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defectivehero · 2 months ago

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2 years and 133k words later.... I finally finished this monster of a series!!!

this winding labyrinth, chapter 16

chapter sixteen (final chapter): renunciation

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no physical descriptors or pronouns are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 16, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-15, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

typical warnings apply!

The brisk air’s silence is only broken by the occasional breath from Hannibal or you. It’s a bit of a cold night, but not unbearable. Hannibal’s suit is torn on one arm. You think there’s blood on your face somewhere. The two of you are almost trapped in this moment. You’re not sure if you want to escape it, but you must. You have to. Right?

Your fingers twitch at your side. Every logical part of you knows what to do: knows to remain here, among the wreckage. Waiting for Jack to arrive. Waiting to be told what to do. Waiting, waiting, waiting. You’ve never had the luxury of taking initiative, of making decisions that truly felt like yours.

Everything still feels like a blur: your conversation with Dolarhyde, the ensuing fight, Hannibal’s sudden appearance. Hannibal saved your life. He could’ve left you to die… but he didn’t.

“Thank you,” you manage to say. The remark leaves your lips far too easily.

“You’re welcome,” Hannibal responds. In that moment, he knows he has you.

“I thought I was about to meet my end,” you admit breathlessly. Your throat burns from Dolarhyde’s grip. You cough, clear your throat. The effort does nothing to quell the nervous energy vibrating along your skin. “A watery grave,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. Your lungs burn from the Dragon’s claws digging into your throat.

“In your tomb by the sounding sea,” Hannibal says. It takes you a moment to recognize the adjusted line from Annabel Lee. Of course Hannibal’s quoting Edgar Allan Poe. Of course he is. You stare at him for a long moment, wondering just how you’re supposed to respond to that. Then you remember part of a stanza from the poem:

And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.

Your stomach turns in unease. “I’m no maiden,” you remind him.

Hannibal’s attention is so intense, you feel as if you’re being ripped apart. “No,” he agrees. He doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by your objection. Perhaps he was expecting it. But your attention is soon captured by a perplexing idea: namely, the reasoning for why he mentioned the poem. Hannibal is hopelessly intentional. He would only make mention of it if it was relevant to the matter at hand.

There’s one obvious conclusion to come to: one that’s been staring you in the face these long years. You have fought it off at some junctures, embraced it at others. The evidence has been piling up since the moment the two of you met: Hannibal wants to govern your thoughts.

Little does he know, he already does—at least, to a certain extent. Hannibal is always making his presence known in the twisting halls of your mind palace, his steps sure and quiet yet echoing in your ears all the same.

Your hand twitches at your side. You want to do… something. You’re not quite sure what that something is, but you suspect it to be violent in nature. The knife in your hand feels heavy and light all at once, the blade glimmering in the dim moonlight. Dolarhyde’s blood drips from it, an inky black in the darkness.

Hannibal locks eyes with you, sees the ferocity dripping from your fingers. Then he laughs delightedly. You want to be annoyed, instinctually. But you recognize the gesture for what it is: he’s amused, almost anticipative. He would not mind if you killed him, you think.

“Shall we?” Hannibal hums, tearing you away from your thoughts. You blink and come back to yourself, only to find the bloodied pavement where Dolarhyde’s corpse once was to be empty. Hannibal must’ve thrown his body off the cliff, leaving him to sink beneath the treacherous waters below. He evidently disposed of the bloody knife in the same manner; the gun rests at his side.

With a pointed clearing of his throat, Hannibal demands your attention. You watch as he reaches out, offers you a hand.

…You take it far too quickly. His grip is deceptively light, but you’re not foolish enough to think you can escape it. Hannibal’s compassion is always illusory. He is always giving you these allowances, as if even the smallest of your actions is only permitted by his approval (or, even, his disapproval).

If your hand shakes, he makes no mention of it. If your heart races, if your ears ring, if your eyes somehow can’t drift away from his presence at your side… he makes no indication of noticing. But you know he does notice. There is very little that escapes his attention. He is purposefully leaving these things unacknowledged, giving you some semblance of freedom.

But you have never been free. The thought drags you back to the time spent visiting Hannibal in his cell, irritation and unease and restlessness clawing at your skin and ripping it away. A gilded cage is still a cage, you remember thinking. That same thought haunts you now. You are not a mere onlooker any longer. You are now an accomplice.

“Where will you go, exactly?” you ask. Your skin is thrumming, urging you to make one final move on the chessboard. (As if the pieces haven’t already been cleared, as if victory hasn’t already been declared.)

Hannibal’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly at your question. You want to laugh. “We will go to Europe,” Hannibal responds. His eyes find yours, as if daring you to argue.

“Lithuania?” you ask instead, your voice dripping with faux innocence.

Hannibal smiles, a venomous thing. “Italy,” he says, completely dodging your attempt to bring up his past. But, his smooth misdirection is an answer in and of itself. He doesn’t wish to go back to the country he lived in as a child, because it was never a home. Interesting.

Hannibal’s hand slips from yours when you reach his car, as he opens the passenger door for you before heading around the vehicle to take the driver’s seat. You watch as he calmly starts the car, the engine slowly humming to life. You’re quiet, only observing as he glances behind him and pulls out of the driveway. Despite the knowledge that his attention must be captured by driving, you swear you catch him glancing at you multiple times. The gestures are so quick and subtle that you eventually write them off.

You’re silent as Hannibal drives, your thoughts running a mile a minute as you attempt to rationalize your own behavior. Why are you letting this happen?

“No one has captivated me as you do,” he admits, his voice a swift and firm departure from the uncomfortable silence. The confession clings to the air long after it’s uttered. For several minutes, you’re speechless.

“That’s… not good,” you settle for saying weakly. Somehow, that’s all you can bear to say.

“It isn’t,” Hannibal agrees.

“Will you eat me?” you ask slowly, dreading the answer. He has scarred you before—he could easily do it again.

“No,” he responds with inexplicable certainty.

“My lungs are inedible, unfortunately,” you say after a few moments, your fingers jittering restlessly against your thigh.

