Title: Death that Lives in Love, Day 14 of 30 Days of Hannibloom
Fandom: Hannibal
Pairing: Hannibloom
Rating: pg-13
Author's Note: A super short fill today, but I hope you like it!
Hannibal got the call at 4:08 pm on Tuesday. He answered the phone, "Dr. Hannibal Lecter."
"Hannibal, it's Alana." She sounded exhausted and her voice had a sharp edge to it; he tasted it and found it oddly delicious on his tongue. Pain. She was in pain. He took in a quick, deep breath. His Alana was hurt.
"What happened, my dear?"
She didn't ask how he knew. Instead she started to cry. Between sobs she told him, "I got in a car accident. I shattered my knee. It hurts so bad. They're doing surgery tonight. Can you come?"
He entered her hospital room. In one arm he had a vase of Alexandre Girault pink roses, in the other, he held two tomes of French poetry.
She lay on the hospital bed, her left leg in a cast from toe to thigh. Her leg was elevated in a sling. She looked smaller, shrunken from tiredness and the earlier agony of her injury. He walked to her and kissed her cheek. "My darling. Even injured, you look gorgeous." Indeed she did. Her hair was a mess of curls framing her face, not the careful coif she normally maintained. Her cheeks were flushed. She had fear in her eyes, and though it was not fear of him, Hannibal still relished the sight of another's fear. He could smell it too, even over the aromatic perfume of the roses and the harsh antiseptic reek of the hospital. He loved the scent of fear.
He placed the vase on the ledge by her window. The artificial lights shone on the roses; Hannibal did not like the cheap fluorescent glow, and moved them into shadow. That was better.
"The surgery went well. It hurt so badly though, oh," she sighed.
He turned. There were tears swimming in her big eyes. "How did it happen?" he asked.
"He just came out of nowhere. They said he was drunk," she spat out.
Hannibal felt anger boiling inside of him, such a distasteful emotion in himself.
"His name?"
"Marcus. Hal Marcus."
Hannibal nodded. The foolish Mr. Marcus might find himself a victim of he Chesapeake Ripper soon. The drunk was certainly a drain on society, and he had hurt Alana. His meat would not go to waste, however.
"I'm so tired, Hannibal." She nodded her head towards his arm, where he still held the books he had brought her. "Will you read to me?"
"Of course." He sat in the uncomfortable chair next to her bed. Placing one book beside her on the bedside table, he opened the other book of poetry and began to read. "Vous demandez si l'amour rend heureuse; Il le promet, croyez-le, fût-ce un jour. Ah! pour un jour d'existence amoureuse, Qui ne mourrait? la vie est dans l'amour." He watched her eyes close, then open, then close again as she listened to the soothing tone of his voice reciting Desbordes-Valmore.
From behind him, he smelled that unfortunate cologne again, the cheap cologne with a ship on the bottle.
He stood, then bent down and kissed the dozing Alana on the forehead. "Sleep soundly, my dear. I love you."
He turned and greeted Will, whose eyes were narrowed. On Will he tasted rage, and he savored it.
You should be asking yourself: Did Hannibal say it just because Will could hear? Hmmm.
My Hannibal loves the poem "L'Amour." (It's referenced in my story, "Nine Months." Look it up, it's lovely...the poem, not my story!)