[not-really-an-agent]

Only after a few moments did the half-familiar clarity of Hannibal’s touch and his instructive voice kick in; to purify his blood of the choking, haemorrhaging fear that took hold of him, overwhelming everything, for the last two days. His eyes changed, or perhaps just his pupils, as the realisation ran clear that he was fighting Dr Lecter on pure instinct. Crushing him under his weight so that loss of blood made the psychiatrist’s heart quiver like a bird. It was the only heart he heard. He didn't hear his own. He was still panting, but more slowly now, as he looked down at Dr Lecter’s swollen jaw, his crimson-clotted hair, Will’s own hands shaking in Hannibal’s grip. He was about to see reason - and then, Hannibal spoke those last words, and Will’s brow creased.

‘Fondness?’ he uttered in hardly more than an incredulous whisper, his eyebrows high up beneath his curls. From out of the depths of his soft, rich throat he emitted a mirthless breath of a laugh; taking it in. Dr Lecter’s… fondness. His eyes swam with the motion of thinking. Piecing together. Analysing. He nodded, then shook his head so fast droplets of blood fell on his shirt. ‘Yes. Yes, it might,’ he said, surprised at the revelation. Yet he was still shaking his head. ‘But not like this.’

He wrenched his wrists back out of Hannibal’s grasp. Becoming more rational by the minute. ‘This isn’t worthy. Isn’t… my becoming.’ He cast his wide, dark eyes briefly over his shoulder, before sitting back against Hannibal’s thighs and letting his head tip back and his eyelids fall shut. There was no door here. He - like Hannibal - had been imagining one where they was one in Hannibal’s real office. Baize, grey-green. But the door that had been here Will had boarded up, plastered (somewhat clumsily) over. He had half thought to call the FBI once Hannibal was either dead or captured and changed the way Will had planned. To make sure this got finished. To make sure he came out of it alone. His eyes opened again gradually, his head tilting back down to observe Dr Lecter once more. Now he could feel his own heart. Could feel it thumping insistently against his breast. He swallowed.

‘You should know better than to preempt the findings of your hypotheses, Dr Lecter. I guess I’m less predictable than you thought I was. Than either of us thought I was. Whatever you were fond of, I’m afraid it’s gone. Only one of us is leaving this room.’

[mettleborn]

There is a brief moment of calm between them, Hannibal no longer struggling with his restraints, Will contemplative, laying back against him as if seeking comfort. It is however, exceedingly short lived and Lecter can feel only regret that Will seems determined to go down a path that only has one likely end.

“Then I can only promise not to let you go to waste.” Hannibal jests quite seriously as he casts aside the restraints he wore down during Will’s assault. Hannibal has thought many times about the parts of Will he would likely consume first, though it had not been one of his current intentions.

Carefully rolling up his sleeves, Lecter shakes his head. “I can say with certainty that the way I feel in relation to you Will is complicated, but it is not so unfathomable that I would sacrifice myself entirely to it.” Where once there was an attempt at empathy, now there is only dispassion in his tone; like an old school master administering a necessary lecture.

“Was this your design Will? To drug and disorientate me, then beat me to death with your fists, like a wounded animal? How far you’ve fallen from grace, to think of what could have been, all that you would willingly squander. We had begun to blur, you and I.”

[not-really-an-agent]

‘Of course we had begun to blur, Dr Lecter,’ Will’s jaw twitched as he ground the words out, almost with incredulity at Hannibal’s line of thought. ‘That’s what I do. I blur into everyone.’

Was that really what this was all about? Was that why Dr Lecter had done all this to him? Because, after these scant few months they’d spent together, talking about their feelings, he thought Will was like him? A germinating killer? A protégé? It seemed ludicrously too naive for Dr Lecter. a respected psychiatrist, able to fall into such a trap. Yet even now Will’s mind was subconsciously beginning to bleed into Hannibal’s, to understand how. Loneliness, of a certain depth and duration, coupled with the perfect facsimile of affinity with the other that Will evoked, most of the time without even realising it, were certainly a novel enough coincidence to catch out even fine minds like Hannibal’s unawares.

The simple exercise, paradoxically, had brought Will back to himself. He released a hot staccato breath and glanced around him. Was this your design? ...He supposed, just as Hannibal had inadvertently architected the perfect ensnarement to put his own stability in jeopardy, Will had in the last few days done the same. Both of their subconscious designs, it seemed, had led them to the same conundrum. Trapped in this room together, with no way out, locked in a vicious fight for survival. Will began to feel lightheaded. The sudden cessation of violence had resulted in a silence that was so pure it felt pressurised. Was this your design, Will? the voice in his head that spoke in Hannibal’s low, languid tone echoed. Since you are determined to let your mind go to waste, it said blithely, it would be a grave dishonour to let your body do so too. 

‘Shut up. Shut up!’

