Chapter 18
— 6:13 PM
Less than a mile from his destination and already not in a pleasant mood, Hannibal's cell phone rang unexpectedly and his jaw clenched with further annoyance. Glancing over to find it was Jack Crawford calling, he sighed resignedly and tapped the screen. Displeased though he was to be interrupted, he thought it best to just answer now, lest he be bombarded with a multitude of missed calls and obnoxious voicemails; another sharp tap of his fingertip switched the call to speakerphone.
"Evening, Jack."
"Good evening, Hannibal!" He replied, more boisterous than usual. "I hope I've caught you at a good time. I tried to wait until you were off the clock — have you had a chance to catch the news?"
"I do appreciate that — and, no, I have been rather preoccupied today."
"Well, that's a damn shame. I'd say you work too much but that would sure as hell be the pot calling the kettle, wouldn't it?"
Hannibal chuckled out of politeness though his altogether nonexistent patience was waning. "That it would." He paused, hoping Jack would just be out with it, but when he didn't elaborate Hannibal cleared his throat pointedly. "Forgive me, but I do have personal matters to tend to…"
"Sorry, sorry. Busy man, I know. Just wanted to let you know that Ted came through. It's all over national and local news. They're making me and you out to be saints and I think it's going to afford us some solid time to solve this mess. Not to mention, some celebrity got caught cheating with a prostitute, so that'll probably overshadow this for a while," he added with a chortle.
"That's, ah… wonderful to hear, Jack. Glad I could be of some help."
"Yeah. Speaking of help," he hedged and Hannibal perked up slightly.
"Yes?"
Jack laughed again, sounding slightly uncomfortable. "Well, you see, I spoke with Alana this afternoon and apparently Will has, uh, encephalitis?" He'd uttered the term as if it were the most bizarre thing in the world and Hannibal rolled his eyes. "Anyway, apparently he's going to be confined to a hospital bed for at least a few weeks… I was wondering if you wouldn't mind helping us out around here — more than you already have, of course."
"With the copycat investigation, I presume?"
"Predominantly, yes. Though we could certainly use that brilliant mind of yours on other cases as they crop up… If that's alright with you," he added hastily. "We'll be sure to pay you for your time."
"Given the nature of my profession, I cannot commit to being available at a moment's notice, but I will surely assist when ever I am able."
"If you happen to be in the middle of therapy at a time when I need you, can I count on you to come by as soon as possible?"
"At my earliest convenience. Some appointments can be rescheduled as necessary, of course," Hannibal replied. "However, I won't force a patient out."
"And I wouldn't ask you to," he assured, though Hannibal sincerely doubted that. "Alright, sounds great, doctor. Thank you!"
Jack hung up before Hannibal had a chance to reply, but he was hardly bothered. Shutting off the device entirely, he pulled back onto the road and continued along toward Bedelia's house. As he approached, he spotted a hauling truck parked in the driveway and noted that the front door was wide open. He came to a stop and wasted no time exiting his vehicle; quickly moving up the walkway and pausing at the threshold.
Bedelia stood in the foyer with her arms crossed, keeping a close eye on a pair of movers as they took care wrapping what appeared to be a Tiffany lamp. Her gaze stayed glued to the one carrying the box it was heavily padded into as he headed for the door, but her attention was ripped away once she finally noticed Hannibal.
He sidestepped out of the mover's way and smiled pleasantly at her. "Hello, Ms. Du Maurier."
"I see we are not on a first name basis anymore," she replied, tilting her chin upward a fraction.
"In light of recent events we, unfortunately, are not. This should not come as a surprise. May I come in?"
"If I say no, you damn well may not — will it matter?"
"Of course," he said with a small frown. "I am offended you would suggest otherwise."
Bedelia scoffed and gestured flippantly, wordlessly allowing him entry. "There are movers everywhere," she hissed before stalking off — a not-so-subtle warning to behave himself, he supposed, and he bit back his amusement as he followed.
Every piece of furniture he passed was draped in plastic and marked with a sticky note, to be shipped or donated. He followed her to the room in which they'd once held therapy together and watched from the entrance as she made a beeline for a drinks cart. Swiftly removing the plastic overlay and tossing it carelessly aside, she poured a few fingers of whiskey into a glass and took a gulp, then exhaled slowly and turned to face him.
"That lamp was a fake, by the way," he casually informed her. "Were you aware?"
Bedelia's eyes widened a fraction, but she collected herself with a huff and shook her head. "I will not apologize for what I did today," she snapped, her voice deceptively strong though her demeanor otherwise screamed unease.
"How brave of you," he murmured, canting his head as he watched her down the rest of her drink. "…I do hope you're not self-medicating."
"Oh I most certainly am, Doctor Lecter," she replied gravely, turning to refill her glass.
Hannibal rocked on his heels for a moment before stepping into the room and stopping beside his usual seat — the sticky notes on either chair read 'DONATE' in bold scrawl and he let out a puff of laughter. "With how terribly dramatic you're being I would have expected these to be marked for incineration."
She merely glared back at him and he sighed as he lifted the covering, carefully folding it and setting it aside. "Shall we have one last conversation," he suggested, undoing the lower buttons of his suit jacket and sitting comfortably. As she dithered, he shifted forward a bit and added sternly, "I think I deserve that much after you've so tactlessly betrayed my confidence."
Eyes tight, Bedelia abruptly marched across the room and out the door. He waited patiently, listening as she hissed demands at the movers and instructed them to stay out of the room until the door was opened again. She then reentered and yanked it shut behind herself, pausing to exhale a shaky breath before stalking back to the chair across from him and carelessly flinging the plastic away. A fair amount of whiskey sloshed onto the backrest and she sighed, sitting down primly on the edge of the seat and crossing her ankles.
They stared each other down for a solid half-minute before Bedelia plonked her glass onto the side table. "What the hell do you want from me, Hannibal? A car is scheduled to arrive in less than an hour to take me to the airport."
"I would ask where you're going, but something tells me you won't say," he mused quietly. "Which is silly, given I have no plan — nor desire, quite frankly — to follow you."
Bedelia pursed her lips, a wounded look flashing across her features. "Better safe than sorry," she mumbled stiltedly.
"Out of curiosity… what, precisely, do you believe you are keeping yourself safe from?"
"You."
"I did say I wouldn't allow this behaviour. That is true."
"So—"
"So, I suppose this is a wise decision."
Bedelia studied him and he simply smiled, waiting.
"If you had come here tonight," she began, clearly choosing her words carefully, "and not found me already in the process of leaving… What, then?"
"I would have paid you another visit, much later this evening, to kill you," he replied matter-of-factly.
Evidently she hadn't expected him to so readily admit it; she stood at once, smoothing her hands over her skirt with trembling hands as she staggered around and behind her seat. "A-And now?" She stammered, gripping the back of the chair with whitened knuckles.
