"Are you going to kill me?"
With his cheekbones so prominent, his hair slicked so rigidly back, and no expression on his lips or in the crease of his forehead, he looks like Death himself: severe, emotionally detached. He does not look like the man who held her that first night away from the center, who let her weep profusely onto his pillow, held her tightly in his firm grip before she exhausted herself into a dreamless sleep. His eyes are the only sign that, yes, this is indeed the same man. It's his eyes that show any sign of life, that catch her so off-guard the longer she looks at him. They are—they are regretful, and they are loving.
She looks into his eyes and she lets him cup her jaw, a smooth thumb caressing gently beneath her cheekbone. The longer she looks, the more she wants to lean into his touch, the touch of comfort, of security. The more she sees, the more desperately she wants to recoil, to vomit and scream from the absurd reality of the situation: running happily from the arms of one serial killer into the grasp of another.
And he sounds truly, truly regretful as he says, "I'm so sorry, Abigail. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life."
Her breathing catches in her throat, increases in speed until it threatens to sob.
But she knows what to do; experience has taught her much.
The kitchen is nearly empty but there's something on the cabinet beside her, something she can use as a weapon. Something that may lengthen her life for just a few more moments.
She lets him caress her once more as she casts her eyes downward, lets his thumb create one more circle on her skin. She imagines the hand tightening, the grip strengthening, choking the life out of her—
She rips away and reaches out to grab whatever is beside her—a deer head, the pinnacle of irony. She points the antlers to his stoic figure, not having moved since her jerk away. Her breath is running away from her, she's sucking in air and it's too loud and too clumsy as tears threaten to spill.
He only looks at her, deathly calm and silent. He says her name, once.
She thrusts the deer head forward, gripping tightly around its neck, the fur prickly beneath her sweaty palms. Finally, after staring at her for what feels like hours, he takes one step forward. She jabs the antlers at him again.
"Please, Abigail. Don't make this hard." She can't—she can't believe, will not let herself believe, the knot in his throat, even the appearance of tears in his eyes. She will not.
She's not unprepared when he reaches out to take the head from her; she tries to wound the hands that stretch for it but she is so easily overpowered, so disgustingly overpowered as he pulls her towards him. She has predicted this: she releases her grip instantly, jumps backward, and reaches with all her strength to pull the rest of the box off the counter. She does not know what is in it but that does not matter: anything to block him from her, anything to prove that she will not die without a fight.
As he puts the ornamental head upon the counter, the box catches him by surprise, and he nearly trips on a cardboard corner. But he catches himself, looks at her and sighs. She can see the disappointment, the desire for this to end. Delicately, he steps around her obstacle, and there is nothing between them.
Desperately she kicks, she slaps and attacks the open air as he slips from her touch every time. He juts out a hand, expertly catches a wrist; as he pulls her in she tries to kick, to squirm and to head-butt as another arm snakes around her, flips her around so the scene they paint is a repetition of that day, her head dangerously beneath his chin, his iron arms securing her back against his broad chest. She trembles and she tries her hardest to bite, to kick and to scream.
"No! No no no no no," they escape from her in a desperate moan and she can't believe she's begging for her life. She twists her head until it makes her dizzy, the hair sticking to her sweating cheeks and forehead. "No no no no no no no."
He shushes her, so tenderly, as he slowly removes the scarf from around her neck. As hard as she pulls she cannot weaken his hold around her waist, on her wrists. "Abigail." It's tortured and full of restrained emotion.
She doesn't see the knife he pulls from inside his jacket but can feel its approach. And the horrifically familiar sensation of steel against her throat, biting into her skin. The blood gurgles up and she can't speak, can't scream out, can only cry and cry and cry with her mouth wordlessly wide open as he turns her around and she stares into those loving eyes.
Hannibal is crying, too, and he holds her—he holds her against his chest, he strokes her hair just as he had moments ago and weeks ago. He shushes her gurgling, steadies her trembling against his solid body. She grows colder and colder and she knows he would give her his jacket to die in if he would only let her go.