#wasthelure

[roi-et-mangouste]

wasthelure

Was she? He didn’t need to know the murky details of what had been going on for the past year and a half. Abigail shrugged. “I didn’t think it was important.” Everything that happened was ingrained in Abigail’s memory, she could only wish to forget.

“You were there.” She gazed over at him. “Well, for almost everything.” Abigail shifted in her seat. “But, I was far away at that hideous beach house.”

Will could feel a gentle tremor start in his hands, then work its way inward toward the core of his body with increasing strength, until it was just powerful enough to jostle the crown of curls atop his head as he angled it to look at her. “I thought he killed you...” His voice came after some time, its sound partially distorted by the lump which sat heavily above his adam’s apple.

“He never even hinted – why wouldn’t he just tell me?” It was clear by this point that the profiler now straddled a very thin line between righteous anger and euphoric relief, and hadn’t the slightest clue which way to turn first. “How long did he have you there?”

[pasleptasapetitas]

Reunion

When the shadow of the past returns, it always does it with a plus. That plus turns to be a more mature Abigail, or so he assumes, and a more cautious man as himself, more than ever before. "What I don’t understand is how you can be so nonchalant in this situation."

@wasthelure​: 

If Abigail was coming off as nonchalant, it was because she had prepared for this scenario for years. She knew that he was still alive, and very real. He wasn’t just a shadow that went bump in the night. “Did you expect me to scream for help?”

For the last few years he’s been living a quiet life. As quiet as someone like Hannibal Lecter could muster, anyways. He, of course, would never be the type of man who would go to some remote cabin in Switzerland. It’s not of his preference, even if he’s absolutely able to afford such lifestyle. Years of training to survive in different scenarios surely paid off in several occasions during his pilgrimage seeking freedom. 

And yet, America has that unique taste no place on earth has. Yes, taste, indeed. 

“You are no victim. Never were, Abigail.” He pulls a smug smile under his black umbrella, keeping his luxurious Armani coat safe from the incessant rain surrounding both. “I’d surprised if you did. However, your greeting towards your former mentor is... somehow lacking.” 

[writinghannibal]

☄

}ooc:

Hannibal ended up with Mischa as his “charge” because Simonetta suffered from really severe postpartum depression. Young Hannibal was close to his mother and took on caring for the baby as often as he could to try and ease some of her anxiety, frustration and emotional pain. 

Simonetta loved her children which created a lot of conflict within her as she found herself wanting to hurt them when she was at her lowest. She responded by retreating from Hannibal and Mischa, which caused the already peculiar young boy to start acting out in some even stranger ways. He made elaborate traps to catch and drown rats, among other things.

Governesses, maids and nannies never really lasted long and Hannibal refused to leave the baby alone with them. By the time Mischa was able to walk, their parents had given up on the idea of providing the children with a true nanny. The Lecter manor staff kept an eye on the children to a degree, and Simonetta re-engaged as Mischa reached the age where she could talk.

[writinghannibal]

Sunlight

Sunlight was a precious and rare thing. Hannibal inhaled deeply, as if he could draw the warmth from the air down into his lungs and keep it there. 

He tipped his head back with all the languor of a cat that had found the last remaining sunbeam of the day. His lips slightly parted and he exhaled his stolen warmth. 

Precious things never lasted. He could already hear the imminent chaos that was awaiting him. It would only be a matter of moments, and his sunlight would be taken away from him again.

The door on the other side of the yard opened, introducing two other patients of the BSHCI into Hannibal’s little world. It was not something that was supposed to happen. There were protocols to be followed to keep Hannibal separate from the other patients. Protocols that had been disregarded for the sake of pettiness. 

He turned his hands palm up, soaking in the warmth of the sun even as he listened to the crunch of gravel indicating the approach of the end of this particular privilege. His memories of the sun would be carried with the taste of blood from that moment onward. 

Hannibal wanted but one more moment alone within Helios’ embrace. 

[roi-et-mangouste]

👂 sigh

I-is this a good sigh? HAVE I DONE YOU WRONG, ABIGAIL?

No, but seriously, thank you so much. I love writing with you.

[designseen]

@wasthelure​ said: “ i wish i’d never come here. it was wrong to come. “

❝Abigail...❞ It seemed there was no real way to fix this, to bridge the gaps, but he wanted to. He wanted to do something, anything for her. But what could he do? He won’t reach out for her, not like he wants to. His gaze falls over her face, like he’s searching for an answer to a question he has not yet asked. ❝I’m sorry, I really am. I overstepped.❞ A pause. ❝I’m still not sure what I’m trying to do here.❞

[cozeios]

@wasthelure said:    you know some of my secrets, i know some of your secrets. Abigail @ Bedelia

    𝚃𝙾𝙻𝙴𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝙸𝚂 𝙰 𝚅𝙸𝚁𝚃𝚄𝙴 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝙲𝙷 𝙱𝙴𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙰 𝙷𝙰𝚂 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙴𝙳 𝙷𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵 𝚃𝙾 𝙰𝙲𝚀𝚄𝙸𝚁𝙴.  it is not her natural inclination, but a habit to which she has forcibly grown accustomed—like transplanting a seedling into ill-suited soil and coercing it to thrive, to spread its roots and make a home under hostile conditions.  she feels the pull of it now, the too-tightness stretched taut over her skin, nearly suffocating in its constriction.  her lip curls—minutely, but noticeable against the soft-marble stillness with which she holds the rest of her body.

    presumption is ill-becoming.  bedelia dislikes arrogance—finds it vapid and often unfounded.  she sees a flicker of it now in abigail—an inflation of self-confidence with no solid matter to support it.

    another life blown and molded by hannibal’s prideful hands.  she recognizes an echo of him in abigail’s carriage, in the lift of her chin and the cold satisfaction in her eyes.  in the fine silk of her blouse and dark cut of her jeans.  there is always something of the artist in the work itself, some echo of the creator in creation.  it is remarkable how quickly a child will turn to another teat when disengaged from its mother’s.

    hannibal must be proud.

    “leverage can only exist among items of inequal value,”    she says slowly, although that is not entirely true.  when weapons are drawn, it only matters whose finger is fastest on the trigger—whose tongue is sweet enough to talk the other’s hand down.

    “what, exactly, are you suggesting?”

[drdumaurier]

@wasthelure​ asked: you don’t trust me, do you? | confronting sentence prompt

     Trust her, how could she possibly fully trust a girl with a past like hers? If the years have taught her anything, it is that rare are the people who are fully trustworthy and even rarer the ones who have been close to Hannibal at one point or another. If Bedelia had to be honest with herself, she would have to admit that she is not trustworthy either, at least not unless the other person gives her a reason to be. She calls it self-preservation, but she knows that it may be not what others call her behaviour. 

     Shifting position in the armchair, her gaze falls on Abigail. Their situation is unexpected, but she cannot say she dislikes it even if there’s a certain tension between the two women. A faint, amused smile appears on her lips for a second before she takes a sip of wine.   ❝ It’s only fair, don’t you think? You don’t trust me either and I don’t expect you to. ❞