“Yes, you made sure of that, didn’t you?” Hannibal remarks, referencing your smoking addiction nonchalantly. You inhale sharply, not expecting him to catch on so easily. But you know better than to give him a verbal response, instead clasping your hands in your lap and letting your gaze wander across the scenery outside. Hannibal’s intended destination quickly becomes clear, as he drives down your street and soon pulls into your driveway.

The familiarity with which he rounds the car and opens your door for you… The strange air of domesticity settling over this moment… You have to make a concerted effort to unlock your front door instead of thinking about such things.

“You were here recently,” you recall as you enter your home. Just the other day, in fact. You can’t see Hannibal’s expression behind you, can only hear the slight satisfaction in his voice.

“Yes,” he confirms easily. Hannibal nudges the door shut behind him, polite as always. (He knows better than to leave fingerprints behind. His hands rest at his sides, despite the strange look on his face that almost suggests he wishes to explore the space further.)

“You stole my knife,” you point out as you make your way through the living room, “and took a shower?” You’re sure your disbelief is obvious.

“The facilities at Baltimore State Hospital left much to be desired.” Hannibal’s gaze wanders across the various surfaces of your home, as if searching for remnants of you. He’s unknowingly chasing after dust and shadows. This house hasn’t felt like a home for a while now.

“I’m curious about why you decided to come here,” you hum as you head to your bedroom and start packing your bag. Gods, what the hell are you doing? You need to stop, you need to put your foot down and stay here. You’re— You’re throwing your entire life away. Everything you fought for: your career at the FBI, the relationships you cultivated with your coworkers and peers. It will all go down the drain. You have to fight off your spiraling thoughts, refocusing on the conversation.

“This isn’t the place you would visit to go unnoticed,” you remark, before realizing the error in your thinking aloud. “Wait. You wanted me to notice, didn’t you?”

A smile. “Yes, I did.”

It’s so quiet, he can probably hear you swallow. You bite the inside of your cheek and reach under your nightstand, grabbing your dagger and securing it to the inside of your boot. You try your best to be subtle about it, but in Hannibal’s presence, it’s virtually impossible to do anything unnoticeable.

“There’s a dagger in your boot,” Hannibal remarks at some point, as you finish gathering your things.

“There is, yes,” you answer, not bothering to lie. Hannibal already knows. “Never know when you may need it,” you say somewhat breathlessly, affected by his proximity. You quickly brush past him, slinging your bag over your shoulder. After one last look at the life you built, you step through the doorway and settle on the porch. It almost seems to take Hannibal a few moments to recover from your remark, but eventually he emerges from your house and allows you to lock the door behind you.

You run your fingertips along your keys, the occasional jab of pain grounding you to the present. It’s hard not to sneak glances at Hannibal as he drives, cataloguing anything and everything that has changed since he was last free. But your attention is quickly captured by another unsettling concept: you have no idea what happens next. Hannibal said you’re going to Italy, but how are you going to get there? Airport security these days is no joke—Hannibal wouldn’t stand a chance at traditional international travel.

Then again, Hannibal doesn’t really do traditional, you realize as he pulls onto what appears to be a small runway. There’s a jet resting in the center of the space. Your brow furrows as you watch Hannibal exit the car and shake hands with some stranger (evidently the pilot). Then his gaze finds yours and you realize you’ve been lingering by the car awkwardly.

You’re nervous as you head up the steps and settle into the seat across from Hannibal, tense and restless as you look anywhere but at the man across from you. You’re not even sure just where your fear is coming from: uprooting your whole career, leaving your home and job, flying, being in Hannibal’s company… It’s all nerve-wracking. It’s somewhat of a miracle you haven’t fallen headfirst into a panic attack. (And not for lack of trying. Your thoughts have been a hot mess recently.)

“You seem uncomfortable,” Hannibal says as the jet’s engines roar and the plane takes off. If he were one for offense, you think he’d sound offended. But he only sounds contemplative. Perhaps there’s an echo of something in his voice—something resembling genuine emotion. You quickly suppress the thought.

“I am uncomfortable,” you admit. Nothing about this situation is normal or comforting. You’re on a private flight to Europe with the cannibal you spent years hunting down. As the jet climbs higher in the sky, you’re forced to come to terms with the recognition that you will never be able to return to your old life. “I think… I’ll be uncomfortable for a while.”

“You made your choice,” Hannibal states. Is he trying to reassure you or himself? It’s hard to tell.

“I did,” you nod. You run your fingers along the elegant upholstery of the seat. You’re not used to such luxury. It seems needless, unnecessary. Yet Hannibal appears at home within it, surrounded by elegance and refinement. You have always wondered, in the dead of night, if Hannibal’s refined tastes double as camouflage. You’re not sure if you’ll ever truly know.

“I’m grateful,” Hannibal states. Your neck nearly snaps with how quickly you look up at him again. Your hands are shaking, you think. You can’t even begin to acknowledge the implications of that statement.

“I’ve never flown like this before,” you confess, trying to change the subject. Everything’s making you nervous. You can already feel a pressure migraine coming on, searing through your cheekbones and dripping down your jaw. Your adrenaline from the fight is slowly fading, even in Hannibal’s presence—leaving room for fatigue and exhaustion to set in. Your eyes burn when you blink. You don’t know what’s happening. You don’t know what’s happening, you don’t know—

“It’s relaxing,” Hannibal admits, dragging your attention back to him. “Moreso than a normal flight. And far quicker.”

You take a slow breath in, out. Try to remember why you’re here. What you chose. How you’ll proceed. Why you’ve done this to yourself. You’ve never been the best at handling change, yet here you are: hundreds of thousands of miles in the air, across from someone who can and will tear your throat out without hesitation. You’ve made far better decisions.

“What will you do in Europe?” you question. You don’t need to elaborate.

“Survive,” Hannibal responds.

“I can see you thriving,” you remark, glancing out the window and watching as the jet carves a path through the air. The clouds are a pale grey, unassuming. There’s a powerful sense of foreboding clinging to your skin now. Not only have you abandoned your old life, but you’ve abandoned security, safety. Hell, you’ve abandoned your identity. You can’t walk around with the same name anymore. Any progress you made? Gone. It’s terrifying. And… maybe a little bit exhilarating too.

“Perhaps,” Hannibal acknowledges.

