Hannibal X Gn Reader - Blog Posts
this broken design, ch14
pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader
summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.
Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.
Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.
Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.
read from the beginning here.
ao3 version | Spotify playlist
Your stay at the hospital is hellish, as you’re constantly accompanied by a mind numbing boredom that refuses to leave. You understand that you have to give your body time to heal—you’re suffering from a gunshot wound, after all. However, you have absolutely nothing resembling entertainment to occupy your time with. Instead, you’re left to slowly decay under thin sheets and the nurse’s observant gaze. Your side still burns, but with each passing hour, it gets a little better.
Before you can die of boredom, however, you get a visitor. You glance at the clock, only to find that you’ve been deceived. It’s only been a few hours since Jack’s visit. The thought troubles you. Time is taunting you.
The door to your room slides open suspensefully, before revealing a familiar face. Beverly stands in the doorway, an inappropriately devilish grin on her face. It only takes a few seconds for you to see through the happiness in her smile, straight to the tightness behind the gesture and the stiffness of her posture. She’s been worried for you. The thought makes you feel extremely guilty. Truly, you’ve been a rather horrible friend as of late. Sure, you’ve had a lot of other things going on. Still, Beverly has always made time for you. Why weren’t you able to do the same for her?
“Hey,” Beverly says. Her gaze flits about your form with disinterest and you’re once again reminded of your gratitude for Beverly’s honesty. She’s one of the only people who never looked at you strangely—with fear, apprehension, disgust, pity. “Missed ya.”
“Missed you too, Bev,” you respond, sending her a smile that probably looks more tired than relieved. She seems to appreciate the thought nonetheless. Beverly looks around the room for a moment, before settling in the same chair that Hannibal was sitting in only moments ago. Somehow, she seems to add a sort of brightness to the rather unremarkable space. You tap your fingers against the sheets restlessly. “You just missed all the fun—Jack tore me a new one.” You sigh.
“Hardly,” Beverly huffs in amusement. Her gaze flits from the wall to meet your eyes with an uncharacteristic sincerity. “Jack was worried about you, you know. He’s had a rather short fuse for the past few days; it was driving everyone crazy at the Institute.”
“The past few days?” You manage to ask. You’re hoping you misinterpreted that statement. Surely you haven’t missed several days. Surely you weren’t knocked out for that long.
Beverly’s expression is sympathetic and you feel any confidence you had promptly fade from existence. “You were unconscious for three days,” she says. You don’t know what to say, so you opt for pinching the bridge of your nose and pretending not to notice the pain in your side or the fatigue clinging to your form. “We were all worried, of course,” Beverly continues, as if trying to keep you distracted from the admission. “Me, Jack, Price, Alana-”
“Alana?” You interrupt.
“Well, of course,” your friend says with furrowed brows. Somehow, Beverly’s remark reminds you of your friendship with Alana—the friendship that you had been purposefully avoiding for so long. Ever since she kissed you, you’ve been avoiding her. That’s surely a justifiable course of action, but hearing about Alana’s concern for you makes you think of all the memories you have with her.
After all, Alana was your first friend at the Institute. She stuck up for you in front of Jack, when you were a nameless rookie and he was the intimidating superior officer that you were afraid of speaking out to. Alana was your psychiatrist for a while, too. Dr. Bloom is different from the majority of the medical professionals you’ve worked with. She doesn’t treat you like an endangered animal in a zoo exhibit. She never once tried to poke or prod at you—manipulate you in the way so many others do. Alana was really a breath of fresh air during your time of need.
“I need to talk to her later,” you murmur. You intend for the remark to be a note to yourself, but your companion hears it anyway.
“Sure,” Beverly answers unobtrusively. “Hey, tell me about it?”
It doesn’t take you long to understand what she’s getting at. “Gideon?” you ask, unable to keep a bit of suspicion from your voice, “Why?”
“I’ve heard bits and pieces, rumors, but I want to hear it from you,” Beverly admits. “You don’t have to tell me right this instant. Just…” She breaks off, evidently unable to find the words.
“It’s fine, I’ll tell you,” you respond. You think you owe Beverly this explanation, if only for how neglectful of a friend you’ve been the past few weeks. You tell her as much and she waves the remark off, which only incites more guilt within you. You’ve been entirely negligent and neglectful—something you seek to repair in the coming time.
Somehow, reliving the kidnapping is actually helpful. By recounting what happened, you can start to come to terms with the events that unfolded. Looking back on it now, you realize that you had no choice but to kill Gideon. Indeed, just as Jack said, he would have killed you first. After killing Chilton and Lounds, there’s no telling what he would have done next—except, you realize with mounting dread, go after Alana.
“That’s… very shitty,” Beverly admits once you’ve explained everything, seemingly lost for the right words. You relate to the sentiment. Truly, the entire situation is beyond words.
“I know,” you say, acknowledging the remark before choosing to push the conversation onto lighter topics. You glance around the room with irritation. “Now I’m just stuck in this fucking room. I’m dying of boredom.” Beverly laughs, her eyes gleaming.
“You’re going to love me for this,” she smirks, a mischievous gesture that reminds you of how cunning she can be. You send her a quizzical look and she makes a show of rolling her eyes. “I brought clothes. Just change into these and they’ll never notice you leaving.” She glances at the door behind her before looking back to you, waiting to see what you’ll say.
