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defectivevillain · 7 months

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this broken design, ch16

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

some of this chapter is born out of me realizing, as i read The Red Dragon, that i essentially limited Alana’s presence in this fic to that one rather tumultuous interaction, instead of expanding on her potential as both a strong, intelligent side character and a friend to the reader. Hopefully this makes up for that a little bit. Alana’s pretty cool. I sort of lost sight of that.

warnings: negative self talk, suicidal ideation/thoughts, panic attack, hyperventilation, derealization, canon-typical blood, violence, & gore

The darkness swirling around you is relentless in its writhing, distorting and jerking you around in its shadowed grasp. For a while, you’re content to let the shadows take control. You float in an endless abyss. Memories flit before your eyes, just long enough for you to reach out to try to grab them. They never stay long enough, flickering and disintegrating before you get the chance to grasp them and dissect every miniscule detail.

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin.

You take a deep breath. The next time you blink, you find yourself standing in a far too familiar place. Hannibal’s kitchen is quiet—eerily so, you think as your footsteps echo against the floors. There is hardly a sign of life on these countertops, hardly a stain or sprinkling of powder to assure you this place has ever been used. There is a single light boring down on the back of your head: a spotlight. You swallow hard and step to the side in an attempt to escape the light, only to find Hannibal’s rolodex sitting in the middle of the brightness. Your business card sits on top, displaying your name, phone number, email address, office location at headquarters, birthplace, height, weight, eye color, age, and any other demographic information you could possibly imagine. The font is tiny, yet you can read it with ease. Feeling a sudden urge to touch, you grab the business card and let it lie flat in your palm. There’s a tear in the corner, you realize. Frowning, you move to touch it, only for the tear to extend further down the flimsy material. Crimson dots appear on the white background, swirling and twisting until there’s blood collecting on your fingertips. You look down, only to realize that the dark red stains have permeated the fabric of your shirt. Puddles are gathering at your feet, marking your footsteps with every movement you make. The card melts into the blood gathered in your hands, and you’re left holding the tattered remains of your identity.

Stay awake.

You blink again. Abel Gideon is peering at you from behind the bars of his interrogation cell. “You have Lecter on a leash, don’t you?” Gideon remarks with a laugh. You huff a laugh under your breath. The thought amuses you, for reasons you cannot quite discern at the moment. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.” Your hands tremble at your sides and you restlessly shift your balance from one foot to the other. Gideon’s gaze is knowing and it pins you to the ground.

Stay alive.

A blink. You’re standing in the doorway of your office at headquarters. Everything is as you left it, save for your chair, which has an inhabitant. Franklyn Froideveaux stares at you with empty eye sockets and a gaping maw. Blood slips down his gaunt frame, leaving murky red-brown streaks down his cheeks and around the cavity of his chest. You blink and his skin turns a murky yellowish green from decay.

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons from over your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face, feel his breath hitting your neck and provoking a deep nausea in your gut.

Another blink. Blood slips hotly down your fingers as you stand in a dimly lit hallway. Your skin feels lit with flames and the knife in your hand gleams a sickening crimson. You want to release the weapon from your grip, but your fingers are locked around the blade with unshakeable force. The smell of death and decay wafting through the enclosed space makes your stomach turn. None of these sensations are powerful enough to rip your attention away from the corpse at your feet.

“Killing must feel good to God, too,” Hannibal remarks with a hum, hands behind his back as he regards Abel Gideon’s form. There is a mildly intrigued expression on his face as he studies the body, before looking back to you with eerily crimson eyes. As he pivots, bloodstained antlers stretch from his perfectly coiffed hair. They disappear in a moment—a trick of the light. His voice is dark and airy all at once. “And are we not created in his image?” You swallow past the nausea building in your chest. Time stretches on with terrible slowness. His gaze is flaying you apart. “Don’t you want God To want you?” He asks softly.1

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive.

Darkness, then light. “To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal says, a flicker of a smile settling on his lips. His hands are folded and he leans forward. Your chairs are close enough to force you to knock knees with him, but Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered by the prospect. “You are the first person to see through his façade, through the layers of his mask.” His skin looks strangely patterned, as if it's made of ceramic. You reach out to grasp his face, to yank off his mask, only for Hannibal to catch your wrist and hold it in a tight grip. Suddenly, your chair is tipping backwards precariously, lurching further into the abyss. You try to reach out and grab onto something, but Hannibal’s hold is the only thing that keeps you tethered. The void crawls up your skin mockingly, waiting to drag you into its umbra. Your momentum is slipping backwards and you’re filled with an unsettling anticipation. Contrary to your expectations, Hannibal’s grip remains strong. You look at him. The Ripper looks back, a bloodstained smile on his lips. You feel his fingers trace the edges of your skin with a mocking gentleness, before you’re falling backward into the darkness again.