Hadn’t he just denied that they had started to blur?

He looked down at Dr Lecter, his semi-translucent eyes blown with mydriasis from adrenaline, his hair clotted with blood, flat cheeks greasy with sweat. Pink smears from Will’s fingertips marked him all over.

‘We're not blurring into each other, Hannibal. You're not becoming more like me. I'm just... starting to confuse myself with you. If I don’t kill you... one way or another... this is going to kill me.’

[headfirstforhanniballecter]

[not-really-an-agent]

@wh0safra1d

For the first time, Will was noticing that his home was not very homely. The fishing gear and the draughty gaps between the door frames gave the air a slightly damp feel. Even with the beginnings of a fire lit - by Abigail - in the fireplace, the walls and the furniture all looked dull and uninviting. He’d always assumed it was cosy. Maybe it wasn’t after all.

‘You’re stuck at home anyway until Hannibal’s gone. Why don’t you let me come round and speak with her?’ the nasal voice on the phone was saying. Dr Chilton’s sudden concern for Abigail had come on after he realised she’d been effectively raised by two serial killers. Perhaps three, Will told himself grimly. ‘That won’t be necessary Frederick,’ Will replied, and hung up. He had been lingering by door for privacy, and now he raised his eyes to Abigail over by the fire. He could sense what she was feeling. But he didn’t know how to rectify it.

‘I know you’re angry with me,’ his voice was gravelly from the ordeal he’d been through, but there was no note of resentment in it. ‘I know you wanted me to say yes, to Hannibal.’ He came closer, taking a seat in the armchair opposite her and forcing himself to awkwardly meet her eye, elbows resting on his knees. ‘What did you think would have happened? If I’d said yes. What were you... picturing for us?’

[wh0safra1d]

to say that abigail hobbs had been through enough trauma to last a lifetime was the understatement of the year. she trusted hannibal like a father and he tried to end her life the same way her biological father had. all she could remember was the pain running through her body and she dropped to the floor as her life flowed from her veins into a puddle beneath her. she tried to stay awake for as long as possible but soon gave out as her body stilled. the next thing she remembered was waking up in another hospital bed.

that however had been weeks ago. with hannibal gone and no where to be found, abigail was now living with will and his dogs. she had wanted them to be a family, wanted him to take that chance so there was a part of her that was angry with the outcome. she was currently sitting in front of the fire that she had lit only a short time ago, curled up on the couch with a book in her hand and a blanket across her lap.

she looked up slightly as she could hear the muffled conversation coming from the other room. surely it was one of wills connections trying to check in on her and her 'wellbeing'. a smirked formed on her lips at wills direct reply before the line was surely disconnected. physically her neck was still healing and she had a large bandage that covered the stitches that mended the damage. mentally? that was a different story entirely.

looking down at her book, she managed to read or attempt to read another page before sighing. she slammed the book shut and tossed it to the side of the couch no longer interested in its pages. "why does everything have to be so complicated?" she thinks to herself. she could hear his footsteps move towards the living room and then stopped before speaking moments later.

she bit down on the inside of her cheek as he came to sit across from her in the old armchair. she diverted her gaze to the blanket she was using and played with the frayed strands on the end. when she looked back up, her eyes met his and fresh tears threatened to fall down her face. reaching up, she wiped them away quickly as if trying to hide the evidence. "a family... to just have a place in the world I guess?" her voice came out so soft and gentle but you could still hear the pain and hurt laced in her words.

[not-really-an-agent]

Will looked at Abigail, searching to see if he could still see it. The innocence that shrived her of all her violent acts. The innocence that Hannibal both fostered and corrupted in her at once. You can always rely on a sociopath for an interesting parenting style, Will thought grimly. For Hannibal, it hadn’t been a cruel exercise. Just an exercise. And Abigail was plenty intuitive by now enough to know that Hannibal wasn’t cruel. She had just not known him long enough to understand that that was because cruelty and kindness were human qualities. And Hannibal was something else entirely. A rarer and more dangerous breed. For a horrible few moments, Will couldn’t quite see it. Even when a tear escaped Abigail’s eye, he couldn’t. The shoving the book aside, the toying with the blanket instead of looking at Will, the waterworks… all the kind of behaviour any teenage girl skilled in manipulation would reach for. But, Will told himself scornfully once he realised, that was because they imitated a reality. He just wasn’t used to seeing Abigail upset. Even the dogs could sense it. They were ranged around Abigail - at a respectful distance but still close enough - like an injured littermate.

He felt it, then. What she was feeling. Because, in a highly uncomfortable way, he was feeling it too. The loss of Hannibal Lecter. He felt rudderless, suddenly adrift without direction; just as Abigail felt homeless. A thought crossed his mind. He should call Chilton. He couldn’t keep Abigail here on his own. He was compromised - by Hannibal - just like Abigail herself. It was irresponsible of him to keep her. No, it was wrong.

