The Limitation

Mignardise

The two men made eye contact at last. Hannibal’s expression was one of somber resignation — that of father whose son has come to him in a crisis of his own making. Deeply disappointed, but knowing his duty is to provide understanding and support at the most troubled of times.

A tiny sigh escaped his lips, and he looked away.

He felt an enormous sense of obligation to this frightened, childlike creature — one that had little-to-nothing to do with the fact that he, Hannibal, had led the creature here, slowly gaining Will’s trust and coaxing him to the place he was, perched on these damp, dirty steps at the edge of insanity.

It is more enjoyable to make a show of untangling a very difficult knot if you pretend you have not expertly tied it yourself.

Hannibal extended his hand for his friend to take. His palm was warm and dry.

"Show me."

#mignardise #you did you cheater #if you're a cheater i'm a cheater

Will couldn’t take the weight of Hannibal’s gaze and he dropped his eyes almost instantly. He swallowed and nodded, his eyes on the wide hand that had been offered, a pathetically comforting consolation. Shifting, shivering, he uncurled his hand from his shoulder, brushed his fingers against Hannibal’s palm and took his warm hand.

He paused, blinked and shifted, pulling himself up, before falling to the side. It was lucky he had enough of his senses about him and caught himself on the support post of the porch. He looked at his hand—bloodless, angry red, dirt still under his nails—and then back at the space a few inches to Hannibal’s left.

“Slipped,” he explained, unnecessarily, glancing down at his feet. He hadn’t washed. He felt unclean, unable to enter into the home that had been his sanctuary for so long. He didn’t even allow computers in his space, and now he’s violated it completely on his own. Blinking again at his grimy toes he shifted, took a step backward and stumbled into his home, hesitating for barely a second before crossing the threshold, keeping his arms around himself as he led Hannibal inside.

minimish

idontfindyouthatinteresting

butterflycaps

#tangible #intangible

eltonhjohn

Mignardise

Dr. Lecter was practically salivating as he shut the car door.

He approached Will Graham’s home with a slow, purposeful stride. The sight of the special agent, filthy and barefoot, clutching at himself like a child, was far too rare and precious to rush.

The doctor’s mask as he approached the steps was one of dark disappointment. The grave expression on his face betrayed nothing of the grin in his heart, the water in his mouth.

There was, of course, no need to ask questions.

No need to offer the soft tell me what happened, Will that was settled patiently on the back of his tongue as he came to stand before the broken man on the steps.

Instead, he simply stared into the ashen face of his patient and friend as the younger man slowly lifted his gaze from the ground — though his desperate, searching eyes did not yet meet Hannibal’s own.

#mignardise #ugh will and your puppy dog eyes you kill me

He didn't—he couldn't—look up into Hannibal’s eyes. Instead he focussed on the dull weave of his pants. Dark green, the underside of a crab found washed up on the chesapeake. He blinked, the cold setting in cruelly.

“I went to Minnesota,” his voice was shaking, and Will didn’t know if it was from what he was saying or because of what he did. His hand tightened on his shoulder. A pause, think, “I took Abigail”. Was that a confession? Did he do something that warranted confession? He was a professor, he spoke undivided truths.

“We went to Minnesota” He clarified as his eyes started moving again and he didn’t know why but he suddenly couldn’t focus. His gaze drifted to the side, he blinked, his eyes huge as he struggled to imagine what he had done, drawing a void that terrified him.

“Sh-She didn’t come back with me.” He was shivering now, that was what was making his voice shake so badly. He blinked, his mouth tensing before he slowly looked up Hannibal’s body, into his face (oh, god, he was practically a statue), wide-eyed and waiting for some sort of judgement.

tealtumbleweed

I guess I’ll have to save my own life.

#intangible

ravenofstars

#hannibal rp #will graham rp #basic info #organized blog? i has it #nomnomnom

don't mind me

Biography: Profile

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Stories: Figments

Starters: Eye Contact

nainawhite

#tangible #intangible

I know who I am

Mignardise

Hannibal remained still as the message played, un-crossing and re-crossing his legs only once. Hands still folded, eyes closed, head tilted slightly to one side — listening attentively, without really needing to.

It was like hearing a playback of piece of music he’d composed himself. These opening notes were promising; the cracks in Will’s voice, the strain, the confusion.

I need help.

The doctor’s eyes opened, half-lidded. He breathed in.

Please.

His expression was now one of grave, but measured, concern. Brow creased into a subtle frown, he closed his eyes again. Searching.

Hannibal wanted to help.

He wanted to help Will Graham.

Please. Come here.

Lecter’s eyes were fully open now, and glittering.

It was a pleasant day for driving.