“You’re my savior,” you remark sincerely. Beverly smiles triumphantly, before offering you a hand. You take the proffered assistance and she steadies you as you leave the mattress. To your surprise, you’re able to walk on your own—albeit with less speed and composure than usual. You step into the bathroom and close the door behind you, before finally taking off your damned hospital gown. The thing is horrid and you take immense pleasure in shoving it into the absurdly small trash can in the corner of the room. Thankfully, you took a shower this morning, so you won’t have to put clean clothes on over dirtied skin. The clothes Beverly brought don’t fit super well, but they’re leagues better than that drab hospital gown. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a few seconds, unsurprised by what you see.
You look different. Haunted, hallowed. Your face almost looks more gaunt, your eyes more dull. You didn’t emerge from captivity unscathed, that’s for damn sure. The wound ripping the skin at your side is proof of that. There’s also a jagged scar cutting diagonally down your face, reaching from the edge of your temple and falling dangerously close to your left eye. You bring a hand up to the cut, wincing at the brief pain the motion incites.
A harsh knock on the door rips you out of your self-inflicted torturous reverie. You take a deep breath and regard your reflection one more time before leaving the bathroom. You stand in front of Beverly and she looks you up and down.
“Not bad,” Beverly says.
“Jack is going to kill me if he finds out,” you realize aloud.
“Which is why he won’t,” Beverly responds confidently. Her eyebrows furrow at your statement, as if the very suggestion of failure is laughable. “Find out, that is.” You click your tongue and grin at her; she then grins back. Once the elevator doors open, the two of you walk through the long hall and towards the exit. Your departure is painfully slow, but within a few minutes, the two of you are standing outside of the hospital building. The afternoon sun is bright today and the sunshine warms your skin. You feel a relieved smile growing on your face. Beverly says she’ll pull the car up to the driveway and walks off towards her car. Moments later, you’re successfully seated in the passenger seat of your friend’s van.
The car ride is quicker than you expect. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten the chance to catch up with Beverly, so you’re happy to hear her amusing anecdotes and exciting stories. Truly, it feels as if only a few minutes pass before she’s pulling into your driveway. Your friend puts the car in park and turns to regard you, a conflicted expression on her face. You feel rather the same in that regard. You haven’t been home in several days now and, somehow, it almost feels as if you’re intruding on someone else’s life. You’re preoccupied with the past, as you listen to the cicadas humming in the trees nearby. What if you hadn’t gone after Alana? Would Gideon have killed her? He very well could have. Despite your near certainty that you did the right thing, you can’t rid yourself of the guilt and regret. You should’ve done things differently. You should’ve-
“Hey,” Beverly interjects, her voice cutting through the rushing static in your ears. Her concerned eyes meet yours. “Don’t beat yourself up about it—any of it. You did the best you could.” As always, Beverly knows exactly what to say. She knows not to tell you that you made the right choice. She knows not to remind you of Gideon’s criminality. Her hand reaches out to clasp yours and you lean over the median to embrace her. Beverly hugs you back and, for a moment, it feels like everything will be okay.
Even despite Beverly’s reassurances, there is blood on your hands as you wave goodbye to her and step into your home. The scar on your face burns with recognition, remorse. Crimson pools color the ground at your feet and your victims follow your every step, taunting you from the shadows. You are haunted by the events that transpired and the choices you made. You had spent so long in a false state of overconfidence, thinking yourself immune from it all. As you walk into your bedroom, a blaring sound greets your ears. You walk over to your alarm clock and disable the alarm, both satisfied and unsettled by the silence that follows. How long did you spend ignoring the shrieking alarms in the recesses of your mind?
Darkness draws the curtains over the day. Sleep comes easily because, despite it all, you’re exhausted. Unfortunately, your slumber doesn’t feel much longer than the blink of an eye, and you wake to find your skin soaked with sweat. Your stomach growls and you resign to eating a small breakfast before tackling your hygiene. Once you’ve eaten, you choose to take a shower. The hot stream of water tickles your skin and you have to be careful not to let the water fall directly on your wound. The last thing you need is a burn on top of a gunshot wound—that would add insult to injury (literally). Your shower takes a bit longer than normal, mainly because your left arm is restricted in movement. By the time you’re turning the knob to stop the water, your left side is burning from the exertion. You grit your teeth and step out of the shower, grabbing a towel with your right hand. What follows is a rather awkward toweling-off, as you struggle to dry off without aggravating your injuries. You take several minutes to carefully rebandage your wound, before turning to the pile of fresh clothes on the counter near the sink.
The act of changing into clean clothes proves to be more difficult than you initially expect. The most minute of movements can further irritate your injury. Even the attire you chose—a simple shirt and your most comfortable sweatpants—seems to cling to your form. It feels as if your skin is stretched far too tight over your bones. Despite your expectations, you only feel worse after the shower.
You’re not out of the bathroom for more than two minutes before you hear the doorbell ring. Dread coils in your chest and you walk to the door, opening it before you think of the potential consequences. The door swings to the side to reveal Hannibal standing on your doorstep. A drop of water slides down your temple. You bat at it with your hand, before regarding Hannibal.
“Hello,” you manage to say, trying your best to suppress the several different emotions threatening to surface. Your heart is pounding uncomfortably within the confines of your ribcage. You feel your nails digging into your palms as you come to terms with the situation Hannibal has just forced you into. You can’t exactly turn him away at the door—especially knowing that he loathes rudeness and could easily kill you for the offense. Although, in reality, he could kill you regardless. Why are you still allowing this to happen? Why are you still complicit?