“Some people don’t want to survive.” An observation. You should stop there. This conversation is quickly veering into dangerous territory, and you’re the one to blame. You need to stop talking, you need to keep your lips pressed shut firmly enough to hurt, you need your teeth to dig into your gums and rip them to shreds, you need need need need— “Sometimes it has to be fought off… the urge to welcome death.”

This time, Hannibal’s eyes snap to yours. You’re digging your nails into the skin of your palms. You can’t meet his eyes—don’t want to see the comprehension reflected in them. It must be nice, you think to yourself, to not have all the answers. To still have that kind of wanderlust, that hunger for knowledge without recognizing the consequences. But Hannibal and you are somewhat similar in that regard: you have both been burdened with knowing better.

“I presumed you were feeling better.” Hannibal’s voice is an anchor to reality and a departure from it all at once.

You shrug, your tongue locking itself to the roof of your mouth. It’s easy to forget that Hannibal was once your therapist. You used to discuss things like this with him. You used to have someone like that to talk to: someone who understood you.

“Tell me,” he implores you.

So you do.

You’re not so deluded as to think it’ll be the same as before—it clearly isn’t. It’s very different. But it’s… good. You don’t have to keep such a close eye on your words. You don’t have to speak in riddles. You don’t have to tiptoe around the Ripper and the conflicted feelings he stirs within you. Because Hannibal and you are on the same level now. You no longer have an advantage—a notion that is both frightening and relieving.

“You don’t fully trust me,” Hannibal says some time later, when you’ve ripped yourself apart and hastily put the misshapen pieces back together.

It takes you far too long to respond. “No,” you confess. Although, it’s hardly a confession if you’re both aware of it.

“Wise of you,” he acknowledges. You laugh at the thought. Wise. You haven’t been truly wise in a long, long time.

As your exhaustion from the day’s events threatens to overtake you, your thoughts begin to leave your lips unfiltered. “I’d prefer that you didn’t take my other kidney. Just so we’re clear.” Your eyelids are stinging. You’re so, so tired. (A kind of fatigue you know sleep can’t fix.)

“Perfectly,” Hannibal says, far too sincerely for your liking. Then a wry smile rises on his lips. “And I’m afraid you need that one, my dear.”

“For now,” you mutter darkly. Hannibal chuckles. You don’t think you said anything particularly funny. Then again, Hannibal’s amusement is often confusing.

You fall asleep too quickly to see the fondness glimmering in his eyes.

You wake some time later to a headache and a prickling feeling across your skin. As your surroundings begin to clarify, you remember yourself. You’re flying to Italy with Hannibal Lecter. And… he’s staring at you intently.

“Were you watching me sleep?” you ask, not sure if you want to hear the answer.

“Yes.” Hannibal doesn’t bother to deny it.

You just sigh.

“I’m surprised you were able to sleep,” Hannibal remarks. The way he utters that statement makes you think he’s preventing himself from saying more.

“Why?” you eventually ask, taking the bait.

“We are at our most vulnerable, in our sleep,” he answers.

“I’m very tired,” you justify. Neither of you believe it.

“Sure.”

You roll your eyes. Hannibal just smiles. He looks weirdly content—and has appeared that way ever since you first took his hand. Does your company really provide him with so much joy? You can only hope you live long enough to find out.

Your new home in Europe is… more lavish than you were expecting. Hannibal brings you to a stately home, two floors with elegant architecture and arched doorways. It doesn’t rid you of the foreboding in your chest—the bone-deep feeling that something will go wrong. As time passes and you start to acclimate to this new environment, you slowly unlearn that paranoia and wariness. But it takes effort.

Against all odds, the FBI doesn’t come looking for you. You have to wonder if everyone thinks you’re dead—that you fell into the raging waters beneath the cliffside, as you were fighting Dolarhyde. You’re not nearly as remorseful about the whole thing as you thought you would be. You’re starting to learn that your old life was… Well. It was good. You made it for yourself. But somewhere along the way, you grew bored and bogged down by the same routine that was supposed to comfort you.

Despite the FBI’s continued search for Hannibal, he lives a life of charismatic luxury here in Europe—as he charms many of the locals. Few are suspicious of him; everyone loves him. It’s somewhat amusing to see Hannibal like this—he seems so much more in his element. He frequently attends art exhibitions and dinner parties. You prefer to remain in the periphery, detached from the luxury and pretense of it all. (As if that will somehow absolve you of your countless sins. As if your crimes can ever be forgiven.)

Strangely enough, Hannibal hasn’t been nearly as active as he was before. He still seems to indulge in the occasional human organ, which you adamantly refuse to acknowledge or participate in. But his appetite here in Italy seems far less voracious than it was in America. While before, it seemed like he was trying to attract attention, now Hannibal seems content with slipping under the radar. Almost as if… he was trying to remain firmly fixed in someone’s sights… and now that he is…

You shake your head. It’ll do you no good to get distracted by these thoughts. The truth of the matter is that you still feel out of place. Hannibal has created something of a place for himself here. But you… you still feel like an outsider. You’re not sure what it is, exactly. Maybe it’s just the fact that Hannibal’s type of people aren’t really your type of people. Dinner parties aren’t your scene. But it’s hardly proper to complain about having more than you could ever need. Right? Who cares if you lost your old life, your friends, yourself? Because you have Hannibal. And that’s enough. Right?

These thoughts run through your mind as you stare at Hannibal one night, watching him read quietly on the bed. You’re standing in the middle of the room, unable to tear your eyes away from him. He’s captivating. You’ve denied yourself that truth for years now. Hannibal is beautiful. But… beautiful things are often dangerous.

“Yes, Dorian, you will always be fond of me,” Hannibal recites from his well-loved copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. You blink and look over at him, only to find he’s already looking at you. “I represent to you all the sins you have never had the courage to commit.” There’s an accountability lingering in his gaze. This isn’t a mere recitation. There’s a question written between the lines of that statement.

“You’d be surprised,” you mutter wryly before you can stop yourself, before you can hide the strange expression ripping through the skin of your face. You try to move past it, but it’s too late: Hannibal has already fixated on your reaction. You’ve already tripped his snare.

“Would I be surprised?” Hannibal muses, looking up from his book once more as he focuses on you. Your lips are pressed together firmly as you stare at him. If Hannibal is bothered by your silence, he doesn’t show it. “You have killed before,” he states instead. “Garret Jacob Hobbs, Frederick Chilton, Abel Gideon.”

