Chapter 9
Swiveling from side to side in Hannibal's chair, Delilah waited impatiently for him to come back as she studied the mezzanine lining three-quarters of the office. 'So many books,' she thought, vaguely wondering just how many there were up there, and whether he'd read them all – but she sincerely doubted it. Who on Earth had that kind of time?
"Do you remember what you asked of me," Hannibal suddenly called from behind her, and Delilah peeked over her shoulder to watch as he busied himself with something just out of her direct line of sight. "...That first day you set foot in my office?"
"I asked, um..." She paused a moment to think, turning back to study the stereotypical therapist's couch that sat dead center between the colossal windows. "I think... I asked if you had any booze?"
She heard him chuckle. "You asked if I had anything stronger than water," he corrected.
"Ah, right..." She gripped the edge of the desk and began twisting the chair around again. "Which you never did give me, by the way."
"Of course I didn't," he replied, his voice increasing in clarity, while lowering in volume, as she found him approaching in her peripheral. "As that would have been woefully irresponsible."
Hannibal stopped at her side and she stilled her chair to get a proper look at the large, silver tray resting on his palm; Delilah's brow twisted in confusion as she studied its contents. In the center was a large glass bottle, filled with what she assumed to be ice water; beside it sat a much smaller, dark green bottle, with a parchment label; two frosty, crystal glasses; a white, unmarked box; and a beautifully filigreed, silver slotted spoon.
"I thought perhaps we can make up for lost drinks," he said, carefully setting the platter on the desk, "and learn something in the process." He stepped away and grabbed himself a chair, swiftly bringing it around to sit beside her.
Gripping the neck of the smaller bottle, she turned it to read the only word she could see that was in English. "Absinthe, hm?"
He nodded, taking the bottle and removing the cork. "I trust you've heard of it?"
"Of course," she replied, cheeks warming as she bristled defensively. "I've had it before, you know."
"Judging by your initial bewilderment, I would argue you haven't."
Before she could interject, he cleared his throat and clarified gently, "True absinthe is difficult to come by in the States; this little bottle, however, was purchased at a shop called La Maison Du Pastis, in Marseille."
"I see..." She plopped her elbows on the desk and leaned forward, resting her chin on her palms as she watched him pour two fingers' worth of lush, deep green liquid into each chilled glass. Setting the bottle down and replacing the cork, he then laid the slotted spoon over one of the glasses and tugged the small box nearer to him, flipping it open to reveal neat little rows of sugar cubes.
"So, this is your 'something unorthodox'?" She inquired, finding herself highly amused. "You intend to get me drunk?"
Hannibal snorted lightly. "I intend to lower your inhibitions, Delilah, but I won't force you if you'd rather n–"
"No, no. I'll drink it," she assured him quickly, dropping her hands to cross her arms upon the desk, as she angled her head to face him. "I trust you," she added, her lips twitching into a small smile as she realized how much she meant that.
He studied her for a moment, then returned her smile. "Good," he said simply.
Placing a single sugar cube upon the filigreed spoon, he took up the bottle of water and stoppered the opening with his thumb. "Traditionally, a particular drip is used to slowly pour the water over the sugar cube, infusing the liquor with what is essentially a simple syrup," he educated her quietly. "But as I do not have such a device in my office, we will improvise."
"...Do you have such a device at home, Hannibal?"
"Naturellement, ma chérie," he replied, his French impeccable as far as she could tell.
The pair watched as the ice water steadily dripped past his thumb and over the sugar cube, ever so slowly dissolving it into the liquor below and transforming it from a dark forest to a light sage. The process was agonizingly tedious, however, and soon she found herself beginning to fidget. A warm hand suddenly rested on her knee, effectively stilling her twitching as Hannibal whispered, "Patience," his tone politely amused.
"A virtue I evidently lack around you," she muttered, dropping her left hand to rest over his and stroking his index finger with her thumb. "So... Tell me, since we're chasing the green fairy today, do you also have plans to get me doped up on opium?"
"Now, there's a thought," he mused, allowing a few last drops of water to push the rest of the sugar through the spoon and setting the bottle back down on the tray. "Baudelaire was said to prefer his absinthe with laudanum... I have a small bottle at home, if you're truly curious." He stirred the spoon once in her drink before setting it atop what she assumed would be his own glass, then handed her the finished cocktail with a playful wink.
Pointedly ignoring that statement, and its potential implications, Delilah took the proffered glass with both hands. "...Oscar Wilde claimed absinthe drove men to madness," she said, holding the liquid up to eye-level and studying it.
