Summary: Because the cold slick of the knife pressed to her throat and Hannibal's warm breath caressing her ear are all that she feels.
Delay
Beta'd by the wonderful XMarksTheSpot - fantastic writer and very dear friend.
Note: I was in a very dark mood this past Monday. During a three hour (tortuously boring) lecture at night, I wrote this. Hannibal Season 2 is premiering on Feb. 28 - make sure to watch the trailer.
Her arms are locked with the gun in her hands, pointing at Hannibal.
Blood stains and pools on his shirt near his left shoulder. Whatever wound he sustained, it was deep considering how dark his white shirt was. What a sharp contrast, she notes, but her eyes are trained on his.
Demonic eyes—eyes so cold and frightening that Alana nearly couldn't recognize him at all. Her friend. Hannibal was a colleague, friend and mentor.
She received a call from Jack – a frantic message, but their call was cut off short – bad reception and frantic out of breath voice. Something about – stay away... Hannibal's… Killer? Trouble? Why had he warn her that?
She had left her house after a quick call to the police and provided the address. At the time, all she could think of was: Crawford was in trouble, most likely Hannibal too. She could not lose her friends again. Not after Will. She had wanted to find them, fix them and make the world be a better place.
And yet, now he is holding a large butcher knife and advancing towards her.
Dear God, she is going to die.
She freezes; she cannot move, and her wide eyes filled with disbelief and tears. What good is a gun and all the years of training when she is the proverbial deer in front of a wolf? Not a wolf, but Death. Lucifer.
He is the Chesapeake Ripper.
She deduces by the way he holds his butcher knife that there is no doubt of her death.
She wants to shoot, but she could not and does not want to kill him. Despite the fact he killed dozens of people, despite the fact that he was the reason why Will was locked away, despite the fact that Jack was probably injured or worse – she cannot shoot.
And now, she will die for it.
He advances towards her anyway – seeing her as prey and nothing else.
Everything happens at once. Baltimore's finest slams the front door down with a resounding crash, yells and orders are given off and heavy footsteps stormed through.
But everything is silent or, at the very least, dulled into a quiet roar ringing in her ears - the cold slick of the knife pressed to her throat and Hannibal's warm breath caressing her ear are all that she feels.
He rubs her shoulders like a lover, coaxing her body to mold to his actions - to shield his body from the half dozen semi-automatic rifles pointing at her. She knows that if she even gulps, the cold metal will cut into her vein and she will no longer see her family… Will's beloved dogs…. Will.
Will, you were right all along.
"Now, now Alana. My dear, you have brought them with you? Naughty, naughty girl." He sniffs her hair perversely and uses his knife to expose her throat to perusal. She can almost imagine the sublime pleasure on his face. His hunting instincts keen in on her as his prey.
Hannibal the Cannibal. Somehow, Alana wants to laugh.
Will, I'm so sorry.
"I think you know how this ends, wouldn't you agree?"
Her gun. Where is her fucking gun?
Her hands are empty. She risks slitting her throat to look down into Hannibal's hands. She wants to cry when she spies him holding her lifeline.
Stand down! I said stand down! The target is holding a hostage. I repeat, the target is holding a hostage!
Was that Jack?
"Now, do we have a deal?"
She cannot nod, so she whimpers. She could not even remember what he just said a moment ago, but she doubts she was paying attention. He makes the decision for her by pulling her arm towards the dining room. There is a glass door pane there to the outside world. She is the only thing that stands between the police and his freedom.
And she does not know if her life is worth the freedom of a cannibalistic serial killer.
He is still holding onto her, his front to her back, as he masterly wields her body like a marionette towards her car and tells her to drive. Instead of the cool metal pressed to her throat, her gun is pointed at herself.
Why aren't the police shooting at him?
But by the time she makes it on the secluded freeway, she can only feel her cold tears.
"Why?" Alana manages, her hands on the steering wheel are stiff. They are driving fast. Extremely fast. There is no traffic; everything is dark, dark, dark. Any minute now and the helicopter will be circling around.
Hopefully.
Probably.
Unlikely.
"Why?" Hannibal questions, eyes trained on her fearful face. "Alana, you and Jack Crawford spent hours analyzing the Chesapeake Ripper. Tell me, do you honestly not know? Will Graham was the only one to conclude correctly and yet you have locked him up. Delusional, you called it? Mentally unstable? I must admit, it was quite problematic when Will accused me in front of Jack.
