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@ofunethics
#OFUNETHICS : ㅤㅤwriting blog for doctor hannibal lecter from nbc's hannibal. headcanon based and with inspiration from both novels and films. previously found @monstroum / @ethicsbutcher. triggering content ahead, please mind your step. sideblog to @ofbizarre , please refer to the main blog for rules.
ㅤㅤ ㅤㅤ⁰carrdㅤ ¹ ch. studyㅤ² headcanons ㅤ³ aestheticsㅤ
Transparent Death Head Moth
by Dagger
would he? roman's suddenly frozen, pulse rushing in his ears. what if hannibal took him up on his offer? fuck, nobody ever called his bluff. they made a face and changed the subject or ended the conversation entirely. would he? sure, yeah, he can give it a go. okay. yeah. he can. fuck it, sure.
the silence between them stretched on. a few seats down, frank chuckled affably at something karl said. roman can hear gerri and karolina in fervent conversation about something or other. ken monologues at shiv, who remains unmoved. under it all, roman can hear the low drone of dad's voice.
then hannibal speaks again and it's like he comes back to himself. no longer hyperaware of the conversations going on around him, roman unclenches his hand from the stopper and replaces it atop the decanter.
"i was just kidding," he says, like hannibal's in the wrong for trying to take him seriously. his conviction wavers and then strengthens as he finds his way back to himself, the himself that everyone knows and expects. "gee, down, boy. you couldn't fucking wait to get your leg over, could you? flies are undone. practically had your dick in your hand already." he drops his voice to a faux-scandalised stage whisper. "in front of everyone? i'm into some fucked up shit but, like, karl? you wanna be watched by karl? i get it, you just couldn't wait to have me but damn, doc, that's pretty grim. maybe you should be the one in therapy, not me."
he straightens his back and allows roman to regain his balance. dark eyes shift across the heir's expression, watch him struggle with his footing, as he grasps at anything that'll lift him out of the dark waters he's been sinking further and further into. when he talks the first time, he looks very much like a child. doctor lecter tries to picture roman roy when he was younger: did he prefer a weighed blanket, he wondered. did he feel comfortable under the pressure? what did such tensions and limitations translate into as he grew up? punishment? chains? cages? lecter recalled the young man's file mentioning military school --- he can see him clearly then; smaller than most boys, scrawny, undernourished, a shaved head and bladder issues probably made him seem like a sickly dog left on the side of the road ... did daddy pick up the phone? did he stop by and visit him?
roman says something about getting a leg over. hannibal fluttered his lashes, slightly taken aback by the imagery. roman is trying to humiliate him by suggesting the good doctor had ulterior motives. lecter notices that his patient makes no attempts at shutting down these imaginary advances. hannibal does not point this out. instead, he plays ball. "i am your psychiatrist, roman. i am here to observe and discuss your behaviour, not to participate in it." somewhere in the room, gerri chuckles. the fire crackles. doctor lecter sets his wine down on the table.
"developing a sexual relationship would not be beneficial for your therapy." he gives roman a pointed look. "and you do require therapy." his hand calmly slips into his pants' pocket as he stares the other man down. hannibal is impervious to roman's attacks on his dignity. perhaps because he knows there is no way of the roy heir knowing where his limits truly lie. the code of ethics he presents the boy with, is as much of an act as this little number roman insists on performing for him.
doctor lecter tilted his head and his eyes wandered across the other man's frame. it was as if he could see through the layers of skin and flesh which hid the inner machinations of roman roy. the corners of his lips twitched into a small pleasant smile. if he sunk his teeth into his flesh, would he taste like metal? iron? a well-oiled machine? "you chose to mention your discomfort in having karl present during sex rather than your father." despite the curve to his lips, hannibal's expression has become undecipherable. "do you enjoy keeping him updated on your sexual conquests?"
this isn't from your meme tag but i need vamp daniel to (try and?) bite hannibal. tabling da tables etc.
