A/N: This piece came out of a mix of a roleplay with a friend and a discussion on head cannon. A rewatch of "Sorbet" gave me an idea that I simply couldn't let go. I tossed and turned and actually cried a little. My Lithuanian is all courtesy of my homeboy Google, so if you've got a problem with it, he's the bloke to talk to.
I'm also going to provide a little warning:the events of Hannibal's final patient are based on a true case, and I really cried reading the events.
For my Vlad
To anyone who might have figured out the alter ego of the man only known as 'The Chesapeake Ripper'- and lived to tell the truth- would never truly accept the idea of Hannibal Lecter taking as much pleasure in life as he does death. On the contrary, knowing Hannibal took lives without a spare glance to the clock would brutally murder any chances he might have to salvaging that image of 'the selfless psychiatrist'. But, there was a truth he has tried to ignore himself.
Surrounded by so much death- both of his own making and instances forced upon him-over the years of his teen-dom and young adulthood, Hannibal had learned to embrace life as much as he had learned to embrace death.
He relished in saving a life just as much as taking a life, especially the power in the actions that allowed him to do so. One flick of the wrist and his patient might never walk again, but he allows them to walk again. He allows them to live again. There is a certain zest, a delecation he takes in knowing the fault was his- whether the outcome was good or bad.
The story of his retirement from physical medicine is given far too little credit than it deserves, the pain of the incident hidden in the lavish halls of his mind palace, not on display, but rather concealed cleverly in an ornate box of carved cherry wood, inlayed with gold that he used to elevate the first vase of flowers Lady Murasaki allowed him to display in her home. The box belongs to a key kept on Hannibal's person at all times, the pocketful of keys he kept in his mind allowing him to hold horrible memories close without feeling the full force of their weight.
The key leading to the palace's exterior was kept in this pocket as well, sensibly stashing away the memories that belong far from him.
In an obscure forest in Lithuania.
But, to access the key to this chest beneath the vase of flowers, one must reach back in time. Further back than most people feel comfortable searching. Back when his hair had been a bit more blonde than ash, when his eyes had been more ruby rather than rust, when his skin was still taught over young, freshly developed sinews of muscle. He was the youngest practitioner in his ward, fresh to America, fresh into a new life far from Paris, or Lithuania for that matter.
*-*-*-*linija pertraukos*-*-*-*
Johns Hopkins
Surgeons falling asleep in the recreation room of their ward during their off hours was not uncommon, even less common for surgeons who had come out of surgery mere hours before their next shift was due to begin. The futon was a fully functional bed, the cabinet beneath the television set stuffed with blankets and small pillows, the space meant to save the time and hassle of a commute home when there is really no reason to make the trip. Most of the surgeons made use of this space, the young Hannibal Lecter being no exception.
Dr. Lecter typically slept on his back, only lightly dozing to regain his strength and concentration, most likely building or exploring part of his mind palace to pass the time, but today was different. The man was asleep completely, still a light sleeper, but asleep none the less. He was laying on his stomach, his left arm dangling off the edge of the mattress, lightly grazing the floor with his fingers while his right arm curled over the top of his head. His mouth was open slightly, only enough to reveal the perfect, white front teeth, his breathing deep but somehow delicate with a slight hitch every few breaths. He had fallen asleep as soon as he had gotten comfortable and- though he had woke the moment she had walked into the room- didn't even stir when a nurse threw a large knit afghan over him, though as time went on he had shifted to the point where the fabric was tangled around his feet.
Sleeping was not always a peaceful experience for him. More often than not it was, but there were times where the ice of a Lithuanian winter blew through the cracks in his resolve and boiled him in rage, sorrow, and regret. This was looking to be one of those nights, the serenity of his rest slowly deteriorating, the slack face slowly being pulled back into a grimace. His eyebrows furrowed gently and his breath picked up slightly-
The door opened. He was awake.
He didn't open his eyes but took a deep breath through his nose, concealed by his seemingly comatose form. The cologne was thick, musky almost to the point of giving him a headache- though he did take into account his overly sensitive olfactory system. The man was one of the nurses on duty, Richard Perkins. The man was an enigma; at times he could be unspeakably rude, in Hannibal's eyes, yet none of the other staff seemed to fault him at all for it, laughing along with him.
