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vixnovacoda · 4 months

Text

Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 9

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: ~3.1k

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]

[ao3 version here]

When I was young, my mother was hungry and sick. Sick and hungry. Hungry and sick. It never got better, only worse. Worse, and worse, and worse.

“Emma!” she called out to me one day with a reckoning stuck in her throat. I knew then I had done something wrong. Waiting, she stood in the dining room, her once golden hair and clothes a mess – those days she barely bothered. A tiny shoebox sat in front of her atop the table, the top discarded. My feet refused to move closer while a sour smell cut the air, like a mellow death waiting by the corner, ready for the finishing blow. She reached and pulled out the twitching, spasming, struggling creature out, forcing me to look, look at what I’d done.

Mother had found her , our mockingbird. She had fallen ill a few days prior, attacked in the process before I discovered her and since then, I hid her away, so they couldn’t take her away from me and leave her to the horrid fate of death where I’d lose her. Selfish and afraid, I wouldn’t let them. But that didn’t matter anymore. My mother tut-tutted, displeased. “I thought I raised you better.” I went to speak, but she raised a hand; it wasn’t my turn. “Seems as if I will simply have to teach you another lesson,” she said as her grip tightened around the poor thing's neck that was no smaller than her wrist. Whatever strength it had, it tried to flap, it tried to cry only for it to be of no use, and I stood, and I watched how her beautiful grey feathers shone slick with sick and blood under the sunlight next to the diluted gold my mother wore when both hands wrenched, hard.

SNAP .

Stillness fell.

Young as I was, I took it all in as the large painting behind my mother framed her in a new light. She stood in a perfect mimicry of the red robed woman, a bird instead of a heart and dagger, and what was horrid made all the more sense when she spoke, “we must end our loved one’s suffering. Mercy is the greatest act of devotion we can bestow.” And her red hand stained my shoulder as all I could do was stare. Stare because the horror was beautiful; death and mercy was beautiful.

They told me her illness was hereditary. A big word for a little child, but I understood well enough from their wide stares. They were worried it passed onto me. The way I made the bird suffer, the way she killed it without hesitation. In a way, I guess it did. Being sick made my mother ravenous, and she made me starving, the thing left seeping between cracks. An ache that sat in my stomach, begging to be sated; for love; for mercy .

… Love.

Mercy.

Love.

Mercy.

Mercy—

———

“—Emma?” the gruff awkwardness of Will’s voice broke through the painful silence where everything felt… cold and loud and bright. Flashing red and blue lights struck her face instead of the sunlight cradling her in their rays. Gone was the day from years prior, now there was the present night people called reality, and she sat outside, damp steps beneath heeled feet not the marble flooring of indoors. She had done it again.

“I’m alright,” managed Emma, but if she focused, she could feel the lapping mists curling around her form as they laid in wait after their forced departure left her sweating. The lie was so visible, yet it did not stop him from taking the spot next to her. If he was scared, then it didn’t show, and she wished she knew why.

“That painting, you stared at it for a while like it was a piece of the night sky or stained glass when we found the two of you before Hannibal guided you away at Jack’s behest,” he said as if it was his condolences or an offering for the gap widening in her sense of time because if there was anyone who could understand, it was him. Perhaps her lapses were more noticeable than she originally believed.

She released a deep breath, hand pushing red hair strands back before holding her head and the sickening realisation came to the surface. Alex’s body and Emma’s thoughts. A sacrifice and a realisation. Unlike Alex’s tacked on skin, Emma’s mind threatened to burst at the seams in a way that made the smallest sliver of normal bring up bile in her throat. Whatever she thought, whatever happened, it did not change the undeniable fact that her only friend in this life was well and truly dead, not missing. That hope was gone forever.

Will remained static in his spot, staying when he didn’t need to for no reason she could fathom except guilt, just as he did back at Alex’s home. A guilt that bound him to her. A guilt he could barely bear. But, the idle waiting, he still had no idea what to say or what was ‘the right’ thing to say, and she didn’t want to go back into the silence. Someone had to talk about something, so Emma picked the first and last thing that had come to her. “Mercy,” she mumbled. “She was suffering, and he put her out of it.”

“Mercy?” he asked with the look of a man who wanted to argue, jaw tightened, but thought the better of it, biting back his tongue.

“At least, that’s what I saw. I only hope he made it quick and painless.” She, too, bit her tongue so the other weird and insane thoughts did not slip out. Did he hold her gently, whispering in her ear when he made the first cut, or did he blind her before swiftly stabbing the heart in one clean move, leaving her unaware of the death rattle that ravaged her body? Was it a kind beauty or cruel like her favourite mockingbird?

“Well, it wasn’t his intention.” The noise of the world silenced itself to a ringing tone. “He wanted to ensure her suffering. To him, she was a betrayer – your betrayer – and the act she committed needed to be punished in a way fitting her crime. A public humiliation wrapped inside an apology.”

Emma peeked her head out from the depths of her drowning, swirling mind. “Art is subjective, it has many perspectives depending on who is looking at it. My mother taught me that, then Alex reminded me during our falling out. Some see the woman stabbing the heart and only that. They think she’s a traitor to her love. Then there’s others who notice the beast’s heart is cursed and interpret her act as mercy. Growing up, I just thought it was beautiful.”