it is unbecoming, that first sound which escapes through his gritted teeth. hannibal can feel the warmth of fresh blood, spilling down his forearm and onto his ribs, his thigh, the floor ... a deep shade of crimson slowly ruins his grey suit. it is all quite inconvenient; the good doctor is a fugitive, and therefore supposed to be laying low. but his poor choice of friends has, once again, left him in a rather uncomfortable position.
the white lights of the empty parking garage hover over their heads. they makes it hard for hannibal to make out daniel's features. dark shadows are cast over his face and, yet, he can see a glow in the man's eyes that is more similar to that of an animal's than a human's. he can feel daniel growling against his arm. can feel the hot air of his undead lungs against the tweed of his blazer, making it feel unbelievably warm. a pair of broken sunglasses lay a few meters away --- hannibal would have to apologise for that.
the doctor had been correct when noticing something different about his old friend's jaws. the more he tried to move, the deeper long sharp teeth sunk into his forearm. the one he used to shield his throat from the reporter's unexpected attack. while pinned against daniel molloy's car, hannibal realises just how strong the other man's grip is. it is difficult to push him off. the more he tries, the tighter the bite around his forearm becomes. in the shadows casted by their brows, their eyes meet. the corners of lecter's mouth twitch.
if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.
after a few seconds, the continuous sound of blood dripping onto the reinforced concrete becomes the only noise shared by the two. lecter grunts when he tries to straighten his back. he is not successful. "you wanted to return the favour," rasped the doctor, as he looked down at his ravenous friend. his expression shifted. though he was clearly struggling, something in his voice seemed to soften. "i am touched." he sounded like he might actually mean it.
ethicsbutcher:
[img.1] & [img.3] NBC, Hannibal, S02 E01, “Kaiseki [img.2] Clive Barker, The Damnation Game (1985)
hannibal lecter feels no guilt for the horrible things he does. although he often mimics emotions that resemble our own or that, at the time, seem to be justified and appropriate, the intensity ( and intention ) of said emotions is never the same as ours. if it brings him pleasure, if it is beautiful or even just out of the ordinary, then there is nothing to apologise for. dr. lecter might ask for you to forgive him but never because of WHAT HE IS. he is comfortable with the horror he creates. he is confident in it.
any attempts at rehabilitation are futile. hannibal lecter does not suffer from any mental conditions. the things he does do not impair him or perturb his sleep, on the contrary. they bring him joy and amusement. and although i can always appreciate a sympathetic antagonist or one that goes through a character arc where they develop and better themselves, there is no hope for doctor lecter. he cannot be fixed nor does he want to. he is completely guilt free.
except, perhaps, if he forgets to fill your wine glass before his own. in which case he does feel genuine embarrassment and he will beg for your forgiveness. perhaps he’ll even gift you one of his wine bottles to make up for it. because anything less than that would be rude.
Hannibal 2.10 Naka-Choko
roman wrinkled his nose and then made a noise of disgust when it registered that he knew the place hannibal mentioned. he'd been there, after the divorce, when shiv had her summer of being into museums and classical art and other such bullshit. roman'd gone with her just for something to do, because ken was fucking miserable to be around and connor kept asking them all stupid fucking questions like how are you holding up, bud? "i knew i stepped in something suspect when i was there," he said over the rim of his glass, wiggling the fingers of his free hand in hannibal's general direction. "got your fuckin'... spunk all over my shoes. dirty dog." when he clapped hannibal on the shoulder, there was an unearned camaraderie to it, begrudging respect.
he dismissed hannibal's question with a roll of his eyes. "me? uncomfortable with sex? no, it's just, like, i'm..." he trailed off. people didn't usually ask about it. he was pretty good at throwing them off, getting into just enough detail that they wanted the conversation to end immediately. nobody liked to hear roman talk about sex. they just didn't.
he drained his glass and poured another, this time keeping the decanter close. he kept the heavy crystal stopper in his hand, gripping it like the world's most ineffective stress ball.