You slip out of the darkness and bolt up, only to find yourself in a painfully bright room. You can’t quite stop the gasp that comes from your lips, nor can you suppress the urge to look around frantically, searching for the signs that this is a dream. The incessant pain in your abdomen is a harsh reality check. You look down at the area, only to find meticulously wrapped bandages covering your lower torso. Your upper forearm stings from the IV burrowing under your skin.

“Hey,” a voice says. You squint in the bright light, waiting for the blurred figure in front of you to sharpen. It’s a nurse—the same one who helped you the last time you were wounded. She holds her hands out in a placating gesture. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You were just dreaming.” Her eyebrows are furrowed in concern, a sentiment you feel you don’t deserve.

You bite back your questions—knowing the answers are clinging to the blinding white walls around you. The nurse asks you several questions about your symptoms and your pain level, before departing with the promise that she will return soon.

The events that transpired in Hannibal’s office cling to your skin with fervency. Your abdomen burns, especially when you remember that Hannibal inflicted the wound. You shouldn’t feel betrayed. You shouldn’t be afforded the privilege of being betrayed, not when you knew Hannibal Lecter’s nature since that night you sleepwalked out into the middle of the street.

Even so… you enjoyed being in Hannibal’s presence. You enjoyed the song and dance you had gotten so accustomed to playing. You spent so long spectating the game that you forgot your role in it. You were a pawn, and nothing more. The thought displeases you. With each passing second, the ugly feeling in your chest grows and swells within the confines of your rib cage. It’s getting to be too much.

There is no one to sit at your bedside this time. When she returns, the nurse pointedly does not mention your husband. You don’t have the heart to tell her that your “husband” was the same person who stabbed you, or that your husband was never really your husband in the first place. She seems to understand anyway. Pity is hidden beneath the kind smile on her face. You stop making eye contact with her.

Lying in this hospital bed is a lonely existence, dominated by a constant state of pain (at worst) or mild discomfort (at best). The only interaction you get is from the nurse herself. You get the feeling she’d be a good listener, but your tongue feels ironed to the roof of mouth and your conversations quickly morph into anecdotes about her life. You’re grateful for the small kindness—for the prospect of being treated like a human being, despite it all. These small moments of humanity push you to keep going, even amidst the several voices crooning in your ears about your cruelty.

You don’t expect any visitors. Indeed, your first visitor is entirely unexpected. When you’re first told that someone wishes to speak to you, you think of Beverly, Jack Crawford… hell, even Freddie Lounds. You certainly don’t foresee Alana Bloom walking through the door, a gentle, reserved expression on her face. Seeing her brightens your day, and her presence reminds you that you’re not entirely alone. You welcome the thought.

“Alana,” you greet her, your voice rather raspy. You cough to clear your throat. “How are you?” You ask.

“I should be asking you that,” she responds with a wry smile. She stands at the end of your bed, before walking to the side. Alana regards the lonely chair at your bedside, before placing her hands on the back. She looks well—albeit a little tired. “I’m good. And you?”

“I’ve been better,” you decide to respond honestly. There’s no point in lying to Alana—she used to be your psychiatrist, your girlfriend. She would be able to see through your dishonesty anyway. Sure enough, Alana seems to appreciate your honesty, because her eyes momentarily widen before she moves to sit down. Seeing her sit in that chair makes your stomach turn. When you blink, you see Hannibal sitting there—lithe frame effortlessly arranged, tupperware in hand. You rub your eyes roughly, dispelling the image to the recesses of your memory. Alana was courteous enough to visit you—the least you can do is acknowledge her presence, instead of imagining her as someone else.

For a moment, you stare at Alana. A mundane sense of envy strikes you, but it’s fleeting. You don’t deserve to be envious of her good health and safe wellbeing. Your own hubris is the reason why you’re currently confined to this cot. You look at her for a moment longer, before letting your eyes rest on the plain walls around you. You can feel Alana staring at you with concern. Instead of acknowledging that sentiment, you let the first question on your mind pass through your lips. “Where’s Jack?”

Alana is silent for a few seconds. Is it a difficult question? You don’t think so, yet Alana almost seems to falter. Eventually, she must manage to find the words. “Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she evidently settles for saying. Upon closer examination, her hands are clasped in her lap—whitened knuckles betraying her otherwise tranquil image. Alana’s next words are quiet yet firm. “He’s tracking Hannibal—the Chesapeake Ripper.”

You inhale slowly. Somehow, hearing her say that cements the reality of it all. Everyone knows Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s not just you anymore. You bring up an arm slowly, before tilting your head down and pinching the bridge of your nose. Somehow, it is this statement that reminds you of the pounding sensation behind your eyes and the aching clustered around your temple.

“Are you alright?” Alana asks, lips twitching into a slight frown.

“Yes,” you respond flatly. Your answer sounds devoid of emotion and purpose.

“Are you sure?” Alana persists. You don’t have the heart to lie to her twice in a row.

