itrhymes: (wut)
Hannibal the Cannibal {Dr Hannibal Lecter} ([personal profile] itrhymes) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden 2016-07-05 02:45 am (UTC)

Hannibal is in his office on his tablet, seeing what the latest Ripper copycat has ruined over in Baltimore. He looks up from TattleCrime when the lighting quivers. It's not terribly uncommon for the power to fluctuate, especially in high summer when everyone has their air conditioning running on full. Hannibal is hardly exempt to the phenomenon himself. Sweating is...unpleasant.

The thumps come in uneven waves of sound, like a rain stick being only occasionally turned over. The raised pitch of angry voices statics in and out like a bad radio station. Hannibal reads while they wane and listens as they wax.

Soon enough, his curiosity has him at the door to his office, still fully closed.


Hannibal has been aware of the ghosts that he shares his walls with for some time now. Tate's secret - or at least several handfuls of his secrets - had created a snowball of paranormal activity around the house in the weeks that followed.

Moira had been by far the most active, seemingly relieved and eager to have something to do. Hannibal genuinely enjoys her presence, and tea in the afternoons had become a regular occurrence. Having never employed full-time cleaning services at his other home, Hannibal found her a formidable force in keeping the floors scrubbed and polished. It was...appreciated.

Ben had made himself known second only to Tate, of course, but Ben had also concealed his true nature. Much as Tate had.

But the house had become noticeably less lonely once the secret was out. Hauntings of the variety that came with appliances turning off or on, or the lights flickering, or objects appearing or moving. Voices, muffled, as though overhearing conversations in the hotel room next to yours. A mutilated pair of twins had broken one of Hannibal's 19th century Chinese vases from the foyer. (They have appeared only briefly since, and not broken further objects. Tate had sworn he 'didn't do anything too fucking awful' and had 'only scared the little shithead punks' for Hannibal. Hannibal had, in a possibly-related event, bought Tate a CD player that weekend.)


The voices that flicker in and out are clearly Tate's, angry and backed into a corner, and Doctor Ben Harmon. Hannibal listens to it fade in, stronger and stronger as the emotions grow. It swells to a crescendo and Hannibal hears clatters and thumps - furniture? Books?

He opens his door and pads quietly through the hallway in just socks. He hears Tate's voice choke and thicken with tears. Ben sounds righteous but pained.

Hannibal steps into view of the living room at the tail end of Ben's question. Ben is facing him and sees him first.

"Shit." He says, but it's barely a whisper and directed at the ground. Ben's hands go on his hips and he rocks back a step, clearly not having wanted to be walked in on.

They both must have appeared more strongly as their ability to concentrate on hiding wore away with their distress. Hannibal steps evenly into the room, still silent.

"Doctor Lecter, I think we need to talk."

Hannibal carefully avoids stepping on his third edition An Examination of Phrenology where it is splayed across the rug, hundred year-old pages wrinkled and tearing. He continues walking right past Tate, who was closest to the door, until he is standing directly in between Tate and Ben. His face is impassive. Hannibal watches Ben take in his expression and stride with something akin to surprise and then suspicion. "Yes, Doctor Harmon. I believe we do."

Hannibal looks back to Tate a moment. His face is mottled, eyelids pink and irritated. He flushes so easily, even in this mockery of his birth-given body. His hair is curled and mashed into uneven edges. Hannibal has only been given cause to see it on occasion, but he'd noticed his penchant for pulling at it when distressed.

Hannibal sees all of this clear agony, and he comments on none of it. His face doesn't shiver with pity or judgment, stays almost inhumanly smooth. He feels something harden in his chest, however, and the cold anger might show in his eyes.

Hannibal turns back to Ben. His own stance is rigid, hands folded neatly in front of his hips. He physically blocks the line of sight between Tate and Ben with his body. "Why are you speaking to my patient this way, Doctor Harmon? I believe you made your refusal to treat him quite clear."

Ben makes a soft sound of disbelief, but it's not an easy noise. He's gone from surprised to frustrated. Hannibal might even say pained, perfect for a man watching a known tragedy unfold. "Doctor Lecter, I understand you want to help him. I did too. But Tate can't be helped." Ben looks hard into Hannibal's shoulder, where he knows Tate's head must be. To his credit, Ben doesn't childishly lean around to see him. He respects the established barrier, at least for the moment. "Even if he'll do and say anything to convince you otherwise.

"He's dangerous, Doctor Lecter. If it weren't for him--" Ben is pointing, but his eyes glisten and he looks away a moment. When he continues, his eyes are drier but his throat sounds tight. "My family would still be alive. You shouldn't be risking yourself by living here at all. Speaking to him is only going to get you in even deeper."

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