Chapter Text
You didn't know what to make of Hannibal the Cannibal. You expected him to be quiet and unnerving when he was first brought in, or loud and threatening like the rest of Baltimore State Hospital’s inmates. Instead, he was quite the opposite when you began to bring his meals. Maybe it was his luxurious living quarters, which satisfied him and made him lax with pampering. Maybe it was all an act to lower your guard and manipulate your trust, as all those who trusted him the same way in the past ended up on his plate eventually. If it was, it was working. He was such a well-behaved patient, perhaps your most, a respite and comfort in your day. Doctor Lecter was calm and well-spoken, following orders to a tee and always so wonderfully polite. Dare you say you enjoyed his company, even to the point of ignoring protocol every time.
You came through the door that separated him from the rest of the patients, the dual color scheme of the room’s significance not lost on you in its ironic nature. The outside was dark woods and minimal decor, really only enough to maintain the intelligent, cultured aesthetic, whereas inside his cell, meant to contain this beautiful monster, was adorned with whites and golds, the heavens open to him with the skylight. Pure and perfect. Feeding the ego of this angel of death. A perfect gilded cage he would be willing to step into. He was vile, and yet he looked like he was in a spot of purity and dignity, while everyone else outside was just… plain.
He glanced up through his lashes at your entry, leaning over his beautiful pencil drawings with an easy smile. It was the roughly sketched beginnings of Fragonard’s ‘The Happy Accidents of the Swing’, or just The Swing as it was better known, even just the plain lead markings recognizable with Hannibal's skill.
“Chow time!” You announced equal parts unceremonious and playful, causing those aged eyes to crinkle in amusement. What Hannibal was fed could hardly be considered ‘chow’, as ostentatious as it was in ingredients, preparation, execution, and presentation. It was fine cuisine that they used to sate his hunger, while the other inmates got whatever the chefs could be bothered to make and were sure they couldn’t easily choke on.
“And what’s on the menu today?” He asks as he straightens out, accent as lilting and pleasant as ever. You both approached the glass, something often advised against that you found yourself doing equally often, and the man gave an interested sniff to hopefully catch a waft of the meal's scent through the enclosure's holes. You look down at the meal on the tray and the wine cup accompanying it, trying to make sense of Rich People Shit.
“I… honestly have no idea what I’m looking at. Looks like a fancy Hot Pocket with leaves and drizzles to make it even fancier.” Your words were honest with a huff of your own amusement, the killer's expression softening with what you might mistake for fondness if you were any less aware of who exactly was behind the glass.
“It looks and smells as if it is, in fact, Panzerotti, an Italian dish with a baked butter dough shell, and a filling consisting of a San Marzano tomato reduction, Mozzarella di bufala, and a collection of aged artisan salamis. So… yes. A fancy Hot Pocket, very observant.” he explains gladly as you deposit said dish through the item slot and maneuver the filled wine cup through the hole to hand it to Hannibal, who takes it gratefully and raises it to his lips, “I might have to refine your palate, my dear, as this is not by any means what you should be describing as ‘fancy’.”
“Well, you can’t do anything for me stuck in there, so you’ll have to put up with my peasant mentality.” This remark earned a sharp exhale of annoyance to pass the lips resting on the plastic, which only made your own pull back in a cheeky grin.
“I can certainly give you recommendations.” The cannibal insisted as he retrieved his food, giving you a playfully stern look to not give him attitude, to ‘behave’. It was not an entirely conscious action as you tamped your grin down to a polite and easy smile, straightening your posture a bit, all of which only caused his smirk to grow. You knew you were eager to please, but it was easy to convince yourself that it was just your nature and not the influence of the predator ahead.
“Your tastes are too expensive for me, or, uh, ‘exotic’. I think Nolan would have a stroke if he found out I blew the budget on gourmet pizza rolls. Or, y’know, that I took dining suggestions from a cannibal, that too.” Every time you mentioned your boyfriend, you couldn’t help but notice that Hannibal's brow pinched just a bit, the corners of his perfect lips would downturn slightly, almost imperceptively. You, however, had grown very perceptive of anything Doctor Lecter did in the last few weeks, purely for the potential entertainment value and nothing else.
“Well, Nolan would have to simply let you worry about how you spent your budget, wouldn’t he? You deserve nice things, darling.” The new pet name rolled off his tongue with ease, with his oh so patient tone, his brow raised as if in challenge of the man he had no doubt a full mental profile of from the few off-handed comments you’ve shared. The word did not enter your ears with the same ease. No, it traveled down and around your spine, cloying under your ribcage and settling there. It was not wholly uncomfortable, if you did your best not to acknowledge it.
“Maybe. Seems to be one of the few things he finds important enough to have a stroke about, these days.” You muttered, almost bitterly, causing Hannibal's cocky attitude to melt into something more gentle. You didn’t like how much of a staple your joint company had become so quickly, evidenced far too obviously by him setting aside his beloved food to give you his rapt attention, and you sitting down on the floor so quickly that your kneecaps knocked against the wood. He stands right behind the glass, hands in his jumpsuit pockets, eyes lidded with the stream of thought flowing behind them.
“It seems that all your mentions of Nolan are coupled with the fact that he is… unenthusiastic?” He ended his comment in a question, leaving room for you to elaborate. Unenthusiastic was a way to put it, but to be fair, you weren’t that enthusiastic about your relationship of two years either. You shared an apartment, a bed, and most importantly, streaming service accounts, but you didn’t really have a connection beyond those and your history. What was established and expected to continue. If you were completely honest, the relationship only began since it was expected, being in the same social circle and single at the same time. Everything was simply… logical.