“...No.” You acquiesce. You rub a hand over your face, feeling rather small in this hospital bed. The sheets are slightly scratchy and the weight of them feels constricting, rather than comforting. You’ve never felt so small.

“I’m sorry,” Alana sighs. She seems entirely sincere and it almost makes you want to scream. You don’t deserve her sympathy. “I know you two were close. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” That statement is incredibly reassuring, despite the frenzy you had worked yourself into surrounding Alana. When you reflect on the events of the past months, you realize that you have few allies and even fewer true friends. One of those true friends is sitting right next to you.

“Thank you,” you nod. Guilt stirs in your chest as you stare at your old psychiatrist and ex-girlfriend. Every time you’ve seen her since she kissed you, you’ve purposefully cut conversation short. Somehow, the thought feels silly to you now. Perhaps almost dying a second time does that to a person. You stare at Alana for a moment. She looks well put together, as always. “Alana?”

“Yes?” She questions patiently. That’s another thing you envy about her—her unwavering compassion, her unflinching patience. You could stand to learn a few things from her, you think.

“I’m sorry,” you remark. The sentiment has been dancing on the tip of your tongue for the past several weeks, yet you never got the chance to verbalize it. Life has been a whirlwind lately. You’ve been so caught up in everything swirling around in your mind that you never paused to think about those around you, or how they were affected by the recent turn of events. “For…” You break off, unable to articulate it. You settle for a vague hand gesture. Alana seems to understand anyways, as her eyes momentarily widen before comprehension passes over her face.

“Don’t apologize,” Alana is quick to say, nothing but sincerity written in the lines of her shoulders. Her eyes look slightly glassy for the briefest of moments, before she shakes her head and looks at you once more. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry for kissing you without warning.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silence descends upon the brisk air, leaving the two of you to your thoughts. You’re not content to let this overbearing tension rule over your conversation. You clench your fists slightly, filled with renewed resolve. You stare at Alana for a few seconds, until she notices your gaze and returns it. “Friends?” You ask, extending a hand towards her.

“Friends,” Alana responds with a smile, rising from her chair to meet your outstretched hand. Your handshake is short but reassuring. It’s enough to convince you that there are no hard feelings between the two of you. Alana fills you in on some of what’s happened since your admittance to the hospital; mostly, though, the two of you talk about the small things. You know Alana is trying to give you some semblance of normalcy. You appreciate the effort, you really do… but you’re not sure you’re capable of pretending everything’s okay. Furthermore, the small things seem inconsequential—now that you’re entrenched in the middle of everything. Even so, you make sure to thank her before she leaves. You don’t know how you would have coped without seeing a familiar face. Alana smiles and promises to be back soon.

As you expect, Alana doesn’t turn up the next day. You certainly don’t expect her to stop by, since you know she’s always rather busy. Ultimately, you come to the conclusion that you want nothing more than to be out of this hospital. Even worse… apparently, the stunt you pulled with Beverly during your past hospital visit did not go over well. You’re firmly reminded to avoid any attempts at an early release. You’re too tired and embarrassed to argue. You don’t have anything better to do than rot in this hospital room, anyway. Besides, you’re certain you’ll be met with some unpleasant reminders of Hannibal as you get home. You think you have a few cardigans in your closet that you meant to give back to him. The thought sends a bolt of nervous excitement through you, and you have to actively talk yourself down that precarious ledge.

Alana does visit the day after. Beverly turns up the day after that and gives you several hugs. After that, at least one of your friends—Alana or Beverly— visits every day, which you’re extremely grateful for. You’re certain you’d go absolutely stir crazy in this hospital bed if you didn’t have anyone for company. Your conversations are typically fun and refreshing, like light breezes of summer air. Sometimes, though, you’re bogged down by your memories. Sometimes, you’re forced to remember the corpses you left in your wake.

Even with Alana and Beverly visiting, you’re given more than enough alone time to contemplate everything. You have ample time to pick apart Hannibal’s actions and discern his true motivations. So, when Jack Crawford finally visits, his shoulders drawn tight with stress, you’re prepared to recount that night to him. Jack is insistent on the fact that you don’t have to speak about anything you don’t want to, but you know the offer is more for pretense than anything else. He needs this information, needs to understand the Ripper’s past actions and how they govern his future. With that in mind, you wave off his concern and tell him about your late night meeting with Hannibal.

Jack is silent throughout, never once interrupting you or reacting in a manner other than an affirmative nod. It’s very characteristic of your boss; you think that you would have been unsettled if he responded with heightened or dramatic emotions. Jack’s cool composure is an anchor that you quickly latch on to.

“He wanted you alive,” Jack states, once you’re finished explaining everything. He says this with frightening assuredness. His utter conviction surprises you, prompting you to ask how he knows that.