Taking in her response, Will fell insufferably silent, thumbs fidgeting; analysing, contemplating. Something else laid underneath his surface.

He had seen more than he let on. “What did you see, Will?” Emma enquired as she turned towards him with a need to know, a right to know. But why not tell her? Perhaps he did it to save her or because she was beyond saving and the whole truth could ruin her like it always did to people like them.

She followed his gaze towards the pairing of unlikely people, Hannibal and Marcus, observing the two’s discussion near police tape. “Admiration. The art of a master seeking admiration from his god,” answered Will as the words rattled behind the white prison bars that were his teeth, unsettled; a trace of the Ghost Writer, she presumed.

Watching the psychiatrist and literary agent, Emma couldn’t help thinking about sacrifices with what Will saw sinking in like she could predict what each would say to the situation. God can be a fickle being, requiring certain conditions to be met before one may turn his eye. When the Ancient Greeks wanted the favour of the gods, they were expected to present a sacrifice, the slaughtering of a lamb, perhaps. But there must be blood, for God is bloodthirsty , would be Hannibal Lecter’s response. Humans are God’s mirror. They sacrifice what they might be to become worthy of his image, as you and I both must do , would be Marcus’ response. Different, but yet the point is the same. Sacrifices were how the devout got a god’s attention, akin to a beggar begging passersby for something small that could change their lives, and this serial killer wanted just that.

He was a worshipper creating art, and he had proved he’d do anything for that small glance. But if what worshippers make represent their gods, then was this what she really was? All the bloodshed and gore, the brutality and murder, the horror and cruelty? “Are we the monsters?” Emma asked her sheepish, brown-haired reflection, Will, who must have seen who she hid inside her mind because monsters do not know they are monsters until someone tells them, destroying the cage.

Apprehension seized Will the second he looked at her, each blink rapid. “I… don’t know.” Another omittance. There they sat like ravens atop the boney white ribcage of a carcass, consuming in small bites, the dead filling their stomachs while everyone else watched and manoeuvred around or shooed them aside when their pecks finished cleaning the body clean. He didn’t want to admit it and neither did she. It was easier to pretend; to live in the fantasy of a normal world – hers was falling apart though. The smell of stale death too hard to ignore, and the dream of being beside Alex long lost.

She was gone. Gone because of a betrayal.

Gone for the wrong reason.

Suddenly, what had been beautiful became twisted and wrong. The bile in the back of her throat burned. Filled with a new anger inside clenched fists, Emma rose. “If it was betrayal. If it was done out of malice. Then, ending her suffering wasn’t for him to bestow. He didn’t love her,” came her revelation. It should have been me , was the truth she wanted to admit that seeped in the back of her mind because if it had come down to it, it should have been her mercy; her love.

A surge of heat ran a course through her body, skin tingling as her face reddened, breath quickening and her hands pulled the warmth that straddled her shoulders closer, keeping herself from shivering against the pricking cold. Full of newfound hate, she didn’t realise it until then, when she bunched woollen cloth in her palms, that this warmth protecting her was a men’s coat, like the one Hannibal had previously given to shelter her from the world all those nights prior. He must have done it again upon noticing her dissociative state. How thoughtful. Emma sighed, loosening her grip, attempting to ground herself as he might have reminded her. Normal. Normal, normal. Be normal . She doesn’t face Will anymore, she cannot bear to see how he saw her get too emotional and almost slip again.

Except, wafting up her nose came a sharp musk, intrusive and singeing. Remnants of an aftershave buried into the fibres of the coat. It wasn’t Hannibal’s. No. There was no mistaking Marcus’ cheap, irritating fragrance, the kind one would get from a department store during a sale when they’re trying to convince everyone near them that they now had money (which wasn’t technically incorrect, only it wasn’t his to spend). His was the kind that lingered like mildew, while Hannibal’s was sophisticated, refined; a cedar fragrance that likely came hand-picked from a lavish store with gold signage in the heart of Florence, and looking at the pair, Marcus was the only one without a coat to hide his true messed-up self. The black coat that enveloped her body snuggly was truly his. Her heart filled with rocks. Of course it wasn’t Hannibal’s, however, for the briefest moment some part of her had hoped it was his instead. It would have been more comforting. But that was a delusional thought.

“Are… Are you okay?” consulted Will, brokering the silence.

“That’s a loaded question. Are you okay?”

He avoided her burning gaze, wordless. There was her answer.

No , they were not okay.

But neither sought to leave, not yet. Emma wanted nothing more than to work away the night, and she suspected Agent Crawford wasn’t going to let Will go home for some time until they made a breakthrough in the case. A punishment for not being insane enough to catch a murderer whose numbers are piling up. “So, which book is it this time?” He brought himself to question aloud. A question she had left ignored, forgotten, overlooked.

“Have you read this one yet?” said Price in passing, moving past.

Thomas Fowl trailed behind. “This one? I haven’t read it, haven’t heard of it, in fact.”

Because it didn’t exist.

Because she stopped writing it.