"i'm just so fucking good at it, it makes everyone else uncomfortable because they know they're not as good as me." he shot hannibal a sly smirk and licked his lips. back on track, sure to win this one-sided game of chicken. "i'll show you sometime if you want." check and mate.
lecter's shoulder dips ever so slightly at the sudden impact of roman's hand. he does not react to it --- instead he watched the young man with detached amusement. it was bold of him to touch the psychiatrist in such a manner. rude, even. their connection ought to be professional, no matter the setting in which they interacted. the rest of the guests would glance at them and pity poor doctor lecter. what a heavy burden it was to guide the most insolent of the roy heirs through therapy --- but, the truth was, each time roman tested his limits, he was stepping further and further away from his safe space. with each jab, roman was stepping deeper into the dark. and hannibal waited there.
he watched roman juggle with his question. watched him stretch and twist it until it took a completely different shape. it was both disappointing and unfortunate that the youngest roy thought himself clever for coming up with this grand sham. his public persona was fictional --- an unpleasant little costume his family was more than happy to put up with because, whatever truth hid underneath it, must be more dreadful than any of roman's jokes.
the roy heir suggested he'd show his psychiatrist how good he was at sex sometime. at first, doctor lecter did not have much of a reaction. instead he remained very still, watching him, waiting ... and after a few seconds of relentless silence, hannibal gave roman a pointed look. "would you?" that simple question felt like a threat. most people became repelled by roman because they feared that, if they listened to him for too long, they might find how powerless they actually were.
hannibal lecter had no such concerns.
dark eyes glanced down at the stopper in roman's hand. his fingers became a bit paler from squeezing it so tight while the alcohol in the decanter remained untouched. "don't let it spoil, roman."
continued from here / @ofunethics
the bar is, at eight pm on a thursday, loud. later, daniel will have no problem finding a meal but, for now, he's content with a lukewarm beer and familiar company. the beer tastes of nothing; he wonders, all but salivating, what lecter would taste like. later, maybe, he'll find out.
daniel doesn't think he'd kill hannibal. perhaps he'd merely bestow a bite scar, one so like his own, like lecter had intended to give him just a few years ago. the thought excites him. he licks his lips and sips his beer, almost giddy with the thought. it wouldn't technically be retribution, since hannibal was thoroughly muzzled before he could get his teeth into daniel, but he thinks he'd make the point well enough.
he sets the bottle down. over the bar music and the people around him, he can hear it fizz.
"absence of both empathy and remorse," he parrots back curiously, "would you self-diagnose, doc? it'd be alright if you did it, right, given your training?" funny, they've already fallen back into the same back and forth they'd established back then, although daniel feels quicker, more conversationally agile. he feels, also, far less remorse. he's not dying, his body isn't slowly but surely giving up the ghost. he doesn't need to regret anything, because he's got time to make it right, or at least time to try again.
he sits back in his chair with a quiet creak of leather. one arm slung over the back, he kicks out the spare chair to his left and props one foot up on it. "i'm good on the remorse front. you're about -- ooh, two years too late. no worries, though. it's good to see you again, anyway." well, sort of. daniel still isn't quite sure where he stands with hannibal, but he knows he can no longer judge his crimes. and crimes aside, he does sort of like him.
he leans forward suddenly, a little too quick to be human. oops. he should be more careful about that.
"things have really turned around for both of us since last time we saw each other, huh? you upset you never did get the chance to get your teeth in my neck?" when daniel smiles, his teeth seem, for a fraction of a second, a little too sharp. "you don't feel like giving it a go now?"
the manner with which they slip back into old habits is enough to coerce a smile out of hannibal. their meeting place was noisier, filthier, fuller than his cell could have ever been but these were small details lecter was willing to overlook in the name of authenticity; this was who daniel molloy was when there were no security measures for him to follow. this was where he went when no one was watching. doctor lecter tilted his head. funny, this was the sort of establishment he would have envisioned him visiting back in his tumultuous twenties.
daniel asked about self-diagnosis and hannibal shook his head. "that would be highly unethical." a private joke; the issue of ethics had never been on his plate. he fondly recalled alana bloom's words when he was first put under her care: they don't have a name for what he is .
to hear daniel say that he is glad to see him again, despite lecter's unorthodox means of discharge from baltimore's state hospital for the criminally insane, strikes a chord with him. it was uncommon for hannibal to be seen so clearly, let alone have someone welcome him after being enlightened about his crimes.
