Archive of Our Own

“What is old, to those who do not age?”

“Oh, but we do,” says Matteo. “It may not show in the luster of our hair, the smoothness of our skin, the strength of our bones. But do not be mistaken. All things are touched by time, and we are no exception.”

…“For them,” he says, gesturing at the busy city, “age takes its toll in decades. For us, it is the work of centuries. And it is not measured in wrinkles or gray hair. Where others rot without, we rot within.” He raps his knuckles against his chest. “We are hollowed, bit by bit, as all that makes us human dies. Our kindness. Our empathy. Our capacity for fear, and love. One by one, they slough away, until all that’s left is the desire to hunt, to hurt, to feed, to kill. That is how we die. Made reckless by our hunger.”¹

You met your partner Hannibal several years ago. You can still remember that bone-deep conviction from that evening, when you locked eyes from across the room and knew, somehow, that he was different. 

Did you expect him to be a vampire? Of course not. But it makes an alarming amount of sense: the man is most active at night; though he makes efforts to maintain appearances and take leisurely strolls along the pier in the mornings, he seems more lively at night. More in his element. 

It’s funny, when you think back to that evening. Your friends all but drag you to this dinner party, insisting that you’ll enjoy yourself, that you’ll meet new people. You aren’t the party type—still aren’t—but you join them, albeit reluctantly. The night takes place at a charming villa on the outskirts of Venice, with well-dressed individuals milling about a foyer with swooping arches and opulent fixtures. 

You feel so horribly out of place, and you’re contemplating just leaving altogether when you see him. A face in the crowd, or so he should’ve been. Elegant clothing, perfectly tailored to his form. Distinguished features, aristocratic, even: brown-grey hair; deep brown eyes that flash amber and crimson in the light; sculpted cheekbones; a sharp jawline. 

By all means, he should not be looking at you. Unless he means to eject you from the premises, which would be the logical next step. You are suddenly, immediately convinced that the man is the host of this dinner party. This must be his residence: the way he makes his way down the stairs with practiced ease, exchanging pleasantries with guests. The way he walks toward you. 

You feel rooted to the spot. You’re close to the entrance—you could theoretically turn and run. But why would you run? He’s a man, not a monster.

That same moment, something seems to entertain the man, as his lips quirk into an amused smile. He’s still approaching you. You look around the space for your friends, who have courteously decided to ditch you. You grit your teeth. 

And there he is. In the blink of an eye, the man is standing before you.

“Signore,” he says politely, as if you weren’t making a concerted effort to avoid his eyes. You admit defeat and look over, giving him a polite, if somewhat awkward, smile in response. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” 

“No,” you agree, remembering your manners. You introduce yourself with a slight nod. 

“Hannibal Lecter,” he answers. 

“Nice to meet you,” you remember to say, swallowing and looking around the room again. 

“Are you looking for someone, perchance?” Hannibal hums. 

“No,” you respond. You drag your eyes back to him, telling yourself to stop being rude. “Is this your home? It’s quite beautiful.” 

“Thank you,” he answers, his lips quirking at the edges again. 

Conversation flows quite easily from there. You wouldn’t consider yourself a thrilling conversationalist by any stretch of the imagination, yet Hannibal remains glued to your side as if you are the most enthralling person he’s ever met. 

You leave his home that night with plans to meet the following week and a strange lightness in your chest. 

Years later, Hannibal’s home has become yours. The two of you have weathered countless storms, remained close through bad and good days alike. Despite his seemingly friendly disposition that first evening you met, Hannibal is slow to warm up to you in the following months. A late night dinner and a tryst in the courtyard proves to be his undoing, wandering hands that soon freeze and pull back with something like regret flashing in his eyes. That’s when he first tells you that he’s, per his words, “planted in the midnight soil.”

You don’t get the full explanation for that particular turn of phrase until later, when you hear the entire thing: 

“Bury my bones in the midnight soil,
plant them shallow but water them deep,
and in my place will grow a feral rose,
soft red petals hiding sharp white teeth.”²

Hannibal doesn’t particularly care for the term ‘vampire,’ though he can readily admit that it’s the nature of his being. You ask him plenty of questions after this revelation, and he answers the best he can. He needs blood to satiate his hunger (albeit momentarily); daylight doesn’t burn, but it does leave him fatigued and weary; people like him are immortal, unless their hearts are destroyed. But Hannibal is a guarded man, secretive and enigmatic. He treats secrets like weapons, sharpens them to a point and wields them with cruel intent. Over the years, you try to get him to open up—as he accepts that you aren’t going anywhere, just as you accept the strange state of his being. 

Even so, seeing him vulnerable is always somewhat jarring. This afternoon is no exception, as you hear fumbling near the front door and get to your feet to investigate it. You’re surprised to find Hannibal on the other side, looking rather worse for wear. He frequently makes excursions across the town in the daytime. You hadn’t expected him back so soon, though—he usually stays out late. 