“Hey, guys! You’re going to want to see this,” shouted Beverly from inside the abandoned gala. The boys hurried and Emma, desperate for a peek, ran after and there, with art removed from its frame, flesh unbound, crouched Beverly holding bundles of paper, a manuscript with La Belle Mort ’s finale title clear as day, clearer than Alex’s beady gaze on her. Confirmation sent Emma reeling. The red ink, notes in the margin. “Alex’s original copy. I thought…” muttered her quietly. I thought she threw it out . She should have. She had convinced Emma to stop writing it in the first place, and now here she was, depicted in the same manner as her firstborn’s murder. Then again, it had been some of her best work yet.

Emma covered her mouth, collapsing onto her knees. She felt herself unravelling, bursting at the seams of what she created, her facade(?). If the monster inside her was a separate beast from her, she could no longer tell. Maybe it didn't matter. But it did. A monster is a monster, they hurt people and enjoy it. If people knew then they'd rid themselves of her filth. No . She wasn't like that. She couldn’t. No. No. No. No. No .

No .

She just wanted to live a normal life where someone didn’t look at her weirdly and the world never bothered her. Why was that so hard? Maybe if she closed her eyes real tight and took a deep breath—

Running footsteps. A name called. “Emma!”. “Claire!”.

Claire.

Claire. Emma stood, turning to the police tape at her back as reality melded with distant memory, parquet flooring being replaced by marble and pillars, and there was Alex, hair and clothes half-done, blood painting her cheeks, cavity in chest where white bone opened up to an empty bleeding burgundy spot and crying out for her first born while pushing past the line that stopped the public. She knows this isn’t real. This isn’t what happened, but this is all that is left of her friend in every memory. Her dead body scratching over every version like taking a needle to proofed polaroids, like how people do to those who’ve hurt them. It not being real doesn’t stop Emma from following the memory’s course when a loud sob cut through forensic camera flashes and note-taking as Alex crumbled herself up, unable to look away from the murder hung on the wall and disguised as art. Next, Emma tugged and pulled and twisted her around, switching their positions, so she was the one looking, not her. She shouldn’t have to see her dead flesh and blood. She shouldn’t have to see her own dead body. The ruby gem the living called a heart thrummed on the canvas with a living pulse against the dagger pressed to its tissue folds. Face stretched in all directions and eyes bulging.

“Don’t look, don’t. Just breathe . Deep breaths ,” she reassured.

Beady black pupils stared her down. They twitched. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. Lips of plump red moved on their own accord, compelling her to stay, to look even when it tore her apart to do so. “This is all your fault.” She heard. “I shouldn’t have come back.” A wetness formed against her shoulder as Emma’s own tears fell with each second she stared at the piece of art . Alex sobbed relentlessly, her husband on the other side of the tape, their daughter kept out of reach. It was just them, Emma and Alex. For an eternity it was just them.

Nothing else. The scene changed to reflect that cold darkness.

“Why that case?” was whispered into her ear, moving in sync with the painting and louder than any echo inside their world that collapsed into an abyss. A shiver took over her body as it became rigid and frozen solid. “How could you?” said Alex’s disembodied voice on repeat over and over like the ringing of a phone.

Ring. Ring. Ring. An endless ringing crawled and rattled her brain.

Ring. She knew this wasn’t real. Ring. It couldn’t. Ring. It wasn’t. Ring. It wasn’t. Ring. It wasn’t? Ring. She couldn’t tell; she couldn’t stop hearing it, that noise, that phone. Then. Ring. Emma thrashed. Ring. and tore. Ring. Blood stuck under her nails. Ring. She wanted it to stop. Ring. for Alex to stop. Ring. So she could end her pain. Ring. Anything for her friend betrayer. Ring. Tears and sweat mixed with the gathering blood. Arms grabbed onto hers. Rin—

Red. A distant light refracted the faintest of red in pinpoints from inside the brown irises that pierced right through her soul as Emma blinked. The gloominess of the room sunk in while the fluorescent hallway lights flickered out the corner of her eye. Gone was the abyss, here was what should have been the harsh reality that another gap in time had formed but, cedar hung in the air with a shaven face before hers. “Dr. Lecter?” said Emma, pushing the words from a searing throat, and reality no longer felt all too bad because she knew she was safe .

Although, for a moment she could have sworn that the browns of his eyes appeared as black as the devil’s night, his firm grip more claw than human, like a cat playing with its beaten-up food by holding it down by the tail when, instead, it could easily go for the killing blow than prolong the torture, claws digging at the heart in one lunge. But it was brief. So brief she must have just been seeing things.

That wasn’t real.

This was. Him here, now, here to help.

Not a monster. He could never be, not to her. Monsters don’t help monsters, they destroy them.

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vixnovacoda · 4 months

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Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 9

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: ~3.1k

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]

[ao3 version here]

When I was young, my mother was hungry and sick. Sick and hungry. Hungry and sick. It never got better, only worse. Worse, and worse, and worse.

SNAP .

Stillness fell.

… Love.

Mercy.

Love.

Mercy.

Mercy—

———

“Mercy?” he asked with the look of a man who wanted to argue, jaw tightened, but thought the better of it, biting back his tongue.

Taking in her response, Will fell insufferably silent, thumbs fidgeting; analysing, contemplating. Something else laid underneath his surface.

She was gone. Gone because of a betrayal.

Gone for the wrong reason.

