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Abigail knew she wasn’t sober as she drifted out of the bar and toward her car. It wasn’t that bad though—certainly not bad enough to justify calling for a ride. She could still walk in a straight line. Mostly.
Who would she even call? Will? Hannibal? She hadn’t spoken properly to either of them in weeks, ignoring calls and messages, visits nonexistent. The two had become overbearing as of late and she had been desperate for some detachment. Was she to break that silence like this? Calling drunk in the middle of the night for a ride? Absolutely not. She could hear the lecture now.
Still. She felt the familiar pull towards them, harder to resist without a bottle or some other distraction in front of her. A part of her—bigger than she was willing to admit—did miss them.
The car was somehow colder than it was outside. She folded her arms around her torso, shivering hard as shame crept into her chest—here she was again, doing the same thing she’d promised herself she wouldn’t, the same thing she’d been warned against. Her breath left her in a harsh cloud, and before she fully registered it, hot tears spilled down her cheeks, cooling almost instantly on her skin. She cried hard for a while, deep, quiet sobs. Then it seemed to stop all at once, as though the tears had been emptied from her. She wiped her face and let the moment fade, forgetting it soon after, as if it had never happened at all.
The car was already in drive. She had enough sense to stick to the back roads, though her foot couldn’t quite find a steady pressure on the gas. The speed wavered. She fumbled with the cruise control on a car she’d been driving for years now—the one Hannibal had given her after she graduated. The thought surfaced with a brief stab of guilt. She blinked, forced her focus back to the dark ribbon of road ahead, and tried not to drift over the yellow line.
She passed her exit when it came, some deep, half-conscious desire to see Hannibal surpassing any logical motive to stay away. She sailed on, eyes heavy. She drifted back and forth over the line, by some grace managing to pass no police on the way. Perhaps they were elsewhere, not so wary of drunk drivers at nearly 1 am on a Monday.
The drive felt brief, the long minutes it took to reach Hannibal’s house failing to write themselves properly into her memory. She parked—almost straight—in the driveway and stumbled out of the too-warm cabin. The cold struck her hard, and only then did she truly register how drunk she was. She swore, shaking her head at herself, and murmured a quiet thanks to God for getting her there safely.
She looked at the house, and it seemed to lean toward her as she trudged up to the door. She fumbled with her keys, trying to be quiet as she slipped inside—and failed spectacularly. She stumbled as she bent for her boots, her keys clattering to the floor as she nearly went down. She slammed into the wall, the dull thud echoing through the house.
Footsteps followed almost immediately. The lights flipped on.
“Abigail? Are you all right?”
Hannibal stood in the foyer, taking in the scene. Abigail didn’t look at him. She stared down at her boots instead, exhaling in frustration as if the laces had conspired against her.
“Yeah. I just can’t get these stupid things,” she said softly, listening for the telltale drag in her words, the slow, deliberate cadence of someone truly drunk. She hadn’t spoken all night; she couldn’t quite tell.
Hannibal observed her in silence, appraising in that unsettling way of his—taking in her clumsy movements, the slight lag in her speech. Then he knelt, deftly undoing the knots with ease.
“Step out,” he instructed gently, guiding her ankle from the boot.
She obeyed, watching the top of his head swim in and out of focus as he eased her from her shoes. In a dizzy moment, her hands slapped solidly on his shoulders to prevent herself from falling. He looked up at her with an unreadable expression and rose slowly, her hands slowly slipping off him, heart lurching as he peered down at her from his full height. He hadn’t said a word, but she knew he knew—of course he did.
She swallowed hard under his steady gaze. He held it, measuring, waiting to see if she would fracture without being pressed.
“What have you been doing tonight?” he asked at last, his voice smooth and deliberate, the question offered like a challenge—an invitation to lie.
The answer came easily—nothing, just went out, I’m fine—neat little lies she’d practiced in the years before, ones he knew too well. She hesitated too long.
“You’re thinking,” he said, “about which version of the truth will cost you the least.”
Her voice worked, stuttered. “I went to a bar.” She admitted, despite how much she would have liked to lie.
“How much did you drink?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Enough. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I should go...” She turned to leave even as her vision swayed.
Hannibal’s hand closed around her elbow, firm, stopping and steadying her at once.
"You are not going anywhere else tonight my dear," he guided her toward the sitting room. “Sit,” he said. She did.
He left for a moment and returned with a glass of water, pressed it into her hands, watching to make sure she drank. Only then did he speak again.
“You drove,” it was not a question.
Her fingers tightened around the glass. “I made it here,” she reasoned, shrugging as if she had not been in any danger at all.
“Yes,” Hannibal agreed. “Do you understand how narrow that margin was?”
Shame burned hot in her chest, sharper than fear, though that was very present as well. “I didn’t mean to,” she muttered. “I just—didn’t want to think.”
"And you didn't," he said simply. "You drove your car, impaired."
"I'm not that drunk," Abigail insisted.
“But you are drunk,” he replied mildly, lifting a brow. “Yes?”
She shrugged, eyes dropping to the floor as if the right words might be hiding there.
“Is this what you have been doing while you’ve been avoiding Will and me?” The disappointment in his voice was unmasked.
More guilt flooded in. She had wanted to self-destruct quietly—to sink into her worst impulses without anyone intervening.