Abigail is lost too. Perhaps it’s our responsibility, yours and mine, to help her find her way...

Will released a sharp breath. He wondered how long it would take for the pitch-perfect reproduction of Hannibal’s voice to become distant and distorted in his head. He wetted his lips and, in preparation to speak, lifted a tentative hand to take the untouched plate of biscuits he’d put on the coffee table and place them encouragingly on the sofa next to Abigail.

‘This… could be your place.’

[not-psychotic]

[not-really-an-agent]

@wh0safra1d

For the first time, Will was noticing that his home was not very homely. The fishing gear and the draughty gaps between the door frames gave the air a slightly damp feel. Even with the beginnings of a fire lit - by Abigail - in the fireplace, the walls and the furniture all looked dull and uninviting. He’d always assumed it was cosy. Maybe it wasn’t after all.

‘You’re stuck at home anyway until Hannibal’s gone. Why don’t you let me come round and speak with her?’ the nasal voice on the phone was saying. Dr Chilton’s sudden concern for Abigail had come on after he realised she’d been effectively raised by two serial killers. Perhaps three, Will told himself grimly. ‘That won’t be necessary Frederick,’ Will replied, and hung up. He had been lingering by door for privacy, and now he raised his eyes to Abigail over by the fire. He could sense what she was feeling. But he didn’t know how to rectify it.

‘I know you’re angry with me,’ his voice was gravelly from the ordeal he’d been through, but there was no note of resentment in it. ‘I know you wanted me to say yes, to Hannibal.’ He came closer, taking a seat in the armchair opposite her and forcing himself to awkwardly meet her eye, elbows resting on his knees. ‘What did you think would have happened? If I’d said yes. What were you... picturing for us?’

[not-psychotic]

[not-psychotic]

i love will in this scene and how he's just completely exhausted of hannibal. when the reality of a parasitic relationship hits

[not-really-an-agent]

‘There’s no need for you talk right now Hannibal,’ Will enunciated with barely concealed malignity. He didn’t gag Hannibal - that would be unnecessarily crass and indecent. Besides, he trusted the doctor to follow his lead for the moment. He would want to see what Will’s desires were by watching them unfold. He would let Will go as far as possible - would likely let him go way too far - before he tried to put a stop to it.

‘In fact,’ and there was no malice in this statement, only simple facticity, ‘I’m sick of the sound of your voice.’ 

His committal into the care of Dr. Lecter had been like a colossal wave breaking over him, arching high and dark before it engulfed him, reaching such a vast height that he could not escape it, but merely prepare to hold his breath… Now it was time to resurface. To take that first gasping breath of air. The cool, clear rush of norepinephrine and acetylcholine as the parasympathetic nervous system finally kicks back in. Only, he should have felt relief. Should have felt like he was no longer drowning, no longer in danger. Instead, he felt like he had already drowned. That he - the he that had been submerged in that water - was dead. He didn’t know what he was now. And, not knowing, his only course of action was to act on his instincts. But then, that did feel good. That did feel like a breath of air.

Within the passing of a second, in remonstration against an expression of unfeigned benignity on Hannibal’s face, Will’s fist broke over the doctor’s head. The fingers of his left hand still knuckled tight in Hannibal’s hair, the violence of the punch tonsured Hannibal to the scalp, and Will was left with the bloody roots of fine, perfumed mousy hairs as Hannibal went over; the chair leg that had merely snapped a bracket collapsing completely with a well-timed, sharp kick from the tip Will’s shoe. Will was down on Lecter as soon as he could manage, his eyes glazed with intent on revenge, his knees digging painfully into the ribs and the soft casement of the kidneys directly below them. The coppery smell of blood was as quickly detected by Will Graham as it was by Lecter, and it was soon filling their nostrils like a stench as Will continued to angle a blow upside the hinge of Hannibal’s long, sloping jaw and break it. As he fought back his breath, he made the quick, provoking move to let his weight slip backwards until it pressed fully into Hannibal's crotch. And here he remained, panting lightly, his face tipped up but his eyes angled down at Dr Lecter.

Will knew Hannibal thought that the activity of neural chemistry was all highly metaphysically freighted; but as he told himself every night, Will was not like Hannibal. He didn’t consider such things, whether he had the education to or not. If his violence meant something, he didn’t care. If his hatred of Dr Lecter was a transparent, haggard old fable, well-used and recycled since the beginning of indo-european civilisation, he did not care to hear it. If it proved some obscure theological sleight against God’s personality, Will didn’t believe in a word of it. This wasn’t about Dr Lecter or Dr Lecter’s ever expanding imperial mastery of the truth of the world. This was about Will, reclaiming back his life from a man who had seen it for the grotesque but useful tool it was, and then used it to beat him with. This was the last resort of a tortured, cornered, animal.