Of course, you certainly considered that same possibility yourself, but it feels more real when you hear it from Jack. “The stab wound wasn’t fatal,” he points out. His gaze falls to the edge of your abdomen. The bandages feel extremely constricting. You wonder if they need to be changed soon. “It easily could’ve been. The Ripper is a skilled killer—he wouldn’t have missed unless he wanted to.” You take a shuddering breath in.

“He’s toying with us,” you manage to agree. Your hands fidget restlessly along the rough blanket thrown over your form. You feel restless once more.

“He’s toying with you,” Jack supplies. There is no room for argument in his voice. He doesn’t look restless, afraid, or frustrated. Not for the first time, you wish you had Jack’s control and constitution. However, you know Jack well enough to see the signs of tension in his clenched fist and drawn lips. “Taunting you, and the rest of us, by proxy.” That statement in particular sets everything in stone. Your theories are no longer just theories—they are unobjectionable facts.

“Jack.” you remark, trying to push the words past the dread settling on your tongue.

“Yes?” Jack asks, patient and restless all at once. You’re choking on the words. It’s such a simple sentence, yet so dangerous of an admission. If you told the truth—confided in Jack about how you suspected Hannibal the moment you met him, and grew to realize that he is the Ripper—you would certainly lose your job, not to mention all of Jack’s trust.

Selfish, your victims croon. Your psyche nods in agreement. It’s truly selfish of you not to provide Jack with your utmost honesty. You’re doing a disservice to every person Hannibal has ever killed, every waking moment the team spent hunting for the Chesapeake Ripper. You wasted so much time, so much space.

“I-” You try to continue. I knew. I knew and I did nothing. I am complicit in his crimes. Tears are slipping down your cheeks. You’re a rotten excuse for a human being. You don’t deserve to be alive. Why hadn’t Hannibal just finished the job? It’s cruel, almost. He allowed his other victims the mercy of death, yet he left you alive. You will forever be scarred—both by Hannibal’s knife and by the bone-deep knowledge that your silence made you an accomplice to his crimes.

Breathing is suddenly a far more arduous task. Your lungs burn and your throat feels as if it’s closing in on you. Your vision is extremely sharp and your shaking hands are drawn with harsh lines and even harsher edges. The world around you is suddenly rendered immensely inconsequential. The beeping of the machines at your bedside, Jack’s steady breaths, the traces of conversation slipping in from the hallway… It all fails in comparison to the chimes of the grandfather clock in your mind. You dig your fingernails into your skin, desperate for unspoken confirmation that you aren’t dreaming.

At this point, you’re panting. Drool falls from the sides of your mouth and hits the scratchy blanket. Every nerve in your body feels as if it’s on fire. You’re a puppet cut loose from the puppeteer’s careful hand, yet you’re still strung together with wooden bones and durable string. You bring your hand to your chest and try to breathe, but the more you try, the harsher and more rushed your attempts become.

“Agent.” There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s enough pressure to make you feel as if you’re melding with the thin mattress below you, sinking into the floor and the shadows. For a moment, you can see Hannibal looking down at you in your mind’s eye, a contentious expression on his face as he lets you fall to the darkness below. “Breathe.” Jack grabs your hand and brings it to the inside of his wrist. His pulse beats steadily beneath your fingertips and you latch onto the rhythm. Jack begins counting, prompting you to breathe in time with him. You’re not sure how long it takes you to clear your airways—you just know that, at some point, Jack migrated from where he stood at the end of your bed to the side of the bed.

“Jack,” you try again. Your lips part but nothing slips out. It’s such a simple confession—a mere few words, yet you can’t utter them.

“Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can choke on the words you don’t want to say. His expression has returned to a combination of rigidity and anticipation. You know what Jack will say before he says it. “Can I trust you to handle this case? Do I need to remove you from this case? ” He doesn’t say that last part, but you hear it anyway. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face. Your eyes burn from all the tears you shed.

“I can handle it,” you assure him.

“You’re close to all this,” Jack remarks. He gets up from where he had been sitting and walks back to stand behind the edge of the bed. His gaze meets yours, but you know he isn’t really looking at you. That expression on his face means Jack is looking through his options, puzzling out the future in his head. You wait for him to refocus. “You know I don’t typically assign agents with personal investments in cases… But, you’ve been on this case for a long time. You know the Ripper better than anyone else does, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You stare at Jack silently, daring him to take you off the case. You know that your words will fail you here, so you hope your conviction shows through in your eyes. Jack stares back and, for a long moment, you’re both trapped in silence. Eventually, Jack seems to ascertain that you think yourself capable. He takes a deep breath.

“In terms of the Ripper, we currently have a unit determining his whereabouts,” Jack begins. “The Ripper—Lecter—covered his tracks very well. The last time he was seen was…”

“When he stabbed me,” you say for him.