You had no conversations that weren’t about obligations, no smiles shared that weren’t to keep up with polite company at events, no meals taken together that weren’t a rushed coffee in the mornings. It wasn’t a friendly, noninvasive companionship anymore. It was as routine as the long litany of rules and warnings served to hospital guests visiting the caged thing you pretended was a man in front of you, rules you had rattled off yourself.
‘Do not touch or approach the glass.’ Don’t talk about anything too emotionally deep.
‘You pass him nothing but soft paper.’ Always be approachable and pleasant to be around.
‘No pencils or pens.’ Don’t do anything that would inconvenience your partner.
‘No staples or paperclips in his paper.’ Don’t do anything that would inconvenience your life together.
‘Use the sliding food carrier.’ Only use what is given to you, ask for nothing more.
‘If he attempts to pass you anything, do not accept it.’ Just be happy with what you have for once.
It was so tiring.
When you came back to yourself, you realized you’d said nothing, only stared blankly at the glass you very much wished in this moment to touch and approach, to press your head against that cold and smooth barrier so that Hannibal’s deft fingers might pet your hair and soothe your every worry. You know he would, if you let him, but honestly, he might just as quickly snap your neck. You weren’t quite ready to trust your assumption that you were one of his favorites, but even then, he killed them more often than not.
“Yeah. Unenthusiastic works.” You answered instead in a clipped tone, fisting your uniform’s slacks between your fingers in order to ground yourself. It was all you could offer to him in that moment, any thought of Nolan hard to make in this cell that was your daily sanctuary.
“Works? What do you think would be the most apt descriptor?” Comes the curious psychiatrist's reply, forcing a scoff from your lips and roll of the eyes that you knew he disliked without even having to look at his face. He never appreciated rudeness, this was a well-known fact, but you couldn’t help it if you had your moments.
“I don’t need a therapy session.” You bit out, finally looking back up to meet Hannibal's eyes, which squinted slightly in consideration, the crows' feet beside them as dignified as the rest of him. He was always thinking, wondering how he could spin the situation in his favor, this you knew well, but his next words still took you off guard all the same.
“I think what you need is a friend.” You had friends, plenty, but none who cared for you as a real individual instead of Nolan’s Partner or another piece of their busy social lives. You knew nobody in your current life really cared, but how Lecter knew this was beyond you. You supposed it was because he was your friend. You didn’t know if he cared about you, but at this point, the apathy seemed inherent to your social life. You left this unsaid, answering instead after a long pause.
“Lackluster.” You gave as your descriptor, allowing Hannibal the small verbal gift that made him grin like the cat that caught the canary, despite the content of your words. You were giving him such gifts of obedience more and more recently, a very dangerous but enticing thing. In your defence, the nonverbal and even occasional verbal praise was frankly addicting.
“So, perhaps you want a partner with a bit more shine?” He said with that damned self-important grin, leaning down to look at you through the holes, as if that could make you grow closer somehow. It practically wrenched a smile of your own from your face, “Someone that might, shall we say, savor you?”
“Now, Hannibal-” You began between chuckles, the cannibal proving to be horribly endearing whenever he wanted to be, “I’m your Psychiatric Aide, you can’t eat me. Who would bring you your other meals?”
“I suggested no such thing.” He lied horribly, once again, whenever he wanted to, straightening out again to finally touch said meal. You simply watched as he sat and indulged with the same fascination of a child at the zoo, eager to have a front row seat of the tiger basking in the summer sun. Watching a caged animal that could kill you in an instant, but never will, trapped and docile. Rendered physically harmless. You only averted your eyes when you began to feel like a voyeur rather than a viewer, mouth watering at the sight of his tongue lolling out just slightly to catch and taste each bite.
“Speaking of being an Aide…” You sighed and dragged your gaze to your watch in a helpful change of subject. It was true that you had responsibilities outside of caring for Hannibal Lecter's non-health needs, even though it took up an abnormal amount of your time ever since you were voluntold for the position. Everyone else got too queasy, it seemed.
“Leaving already? What am I supposed to do until dinner, dear?” He drawled out, accent thick and cloying to your eardrums, before wrapping his lips around the food on his plastic fork indecently, eyes not moving an inch from yours. You wanted to hate him like everyone else, you really did, but it was no use. He wouldn’t stop clinging to you, no matter what you did.
“You could always pretend to talk to yourself, give Mister Chilton something new to write about.” You suggested as you hoisted yourself up from the floor, wiping off your uniform as Hannibal’s tongue poked the inside of his cheek in annoyance at the mere mention of the man, “Or, you could just, I don’t know, be normal and enjoy your Hot Pocket.”
“Panzerotti.” He corrected, pointing his fork at you cheekily to drive the word home, brows raising in the expectation for you not to be a complete idiot. You always seemed to defy expectations, though.
The sigh you let out was performative and obnoxious, paired with a rough shrug of the shoulders, “Panzerotti, Hot Pocket, eh, tomaeto tamahto. Not my fault they’re the same thing.”
“Enjoy the rest of your shift, my dear.” Hannibal finally relents, sinfully perfect lips curved in a fond, easy smile. You really shouldn’t enjoy the view as much as you do, for far too many reasons.