[[ I'm back and writing Hannibal fic. As you do. Originally posted on my character ask/rp blog on tumblr (username smallestshrike, if you want to check it out and write something with me!). Ft. Mason Verger, because hell yeah, Mason Verger. Set in an AU verse where Abigail survived (with significant ear wounds), and was kidnapped by Mason Verger.]]
It's a game Mason's been playing ever since they returned to Maryland: take Abigail out, have her walk around, someplace crowded, someplace full of people, and watch as her anxiety builds. At first, it wasn't so bad - he'd have the driver drop them off somewhere busy, a shopping mall, a main street, and he'd make her walk in front of him, apparently garnering a large amount of satisfaction from her dual anxieties: being recognized, and being abandoned. The first is obvious: as much as he told her otherwise when they were back in Vermont, Abigail knows her face has been all over the media, particularly in Baltimore, where Will Graham's case has been widely publicized. She's terrified someone will see her, that they'll report it to the FBI, that she'll be tracked down, hunted, taken away. Because as much as she's growing wary of Mason's games, of the way he can change in an instant from sweet and charismatic to violent and spiteful, she's even more terrified of losing him. Mason has come to represent stability, now. He's come to represent whatever passes for normal, and being removed from that and flung once again into the unknown is unthinkable.
And that's why he makes her walk in front. Because he knows that she's scared she'll turn around and find him gone, disappeared into the crowd and vanished from her life as quickly as he came into it.
Still, the parks, the busy downtown areas - they were nothing compared to this.
She doesn't know where they are going until they're almost there - that's how he likes to play it, keeping her in the dark, keeping her on her toes, like some fucked up twist on the traditional spontaneous romantic gesture. But it's dark outside, past seven o'clock, and he's made her dress for the occasion in one of Margot's old gowns. He can't seem to stop staring at her, can't seem to stop touching, and it's flattering and unsettling simultaneously, the way he's eyeing her like a piece of meat.
When the car pulls up outside the theatre, the knot in her stomach tightens.
"You could use some culture," he tells her, grinning in a way that, if you didn't know Mason, might be kind of charming. "We get free tickets to the philharmonic all the time. It seemed such a shame to waste them. And best of all," he's helping her out of the car now, and what can she do but allow herself to be led, even as her heart rate quickens, even as the cold wind stings her face, "I gather our old friend Dr. Lecter will be here. Won't that be nice, Abigail? Seeing your surrogate daddy again?"
She knows by now, of course. Knows what Hannibal did, knows that it's his fault Will's in prison. And she knows enough by now to understand why Mason took her, too. This is the game stepped up a notch: Mason's tempting fate, leaving it to chance to see whether Hannibal will notice them there. And if he does, well - Mason will dangle her in front of Hannibal, knowing full well the other man can't do anything about it in a public setting. Too many questions. She's incriminating evidence. And of course, that's why taking her to see the orchestra is such great fun for Mason: because it's not just the FBI she has to worry about here. Abigail is living proof that Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, and there's no telling what he'll do to her now that she's out from under his thumb, now that she's been living for over a month with Mason Verger.
Fear of being recognized. Fear of being abandoned. But now, most acutely, fear of death.
They make it through the first half of the performance without incident, and she can tell Mason's disappointed, frustrated even. She knows he has no particular interest in classical music - the real performance was watching her anxious and distressed, and as the evening wears on with no sight of Hannibal, she's growing calmer, more relaxed, almost even enjoying herself. When the lights come up, he's scowling. He yanks her hand, drags her into the lobby, hissing that he needs a drink, needs a fucking drink now.
And that's when Abigail sees him. The crowd is dense, full of well-dressed socialites, but she'd recognize him anywhere: he stands out. Her heart lurches uncomfortably, and her grip on Mason's hand tightens. Mason notices, of course. He's keenly attuned to changes in Abigail's body language - would have sensed it even if she hadn't crushed his fingers in her small, pale hand. He can smell fear on her, and she's definitely afraid now, dropping her eyes to the floor to avoid unintentionally summoning Dr. Lecter's gaze.
"Please let's just go…" she says, voice coming out in a strangled gasp. "Please, Mason. I'll do anything. Please."
Mason is all smiles, now. She looks up at him, hoping the combination of her desperate tone and her expression of wide-eyed terror - the one she's perfected specifically for him - will have the desired effect, but he's not even looking at her, staring directly over her head, and she knows, knows he's caught Hannibal's eye, knows in that instant that the game is on.
"Oh, I don't think so, sweetheart…" he says, in a voice that a casual observer might interpret as consolatory, even comforting. He's holding tightly to her hand, snaking his free arm around her waist. "It's a tempting offer, but it would be rude to leave without saying hello, don't you think?"
Is he playing with her? She doesn't know, and the uncertainty kicks her anxiety up a notch, her heart finally remembering its function and beating triple-time to make up for it. Blood rushes in her ears. Everything slows down. She can't look, can't risk it, her eyes fixed on Mason, begging him, pleading him silently to let them go home. Surely he can't be serious about actually speaking to Hannibal - he wouldn't, would he? Surely he knows he's endangering himself, too. But he's moving her again, tugging her away from the center of the crowd into a smaller, less populated passageway, and she can't tell whether it's towards Hannibal or away from him.
His hand on her waist balls into a half-fist, fingers gripping the flimsy material of Margot's old dress, and for just one instant he drops his gaze to her, and his eyes are shining, positively sparkling with excitement.
"You want to see him, don't you?" it's malicious, the way he spits it out. "Take a look, Abigail. He's staring right at us."
And he turns her around, roughly, pushes her so hard against the wall of the alcove that every vertebrae on her back pops with sudden, excruciating pain. His hand, still gripping hers, pins her to the wall, holds her there, his other still on her hip, his body pressed against his. And for just a second, over his shoulder, she does look: it's involuntary, more in shock than anything else, a momentary lapse in judgment.
Hannibal Lecter is staring at her. He doesn't look shocked - his expression is too controlled, his mouth, his eyes, perfectly blank. But he's looking right at her, right into her, and before she can think, before she can process, Mason's mouth is at her throat, her neck, her mouth - kissing her violently, hard and hot and completely and utterly for show. And she can't look away, now. Can't close her eyes. The nightmare is real, and there's no waking up this time. She doesn't move, doesn't try to pull away, couldn't, anyway, even if she tried, and all there is to do is to kiss back, allow herself to melt against Mason's body, hope that somehow she's mistaken for somebody else, another anonymous brunette teenager. It had worked for her father, hadn't it? All those other girls, so much like her.
Hannibal watches. And as she takes her free hand and rests it passively on Mason's shoulder, she knows that he knows. He takes it in for a second, raises his glass very deliberately, very slowly to his lips, and only after taking a drawn-out sip does he turn away, absorbing himself back into the crowd as though he'd never been there at all.