"May I come in?" You bite the inside of your cheek. He is only asking to maintain the pretense that you have control over the situation.
"Sure," you acquiesce guardedly. The wound at your side stings in remembrance. Trepidation makes a home in your chest. Seeing Hannibal once more forces your mind to conjure images of him in surgical attire, slicing through your sutures and putting them back when finished. A not insignificant part of you wonders why it took you so long to come to terms with the danger that Hannibal wields with ease. How many times have you invited him into your home? You've been a fool.
Hannibal is unaware of your thought process. He's regarding you with mild interest, as if he'd like to dissect your thoughts. You have no intentions of actually speaking on those thoughts, so he'll just have to keep wondering, you think wryly. His voice cuts through the air. "Your departure from the hospital yesterday-"
“What about it?” You interject, stepping past him to close the door before returning to your original position. If Hannibal is annoyed by the interruption, he doesn’t show it. You’re skating on extremely thin ice here. The most minute of gestures could send you into the icy depths of his anger. Sure, you’ve grown accustomed to feeling like that in Hannibal’s presence. That sentiment seems to be amplified today, though. You’re inexplicably taken back to your days at the Academy. You were a wide-eyed recruit, once—filled with the optimism and naïveté of someone who hadn’t seen the field. Instructors taught you everything you needed to know about criminals: how to apprehend them, how their minds worked.
None of it could have prepared you for what followed. Your first mission left you with a nasty bruise on your jaw and blood-spattered clothes. You hadn’t spoken for days after, and remained shut up in your house until Jack Crawford forced himself inside and sat next to you. At the time, you hadn’t known the man at all. You expected him to chew you out, to start yelling at you for your uselessness. Crawford did nothing of the sort. Instead, he simply… spoke to you. He recalled his training days, his first mission when he stared down a murderer of seventeen innocents. You found solace in knowing that you weren’t overreacting, that the Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit himself expressed similar feelings once upon a time.
“This job isn’t for the faint of heart,” Crawford had remarked “You have to come to terms with the fact that some people are past saving.” The thought troubled you. (It still troubles you.)
“Even if we can save them?” You choked out, your voice raspy from neglect. If the man was surprised by you breaking your silence, he never commented on it.
“Even then,” Crawford sighed. At that moment, he looked wizened beyond his years: a man who had seen his fair share of violence and maleficence. Crawford turned back to you, a determined look in his eyes. “We deal with monsters here, who are infinitely more cruel than you thought possible. They will come in different shapes, sizes, personalities. But there’s one thing that every single one of these people has in common… They’re all dangerous.”
“But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” Crawford asked. “I know you’re talented—I keep an eye on all the recruits. You could be a member of the Behavioral Analysis Unit within a few years. You have a good eye, a good feel for how this works. Excellent shot.” The praise barely registered to you in your tortured state. Now, it brings a ghost of a smile to your face. “But this work… it changes you.” Spoken from experience, judging by the resigned look on Crawford’s face.
“You can leave this behind,” Crawford continued, his lips set in a thin line. “Get another job. Have a normal life.” He pushed himself up to stand over you. You still remember the look on his face in that moment: how his eyes gleamed with firm resolve. “Or you can walk out of this door with me, back to headquarters.” It hadn’t taken you long to come to a decision. After a few seconds, you got to your feet and followed after him.
Now, as you stand across from a killer in your entryway, you wonder if that answer was a mistake. Where would you be, if you weren’t here? The thought is pointless to consider. It’s far too late for contemplation.
Hannibal says your name and you’re snapped out of your trance. He’s staring at you expectantly, but you haven’t the faintest idea what he is looking for. “You were assigned to bedrest for three more days,” Hannibal eventually says.
“And?” You ask, moving past him to walk into the living room. Hannibal follows behind you, a silent shadow at your back. A shiver rolls down your spine as you walk the short distance with your back to him, almost entirely vulnerable. You move to sit on your sofa and Hannibal takes a seat at the armchair across from it. The positioning reminds you of your sessions with him. You grit your teeth.
“Does Jack know that you’ve returned home?” Hannibal asks, raising his eyebrows slightly. His gaze pins you to the sofa.
He’s playing dirty with that remark and he knows it. “What do you think?” You ask, unable to keep a slight hint of sardonicism from leaking into your voice. Hannibal only raises his eyebrows. You sigh and lean back against your sofa. “Of course Jack doesn’t know. He would murder me, to put it lightly.” The thought prompts some guilt to rise in you. You forget the feeling when Hannibal inexplicably rises to his feet and rounds the coffee table, standing over you.
“Your wound needs consistent medical attention.” He demands.
“It’s fine,” you argue, “It doesn’t even hurt.” That is a complete lie. Hannibal seems to know that, if the skeptical pinch to his lips is anything to go by. He was a surgeon, after all. You had forgotten— tried to forget , your brain supplies. The air between the two of you is silent. The way Hannibal looms over you now makes you nervous. You don’t know what to say to break through this seemingly insurmountable tension.
“Allow me?” It’s phrased like a question, yet you feel as if you can’t say no. You nod, not trusting the words that could fall from your lips. Hannibal takes an impossible step closer and you push yourself up, maneuvering so that you lie across the couch. You pull up your shirt, feeling strangely self-conscious. Still, Hannibal is—was—a medical professional. This isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before.