[mettleborn]

As the chair clatters to the floor and the pain in Lecter’s jaw suddenly bursts forth into full bloom, Hannibal finds its quality distinctly muted; its brutality tempered slightly by whatever drug Will has administered. The attack itself is without finesse; a simple expression of regret and rage and little else – this is not the transformation Hannibal intended. Stripped of his anchor, the foul tides that have come between them, some of Hannibal’s design, some certainly of Will’s own, have diverted Will Graham off his intended course, directing him towards a far more dangerous isle – Hannibal is not bound and the intoxicant he was poisoned with is beginning to wear off.

Hannibal has sacrificed many things for Will Graham, for this attachment that has become important to him in a way even he himself can’t quite understand. He is, however, not willing to sacrifice himself entirely; if Hannibal needs to put Will down, he will, he simply hopes it won’t come to that point.  As Will lowers himself down to the floor, pinning Hannibal to the ground, Lecter can’t help but notice how specific and evocative the particular positioning is, but this is no simple act of dominance, no; something in Will wants to be close, needs to be close for this. Reaching up to his face, Hannibal roughly re-positions his jaw, the resulting pain causing him to growl, his nose wrinkling as he centres his thoughts – patience is what is needed here, especially when Will is being so reactive.

“Steady your breathing.” Hannibal guides, noticing Will panting. There is an undeniable intimacy between them, but in this situation, it is not sublime, it is raw and ragged – Will’s mind is slowly bleeding out and he doesn’t have encephalitis to blame for it this time.

“When you sent Matthew Brown to kill me, I didn’t condemn you, even under oath and I don’t condemn you now Will.” Hannibal states firmly, his point quite clear – there is no moral high ground to be seized here, they are both the betrayer and the betrayed.

Hannibal allows Will to continue pressing him against the floor; he can feel his pain, a screaming void, a vast chasm inside him that Hannibal has not sought to create but rather aimed to fill. Deciding it is time, Hannibal’s strong grip seizes Will’s wrists, but he does nothing more than hold them at bay, his level of threat remaining inert up until the point his sense of self-preservation is forced to kick in. Quite how far he would go to save Will, even from himself, Hannibal hasn’t yet determined.

“Do you believe I would simply let you kill me Will, do you believe my fondness for you really runs so deep?”

[not-really-an-agent]

Only after a few moments did the half-familiar clarity of Hannibal’s touch and his instructive voice kick in; to purify his blood of the choking, haemorrhaging fear that took hold of him, overwhelming everything, for the last two days. His eyes changed, or perhaps just his pupils, as the realisation ran clear that he was fighting Dr Lecter on pure instinct. Crushing him under his weight so that loss of blood made the psychiatrist’s heart quiver like a bird. It was the only heart he heard. He didn't hear his own. He was still panting, but more slowly now, as he looked down at Dr Lecter’s swollen jaw, his crimson-clotted hair, Will’s own hands shaking in Hannibal’s grip. He was about to see reason - and then, Hannibal spoke those last words, and Will’s brow creased.

‘Fondness?’ he uttered in hardly more than an incredulous whisper, his eyebrows high up beneath his curls. From out of the depths of his soft, rich throat he emitted a mirthless breath of a laugh; taking it in. Dr Lecter’s… fondness. His eyes swam with the motion of thinking. Piecing together. Analysing. He nodded, then shook his head so fast droplets of blood fell on his shirt. ‘Yes. Yes, it might,’ he said, surprised at the revelation. Yet he was still shaking his head. ‘But not like this.’

He wrenched his wrists back out of Hannibal’s grasp. Becoming more rational by the minute. ‘This isn’t worthy. Isn’t… my becoming.’ He cast his wide, dark eyes briefly over his shoulder, before sitting back against Hannibal’s thighs and letting his head tip back and his eyelids fall shut. There was no door here. He - like Hannibal - had been imagining one where they was one in Hannibal’s real office. Baize, grey-green. But the door that had been here Will had boarded up, plastered (somewhat clumsily) over. He had half thought to call the FBI once Hannibal was either dead or captured and changed the way Will had planned. To make sure this got finished. To make sure he came out of it alone. His eyes opened again gradually, his head tilting back down to observe Dr Lecter once more. Now he could feel his own heart. Could feel it thumping insistently against his breast. He swallowed.

‘You should know better than to preempt the findings of your hypotheses, Dr Lecter. I guess I’m less predictable than you thought I was. Than either of us thought I was. Whatever you were fond of, I’m afraid it’s gone. Only one of us is leaving this room.’