"Seeing as I cannot feasibly do so, now, I will let you go."
"You will let—"
"But I leave you with a warning," he cut in, standing as well.
"A warning?"
"No, a promise," he amended, taking care refastening the buttons of his jacket. "If ever our paths are to cross again in the future — near or otherwise — make no mistake, you will not live to regret it." With that, he inclined his head and turned to leave.
"You seemed to think we were close, once," she called out suddenly, desperation in her tone. He pivoted to find her nearly half folded over the chair, as if she wanted to chase him but couldn't bring herself to follow through. "I told you we were only colleagues, but… you seemed to think we were friends."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I believe the term I used was 'friendly.'"
"You've known this-… This woman for a fraction of—"
"Forgive me for interrupting again, but I must know," he cut in softly, "are you afraid of me, or was I correct in my initial assessment — that you are, indeed, jealous of her?"
"Both."
"Your goal, then, was not to protect Delilah, as you would like it to seem, but to drive her away from me?"
"Yes," she whispered, having enough sense at least to look ashamed.
Hannibal surveyed her in silence, watching a flush creep over her pallid flesh and spread further the longer he chose not to speak. He eventually let out mirthless snort and shook his head, turning his back on her one final time and exiting the house.
Paradise Café
Friday — 2:55 PM
After loading the last of the dishes into the sanitizer and turning the dial, Delilah grabbed a broom and set to helping Maggie finish sweeping. Closing up the café this early for therapy didn't quite sit right with her, but no amount of arguing would persuade the stubborn woman to let her reschedule.
"You know, Hannibal doesn't even have any other patients on Fridays," she tried yet again, side-eying Maggie as she swept. "It's just me."
She snorted and whacked the dustbin on the lip of the trash can as she emptied it. "Good to know, sugar, but the customers are gone and the sign's already been flipped."
"Shockingly enough, I can flip it back…"
"And I can kick your behind into next Tuesday," Maggie retorted good-naturedly. "Don't mean it's gonna happen."
"With that busted ol' hip, you sure?"
Maggie attempted to look appalled, but couldn't contain her laughter for long. "Just shut up and get goin'. Gimme that."
With a dramatic sigh, Delilah emptied her dustbin and thrust it and her broom out toward Maggie. "Fine."
"Pain in the ass."
In the midst of gathering her belongings, there was a sudden rap on the glass. "We're closed," Delilah hollered instinctively, not bothering to look up as she unplugged her phone. The knocking persisted and she slammed her purse down, ready to flip out on a presumably illiterate caffeine junkie — only to find Alana waiting on the other side of the door.
"Oh, shit," she muttered, immediately concerned; she rushed around the counter to twist the key and let her in. "Is everything okay?"
"Huh? Yeah, everything's fine," Alana replied bemusedly. "Why?"
"Well, uh, you just don't show up here all that often…" She trailed off, equally perplexed. "I was worried something happened to Will."
"Not that I'm aware of. I'm heading out to see him, but I thought you might like a ride to Hannibal's office. Your appointment's at three-thirty, right?"
"Yeah, but—"
"Alana!" Maggie suddenly cut in, stepping up beside them. "Good to see you. How's work been treatin' ya?"
"Oh, it's treating me fine, Mrs. Cartwright. How's business?"
"Been a little extra crazy since it's just the pair of us now," she said, folding an arm around Delilah's shoulders and giving her a squeeze. "But we make do."
Alana's brow knitted and Delilah could barely suppress a groan at her immediate, accusatory glare. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Why would I? Just to give you yet another thing to stress out about?"
She scoffed, but couldn't seem to find a suitable argument. "Whatever. Come on."
"Thanks a lot," she hissed at Maggie, huffing as she snagged her purse.
Maggie frowned apologetically and gave her a pat on the back as she passed. "See you tomorrow, hun."
"Night, Mags."
Alana's hybrid was parked right in front of the café; they hopped in in silence and Delilah studied her as she buckled herself in. "Are you going to be pissy with me for the entire ten minute drive, or can we hash this out now?"
"I just don't understand why you consistently insist on shutting me out," she muttered, rather forcefully twisting the key in the ignition.
Delilah gripped the dash and door frame for stability as Alana whipped the little car back and out onto the road. "Jesus, calm down! I'm sorry I don't tell you every fucking detail of my life, my god."
"I just wish you would trust me for once!"
"You f-… This isn't about trust, for crying out loud," she snapped, refraining from insults with great difficulty. "I didn't want to worry you unnecessarily."
"Unnecessarily," she parroted with a scoff. "Delilah, I'm happy you're doing so much better, but running that shop with just you and that elderly woman is bound to take a toll o-on…"
"On my mental health?" She supplied through gritted teeth. "For fuck's sake, do you honestly think I'm one slightly stressful day from blowing my brains out or something? Well, good news, I don't own a gun."
"Stop it, that's not what I mean."
Delilah opened her mouth to argue, but stopped herself and fell silent for several long minutes. "This is so stupid," she eventually said with a huff. "Why do we always have to fight about something?"
Alana shrugged and smiled sadly over at her. "I guess it's our job as sisters?"
"Well, where do we turn in our letters of resignation, because I'm sick of it."
Alana laughed. "It is pretty dumb, isn't it," she muttered absently. "I just worry about you, that's all."
"Ditto."
They pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of Hannibal's office building and Alana slumped back against her seat with a long sigh.
"I'm sorry I didn't tell you the last idiot quit," Delilah finally offered, grudgingly. "It's just… We've been managing fine and we're interviewing new people soon, anyway, so I didn't think it was worth upsetting you."
Alana sniffed lightly and stared straight ahead as she muttered, with apparent difficulty, "No, you're right. I just-…" She paused to clear her throat. "I think I hold a lot of guilt for the way I treated you after-… A-After mom told me about—"
"I know," Delilah cut in quietly, fiddling with the zipper pull of her purse. "I don't blame you or anything, you realize? We were just kids."
"Sure, but it wasn't your fault a-and…" She took in a shuddering breath and shut her eyes, evidently struggling to get the words out. "I noticed how my dad treated you, Delilah. I did. When we were very little, even, I was aware that he was cold toward you. Harsher on you. I never understood why, but I never questioned him. I should have. I should have stood up for you. But then mom told me what she'd done and I…
"I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive her, honestly, but I shouldn't have been so crappy to you. I should have been a better sister, before and after… I tried, much too late, to make up for it, but—"
"Hey." She lifted her hand and tapped a nail against her mood ring.
Alana sniffed again and gave her a watery smile. "I never realized you still had that old thing."