molloy mentions him being two years too late; a shift in the reporter's life had occurred. hannibal wasn't happy to learn he had had no hand in it. but the sudden movement from daniel causes his brow to arch. lecter turns his head so that he can face his friend better. there is a glint of genuine curiosity behind the good doctor's dark stare. he thinks he might have seen the jaws of an animal flash right where molloy's teeth should be. he shifted his gaze from the reporter's mouth to meet the dark lenses of daniel's glasses. he's challenging him --- daniel molloy has transformed into something new hannibal is not familiar with. this scent which brushes over him is unlike anything he has ever encountered. but it makes daniel feel powerful.
hannibal curls the corners of his lips.
"you've been changed already, daniel." he points out when an opportunity to try again is offered. doctor lecter's eyes shift down to look at daniel's hands. "i'm only sorry i could not witness to the spinning of your cocoon." his nails appear particularly sharp. "i imagine it must have been a nasty ordeal." when he glances back at the other man, he can't help but playfully quip. "no more scars for you."
Giacomo Puccini, Gianni Schicchi: O mio babbino caro
Maria Callas, Soprano Tullio Serafin, Conductor Philarmonia Orchestra 1954
“What you, call monsters are superior forms, or forms simply beyond your understanding. Aren’t the gods monsters? Isn’t a man of genius a monster, like a tiger or a spider, like all individuals who live beyond social lies, in the dazzling and divine immorality of things? Why, I too then—am a monster!”
— Octave Mirbeau. The Torture Garden. (via criminal-delirium)
"yeah, shock makes me rude. minor inconvenience makes me rude. hunger, thirst, all of it." daniel meets hannibal's eyes, catalogues the way the doctor is sizing him up, shakes his head. "maybe that's just what i am: rude." a rude old man, that's how people see him, isn't it? the kid at the bagel shop this morning, the taxi driver, his doctor's receptionist. daniel isn’t particularly self-pitying but he does indulge from time to time in his old age.
he falls quiet as hannibal continues, sickly curious. the news of the attack should have sent him running for the hills; instead, it's brought him back here. the head of the institute - he forgets their name - wants to 'catch up' after daniel's finished here today, something about influencing the patient. daniel doesn't think hannibal is easily influenced, but what the fuck does he know? cannibalism isn't his particular brand of crazy, and he doesn't pretend to understand people. he doesn't need to. he just needs to listen, and their motives and justifications usually become clear.
with hannibal, it's immediately apparent.
"yeah," he says again, more slowly this time. gears are turning. how he'd spoken of that night in san fran, the ensuing realisation that he could be more, that was what had inspired hannibal. as, what? a favour to daniel? a rocket up the ass in his twilight years?
he sits back, hand still on his pen. as promised, this is just between them. well, them and the tape recorder. but daniel won't include this; it's just for his peace of mind, and he makes no notes on the topic.
"look." how is he even supposed to broach this? it's like being offered an expensive bottle of vintage wine when he's a whiskey drinker – except it's nothing like that at all, because someone's dead.
"look," he starts again. "i'm flattered by the gesture." he's appalled by it, frankly, but it doesn't scare him. it's easy for him to look hannibal in the eyes, still. for a second, he's confused that they're not huge, bug-like amber things, but the moment passes. "how did you think this was gonna go?" with one finger, he gestures to the muzzle, and then that same finger comes up to scratch idly at his old scar.