You try to fight the strange compulsion of honesty brewing in your chest. But you’re fooling yourself. You have never been able to hide from Hannibal for very long. The two of you see each other far too well. And as you rifle through your thoughts, Hannibal just waits in silence. (He waited for years—a few minutes is child’s play.)

The name tears through your esophagus on its way up your throat, shredding your skin and filling your mouth with the taste of blood and bile. “Clark Ingram.”

Hannibal’s eyebrows furrow. He looks mildly perplexed. “Who?” You have to fight off a laugh at the unapologetic confusion on his face. It’s hardly obvious, but you’ve grown used to reading between the lines of his expressions. Right now, he seems both bewildered and slightly irritated by his own ignorance.

“He was a psychiatrist,” you explain slowly, nearly tripping over the words. “He killed over a dozen people, buried their corpses in a field.” Your hands move about restlessly as you try to gather your thoughts, fighting off the nauseating memory of the victims’ bodies buried in a symmetrical line across that grassy plain.

“And he deserved death,” Hannibal hums. It’s a question, despite the certainty with which he speaks.

“Yes,” you confirm, your fists clenching at the memory of his cruelty. You remember the horrible pit in your stomach at the sight of the burial grounds he created for his victims. There’s the familiar sting of acid at the back of your throat. “Prison would not have been enough for him.” You feel a familiar prickling in your eyes, tears building. You settle for clenching your jaw and fighting the frustration off.

“Prison is dehumanizing; it may have been enough.” Ah, and Hannibal’s speaking from experience now, isn’t he? You struggle not to let out a sarcastic remark at his comment. He senses you don’t like that answer. Before you can say anything more—make a dig at Hannibal and his insatiable pride—he’s continuing to speak.

“You wanted to see him die,” Hannibal maintains, almost narrating as he gets up and takes a step closer to you. His book rests entirely abandoned on the bed, his attention captured elsewhere. His eyes almost seem to glimmer, even in the dim light. “At your own hand.”

“Nothing premeditated,” you clarify. Like it really matters. “I went to speak with one of the stable hands who had been present when they found a victim. He was acting a bit strangely, guarding the corpse of the horse she was found in. They had taken the dead foal from the mother’s womb, leaving it empty. But it wasn’t empty when I arrived.”

“Ingram was in there,” you recall with disgust. You can almost feel the heat swarming around you, the disgusting humidity of the organs wrapping around your form. You’ve had nightmares about it—being torn from the horse’s womb, only to find Hannibal, Gideon, the Dragon, Ingram, Chilton staring down at you. “I cut him out. He lunged at the stable hand, I raised my gun.” If Hannibal notices you’re keeping the description of this “stable hand” infuriatingly vague, he doesn’t comment. You’re grateful—Peter Bernardone is one of the few people you like. (One of the many people you lost, to this seemingly insurmountable distance, to this new life.)

“You shot him,” Hannibal concludes for you.

You don’t bother answering that. “I thought of you,” you blurt out instead before you can stop yourself. Hannibal’s eyes are glittering dangerously now. You feel like a fish on a hook, speared through the roof of your mouth as you’re slowly dragged to the predator in front of you. “If you would stop me. It was a few years ago,” you recall. “I think you would have.”

“Perhaps,” Hannibal acknowledges. A quirk of his lips, another step forward. “I would’ve hated to do it.”

“I know,” you murmur. You haven’t budged, despite Hannibal’s approach. “But it doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.”

“He is,” he acquiesces, seeming almost pleased. “There was no one to stop you.”

“No,” you agree after a moment.

“Did he beg for his life?” Hannibal asks lightly. By the tone of his voice, you would almost say the question is casual and innocent. But it is far from innocuous. You know Hannibal is building the scene in his head, imagining the blood splattered at your feet from Ingram’s rapid gestures; the fury running through your veins; the eerie stillness with which you held your weapon.

“Yes, he begged,” you say, the words ringing through the air with the force of a gunshot.

“You didn’t listen,” Hannibal smiles. Another jolt of fear. He takes another step, settling before you. There is comprehension, understanding, intrigue, excitement, obsession in his eyes. You should not have told him this.

“I didn’t listen,” you remember to confirm, when he raises a brow expectantly.

“You think of him often,” Hannibal asserts, a smirk teasing his lips.

“The light leaving his eyes, the look on his face… the pit in my stomach,” you answer, the words tasting bitter as you utter them.

“It made you feel alive,” Hannibal observes.

“...Yes,” you say very quietly. He still hears it, because the distance between the two of you has been rendered inconsequential.

Hannibal doesn’t respond verbally, but his hand carves a tauntingly slow path through the air. You don’t flinch, although you know you should. When did your body stop reacting to Hannibal warily? When did you grow to accept his intimidating presence? When did you abandon self-preservation and allow yourself to remain pliant beneath his grip? You used to recoil, writhe, fight and escape it. But now, you just freeze.

Hannibal’s eyes explore your face. His hand rests on your shoulder after a visible moment’s contemplation.

“I have worshipped you with far more romance of feeling than a man should ever give to a friend,” Hannibal admits in the quiet air. Another recitation, yet he utters it with such emotion and nuance that you find it hard to connect to another’s words.

“I have never been quite sure,” you admit after a moment, swallowing hard. The air feels stiff and warm, heavy and uncompromising. “—what we are.”

“You said I am an enigma,” Hannibal remembers. “In kind, you are something of a mystery to me.”

“I can’t be a mystery forever,” you answer, trying to make him understand the fundamental disconnect between you both. “You, maybe. But not me.” You have kept things from Hannibal, but it will only be so long before he rips your ribs apart and lays your soul bare. He will lose interest eventually.

Hannibal frowns at the statement. “A misguided notion,” he chastises you, his hand tracing the line of your shoulder. Your heart stutters in your chest. Everything around you seems to freeze in anticipation. His hand finds your collarbone, your throat, your jaw. “You have been, and always will be, endlessly fascinating to me.”

Before you can process that statement, Hannibal’s hand slips from your face and he walks away, leaving you to stare after him yet again. How many times have you watched him retreat? Yet… he comes back each and every time. Yet, no matter what you say or do, he returns to you. You had always likened yourself to a puppet on his string… but is he not the same? Is he not tethered to you, in return?