"True..." He acquiesced. "However, Wilde also said that after the first glass of absinthe, you see things as you wish they were –"
"And after the second," Delilah interrupted, "you see things as they are not –"
"And finally," Hannibal concluded with a nod, "you see things as they really are."
Delilah took a steadying breath, her eyes darting to his. "Do you expect me to drink three glasses of this, then?"
He chuckled warmly and began rubbing circles on the inside of her knee. "No. I think one glass should suffice, for you."
"That feels a bit like an insult, Doctor Lecter," she replied with a pout.
"On the contrary, I simply mean that I am convinced you are much more aware than you let on," he said. "You already see things perfectly clearly – this is only meant to calm your nerves enough to share."
Her eyes trailed over to the second glass and she canted her head. "Do you intend to join me, or no?"
"I do." He nodded once. "But I want to watch your face as you taste it for the first time."
Licking her lips, Delilah looked down and endeavored to focus her attention solely on the drink in her hand; the pale liquid shifted around silently, like a hazy green cloud from some place distinctly other. She closed her eyes, trying to ignore the fact that Hannibal was watching her every move with clear and abundant interest… And trying more so to dutifully ignore the sweet warmth creeping up her thigh, as his fingertips continued to trace shapes upon her leg.
'Tasting a simple cocktail should not feel this sensual,' she thought absently, swirling the liquor beneath her nose to first take in its scent.
It certainly didn't smell like the absinthe she thought she'd already had, whatever that radioactive nonsense had been; rather than an aggressive, black licorice punch to her senses, this mysterious liquid smelled much more organic and had a faintly floral quality. Her tongue trailed along her bottom lip once more, and her eyes fluttered open to catch the index finger of Hannibal's free hand tracing his own lip, as he watched with rapt attention. She caught his eye and held his gaze as she took her first sip, noting how his mouth parted just as the cool, green liquid washed over her tongue. Finding his mouth all too distracting, she shut her eyes again to assess the flavour.
Anise came first, as expected; the oil of which was commonly used to make black licorice, of course, though this was worlds away from any mere candy. The drink was smooth and refreshing; herbal and floral; with a mild bitterness and bite of spice that warmed her body, even as the icy drink slid down her throat. The sweetness of the sugar came last, coating her tongue tenderly – not cloyingly sweet, but just enough.
Delilah sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, savoring that first sip before taking another.
"Oh, that's lovely," she murmured, opening her eyes to find Hannibal still staring at her; he looked altogether bewitched, with his mouth still parted and his tongue trailing along his upper teeth.
Hannibal's lip twitched ever so slightly, as if he were preparing to say something, but evidently thought better of it and closed his mouth. She had to suppress a frown when, instead, he removed his hand from her leg and set to task in fixing his own cocktail.
Several long moments and quiet sips passed before he finally spoke.
"Once you've finished your drink, we're going to play a little game," he announced, placing the bottle on the desk and swirling the spoon in his glass, before setting it down and taking a swig. "I'm going to say a word, and I want you to say the first thing that pops into your mind; it can also be a word, or a phrase – but whatever it is, don't overthink it, just answer."
"...The word-association game, really?" she asked, her mouth twisting in amusement.
"Humor me."
"Alright," she replied, continuing to nurse her cocktail as she glanced out the windows. Delilah watched as thick, gray storm clouds swallowed any remaining patches of blue, quickly snuffing out the once abundant natural light of the room.
Hannibal rose after several moments of amicable silence and, rather than turn on any lamps, moved past her to start a fire in the hearth. Just as he returned to his seat, she tipped the last two sips of absinthe back in one swig and set her glass down upon the desk. A cozy warmth slithered down her spine and she settled back into her seat, listening to the fire crackle as she watched its orange glow dance along the wall.
"How are you feeling?" Hannibal inquired, studying her over the rim of his glass.
"Mm..." She hummed thoughtfully. "Relaxed."
"Very good. Are you ready to begin?"
Delilah's scalp prickled at the rumble of his voice, and she took a moment to stand and shake herself out a bit; slipping off her shoes and tugging the hem of her dress down, she folded one leg under herself and dug a toe into the rug to keep her chair steady. "Okay, shoot."
"...Comfortable?" He asked, evidently entertained, as he set his half-finished glass upon the desk.
"Mhm."
"Alright, the first thing that comes to your mind," he reminded her, before clearing his throat and leaning forward. "...Black."
"Gray."
"Fire."
"Soothing."
"Therapy."
"A bit tedious."
Hannibal smirked at that, and she felt her cheeks warm. "Sorry, I didn't mean–"
"No apologizing."
He fell silent for a moment, then began again. "Family."