"Some of my best teenage memories are of us hanging out when you were visiting from college," Delilah said, absently twisting the ring around on her thumb. "I know I've given you a lot of shit for… well, everything, but I am grateful that you've tried your best to help me. Misguided attempts or not — too late, or not — it's obvious you've only wanted me to get better and I see that…
"And I can't thank you enough for forcing me to begin therapy with Doctor Lecter," she added, smiling over at her. "I certainly wouldn't be where I am today."
"I think that's about the only good thing I've done lately."
"Oh, shut up, c'mere," Delilah grumbled, leaning over the console and pulling her into a firm hug. "I love you, stupid."
"I love you too, sis," she replied with a laugh, squeezing her tighter before letting go to wipe her eyes. "Go on. I don't want you to be late."
"Alright, tell Will I said hi," Delilah replied, slipping her purse onto her shoulder and stepping out of the car. "Thanks for the ride," she added, before shutting the door and entering the building.
When Delilah arrived on the landing, she was startled to find a vaguely familiar, plump little man seated in the waiting area. He noticed her at the same moment and jumped to his feet, smiling wide as he rushed forward to offer his hand.
"Hey, I remember you," he exclaimed, with far too much enthusiasm. "Miss Bloom, right? Good to see ya again!"
"Er, yes, hi…" She leaned back slightly and gripped her purse straps with both hands. "Francis, was it?"
"Franklyn," he corrected with a nervous chuckle, quickly smoothing his hand over his tie to compensate for her disinterest in handshaking. "H-How've you been? Enjoying therapy? Lecter is great, isn't he? So sophisticated, you know, like myself. I recently discovered we both have a love of artisan cheeses."
"Mhm, that's great," she muttered disinterestedly. "So, do you have an appointment today, too, or…"
"Nope, not today. I was—"
"Don't I recall him being rather upset with you the last time you showed up unexpectedly?"
"Oh, yeah, well…" He laughed awkwardly again. "I was going for a drive, y'know, as one does, just thinkin' about things… Happened to be in the area and figured — hey, why call to reschedule my appointment, when I can just stop by for a quick chat?"
"Maybe because it's presumptuous and impolite?" She replied tartly. "Why were you just loitering if you meant to speak with him?"
"I-I was waiting for him to come out. Didn't want to intrude if he's busy, y'know."
"Hence why you should just, y'know, call…"
Franklyn scratched at the back of his head and nodded. "Good point, good point," he muttered, edging toward the exit.
She moved aside to make space and the office door suddenly swung open. They turned to watch Hannibal step out, his brow lifting a fraction.
"Franklyn?"
"Sorry, I-I'll just call later," he mumbled in a rush, abruptly scrambling to get down the stairs.
Delilah watched him stumble and nearly fall halfway down, and she had to bite her tongue not to laugh. When he was safely out of earshot, she glanced sympathetically over her shoulder at Hannibal. "It must be terribly exhausting to deal with him on a regular basis."
"I cannot argue with you there," he replied with a grim smile, outstretching his arm to direct her into the office.
Stepping inside, she hung her apron and purse upon the coat rack, watching as he shut the door and took care to lock it. "Do you expect we'll be interrupted?"
"It seems to be standard whenever we are alone in this room."
Delilah huffed in agreement and wandered over to the teal settee, seizing the opportunity to enjoy its plush velvet upholstery. Finally comfortable enough to relax, her feet suddenly ached like hell and she groaned, slipping out of her shoes and stretching her toes a bit.
"Something tells me you could use a drink," Hannibal said as he stepped near, slipping his hands into his pockets as he studied her. "A glass of wine, perhaps, or something stronger?"
"Honestly, I'd kill for a proper martini," she replied with a laugh, "but I certainly wouldn't say no to wine."
"Then a proper martini, it is," he announced, as if there could be no alternative. "…I trust you mean gin?" He added, quirking a brow at her.
"Of course. Oh and stirred, if you would, please? Shaking tends to—"
"Bruise the gin."
"Mhm."
"Impeccable taste, as always," he mused. "I would say make yourself comfortable, but…" His eyes flitted to her bare feet and her ears warmed.
"Sorry, I'll—"
Hannibal shook his head and nudged her shoes aside with his foot, bending forward to briefly catch her lips. "Feel free to remove as many articles of clothing as you see fit," he murmured, winking before stepping away to prepare her cocktail.
The urge to strip and splay herself upon his desk like an erotic buffet flitted across her mind as she watched him go; it was very tempting, but she ultimately shelved the idea for a later date. For all her insistence to Alana that she was handling the café with Maggie just fine, she could admit — to herself, at least — that the early morning hours and long, busy days were already beginning to take a toll; she couldn't wait to lock herself in the bathroom later in the evening and enjoy a scalding bath.
As she listened to the gentle clinking of glass from the back room, she snugged down in her seat to rest her head and allowed her eyes to close.
"Dirty, or with a twist?" He called suddenly, unwittingly tugging her from a near-nap.
"Dirty, please," she replied, fighting a yawn as she forced herself to sit up straight again.
Hannibal emerged minutes later with that infamous silver platter carrying two frosty martinis, each garnished with a cocktail stirrer adorned with three plump olives. She thanked him as she stood to retrieve a glass and he took the other, setting the platter on a nearby table. "I do hope it is up to standard," he teased, "lest you choose to murder me over a subpar martini."
"So do I…" She replied with faux seriousness, stirring the olives around a bit before taking a sip. She hummed with pleasure at once and took another, perhaps less dignified, swig. "Perfect, thank you," she said earnestly, indulging in an olive as her stomach rumbled in response to the savory beverage.
"I take it no blood will be shed this afternoon, then?" He inquired, his tone rife with self-satisfied amusement.
"Mm, not today," she replied with a grin.
Hannibal laughed softly and gestured to the leather chairs. "Shall we begin?" He asked.
"Oh, sure," she said, mildly surprised as she took her seat.
"Therapy can be useful even when we think we don't need it anymore," Hannibal said, taking a sip of his own martini as he sat down as well. "Can't you think of anything you'd like to talk about?"
Delilah finished her olives to sate her hunger as she thought on it. "Well… I suppose I had what you might call a 'breakthrough' with Alana today."
"Oh?" He canted his head and sat his glass down.
"It was more so her breakthrough, but I'm happy for it all the same. She admitted she still struggles with regret over staying silent while witnessing what I went through when we were children. As well as her treatment of me, after our mother confessed to cheating on Travis."
"That must have been rewarding to hear."
"Yes, actually," she replied. "I hadn't expected such a sense of…"
"Vindication?" He offered, and she nodded slowly.
"Yes, that's it. I used to think that it was all my fault, somehow. I must have done something to cause him to treat me the way he did. Then, after the incident with our mother, I figured… Had I not been born…"
"Had you not been born, Travis still would have been beating his wife and bullying her into the arms of another man," Hannibal interjected quietly. "I trust you understand, now, that it most certainly was not you who caused their marital disruption?"