Hannibal hums and looks down at the bandage covering the wound. You’re sure he will get a good idea of the wound’s progress without lifting the entire thing off. His fingertips glide across the skin near the bandage and your skin prickles. For what seems like an eternity, his hand lingers. Just as you’re about to let out a sarcastic quip, he lightly tugs at the edge of the bandage and lifts it up.
“See?” You say, feeling the need to break the silence settling in the space. Hannibal’s gaze is focused on your wound with intense precision and you have to wonder just what he’s looking for. You’ve seen your fair share of bullet wounds, but you’re not usually this involved in the healing process. You can't remember the last time you got shot in the field. It must’ve been a few years ago, at least.
Hannibal is staring at you now. His eyes shine crimson in the light. He clearly doesn’t believe you. You sigh. “Fine,” you acquiesce, “It still hurts. But you have to understand, I was going crazy in that hospital room.” You meet his eyes to further emphasize your point.
“And the truth comes out,” Hannibal murmurs. He’s staring down at his hand, which you’re still holding for some reason. You’re quick to release your grip. “As it is wont to do.” That latter remark is murmured under his breath and it is clearly meant as a note to himself. You hear it anyway. The statement is foreboding, and you almost have to wonder if it’s an omen. “Do you have fresh bandages for tomorrow? You should change them daily.”
“Yes, I do,” you respond detachedly, smoothing down the bandage he had pulled up to investigate the wound. You hastily pull your shirt back down, feeling strangely exposed. “And I changed the bandage this morning.” You had to shower, after all.
For a fraction of a moment, you swear Hannibal looks disappointed. You’re quick to dismiss the notion. There is nothing he would get from bandaging your wound in such a manner. It’s not like he can steal your kidney again, you think. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the dark humor you seem to be using to cope.
“I will see you tonight for your appointment,” Hannibal announces, smoothly exiting the room before you can so much as raise an objection. As you walk towards the front door, you begin to recognize the remark for what it is: a demand. You have no choice in the matter. Arguably, the luxury of choice was ripped from your hands when you embraced complicity. You have no one but yourself to blame, you think begrudgingly.
The rest of the day passes without incident, thankfully. You spend most of the time resting off and on. Your wound still hurts, but it’s a marked improvement from how it felt when you first woke up. You desperately want to make yourself busy by cleaning your house, but your side protests any activity more strenuous than walking. You eventually settle for watching something on television, allowing your mind to drift as the bright colors assault your vision.
Before long, it’s time for you to leave for your appointment with Hannibal. You contemplate changing into more formal clothes, before remembering how laborious the process of dressing was this morning. Besides, Hannibal already saw you earlier. There’s no point in trying to pretend that you’re well-collected and composed, you huff. Mind made up, you grab your car keys and leave the house.
Since you’re dreading the session, the drive passes particularly quickly. You’re so preoccupied with your thoughts this evening that you don’t realize Hannibal has been waiting for you to enter his office until he says your name. You get up from your seat in the waiting room and follow him through the doorway, your heart in your throat. For some reason, you get the feeling that you won’t be making it out of here alive. Your eyes flit about the office and you see the space in a new light. Anything and everything sharp can be a weapon. The only exit to the room is the door you just entered through.
There’s a hand on your shoulder and you’re briefly jarred back to reality. Hannibal motions to the chairs and you follow his direction. Unsurprisingly, the chairs feel impossibly close today. If you were to really sprawl, you would likely hit Hannibal. You cross one leg over the other and try to subtly shrink into the back of the chair. Hannibal’s speech greets your ears, but your thoughts reduce his voice to a frantic rhythm. There’s a distant screeching sound reverberating in your skull and your skin feels as if it’s buzzing. You let your hands rest on your thighs, intimately aware of the fact that you are entirely unarmed. That thought makes you pause. Why should you be armed? The tension in the space is stifling and Hannibal’s gaze is intense, but there’s no need for a pistol.
“What would you like to talk about?” Hannibal asks. You frown internally. You’re not sure what to talk about. You almost don’t want to talk at all. Hannibal must recognize that, because he falls silent, too.
You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you instead retreat to your mind palace. The gilded white pillars are tinted with crimson. There are muddied footsteps tracking through the foyer. A clock ticks hauntingly, creating a loud rhythm in your ears. You walk down the hall, only to find Abel Gideon’s corpse. You’re thrown back to captivity, to a gunshot ringing in your ears and the horrible thump of a corpse hitting the ground. Your neck aches in remembrance. Abel Gideon’s body looks the same as you left it: a bullet carving a hole through his temple, a shallow cut near the back of his neck. The flooring is red and Gideon’s blood almost seeps into it, creating a murky crimson that is nearly indistinguishable from what it was before.
Abel Gideon was but one man. One criminal, one villain, one monster. There are dozens, hundreds, thousands more. You contemplate the thought as you continue down the hallowed hall of your mind palace. Garret Jacob Hobbs, Franklyn Froideveaux, Abel Gideon… They were only the first tumultuous waves on a pitch black ocean, swirling madly about. You can feel the beginnings of a harsh wind whipping at your skin, rustling your clothes. The skies are dark. The storm is yet to come.