"Fucking mess."
"Mother."
"Pathetic."
"Father."
"Unknown."
"...Travis Bloom."
"Offal."
"Did you say awful?" He asked quietly, and she clamped down on her bottom lip as she slowly shook her head, watching his brow jump slightly in response.
Hannibal leaned back in his seat and rubbed his jaw as he regarded her. "How much do you know about Travis Bloom's murder?"
A splash of red decorating the cold, cement floor of a garage suddenly flashed across her mind, and she shut her eyes tight to shake it away. "I... know enough," she muttered, her voice paper-thin.
"Look at me, Delilah," he commanded gently, and her eyes reluctantly found his. He held her gaze, raking his teeth over his lip as he leaned forward again. "I would like you to tell me about your childhood now."
"...What about it?"
"Anything. Everything." He shrugged nonchalantly. "When you think back, what stands out?"
Delilah's brow contorted as she looked to the floor and took a deep breath. Memories of trying to keep quiet as she played with her barbie dolls flitted to the forefront of her mind; trying to sneak into the kitchen for a snack and making sure he didn't spot her; keeping her head down when they passed in the hall, because she knew if she dared even make eye contact he'd say something nasty.
"No, Delilah. Focus on me and tell me what you're thinking," Hannibal instructed firmly.
"Just how, um... stifling it was. Because, well, wh–" Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat, sucking in a shaky breath and forcing herself to focus on his eyes; she watched the firelight dance within his remarkably dilated pupils as she began again.
"When Alana was very young, our mother had an affair," she explained; smirking as she added, "Or as I like to call it, a moment of clarity."
"You approve of infidelity?" He asked, his tone merely curious, and she shrugged.
"Not usually, no. But, as with most things, I believe there are exceptions."
Hannibal inclined his head, as if to say 'fair enough,' then gestured for her to continue.
"As far as anyone really knew, Travis and Patricia Bloom were the perfect little couple – a well-respected physician and his doting young wife." She rolled her eyes to the ceiling and snorted in disgust. "In reality, he was an entitled asshole, and my mother was just too young and dumb to realize it before she agreed to marry him; he was already in his mid-thirties, and she was fresh out of high school. Barely legal."
It was Hannibal's turn to let out a derisive huff, and she nodded. "So, anyway, when Alana was about five years old, our mother met someone I imagine treated her like an actual human being for once. Travis had been out of town for the week, business or something, and she and the man had a brief affair; my mom told me she had planned to take Alana and run away with him, but Travis had come back early and caught them going through her things together.
"He beat the man bloody – probably mom, too – and the entire affair was essentially swept under the rug. About forty weeks later, I was born, and Travis' name was placed on the birth certificate."
"Why didn't he leave her? Surely a divorce would be preferable."
Delilah sighed heavily. "'What God has joined together, let man not separate,'" she recited snidely. "...Travis was heavily involved in the church."
"But Patricia committed adultery," he replied simply. "In the eyes of God, she had already severed their bond."
"Isn't that always the way, though? People cling to their religion and then cherry pick the parts they like best. I'm sure he knew how stupidly lucky he was to have her; he wasn't going to let her go over a tryst with some nobody he'd already scared away."
Hannibal nodded pensively, staring at the fire for a moment before looking back to her. "Did she not give you the man's name?"
"No. I asked a few times, but she always avoided it or changed the subject. I suspect she was afraid I'd try to find him, and leave her to get away from Travis, or something."
"I can see why you find your mother pathetic," he mumbled, and she laughed softly.
"I know she was young, but that's hardly an excuse for all the glaring mistakes she made." She sniffed and rested her chin on her hand, though she forced herself to keep her eyes on Hannibal. "Growing up, I always knew something was off, you know? Travis treated me like a complete nuisance, and was unnecessarily harsh about everything I did. I was the problem child and Alana was an angel; he gave her everything – took her out of school every so often to go to Disneyland, or wherever, and bought her presents 'just because.' He gave me nothing more than dirty looks if I so much as breathed too loudly.
"My mother tried to make up for it as best she could, and she really was good to me, but it still stung. It wasn't until I was around eleven that I learned about the affair and everything."
"Alana was seventeen," Hannibal interjected. "I suppose your mother thought it time she knew?"
Delilah nodded and stretched her back out a bit before crossing her arms over her chest. "Yes, and Alana didn't exactly... take it very well. She screamed and cursed at her – which prompted me to come downstairs. She called mom a whore, and me a mistake, and wouldn't talk to either of us for weeks after. She always thought Travis had hung the moon, of course," she added, her lip curling in disgust. "When mom confided in her, it only solidified his perfection in her mind."
