anymore.

The drive back to Wolf Trap was quiet, my only companions waiting for me at home. Upon arriving, I stood next to my car, taking in the sight before me. I had forgotten I’d left the lights on for the dogs.

I once told Hannibal, in one of our sessions, that sometimes I walk across the flat fields to glance back at my house. How, in those moments, it resembles a boat on the sea.

It’s the only time I ever feel safe.

The next time Hannibal and I saw each other was at my next therapy session. I debated attending, considering how we both acted at her Christmas party. Nevertheless, I went anyway.

To my bewilderment, as her door cracked open, Hannibal appeared ashen and frail. Her hands trembled around the doorknob. Strands of limp hair clung to the nape of her neck, a bun perched haphazardly on her head, glistening in the dim light. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her voice cracking as she tried to speak.

“Good afternoon, Will.”

I slowed as I neared her, my eyes darting to the ground before picking up my pace again.

“Are you okay, Dr. Lecter?” I asked, stepping into her office. “You seem gravely ill,” I added.

Hannibal’s lips curved, but the effort didn’t reach her eyes. She gradually followed me inside, nodding faintly.

“It seems I’ve allowed my thoughts to slip past their usual boundaries. How charming that you should notice.”

As we sat down in the chairs across from each other, I came face to face with her ailing form. Even her clothing lacked its usual tidy grace. I wondered if my words had left a lasting impact on her. At least her humor remained intact.

I chuckled with a head tilt. “I’m not sure I’d call it charming. Alarming, maybe.”

Hannibal weakly watched me furrow my brows, somehow smiling sweetly at me.

During our session, Hannibal’s condition worsened. She tried to hide it, but I saw right through her. I had spent many days after Garret Jacob Hobbs going to work with endless headaches, deteriorating throughout the day. I couldn’t tell if she was deliberately ignoring the obvious or if her illness had dulled her awareness. On the off chance it was the latter, I didn’t bring it up.

As I stepped out of her office, her cold fingertips grazed my arm. I snapped my head around, almost pulling away.

Hannibal’s voice was raspy. “Will, I must apologize for my temperament at the Christmas party. It was less than hospitable. It was unworthy of the occasion and, more importantly, undeserving of you.”

I exhaled slowly, letting the tension ease just enough to respond.

“No, I deserved it,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I pushed you, and I shouldn’t have.”

I glanced away, the words feeling heavier than they should, but I forced them out anyway. “If anyone owes an apology, it’s me. I didn’t mean to ruin the evening. I’m sorry, Hannibal.”

I risked a brief look at her, unsure if she’d think it was enough—or too much.

Hannibal’s tone was steady, carrying a hint of amusement despite her pallor. “Perhaps neither of us needs to apologize, Will,” she said, her eyes meeting mine with a lingering intensity. “You prod because it is your nature, and I react because it is mine.”

She shifted slightly, her movements deliberate, as though conserving what little strength she had left.

“But I assure you,” she continued, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips, “my evening was far from ruined.”

I held her gaze and lowered my voice. “You always make it sound so simple,” I said, my lips twitching into a smile that didn’t quite reach the surface. “Like you already know exactly what I’m going to say before I even open my mouth. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s nothing to apologize for. But that doesn’t make any of this easier.”

I glimpsed a flicker of something unspoken in her expression. I hesitated, then added, “You should go rest, Doctor. You don’t look like you’re ready to win this argument tonight.”

The subsequent day, I was back in Baltimore with Jack. A runaway teen had found a murdered man in an abandoned house. On the drive there, Jack mentioned, almost casually, that the man had been feasted on. His body was torn apart.

The crime scene looked like a bad horror movie. The man’s neck, torso, and other vital areas had been targeted. The bite marks didn’t seem to belong to any known mammal. The claw marks, however, were human.

After taking in the scene, Jack and the others stepped out, leaving me alone to do my thing.

The ache in my chest tightened—a pull so unnatural it made my stomach roll. I closed my eyes.

The house was empty, just the way I liked it. Broken windows, silence pressing in like a promise. I watched him from the shadows. He was perfect for this, unaware of the trap I’d set. His sickening immunity to fear was clouded by lust. He was a fisherman answering my siren call. My focus narrowed to his pulsating veins and how he’d tasted when I kissed him earlier. I craved more.

Everything happened in a flash. The sensations flooded me. The residual heat clung to the walls, the acrid tang of bile, the whispers of what came before—the snap of bone, the quick, brutal disassembly.

I clawed at him, panting like a rabid dog. His screams were short-lived. My canine fangs tore into his throat first. It pulsed through me like a heartbeat, something I could almost touch. My hand shook as it rested against his chest, tearing into his skin. I brought chunks of flesh to my mouth, slurping the blood.

I remained hunched over him long after he died, treating him in an animalistic fashion. I had orchestrated his fate to fill my hunger.

This was my design.

When I stood, I caught my reflection in a shattered mirror. My jaw was distended unnaturally. My teeth were sharp and elongated, gleaming against the crimson stain around my mouth. The sinister result clashed with the wide, pleading eyes that felt foreign in my own face. I didn’t recognize myself—not fully.

The reflection stared back with knowing. Something flickered behind my gaze, something that wasn’t mine. The realization jolted me into clarity. I tore my eyes away from the mirror, an excruciating headache welcoming me back.

I glanced down at the victim, nausea swirling at the edges of my mind. When I blinked, for just a moment, it felt as though the reflection had shifted, as though she stood behind me.

I could sense her smugness, the coldness of her presence pressing into the back of my skull. To escape, I sprinted out of the house. I wiped my face, ridding myself of any lingering unease that they could sense. When Jack asked me what I saw, I faltered for the first time. I told him we were looking for a bloodthirsty cannibal.

What else could I have said?

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