The woven yarn was removed from his feet and there was an urgent stage whisper. "Lecter... Lecter get up, we need you somethin' awful."
Hannibal cracked open his eyes and could not help but feigning a yawn as he shifted and sat up, to sell the role. "Yes, Mister Perkins?" His voice was hazy with a form of drowsiness that was not feigned, but rapidly passing.
Perkins's typically bright hazel eyes were dull with concern. "Everyone else is already in surgery and the next guy on shift is still thirty minutes away and we can't wa-"
He interrupted as to not waste time. "What happened?"
They met eyes and Hannibal could feel pain emanating from the nurse like radiation. "She's lost a lot of blood..."
*-*-*-*O Dieve*-*-*-*
Michelle Stevens was a very pretty girl. Hair like a field of wild grain waving in the breeze, eyes like ice glaciers that must have been bright and flashed when she laughed. She looked to be about 5 years old, probably not even going to school yet, and at the rate she was losing blood, she never would. The beauty he knew was there was unrecognizable through shredded skin and blood, shuddering breaths barely recognized by tiny lungs that sounded like they refused to expand. Her clothing had already soaked through with blood, scissors making an almost sloppily squishy snipping sound as they struggled to tear the fabric off of her.
The parallel was nearly poetic, he thought. So many years later, so many different faces, so many different experiences, and yet here he was back at his beginning. She was Mischa. He was Hannibal. But, now he had the opportunity to do something instead of breaking brittle bones banging hopelessly on a splintering, wooden barn door.
This time, he could save her. This time, he would save her
Perkins would assist, clearing up as much of the loosely hanging skin as he could as Hannibal hurried to stop the blood. His hands were steady, though his soul shook, his eyes and mind were clear and sharp, though his heart was clenched in foreboding.
He let himself focus on the steady beep...beep...beeping of the heartbeat monitor keeping him aware of her life staying firmly where it was, growling to himself when the beats began to slip even further into longer periods of silence.
The only sounds in the operating room were tools, breath, machinery, and the light shuffling of moving feet. No one dared to speak if Hannibal hadn't spoken first, not even then if not absolutely necessary, simply handing the man what he asked for and going back to what they had been doing.
The EMTs had declared it a miracle she had made it into the ambulance, let alone the hospital and even more so the operating room. She was a strong one. She was in the care of a man who claimed to be even stronger, a man who had just promised himself to carry her home to her family whatever the cost.
When she arrived, he had overheard the story that explained the injuries. The words 'dog', 'mauled', 'had to be shot', and the phrase "...had never been violent...just snapped." He could deduce the story even without the details, though. Most likely a revered family pet, a large dog that Michelle had probably trusted and adored had turned on her. Unexpected and sudden, she couldn't get away until the animal was either killed or dragged off her and shot out of defense by the officer saving her.
The story caused his stomach to churn- the iron willed Doctor Lecter having to consciously keep his hands from shaking in fear that the slightest tick could cost her life.
The beeping ceased, the sound a flat, continuous chime. His ears rang with the sound. "Dievas pasmerktųjų ją" was what he remembered before the world went black in a rush.
*-*-*-*Vaizdeliai*-*-*-*
"Doctor Lecter..." There was the wet squish of a heartbeats, banging quickly accompanied with the ringing of a flat line. "Doctor Lecter?" His chest was tight. He couldn't see anything. He was deaf beyond the small voice, like distant words under the water. "Doctor Lecter!" HIs hands were wet. His gloves barely hid the texture and warmth of blood, his hands clutching at something. He was confused, he couldn't remember where he was... or when for that matter.
His hands were warm but his body was cold. The ice sliced at his skin as if it were made of metallic sheets, the wounds tingling as he was cut over and over and over... He could hear her. Mischa. She was calling for him. " 'anniba! 'anniba! 'aaaanibaaaa'-"
"Hannibal!"
Richard Perkins' voice cut into his mind and all of his vision came back all at once.
Blood... so much blood, and skin serrated into ribbons, barely salvageable even for a skin graft. A little blond girl lay on his table, her eyes having fallen open in her final moments, hazy blue eyes staring right at him. He was frozen... but, there was a firm hand on his shoulder. The hand was warm with blood, the metal was thick in his nose- but it calmed him slightly "Hannibal, she's gone. There's nothing you could have done." Perkins murmured softly. A nurse turned off the sound on the monitor. His eyes never left the body; something metallic fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.