[not-really-an-agent]

Will concealed the pleasure he took in watching Dr Lecter brushing a figment of imagination from his trouser leg, and instead watched his tongue test at the moisture on his lips; wondering what it tasted like. Vulnerability. If Hannibal Lecter even believed in such concepts…

‘Is the urge to stay alive a base one… or the most divine. Perhaps even blameless,’ he added with a hint of suggestion. Will finally allowed himself to shed his upkeep of the little act of harmlessness. Given that Hannibal had clearly seen right through his character study of the old, timid Will Graham, the mongoose. He pushed himself off the desk’s edge and came towards Hannibal, inclining his head slightly to observe the size of his pupils, a nascent smile hiding somewhere at the corner of his mouth. ‘You’ve made it a very complicated task to protect myself from you, Dr Lecter.’ This, at least, was true. ‘I couldn’t just kill you, then you would win. Then I would simply be you. No, I have to exorcise you,’ he gave a quiet, humourless breath of a laugh, smiling grimly. ‘I have to get rid of this connection that you’ve been feeding, that… we’ve been feeding. So, I could expose you,’ he stopped in front of Hannibal. ‘Let Dr Chilton showcase your mind out in the open, parade it around countless academic conferences, hear peoples’ opinions on it, and read about it in medical journals until it bores me along with everyone else. Or, I could simply change you. The way you changed me.’

Will was standing over Hannibal now, looking down at him with a dull, calm expression; providing all the eye contact Dr Lecter could want, yet giving him nothing to psychoanalyse. He was trusting the drug to have slowed not only the doctor’s reactions, but his muscles and co-ordination too. ‘Of course, it took a master psychiatrist to pull it off on me,’ he admitted, that subtle tasting note of resentment, humiliation, whatever it was, returning. ‘I certainly don’t underestimate your talent for manipulation. But there are places you won’t go, Dr Lecter… and I will.’ Will Graham’s hand had disappeared from view, to reappear snaking up the base of Hannibal’s skull before steadily grasping a fragrant handful of his hair. He drew Hannibal’s head back slowly, so that their eyes met. He watched the natural reaction of the thin film of epiphora gathering inwards from the corners of Hannibal’s eyes.  He could see himself reflected in their glaze, the empty office behind him seeming to have transformed in his mind too as the scene of the crime where Hannibal had methodically disarticulated Will and put him back together again. Will was going to perform the very same operation. But in a very different way. 

[mettleborn]

In truth, the ‘very complicated task’ Hannibal has undertaken is to make Will believe he has been successful in protecting himself from influence. Even now the seeds Hannibal has carefully cultivated and deeply planted inside Will are taking firm root; clearly, tonight, new buds are beginning to manifest; bold and brightly brilliant.

Hannibal remains silent, lips pursed closed as he listens to what has the appearance of an unfiltered string of conscious and sub-conscious thoughts erupting from Will in quick succession. He has not yet determined their authenticity – Will Graham is unpredictable tonight; like a caged animal that can’t tell whether it is responsible for constructing its own prison.

Does Will realise the relish with which he prophesizes he could become him? Does he realise the only way to truly become Hannibal is to eat him? For a second Lecter considers commenting so, but decides to wait to a point where he feels a little more lucid - it was a conversation they were always destined to share, but not at this particular moment.

Will’s threats and jibes fall with little result; Hannibal withholding reaction like a parent withholding love from a child as punishment. Indeed, it is only when Lecter feels Will grab a fistful of his hair, that Hannibal finally looks Will directly in the eye - the expression he observes makes him wonder if entrapment is becoming a love language for Will. Hannibal has never seen Will so alive with dangerous passion and righteous purpose. Are they re-enacting one of Will’s fantasies, he wonders? He doubts such intuitive, invasive dreams end with Hannibal in FBI cuffs. No; Will is out of blood tonight - that makes it time for Hannibal to determine just how much he is willing to sacrifice.

“These places you think I will not go, I would venture there, with you Will.”

[not-really-an-agent]

‘There’s no need for you talk right now Hannibal,’ Will enunciated with barely concealed malignity. He didn’t gag Hannibal - that would be unnecessarily crass and indecent. Besides, he trusted the doctor to follow his lead for the moment. He would want to see what Will’s desires were by watching them unfold. He would let Will go as far as possible - would likely let him go way too far - before he tried to put a stop to it.

‘In fact,’ and there was no malice in this statement, only simple facticity, ‘I’m sick of the sound of your voice.’ 

His committal into the care of Dr. Lecter had been like a colossal wave breaking over him, arching high and dark before it engulfed him, reaching such a vast height that he could not escape it, but merely prepare to hold his breath… Now it was time to resurface. To take that first gasping breath of air. The cool, clear rush of norepinephrine and acetylcholine as the parasympathetic nervous system finally kicks back in. Only, he should have felt relief. Should have felt like he was no longer drowning, no longer in danger. Instead, he felt like he had already drowned. That he - the he that had been submerged in that water - was dead. He didn’t know what he was now. And, not knowing, his only course of action was to act on his instincts. But then, that did feel good. That did feel like a breath of air.

