Crossing the Threshold

AN: ASDFGHJKL; I'M SO SORRY THAT IT'S BEEN SUCH A LONG TIME. I FEEL LIKE SUCH A SHITTY FANFIC AUTHOR. FORGIVE ME FORGIVE ME FORGIVE MEEEEEEEE. *cries in a corner*

The further Hannibal Lecter ventured down the hall, the more he was beginning to regret the decision. He felt an emotion that he was quite unfamiliar with - fear, maybe? - begin to bubble up in his chest as the lights flickered once again. He could feel someone, something, looking at him, watching his every move like a bird of prey ready to swoop down upon a defenseless rodent. The thought alone almost made Lecter scoff. He couldn't even begin to imagine himself in the role of the defenseless victim. He should be the predator. He should be hunter. Not the hunted.

As he got to the end of the silent and still hallway, to the door that lead to another ward, a little voice - his own voice this time - started practically screaming an alarm at him to stop. To not reach out and push on the heavy double doors. Which is exactly the opposite of what the good doctor did. The doors swung open and the new ward before him looked exactly the same as the one he was currently standing in. Lecter looked down at the floor, his expensive Italian leather shoes mere inches away from the threshold.

Another voice, Victoria's voice, began to echo through his head. Saying the same words again and again and again.

"Cross the threshold, cross the threshold, cross the threshold, cross the threshold." It whispered repeatedly. It was an eerie sound. It was monotonous, never fluctuating in tone, pitch, volume, or tenor. It was also...oddly persuasive. Hannibal knew that he shouldn't cross over the threshold. He was a supremely intelligent man, he was smart enough to comprehend that he shouldn't listen to a word that Victoria said. But it felt like the girl was squeezing her way into his brain, trying to oppress him and take hold of his mind and body for her own uses. Or maybe, just maybe...to show him something. He knew that Victoria hadn't been like this when she had startled back to life all those days ago. So something, or someone, had to have taken her over during her coma.

Hannibal suddenly clutched onto a hope, that could possibly be a false one, that all of this was to show him who it was that was inside Victoria. And he held onto that hope as he stepped over the threshold. Suddenly, all he could see was black. All he could see was this thick, constricting darkness. How could be have been so foolish? How could he have actually walked straight into that trap? Had he gone blind? Stilling himself, Hannibal let his eyelids fall closed and took deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He loosened his muscles, eased his mind, calmed himself, before he opened his eyes again and was assaulted by light.

He was standing in his office...watching himself sketching. It was daytime, the skies outside were overcast. Lecter circled around to the back of his desk, behind his past self, and looked over his shoulder. As he looked downward at the sketchbook, he noticed that he had been sketching one of his favorite pieces of art. The Wounded Man. He held his gaze on it for a few moments, noting that he was almost finished with it, before letting his eyes slide across the desk to the calendar on the upper left hand corner. It was...

January 3, 2011. Hannibal froze, his mind ticking as he wracked his brains to remember the importance of that particular date. It was after he put Jeremy Olmstead on display, but it was before Abel Gideon was incarcerated for the murders he committed on Thanksgiving Day of 2010. What was so very important about January 3rd, 2011? Resisting the urge to sigh, Hannibal straightened himself up from his slightly bent over position from looking at his calendar. It was at that moment when there were three hard, distinct knocks on his office door.

Lecter, out of pure habit, went to answer the door, but stopped short when his past self breezed by him, after slipping the sketch underneath some other papers and drawings on a small table, to answer the door himself. It was then that Hannibal realized what happened that day, why it was important...and who was doing this to him. The door opened, Hannibal stalked forward, seeking to confirm his suspicions, and he stopped short once again when his eyes landed on the face of the person on the other side of the threshold. The soft features of their face, the barely there smile lines, plump lips, naturally wide brown eyes, straight dirty blonde hair tied back into a simple ponytail.

Miriam Regina Lass.

The thought that it was the meek, good-natured Agent-in-Training that had cried and begged for just one little botched phone call to her boss chilled him to the bone. Surely this malevolent entity couldn't be her, could it?

Hannibal had no need or desire to listen to the conversation between himself and the young woman. He had relived the very moment he was standing in too many times to count. He instead, stood behind the desk, cloaked in the shadows from the dreary light and balcony above him, watching the scene unfold before him, but not listening. He was watching Miriam, studying her movements for anything different, for anything out of the ordinary. For any kind of sign that this was, in fact, not a memory...but an elaborate imitation of one that would soon crumble.

There was no such indication throughout the whole thing. As the past Hannibal went up the ladder to the walkway above, Miriam was simply wandering about. Doing something to distract from the boredom that was surely seeping into her body and mind. But on the balcony overlooking the whole office, Hannibal knew exactly what he was doing. He was preparing for an attack. Taking off his expensive shoes and suit jacket so as to make less, or no, noise. Hannibal watched as he silently crept down the ladder, as Miriam found the sketch, as his figure swallowed hers as he clenched his hand around her slender neck. She struggled, she kicked and pulled and clawed at his hair, knocking over the small table in the process...but nothing was keeping the doctor from his goal.

Life and air were squeezing out of her. Hannibal could practically feel her pounding pulse and tightening throat in his hand even as he watched. He inhaled deeply, reveling in not just the memory of the scent of her fear, but the scent of her fear in the flesh. Right there, right then. He remembered the lust that had shot through him as she had clawed and pulled at his hair. He remembered his blood growing hot in his veins, his cock hardening, as he felt her consciousness beginning to leave her, as she went limp in his strong arms and no longer resisted against him...as he gently leaned his head down and breathed in the smell of Miriam Lass' terror, confusion, anger, hatred. He could taste it on his tongue as he pressed his thin lips to her hairline, his eyes fluttering shut as he allowed himself a brief moment of pleasure.

All of those feelings and sensations were back full force. Hannibal, both Hannibals, would have thrown her on the desk and ravaged her mercilessly until she was completely broken, but they wanted the young Agent to be awake and competent for those deliciously horrible deeds. Not to mention that that would have left an enormous mess of evidence to be cleaned up. Lecter watched as he composed himself and let go of Miriam's wrists, letting her unconscious body slump to the ground at his feet. As the young Agent fell, all the color in the memory faded away, leaving everything black, grey, and white.

Suddenly, Miriam Lass was right in front of him, looking flawless, ageless, and altogether in-humanly beautiful. Her blonde hair was flowing in a non-existent breeze and as she leaned in closer to Hannibal, the memory played on.

Miriam leaned in closer to Hannibal, as he crouched down next to an unconscious Miriam. Miriam put her lips to an immobile Hannibal's ear, as the same motion was mirrored by the memory. They both whispered at the same time.

"Dive deeper into oblivion, my dear. Then you'll see the darkness hiding in the light."