Hannibal Lecter turned himself around and seemed to ghost to the sink to wash up.
He had to take a few moments to compose himself, he was slowly unraveling and needed to wind himself up once again, otherwise he would shatter.
He took a step into the hall and immediately his ears were assaulted by the sound of a desperately screaming child, this one a boy. He looked to be about ten years old, a bit small for his age, struggling against the faltering grip of his parents, obviously determined to try and find something, or someone. Upon seeing the sight of a doctor, the mother's grip faltered for just long enough for the boy to shoot forwards, out of her shaking hands and to Hannibal's waist, tugging urgently at his lab coat. He hadn't begun to cry just yet, keeping his strength as it was obvious he was used to doing to keep his little sister from panicking. Much like Hannibal himself at that age. "Doctor, Doctor, is she okay? Is Mitchie okay? Please tell me she's okay. Can I see her? Doctor, Doctor-"
It was hard to keep his composure. The man of silver, heartless in his accuracy and distant in bedside manner, the famous Doctor Hannibal Lecter- was splintering inside, shards of his heart tearing through the rest of him, knowing he had failed for a second time.
Mischa would not live on.
She was destined to die.
He was destined to watch.
Hannibal's baritone whisper was almost too quiet for anyone to hear, the only reason he was understood, because the words themselves were a slap to the face. "I'm sorry... There was nothing we could do..."
The mother immediately burst into tears, burying her face in her hands, the father holding her shoulders, staring forwards in shock.
The boy screamed, balling his tiny hands into fists and hitting Hannibal over and over, tears streaming down his face as he called out "You were supposed to save her! You were supposed to bring her back! It's her birthday!"
Hannibal kept still, the blows would typically not be able to even phase him, but every jab, every word, burned holes into him, like the burning end of a cigarette or a branding iron searing each syllable into his typically unreachable heart.
He refused to react to the nurses peeling the lad off of him, staring blankly ahead as if he was slowly being consumed by himself and couldn't focus on anything besides the hole being torn open again in his chest. His breaths were shallow and his eyes almost completely unfocused, he had enough strength to murmur an explanation and an apology before he had to pivot on one foot and he strode down the hall, turning into his office. Perkins was qualified enough to explain further.
The door shut behind him with a whisper, as if he had never opened the door in the first place, as if he had just ghosted through.
*-*-*-*(;-;)*-*-*-*
"Oh, come on Hannibal! It was not your fault." Donald Sutcliffe was doing his best to keep himself in Hannibal's way, stepping in front of the Lithuanian with every opportunity. "It was a miracle she made it as long as she did, don't internalize it."
Normally Hannibal would find his behavior exceedingly rude, but he was being just as discourteous- doing his best to keep his back to the American as he loaded his office into boxes.
Michelle Stevens had slipped from his grasp, away from this life while lying on his operating table nearly a month prior. He had not been able to sleep for that same amount of time. He had been forced to take a leave of absence since every moment spent in that room was a moment the cold of winter seeped through the cracks of his mind in waking hours. There was more to the pain than simply watching a child fade away before his eyes, there was a depth there that was too private to even consciously admit within the walls of his own mind.
He had already taken his time to carve a small box for the experience within his mind palace, deliberately choosing not to use the plain porcelain urn he knew the Stevens's had used to carry her ashes to wherever they were to end up. The box was a cherry wood, the color a warm and welcoming shade that he had imagined would have matched her personality, the delicate design of a rose laid in a yellow gold that would have matched her hair with nary a difference in shade.
The brunette American snapped Hannibal out of himself by stepping in between him and the box he needed to place his tombs in. "Answer me, Hannibal. Where would you go? What the hell is there for you to do, you're a surgeon!"
Hannibal sighed and sidestepped in silence, striding forwards and placing the hard back books in the cardboard box and stopping long enough to close his eyes a moment "I have decided to go into psychiatry." He stated, as if that phrase alone would make Donald understand and accept his departure.
Instead, Sutcliffe seemed even further confused. "You're going to what?"