“Are… Are you okay?” consulted Will, brokering the silence.

“That’s a loaded question. Are you okay?”

He avoided her burning gaze, wordless. There was her answer.

No , they were not okay.

“Have you read this one yet?” said Price in passing, moving past.

Thomas Fowl trailed behind. “This one? I haven’t read it, haven’t heard of it, in fact.”

Because it didn’t exist.

Because she stopped writing it.

No .

Running footsteps. A name called. “Emma!”. “Claire!”.

Claire.

“Don’t look, don’t. Just breathe . Deep breaths ,” she reassured.

Nothing else. The scene changed to reflect that cold darkness.

Ring. Ring. Ring. An endless ringing crawled and rattled her brain.

That wasn’t real.

This was. Him here, now, here to help.

Not a monster. He could never be, not to her. Monsters don’t help monsters, they destroy them.

#hannibal #fanfiction #fanfic #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter #hannibal fanfic #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal lecter fanfiction #nbc hannibal #hannibal x oc #hannibal x original character

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vixnovacoda · 4 months

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Tonight is not the time for me to be hating everything I write

#writer #writer struggles #struggles #the strugge is real #writers on tumblr #writer stuff #gaaaaah #aghhhhh #helllp #please #this chapter needs to be finishes by tomorrow night and i hate it so much 😫

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vixnovacoda · 4 months

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#reblog

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vixnovacoda · 5 months

Text

Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 8

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: ~4.4k

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]

[ao3 version here]

He didn’t want to save them the way they wanted. After all, it’s not what the good doctor prescribed. No. Hannibal had something else in mind entirely, and soon they too would understand.

———

“This new interest you have acquired begs questioning, Hannibal,” insinuated a starch-stiff blonde woman, the doctor’s very own psychiatrist, Bedelia Du Maurier. She was a temple of collected calmness, exuding a brand of cunning calculations that wasn’t too dissimilar to that of Hannibal Lecter’s, as she sat up straight within the confines of her home, the glowing dawn light filtering through the tall windows just out of reach to paint over her coldness in a warm palette.

While the other doctor kept to the shadows, placed across from Bedelia inside the otherwise plain and dull room. “I am only doing what is in the purview of my job as her psychiatrist,” dismissed Hannibal without batting a second glance at the accusation, legs crossed, leant back. Relaxed; far too relaxed.

“There are others who would disagree.”

His eyes narrowed, whetting knives. “And what is it that you believe?”

“I,” she said with a pause to mull over her answer, “believe you are indulging Emma Darcy’s sudden mania. Whether it is for her sake or your curiosity, that remains to be seen.”

“You make it seem as if she is some sort of experiment and not my patient.”

“If she’s not, then how do you see her?”

He drifted his glance elsewhere, to the outside world. “A fox running from its home and hanging onto the tails of a wayward bird,” became his response.

“Foxes are cunning beasts, both predator and prey, able to recognise a trap when they see it and entirely impossible to tame without having bred them to be against their nature. To do the impossible, you would have to be god.”

“It is not my intention to tame her.”

The calculatedness of their conversation was like a game of tennis, hitting back and forth until one rulents, except they used blades instead of rackets and their strikes were prods at each other’s brains. A game which both excelled at for the little undiscerning reactions on their faces. Until right then, when, ever a master at the game, Hannibal’s body language sharpened on all edges, muscles tightening and snapping his attention Bedelia’s way.

She had struck true and hit a nerve. “Tell me, Hannibal, is she the predator or the prey caught in your snare?” Bedelia questioned. She dared to go further, though knew whatever glimpse she witnessed would subside itself back into the shadows and under designer flesh to never be seen unless necessary. In the mind of Dr Bedelia Du Maurier, Hannibal Lecter was an endangered species, rarely seen but always there. He might do anything to survive.

Silence filled the room as a bitter aftertaste. Hannibal took his time to answer, for there wasn’t an acceptable one that sprang to mind, other than this: “I want to help her thrive .”

———

When the FBI’s curious consultant exited the newest site for information on the Ghost Writer case, there was very little left to do on an evening so quickly devoured by night’s starry teeth. Most subsided into their humble abodes, away from terror and horror.

As the moon rolled up on the horizon, Emma envied those working hard in the labs; stuck in the middle of multiple messed-up murders – in turn, she was disgusted by her envy. The case was just as much hers to work on, given the quite personal circumstances, yet instead of helping find a murderer (and Alex), Marcus had her stuck at a charity gala inside a museum, where forced interactions were a necessity – public image and all that. Emma didn’t just represent her sane self but the Darcy Estate, the family name, her father’s legacy. The pressure hung around her neck in the shape of a noose, where all it took was one wrong move and everything would be gone per the clause in her father’s will, back to the original state it was in before his passing. Sometimes she wanted to kick the stool herself and no longer have anything to do with the whole lot. Sometimes, she saw Marcus, who had been entrusted with the Estate’s funds – he who had been the closest thing to an uncle she knew from her father – and thought the better of it. That’s the thing with family, you have obligations beside the physical bodies. All Emma had left were those obligations and, despite everything, she felt a responsibility to see it through. Perhaps it was spite or some weird form of love.

People that didn’t know better would say money.