He hadn't stayed in the house for much longer. Will made sure his dogs were in his room, and then left, going outside. He knew that the drive from Baltimore to Wolf Trap would be at least an hour. Thankfully it was early morning and nothing around the capital would be awake.

(These thoughts didn't register—the hum of the nation's legislative system was something that he didn't think about, that he couldn't keep up with. Modern politics sickened him and the city overwhelmed him.)

Outside he shivered and curled up on the stoop, holding himself tightly as he closed his eyes. He swallowed, ignored the cold, screwed his eyes shut and tried to block out the screams and the warm blood on his mouth and the dirt still under his nails. He tried to explore the dark vast unmemory that he held behind him, trailing along like missing dialogue. It was almost physically painful to rewrite the lost time, gut wrenching when he realized that he couldn't. Rocking himself on the cold wooden seat, Will clutched at his shoulders, his eyes flicking across the fence, the mailbox, down to the walking stones that paved a path up to his house. He barely responded as he heard a car pull up, barely moving except to shiver.

#mignardise

I need you to come over. I need—I need help. Please. I’ve done something…

I don’t know what I’ve done.

#mignardise

pannukahvi

i’m here trying not to bite your neck, but it’s beautiful and I’m gonna get so drunk on you and kill your friends you’ll need me and we can be obsessed and i can touch your hair and taste your skin, the ghosts won’t matter ‘cause we’ll hide in sin

Mignardise

There was a still, comfortable silence.

Though it was early morning, Dr. Lecter was fully-dressed. He sat, quite relaxed, in a leather armchair, hands folded in his lap. His expression was neutral — calm. Perfectly content. His shoes were polished to a shining gleam.

It would not be long, now.

He was sure in his certainty that Will Graham would call. That, as the special agent’s darkening world turned darker and darker and more monstrous still, he would cry for help from the shadows, and that this strangled cry would be to him.

The man was clinging to sanity by the edge of his nails, and the fingers of his psyche were breaking.

Hannibal Lecter had broken them himself. Bent and snapped them one by one, like twigs in the forest. Distorted, fragmented pieces of Will’s mind lay scattered, now — trails of it, in the farmlands of Wolf Trap, Virginia. Pieces, filed away neartly in the bookshelves of his trusted psychiatrist’s office, tucked under drawings on Lecter’s desk for safe-keeping. Pieces, left behind at gruesome crime scenes, pieces in the city morgues. Now, a particularly significant piece — missing, lost in Minnesota.

Potentially, unrecoverable. That remained to be seen.

In the silence, his breathing steady and even, barely even perceptible, Hannibal speculated. How might it feel, to be drowning, the way Will Graham was drowning now? The doctor could only hypothesise, of course. Imagination — a curious, wonderful gift of the human brain, and a terrible curse. Hannibal could not relieve Will Graham of his curse, but perhaps, at the end of all this, the boy would learn to take pleasure in it. Then, perhaps, he could stop starving himself of his desires. Perhaps he would even learn to indulge.

It was one of many theoretical outcomes of what had, overall, been a fascinating and enjoyable experiment.

The telephone sat in its place, and did not yet disturb the peace. Lecter’s coat and car keys waited expectantly on their hooks by the door.

There were hardly words left for Will. His hands were in his hair as he bent over himself, gasping, snot and tears dribbling across his face as he imagined the look on Abigail’s face, imagined scrambling through mud to find her body, imagined tearing her nails off with his teeth, saw her eyes glazed over, saw her flesh preserved, saw her presented to him like a gift. It was sickening, what he had done, the images his mind brought to the surface unbidden.

He had turned onto his side and he slowly crawled over to the fridge, using the handles to pull himself up. It hurt to breathe. Thinking again—bloodless, pale, blue,—he dry heaved, his forehead against the refrigerator before he stumbled back, down the hall and into his bathroom. He turned on his shower and rubbed the dirt off his arms, snuffling against his shoulder.

A few minutes later, arms red, nails bitten bloody, he stumbled out to grab his phone, calling up the only person he felt would be able to comprehend what he had done. Hannibal would be the only person who would talk to him like a person, who would make him feel human.

Voicemail:

“I need you to come over. I need—” he paused, blinking, before taking a deep breath, looking around, “—I need help. Please. I’ve done something. . . I don’t know what I’ve done. But I don’t remember Abigail leaving with me. I don’t. . .” He made a noise something in between a cracked gasp and a choked word. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. Her ear is here. Please. Come here.”

He hung up and dropped the phone, turning and stumbling out of his home, collapsing on the steps, curling up. It was cold but that didn’t matter. He couldn’t think. He didn’t deserve to pretend he was human anyway. Maybe he wasn’t worth it.

#mignardise

hannimeow