“I haven’t been avoiding you,” she said weakly.
Hannibal tilted his head, the gesture faintly condescending, his expression making it clear he didn’t believe her. “Then why is it that you’ve all but disappeared?”
“I’ve just been busy,” she snapped, irritation flaring. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to talk, hadn’t wanted to explain. She suddenly regretted not going home.
“Busy with what?” he asked. “Drinking alone?”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She shot to her feet, patting clumsily at her pockets, searching for the keys Hannibal had picked up earlier. “No—busy doing whatever the hell I want and not having to answer to you for once.”
“Sit down, Abigail,” Hannibal said shortly, unimpressed.
“No,” she shot back, scanning the floor, not even remembering how she’d dropped them.
“I have your keys,” he said with a sigh. “And you are not getting them back. So please—sit.”
“Give them back.” She held out her hand, actually demanding them. His gaze darkened with something almost like amusement.
“Perhaps you mistook that for a request,” he said coolly. “It was not. Sit down.”
The chill in his tone snapped her back to the moment—to who she was dealing with. She huffed and dropped back onto the couch, arms crossed tightly over her chest. Hannibal studied her for a moment, fondness for her fire flickering briefly—though this was not a moment for indulgence.
“I find it curious,” he said at last, “that you chose to come here.”
She stared hard at him, her sense of self-preservation wavering. When she offered no reply, he continued. “You could have gone home just as easily. There must be a reason you came—other than to sit on my couch and glare like a defiant child.”
“If you don’t want me here, you can just say that,” she snapped. “I tried to leave. You wouldn’t let me.”
“On the contrary,” he replied evenly. “I’m quite pleased you came. But do not mistake my pleasure at seeing you for indulgence.” His voice hardened. “What you did tonight was reckless and entirely unacceptable.”
He paused, gauging her reaction. She met him with defiance alone.
“You are a smart girl, Abigail,” he continued. “Do you understand how unacceptable your behavior was?”
“Yes,” she groaned, eager for it to end.
“Yes, I thought you might.” His gaze sharpened. “Which brings me back to the question—what made you come here?”
She stiffened. She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again.
The truth hovered uncomfortably close, too exposed. She shifted on the couch, jaw tightening. “I don’t know,” she said finally, dismissively. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Hannibal’s gaze did not soften. If anything, it sharpened, honing in on the evasion.
“No,” he said calmly. “You were thinking. You are simply reluctant to admit what conclusion you reached.”
She scoffed weakly. “You always make it sound so calculated.”
“Because it was,” he replied. “You passed your exit. You made a choice.” He stepped closer, still towering over her. “You came here knowing precisely what response you would receive.”
Her cheeks burned. “I didn’t come here to be lectured.”
“Then why?” he asked evenly.
She swallowed. The room felt too quiet, too attentive. “Because I didn’t want to be alone,” she snapped.
Hannibal regarded her for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his eyes.
“And yet,” he said softly, “you have been alone for weeks. Avoiding us. Ignoring calls. Drinking in isolation.” A pause. “That suggests solitude was not the problem.”
She looked away.
“What you wanted,” he continued, “was interruption.”
Her fingers curled into the fabric of the couch. “That’s not—”
“You wanted to be stopped,” he said, voice still gentle, still infuriatingly sure. “You wanted someone else to decide when enough was enough.”
Silence fell, thick and suffocating.
“That’s humiliating.”
“It feels that way,” Hannibal replied. “But humiliation requires degradation. This is clarity.”
She drew her knees up slightly, posture shrinking in spite of herself. “I don’t want to be like this.”
“I know,” he said. “But wanting is not sufficient. You have demonstrated, repeatedly, that when left to your own judgment, you place yourself in danger. We have spent years,” he went on, disappointment threading through his calm, “trying to give you structure. Safety. Boundaries you agreed you needed.” His gaze held hers. “And tonight, you treated all of that as optional.”
Her voice came out smaller. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“No,” Hannibal said. “You were fortunate.” He straightened then, firm as she needed him to be. “You came to me,” he said. “That was not accidental. By doing so, you have placed yourself under my care.” His gaze held hers, unblinking. “And for the time being, that means you relinquish autonomy.”
Her breath hitched. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” he interrupted calmly. “And I will. Because you have shown me that you cannot be trusted with it tonight.”
She stared at him, anger and shame warring in her chest. “I’m an adult.”
“Yes,” he said. “And adults are responsible for the consequences of their choices. This is yours.” He reached into his pocket, producing her keys. He did not offer them back. “You will not be driving,” he said. “You will not be drinking. You will not be leaving this house tonight.” Each sentence landed like a door closing. “You will stay where you can be seen. Where you can be corrected.”
Her eyes stung. “You’re treating me like a child.”
Hannibal regarded her steadily. “You are behaving like one who cannot yet be trusted to keep herself safe.”
To this she had no response, just dropped her head into her knees and thought of how she could not take any of this back now that it had started.
He gestured down the hall. “You will go to your room. Door open. No alcohol. No phone. You will sleep.”
She rose unsteadily, all the defiance having left her. For a moment, she looked very small. As Hannibal took her phone and guided her away, she felt a strange, unwelcome relief of having the fight taken out of her hands.
She had wanted to be stopped.
And now she was.