Chapter Text
Hannibal is bemused. He has had many guests in his dungeon and not one of them has ever slept so deeply or so easily as it's latest inhabitant. She is different to his other guests. She seems resigned to her fate and has been since she woke up in the windowless, soundproofed secret cell in his basement. She approaches her predicament with a strange calm irreverence. He suspected at first that she was on drugs but there have been no withdrawal symptoms, no desperate cravings. He's also ruled out the more obvious mental conditions. She simply has accepted that she is going to die. Alone, in his dungeon. But not yet. Because she intrigues Hannibal. He enjoys talking to her, when he takes her her meals, he stays in the room merely to interrogate her. He visits her far more often than he should. He visits her when she sleeps just to watch her breathe. She has, on occasion, managed to make him smile. She is more than just a convenient, walking collection of ingredients. And that is keeping her alive. For now. She's not like his usual victims. She wasn't rude or vulgar, she was simply alone and lonely every time he saw her in the farmer's market. She goes there every saturday and he's seen her there most weeks. She blazes out at him with her pale pale skin and black black hair.
When he takes her dinner to her she is lying on the bed watching a DVD. He has made the room as comfortable as possible. Watching his victims is part of the of the experience. A delicious prelude to the main performance. He enjoys watching his guests descend into despair but she has not. She seems impervious. She's lying on her stomach, swinging her legs back and forth, they are crossed at her ankles and he sets the tray down on the bedside table and catches her ankles. She turns to him and looks at the food he has supplied. It's smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. She is conservative with her meal choices and he endeavours to accomodate her as far as he can.
"And how are you today?" he sounds like a hospital doctor talking to a rich patient.
"Just catching up on 'Homeland'. I'd hate to die without knowing what happens to Brodie." her eyes are dark as blackberries and she swings herself round to face him.
"You think you're going to die?"
She actually smiles at him. "We both know I'm not going to leave this room alive." Hannibal has seen many smiles in this room. His guests often try to ingratiate themselves with him, they flatter him, smile, cajole but none of it works. He is immune. Her smile is different. She seems to be genuinely amused by her situation. She's eating her dinner. He's given her childrens cutlery, rounded plastic that can do no damage to him. But she's eating the salmon with her fingers, which both repels and attracts him.
"Would you like a newspaper?" he surprises himself with the question.
"No thank you" she has good manners which pleases him.
"You're not interested in the outside world? What is being said about you?"
She shrugs. "No one is looking for me. No one is coming to rescue me."
Hannibal knows this is true. She has no family. She was leaving one state to move to another, it will be months before anyone notices she is not there.
"Do you miss your husband?"
"Yeah, but my aim is getting better" she uses humour as a coping mechanism, an obvious observation but a true one. Her husband is dead. She is young for a widow. Out in the real world, she would be married again in a few years. She's waiting for him to smile at her joke. "Nothing? Really? Wow, tough crowd." She is obviously used to being the funny one in any situation. She finishes her eggs and he stands up, picking up the tray.
"It doesn't affect you that you're alone?"
She shrugs again, "Don't sweat the small stuff".
He finds himself frowning as he lets himself out and relocks the door.
He can't concentrate during the ballet. It's a disappointing version and his company is dull so he leaves abruptly during the interval claiming a work emergency and returns home. When he lets himself into the cell, she is changing the disc in the DVD player.
"Nice suit. Have you been to a party?"
"The ballet, 'Coppelia'"
"Gesundheit. Still nothing? You are hard work." she shakes her head. "I thought you had to wear a tux to the ballet" she turns the tv off and stands up.
"It is a modern rendering, casual dress is acceptable."
He's wearing a three piece suit. Immaculately tailored. His shirt and shoes are handmade and his oxblood tie is silk.
"That's casual is it? Your suit cost more than my car."
"That, would not be difficult."
"A joke, I'm impressed." She takes one step towards him. "So, is this it?"
Hannibal wonders if she is going to try to kiss him. If she'll try to bargain her way out with sex. That inevitably happens when he has guests. Women and men offer themselves to him in the hope that he'll release them. He never accepts the offers and he always kills them. He might make an exception with this visitor. On the sex. He knows he will kill her. Eventually. He leans down to her and kisses her. Which is a disconcerting turn of events. He didn't plan to do it, which unsettles him because he plans meticulously. She seems to be equally as surprised because she doesn't and she inhales sharply. He wonders if she's been kissed since her husband's death. Probably not. She has the sad eyes of someone still in mourning. Hannibal holds her in place even though she's immobile. She's neither moving towards him, nor away from him. He imagines that she is calculating her chances of escape. He knows from their conversations that she is clever with a grasshopper mind that can envision every possible outcome of her actions including how he will hurt her if she tries and fails. His own mind is precise and meticulous and he never imagines failure. He doesn't have to. He has a superior intellect, he's quick witted and on top of that he is physically strong, stealthy, big, He overpowered her easily. She put up a fight, her feet denting her car as she kicked out. And someone had taught her self defence, probably her husband. But he was stronger and she ended up in his basement anyway. Hannibal breaks the kiss before she can feel how much he wants her. He leaves her simply staring at him as he walks away with a muttered "forgive me". He doesn't look back, he simply stares at the door after he has locked and bolted it.