"So tell me, my dear," Hannibal shifts his hand to get more comfortable. "Why do you think I do it?"
She wants to say that they were his friends—that this is not what friends do. But she remembers Doctor Sutcliffe, and realizes she should shut up about friendships and rainbows.
"A psychotic serial killer. You kill people because it is what you do. You had a disturbing past - it," she says, but is cut off.
He kisses his teeth several times. "No, I do not just kill people. That is inane. It is only a consequence. No, perhaps I have misjudged your perceptiveness. Do try again, Alana. Why do you think I do it?"
She gulps, realizing that her life hands by the answer to his question, and tries to recall the conversations of the Chesapeake Ripper. She hears police sirens trailing hot on their trail. She wants to slow down, but her foot only urges the car to go faster.
"Take the North exit here," Hannibal says casually. "Once you make a right, turn off your engine. We do not want any unwelcomed guests, do we?"
Yes, please help.
She is sooner to be murdered though, once the police manage to catch them.
She recalls being the honoured guest when he offered his private reserve of beer once. Drink. Food. Of course.
"Alana, I am waiting."
"Because," she makes the right turn. "You're the painter… and we are your canvas."
It is destroying her: these words. They were all played. It makes sense. It was just a game to him—a chess game of manipulation and deceit. It was also Beethoven's concerto played for the Queen herself, and Leonardo Da Vinci's masterpiece. A masterpiece of art, and he needed an audience. But the audience grew resentful and did not appreciate his skills, so he turned them against humanity and in the most perverse way possible.
"Because you make us into something more than we have ever achieved in life.
"You make us into art," she finishes shakily, and almost agonizingly, she shuts off the car.
"By feeding you art," he finishes. She can hear the smile in his voice. Her stomach betrays her slightly, knowing that she has eaten and drank large amounts of questionable things.
They exit the car and she notices dully, in the distance, an abandoned barn. A white contrast to the dark forest surrounding them. Only a very dim lamp shows a barely visible path.
This is it. The scene of my death.
"Are you going to kill me now?"
"That remains to be seen, Alana," his voice caresses the cricket-filled air. She knows that if she runs, she will die. He has her gun, but she suspects he can kill her without it. She knows if she does anything untoward, she will die. She knows that if she does nothing, she will die regardless.
"You may be listed as my accomplice, you do realize that," Hannibal muses. "As a matter of fact, they will say we are lovers."
She remains silent. She loves Will. He knows that.
He is only goading her, but his statement hits her hard. The many times she went over to his place for dinner – even offering to help him cook the victims they sought justice for, the times she confides in him for Will, ironically confiding secret information to the very killer they were hunting. The agency will gather evidence, witnesses – lies and truth will distort and people will believe whatever they want to believe.
They will believe that Alana Bloom helped Hannibal Lecter, the cannibalistic serial killer, and had framed Will Graham to aid in their escape.
They reach into the barn, with him opening the door first after he switches on the light. She thanks him; she suspects he also kills those who displeasure him with seemingly inconsequential actions and she wants to delay her fate a little bit longer if she could help it.
He turns to her, a fair amount of distance between them, stature imposing but welcoming. His mouth is turned into a slight smile, so amused by his prey's reaction.
"You've delayed your death quite spectacularly long enough. Now tell me, dear Alana. Do you think I will kill you?"
"Yes." No hesitation. Will Graham, most likely, would be released. He will hunt Hannibal down. He will hunt them down. And she will help Will in any way possible, even if it means her death. She just needs the time to implicate it. As much time as her Reaper would give her.
His butcher knife is by his side, but he makes no move to swing it. Her breathing is erratic, as if her body is fighting for a chance to take as many moments of life as it can. She wonders why Hannibal is delaying her death. Another game, perhaps. She looks at him, eyes drawn to his chiselled face.
He just smiles.
"And if I decide to delay the inevitability a bit longer, will you be willing?"
The gun is tossed away, she finally notices. She doesn't know where. It could be anywhere in the godforsaken forest. It's never his MO to use a gun.
His free hand stretches towards her, fingers curled in invitation.
No hesitation. She accepts.
Pact with the Devil, indeed.
Finis (?).
Read and review - perhaps this can turn into a multi-chapter fic. But of course, we all know how that ends.