"they're not gonna give you a do over." he picks up hannibal's theatrical analogy and runs with it. "there's no opening night, press night, drinks and sleaze at the bar afterwards. no second chances, lecter. doctor lecter. should've got your teeth in me while you had the chance."
it is an unravelling, listening to daniel molloy trying to make sense out of the violence meant for him. but the final sentiment which fills the air between them surprises lecter; instead of being met with horror or disgust, the good doctor gets scolded for not thinking this grand gesture through. caved-in eyes shift across the reporter's features and hannibal finds his heartstrings being tugged at. this manner of speaking from mister molloy is, in itself, highly unethical. if anyone were to be in that room with them, they'd surely take note of daniel's response to later bring up to doctor bloom's attention. perhaps new security protocols would be created just to keep both daniel and hannibal further apart.
but they were all alone, talking, like old friends ought to. "i might have killed you." the inmate pointed out, eyes unblinking as if afraid they might miss something. "that wouldn't have been productive for neither of us." hannibal straightened his back a bit, the weight of his own arms affecting his otherwise impeccable posture.
he had been reckless. there wouldn't be a new opportunity to sink his teeth into daniel molloy for a very long time. perhaps many years from now...when they were both too old and tired for the staff to care, they'd be allowed a rendez-vous. one last goodbye between two old men who had come to respect each other on some strange level. and when their hands were allowed to touch and they gave their first and last handshake, perhaps then hannibal could deliver this belated gift. and at that point, it would send daniel molloy off into the most mysterious adventure of them all and lecter would spend his last remaining days in solitary confinement, chewing on the flesh and skin of someone worthy of being honoured. perhaps then.
or perhaps sooner.
"the surprise might be spoilt and my few freedoms revoked, but i am nothing if not an optimist." hannibal said, his eyes shifting between brighter ones. they were not quite his shade...even if framed by equally tasteless glasses, daniel's were a bit greener. "if the curtain separating us were to be lifted and i was allowed a second act, would you like me to come find you?" hannibal's disembodied voice asked.
the insinuation that he might be afraid very nearly makes him smile. it amuses him in the same vein inane student questions sometimes do; the haughty gratification of the sage. imagine having such limited understanding of the world, is its tune. imagine inhabiting such a quaint little mind.
he does not smile, however, because he knows lecter's mind to be far from little. otherwise he would not be sitting here. play-acting therapy. yet another unspoken joke, though this one he believes lecter to be in on, too. quaint, from what he's heard, might very well be apt.
❝ am i resisting? ❞ a question which answers itself, of course, in that it refuses to answer what has really been asked. moriarty has not lied, though what appears most honest in his conduct is his curiosity. a picking-apart of purely good intentions, rest assured. ❝ is it resistance to point out i prefer science over speculation? to require you present the evidence your assumptions are based upon? ❞
good, as in self-serving. could an unassailably self-perpetuating machine feel depressed? be reasonable. who in this room is made subject, anyway?
❝ how come you are so preoccupied with my submission, dr. lecter? ❞
am i resisting, asked moriarty. "yes." replied hannibal quite matter of factly. he did not know the professor very well, perhaps he never would. but he had the sense that james might be as entertained by this session of theirs as he was. it was somewhat childish to constantly evade questions by making up some of his own, but it had become crystal clear that honesty wasn't easy for the man sitting before him.
everything suggested that they ought to have the same interests, hang within the same circles, know the same people --- and yet, hannibal did not recall anyone ever mentioning james moriarty as a friend or as someone who ought to be introduced to him. no one spoke of past dinners or coffee dates, no ex-lovers or family members to reminisce about him, no companions or colleagues to worry or complain...he existed, yes, but as a ghost to most of their common acquittances.
this level of privacy required tremendous effort.
lecter sighed and shifted slightly in his chair. "if you were not resisting to therapeutic proceedings, you would be yielding." dark eyes fluttered to meet james'. "are you yielding?" the slight curve to the doctor's lips suggested he already knew what answer his patient would provide.
"i am solely preoccupied with your well-being, james." the good doctor's back remains straight, his posture impeccable and still; he looked as if he could be the rock in which the weary could lean on to rest. "if these sessions are to be productive, i will require some vulnerability from your part." or perhaps the one which would cause them to sink into the darkest depths of the ocean.
Hannibal / Emily Dickinson, One need not be a Chamber to be Haunted
hannibal doesn't quite lean into roman's space, but roman feels trapped nonetheless. not quite the bear in the snare, or the mouse in the trap, but a cornered dog. he shrinks back, proverbial ears pinned to his head. he watches hannibal out the corner of his eye, licks his lips, comes to the conclusion that the only way out is through, which is an untenable thought, and so he sits back in the dining chair, fiddling with the strap of his watch.