Before long, you realize you have to leave. There is only so long you can stare off into space before Haninbal will grow suspicious. You close your eyes for a few seconds, before opening them again to find yourself back in Hannibal’s office. You’re restless. The chair threatens to swallow you in its embrace. Your fingers are tapping against the arms of the chair, your foot tapping against the ground. You need to move. You need to escape. You need to-
It is a twisted irony, you think as a single word slips from your lips. You’ve spent so long pretending, feigning ignorance. You think back to that fateful moment all those months ago, when Hannibal took you to his residence. You saw the antlers, remembered the fanciful food at the dinner parties. It had felt as if fiery flames were stitching your every nerve together, igniting one horrid realization within you. Ironic, how one word will send your world aflame once more.
“See?” The remark crawls from your tongue, wrenching your lips open and sinking into the still air. You inhale sharply as you notice Hannibal’s eyes flash crimson. His posture is still and he almost appears frozen in place, save for the measured breaths entering his nose and exiting his lips. His unblinking, unflinching stare assaults you with horrible, cloying fear. The feeling paralyzes you, leaving your legs locked and your hands clenched in fists. Your heart is humming in your ears. You can’t hear what he says next, but it doesn’t matter. There is no mistaking the expression on his face, the wrath hidden behind that thin-pressed smile:
Hannibal knows.
note: one chapter left for Act One! woop woop!
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this broken design, ch11
pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader
summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.
“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”
read from the beginning here.
ao3 version | Spotify playlist
warnings: kidnapping, canon typical blood/violence/gore, mentions of animal dissection (just the words "animal dissection")
You fall in and out of consciousness. One moment, you’re roughly dragged along the ground past Alana’s house; the next moment, there’s a blindfold secured over your eyes and you’re situated in what you guess to be the trunk of a car. You feel every minute bump in the road and you swear the driver is intentionally hitting potholes, if only to jostle you around more. At some point, you feel your vision fading—even amidst your best efforts to remain awake. You know you need to stay conscious to escape, but your body refuses to obey your commands.
The next time you wake, you’re met with an incessant, throbbing headache. You wearily blink your dry eyes open, wincing as light sears into your vision. Left with nothing but a buzzing silence and your thoughts, you berate yourself for letting your guard down. You had forgotten the nature of the people you were investigating. You’re in danger. You take a deep breath around the gag in your mouth and try to remain calm. Thankfully, your blindfold must have been removed at some point.
Surveying your surroundings, you find a dilapidated dining room with dusty trinkets lining the walls. There’s a fanciful chandelier hanging over the luxurious dining table, which has seven empty seats. You’re located at the back head of the table—your wrists bound to the arms of the chair you were placed in. There are mere ropes holding you to the chair, but somehow, you can hardly even move, let alone try to get out of them. You must have been drugged—with something potent enough to remove all traces of physical resistance from your system. You can’t do anything more than make your fingers twitch from where they’re resting on the edges of the chair arms. Moreover, when you do manage to move them, your hand twitches sporadically. That’s definitely not a good sign.
It’s hard to stay awake, even though you know you need to be conscious and aware of your surroundings to keep yourself safe. There’s nothing to occupy you except for the monotonous ticking of a clock in the hall behind you, your blurred vision, and your aching limbs.
At one point, when you drag yourself out of the void of unconsciousness, you find that you have a companion. Frederick Chilton is sitting in the chair on your right. You blink at him blearily and try to get his attention, only to remember that you’re both gagged and nearly unable to move. Upon closer investigation, it looks like he’s unconscious. You don’t stay conscious long enough to learn anything about Chilton’s situation or see your captor. Weirdly enough, your captor has been strangely absent—leaving you to decay amidst molding walls in solitude. Each time you fight off unconsciousness, you notice that Chilton is more roughed up. Your captor has a grudge against him, and it doesn’t take you long to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Ironically, by trying to protect Alana, you only ended up putting yourself in more danger. If you had the strength, you’d shake your head in disbelief.
The opportunity to speak with your captor finally comes the next time you wake. The man, evidently finished with torturing Chilton for the day—judging by the blood soaking through the man’s shirt—tightens the ropes around Chilton’s wrists. This is your chance. “Gideon?” You feel yourself asking. It comes out muffled because of the gag. Your voice is dry and raspy; your entire mouth is dry and the words almost seem to bounce around restlessly.
You blink at the figure. It looks like Hobbs. But, no, it can’t be Hobbs—Hobbs is dead. You blink and try to peel away the Minnesota Shrike’s cloying visage. The sickly emerald tones in his eyes fall away to reveal a sharp blue-eyed gaze. Dr. Abel Gideon is looking at you with interest; Chilton is no longer the subject of his attention. You cast a hateful gaze at Chilton’s prone form, feeling a momentary stab of satisfaction at seeing him hurt. You have to rip yourself from those thoughts to focus on Gideon, who is now standing next to you.
“I must say, you were out for quite a while,” Gideon hums. You can’t tell if he’s speaking to himself or to you. He turns your chair ninety degrees to make you face him. “Perhaps I overdid it with the drugs. I haven’t been at the operating table in quite a while…” His focused musings are eerie. The man is treating you as if you’re an experiment—an animal on his dissection table. Eventually, Gideon sighs and removes the gag from your mouth.
“Why did you take me?” You ask immediately. That’s the first thing you want to know. You can justify Chilton’s presence here—he worked with Gideon in the past and nearly convinced him he was the Chesapeake Ripper. You’ve never done anything of the sort, however. You’re not a mental health professional, nor have you even spoken to Gideon aside from the single conversation you had through the bars of his cell.