“Yes,” Jack confirms. “As you know, Lecter is proficient at leaving behind very little—if any—evidence.” You nod, thinking back to all the crime scenes he created. There was hardly any evidence left behind. Hannibal was always meticulous and careful in his crimes.

“He only leaves clues when he wants to,” you continue. “He is not so kind hearted as to leave us clues for the hell of it, or because he slipped up. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“We found very little in his office,” Jack concedes with a sharp nod. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Stress seems to tighten the line of his shoulders. “We did manage to find several concealed weapons, upon closer examination.”

“He stabbed me with a knife that was disguised as an antler on a deer sculpture,” you recall flatly. The thought makes your side flare up with pain again. “I shouldn’t have gone to his office. I should’ve come to you first. I knew, and yet…”

“Frankly, Agent, that is not my concern,” Jack states matter of factly. “The past is the past. If I were to dissect every minute mistake we’ve made along the course of this investigation, we’d never be able to proceed.”

“True,” you answer. You still don’t think Jack has truly comprehended the implications of what you just said. You knew Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper long before that night. After all, you didn’t explicitly state when you first discovered the identity of the Ripper. Of course, you suppose it is also likely that Jack was able to intuit that from your response. If that were the case, you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t kicked you off this case or fired you.

You know it’s best for you to drop this particular line of questioning, so you do. For the duration of Jack’s visit, he debriefs you on what the team has deduced so far—both in terms of his current location and where he’ll go next. After an hour passes, however, your luck runs out. Your nurse enters the room and promptly shoos Jack out, claiming that you need time to rest. She is entirely impervious to his objections, even when he tries to pull rank on her. You’re rather impressed. Jack manages to get a last remark in, before the nurse can guide him out of the room.

“Lecter will turn up soon enough,” your boss states. With that, Jack departs. His cryptic remark leaves you with a lot to think about. You spend the rest of your hospital stay grappling with the implications of that statement, with the implications of Hannibal deciding not to kill you. You’re released from the hospital a week later with a troubled conscience and another scar to add to your collection.

Somehow, news of your battle with Hannibal has reached the press, Jack tells you as he drives you home in the dead of night. Ultimately, Jack decided it would be best to get you home during a time when most people are sleeping. You’re grateful for his foresight, because when you return home, there are no flashing cameras or microphones shoved in your face. You thank Jack for the ride and he nods, sending you one final unreadable look before driving away.

When you unlock your front door and swing the door open, you’re surprised to find that your house appears the same as when you left it. You close the door behind you and take in everything before you. Dust is beginning to collect on the shelves and surfaces—the space desperately needs a dedicated cleaning, but you know you don’t have the energy just yet. Right now, you’re content to cautiously walk to your closet and grab clothes. Despite the fact that Jack brought you a pair of old trainee clothes to change into when he arrived, you know you need a good shower to feel clean. The lukewarm water sliding down your skin is rejuvenating, but it doesn’t wipe away the dirt of your sins. You step out of the shower with clean skin and a muddy conscience. Drying off and putting on your clothes is an annoying affair, but you manage.

After your shower, it’s safe to say that you’re entirely lost. You don’t know what to do next. You need to eat, you remember. Unfortunately, your fridge is pretty much empty. You sigh and survey the space that you call home. It doesn’t feel familiar, despite the knowledge that it’s been yours for several years. These are all your belongings, yet it feels as if you’re standing in a stranger’s shoes. You look around the room, pausing when your eye catches on a scrap of newspaper. The TattleCrime article from before rests innocuously on the kitchen counter. You walk towards it immediately, as if possessed.

Criminally Insane. You stare at the photos featured in the article. The second photo—the one of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane—led you to realize that Frederick Chilton had been kidnapped. The first picture… It unsettles you. There are hints of the dark circles under your eyes that you now possess, but there’s also an unspoken confidence in your posture in the photo. You choke on a laugh, running your fingers along the rough newspaper.

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Well, it certainly feels that way… but you know your survival can’t be put down to mere fate. Inexplicably, Hannibal did not aim to kill you. You contemplate what would’ve happened if he had aimed that way. You would have died in that office, certainly. Would you be free of this terrifying helplessness, this aching despair?

You manage to tear your eyes away from the article. After a moment of thought, you stuff it in a drawer—hoping you will never need to look at it again. Unsurprisingly, you still feel incredibly restless. You begin pacing slowly around the room, desperate for something to do. Perhaps this urge to do something is indicative of a deeper sentiment.

The cicadas buzz from the trees outside. You’re suddenly struck with a perplexing urge to step outside. You follow that urge and walk mechanically to your front door. Maybe someone is on your porch. You peek through the peephole, unsurprised to find no one there. After a second’s contemplation, you step out onto your porch, letting your arms rest against the railing.

