@il-mostrc ;
Should he feel the pang of regret seeing his friend crumble before him upon walking to the scene of the crime? Benoit's knees had buckled, his shoulders folding inward like wet paper. Any person with a modicum of empathy would feel something. Hannibal does, in some tier, but it wasn’t empathy he felt. The twinge of sympathy perhaps. He had self-proclaimed long ago that his existence didn’t exactly match up with all those around him. He was slightly detached, observing humanity through museum glass, but still had the ability to conjure feelings when necessary. Benoit was a man he saw himself leaning towards, a friend who could meet him on a level no other could reach. This was why the husband had to go. Not only that, there was a stemmed jealousy he had tasted from him, which left a bitterness behind. Tonight he had cleansed it. “Benoit, my friend, you should not be here.” An arm reached out and guarded him against walking further upon the scene. “This will do you no good to see.” His wrist wrapped around his bicep, white splash against knuckles. He felt the resistance.
Benoit heard what Hannibal said. He felt the chill of the other man's fingers on his arm, even through his sleeve. Yet, he refused to look at his friend. Those pained, exhausted blue eyes could only stare ahead at the morbidly beautiful sculpture that had been made of Phillip.
The pretty red flowers spilling out of his emptied chest cavity were a much kinder sight than the warm blood that would have poured out there. His eyes were gone, but Benoit knew the shape of that face without them. How often had he traced it while Phillip slept next to him, fingertip memorizing every little line?
The detective wanted to go against his instincts and declare that this couldn't be Phillip. They were going through a rough patch he was ignorant of, maybe, Phillip was gone to sort something out in his heart, Phillip would be back — but the tension in Hannibal's hand and certainty in his smooth voice was damning. Benoit's jaw worked.
Hannibal wouldn't be stopping him if it was anyone else.
Wasn't he, the famous detective, always demanding that reason be followed? If all of the pieces of this scenario were laid out, there was only one conclusion: Phillip was the Ripper's latest victim. His husband was the Ripper's latest victim. That was Phillip's body, positioned with a macabre innocence that made Benoit feel sick.
The murmuring of the other investigators, the pointed gestures toward Benoit, the echoes of their brethren asking gently that Hannibal be the one to remove him — all of that was lost in the first real noise Benoit made since coming into the half - ruined church. He howled, agonized, more animal than man in his grief, and tried to wrestle away from Hannibal. Benoit wanted to hold Phillip's corpse, as if by doing so life could somehow be returned to it. Even in his state, Benoit could not bring himself to hit Hannibal, so he pushed at him weakly. Desperate.
More and more of the individuals around them hushed. Cameras stopped. Footsteps halted. All eyes, though some tried to hide it, were on the detective and his unbridled, terrible pain. When Benoit finally looked away from Phillip, he only sought Hannibal, in some fog believing that the man who was now a dear friend ( and in this scenario, far from a coworker in Benoit's mind ) would understand the message behind his hoarse sounds.
He, the great Benoit Blanc, had failed to solve the mystery of the Ripper — and his Phillip was dead because of it.
