Professional Curiosity
Chapter Four: What He Took From Me
Hannibal was kind of enough to post me up into a spare bedroom, mercifully on the first floor so I wouldn't have to trouble with the stairs in my delicate condition. He encouraged me to take a walk around the house, which in his labyrinth was a feat on my own; I clung to the wall, achingly forcing my legs to sway my hips painfully against the incision. I couldn't help but to relish in his bedside manner, and I took each minute of his gentle touch and compassionate care-taking to remember how it felt to be under his complete provision. The first night that I spent with him, he led me into the kitchen, pulled out a chair for me. His hand grasped my arm to help me into my seat, ready to vice if I were to fall.
A generous fragrance of flour, pepper, and something meat-based made my mouth water; and then a tinge of blood in the air, I smelled it on his hands. Oh, what had he been up to? I didn't acknowledge it openly, but my heart pounded in my chest as the image of a feral Hannibal Lecter, white shirt dressed in crimson intruded into my mind. He straightened his back, a redwood tree worth climbing and falling to my death if he'd let me.
Before he returned to his ministrations behind the counter, he palmed my chin wordlessly and I blushed under his scrutiny, inwardly embarrassed with how little he had to do to affect me. The coppery smell wafted up my nose, and I felt my stomach turn—not out of disgust or revulsion, but a deep-seated arousal that had been festering in my core for a great deal of time. I found myself taking shallow breaths, and it didn't go unnoticed. All Hannibal did to acknowledge it was that he made the tiniest of smiles; this wasn't his intention (or perhaps it was, I wasn't sure), for he was merely checking if I had an attack since Hannibal had removed the blood bag from me. It was time for another feeding soon, and he knew that. He'd no doubt keep records of when I had access to a donor or bag. I wouldn't have to tell him if I was "hungry". He would simply know.
What was different was when his thumb found my bottom lip, merely coaxed it slightly. My face burned, sent a jolt of electricity through my body. I sucked in my stomach so hard from the tension that my incision loudly disagreed with the sudden spasm. I winced. He had to know how deeply enamored I was, for he didn't remove his hand from my jaw; rather, he gazed down at me as if he were considering something that he hadn't considered for a long time. It was that, or perhaps he wanted to see how long I could sit there, unmoved, while locked in his hand, feeling as if something were going to explode from me if he wouldn't let go.
"I should let you know," said Hannibal softly, "that in my commitment to protect you, I've done something quite radical."
"You, Hannibal?" As I spoke, I felt his fingers caress beneath my chin, and I fought for my voice not to betray the quivering sensation in my chest. "Say it isn't so."
"I took something from you."
I gave a half-shrug to allow nonchalance, but my curiosity peaked. Took from me? What possibly could he have taken from me that would seem radical? Wouldn't I have noticed, for all my appendages were still connected to me? I bit my lip inquisitively, and knew he would tell me, so I asked him the question he waited to hear:
"What did you take?"
"Your former husband ruptured your spleen." Hannibal said.
"I thought that you said he didn't nick any vital organs."
"One can live without a spleen, Evangeline. The liver picks up the slack if it's removed," said Hannibal casually. "And removing your spleen, which absorbs your blood, seemed to be a life-saving move in the moment. I took it when I was operating on you in my office. Knowing that, can you guess what I've made you for your first dinner with me?"
He certainly had a way of delivering certain blows with tranquility that made less of what others would have a strong reaction. It shocked me, for I didn't think he would have eaten any of what I had to offer. Though, an array of emotion swept through me at the thought of Hannibal's hands moving around in my body to remove an organ that could hurt me eventually. Poetic, even. A spleen.
"Me on a plate," I said lightly.
"Self-preservation," said Hannibal, "on a plate. The only way to save your life tonight is to eat a part of you that you've taken from others. What do you think of that?"
"I'm…intrigued," I said politely. Aroused, elated, breathless, and struck by worshipful fascination. Would he expect me to tell him that instead? No doubt, he would rise a conversation about ethical and professional boundaries that I wasn't ready to hear.