Within the passing of a second, in remonstration against an expression of unfeigned benignity on Hannibal’s face, Will’s fist broke over the doctor’s head. The fingers of his left hand still knuckled tight in Hannibal’s hair, the violence of the punch tonsured Hannibal to the scalp, and Will was left with the bloody roots of fine, perfumed mousy hairs as Hannibal went over; the chair leg that had merely snapped a bracket collapsing completely with a well-timed, sharp kick from the tip Will’s shoe. Will was down on Lecter as soon as he could manage, his eyes glazed with intent on revenge, his knees digging painfully into the ribs and the soft casement of the kidneys directly below them. The coppery smell of blood was as quickly detected by Will Graham as it was by Lecter, and it was soon filling their nostrils like a stench as Will continued to angle a blow upside the hinge of Hannibal’s long, sloping jaw and break it. As he fought back his breath, he made the quick, provoking move to let his weight slip backwards until it pressed fully into Hannibal's crotch. And here he remained, panting lightly, his face tipped up but his eyes angled down at Dr Lecter.

Will knew Hannibal thought that the activity of neural chemistry was all highly metaphysically freighted; but as he told himself every night, Will was not like Hannibal. He didn’t consider such things, whether he had the education to or not. If his violence meant something, he didn’t care. If his hatred of Dr Lecter was a transparent, haggard old fable, well-used and recycled since the beginning of indo-european civilisation, he did not care to hear it. If it proved some obscure theological sleight against God’s personality, Will didn’t believe in a word of it. This wasn’t about Dr Lecter or Dr Lecter’s ever expanding imperial mastery of the truth of the world. This was about Will, reclaiming back his life from a man who had seen it for the grotesque but useful tool it was, and then used it to beat him with. This was the last resort of a tortured, cornered, animal.

[not-psychotic]

very funny that when will imagines abigail he just puts her in his clothes. he doesn't really have time to think about that rn

[not-really-an-agent]

Despite his animal repertoire of instinct, reflex, and neural electroreception gradually building his situational risk assessment to what would soon be high alert, Hannibal’s top-down control was still intact. His mind was carrying on as if nothing was wrong, and Will certainly had his attention. He felt a silent pride build within him as he watched the doctor sitting there, still oblivious to the fact that he was detained at all. Or if he wasn’t, he was handling his situation in a very effortless way. Will didn’t think this was the case. Hannibal  had tells. If he knew even half of what Will was up to, he would have reacted. A minute twitch in that sharp jaw, a glint of pride to match Will’s own in those icy eyes. For a moment Will’s self-control lapsed, and the burgeoning compulsion to indulge this newfound taste for power over Lecter took over.

‘How do you feel, Dr. Lecter?’ Will’s eyebrows rose, that testing expression that sometimes slipped through his manners usually when Jack was pushing his buttons. The statement was a little too ambiguous to sit well with Will’s design. He wasn’t keeping his cards as close to his chest as he should be. But - hell, why shouldn’t he play with Dr. Lecter, after all the time and effort the man had put in to do the same to him? He frowned. ‘You seem a little discomposed,’ he challenged, then more casually: ‘It’s not like you.’ His words streaked off like a tracer bullet into a dark sky, and he knew he must watch every little reaction of what happened next if he wanted to keep control of the situation. He drew in breath and placed the blood-stained scarf behind him on the desk he was leaning on. ‘I hope this isn’t an indication of you wrestling with yourself over whether to breach patient confidentiality? Isn’t it more… fun,’ (careful, the note of bitterness crept in) ‘having me out of the hospital?’ If Will had tells, he was probably showing them - though it was a blind spot that he didn’t know what they were. No doubt Hannibal did. He made a note to try to appear more relaxed - less like he had the pulsing fever of revenge coursing through his veins - and unclenched his hands on the desk, sloped his shoulders and attempted to relax his stomach muscles.

[mettleborn]

The question, aimed directly back at him, earns a small smile from Lecter in response. There is indignancy in Will’s cadence; a palpable bitterness that Hannibal suspects exudes from Will Graham’s very flesh.

Subtly swirling shapes swimming at the periphery of Hannibal’s vision, that at moments feel almost imperceptible, are enough to allow Lecter to finally, if not barely realise he has likely been drugged. He is not yet willing to share this epiphany with Will however, better to wait; better to allow the moment to reveal itself to him and in doing so, reveal Will.

Remaining silent, Hannibal listens carefully to Will; captivated. Hannibal understands Will’s compulsion for control; the desire to gain mastery over himself and others. Hannibal understands it because Hannibal unleased it. Never has Will Graham been so dangerous, so unpredictable; so aware. He can only hope Will does not squander this new gift of awareness in the pursuit of instincts arguably more base.

Lecter watches as Will forcibly contorts himself to appear relaxed, though his person suit is in need of better tailoring; it is badly frayed at the edges, allowing clear glimpses of the erratic energy concealed beneath.