“You have him on a leash, don’t you?” Abel Gideon had said once. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.”

You had dismissed the remark at the time, thought it an exaggeration or a joke. But now, as you stare at the neglected book on the bed you share with Hannibal, you have to wonder if it holds a semblance of truth.

On quiet nights like these, Hannibal loves to remind you that you wouldn’t have been able to evade him for long. He never would have been far, supposedly. In another world—one in which you didn’t abandon your friends and betray the FBI—you would be frightened at the thought. But in this solitary existence shared only between you and Hannibal, the thought is comforting.

Despite Hannibal’s reassurances, it’s easy to still wonder if you made the right choice. You miss your friends: Beverly; Freddie; hell, even Jack. This life with Hannibal is lavish, luxurious… but it is also lonely. It’s just the two of you: forever bound to each other with unspeakable acts of cruelty.

…Then again, there are far worse fates.

You still have nightmares, for example. But now, there is someone to wake you from them—someone to hold you in gentle (bloodstained) hands and reassure you that everything will be alright. You still have your doubts, but then you see the way Hannibal looks at you: as if you’re his entire world. You think you will soon be utterly consumed by him. And your worst fear is that you won’t oppose him—rather, you’ll invite him to unhinge his jaw and engulf you. You fear you won’t flee or fight, but instead embrace the pain.

Because there is nothing else left for you. Because it is just the two of you, bonded to one another through cruelty, pride, pain, antipathy. You are enmeshed in bloodied skin; murky waters concealing unknown depths; fleeting, vicious smiles; and unspoken vulnerabilities lingering in the air.

Hannibal Lecter defines you. His voice reaches your ears, even in the begrudging silence of your solitude. “I imagine the Ripper feels as if no one understands him,” he told you in his office all those years ago. Sometimes, you can close your eyes and see his expectant gaze; feel those damn armchairs inching closer and closer together. “No one, except, perhaps, you.”

“...That’s not love,” you had said, despite suspecting otherwise. If only you had known just how far you would fall. Just how much of yourself would be lost, in the hunt to decipher someone else. “That’s just… understanding.”

“To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal stated with certainty.

“I fear the ordinary mind wouldn’t be able to handle his love,” you reasoned.

“You’re far from ordinary,” Hannibal argued.

Looking back, you had known what he meant—but you didn’t want to believe it. Hell, you had known Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper from that fateful night when he found you sleepwalking on the road. Yet, you ignored the facts for so long… and for what? For those circular conversations, late at night in his extravagant office? For those tense moments, when the silence just seemed to drag on forever? For Franklyn Froideveaux’s corpse, neatly gift-wrapped and placed in your office—practically addressed to your attention?

While Franklyn’s murder may have been the first poem Hannibal wrote for you, it’s certainly not the last. And you soon find yourself devouring the words with rapt attention, profound feelings settling in your chest amidst the phantom wreckage of your old life.

You haven’t been the same since Hannibal Lecter. The moment you locked eyes in Jack’s office, your destiny had been written in elegant swooping lines.

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

ENDNOTES:

I am a SLUT for Edgar Allan Poe and Oscar Wilde, y’all. It had to be done. This fic is self-indulgent. Also. I’m very proud of the “I’m no maiden” line, since it works for readers of any gender!!! For anyone who identifies other than female, it’s more literal; but it even works for fem readers, as the line then asserts the reader’s autonomy and independence. Mwahhahahha!

I really hope the conversations between Hannibal & the reader were as confusing, circular, and twisted as I wanted them to be. Sobs. I tried my best to cultivate a persistent tension throughout the entire chapter 🙏

Anyways, wow. Wow. I can’t believe we’re at the end. This is crazy. I’ve greatly enjoyed each and every moment of writing this story, and I’m so honored by all the attention and engagement it’s gotten. All of your likes, reblogs, and comments have kept me going. My life has changed a lot since I first started writing this series, but the one constant is the enjoyment I’ve gotten from writing these fics.

I’m so so grateful for your support. I really hope you enjoyed this series as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave a comment if you did! I’d love to hear it. <3

I’ll still be around, writing reader-insert pieces. Hannibal is never far from my mind, so there will likely be more oneshots to come. And who knows, maybe I’ll get that second ending for this story posted eventually. I have an Abigail oneshot idea too. But no promises!!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you! 🖤🔪

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

hannibal taglist: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69 @flow33didontsmoke @mrgatotortuga @house-of-1000-corpses-fan @faggotboulevard @hottskull @moarar

#IM EMOTIONAL #proud of myself for following through #but also sad it's over #sobs

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defectivehero · 3 months ago

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Helllo!

Just had an idea I had in mind that I thought off just now!

Could you please write about a very rich and powerful villain who is like very influential and has connections to almost everyone, and the Villain also comes from a business tycoon family that belongs to the “old money riches” of society? And the Hero is the complete opposite of that and confronts Villain about their differences in life? Like they have this really angry and heated confession about how they are not fit for each other in any way? Could end angsty or not!

But all this is completely up to you! I love your writing so much, it greatly inspires me to also continue writing!

Have a great day! Always stay hydrated❤️

Thank you🫶

omg!!!! this is such a perfect idea. and thank you so much! <3 also, ohohooh. angst, you say? mwahhahahhahahahaha....

"Well, well, well," the villain drawls, their leg slightly jittering as they cross it over their knee. They look entirely at ease surrounded by these gilded walls. "I must say, I'm surprised to see you here."

"I know," the hero mutters. "I'm not exactly in the right tax bracket," they scoff under their breath, resisting an eye roll. "I need to speak with you."

"Sure," the villain agrees, evidently bored with the gathering so far. "Lead the way," they offer.

The hero blinks. "I have no idea where I'm going in this place," they admit. "Just find us a balcony or an isolated room."

The villain nods and uncrosses their legs, waving away the woman approaching them with a tray of drinks. They get to their feet and the hero watches, that uncontrollable hatred searing through them once more. Everything about the villain's appearance today just screams wealth.

The villain has enough money to make a genuine impact on the city and the surrounding communities. Instead, they're content to sit on it greedily—watching it rot away behind impenetrable steel walls. It makes the hero sick to their fucking stomach.