Imported jewels dangled from ears and an ample neck, and a red pooling fabric shifted snugly over Emma’s form as she took Marcus’ hand out of the car. The long satin dress gathered as a puddle around her feet whenever she remained still. Blood-like. Starting, wrapping from one shoulder and ending on the wet ground with a single slice on the leg to allow movement. Much more extravagant than she was used to; perfect for the occasion; suiting the location of the colossal pillared white stone building, carvings of ancient beings hid on the walls, and a gilded, former observatory roof glistened in the centre.

She fidgeted with her hair, piling it over her shoulder before following her overly-dressed agent up the steps, passing marbled, nude figures that held up the front of the museum in twisting positions. Every step forward brought the building higher and higher to the point of blocking out the moon. Intimidating with an open wooden maw, pouring out golden light and laughter and swarms of human bodies making their way to and fro. She stared down the entrance, stopping mere feet away while others – elite, chin-up, socialites – swerved around her as her mind briefly went to the case, carrying on with their chosen lives and ignoring how close hers was to ending.

It should have been easier to walk through that vintage glamour, through marble-encased hallways, past grand hung paintings and champagne flute-carrying servers, but it was too much like her old life, pretentious and fake and overwhelming. Here she felt like a prized beast meant for harvesting till every last drop, made to be worth every last cent. Some people stared from paintings and statues, behind silver trays, luxurious clothed tables, centrepieces and drapery, because they heard of the value the Darcy Estate had accumulated and how its sole fortune heir came out of her reclusive burrow as she so occasionally did. To them, she was a rare sight.

To Emma, she hated it. Hated the way her revealing flesh shivered and her stomach sunk under their eyes. A reaction she shared with her late mother was that these people cared for one thing and one thing only; wealth and who had the most. They couldn't care less about getting to know the person behind it or anyone unless money was at stake, which practically made this gala a hunting ground for the rich. Add that along to the real danger of a serial killer possibly vying for her attention, that Alex, for all intents and purposes, was still missing, and it could not be any worse timing. If Emma intended to survive the night, then she’d have to move through the underbrush of people with care. Tonight was open season, after all.

“Do I have to do this?” questioned Emma, her head already on a swivel.

Marcus sighed. “You know better than I do about your requirements, Emma.” Which meant she had to, and that was a lie. He was there when they were read, she wasn’t. “Tell you what, let’s just stick it out until the first piece is sold, then we can head off, okay?” he offered in a move to please her, and she nodded. But it did not ease the crosshairs aimed at her head.

What unease she felt did not spill over to Marcus, however, he seemed comfortable, soaking in the light with a ravenous hunger that had been left untouched and rewarding his complexion by way of making him glow. It was safe to say he loved it, greedily. He would take whatever he could get, staying by her side through every held conversation, laughing along and grabbing passing refreshments when required, smoothing back his slicked hair to blend in, and adjusting the ivory cufflinks gifted to him by her father, so he remained pristine. Though he never went far from her. One would say that the agent was more her handler as he showed her off to all those who mattered.

A tight leash. That’s what the painting beside them read, A Tight Leash . Such an exposing piece – Emma found it odd yet very right to her predicament. A fake, surely. Not that the ogling hundreds cared, and not the living skeletons, trophy pairs or wannabes. As each man and woman had their turn, Emma became more and more stifled. The room shrunk, slowly dragging the ceiling down upon her head while Marcus, ever the artist, played oblivious. He tightened his grab of her arm in what he must have thought was encouraging, but it did the opposite. She wanted out. The noises drowned her head, and she wanted out. She was gasping for air, so she pulled back quite hard and stormed towards the nearest balcony, window or door. She tumbled and twisted. At various points, she lost her footing, and then quickly recovered without care. Half a mad woman amongst the sane; she had no clue where she was going, blurred walls and objects tend to look the same after a while.

Eventually, a cold breeze brushed her paled parchment cheeks as doors swung close and there was nothing else but the darkness of night and a stone balcony atop the cliff-edge, where she swore she could hear waves lapping even though there was no water in sight. Safe to say, it was peaceful. Just what the doctor would have ordered; away from bodies, dead and alive.

Emma leaned against the ledge, soaking in the gentle night with closed eyes, and she could almost imagine she was safe. “That was quite… the scene,” spoke another who entered after her. At first, the recognition didn’t register, but she had heard that man’s voice a thousand times in her mind, and immediately, her body tensed in trepidation. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I just.” Muscles tensed turned clenched, fingers burning bright red. “Actually, I don’t care any more, Marcus. I cannot do—”

Then everything stopped when she turned around. Her quick-found, righteous anger rolled over her as fast as the confidence originally came to her as she realised her mistake. “Dr. Lecter?” she asked like the clear-cut figure dressed in fine black in front of her was not enough to believe his sudden appearance outside work or their sessions. How could she have ever mistaken that rich, velvet accent?

“We keep doing this,” said Hannibal, the same as ever. Normal.

“One of us ought to stop it,” responded Emma.

“Probably.”

And neither budged under the quiet dark. Constellations witnesses to their reluctance.

“Marcus?” he quirked his head, confounded.

New lines contorted around her nose, eyes, brow and mouth while she ran a hand through her hair and she fumbled her words, “Yeah. My agent. A scene?”