Delilah sniffed lightly, scrunching her nose to stop herself crying. "Yes, I know that now. But children are often rather self-absorbed, you know. I could hardly grasp what was truly going on. I think it was just easier to assume blame, especially once Alana began treating me as she did."
He nodded silently.
"You know… I've often wondered about her true motivations for trying so desperately to fix me, recently. Self-inflicted guilt is so obvious and it makes perfect sense; frankly, I'm embarrassed that it didn't occur to me sooner. I'm just glad it wasn't what I'd feared."
"Have you been concerned she's had some ulterior motive all this time?"
"Somewhat…" She hedged, shifting in her seat and tucking her legs under herself before taking another sip of her martini. "It had come so far out of left field, for her to be so deeply invested in my well-being, you know? It was so sudden and overwhelming. I couldn't help but think it was just some twisted, professional interest of hers — rather than genuine concern for a loved one."
"I personally would never expect such a thing of Alana, but I can't say I wouldn't have assumed the same, in your position."
Delilah nodded thoughtfully. "Suffice to say, I'm pleased to have some confirmation that that's not the case… I do, however, believe that she would benefit from some therapy, herself. She's carrying a lot of unnecessary baggage."
"I've told her such, on more than one occasion. It's ironic that we professionals in the field have such a habit of ignoring our own mental health. I can't think of one person who wouldn't benefit from some form of therapy."
Grasping at the chance to sway the conversation toward lighter subjects, Delilah sat up a bit straighter and leaned forward. "Speaking of therapists seeking therapy…" She began, eyeing him pointedly.
Hannibal took a moment to sip his beverage, watching her over the rim of his glass. "Dancing around topics is beneath us at this point, Delilah," he replied, a quiet amusement in his tone. "Don't you think?"
"Yes, alright," she agreed with a snort. "What happened to that horrible woman, then?"
"Ms. Du Maurier has flown off into the aether. Never to darken either of our doorsteps again, I presume — as she's been made well aware that it is in her best interest not to do so."
"You threatened her, did you?"
"I did. Does that bother you?"
Delilah laughed bemusedly. "Why ever would it?"
"I was just curious…"
"I mean, given I suggested that you make it appear as though she'd taken up… what was it?"
"Juggling chainsaws," he provided with a small smirk.
"Right." She grinned back at him. "So, no, Hannibal, it does not bother me."
"Are you disappointed that I didn't?"
At her perplexed eyebrow raise, he clarified with great amusement, "Use a chainsaw."
"Oh," she laughed, "no." She paused for a moment, then added quietly, "I would be deeply disappointed, however, had you done so and not afforded me the opportunity to watch."
Hannibal's lips parted and he stared intently at her, his tongue sliding out to wet his bottom lip. There was a sudden shift in the room, an electrical charge that sent a thrill down Delilah's spine. A hunger darkened his eyes and the pair of them made to stand at nearly the same time — but before they could bridge the gap, the office telephone rang loudly.
Delilah huffed indignantly and glowered at the desk. The ringing stopped before the machine could go to voicemail and there was a moment of silence… Then the ringing started up again. She glanced questioningly to Hannibal, who grudgingly stalked over to answer the phone.
"This is Doctor Lecter sp-… Franklyn, slow down."
She watched his upper lip twitch as he quickly retrieved an appointment book from the top drawer of his desk and flipped it open, his eyes swiftly scanning its contents.
"Yes, this coming Wednesday, instead, will be fine," he muttered. "…Franklyn, you are perfectly aware that I'm in the middle of-…" Pressing his knuckles to the desk, he sighed quietly and cast his gaze to the ceiling. "No, not that early, but I can fit you in sometime in the-… Yes, how about two o'clock? Alright."
When he didn't immediately hang up after jotting down the appointment and instead tapped his knuckles impatiently on the desk, Delilah crossed to stand by his side. Leaning her hip against the desk, she reached out to rest her hand upon his, gently brushing her thumb over his skin; his eyes darted down to her and he nearly smiled before pursing his lips, his nostrils flaring in temper. "I've heard enough, Franklyn," he commanded. "You are selfishly taking up another patient's time. If you are that concerned, you may choose to call the police. Otherwise, I will see you Wednesday at two."
Snapping the phone down onto the receiver, he sighed and glanced wearily to Delilah. "Terribly exhausting," he mumbled, catching her fingers with his thumb and lifting her hand to his lips.
Hannibal Lecter's Residence
Monday — 6:15 AM
In the midst of his morning ablutions, Hannibal was not surprised in the slightest when his telephone began to ring incessantly throughout the house. He expected it would be Jack and — when he'd finished getting dressed and had made his way down to the study — was unsurprised to discover that he was correct. Smoothing his tie, he picked up the phone and dialed Jack's number.
"There you are. Good morning!" Jack exclaimed at once. "I was worried you wouldn't return my calls."
"I was in the middle of showering, Jack. What do you need? …I'm guessing this will have something to do with the body that was discovered over the weekend?" He added, wanting to get straight to the point.
"That's right. The media has been given very few details for the moment, but I'd like to give you the rest. An anonymous tipper suggested we check out a string shop called Chordophone, over in Mount Vernon, and talk to someone named Tobias Budge." He paused, clearly expecting a reply; when Hannibal said nothing, he continued edgily, "I was hoping you would join me for a little talk with him today… Feel him out, you know? Tell me if you think he could be our guy. Is that alright with you?"
"I would be honored, Jack," he replied, pulling out his schedule. "I have back-to-back patients from eight to noon, but after that I am at your disposal."
"I'll pick you up at your office around one, then. Sound good?"
"That works for me."
"Alright, see you then. Thanks, doctor."
Hanging up the phone, Hannibal stayed in his seat for a long moment, contemplating the possible outcomes of this endeavor. He knew this Tobias Budge, of course; Franklyn had very enthusiastically introduced them at the opera, months ago. For claiming to be the man's friend, he too did not seem to enjoy Franklyn's company very much. It was quite sad, really. He wondered vaguely, as he exited to the kitchen to prepare himself breakfast, if perhaps he should have put poor Franklyn out of his misery after their very first, terribly awkward and uncomfortable, therapy session.
…
Chordophone String Shop
500 N Charles St.,
Baltimore, Maryland
— 1:25 PM
As the ostentatious, pitch black SUV slowed to a halt just outside the shop, Jack leaned over his steering wheel to squint dramatically at it. "Here we are…" He muttered unnecessarily.
In the passenger's seat, Hannibal quirked a brow at him before glancing in the side-view mirror to watch a police cruiser parking just behind them. "Are they entirely necessary?"