He can't sleep. he usually has no problems sleeping in his large, dark bedroom two floors above the cell in the cellar. He left the dungeon four hours ago and he has updated his patient records, decided on the menu for his next dinner party, started the guest list and designed the place settings. But he can't concentrate on anything but the appearance of her skin under the flourescent light. She was already pale, brought up in the cold north, but seven weeks underground has given her a translucent 'Ligeia' like pallor. For the first time in years, Hannibal is unsure of his next move. He could have her, if he wanted, he could offer her freedom, he could seduce her. He's sure he could easily talk her into it. Then write it up, heavily disguised of course, as a case of Stockholm Syndrome. Or he could simply force her. He is much taller than her, and demonstrably stronger. He doubts she would put up much of a fight. He'll tie her down anyway. It makes no sense to leave himself open to attack when he is most vulnerable. From his wardrobe he selects two Italian leater belts then reconsiders, he wants to avoid hurting her as much as possible so he selects some silk ties instead. He brings a selection of colours, he doesn't know which ones will look best against her skin.
He makes his way down to the cellar and lets himself in, carefully locking the door behind him. She's asleep again. The basement is cold so she's curled up in the warm pyjamas he'd provided for her, under the duvet, snug as a beloved child. She sleeps deeply, so deeply that she doesn't wake up when he ties her right wrist to the bedpost. He's selected a blood red tie that contrasts against her skin. She has the right skin tone for red, she should have spent more time wearing red lipstick. If she hadn't been so pale and so obviously alone, he wouldn't have noticed her. Women who wear red lipstick are normally surrounded by people. They radiate confidence. She blinks and opens her eyes lazily and yawns. She only realises what he is doing when she tries to stretch and can't. He grabs her left wrist before she can object and ties it to the other post quickly before she can react. Her reaction is predictable. She starts to struggle and scrambles up the bed away from him.
"The more you pull, the tighter the restraints will become. You will hurt yourself."
She stops struggling because whatever else he does, he doesn't lie. She tries to calm herself and eventually breathes out "I don't like being restrained". As if it makes any difference to his intentions.
He feels an alien sensation in his stomach, a twist of lust that he's unused to.
"It is a regrettable violation," she flinches, "but it is unavoidable. I cannot allow you to remain unrestrained."
He can see the realisation of what is about to happen dawn in her eyes.
"And you're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"
"Unfortunately not."
"You're so polite."
"Manners maketh the man" he says without irony. She hasn't smiled at him. She shifts her feet and he rests his hands on her delicate ankle. "Do I need to tie your feet?" he doesn't want to risk her kicking him. She shakes her head and looks around. The life in her eyes dies, finally, as he carefully removes her pyjama trousers and panties and sets them on the floor before pulling her down the bed hearing a soft "oof" as she lands. Her arms are fully stretched and he lifts her towards the headboard slightly to relieve the pressure on her wrists. She doesn't look at him as he takes off his own handmade pyjamas.
"Look at me" he commands and she obeys with eyes as empty as his own. When he thrusts into her, she closes them sharply. "Open them" his voice is soft but fierce. She's not crying when she opens her eyes but they are dead. He squeezes her throat as he moves inside her, squeezing tighter every time she tries to shut him out. Hannibal pulls her legs around him as he fucks her - an uncouth word but an apt one. She makes pained, desperate noises even as he growls into her throat, biting her skin but not breaking it. He can smell fear in her sweat and he licks it away savouring the taste on his tongue. He is meticulous in his movements as in everything, a master of the pursuit and delayed gratification. He rushes nothing. He considers bringing her to orgasm but decides against it. It seems ungentlemanly and cruel to force her own body to betray her. And it would add nothing to his pleasure. Instead he allows himself to climax inside her with a sigh.
Polite as ever, he unbinds her wrists and turns his back to allow her to compose herself. When they have both tidied themselves up he folds the ties and puts them in his pocket. Hannibal unbuttons her pyjama top and puts it with her other clothes. He studies the marks he has left on her skin with interest. She bruises easily.
"Go into the bathroom please."
She stands up unsteadily and walks into the other room, it has no door and is completely tiled. Easier to clean. She makes it easier for him by standing in the bathtub.
"you don't seem perturbed." he observes, taking the fine bladed knife from his pocket.
"It was pretty obvious how it was going to end. Wake up in a dungeon, you're gonna end up cutting your own foot off. It's a movie" she explains. "About a serial killer"
"I apologise for the predictable outcome"
"you could let me go. Bit of a twist"
"you won't tell anyone."
"No, I'll tell everyone."
"Then there is no incentive for me."
"Worth a try. Will they find my body?"
"No."
She sighs and looks around for the last time. "Okay, I'm ready. Light a candle for me."
The knife is so sharp that she doesn't feel it at first, just the sensation of being punched in the chest. Hannibal holds her as her legs give out and sets her gently down into the bathtub. She blinks rapidly before collapsing. He makes sure that she's dead before he begins his work.