“Quite a few people noticed. It was hard not to. This would be the same man whose house you borrowed that became a crime scene, the ‘close family friend’, correct?”

“The very one. Who you obviously aren’t because you’re not going to try and kill me. God, this is a mess. I’m so sorry.”

The smallest of smiles crested Hannibal’s face, so small yet discernable nonetheless, then it stopped. He smiled ? At what? Her embarrassment, an inside joke or her insanity? A man like him could be thinking a million things, and it wasn’t fair that he knew her thoughts while she knew nothing of what rattled inside him. Then again, she shouldn’t care. She didn’t want to know (but, oh, how she needed to). “What brings you here?” enquired Emma ever so casually without realising she had spoken before the question left her sober(?) lips, and he slowly took up the space on her right.

“I was concerned about the welfare of one of my patients,” he said.

“Ah, I see.” she slumped against the carved grey mass. “So we’re patient and doctor this evening then,” commented her as she returned to facing the night horizon.

“Being colleagues typically requires us to be near a body

“Being doctor-patient typically requires a hefty bill.”

“And you are avoiding my point.”

“You’re avoiding my question. You know what I meant,” said Emma like a stern reminder, because today of all days, she deemed it fair and, plus, if she knew why a man such as himself was here at a charity art gala, then maybe she could avoid running into him at the next one (or maybe not). Hannibal pierced her fair gaze with an ease akin to sharpened metal slicing paper, careful not to let on too much. Never did give much away; everything he did was so subtle you had to really look. Otherwise, everything moved with purpose.

“Tit for tat. You tell first, then I will… open myself up for an unpaid therapy session, god knows I could probably use one right now,” she suggested after the brief stifling silence like he was the one demanding she spill her guts to him.

A slight head tilt; a new perspective. “Fairness for an equal footing. It does seem only right, lest we behave like unmannered beasts,” conceded Hannibal.

“You first.”

“The art. Out of all the things man has created, it is quite beautiful. It will never die.”

Emma stood still, more taken aback by the honest answer than she should have been.

“Not the answer you were expecting?” he asked.

“No. I mean, kind of. I’ve always had you down for a man with fine taste and the luxury of being able to afford it, but you’re not like them , the savages,” she replied with a pointed look aimed at the high society scoffing caviar, oysters and champagne down their wide open mouths and cackling imprudently behind the closed glass-paned door.

Hannibal did neither. If he ever did, Emma imagined he’d be more polite, and as he spoke he seemed to share a similar opinion, following her gaze in every way. “They are a different breed of stock. Though, occasionally, one finds the few worthy of sinking one’s teeth into.”

“That would make you sound superior.” Hannibal gave her pause from the corner of his periphery. “To which I’d have to wholeheartedly agree upon. Being around them suffocates me in mere seconds, they are a rotten lot, and with you, it’s… different, as is a fresh breeze in old lungs. It is how you put it, I am able to sink my teeth into you,” she admitted, and the truth it was. If he allowed, she would take a bite out of him any day to assuage her monstrous brain – which was another truth, since normal people don’t confess such things. Quickly, she picks back up, “which answers your point. I’m okay now, I think I should be. Just needed to get away and…”

“Stop wearing the facade you’ve so tightly adorned?”

“Yes.”

Hazardous winds slash at the joyous moon, dark clouds covering up the pale light in fractured distillation as curled strands of hair whip across Emma’s bared flesh. But she doesn’t feel pain or the cold or anything like she knows she should, except freedom when their sights lined up in each other's view. Dappled moon rays swarmed along his frame, washing the sharp edges of his silhouette in pale holy light and putting him closer to being a piece of art created by the greats and touched by god with the creases on his face the markings of an oil painting’s brush strokes; the kind of art you couldn’t tear away from. Emma watched as those warm maroon eyes of his trailed down her face and neck, her throat bobbing with a hard, silent gulp until he reached the small, discoloured circular burst indented on her shoulder like a star burning a hole through the deep blue cloth of night, a scar. But hers was anything other than a beautiful constellation. It was pain.

It was a reminder.

That is when the sound of waves lapping upon rocky teeth reached her ears. Danger. She was getting too close. But there is no water, only dry land. Dry land surrounded them for miles and miles. Is any of this real? Emma questioned herself, reality and him; if he could just be a figment created by her subconscious to calm her in a moment of stress.

She withdrew back, breaking contact and covering up the age-old scar once again. The line redrawn. Real or not, she couldn’t make the same mistake thrice. This had to remain professional, no matter how good it felt to think there might be someone who spoke the same language as her soul – that was his job, to ‘understand’ . He couldn’t actually understand her. She was messed up. There was no way.

Thunderous applause drew her attention to the inside where people emptied the floor and searched for their seats as the band took their thanks. “We missed the dance,” murmured Emma solemnly, realising the long passage of time that must have passed.

“Must have been an elating experience. Do you dance, Emma?” pondered Hannibal, who, thankfully, maintained the distance she had carved.

“In the sense that I am trained, yes.”

“Then it seems we both missed out on a good thing.”

He tried bringing her back, but her mind was caught elsewhere. Reality came crashing so hard it took her a few seconds to catch up as the professional in her recalled the event’s schedule. Drinks, dancing, then…

Like it was written across her face, Hannibal interfered, “The auction will start soon. Unless you intend on missing that as well?”

