Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal, but all original characters are mine. Thanks for all of the follows, favorites, and reviews!
Pretty Little Things
Chapter Twenty-five
January, 2013.
Victoria avoided Will Graham as much as she could for the time being. There was something about him that she found to be disconcerting.
He wouldn't look her in the eye. Maybe that was it.
But there was something else.
He didn't seem to be fully present and situated in the here and now. His mind always seemed to be someplace else.
"You're not going to see Abigail anymore?" Will asked her when she had come to the office one night to go out to dinner after a late night appointment a few days after the foundation had given her the boot.
"I beg your pardon?" She inclined her head, giving him a blank stare, as though she didn't know what he meant.
"You're not Abigail's victim advocate anymore," Will repeated, finally meeting her gaze with one of his own. Finally.
"No," she said. "I left the organization. I need to get better for the sake of my baby. The foundation will assign her another advocate." Probably some simpering new hire with a shiny new master's degree in social work, someone who could persuade Abigail to discuss her feelings.
Will stared at her for a few minutes, his lips pressed together. "Good luck with that," he said.
Good luck with that.
Because he knew.
She would never get better.
—
The reaction from Lou wasn't the one Victoria expected.
"You can't just oust Jeannette Ryan because she told you to leave the office after you gave her your two weeks' notice," Lou said. "Anyway, your involvement with the foundation has been a little much. Let the people who know what they're doing handle it."
"The people who know what they're doing?" Victoria echoed, feeling her temper flare. "Just what the hell do you mean by that, Lou?"
Lou sighed audibly. "You know exactly what I mean, Victoria. When you and I interviewed Jeannette Ryan, you wanted her to work for the foundation. She's one of the best managers of nonprofit organizations in the tri-state area. You were thrilled to work with her. Now you want her out because of some perceived slight…"
"That's not it, Lou!" Victoria snapped out. "That's not it at all!"
"Then why do you want her gone, Victoria?" Lou asked her gently. "Was it something she said? She genuinely does care about you, Victoria, and she's completely committed to what your vision of the foundation should be…"
Victoria felt tears prick her eyes as she collapsed into a chair in the living room, suddenly feeling defeated and exhausted. "Forget it, Lou," she said weakly. "Just forget it. I'm sorry. I…I'm just really tired, that's all."
Lou was silent on the other end of the line for a few moments. "Is everything all right, Victoria? Is there something you'd like to talk about?"
She wiped her eyes. "Everything is fine, Lou," she mustered. "Everything is perfectly fine."
"If you say so." Lou still sounded worried. "If you need to talk, call me. Anytime. Day or night. I promise I won't charge you, Victoria." A lame attempt at a joke. "I've known you since you were a tiny baby. I still care about you…"
"I know you do, Lou," she said, her voice cracking. "And trust me, now that you've made that offer, you might hear from me late some night."
"Just not too late," Lou said. And Victoria had to laugh at that as she said good-bye to him and ended the call.
—
Jack Crawford was coming over for dinner that evening. That put Victoria ill at ease.
"You and I have nothing to worry about," Hannibal told her when she opened her mouth to protest. "It's to discuss my latest appointment with Will Graham." He looked up briefly from the food he was preparing. "Are you all right, Victoria?" he asked her.
She poured herself another glass of sparking water, then managed a wan smile. "I'm fine, Hannibal. Just tired."
"Why don't you go to bed early tonight?" Hannibal suggested. "I had something cooking for you."
"What did you have in mind?" she asked him.
He smiled gently. "I'm making you a filet mignon with fingerling potatoes and green beans amandine. I knew you would like that."
Her mouth watered at the thought of filet mignon. "Cooked medium rare?" she said.
"As you like it," he replied, looking up at her.
She went to him, kissing him. He did care for her, he did, she thought as she buried her face into his shoulder for a few moments. Something little like this meant a lot to her. Bur most of all, it was the relief of not having to deal with Jack Crawford, whom she regarded as an interloper of sorts.
It was too much to deal with right now. She didn't want to think about it. She went into her purse for her second daily dose of Xanax and waited for Hannibal to finish cooking the steak.
She felt calmer after the Xanax took effect. After finishing her dinner, she was pleasantly tired.
"I'm going to go upstairs and lie down," she said to him and he cleared her plate. She made her way around the counter and ran her forefinger along his forearm. He glanced at her as he put the plate in the dishwasher. "You'll come up later?" She nuzzled his neck.
He stroked her hair, a smile playing on his lips. "I'll be up later," he promised.
Not having to deal with Jack Crawford made things a thousand times easier. Not having to focus on Will Graham invading their domain was a godsend. And Hannibal would be up later, and everything would be all right.
—
June, 2010.