"Absolutely," Jack replied. "Backup is imperative. And they'll assist in collecting evidence, if we manage to find any." He then hopped out of the vehicle and Hannibal followed suit, hanging back to watch him share a quick conversation with the officers.
Jack stalked back toward the walkway after a few minutes, gesturing for Hannibal to follow, and they walked up the steps in tandem, with the police officers hot on their heels.
When Tobias opened the door, his eyes found Hannibal at once, but Jack was already thrusting his badge in his face. "Afternoon, Mr. Budge. Special Agent Jack Crawford, FBI, and this is Doctor Hannibal Lecter," he announced. "May we come in?"
Hannibal watched Tobias's left eye twitch, just slightly, as he leaned to the side to get a better look at the armed officers behind them. "…Do you have a warrant?"
"Uh, well, no…" Jack admitted, chuckling lightly. "No, we don't, but we'd just like to talk with you. Is that a problem?"
"I'm sorry, Agent Crawford, but I know my rights. You can come back when you have a warrant."
"We need a warrant to have a chat? That's sure as hell suspicious, don't you think?"
"This is not only my place of business but my home, as well. You may come back when you have a warrant," he repeated firmly, getting ready to shut the door.
Jack opened his mouth to argue, but Hannibal spoke first. "Pardon me, Mr. Budge, but I was wondering if I may speak with you regarding an unrelated matter? I fully support your decision not to entertain the authorities without a warrant, but I am neither an officer nor an FBI agent."
"Then why are you here?"
Again, Jack started to reply but Hannibal beat him to the punch. "I am a psychiatrist. Merely here to observe," he said with a smile. "Apart from that, I am also very much a classical enthusiast. I would like to discuss your prices, regarding a neglected harpsichord I've been meaning to get restrung."
Tobias shifted his weight to his other foot and slowly pulled the door open a bit further. "I would be remiss to ignore an instrument in need of care… So long as they stay out," he added with a sharp glance at Jack and the others.
"Alright then," Jack muttered, eyeing Hannibal with a half-suspicious, half-impressed sort of glare. "We'll be back with a warrant in three days, or less," he announced to Tobias, his tone ominous, then turned to Hannibal. "I'll be waiting at the car."
"I won't be long."
Smiling serenely, Hannibal stepped over the threshold and turned to watch Tobias snap the door shut at once; they stared each other down in silence for a long moment.
"You don't have a harpsichord in need of restringing," he challenged slowly, his eyes narrowing skeptically.
"No, I certainly do," Hannibal assured him, casually moving about the foyer to observe the various string instruments adorning the walls and floor. "I'm not too fussed about getting it taken care of any time soon, however. I've been focusing on sharpening my skills with the theremin, as of late."
"A peculiar instrument, the theremin," Tobias muttered, still rooted to the spot though his eyes followed closely as Hannibal moved around the small space. "I can't say I dislike it, never having used one, but the idea of performing music without ever needing to touch the instrument sounds… rather depressing."
"Exquisite music can be found even in the most unlikely places."
"I don't disagree…"
"Is that what you were after, by attempting to play the vocal chords of a corpse, Tobias?" He asked bluntly. "A melody borne from an unlikely source?"
Tobias' back stiffened, but he didn't answer.
"Don't worry, I won't tell," Hannibal whispered conspiratorially. "I do wish I could have heard you play."
"You should have," he muttered breathlessly. "It was… beautiful."
"Was it? I would imagine it to be quite difficult to line up the strings."
He bristled and cleared his throat, averting his gaze to scowl at a spot on the wall. "Perhaps some minute details could stand to be perfected…"
"Well, try and try again. It was nice meeting you again, Tobias." He started for the door, but Tobias sidestepped into his path and he stopped.
"Wait."
"Yes?"
"Are you…" Tobias seemed to struggle with his wording, an air of sudden excitement reverberating off of him. "I mean-… Do you, also?"
Hannibal smiled bemusedly and quirked a brow. "Do I what?"
"You said you wished you could hear it," he hissed, suddenly appearing quite manic. "Does that mean…? I've been so longing for a-… a friend. Someone who thinks as I do about the world and… the people in it."
"If you're asking whether I've ever cut open someone's throat and attempted to take a bow to their vocal chords, no."
"You know what I mean," he snapped.
Hannibal merely blinked at him. "You seem to have me very much mistaken. Admitting to crimes with the authorities waiting just outside would be foolhardy."
"But you—"
"I can appreciate the avant-garde, Tobias," he cut in flippantly. "Regarding your desire for friendship, I will have to politely decline. Are you not forgetting someone?"
Tobias studied him for a moment, evidently perplexed, then scoffed suddenly. "You can't be talking about Franklyn."
"I am."
"Franklyn is an idiot."
"Sure, but is he not your friend?"
"I may be his, but he is not mine, unless… Do friends daydream about murdering friends?"
"Depends on the friend," Hannibal replied with a shrug.
Tobias hummed thoughtfully, meandering to the front desk and peering at the various items atop it; he seemed to think he was being sneaky and Hannibal had to bite back a laugh.
"I suppose, if you were to break that lamp just right, a shard or two may be sturdy enough to open my throat," he said conversationally. "But I wouldn't recommend it."
Tobias exhaled sharply and brought his arms to rest stiffly at his sides.
"Your opinions notwithstanding, Franklyn certainly seems to think you are his closest companion. And he is deeply concerned about you… I expect he may have been the anonymous tipper that led the FBI to your doorstep today, so I would advise you tread with a bit more caution."
"Nosy idiot," he muttered venomously. "I'll kill him."
Hannibal frowned slightly. "Don't kill Franklyn. At least, not until after our final appointment."
"Final…?"
"I've decided to refer him to another psychiatrist."
"Oh, really?" Tobias laughed heartily. "The poor bastard might just kill himself, if you do that."
"Not my problem. His last appointment with me will be this coming Wednesday, at two in the afternoon; I hope to be rid of him within the hour. Do with that what you wish. In the meantime, you should know that when Jack comes back with his warrant, his investigation will be… very thorough."
"I couldn't care less, Doctor Lecter."
"You wish to be caught, then?"
"I've been carefully shifting my assets around… Making arrangements… Once I've had the pleasure of ending Franklyn's pathetic existence, I'll be long gone."
The man spoke like a villain in a knock-off James Bond film and Hannibal had to take a measured breath as he struggled not to roll his eyes. "You're reckless and arrogant, Tobias. I suppose we'll see how it plays out for you, in the end."
"Yes, we'll see… See you around, doctor."
Hannibal let out a puff of laughter and shook his head before exiting the building. The moment he shut the door behind himself, Jack was already rushing to meet him at the bottom of the steps.
"That was very clever," he said appreciatively, patting him on the back as they walked to the SUV. "So, did he buy that harpsichord spiel?"