“I do not feel discomposed, and neither, I suspect, do you Will.” Gently brushing some barely visible, likely imagined lint from his lap, Lecter licks his lips as he attempts to identify the particular concoction Will has chosen for him tonight. The taste is unpleasant and unrecognisable.

“In fact, I believe you are entirely composed. I advise you keep that composure, that way, the fun you refer to, will likely last longer.”

[not-really-an-agent]

Will concealed the pleasure he took in watching Dr Lecter brushing a figment of imagination from his trouser leg, and instead watched his tongue test at the moisture on his lips; wondering what it tasted like. Vulnerability. If Hannibal Lecter even believed in such concepts…

‘Is the urge to stay alive a base one… or the most divine. Perhaps even blameless,’ he added with a hint of suggestion. Will finally allowed himself to shed his upkeep of the little act of harmlessness. Given that Hannibal had clearly seen right through his character study of the old, timid Will Graham, the mongoose. He pushed himself off the desk’s edge and came towards Hannibal, inclining his head slightly to observe the size of his pupils, a nascent smile hiding somewhere at the corner of his mouth. ‘You’ve made it a very complicated task to protect myself from you, Dr Lecter.’ This, at least, was true. ‘I couldn’t just kill you, then you would win. Then I would simply be you. No, I have to exorcise you,’ he gave a quiet, humourless breath of a laugh, smiling grimly. ‘I have to get rid of this connection that you’ve been feeding, that… we’ve been feeding. So, I could expose you,’ he stopped in front of Hannibal. ‘Let Dr Chilton showcase your mind out in the open, parade it around countless academic conferences, hear peoples’ opinions on it, and read about it in medical journals until it bores me along with everyone else. Or, I could simply change you. The way you changed me.’

Will was standing over Hannibal now, looking down at him with a dull, calm expression; providing all the eye contact Dr Lecter could want, yet giving him nothing to psychoanalyse. He was trusting the drug to have slowed not only the doctor’s reactions, but his muscles and co-ordination too. ‘Of course, it took a master psychiatrist to pull it off on me,’ he admitted, that subtle tasting note of resentment, humiliation, whatever it was, returning. ‘I certainly don’t underestimate your talent for manipulation. But there are places you won’t go, Dr Lecter… and I will.’ Will Graham’s hand had disappeared from view, to reappear snaking up the base of Hannibal’s skull before steadily grasping a fragrant handful of his hair. He drew Hannibal’s head back slowly, so that their eyes met. He watched the natural reaction of the thin film of epiphora gathering inwards from the corners of Hannibal’s eyes.  He could see himself reflected in their glaze, the empty office behind him seeming to have transformed in his mind too as the scene of the crime where Hannibal had methodically disarticulated Will and put him back together again. Will was going to perform the very same operation. But in a very different way. 

[dct239394cvvd098dffgggp]

google chrome wrapped. 73% of your time was spent on google image search for "trout"

[djarin]

#he’s such a little gremlin 😭

[not-really-an-agent]

Yes.

‘No.’ The smile still lingering. Because he had felt how Hannibal reacted positively to it; as if over all these months he had somehow imbibed a fraction of Hannibal’s extraordinary sensorium. Though that wasn’t the only aid he had to hand. Hannibal’s experience was just now not aligned with reality. Whilst he might be thinking he was giving little away as usual, he was sloppier - not so much that anyone not a trained professional would notice, of course - but enough. Will hadn’t measured the dose himself, but one of Dr. Sutcliffe’s close colleagues at the Noble Hills Care Centre had been very obliging.

That was also, incidentally, why Will didn’t need a gun on him at all. Whether or not Dr. Lecter imagined one would be an interesting tell, but all the same - it was not the case that Hannibal could escape, duress or not. The beauty of Lecter’s mind was that, like certain species of invertebrate, he acted mostly on a kind of externalised proprioception, rather than on the baser fumblings of everyone else, who went about merely reacting, at the mercy of the world’s external stimuli. It was what lent him those niceties of physiological equipoise comparable to certain techniques in the fine arts - notably, line drawing. Therefore, when Will had awoken him, Hannibal had without granting his surroundings one glance, with blind precision repositioned the armchair to which instinct led him before taking a seat in it. (Will had located an apartment block across town built by the same unimaginative architect, with the same basic layout, so that in its barest form it bore a dejected resemblance to the consulting room. But evidently, he hadn’t placed the chair at quite the right angle…)

Abigail had been the only person who’d made Will admit out loud, last winter, that he’d felt powerful. He couldn’t imagine saying it to Hannibal - but he felt it, now more strongly than ever. Could feel it superheating his blood like a fever. But Hannibal’s obliviousness was suspended on such a fine, flimsy spider’s web of a line that one wrong move - one wrong scent coming off of Will - would be the harbinger of chaos.