"feels dangerous," he agrees quietly, a small voice that dad would hate. roman straightens, snags the heavy decanter from the table, and pours himself another whiskey. liquid dinner, liquid courage. glass in hand, he feels more confident.
"bet you need a whole boatload of therapy." meant as an insult, of course, because only fuckups need therapy. a sip of whiskey, the burn emboldening him. yeah, sure, he can talk about fucking if that's where hannibal wants to go. conversational chicken, who's going to back down first? it sure as shit won't be him.
"i'd fuck all over this room right now," he declared, and frank, three seats down, glances over long enough to roll his eyes. once he's turned away again, roman gives him the finger, then looks at hannibal and jabs his thumb in frank's direction. "fucking prude. men like him," a sip of whiskey, "you know, they've got no business being prude like that. like frank wasn't fucking like a rabbit when he was my age. like men his age aren't still fucking like rabbits." an uneasy shadow passes across roman's expression, but he forces a smile, bright and easy. "go on, then. your turn. this is fun, isn't it? we're having fun." is he trying to convince hannibal, or himself? "weirdest place you've ever done it. go."
he can smell fear on him. it is a heavy scent; like damp leaves rubbed with salt. it's sweat not yet building above the skin's surface. the water and oil and mucus stuck inside tear ducts. hannibal can practically taste the electrolytes there, on the tip of his tongue. it was tempting to subject roman to true agony; to test just how easy it was to conjure tears from the young roy heir. would he cry as loud as he laughed? or would it be a quiet shameful act?
doctor lecter took a sip of his wine. quiet, no doubt, for embarrassing his father would be more painful than any form of torture.
lecter glances at frank when roman gestures towards him and feels somewhat sorry for any other guest that must be roped into his patient's little circus act. but something in his expression shifts mid-sentence and hannibal's nostrils flare slightly at the gentle scent hidden between the layers of flesh trapped inside roman's tailored suit. woody ... bitter ... mineral. even the roys' misery was exquisite.
if the good doctor is made uncomfortable by the subject at hand, he does not show it. instead, he ponders about roman's challenge and, after a couple of seconds of silence, answers. "below the arches of the patio of the national museum del bargello." hannibal had been young and reckless then --- but the rendez-vous the psychiatrist mentions is not one of romantic inclinations. yes, her hair had felt like meadow grass against his cheek and yes, there had been gasps and whimpers similar to those of passion. the same contortion of the muscles, the same desperate grabbing and pulling, the same pleading, the same crescendo into urgency.
she would be found a month later by a man walking his dog in a state of decomposition out in a tuscan meadow, adorned with apricot tea olives and yellowed leaves. a bloodied madonna with both eyes rolled back towards the heavens and her tremendous heart in proud display within her open chest.
hannibal considered his drink when he spoke next. "you do this often," pointed out the doctor before giving roman a look. "bring up sexual themes mid-conversation in an attempt to disarm others." doctor lecter stirred the wine in his glass a bit. "why do you find sex to be such an uncomfortable topic?"
continued from here / @ofunethics
it's impossible for daniel to ignore the similarities between the nurse's fate and what his might have been, all those years ago. the difference between his fate and hers was... divine intervention? dumb luck? he doesn't believe in the former, and has never had much of the latter. when daniel tries to remember that night, it slips through his fingers like fine sand. infuriating. impossible to capture. it's his own damn fault, of course. '73 was just one in a long line of drug fuelled summers... falls, winters, springs. it's not until '85 that his memories begin to clarify again: the year after he'd met alice, and she'd pushed him into rehab.
the point is, daniel doesn't know why he survived the same attack that had killed the nurse. he's old enough now to know that these things don't always happen for a reason. sometimes, that's just how it goes. still, he can't help but feel at least partly responsible for her fate. maybe if he'd kept his big mouth shut, the good doctor may not have been compelled to act.