"It wasn't a spiel, Jack," Hannibal replied, blinking at him. "I really do need my harpsichord restrung. But his rates are comically high. Might as well do it myself."
"That's all you talked about, this entire time?"
"No, we also discussed the relative efficacy of the theremin… I couldn't very well ask him outright if he'd committed murder over the weekend, could I?"
Jack sighed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face. "I guess not," he muttered grudgingly.
"I was forced to keep the conversation trivial, to avoid suspicion."
"Well, did you get any… idea of him, then? Anything at all?"
"I can't say for certain whether he's your man, but I do not believe it would be a waste of time to move forward with the investigation. His mien was rather dubious, even while discussing musical instruments."
"Twitchy, huh?"
"Yes, Jack… He was twitchy."
Paradise Café
— Wednesday, 12:40 PM
"W-wait, you're leaving? Already?"
Delilah paused mid-transaction to smile reassuringly at the new hire, a young man by the name of Nathaniel… something-or-other. The kid was hardly her description of an ideal co-worker — barely nineteen and painfully awkward as he was — but he seemed eager to be put to work and she was at least pleased he had, so far, not broken anything; if Maggie wanted to give him a chance, who was she to argue?
"Have a seat wherever you'd like. We'll have that latte out for you in a few minutes," she told the customer, smiling after her before turning to Nathaniel. "I'll only be gone for about an hour. Besides, it's usually pretty tame around here until about three, or so. You'll be fine."
"Fine," he muttered grumpily, grabbing a mug to start on the coffee.
"Just let Maggie deal with the register… and, y'know, the talking to people," she insisted almost pleadingly, having witnessed one too many uncomfortable interactions between him and their poor customers. "When I get back we can work some more on your bedside manner, alright?"
"My what?"
"Oh lord," she muttered, resisting the desire to scrub at her eyes lest she mutilate her impeccably sharp liner. "It's not weird. Don't make it weird. It's just, like, your way of dealing with people… or lack thereof," she added under her breath.
"Oh. Alright."
Delilah watched for a moment as he prepared the latte with surprising finesse. He'd only had a day's worth of training on the machines, but he appeared to soak up new information more like a steel trap than a sponge.
"Wow, nice rosetta," she said, peering around him to admire the cup.
"Th-uh, thanks," Nathaniel mumbled, grimacing oddly at her; she assumed it was meant to be a smile and it took every ounce of her willpower to suppress an annoyed sigh.
"I'll just… take that," she insisted, smiling sweetly as she plucked the cup from his hand. "Don't forget to clean the wand — and don't burn yourself."
He muttered unintelligibly, but it sounded agreeable enough to Delilah so she quickly stalked away.
After delivering the latte, she took a moment to check her phone and discovered that her ride-share driver would be arriving in less than a minute. She located Maggie keeping herself busy at the furthest corner of the café, reorganizing the bookshelves.
"Well, I'm off," she announced. "Don't hesitate to call me if the newbie causes any irreparable damage, alright?"
"Oh quit it," Maggie chided with a laugh. "He's definitely a green little bean, I'll give you that, but I think he can manage."
Delilah's phone suddenly vibrated with a notification, letting her know that a blue Toyota was waiting out front. "Alright, well, my ride's here," she said with a sigh, giving Maggie a quick sideways hug. "Hope you're right about the green bean!"
Leaving her apron hanging, she snagged her purse and the pair of to-go coffees she'd prepared — along with several plum danishes Maggie had insisted she take — and shot Nathaniel one last look of hopeful confidence, then bustled out of the café.
Hannibal Lecter's Office
— 12:56 PM
After four straight hours of back-to-back appointments, Hannibal was tired — tired of sitting and listening; tired of having to prod for further information; and just tired of people, entirely. He stood for a long while with his hands in his pockets, facing the fire he'd lit strictly for ambiance, before eventually tossing a reluctant glance over at the clock.
Barely an hour remained until Franklyn would arrive for his appointment and he sighed heavily, not at all looking forward to it — not that he would be on any other, less arduous, day. He suddenly recalled Delilah once referring to the man as an oaf and he certainly didn't disagree.
Smiling at the memory, he walked back to his desk and leaned forward to give the referral paperwork one last glance-over. Marking a large 'x' beside the place where Franklyn would be requested to sign, he then brought it and a pen over to the little side table beside the chair reserved for clients and placed them just so — to be sure they would be visible from the moment he stepped into the office.
As he stepped away, with the intent to relax at the piano and play for a while, an awkward knocking sound stopped him in his tracks. Inhaling deeply and mentally preparing for it to be Franklyn, no doubt eager to further ruin his day, he turned sharply and stalked over to the door, tugging it open with a resigned glare — but it was not Franklyn that awaited him.
"Delilah, what a welcome surprise," he said, his gaze softening as he smiled genuinely for what felt like the first time in days. "Is it too clichéd to say that you're a sight for sore eyes?"
"A bit, perhaps," she replied, tittering softly. "But I think we're all allowed a little cliché now and then. I come bearing gifts," she added, shaking something at him.
He pried his gaze from her lovely face to realize that her arms were laden with coffee and a container of pastries; it occurred to him then that she must have had to knock with her foot.
"Oh, my apologies," he said, taking the pastries and a coffee. "Thank you."
"May I come in for a little while?"
"Of course." He stepped aside to make room and gently kicked the door shut as he watched her move to set her purse on his desk. "You've happened to catch me during my only break, in the midst of a rather taxing day."
"I know," she said, turning back and grinning ruefully. "I stole a glance at your schedule on Friday… Figured you could use a little pick-me-up before Franklyn's appointment."
She seemed to be worried that he would be upset by this revelation, but he couldn't find it in himself to care; perhaps he was getting too comfortable with her, but it was only his work schedule after all.
Hannibal pursed his lips and crossed to meet her, setting the pastries down and sighing as he studied her face. "I suppose I should be angry with you for snooping. Instead, I simply find myself glad to be in your company," he said quietly, pleased to watch the roses blossom across her cheeks in response.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, ducking her head and forcing a curl behind her ear. "I shouldn't've…"
"My schedule is not a matter of top secret security, Delilah. This is a very sweet gesture and I am grateful for it," he assured her, reaching out to run his fingers through her hair, purposefully releasing the trapped curl. "You needn't be concerned."
As she visibly relaxed, he smiled and redirected his attention to the coffee, removing the lid and bringing it to his lips; he paused when herbaceous and floral notes unexpectedly reached his nose, and raised a brow at her in question.
"I've been experimenting with a chamomile and lavender-infused simple syrup, for a… relaxing sort of perk-up. There's also some cardamom in there and a bit of vanilla," she explained, watching him expectantly over the rim of her cup. "I thought you might enjoy it."