“No. No, I mustn’t,” sighed Emma, and she rubbed her forehead before straightening up and composing herself for what would be hell on earth the second a man declared her a mine to be dug for its gold, that or the berating Marcus was going to lay out on her. Smoothing out the creases of her dress, she reached for the door handle when Hannibal held it open and followed her inside where the warmth smothered them both upon entry.

For once here, people ignored the pair as they manoeuvred around and a murmuring silence began to fall into place. What could not so easily be ignored was the slickened Marcus, shoving his way through the crowd with veins and a jaw that looked like it would pop at a moment’s notice. Hannibal regarded the man while the sea of people kept them separated. “That agent of yours doesn’t seem to be too happy,” he said.

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t appreciate being made a fool when my father’s money is at stake. The man enjoys his fake wealth,” said Emma, searching for an escape from both men, but no door, seat or direction would accomplish such a task unless it meant mingling with the unsavoury. No, she had one choice, and she was not in the mood for Marcus’ reminders of duty and inheritance. Plus, time was drawing near when the auction would start and two single seats glistened in the distance, far from Marcus’ reach, close to an audience he wouldn’t dare start anything in front of. “Do me a favour, Dr. Lecter, please. Sit with me,” she implored the doctor, though it was less of an ask and more of a desperate command.

Hannibal had to admit that it was almost appealing. “I do not think that is a good idea,” he told her, but he did not leave her side.

Seats were getting full. Her spot was compromised by a couple walking in its direction. She had to come up with something. “Every second I spend here builds up pressure in the mask I wear. If Marcus speaks to me, I’m not sure how long it will last before I lose myself again. But if you join me instead, I will be okay. Which is what you want, right Dr. Lecter? To ensure I am as you intend me to be, better?” Against her better wishes, she tried to appeal to him. He was her psychiatrist, after all. Emma Darcy’s mental health was his concern.

“Very well, then,” gave in he, and she swore he smiled, but it must have just been a trick of the lights dimming as they made their way to the front table, not a second wasted. They moved past the couple, taking the last seats at the table, each other only an arm’s reach, and Marcus was forced to stay at the back while the first auctioned piece was put into place on the stage with a large red cloth, and the black-suited auctioneer approached the podium, standing front and centre, ready to do the job he was paid so much to do.

“You never did mention why it is that you are attending, Emma,” whispered Hannibal, leaning towards her.

“Oh,” she said unexpectedly, like the thought never occurred to her that someone wouldn’t know because everyone else already did, and she gestured Hannibal’s focus towards the veiled object looming behind the auctioneer. “The painting belongs to my mother. My family’s estate donated it for the auction, so we could help raise money for the gala. We’ve been doing it for years now. Only this time, it just so happened that I was in the area, so Marcus insisted that it would be a good idea,” answered her in a fellow hushed voice, and never removed her eyes from the would-be painting. Silence fell over them all, the spotlight gravitating all focus on that shining stage. Their excitement was so palpable one could taste it in the air, like sweat from the back of a pig fed only on truffles. But none felt as Emma did as she sat on the edge of her seat, not in that same excitement. She sat full of nerves, worms wriggling around her stomach. It had been decades since she last saw this painting, and now she would see it again. It was to be a reunion.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen!” echoed the auctioneer’s voice.

Emma’s fingers tapped, restless.

“Now, we know you’ve been waiting for this moment so let us not keep you waiting any longer and let’s get to donating some money. Tonight we have a very special piece lined up for you, generously provided by long-time supporters of our wonderful cause.”

Unknowingly, the rhythm became a pacing heartbeat. A hand enveloped her wrist, making hers look ridiculously small. Hannibal meant nothing by it, only that she should stop and stop she did. Emma really was unsuited to these environments. One would be better off throwing her at a crime scene or the morgue.

The auctioneer carried on, smiling ever so. “For those with religion on their minds and walls, this is an original, never-before-seen, oil painting done by William-Adolphe Bouguereau that was first discovered by Marie Harker in 1925 and passed down her family for generations until now.” A couple of staff stood ready by the painting. Gloved palms grabbed the red cloth. “The Woman in Red!” cheerily announced the man as off went the covering, blood-like rivers billowing from the motion before pilling into a puddle on the marble below.

It did not get the reaction he hoped.

Glass shattered. The first sound: a crescendo of champagne flutes breaking. A dozen, maybe, maybe more. But no oohs or ahhs . In fact, the first sound physically made by a human after the unveiling was shrieks so loud they could shatter the already broken glass. People had even run from their seats, and all because of the blood that dripped from the real-life heart stitched into place, held by an all too real hand where dark skin stretched in a manner that could never be replicated without the use of actual skin, and a face. The face with shiny eyes, rosy cheeks, lips plump, and pores so visible, changing by the light and not paint strokes. The face that seemed alive. The face Emma would recognise a mile away, especially when she sat right up close to that red-robed woman stretched onto a canvas, holding heart and dagger, a solar eclipse purifying the action as it christened the black halo that was her hair.

A reunion it was indeed, for there solved the mystery of missing Alex Bennet, now deceased.