The brisk night air doesn’t help your worsening mental state. You still feel numb, empty. Nothing feels real anymore. As you look out at your driveway, at the other houses lining your street, you’re hit with an immense sonder.2 How did you end up in this situation? How did you end up here, staring out at the suburbia around you and wishing you could take on the life of another person—someone who isn’t desensitized to blood, gore, violence, and murder?

You don’t know where to go from here. Your feelings are a dizzying combination of remorse, regret, and contempt—combined with an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking. You raise your arms and put your head in your hands for a moment. Succumbing to darkness has never felt so comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Lecter will return soon enough.” Jack had said. There was a certainty in his voice in that moment—a sincerity that was surely unfounded. He was making a prediction and nothing more. Yet… the conviction in his tone made it seem as if he knew the Ripper’s next move. Surely, Hannibal hasn’t grown so predictable. Surely, he will continue to elude capture for as long as he wishes.

A car’s headlights reach your vision, and you watch as it slowly cruises down your street. There is a certain nonchalance to the way it slowly rises on the horizon. You frown, wondering what this person is doing driving down your street at such a late hour. Perhaps it’s a neighbor. You continue to watch warily. For a moment, you swear it seems as if the car’s slowing as it approaches. Surely that can’t be the case. It’s too dark to make out the details of the car—let alone the driver. You settle for staring in silence as it moves along. Within the blink of an eye, the vehicle moves past your driveway and into the dark expanse enveloping the space past your street. You exhale in relief, just realizing that your breath had hitched during the car’s brief stint in front of your house.

Why were you nervous? What were you expecting? You don’t want to acknowledge the answers to those questions—those solutions will only bring more problems. You shake your head. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, and everyone knows. There should be nothing to be afraid of, except for a single thought that never seems to leave you. He will return for you, a voice whispers against the wind. He wants to finish the job.

You’ve never gotten so close to a case before. You almost wish you could travel back in time, to the first time you locked eyes with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. In that moment, you hadn’t been able to rationalize the intense foreboding and trepidation that seemed to crawl up your skin as he stared back at you. You had no true grasp of the danger you would soon experience, the lives you would soon take. When did you stop trusting your instincts? Your intuition is part of the reason why you’re such a successful criminal profiler, yet you were more than willing to entirely ignore it.

A chill hits your skin, but it’s not from the brisk breeze of night air that gently rustles your clothes. The unsettling feeling comes from the car in your driveway, the bright headlights illuminating the woody forest behind your house. Were you so lost in thought that you neglected to notice someone approaching your driveway? You squint and take a step closer to the driveway, wavering on the edge of your porch. The car looks familiar, and that realization nearly pitches you off the porch and careening to the ground below. The driver turns the car off and swings the door open with taunting slowness. A roaring sound fills your ears.

“Hannibal,” you remark. The driver closes the door and takes a step forward, close enough to the porch that the light hits their face and reveals familiar angled features. His lip is bleeding and there are droplets of blood scattered about his face. His clothing is ever so slightly rumpled. Other than that, Hannibal appears at ease. The Ripper looks at you, and utters your name in response.

You don’t know what to do, what to say. Your hands clutch the railing in front of you with enough force to send bolts of pain through your fingers. It feels as if your heart is racing faster than humanly possible. You’re reminded of the pain in your abdomen, the scar slicing dangerously close to your eye. You clench a fist at your side and walk down the steps of your porch, before turning and moving to stand at a strategic distance from Hannibal: close enough to see his face, far enough to have an illusion of control and safety.

The night is still. If it weren’t for your unexpected visitor, you might take solace in the tranquility of the midnight sky. Now, the stars seem to wink at you in warning. When Hannibal speaks, you nearly convince yourself that you imagine it. “I have evaded capture for long enough.” An ugly, foolish sort of hope settles in your chest. You try to push it away.

“You’re… surrendering,” you remark cautiously, waiting for him to dispel that notion. The Ripper does nothing of the sort. Instead, Hannibal stares at you, making strangely heated eye contact with you as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. The moonlight briefly hits the metal, causing it to glimmer mockingly. Your stomach turns. The moon’s warm glow reveals more than just a shimmer—there are murky brown stains on the blade. You recognize the splatters as dried blood and your skin crawls. Hannibal is holding the very same knife he stabbed you with. He maneuvers it expertly, holding the blade and extending the handle towards you. Everything about this moment feels like a trap, but you willingly reach out and take the proffered knife, fastening it at your belt.

After a stretch of time in which neither of you elect to say anything, you decide that Hannibal must be telling the truth. Eyes locked on the man, you fumble around in your pocket for your phone and pull it out, dialing the only number you have memorized. Your intended recipient answers before two seconds pass. “Jack,” you say, your gaze still firmly fixed on the Ripper.

“Agent,” Jack responds. Hannibal is staring at you with intense scrutiny, evidently attempting to decipher what Jack is saying to you. That recognition causes you to pause for a moment. At your hesitation, Jack’s voice takes on a concerned yet impatient tone. “What is it?”