Hannibal turned, crossing his ankles and leaning with the seat of his ass above the ledge of his desk, his hands at either side of him and calmly gripping the same edge. "I am going to reapply for a residency in psychiatry. I studied the mind just as I did the body, I am qualified. I will go through the entire process again if I must, take classes perhaps." He turned back around to begin his last leg of packing up the room. "The extra time will allow me time to throw myself further into my hobbies."
Sutcliffe scoffed "Hannibal, you are a fantastic cook, but you don't belong at culinary art's school. You belong HERE. You are far too intelligent to just-... throw it all away."
"And here I will stay, Donald, simply in a different department." Lecter replied coolly, finishing and putting a lid on the box. He hadn't decorated his office much, preferring to use his mind palace rather than spend superfluous effort in making up a room that he would barely spend his time in anyways.
He heard Doctor Sutcliffe ranting about getting his hands dirty, the fact that 'The Stevens girl' was no different than the car accident victims they dealt with. "Hannibal Lecter, why-"
*-*-*-*(xx)*-*-*-*
"-'d you stop being a surgeon?" Will Graham asked, fidgeting slightly and turning the bottle of wine in his hands. He had gone out and bought something expensive, Hannibal could tell by the label. The brand was not something he would drink, his tastes far too refined, but the smaller man had put in the time, effort, and money to try and get him something worthy of his table. He decided he would drink it anyways.
Hannibal kept his hands working and didn't glance up at the first half of his statement. "I killed someone." He focused on his hands in that moment. It had been a very long time, both shorter and longer than he would like to admit. He was comfortable with it now, the experience having shaped him. He accepted it.
He had forgiven her, just as he had forgiven Mischa.
Hannibal looked up at Will, his eyes soft but not giving anything away as he finished his action and corrected himself. "...Or, more accurately, I couldn't save someone. But it felt like killing them." There was much he was forced to lie about, his mind, his actions, but he refused to lie to Will about his heart and his experiences, especially if it meant building trust.
The man with the curly brown hair nodded in understanding then furrowed his brows, seemed to be contemplating the tabletop as he spoke. "You were an emergency room surgeon. It has to happen from time to time." His tone was slightly concerned, but mostly forgiving. The acceptance almost made him smile.
"It happened one time too many." He admitted, crouching down to measure something a bit more accurately. Internally, part of him cursed his age as he grunted a bit while he spoke his next sentence. "I transferred my passion for anatomy into the culinary arts. I fix minds instead of bodies," He stood and nearly made eye contact with his reserved companion. "And no one's died as a result of my therapy." He watched Will chuckle and he felt his own eyes glitter with happiness knowing he was the cause. He liked that the empath was becoming more comfortable, coming out of his shell.
Will stepped forwards with a two lumbering steps and put the wine bottle down on the counter in front of him. "I have to go. I have a date with the Chesapeake Ripper."
Deep inside of him, Hannibal made an almost smug, flirtatious comment on the fact that had just refused to dine with the Chesapeake Ripper, but that small section was quieted as he responded "Or is that rippers?"
He had gone back to stirring when Will countered cleverly "Devon Silvestri was harvesting organs, but not with the Ripper. There's no connection between them."
"Jack must be devastated." He responded, knowing it best to show concern in that area were none was truly deserved, if for no one else, for Will.
"I imagine he is." Will responded quietly. Hannibal looked up and met those blue eyes in the dim light for a fraction of a second before they darted away again. "Enjoy the wine." The American was already making his way out as Hannibal thanked him, maroon eyes dropping to the wine bottle. He would reserve it for himself, perhaps keep it in his office so Will could share it with him.
The evening sped by with Hannibal lost in thought, the table set to perfection and the guests seated as a second nature. He came to himself when his audience chose to applaud him as he stood at the head of the table, and he smiled. "Before we begin, you must all be warned: nothing here... is vegetarian." He smiled and rose his glass as the partygoers chuckled and mimicked the action "Bon appétit." But, he was further away from the table than any of them perceived.
He was standing next to the vase, looking beneath it to the beautifully ornate box that held the ashes of Michelle Stevens.
For a moment, he saw her in front of him, smiling up at him with those glacial blue eyes shimmering with excitement. She ran a pale hand through her gilded hair and he rose his glass to her, the smile in his eyes one of fond remembrance, rather than feigned pleasure.
"Happy birthday, Michelle"