But here he is, a hand pressed to the door frame and a somewhat sunken look to him. He wavers on his feet and you frown. “Hannibal,” you say, reaching for him immediately. “Merda. Come inside.” You close the door behind him.

With your assistance, he manages to make it to the couch. You study him once he sits, worried by the pale, almost sickly color of his skin. “When did you feed last?” you frown, already suspecting the answer. Hannibal confirms it’s been a few days—several, in fact. Vampires don’t need to feed daily, and Hannibal has supposedly gone a whole week with blood once [though he recalls that week with particular disdain].

You resist the urge to roll your eyes at his foolishness, instead heading over to the fridge. Usually he keeps some blood bags in a neat row in the fridge, for emergencies. He maintains the taste is better when it’s straight from the source, but this will have to do. Truthfully, you’ve never asked what this blood in the fridge is [human or otherwise], how he gets it… You’ve decided it’s not your business. It’s a bit unnerving to open the fridge in the morning and be greeted with bags of blood, but you’ve gotten used to it.

Now, however, the shelf remains empty. You bite the inside of your cheek. “I don’t see any,” you tell him from the kitchen.

“I will have more soon,” Hannibal responds. It’s slightly strangled. You frown and head back over to him in the living room.

“You don’t look very good,” you observe. And it’s the truth: he looks deathly pale, his eyes are glassy, and he’s almost trembling. You’ve known Hannibal for years now—have seen him in a plethora of situations, wearing countless masks of emotion. You’ve never seen him this vulnerable, this hungry. It makes something like nausea crawl up your throat. His state now is a painful reminder of the condition of a vampire’s immortality: they’re forever chained to hunger. 

“Hannibal,” you say slowly, swallowing hard. You take a few steps, until you’re standing over him on the couch. You pull up the sleeve of your dress shirt and offer him your wrist. 

The effect is immediate: his eyes flash with hunger, and then fury. “No,” he insists. Hannibal’s hands rest on his knees, his knuckles almost whitening from the tension he’s carrying. “No,” Hannibal repeats. You’re not sure who he’s trying to convince, but the martyr act is starting to annoy you. 

In the time you’ve known Hannibal, you’ve made the same offer innumerable times. And each time, you were met with the same answer: no. One late night, Hannibal revealed the reasoning behind his denial: a vampire’s hunger is never satiated. It doesn’t matter how many people they drain, how much blood is consumed. The hunger never goes away. And while Hannibal is a creature of restraint, often enjoying the hunt and slow surrender of his victims, the mere chance that he could lose control is enough to dissuade him from feeding on you. 

You love Hannibal, you really do. But sometimes his centuries of wisdom and experience blind him to other truths. 

“Hannibal, I’m offering,” you insist. “You need to feed.” You move your wrist closer to him, letting it linger in front of his face. 

Hannibal’s eyes gleam. But his gaze finds yours first. Before your wrist, before the blood. The unspoken question flickers in his eyes: Are you sure? He doesn’t utter the words. He doesn’t need to. 

“I’ve seen you feed, I’ve seen people slump into you and go limp, I’ve seen them die under your hand,” you say. “I know what I’m offering, and I trust you not to hurt me.”

That seems to pierce the fog of his hunger, as Hannibal’s features soften and he almost seems to smile. Several moments pass in silence. Then, sensing you’re serious, he answers, “Very well.” 

With frightening speed, his hand clamps around your wrist as he yanks you forward. You end up with a knee on the couch, staring at him in surprise. Hannibal places a hand on your shoulder and you get the message, turning to sit down. The vampire is standing now, before he’s surging forward and putting a knee between your thighs, pressing you back into the cushions.

Your heart is hammering in your chest. Hannibal must know this, because his hand slips to your neck and he gently unbuttons the top few buttons of your collared shirt. His fingers deftly push the fabric aside, baring your neck to him.

“You are certain about this,” he says, looking to you for confirmation. His pupils are dilated, his eyes blown wide. You can see Hannibal’s fangs crawling from his gums, nearly piercing his bottom lip. His fingers dance up and down your throat, almost enough to send goosebumps prickling across your skin. 

“Yes, just don’t kill me,” you say with a breathless huff. 

“I will never,” Hannibal assures you. And you notice the chosen tense there: not I would never, conditionally, but I will never. A promise. 

His head dips into the junction of your neck and shoulder, before his fangs sink into your skin. You wince at the sharp sting of pain, but it starts to ebb as Hannibal begins to feed. You’re doing this for him, you remind yourself. He needs to eat. 

You just hope he was telling the truth earlier—that he’ll stop before going too far. Because the tight grip he has on your shirt collar and neck, respectively, only remind you of his strength. If you tried to fight him off, it wouldn’t work.