the rational part of him knows lecter may have acted anyway, out of... what, appreciation for their conversations? that part, daniel's unclear on. he cannot tell if it was meant as a threat, or a fucked up attempt at bonding, or something that he could not hope to comprehend without years of psychiatric education.
the less rational part of him wonders if he's supposed to be flattered by the gesture, that lecter'd been so inspired by daniel's vague recollections that he'd been compelled to try to re-enact it. maybe he'd been disappointed by the lack of details, wanted to see the scene for himself.
it fascinates daniel, in a sick sort of way.
he'd come back, hadn't he? he'd read lounds' shoddy article this morning, alerted to it by a google alert set to lecter's name, and still he'd come back. from a journalist's point of view, it's a gift hamper, a five course michelin-starred meal served on golden plates.
the scar on his neck itches as he studies the muzzle intently. though he doesn't remember much about that night in '73, he remembers the searing pain of teeth tearing into his flesh. he can only hope that the nurse died quickly but, if it was anything like his own encounter, he knows it wasn't.
he shrugs in answer to lecter, watching him impassively. "not sure inmates usually care about professionalism," he replies at length, clicking his back-up pen. "though, yeah, go ahead and worry about what constitutes as professional. i'm sure your career will thank you... oh, wait." daniel makes a point of looking around them, then at the straightjacket and, finally, the muzzle. "on second thought, not sure that's something you need to worry about any more. i don't see a queue of patients waiting to sign up to doctor lecter's patient roster." mind you, there's probably a fair few people out there who'd get a kick out of it. he decides not to mention that; would knowing his effect on the true crime community inspire lecter to further violence? it seems tawdry, beneath him... but daniel reminds himself that this is a man who killed and ate people -- someone who tore out a nurse's throat with his teeth.
daniel clicks his pen one more time and then sets it down on his notebook. this time, he keeps his hand atop it. "look, doc, i've really gotta know. why d'you do it? i tell you all that the other day and, what, it sparks some dormant, lethal inspiration? i didn't think you'd go in for copying someone else. so: why? off the record, if you want. just for me."
only lecter's eyes and voice can express the happenings in the depths of his soul. and, as molloy mocks him, something in his stare hardens. hannibal is not amused by daniel's insistence in stating the obvious. he appears to be downright offended. it is not the straitjacket nor the muzzle nor the eternity behind bars and under constant surveillance which wounds his pride, no. it is having daniel suggest that no one would be interested in picking lecter as a source of psychiatric treatment. "shock makes you rude." says the cannibal quite matter of factly. "more so than usual."
their manner of communication is too casual for their current setting. hannibal thinks that might be why he appreciates the journalist's company so much. all of the horrible scenarios and manipulators addiction must have brought about during his early adulthood, had prepared daniel molloy for these sort of meetings. what was a little bloodshed to a man who had sewn pleasure and death into such a tight knot? had he liked it, he wondered, having inspired such violence? had he been flattered by this grand gesture?
he should have.
dark eyes shift to the side as he ponders about how best to respond to his interviewer's earnest question. lecter does not care whether molloy writes about these next words or not; the nurses had nothing to do with him. it was all about daniel. "your telling of your attack is unique; rather than being traumatised by the experience, you were propelled forward. you went through a transformation, daniel. from open wound to scar tissue. this was a becoming. greater than any provided by your professional or familiar accomplishments." lecter's voice is trapped by the walls of his muzzle, making the doctor sound both far away and too close.
there's a small tilt to his head as his eyes shift across the older man's face. he could feel snark lingering beneath daniel's tongue. hannibal could hold his though. for he would not comment on the disease that plagued daniel molloy. he would not point out how, because of it, he had fallen victim to vice once more. how he could not enjoy his success nor the company of others because he had become addicted to contemplating his own end. how lecter himself had begun to do the same --- he wouldn't mention how the thought of molloy fading away gently into the good night did not satisfy him.
the journalist was in grave need of an open wound, a new scar! another small death to snatch him away from resignation and propel him towards bigger, stranger things! "the mauling of the nurses was meant as a rehearsal." doctor lecter blinked. there was a pleasant glint to his eye. "i wanted to surprise you."