He glared down at her as she sat there screaming, as she babbled out, "What have we done, Hannibal? Oh, my god, what have we done? There's so much blood…"
He tugged her up by the hand, then marched her to the corner and gestured to it. "Stop this. Stop this at once," he ordered, and she clapped her hand over her mouth so that she would stop keening. Still, she was whimpering and couldn't stop. He pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and opened the polished cherrywood box that contained his butchering instruments. She gasped when she saw them; they were a strange mix of knives and surgical instruments, each one sharp and ominously glinting in the light.
He turned to her presently, a look of annoyance on his face. "If you cannot stop crying, take another Xanax. If you cannot stand looking at his face, then cover your eyes until I am done."
She squeezed her eyes shut and shoved her forefingers into her ears while he butchered the body, so she wouldn't have to hear the sound of the scalpel slicing through skin, the slimy, squelching sound as he removed meat from the bone and tossed it into the tupperware containers that had neatly been labeled according to which cut of meat was placed in them.
After some moments, he placed his hand on her shoulder. She started and let out a small squeal when he did. She looked up at him and saw the placid expression on his face, the flatness of his eye. Was he going to hit her?
No. Instead, he roughly pulled her up by the hand. "You're going to help me carry the body upstairs and to the car. You're going to remain calm while we do this. Do you understand?"
She nodded, her head feeling muzzy. He unceremoniously pushed McCarren's remains onto the floor, which had been covered with plastic dropcloths, and the wrapped the body in them. Like a mummy, she thought.
"Victoria. Come here. Take him by the feet."
She made her way to the feet, and watched as Hannibal lifted the body by the plastic-covered shoulders. She took the body by the shins. Her stomach roiled as Hannibal directed her to take the body upstairs, through the back door, and outside, where Hannibal had pulled the car around and opened the trunk so that they could place the body within it. She stared down at Robert McCarren, at the vacant, dead eyes, at the slack jaw. She'd hard people say that the dead looked different from when they had been alive. And…in this case he did.
"Go back inside," Hannibal told her gently, "and lock the door behind you."
She nodded absently, and he got into the car and started it after slamming the trunk down over Robert McCarren's body.
She staggered upstairs to the loft bedroom, not stopping until she reached the bathroom.
She went straight to the toilet and vomited into it. After she flushed the toilet, she rinsed the inside of her mouth and then reached for the pill bottle that contained her Xanax. She took out a tiny pill, putting it into her mouth as she stared at her reflection. She looked like a ghost of herself; her face was pale, her eyes wide, and she was covered in blood.
His blood.
Out, out, damned spot.
She placed the bottle on the bathroom counter, then crouched on the bathroom floor, tracing her finger along the pattern of the tile.
He was dead. Robert McCarren, the man who had stalked her, the man who had sexually assaulted her, the man who had taken so much from her, was dead. By her hand.
She was a killer.
A murderer.
She had taken a life. She was on the way to becoming what Hannibal was. He had made her into a dark goddess, one who would rule a bloody, painful, secret world with him.
And I said, give me the fucking fruit.
She suddenly felt so tired. She lay her down on the floor, the tile smooth and cool against her cheek, and she fell asleep as the Xanax began to take effect.
She didn't dream at all. To be honest, it was the best sleep she'd had since McCarren had been sentenced.
Hannibal returned at daybreak, gently rousing her. "Come on," he said, deliberately keeping his voice soft as he helped her to her feet. Her tongue felt dry and her mouth felt cottony.
"Did you get rid of him?" she heard herself say as he turned on the shower. She let him remove the bloody shorts, top, and underwear she'd still been wearing.
"It's been done." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "You won't need to worry about him any longer. You're free, Victoria. You've taken your life back." He gestured toward the shower. "Go on. Get in and clean yourself off."
The warm water was like heaven on her skin. Hannibal entered the shower, too, closing the curtain behind him. She turned to him, throwing her arms about him and collapsing against him in tears. "Hannibal," she said, "what did we just do? Oh, God, Hannibal, what if he isn't dead?"
He placed his finger against her lips, shushing her, almost cradling her in his arms. "He is dead, Victoria. He won't ever hurt you again. There's nothing to be frightened of anymore."
"So everything is going to be all right?"
"Yes, my love, everything is going to be all right from now on. Now sit down so I can wash you."
She let him tend to her, and his touch was soothing. She loved the way his fine surgeon's hands, skilled in not only saving lives but taking them, were calming to her, almost reverent of her. He might not love her as she wished to be loved, but still, still, there was something there, and she would settle for whatever it was. He had brought her out of darkness, made her shed her shell, polished her into a bright, shining thing like he was. Gleaming like silver, like Daisy did for Gatsby…
"How are you feeling?" he asked her after he had put her to bed and had brought her a snifter of brandy.
"Much better," she said.
He kissed her after she had finished her brandy, and she fell asleep in the softness of the bed. When she awakened, he fed her a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon — real bacon — and was as sweet and romantic as he had been in the first year of their relationship.
There was no going back now. The deed was done.
She and Hannibal were bound together now, forever.