And that's the irony of it all: the villain had a nearly perfect childhood. So often, villains are created and made from their upbringing. Abuse, neglect, abandonment, unfair treatment... The list goes on. The villain is practically the dictionary definition of privilege. They have never known true suffering, yet here they are, taking on the role of someone who has typically seen far more of it than others.

"I don't like you much," the hero admits once they make it outside. The brisk night air should be refreshing, but their enemy's presence is too suffocating for them to notice.

"I can tell," the villain says, seemingly unsurprised. They rest their hands in their pockets. Casual. Unaffected.

"I don't understand," the hero continues, looking out to the horizon as frustration rises in them. "You have everything." And you still want more.

"Not quite everything," their enemy counters.

"And what are you missing?" the hero asks, gritting their teeth. It's growing more and more difficult for them to keep themself from snapping. "Tell me what you could possibly be missing, that you couldn't buy."

"Authenticity." The villain's voice is sickeningly mournful.

The hero scoffs in annoyance, unable to hide their annoyance now. "Please," they murmur irritatedly. "Shed those designer clothes of yours and go for a walk. Problem solved."

"I don't expect you to pity me," the villain continues, staring at the city's lights ahead. Their hands are clasped now.

"Good," the hero nods, "because I absolutely don't."

There's silence for a few moments. Ever the problem-solver, the hero finds themself speaking before they can contemplate the consequences. "If you're actually looking for authenticity, you sure as hell won't find it here." They scoff at the notion. Every single person inside this gilded estate is drowning in pretense.

"That seems like a generalization," the villain remarks.

"Maybe," the hero reasons, holding back another scoff. "But it's one made out of necessity."

They know the villain won't understand the sentiment, so they change the subject slightly. "You do realize you could actually do something with your money," the hero points out. "With your life. Philanthropy is a thing." Oh, is it ever. There are countless cases the villain could be contributing to: social justice, climate change, economic stability, arts and culture, medical research, education...

"I'm aware." The villain's voice is cold and emotionless, unaffected by problems they have never seen and experiences they have been fortunate enough to avoid.

"And yet here you are," the hero says. "Content to let the world pass you by." That's the best way the villain can be described. They're not necessarily the most troublesome villain in the city. They act out of their own self interest. There's no grandiosity to their villainous schemes—only a selfish kind of cruelty that damages the city all the same.

"I want my children to inherit the family's wealth," the villain says.

"Oh, they will," the hero huffs. "But that's not all they're inheriting. They'll also be born into a fractured world, an unjust society that punishes virtually anyone but them."

"Is that such a bad thing, to want happiness for my children?" the villain mutters defensively. They take every slight suggestion and observation to be a personal affront, and it annoys the hero greatly.

"Where is the happiness in that scenario?" the hero finally manages to respond. "You're already alone. Imagine how isolated they'll be."

It's a good point; and it's soon clear the villain doesn't have a counter for it. "I thought you said you had to speak to me," their enemy says instead. Somehow, the hero isn't surprised.

"I did have to speak to you," they agree, "and I just did."

"You said you needed me," the villain frowns.

"I needed you to understand," the hero says quietly, "why you'll probably never see me again."

"Excuse me?" the villain asks disbelievingly. It may be the closest to genuine emotion that the hero has ever heard or seen from them. But it doesn't matter.

"This whole thing." The hero motions between the two of them vaguely. "It isn't working for me."

"So... what?" the villain asks, their gaze searing into the side of the hero's face. "Are you moving out of the city or something?"

"No," the hero responds. "You're just getting assigned another adversary."

"Assigned," the villain repeats with distaste. The agency has always been somewhat cavalier about the whole hero-villain arrangement. It's almost a business to them. The hero tries not to think about it often. "And if I refuse this new arrangement?" the villain hums.

"That won't matter," the hero says with a shake of their head. "I'm just letting you know what's going to happen. Another hero will be handling your... outbursts." Their tone is clinical, professional. Devoid of emotion. Ironic, one would think. The villain almost appears to be more affected than they are.

"You're leaving," the villain seems to realize aloud.

"No," the hero denies.

"Leaving me," the villain punctuates.

"Um... no," the hero says, blinking in confusion.

"You are," the villain argues, "because my wealth makes you uncomfortable."

"How you handle it makes me uncomfortable," the hero clarifies. "And I'm tired of— of trying to convince you of something you clearly don't care about."

They turn to walk past the villain and through the winding halls of the estate once more. They're stopped by a hand on their upper arm. The hero doesn't flinch. The villain looks uncharacteristically torn, almost upset, frustrated.

"Wait—" the villain says, something frighteningly close to helplessness in their voice.

"Don't," the hero sighs, gently removing their grip. "Don't say you can change. We both know you can't."

"I can," the villain argues, hesitating for a moment, "for you." Their gaze is firmly fixed on the hero, although it flits about their face as if trying to commit it to memory.

The hero shakes their head. "If anything, you'd change for the city. For these hypothetical children of yours, or for yourself. Not for me. Not... just because I told you to."

"So... that's it?" the villain asks. The hero doesn't think they're imagining the discord in their voice anymore. "We're just... done? Through?"

"Done, through, whatever you want to call it," the hero remarks coolly.

Experience is the best teacher—or so everyone says. Occasionally, the right combination of research and reflection will get a person close enough to comprehending an experience that isn't theirs.

But the villain just doesn't want to learn. They're comfortable in their complacency, and the hero has spent far too long trying to lecture them into morality. It's a lost cause. The villain is a lost cause.

The hero continues to depart. This time, when the villain tries to reach out, the hero takes a firm step forward and lets their enemy's hand slip past them.

endnotes: listening to overpopulation at the end of everything while writing this... made me feel things.

sigh. just... that insurmountable gap between the hero and the villain... the villain, maintaining they can change and start to care.... the hero, knowing they can't and won't... sigh....

thanks for reading!

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defectivehero · 3 months ago

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Hii I remember there being a very short story about a Villain breaking into a Hero’s base, (or kidnapping the hero?) then they played with a paper fortune teller. Do you still have this one? It may have been from before you moved accounts.

Sorry if this is something that I could’ve found easily, or if it was removed for a reason, or if I’m straight up misremembering!