“I have him,” you say, vaguely satisfied that your voice sounds clear and composed despite the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been subjected to. “The Ripper. He’s in my driveway.”

Jack’s end of the line is quiet. You know it must be nearly impossible to believe. You look at Hannibal and then look back at the phone, realizing what you need to do. Taking a deep breath, you bring a shaky hand up and press the speaker button. Despite every instinct in your body screaming at you, you take a small step forward—and another—until Hannibal is close enough to the phone. For a moment, he stares down at the device pensively. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grabs your wrist and tugs you closer—evidently to get to the phone. You glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal remarks, voice laced with amusement as he grasps your hand— the phone, you tell yourself—with unshakeable strength. Despite the severity of the situation, you can’t do anything but roll your eyes at his chosen greeting. It seems Hannibal’s dramatics know no bounds. Even when his very freedom is threatened, he will continue to wear his carved mask of politeness and elegance. You try to listen for Jack’s response. There’s still silence on the other end—Jack is probably dispatching a unit as you speak. You’re sure Jack himself will be on his way before long.

Indeed, Jack confirms that a team is on the way. He hangs up and your phone screen fades to black. Despite the call’s termination, Hannibal is still holding your wrist. “Can I have my hand back?” You ask wryly. You try to shake his grip off and pull away, but he doesn’t budge. Your heart is racing as you try to find an escape. Hannibal doesn’t seem keen to let go, instead looking at you with mild amusement written all over his face. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an idea. You attempt to shake off his grip once more, knowing it will not work. The moment you try to pull your wrist back, you take advantage of the momentum and aim a harsh kick just above his knee. Per your expectations, he doesn’t anticipate the attack and is forced to fall down to a kneeling position to avoid falling over. You lock eyes with him and tear his grip off.

Hannibal looks up at you on bended knee, entirely silent. You begin to realize just what you’ve done—you just disrespected him. You were the epitome of the rudeness Hannibal abhors. You swallow. If you weren’t dead before, you’re certainly dead now. The Ripper is still silent, before tilting his head down to hide his face. Fuck, you’ve really done it this time. You feel yourself taking an instinctual half step backwards, and you’re moments away from turning on your heel and running when you hear an odd sound.

Hannibal is laughing, you realize. It’s a far cry from the typical gesture of joy you’d associate with laughter, but his amusement is still evident. He brings his head up once more and regards you with interest. “You never fail to surprise me,” he remarks amiably, getting to his feet and pushing the dust from his pant leg with a quick swiping motion. Hannibal doesn’t give your threat any consideration, instead simply regarding you with that same eerie look you’ve grown to associate with his full attention.

Your hand twitches to grab the bloodstained knife at your side. You imagine yourself plunging the blade into Hannibal’s side, watching his smirk falter and his victorious expression crumple. The vindictive thought thrills you for a second, before you come back to yourself and feel immense revulsion and disgust. Hannibal almost seems to sense the mental gymnastics you're going through, as an intrigued expression flickers across his face before it’s gone in a flash.

Truthfully, you don’t know how long you stand there—across from Hannibal, staring him down as he stares you down, prey regarding predator—until Jack arrives. It feels like an eternity. Time seems to entirely stop during those moments. Somehow, the quiet is more informative than a conversation ever could be. You don’t need words—not when you can see the tight line drawn across Hannibal’s shoulders, the persistence in his gaze.

Even eternity must come to an end, though. Police sirens blink in the distance, drawing you away from your thoughts. You watch as several police cars find their way to your driveway. Jack sits in the passenger seat of the car at the front, and he’s quick to step out of the car. S.W.A.T. officers swarm out of the cars, weapons pointed at Hannibal. There is a horrible tension settling in the air, thick enough to make your breaths occur just a little faster.

Despite the exorbitant amount of fully-armed S.W.A.T officers, you’re still afraid. Hannibal is closest to you. If he wanted to, he could kill you—even with so many people present. You don’t doubt his strength or agility. These recognitions leave your heart drumming in your chest at an incessantly quick rhythm. You glance over at Jack and he nods, holding a hand up to the officers and walking towards you.

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack remarks. Even now, he is incredibly composed. You latch onto his composure and try to emulate it, though you know it won’t look convincing enough. The headlights from the cars are blinding and you turn your head, giving your burning eyes a brief reprieve.

“Jack,” Hannibal responds, his hands raised in the air in surrender. The Ripper is indeed powerless, yet the gesture looks mocking. A few officers step closer and surround Hannibal, who kneels down with his arms still raised high. “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper.” His hands move to rest behind his head.

Jack stares at the killer with an indecipherable expression. “You surrendered.”

“I want you to know exactly where I am,” Hannibal responds to Jack. After that remark, his head turns and dread rises in your chest as you realize he’s looking towards you. His eyes are glittering in the moonlight. “And where you can always find me.” You’re frozen, limbs locked as his crimson eyes pierce through you.