Unsurprisingly, Gideon doesn’t answer your question. You’re not even sure if he can hear what you’re saying. “Say hello, Frederick.” Your assailant says instead, momentarily stepping aside to make sure you can see the man in question. Frederick Chilton cannot say hello, since several of his organs have been evidently removed and he is unconscious. You grimace. You don’t like the man, but you don’t think he deserves to be mutilated so cruelly. You swallow hard. “Might as well have some fun before I dispose of you properly.”
It takes you a moment to comprehend that statement. You look up, only to find that Gideon isn’t looking at Chilton anymore—he’s looking at you. You take a rattling breath in. Gideon walks away for a treacherous moment. Your heart is racing in your chest, so loudly that its rhythm reverberates in your ears. He’s back a moment later with a knife in hand. His fascination with Chilton is gone. The psychiatrist lies neglected in his chair, unconscious but ignored. For the first time in your life, you envy Frederick Chilton.
“Dr. Lecter is rather fond of you. Perhaps if I…” Gideon breaks off. Quick as lightning, he drags his knife along the skin near your left eye. You scream and writhe in your bonds, but he only smirks. You know that’s going to leave a nasty scar. That must be the point, you think to yourself faintly. He wants to leave a mark on you. “I forgot how enjoyable this was.” You want to kick at him, but Gideon must sense your thought process because he quickly steps out of range.
You’re left to slowly dissipate in your chair, the uncomfortable sensation of warm blood trickling down your face. At one point, you feel droplets fall from your eye in a manner rather similar to tears. The next time you blink, your vision is crimson-tainted. Your vision doesn’t seem to be affected, other than the blood falling into your eyes. The entire left side of your face is stinging. This time, when you feel your eyes slip shut, you don’t fight it.
You have no idea how much time passes after that. It’s clear that the drug is still in your system, because you can’t keep yourself awake for more than what you assume to be an hour or two. Chilton remains a steady, silent presence at your side. Each time you wake, you realize that he looks no better than before. You can hardly focus on him, though—not when it’s been several days (you can assume) since you’ve had anything to eat or drink. Your limbs are cooperating with your commands a bit more than before, but you know you’re still nowhere near your usual level of fitness.
The ugly sound of a chair scraping against the ground jerks you out of your thoughts. Gideon is dragging a chair towards the table—a chair that is inhabited by a redheaded woman that looks far too familiar. It doesn’t take you long to recognize where you know her from—she’s Freddie Lounds, the same reporter who has been dragging your reputation through the mud all these years. Gideon pushes her to a place at the table at your left, opposite Frederick Chilton. Dread stews in your chest. This feels more significant than you can currently comprehend. Gideon stands at the other end of the table, his gaze contemplative as he looks from Chilton to Lounds, before finally settling on you. You immediately dislike the strange resolve in his eyes.
“Choose.”
“What?” You say.
“Choose,” Gideon repeats. There is nothing short of complete, utter sincerity in his voice. “Choose who lives and who dies.” You stare at him in disbelief, wondering if you misheard him. Evidently, you didn’t—Gideon is holding a gun in his right hand and seems to be waiting for your command. There’s an entertained smile on his face. He must be enjoying this spectacle—seeing you come to terms with the fact that you will be the cause of an onlooker’s death.
You glance between Freddie Lounds and Frederick Chilton. Who should live? Who should die? You have both of their lives in your hands right now. Freddie shoots you a wide-eyed look. Frederick looks equally terrified and his eyes are begging you for help. You experimentally tug at the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. Unsurprisingly, they don’t budge. You try to think of a way out of this. It takes you a few moments to remember that you do have a weapon—a dagger concealed in your boot. However, it’s nearly impossible to reach without informing Gideon of its presence. It seems you’re well and truly cornered. You have no choice but to kill.
You contemplate who to save. It’s a macabre thought, but a necessary one nonetheless. You’re sure that your hesitation would only encourage Gideon to kill both Lounds and Chilton. You take a deep breath. Chilton worked with Gideon on numerous occasions, and manipulated him into thinking he was someone else. Lounds wrote some unsavory things about you, but she’s ultimately innocent in all this. She’s nothing but a bystander—a civilian in the wrong place at the wrong time. You take a shuddering breath in.
Gideon is waiting expectantly. You return his gaze and incline your head towards Chilton. In a true show of cowardice, you can’t say his name. You don’t want to utter his name—don’t want to succumb to the reality that he will die because of you. The smirk on Gideon’s face widens impossibly, showing crooked pointed teeth and a truly maleficent elation. You watch as he pulls a gun from his belt—evidently stolen from his prison transports—and cocks it. Gideon steps around the table and moves to stand a mere few feet away from Chilton—far too close for him to miss. The gun is steadily aimed at Chilton’s temple.
Gideon’s finger squeezes the trigger. Your heart is thundering in your ears, but you know what you need to do. Your arms are trapped but, thankfully, your ankles aren’t bound to the chair. You lean forward and kick Chilton’s chair as hard as you can.
The gun fires.
Chilton falls to the ground. The bullet resides in the wall behind him, leaving the drywall to crumble around the entrance point. You wait for a puddle of crimson blood to grow on the floor, turning the carpet red. Nothing of the sort is present. Frederick is unscathed.
“Well, well,” Gideon remarks, putting the gun on his belt for a minute to deliver a slow, mocking clap. The applause echoes in the hollow space around you, creating a horrible rhythm. Freddie’s eyes are wide and the expression on her face is indecipherable; it almost looks as if she’s truly seeing you for the first time. “You think you’re clever, do you?” You don’t elect to respond.