Hannibal uttered a small noise that sounded as if it were approval or a confirmation that I omitted my true thoughts about what he had done without my knowledge. It might have been a test to see how far he could push my loyalty, or perhaps he wanted to see if any crimes done against me would have any effect on my respect for him. Either way, I knew that I passed his test. He thumbed my chin and then excused himself to the kitchen. I waited for him to return.
When he did, he held a large silver platter in his hand, made up of an array of spirals of meat, cheese, toast, and something red in a wine glass. Hannibal placed the tray between us at the head of the table. He spoke the name of the dish out loud, though the only thing I gathered from it was that it was French. Any language from his mouth sounded like spoken poetry.
"Rolled spleen," said Hannibal, portioning the spread onto two separate plates. "Courtesy of Evangeline Gate," he said my name in a French accent.
Anyone would think that we were courting—anyone, being me—but I had been to several of his dinner parties in the past and his presentation always felt as if he were charming his guests, flirtatiously speaking about the meal as if it were to be talked up in order for it to be devoured; though, there was no need for it. The appearance of any of his dishes made my stomach growl, even if they were ordinarily not for human consumption.
He had made my contribution to the meal into fleshed-out flowers, combined by its generous topping of grata and sliced bread.
"They say," said Hannibal, taking his seat, "that the superstition is the spleen of the soul; and anatomically, if the spleen enlarges, the body diminishes."
"I hear that if someone complains about pain, most doctors assume that's what is causing it," I returned.
"How much pain has your spleen given you?"
"I suppose that I never considered it."
"And you will never have to," said Hannibal. "If you would so much as amuse me, what do you think my empathetic patient would surmise if he discovered that you, in your condition, were missing an organ that you harvest from others but was consumed by another?"
I gave it some thought.
"I imagine that my harvester removed from me something that was like an annoyance. Like a parasite. And that, if he knew who you were, that you cared enough about me to help me extend my life. I appreciate either account all the same, Hannibal," I said as I inserted my fork into a rolled spleen.
"Either account is true, but that is not why I took it from you," said Hannibal.
He waited until I took a generous bite. Well, well, well, how delicious I taste. An audible noise of approval—not mistaken by much of anything else—pulled out of my throat as I swallowed a piece of me. The highest in iron, packed in protein, and soft and grainy, the meat left a lingering taste of blood in my mouth; but it was veiled by the grata cheese, salt, pepper, and bread crumbs dusted over it. An art, indeed.
"I am not as perceptive as you may think I am," I suggested as Hannibal picked up his fork and slipped into…well, heh, me. Actually, watching him eat what we both knew was part of me on the plate was—in two words—sexually charged. I wondered if I was the only one in the room who felt as if an intimate act was being performed right at the dining table.
"Are you not?" said Hannibal.
His question didn't hold condescension; it was a canonical correction. He thought, at the very least, that I was an intellect who could carry on a conversation with him.
"I take from you," said Hannibal, "now what would I give in return?"
Not a part of him, though there would be no objection to a generous offer.
"What would you give in return?" I asked, administering the red liquid from the wine glass to my lips. Ah, a protein shake. So, he copied my work. Imitation was the best form of flattery.
"Anonymity." Hannibal answered.
A smile spread across my lips in realization. "Sir?"
"That is my gift to you, Evangeline. I have a flight scheduled in the morning to return to your home. I will dispose of your husband and the donor in your basement. And," he said with a inclination of his head, "if they will let me, I will see about your dogs."
Oof, what would I have to give him in order to sleep with him?
Anything. I'd give him anything. My tongue, if he'd like it—
"Your spleen serves us both better on a plate," said Hannibal. "Rolled spleen deserves to be on a palate with an acquired taste. As I expected, you have a quite a pleasant taste—"
An inappropriate, unrestrained squeal came from me; he might as well have slid his hand up my inner thigh—I covered my mouth quickly, quietly apologetic. Hannibal's face broke into a soft chuckle.
And as if my face couldn't burn hotter, he added with a precarious low voice, bringing his wine glass to his lips,
"Perhaps if the flight is successful, there will be a small chance of breakfast in bed."