"Alana never cared that he treated you as lesser?"
"We were children." Delilah shrugged, dropping her hands to her lap. "I was the pesky little sister, always trying to copy her and whatnot. I'm pretty sure she hated me, until she left for college..."
A corner of Hannibal's mouth quirked as he stared in silence, clearly waiting for her to continue; she sighed and scrubbed a hand over her mouth, rising from her seat to meander toward the fireplace.
"After about a solid month of giving us the silent treatment, Alana started applying for colleges and... everything was sort of forgotten, in all the excitement. Things went back to normal – hell, better than normal, for a short while. Travis was too busy pouring over college brochures with Alana; helping her decide which school to attend of the many that had accepted her. So, things were easier.
"But, when she left, everything... changed. Mom pulled away from me, too busy bending over backwards to keep Travis happy after his 'only daughter' had left the nest. As for Travis, he started talking to me more, but it was never fatherly things anyone would expect...
"He made comments about how he wouldn't bother to chase away any boys if they came to ask me out; said he hoped someone would snatch me away, so he wouldn't have to look at me anymore and–" Her voice broke and she felt Hannibal step up to her side; he didn't try to touch her and she was grateful for it, in the moment. She glared at the flames licking the hearth and wrapped her arms tight around herself.
"...One afternoon, when I was fourteen, he came home from work while mom was out getting groceries. He-... he barged into my room while I was reading – 'You're not really my daughter,' he said – and I just remember being so confused. One moment I was on my bed, completely engrossed in my book, and the next I was being pulled from the mattress, my back hit the carpet, and all the wind was knocked out of me."
She stopped to take a breath, and turned to find Hannibal glaring at the fire as well, his eyes tight and almost frightening with the way the light and shadows jumped haphazardly across his face. When she didn't speak, he blinked and glanced at her out the corner of his eye before softening his gaze and facing her as well.
"...He just kept saying I wasn't really his, so it was okay, right?" She continued, searching his eyes as she spoke in a rush. "No blood, not from him. I wasn't really his… And he was making lewd comments about my body, a-and his hands were everywhere, and I... I couldn't find my voice. I couldn't breathe to speak. It was so unexpected, so horribly wrong...
He'd gotten me half undressed when the front door opened, and my mother hollered up the stairs to announce she was home, a-and... He stopped dead in the middle of unzipping his pants, righted himself, then ripped my book in half and left me there."
Hannibal studied her for a long moment, before lifting his arms just enough for her to notice the movement; she smiled sadly and stepped forward, slipping her arms around him as he enveloped her in a gentle embrace. Pressing her face directly to his chest, she inhaled deeply and let out a sigh before turning to rest her cheek against him; his grip tightened a fraction, and he lowered his lips to the top of her head. Closing her eyes, she listened to the steady thrumming of his heart through his shirt as he took a few slow, even breaths.
"Did he ever try again?" He spoke quietly into her hair.
She instinctively began to shake her head , but caught herself and gripped at fistfuls of the back of his shirt as she slowly nodded instead.
"Did he succeed," he asked, though it wasn't really a question – not in cadence, anyway – and though she knew he had already come to his own conclusion, she nodded anyway; she knew what his next words would be, as well, but she waited for him to ask. "...How old were you?"
Delilah dug her teeth into her bottom lip hard enough for it to hurt, focusing on the sting as she swallowed thickly. "Twenty-... six," she replied, her voice low, but still discernible amongst the ambient sounds of the room. The ambiance was all that followed, and they stood immobile as she watched the light flicker against the inky darkness of her eyelids.
"Delilah–" he tried, but she shook her head firmly and he fell silent.
"I know what you're thinking," she said, clearing her throat as she eased herself out of his arms and took a small step backward – just enough to look up at him properly. His arms fell to his sides as she quickly crossed her own, digging her nails into her sleeves.
"Is that so?"
She sucked her teeth for a moment before nodding, her eyes darting to the desk. Deciding she could do with another drink, she moved past him and snatched up the bottle of absinthe; it wasn't until she tried pouring some into the nearest glass that she realized how badly she was trembling – but Hannibal was there in an instant, grasping the end of the bottle to hold it steady. She poured just a little less than he had done at the start, and he took the bottle from her as she knocked it back.
Without the sugar and water, it was unsurprisingly far more potent; less lovely, and more like she'd decided to take a shot of anise-flavoured motor oil. She tried to stifle the persistent cough that followed, pressing her hands to her cheeks and breathing deeply through her nose.
"This is 170 proof, Delilah," he muttered, but she ignored him – it was a bit late for that.