“Fine,” Gideon remarks. “You’ve made your choice.”
Gideon cocks his gun and pushes it against your own temple this time. He raises an eyebrow, as if daring you to utter your last words. You stare back at him defiantly, heart in your throat. Just as his finger squeezes the trigger once more, you rock your chair to the side with enough momentum to send you crashing down to the ground. You sense the cold metal of your dagger resting against your ankle, and it only takes a second of manipulation for the dagger to fall down to the floor. From there, you twist and lean back until you can grasp at it with your bound hands. You maneuver to the side and duck under the table to guard yourself from the onslaught of gunfire. With the momentary coverage, you’re able to cut through the ropes binding your wrists to the chair. The effort is rather awkward and certainly hurts, but you’re miraculously able to get your hands free. You idly wonder if Gideon is giving you this time to break free of your bonds, if he wants the thrill of the hunt. The thought makes your stomach turn. You crawl under the table and jump out at the side. You’re quickly met with the business end of Gideon’s gun and a malicious smirk. You dive to the side and roll, swiftly getting to your feet and wielding your dagger.
In a gunfight, the person with a dagger is far outmatched. Right now, Gideon has the upper hand, since he has a gun. You need to fight offensively—fighting defensively will get you killed here. You also need to be unpredictable—fight dirty, use common household objects as weapons. Perhaps most importantly, you need to move the fight elsewhere. Otherwise, Chilton and Lounds could be injured in the conflict. Knowing this, you decide to turn and duck down the hallway behind you, confident that Gideon will follow after you. Sure enough, you hear his footsteps follow you through the hall. You sprint down the hall, ducking around corners until you come across a small supply closet. It’s just barely big enough to stand in and you do so, before pressing your lips together and holding your breath.
“Ready or not, here I come,” Gideon announces, his footsteps echoing in the eerily silent hall. The floorboards in front of the closet creak and you have to put a hand over your mouth to stifle your breathing. The killer pauses in his tracks just outside where you’re hiding.
You duck down instinctually and a bullet rifles through the closet door where your head had been just seconds ago. Gideon shoots another bullet a short distance from the first and it nearly skims the top of your head as you’re bending down. Eventually, he must decide that you’re not in the closet, because he continues walking forward.
You take the gifted opportunity and shove the closet door open, before lunging forward and stabbing Gideon in the back of the neck. He lets out a pained hiss and claps a hand over his neck, before turning around and firing at you. That shot seems far too close for you to dodge, but soon Gideon is lunging at you and the thought slips to the back of your mind. You bend low and manage to tackle him to the ground, before making a grab for the gun. Your effort fails as Gideon throws you off of him with ease. Quick as lightning, he pushes you into the ground and chokes you. His gun meets the side of your head and his grip on your neck tightens, effectively robbing you of breath.
Your vision is beginning to blur. You know you’re near the end; you don’t have much air left. You try to kick out at him, but Gideon doesn’t budge. Your hand scrabbles for purchase on his relentless grip, trying to free your airway. In the scuffle, you somehow lost your dagger. You blindly reach behind you with your free hand, praying that it fell to the floor behind you. To your surprise, your hand closes around something sharp—your dagger. You don’t hesitate to stab upward into his left eye. Gideon screams and instinctively loosens his grip on your neck. His hold on his gun is loose; you twist to the side, ignoring the inexplicable stab of pain in your side when you do so, and rip it from his grasp. Gideon’s left hand covers his eye and his right hand reaches out towards his gun, which you’re now holding. You don’t give him the chance to get it back, instead putting the pistol to his temple and firing.
Gideon falls backward, hitting the ground with a loud thump. You push yourself up to a sitting position before twisting to kneel, desperately hacking and coughing as you regain your breath. You’re certain you’d never been closer to death than in that awful moment, with Gideon looming over you with a devilish smirk on his face. You must’ve bitten your cheek somehow, because there’s the coppery taste of blood in your mouth. It hurts to swallow. Once you regain your breath, you stumble up and brace yourself against the wall. Gideon’s corpse burns into your vision.
Laughter reverberates in your ears. Garret Jacob Hobbs stands further down the hall, a brilliant maniacal smirk on his face. There is nothing but malicious glee in his eyes. Your first victim regards your latest. You blink and Hobbs becomes Franklyn Froideveaux. Franklyn stares at you with hollow, unseeing pits for eyes. His skin rifles outward, exposing the mess of bloodied organs residing in his chest and stomach.
For a fraction of a moment, the pendulum swings before your eyes. Gideon’s body is still in front of you but, when you blink, it’s gone. You hiss and grit your teeth hard, trying to rip yourself out of this reverie. This is your design. This is your design. Your bullet carved a neat hole in his forehead, allowing crimson droplets to flow down his face and onto the ground. The wound on his neck must be adding to the accumulating puddle of blood.
There’s a stifled yell from behind you and you’re broken from your thoughts. You turn your back on Gideon’s corpse and run back to the dining room, only to meet the eyes of Freddie Lounds. “Miss Lounds,” you remark, wincing at how raspy your voice is. The effort to speak feels slightly uncomfortable. You continue anyway. “I’m sorry, let me help you there.” You move toward her and use your dagger to cut the ropes binding her wrists. Then, you cut the gag off from where it’s knotted at the back of her head. Freddie doesn’t say anything, but she does rub her wrists with a pained grimace. You immediately feel guilty. Somehow, it feels as if it’s your fault that she’s here.