Thinking it might be too sweet, but happy to have any caffeine at this point, he took a drink and was pleasantly surprised. "Remarkably well-balanced," he commended, taking another sip. "And delicious. I do hope you plan to add this to the permanent menu."
"Oh, I'm so pleased you like it," Delilah gushed, positively beaming up at him. "And I think so, yes. Maggie's usually against 'hoity-toity' additions, but she loved this. Just insists I come up with a catchy name."
"I don't subscribe to the notion that everything needs a hook," he mused distractedly, reaching for the container of pastries as it occurred to him that he hadn't eaten a thing since breakfast.
"Yes, well, I told her as much, but she doesn't think any normal person would try a lavender-chamomile latte… Those are plum and they're dangerously good, by the way," she added. "Maggie made them."
"You've thought of everything," he said with a smile. "Thank you, again."
"…Everything but napkins, or utensils, it seems," she muttered, rummaging through her purse and huffing irritably when she evidently could find none.
Hannibal chuckled and pressed a quick kiss to her temple. "Just a moment," he said, setting his cup down and retreating to the back room.
He had barely stepped inside when frantic knocking sounded at the main entrance and he heard the door burst open. Turning back, he spotted a sweaty, panic-stricken Franklyn staring at Delilah in blatant confusion.
"You? I-I just… Where—" His wild eyes shifted past her when he noticed Hannibal, and nearly palpable relief swept over him at once. "Oh, thank god," he wheezed, clutching a stitch in his side and taking enormous, gasping breaths. "I- I ran. Well, f-from the car. I'm not… the most… athletic…"
Hannibal came to stand beside Delilah and stared blankly at him. "Franklyn, your appointment isn't for another…" He pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. "Forty minutes. What—"
"I went to t-talk with him… a-and there were police… Oh, what have I done?" He wailed, burying his face in his hands.
As he began to truly sob, Delilah shot Hannibal an alarmed look and he simply gave her an infinitesimal shake of his head.
"They're investigating him — a real investigation — like on those crime shows, oh my god," Franklyn cried. "What if I was wrong? I'm a horrible person!"
Sighing heavily, Hannibal gathered Delilah's purse from the desk and pressed it to her chest. "Please go," he said quietly, once she'd taken hold of her bag. "I'll call when I'm able."
"But—"
"This is not up for discussion," he cut across her, firmly gripping her arms and whirling her around to guide her to the small room; she was pliable as a rag doll, though she glared up at him irritably, and he offered an apologetic frown whilst Franklyn continued to go to pieces behind them. "I am truly sorry to be so abrupt—"
The sound of the building's frontmost door suddenly opening made him stop mid-sentence. When he heard slow footsteps reach the stairs, he suspected he knew exactly who it must be; with a hushed assurance that he would explain later, he unceremoniously shoved Delilah over the threshold and pulled on the door as he turned away, swiftly stalking back toward Franklyn.
"You were't wrong," Hannibal announced, surreptitiously listening to the footsteps on the stairs along with Delilah's retreat behind him; he heard the back exit open and then snap shut, letting him know that she was gone. "I expect he's on his way up here to kill you, now," he continued, as Tobias' footfalls changed in pitch, indicating he'd reached the landing.
Standing stock-still, facing the door she'd opened and shut without actually passing through, Delilah listened intently to the conversation happening in the office behind her. She knew she should have just done as she was told, but Hannibal's abrupt and rather uncharacteristic shove had sent off several alarm bells in her head — she just couldn't bring herself to leave.
"K-Kill me?" She heard Franklyn stammer.
"Yes… Likely myself, as well," Hannibal added, and Delilah's heart skipped with dread.
Taking care to be as silent as humanly possible, she crouched low to gingerly set her purse upon the floor, methodically stepping out of her shoes as she straightened back up and turned around; initially, she was pleased to discover that Hannibal had, likely unintentionally, left the door ajar… but the gap was too thin for her to really see anything.
"So, y-you're telling me…" Franklyn muttered, his words punctuated with shuddering breaths. "You're saying he did m-murder that trombonist?"
Sharp footsteps were suddenly heard and a third voice laughed as the main door snapped shut. "Yes, Franklyn," the stranger's voice answered in mocking tones, "I did m-m-m-murder the trombonist." He ended with a contemptuous scoff.
"Tobias!" Franklyn exclaimed, sounding as though he was trying very hard not to be afraid. "You can't-… Wh-what's happened to you? There were police—"
"At the shop? Yes, they're still there. Snooping."
"Do you expect they'll come here, looking for you?" Hannibal inquired.
His laissez-faire attitude gave her at least a modicum of comfort and she slowly dared to move nearer to the door, eager to see for herself just what was going on.
"Doubtful, but I suppose stranger things have happened…"
"Tobias, please, listen to me. I know you've done a h-horrible, unspeakable thing," Franklyn spluttered earnestly, "b-but… you didn't really mean to, right? You feel terrible, I'm sure!"
Silence answered him and he pressed on, a childlike determination in his voice. "I won't abandon you. I won't. Y-you're my friend and-… And we'll get through this, together. Do the smart thing here — just turn yourself in and we can get you the hel—"
A sickening crack suddenly cut him off and Delilah rushed silently across, to peer through the gap as best she could, and suppressed a gasp when she found Hannibal clutching Franklyn's head at an entirely unnatural angle; he wriggled his head around then, producing a cacophony of wet crunching noises, before letting go to watch his lifeless body drop like a sack of potatoes.
The other man, whom she now knew to be Tobias, stared wide-eyed at Franklyn's corpse. "You knew I was looking forward to that," he said blankly, bringing his gaze back up to shoot Hannibal a particularly nasty look.
"You took too long. I grew tired of his rambling."
"Be grateful you hadn't had to suffer as long as I have," he muttered, shaking his head. He suddenly tossed away a bundle of fabric — a coat, or something, she couldn't be sure — and Delilah frowned, perplexed, when Hannibal immediately took a wide step back.
Before she could comprehend what had happened, Tobias was whipping something through the air and advancing on him with catlike precision. Delilah watched, transfixed, as Hannibal effortlessly dodged a few times before Tobias suddenly swung a foot right into his stomach, knocking him back several paces.
While he was recovering from the blow, Delilah took her chance to pull the door open a little wider and held her breath, but luckily neither seemed to notice her; she clung to the frame and watched in terror as the fight rapidly escalated, all the while trying desperately to keep quiet. There seemed to be nothing she could do to help and the last thing she wanted was to distract Hannibal.
Tobias swung his weapon forward in a high arc, creating a hauntingly sharp whipping sound as it sliced the air, and Delilah tensed as it narrowly caught Hannibal in the face; he evaded it by bringing his forearm up and a strange sort of tug-of-war ensued.