‘Dr. Lecter,’ Will came closer, to seat himself on the edge of a large writing desk and stretch his legs in front of him, crossed at the ankle. ‘There’s something I have to… admit to you.’ He spoke his words carefully, unrushedly. He knew that just before this appointment Hannibal had received a call from Jack to say that Freddie Lounds was missing and they would need him to consult in the morning. No doubt this was why Hannibal had asked his last question. Will’s tongue appeared to wet his lips, his jaw tensed a moment, and with an exhale he took something out of his pocket to stroke gently between his fingers. A leopard print silk scarf, slightly stained with diluted pink blood. ‘I wanted us to do it together, but I… got carried away.’

[mettleborn]

The positioning of his chair is troublesome, for some reason it simply doesn’t feel right and so Lecter is forced to adjust its positioning once again, unable to discern that this, in fact, is not his chair, nor is this truly his office. Whatever Will has administered has blanketed Hannibal’s remarkable senses so completely that it has made him dangerously unaware of his surroundings.

It is a subtle sensation; a faint tingling situated at a deeply visceral level, one which persistently evades pursuit each and every time Hannibal tries to corner it in his mind to determine its cause. What was it Will once said - like talking to a shadow suspended on dust? Perhaps it is a similar figure that occupies Hannibal’s mind now, lurking in the darkest confines of his memory palace. Whatever the cause, it continues to elude him. Is it possible he is simply tired having slept so little after spending much of the preceding evening preparing for his dinner party? The preparation involved the procurement of kidneys for pate, the procurement involved the murder of a distinctly rude Phlebotomist.

Swallowing hard, Hannibal notices that his mouth is unusually dry and the taste on his tongue strangely metallic. Has Will Graham drugged him? He doesn’t remember imbibing anything in his company. The thought dies as quickly as it was born when Hannibal’s gaze sets upon the pink silk scarf; all thoughts in his drug-addled mind immediately abandoned in favour of his favourite one – that they are just alike.

“How do you feel about what you’ve done Will?” Hannibal asks, his dispassionate expression sitting entirely at odds with the racing of his heart. No beast is more savage than man when possessed with power answerable to his own rage. Is this the becoming Will spoke of?

[not-really-an-agent]

Despite his animal repertoire of instinct, reflex, and neural electroreception gradually building his situational risk assessment to what would soon be high alert, Hannibal’s top-down control was still intact. His mind was carrying on as if nothing was wrong, and Will certainly had his attention. He felt a silent pride build within him as he watched the doctor sitting there, still oblivious to the fact that he was detained at all. Or if he wasn’t, he was handling his situation in a very effortless way. Will didn’t think this was the case. Hannibal  had tells. If he knew even half of what Will was up to, he would have reacted. A minute twitch in that sharp jaw, a glint of pride to match Will’s own in those icy eyes. For a moment Will’s self-control lapsed, and the burgeoning compulsion to indulge this newfound taste for power over Lecter took over.

‘How do you feel, Dr. Lecter?’ Will’s eyebrows rose, that testing expression that sometimes slipped through his manners usually when Jack was pushing his buttons. The statement was a little too ambiguous to sit well with Will’s design. He wasn’t keeping his cards as close to his chest as he should be. But - hell, why shouldn’t he play with Dr. Lecter, after all the time and effort the man had put in to do the same to him? He frowned. ‘You seem a little discomposed,’ he challenged, then more casually: ‘It’s not like you.’ His words streaked off like a tracer bullet into a dark sky, and he knew he must watch every little reaction of what happened next if he wanted to keep control of the situation. He drew in breath and placed the blood-stained scarf behind him on the desk he was leaning on. ‘I hope this isn’t an indication of you wrestling with yourself over whether to breach patient confidentiality? Isn’t it more… fun,’ (careful, the note of bitterness crept in) ‘having me out of the hospital?’ If Will had tells, he was probably showing them - though it was a blind spot that he didn’t know what they were. No doubt Hannibal did. He made a note to try to appear more relaxed - less like he had the pulsing fever of revenge coursing through his veins - and unclenched his hands on the desk, sloped his shoulders and attempted to relax his stomach muscles.

[headspace-hotel]

why is it that whenever I am disillusioned with the world I go back to the epic of Gilgamesh

“It is the story of their becoming human together.”

This is it. This is the oldest written literary work that we know of, and it’s a story of becoming human together.

This is a story about love, and it’s a story about death, and we told this story thousands of years ago, THOUSANDS of years. We have always, always, always been wrestling with this profoundly beautiful existence and with knowing one another, while knowing that we all will die and be forgotten.

We become human by loving, but we also become human by knowing death.

And I’m just sitting here touching other human beings, another human experience, from across millennia, feeling a bit more human too through it, and I am trying very hard not to cry.

[userdocumentary]

FIRE OF LOVE (2022) dir. Sara Dosa

[mabeltanaka]

HANNIBAL 3.03 "Secondo"