You decide to focus on him instead, and you realize you can see it almost melt over him—the way tension bleeds into his form anew, the growing strength of his grip on your neck. The grey-purple color in his skin is fading. It’s not overly painful for you, meanwhile, but it doesn’t necessarily feel good either. You are starting to relax a bit, though. Or maybe that’s just the blood loss.

Your vision is tunneling, spots dancing across your eyes. “Hannibal,” you say, the world starting to blur around you. You grasp at him and try to pull him off, your fingers shakily combing through his hair. This seems to get the message across, as he immediately pulls away. 

Hannibal’s hand finds your jaw. His fangs are bloodstained, though his lips are clean. You had asked him once, why he always returned from his nightly excursions without so much as a single bloodstain. His response? “I’ve never cared for messy eaters.” You had laughed at the time; you would laugh again now, if you weren’t his most recent meal. 

The vampire studies you for a long moment, eyes flitting about your face. You’re not quite sure what he’s looking for. “I apologize,” Hannibal frowns, seeming disappointed with himself. “I got carried away.”

“It’s fine,” you reassure him. Honestly, you don’t feel too bad. You feel… pretty much the same, actually—just a bit dazed, as if you were sitting on a spinning ride for too long. Your head is a bit heavy too, the stirrings of a headache forming. “Are you all right?” you ask, blinking hard. 

“Of course,” he confirms. Indeed, Hannibal appears to be back to his normal self now—none of the harsh lines and shadows that made him appear almost emaciated. He looks revitalized, the sickly pallor to his skin gone. Now, he only looks… concerned. “And yourself?” he asks insistently, your attempt at distraction proving futile. 

“I’m fine,” you respond, though the world isn’t getting any clearer around you. You’re a bit more woozy now, and there’s heat running up the back of your neck. Hannibal frowns, eyes locking on your neck. There’s a dull ache running up and down the column of your throat; you’ll probably bruise. Hannibal reaches out, pressing a finger to the trickle of blood slipping from your neck. He draws back with blood on this thumb, before proceeding to bring his finger to his lips and lick your blood off. 

You’re a bit out of it, but you can still feel a shiver roll down your spine at that. You self-consciously bring a hand to your neck. It doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, though the skin is tender. You wince a bit when your finger prods the sore spot, and Hannibal gently pulls your hand away. His thumb brushes your knuckles. 

“Let’s get you to bed,” Hannibal suggests. You nod and get to your feet, only to be hit with shadows crawling across your vision as the ground tilts under you. Your breath hitches and it feels like you’re rocking to the side—

Hannibal is at your shoulder immediately, a hand at your waist. He takes one look at you—wobbly legs, harsh blinks to clear your grainy vision—and deftly bends down, a hand under your knees and another at your back. You try to protest, only for him to lift you into his arms with ease—curse his inhuman strength—and carry you to the bedroom. You don’t bother arguing at this point, considering you can barely see straight. 

He sets you down with unnerving gentleness, immediately pulling the covers back and then draping them over you both once he has joined you. You thank him, to which he sends you an amused look and reassures you there is nothing to thank him for. 

The silence almost seems to buzz with life, the walls around you sharp one second and blurry the next. “How’d I taste?” you huff, half-delirious. You can’t imagine you taste much different than the average human, though Hannibal has admitted that different emotions can elicit different tastes. Fear, for example, can give blood a unique taste. Fortunately, he has never given you reason to be afraid of him. 

“Delectable,” Hannibal responds, with nothing but sincerity in his voice. Your breath almost catches in your chest when you look over to find him already staring at you. You hadn’t noticed before—perhaps hadn’t wanted to notice—but his eyes are still blown wide with hunger. His gaze keeps falling to your neck, before back up again. “Though that hardly matters,” he asserts, meeting your eyes. “You need to rest.”

“I’m fine,” you try to insist, beginning to seep into the mattress. Hannibal’s hand is soon running soothing circles along your shoulder, and your eyelids are burning as you try to fight off fatigue. 

“Thank you,” he remarks quietly, his hand rising to cradle your cheek. “That was very kind of you.”

“It’s not a big deal,” you mumble, your words slurring a bit as they jumble together. 

“It is,” Hannibal reassures you firmly, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You know what beings like me can do to a human. Yet you offered yourself anyway.”

“I trust you,” you answer. 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Hannibal says. It seems like it should be some kind of ominous warning, but the vampire looks so strangely wistful and sad as he says it.

“Too bad,” you respond, feeling like a boneless puddle. You lean into him, resting your head in the crook of his shoulder. His hand finds the small of your back, your hip, and Hannibal hums.

“Yes, how unfortunate,” he says teasingly. You swear, even through your questionable vision, Hannibal looks unabashedly fond. You give up on maintaining dignity, instead fusing into his side and giving in to the lull of sleep. 

The last sensation you register before falling into unconsciousness is the gentle press of his lips to your forehead, a wordless promise.