"You think I snapped," she announced suddenly, tamping down another pesky cough as she swung around to face him.
"Didn't you?"
Delilah clamped her mouth shut, unwilling to say it – not yet. Hannibal twisted the bottle of absinthe around in his palms for a moment, before gently setting it down and gesturing to their seats. She dropped into her chair at once and watched him hesitate again before rounding the desk to sit as well.
"That would make sense, wouldn't it?" She whispered.
"...Yes. People are pushed to all sorts of things – things they would never consider, under typical circumstances – either through fear, or perhaps blind rage."
She snorted at that, but didn't reply.
Hannibal tucked his chin to his chest and crossed his legs, folding his hands and resting them in his lap. "I believe I recall the reports saying his body was found a few days after arriving home from some sort of family function," he said quietly, and she nodded.
"Every summer, we have a family reunion over in Fairfax," she explained. "There's campgrounds there with all sorts of activities to entertain everyone's children. It's alright... has a decent lake for fishing, if you're into that sort of thing. That's where..." The liquor suddenly rushed to her head and she shut her eyes, leaning back a bit to take a few measured breaths. "170 proof, you said?"
Hannibal let out a short puff of laughter. "Generally, one doesn't shoot it like tequila... Would you like me to take you home?"
"Mm-mm, no." She shook her head, then blinked a bit before focusing on him again. "I-... I want..."
"What do you want, Delilah?"
Sucking in a slow breath, she gingerly crossed her legs and hooked her palms around her knee, lacing her fingers together as she squinted at him. She wanted a great many things, in that moment – a number of which were highly inappropriate for the current situation, likely brought on by the liquor that continued to cloud her mind – but beyond that, she needed to know... Needed to hear him say, out loud, that he knew precisely what she'd done.
"Let's play another game," she finally said, and she watched his head tilt ever so slightly. "Quid pro quo – you answer any question I think to ask – honestly and thoroughly – and I answer yours in turn."
Hannibal's lips twisted into a smirk as he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs as he studied her. "Quid pro quo," he repeated with a nod, gesturing with his palms out toward her to signal she could go first.
She chewed her lip as she thought for a moment, then began with an arguably innocuous one that had been gnawing at her anyway. "That day we were interrupted – were you upset with me for being so forward, or were you upset with yourself for allowing it to happen?"
"Neither," he replied quickly, and her brow quirked in surprise. "I was irritated with Franklyn for interrupting us."
"You–"
"Ah-ah, my turn. What happened on the twenty-first of August, last year?"
A weight suddenly settled on her chest and her tongue was dry and sticky, like absinthe-wrung cotton. Without her even needing to ask, he poured straight water into one of the cocktail glasses and handed it to her; she accepted it gratefully and took a long swig of the cool liquid. "Cheater," she mumbled, glaring down at her glass. "You weren't supposed to ask that yet."
When he didn't respond, she held her breath for a moment before exhaling loudly and looking back up to him. "You know, don't you?" She whispered, willing it to be true.
"I know what I've read; I know what I've heard. Now, I want to hear it from your lips."
"...What do you want to hear, exactly? How he was killed? How many pieces–" Her rising volume was teetering dangerously close to shouting at him, and she clamped her mouth shut to take a few breaths through her nose before muttering, "I'm sure you already know those things."
"Those things are inessential to what you felt in the moment, Delilah," he whispered, and her eyes widened exponentially.
He knows.
A profound silence descended upon them as their eyes stayed fixed on one another, neither uttering a word. Hannibal eventually rose from his seat, his movements slow and stilted, and paused to slip his hands into his pockets; she studied the sinew webbing across his exposed forearms as he then stepped a few feet away to stare up at a painting on the wall.
"No more games," he said quietly. "No more hiding... I have a working theory about you, Delilah, would you like to hear it?"
Pursing her lips, she chewed on the inside corner of her mouth as she stared up at the back of his head. "Yes, doctor."
"Travis Bloom committed a flagitious act against you, and you responded in a way you saw fit... These episodes of yours are likely attributed to your ingrained perceptions of right and wrong. You committed a murder, Delilah, and deep down you regret–"
"Wrong, already," she breathed.
Hannibal stood stock-still for what felt like an eternity, before his hands slowly fell from his pockets and he turned around to face her; she was mildly disquieted to find he looked rather menacing just then, with his front swathed in darkness as the flames twitched and jolted in the hearth just behind him. He stilled again and she shakily rose from her seat.
"I was... mentally present the entire time," she finally said, her level tone belying the nervousness she felt in the pit of her stomach, as she cautiously moved toward him. "...And I regret nothing."