The pulse in Emma’s throat throbbed.

Her stomach felt empty at the sight.

She did not run like the others. She did not cry. Instead, as Hannibal carefully inspected her reaction, her other hand grabbed his and shock took her in a myriad of ways. But mostly due to the one single thought she disgusted herself to think, yet hungered for nonetheless: it was beautiful.

———

“And have you helped her?” was the question brought up by Bedelia, the psychiatrist’s psychiatrist.

If this had been asked at the beginning of their doctor-patient relationship, Hannibal would merely admit a fleeting fancy to a woman who struggled on the occasion, that she was merely another patient like any other. He had seen a glimpse of who she could be under the facade society forced her to hide under, an endangered species on the verge of extinction. But that did not have to be the case. Not anymore. Not for either of them. And he was interested in seeing what might happen, more than anything, to the woman who dared to be inspired by the Chesapeake Ripper voluntarily and whose mind drank in crimes against human nature like a fine red wine.

A short smile deigned his face. “I am beginning.”

“Then this fox must be careful where she steps.” One wrong move, and she would be better off dead. If Bedelia appeared concerned, then she did not show it.

Hunger struck a cord inside the man, the doctor, the being. He was well and truly intrigued. So much so that inspiration filled a desire.

And what is desire if not hunger?

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vixnovacoda · 5 months

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vixnovacoda · 5 months

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Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 8

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: ~4.4k

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]

[ao3 version here]

He didn’t want to save them the way they wanted. After all, it’s not what the good doctor prescribed. No. Hannibal had something else in mind entirely, and soon they too would understand.

———

“There are others who would disagree.”

His eyes narrowed, whetting knives. “And what is it that you believe?”

“I,” she said with a pause to mull over her answer, “believe you are indulging Emma Darcy’s sudden mania. Whether it is for her sake or your curiosity, that remains to be seen.”

“You make it seem as if she is some sort of experiment and not my patient.”

“If she’s not, then how do you see her?”

He drifted his glance elsewhere, to the outside world. “A fox running from its home and hanging onto the tails of a wayward bird,” became his response.

“It is not my intention to tame her.”

Silence filled the room as a bitter aftertaste. Hannibal took his time to answer, for there wasn’t an acceptable one that sprang to mind, other than this: “I want to help her thrive .”

———

People that didn’t know better would say money.

“Do I have to do this?” questioned Emma, her head already on a swivel.

“We keep doing this,” said Hannibal, the same as ever. Normal.

“One of us ought to stop it,” responded Emma.

“Probably.”

And neither budged under the quiet dark. Constellations witnesses to their reluctance.

“Marcus?” he quirked his head, confounded.

New lines contorted around her nose, eyes, brow and mouth while she ran a hand through her hair and she fumbled her words, “Yeah. My agent. A scene?”

“Quite a few people noticed. It was hard not to. This would be the same man whose house you borrowed that became a crime scene, the ‘close family friend’, correct?”

“The very one. Who you obviously aren’t because you’re not going to try and kill me. God, this is a mess. I’m so sorry.”

“I was concerned about the welfare of one of my patients,” he said.

“Ah, I see.” she slumped against the carved grey mass. “So we’re patient and doctor this evening then,” commented her as she returned to facing the night horizon.

“Being colleagues typically requires us to be near a body

“Being doctor-patient typically requires a hefty bill.”

“And you are avoiding my point.”

A slight head tilt; a new perspective. “Fairness for an equal footing. It does seem only right, lest we behave like unmannered beasts,” conceded Hannibal.

“You first.”

“The art. Out of all the things man has created, it is quite beautiful. It will never die.”

Emma stood still, more taken aback by the honest answer than she should have been.

“Not the answer you were expecting?” he asked.

“Stop wearing the facade you’ve so tightly adorned?”

“Yes.”

It was a reminder.

“Must have been an elating experience. Do you dance, Emma?” pondered Hannibal, who, thankfully, maintained the distance she had carved.

“In the sense that I am trained, yes.”

“Then it seems we both missed out on a good thing.”

Like it was written across her face, Hannibal interfered, “The auction will start soon. Unless you intend on missing that as well?”

Hannibal had to admit that it was almost appealing. “I do not think that is a good idea,” he told her, but he did not leave her side.

“You never did mention why it is that you are attending, Emma,” whispered Hannibal, leaning towards her.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen!” echoed the auctioneer’s voice.

Emma’s fingers tapped, restless.

It did not get the reaction he hoped.

A reunion it was indeed, for there solved the mystery of missing Alex Bennet, now deceased.

The pulse in Emma’s throat throbbed.

Her stomach felt empty at the sight.

———

“And have you helped her?” was the question brought up by Bedelia, the psychiatrist’s psychiatrist.

A short smile deigned his face. “I am beginning.”

“Then this fox must be careful where she steps.” One wrong move, and she would be better off dead. If Bedelia appeared concerned, then she did not show it.

Hunger struck a cord inside the man, the doctor, the being. He was well and truly intrigued. So much so that inspiration filled a desire.

And what is desire if not hunger?

#fanfiction #fanfic #hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter #bedelia du maurier #hannibal fanfic #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal lecter fanfiction #hannibal x original character #hannibal x oc #original female character #original character

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