Thank you either way! 💃💃

now that's a blast from the past! I think this is the snippet you're looking for! wow, I'm getting to the point where I straight up don't remember writing things... lol.

and no need to apologize! it didn't take me long to find, fortunately <3

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defectivehero · 4 months ago

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bro...i binged your entire hannibal fanfic in 2 days...your fics have me in a chokehold

- aadi

TEEHEEEEEE 🖤🖤🖤 so glad you enjoyed!

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defectivehero · 4 months ago

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Hey, I read your hero x mentor fics and I literally died and died and died. THEY'RE SO GOOD!!!!! Are you good with write any more hero x mentor fics? Because god I have ideas I want to share!! :D!!

thank you! i can write more, yes! 🤘

it may be a while though, since i’m moving this weekend and will be freaking out abt that for a good few weeks.

maybe i can get a bad things happen bingo snippet done with a hero/mentor pairing, kill two birds with one stone…

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defectivehero · 4 months ago

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I just came from your fanfic blog where you wrote shane x reader and my god you're so good at writing, I loved everything about it and I'm still rereading it.

Just wondering if you still write for stardew valley (I wanna know what other characters do you write for)

Anyway have a nice day :)

hi hi! thank you so much, i’m glad to hear you enjoyed it!

sobs. shane is my favoriteeee 😭😭🖤 love him so much! i’ve also written for the Wizard, and I have a fake dating au draft for him that I really need to bring back to life….

otherwise, i’m not gonna make any promises. i’ve only married shane & emily in my 2 playthroughs so far… sebastian and alex could be candidates too 🤔 but again, no promises. shane is my HUSBAND

hope you have a nice day too!

#shane is love shane is life

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defectivehero · 4 months ago

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Bad things happen bingo, hidden scar, the hero has a scar they’ve never let anyone see, one that their villain gave them? Resentment and obsession? 👀

ohohohoh... you are speaking my language

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Hidden Scar

"Nice eyepatch."

"Thanks—" the hero responds habitually, only to recognize that unexpected voice and freeze. They slowly turn around, only to find the villain standing behind them. "Oh." A brisk wind hits them as they linger on the rooftop of this abandoned building. The hero goes here to be alone. The villain knows that.

"What, does the compliment mean less since it's coming from me?" the villain huffs, picking at their nails for a moment before looking back up at him. "I suppose I can't blame you—it was inauthentic." They shrug nonchalantly.

"What are you doing here?" the hero asks, struggling to keep their irritation out of their voice.

"A little birdie told me you were hiding that beautiful scar I gave you," the villain says with a frown. Then they sigh and throw their hands up in the air dramatically. "Fine, there wasn't a little birdie. I just wanted to say it."

"Oh—kay," the hero remarks. Their conversations are always so damn tense and uncomfortable. They never know what the villain will say or do next, and it bothers them. The hero likes having control, likes knowing what will happen next so they can plan for it—

"But it just looks so nice," the villain interjects, unknowingly breaking through the hero's inner monologue. "So rugged. You wear it well." They smile, a horrid thing. The hero blinks to find dried blood along sharpened teeth. With another blink, it's gone.

"You took my eye out," the hero spits.

"You should be grateful I didn't eat it," the villain says. "I've been known to have a voracious appetite."

"I don't care what you did with it," the hero seethes. "I care that you removed it."

"Although, I suppose it's flattering," the villain continues, completely ignoring the hero's remark. The hero pushes away the familiar annoyance that always seems to return during these interactions with their enemy. The villain's eyes settle on their eyepatch and their scar burns. "—That you've only shown your true self to me. Well, and that annoying partner of yours, but that can be fixed rather easily."

"Shut up." The hero doesn't think before they speak, instead allowing the white-hot anger surging through them to make an appearance.

"Ohohoh!" the villain chuckles victoriously. "It appears I've hit a sore spot. Tell me, do they know how you got it?"

The hero doesn't respond.

"Ah, so they don't," the villain hums, taking a step closer. They're far closer than the hero remembers them being. "I suppose that would be rather awkward... Finding an explanation for how you're marked by me..."

The hero's jaw clenches.

"Come on, take that flimsy thing off," the villain murmurs, taking a step closer. The hero knows their enemy will take matters into their own hands, and they don't want that to happen. Sighing, the hero removes their eyepatch and shoves it in their pocket.

"Happy?" they say dryly.

"Quite, yes," the villain responds shamelessly. An innocent smile rises on their lips. "Tell me, how has the adjustment been? I can't imagine it was easy for you."

"Fuck off." The hero's voice is definitely betraying their anger now.

"I suppose I deserve that," the villain shrugs, entirely unbothered by the hero's venomous response. "But can you really blame me? All of that unmarked skin of yours, just waiting to be ruined? The city's hero, forever marked by the one enemy they can't ever seem to figure out?"

"Don't flatter yourself," the hero mutters, crossing their arms over their chest. The villain keeps breaking the distance between them, slowly descending on them like a predator circles prey.

"You know it to be true," the villain says quietly. Their eyes are fixed on the hero's scar. "You have never understood me. Although, to your credit, you have gotten the closest of anyone."

"You did it on purpose," the hero hears themself say, their voice sounding almost uncharacteristic, "—the scar."

"Of course," the villain responds eloquently.

"No, I mean," the hero chokes off, "the placement of it. You put it somewhere I'll always see it. You knew I'd think of you every time I saw it." And think of them, they did.

"Rather romantic, isn't it?" the villain almost seems to whisper, their hand coming up to the hero's cheek. The hero knows they should push them away, knows they should resist. But resistance has never worked well for them before, and the villain's moods are far too volatile. "I've demanded your attention."

"You cannot—and will not—escape me," the villain says, their finger tracing the scar with deceptive lightness. "In the quiet nights or warm mornings, you still have to face yourself in the bathroom mirror. And with facing yourself, you face me."

"I've stopped looking at my reflection." It's true—the hero has avoided mirrors like the plague.

"Oh, I'll bet you have," the villain breathes. "I'll bet you have. But that hasn't made it go away. And that flimsy eyepatch of yours is only another reminder. When the fabric hits your skin, you still know what you are missing—and just who took it from you." Finally, their enemy's hand slips away and the hero can almost breathe again.