There’s a strange expression on Freddie’s face as she regards you. She almost looks… worried. “What’s the matter?” You feel the need to ask. Freddie wordlessly points at your torso. You look down and grit your teeth, feeling a brutal pain ripping the breath right from your chest.
There’s a bullet lodged in your side—the oblique, you remember from your lectures. You immediately remember the shot from earlier—the one that came far too close to dodge. In the heat of the battle, you hadn’t noticed. Now, you wince and bring a hand down to exert pressure on the wound. Freddie’s staring at you in disbelief. For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence as the two of you remain quiet. Then, Freddie inexplicably moves towards the table and grabs a napkin. She hands it to you and you thank her, pressing it up against your side. Unsurprisingly, the fabric is quickly growing bloodstained. You take a deep breath and try to look over your shoulder, despite the pain it triggers in your side. It seems the bullet didn’t exit your body.
You weakly grasp at the wall, before slowly sliding down until you’re seated on the ground. There’s a bead of sweat trickling down your neck. Your adrenaline was pumping before, bringing your attention away from the inexplicable discomfort at your side. Now, however, all you can focus on is the throbbing pain.
“Freddie,” you remark. The reporter raises an eyebrow. “Can you…?” You break off, looking at the phone mounted to the wall in the other room. It’s just barely visible from your current position on the ground. Freddie seems to understand what you’re saying, because she runs over to the phone and dials 911. You raspily tell her to mention Jack Crawford and she does, from what you can hear.
“They’re on their way,” Freddie says. It’s the first time she’s spoken since Gideon first brought her into the dining room. Your vision is blurry at the edges, but you can still make out the shell shocked expression on Freddie’s face. She looks completely out of her element—startled and disturbed, as if the world has just flipped on its axis. Guilt finds a way into your heart again.
“I’m sorry.” You manage to say, past the bloody taste in your mouth.
“Why are you apologizing?” Freddie asks. She’s squinting at you in suspicion.
“My fault,” you respond through gritted teeth. Somehow, the effort to talk is now met with a harsh twist of pain that bolts through you like lightning. You continue to apply a rather shaky pressure to the wound, grimacing when you see the napkin is now crimson. Freddie gets up and grabs a few more napkins, before squatting down next to you once more.
“It’s not your fault,” Freddie murmurs, shaking her head and averting her eyes. She looks relatively unharmed—at least, physically speaking. She is justifiably shaken by the events that transpired. Freddie changes the napkin in your hand for a fresh one. You whisper a word of gratitude and she nods, her lips drawn tight in a flat line.
Time drags on. Everything around you is fuzzy. Freddie hovers over you, a surprisingly worried expression on her face. You try to reach out to her, weakly reassure her that she’ll be okay, but you can’t move. Everything burns. The adrenaline you had earlier must be wearing off, because now you’re intimately aware of all your wounds. Blood trickles down your lips, likely creating a rather gruesome picture—if Freddie’s expression is anything to go by.
It feels like it takes years for help to arrive. You know it can’t be more than fifteen minutes, yet it feels as if you wait for an eternity. When you finally hear the distant sound of a door getting kicked in, you can’t help but let out a small relieved breath. Admittedly, even breathing hurts. You feebly adjust the napkin against your side. You hear the familiar words of agents announcing their entrance to the building. In moments, there are several agents entering the room. A tactical medic approaches you within moments. There’s blood seeping down your skin and soaking through your clothes. You don’t have the strength to do anything except exert a weak pressure on your wound. Your breaths are harsh gasps and increasingly hard to come by. You blink.
It’s hard to be aware of your surroundings. You manage to fight the urge to remain in this dreary darkness and your eyes flutter open. You’re reclined on a stretcher in an ambulance, with several straps preventing you from movement. Your vision is swimming, but you can vaguely make out faces looking over you. You blink a few times in an attempt to clear your sight; when your vision finally returns to normal, you feel fear strike through your heart. Hannibal is sitting at your side, a sharp gleam in his eyes. His brows are pinched in what you assume to be manufactured concern. There’s a paramedic at your side asking you questions, but the words all sound garbled. When you look back to Hannibal, you swear you see him smirking. A trick of the light, you tell yourself. Your heart starts thundering in your chest and a machine begins to beep incessantly. You don’t want to be so vulnerable in front of the Chesapeake Ripper, but you don’t quite have a choice. Your vision falls to black within a few moments.
You manage to catch glimpses of the starry night sky, then the white ceiling of what must be a hospital. When you realize you’re being wheeled through a hospital hallway, you can’t help but grow more nervous. You’re tightly secured to the stretcher and you feel trapped. There’s an oxygen mask secured over your mouth and nose. You grimace instinctually from the pain shooting through you, rippling up your torso and down your skin. You try to move your hand, but you can only slightly bend your fingers. Alarms are blaring.
Several nurses hover over you. They’re trying to speak to you, you think. You can’t answer. There’s nothing but overwhelming pain. Your fingers are twitching again. A tear slides down your cheek. The light above is blinding. Your hand is restless. You can’t stop fidgeting.
Suddenly, Hannibal’s hand is on your forearm. His grip is incredibly loose but the pressure is somehow—regrettably—reassuring. Before you can contemplate the meaning behind the gesture, you’re slipping into unconsciousness once more. This time, however, you don’t wake. Instead, you’re left to drown in your own dreams and nightmares, removed from reality.
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