A split second later, Hannibal wrenched his arm upward, effectively sending Tobias careening toward himself, and head-butted him spectacularly in the face. The man hollered in pain and immediately cupped his face, unwittingly giving Hannibal a chance to reach for the nearest throwable object; glass exploded every which way as Hannibal smashed the small table over Tobias' head, and she hoped it would be over, then — but the man was relentless.
He staggered only slightly, before launching himself bodily at Hannibal, and they hit the desk hard before tumbling to the floor in separate directions.
They scrambled to their feet at once and Hannibal took a moment to catch his breath, swiping blood away from the corner of his mouth and looking positively murderous.
In all the kerfuffle, Tobias seemed to have lost his garrote but, as he darted sideways to get around the furniture, Delilah caught sight of an even brighter metallic glint…
Terror gripped her insides and she couldn't stop herself from crying out when she saw he had acquired a massive, gold letter opener for a weapon; her panicked shriek of Hannibal's name startled the pair of them and they looked to her in near-unison, with Tobias turning completely around to face her.
This was a huge mistake on his part and, unsurprisingly, Hannibal was the first to recover from the shock. He swiftly grabbed hold of Tobias' wrist and smashed his hand down sideways, likely shattering a few bones; the letter opener then flew from his grip, over the edge of the desk, and Delilah watched closely as it skidded to a halt beneath the nearby chair.
"I told you to leave," Hannibal managed to snarl over Tobias' pained shouts, before Tobias swung his uninjured fist straight into his gut and the wind was knocked out of him.
Ignoring his admonition, Delilah sprinted unabashedly into the room and made a beeline for the high-backed rolling chair. Knocking it aside, she scooped up the letter opener by its ornate handle and clambered, unthinkingly, atop the desk.
As she kept her gaze trained on Hannibal, he suddenly made an obvious point to catch and hold her gaze and her brow knitted in confusion; her lips parted to ask what he wanted, when he abruptly slammed his open palm into Tobias' sternum, sending the man skidding backward and smacking straight into the desk's face, directly in front of Delilah.
Operating purely on instinct and adrenaline, she brought the letter opener down, hard and fast, and plunged it deep into the side of Tobias' neck; he let out a startled cry and swatted blindly for her as she gave the blade a swift quarter-twist, jostling it around for good measure, then ripped it right back out again. Blood shot forcefully from the wound at once, colouring her hand crimson, and she leaned back with a grim smile of satisfaction.
Tobias staggered forward, trying in vain to clasp a hand over the gaping wound whilst he spluttered unintelligibly, before dropping heavily to his knees; blood continued to spurt forth from between his fingers as he wobbled dangerously.
"His blood pressure is slowing rapidly," Hannibal remarked calmly, just loud enough to be heard clearly. "It won't be long, now."
Delilah glanced briefly to find that he was closely observing her, rather than Tobias, but she couldn't keep her eyes away from the gory scene for long; she watched in fascination as the flow lessened with every pump of his heart, each more feeble than the last, until he abruptly collapsed flat onto his face, and the blood flow became nothing more than a weak ooze.
"That was quick," she remarked absently, her gaze drifting to the letter opener still clutched in her blood-drenched hand.
"It's only quick when done well," Hannibal murmured and her eyes jerked back to watch as he crouched down beside Tobias' body.
What she thought was already a corpse twitched once and she inhaled sharply, but Hannibal held up a hand and she quieted; he pressed his index and middle fingers to the unmarred flesh beside the wound and she waited anxiously.
"And you have done very well," he eventually announced, leaning back on his heels and staring up at her with an unfathomable look in his eyes.
Delilah exhaled in a rush and let the blade finally clatter to the floor, then lowered herself shakily to sit with her legs dangling over the edge of the desk; she wanted to run to Hannibal, to throw her arms around him and not let go, but shards of glass glittered everywhere she could see and she didn't quite enjoy the idea of slicing up her bare feet.
Rising, Hannibal stepped over the corpse and came to rest his palms upon her knees. "You don't seem pleased," he muttered hesitantly. "Is something wrong?"
Swallowing thickly, Delilah reached out to ghost her nearest hand over the ruined sleeve of his dress shirt, but didn't touch to avoid spreading Tobias' blood. "I-I thought…" She tried, her voice cracking as she was suddenly overcome with a violent wave of emotion.
Hannibal cupped her cheek and she leaned heavily into his palm. "Look at me," he insisted and she shook her head sharply, scowling at his midsection through her tears. "Delilah, what—"
"I thought I was going to lose you," she finally admitted, squeezing her eyes shut tight. Moisture slid down her cheeks and she licked the saltiness from her lips, inwardly begging herself no to dissolve into hysterics.
"Oh. Oh, come here," he whispered, sounding ever-so-slightly amused. He pushed between her knees and enveloped her in his arms, as a squeak of a sob escaped her throat. "It would take much more than a pompous luthier to rid you of me," he added, resting his cheek upon her head; she gripped fistfuls of his shirt at his sides and clung to him, trembling with frayed nerves, and they stayed that way for several long moments.
Eventually, when she felt sufficiently calmed, she took in a great, shuddering breath and leaned back to get a good look at him. For as vicious a fight as it had seemed, she was pleased he appeared to have come out of it not too terribly scathed. His hair was untidy, of course, and a decent bruise would no doubt be visible on his left cheekbone by morning; there was a fair amount of dried blood near the corner of his mouth, as well, but the split seemed to be small enough that it would heal without the need for stitches.
Apart from that, however, there was the matter of his destroyed shirt sleeve; she ran her clean hand down his bicep and stopped just short of the tattered remains surrounding his forearm. He stayed perfectly still and silent as she cautiously began to pick at the fabric, attempting to move it out of the way — but it was sticking and she winced for him whilst he, however, laughed gently.
"Here," he said, quickly undoing the two buttons at the cuff and peeling the fabric away from his skin. She inhaled sharply at the sight of the cuts winding around his forearm and he chuckled again. "I will live."
Delilah huffed irritably and turned his arm over, revealing a deeper gash that was still weeping blood. "But you're bleeding," she argued, as if it really mattered; she knew he was fine, and knew she was being entirely irrational, but his calm attitude so soon after she'd feared for his life frankly pissed her off.
"I am, yes," he agreed vaguely, taking a step back and casually surveying the shallow wounds. "You, however, don't have a scratch on you," he continued slowly, his tone suddenly much more somber. "This is a problem."
Her frustration was at once replaced with total bewilderment and she squinted up at him. "I'm… sorry?"
"No, my love, I'm sorry," he said with a resigned sigh, raising his arm and drawing back. "Please stay still."
"Wha—"
In an instant, Hannibal whipped the back of his hand clear across her face; stars exploded behind her eyes and pennies filled her mouth, as she was tossed aside, landing in a heap upon the floor.