"What was the purpose of this visit, exactly?" the hero manages to say. They've grown good at sounding calm, even in the most dangerous or unpredictable situations. They're practiced now.

"No purpose, really," the villain confesses easily. Their gaze is nothing short of intense. It hasn't wavered throughout their entire conversation. "Just making sure you know your place."

"My place?" the hero echoes indignantly. "What, at your feet?" they scoff.

"No." The villain's response is cold and warm all at once. "At my side, when you so choose. Until then, at the end of my blade."

The villain is gone before the hero can choke on their next breath.

Bad Things Happen Bingo masterlist

MWHAHHAAAAAA I'm happy with this.

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defectivehero · 4 months ago

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[smashed thru your door] "GOOD DAY random civilian! Do I have a product for YOU which is TOTALLY not a non-biodegradable glitter bomb!!!" [I say as I hand you a box and my voice fades further and further away]

🎁

[the box explodes in your hand leaving a glittery mess as biodegradable glitter falls all over your room. what is left in your hand is a small hand written note]

“Remember to do your hero/villain agency paperwork! What kind of questions does super paperwork even ask?”

I am so embarrassed by how long this has been sitting in my inbox. I love it 😭 and then this happened, so here! hope it makes up for my tardiness.

“When asked to describe your power, you said weak to Kryptonite."

“I didn’t think anyone would actually read it,” the hero says defensively, crossing his arms over his chest. Sure, when they put it so plainly, it sounds foolish. “The paperwork, I mean.” Safe to say, he thought his identification forms would go entirely unread and unopened. He filled them out within two minutes, marking things at normal and writing inanities in the written response fields. The hero certainly didn't expect to be accosted by a government worker, mere days after his paperwork submission.

The worker stares at the hero in disbelief, before shaking their head. If looks could kill... the hero would be six feet under. “Of course someone reads it; that’s my entire job," they huff, tapping the small emblem on their shirt that reads Bureau of Superhuman Ability Regulation.

“Why?” the hero frowns. “Isn’t this just red tape?”

“No,” the civilian answers, crossing one leg over the other and staring at him intently. “Individuals with superpowers must be identified and documented. The last thing we need is a superhuman running around unchecked.”

“Okay,” the hero remarks after a long moment. He's not convinced, but he knows this person won't leave him be until they have what they need. He settles for glaring at them.

They don't seem affected by his attempts at intimidation. If this is their job, the hero supposes they would be rather accustomed to dealing with supernatural beings (and their difficult behavior, subsequently.)

“Now, let’s try this again,” the worker suggests, looking at him imploringly. “What’s your superpower?”

The hero waves a hand lazily, creating an intangible wave of energy that strikes at the nearby wall and leaves a crumbling hole. The civilian doesn't look particularly impressed by his display, instead looking down and beginning to write at breakneck speed. The hero can only catch the occasional word: things like “mutation” and “physical environment.” He eventually abandons the idea of keeping up with this person, instead tapping his fingers against his desk impatiently. He doesn't like to be kept waiting.

When the civilian is finally done, they look up from their paperwork and blink at him. “And your marital status?”

The question is so out of the blue that it takes a few moments for the hero to comprehend it. “Excuse me?” He chokes out, once he manages to come to terms with what he just heard.

“It’s just one of the questions,” the civilian sighs, not seeming the least bit surprised by the hero's outburst. They hold out their clipboard and the hero squints at it, raising a brow as he verifies the worker is telling the truth. “Believe me, I couldn't care less about your relationship status.” They huff.

“I'm single,” the hero huffs, a bit annoyed. Either the civilian doesn't notice—or they're particularly good at ignoring his irritation. He's almost offended at their callousness. In the same vein, however, there's something about it that's almost... refreshing.

“Any dependents?” They persist, immune to his rapidly changing thoughts.

“No.” He answers briefly.

“Formal training?” They ask. The hero shakes his head. For a while, this endless assault continues. By the time the civilian's pen finally stills, the hero's brain is starting to hurt. He hadn't realized just how tedious this reporting was. Why anyone would want to make a living collecting this information is beyond him.

And if the civilian's behavior was strange before, the hero has no idea how to characterize it now. Before, they were splitting their attention between their paperwork and his responses; now, they're staring at him with an unsettlingly focused gaze, as if looking straight through him.

“What are you doing?” the hero then asks, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. The civilian just continues to scrutinize him for a long moment, before writing several things down. “Stop it," he demands moments later. The civilian just hums.

“I’m building a physical profile,” the civilian eventually explains. They look completely bored by this entire interaction. The hero is almost incensed at their nonchalance; he's used to special treatment. He isn't used to being treated as a normal person. “It’s the last step of the paperwork. Now stop fidgeting."

The hero hadn't even realized he was moving restlessly until their remark. Taking a deep breath, he places his hands on his knees and stares right back at the worker—attempting to produce an air of cool composure. The civilian's eyes almost seem to track each feature of his face, before finally, finally going back to the paper.

"So?" the hero asks somewhat weakly. "How'd I do?"

The civilian just stares stoically. The hero resists the weird urge to duck under the desk to avoid their glare. For a moment, there's silence. Then the worker sighs, collecting their papers and getting to their feet. "I'd advise you to take this seriously in the future, unless you want another tedious visit."

They're leaving. They're leaving and the hero is watching. Damn it! "Wait," the hero blurts out before he can stop himself. "I—Ah. When will I see you again?"

The civilian squints at him, blinking in confusion. Then they seem to come to some sort of conclusion. "We refresh the paperwork every five years," they answer. "You shouldn't want to see me before then."

"Why not?" the hero asks.

"Because that means you did something wrong," they respond.

"Oh," the hero remarks helplessly. His attempts at making small-talk were firmly denied. This is weird—he doesn't usually have to try to maintain someone's attention. This worker is different, though: they don't give two shits about him. But he wants them to care, for some reason.

"Bye," the civilian says, breaking him from his reverie.

"Bye," the hero echoes. He watches them go, just barely able to wait for the doors to fall shut before letting out a regretful sigh.

_____

I see a part two... in my very distant, perhaps nonexistent future... where the hero purposefully fucks up paperwork to see the civilian again... yes, yes.... awkward flirting that goes entirely unnoticed... yes.....

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