Vaguely, you hear Jack order for Hannibal to be placed in his car. The officers pull Hannibal up from his knees and escort him to the police car. The Ripper’s gaze is locked on you until he enters the vehicle. Jack remains where he stands, sending you a look. You incline your head slightly, to wordlessly encourage him to leave you. Jack seems hesitant to do so, but his sense of responsibility must win out, because he walks back towards the car. You still feel as if you’re being watched, and you get the feeling Hannibal is staring at you from behind the dark tinted glass. The police car slowly reverses out of your driveway, before heading down your street and eventually out of sight.

You purse your lips, before walking back up the steps to your porch. Everything seemed to have happened far too fast. In the blink of an eye, you’re left to stand alone, with nothing but your conflicting feelings of grief, anger, and remorse for company. Memories burrow their way under your skin. Each breath is a testament to your own cruelty.

Inexplicably, you reach up to touch the jagged scar cutting down your face. Your fingertips brush against the marred skin and you jolt. Your abdomen burns in remembrance. Hannibal Lecter has given you the quiet evenings, the comfortable silence settling in the air, and the thrill of an attentive, burning gaze that sends warm embers dancing up your skin.

But he has taken so much more from you in return.

Gone is the gentle caress of a hand on your cheek and the comfort of having unquestionable support. Gone is the hard-won feeling of being truly seen for who you are. Gone is the excitement, the anticipation of knowing that your companion can never truly be predicted. All of it is gone.

You look up at the moon glimmering in the dark night sky. You idly wonder if Hannibal sees it too. It’s a foolish thought. His cell likely won’t have windows. He has probably been confined to four walls of cement, a metal toilet, and a thin, dingy mattress on a cold metal frame. There is no hope for someone like Hannibal—he will earn several life sentences and spend his entire life in that cage. You have to wonder: why? Why would he surrender?

It was a tactical surrender—that much you know for certain. Hannibal could easily have spent the rest of his life moving from place to place, taking on new identity after new identity. He could have spent however long he wanted, camouflaged but free.

Freedom. Maybe that’s the answer. After all, that kind of aggressive mimicry is not necessarily freedom. Hannibal Lecter values being an enigma. The mystery that surrounds him, in part, relies on his reputation. Life spent in hiding isn’t really life at all. Even someone like Hannibal—someone with arguably everything to lose—would understand that sentiment.

You exhale slowly, watching as your puff of breath fades into the air. You suppose Hannibal’s statement may have carried some truth. You will always know where to find him; you won’t be able to bury the memory of him next to the other skeletons in your closet and leave him to rot. Whenever your psyche falters, Hannibal will be there—imprisoned within your mind palace, gathering strength and lying in wait.

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out, momentarily surprised by the time displayed. It’s getting late. You hadn’t realized how long you spent lost in thought. When you answer, your voice sounds unfamiliar to your ears.

“Crawford,” Jack clarifies, cutting right to the chase, “We got him.” There is no further explanation needed.

“We got him, Jack,” you echo. The recognition sounds hollow, empty. Your gaze is pulled towards your driveway once more. Jack’s voice reaches your ears, but you can’t discern what he’s saying over the ringing in your ears.

Hannibal Lecter is behind bars now, yet you’re the one who feels trapped. You’re a prisoner—trapped in a cage of your own broken design.

1. Dracula by Bram Stoker

2. Sonder refers to the feeling of realization that everyone, including strangers and passersby, have lives just as complex and vivid as your own.

Sorry if the intro parts were confusing. I wanted to *try* to write it in a way that showed how weird and unusual dreams can really be, especially after traumatic events.The mind is infinitely powerful, able to conjure up a new reality at a moment’s notice. I liked the idea of the reader drowning in a whirlpool of their own mind’s creation—as they fight to get back to reality. (also, I found the word “umbra,” which is apparently used to describe the shadow created by an eclipse. I think that’s cool as hell, so I included it.) Dream logic never quite makes sense and can be extremely convoluted, which is why the intro is a messy assortment of memories with no clear beginning or end.

Y’all seemed to like my rationalization for the previous chapter, so I’ll include some similar notes for this chapter if you’re interested:

Hannibal’s surrender in this chapter is very much calculated. He realizes that he’s no longer free—since the FBI are onto him. There is a sort of cruelty in the life he would have to lead, as his “freedom” would include lots of mental effort, relocating, and subterfuge. Hannibal likely weighs his options, and decides between a life of constant stealth and relocation, and a life behind bars. It’s reasonable to assume that he also would have realized that his status as the Chesapeake Ripper would grant him special privileges as a prisoner—he’s aware of how much the Ripper has dominated the cultural zeitgeist and knows he will be able to use that notoriety to his advantage in captivity.

Of course, Hannibal also knows how to best dominate your thoughts: by remaining in one place. As he mentions, you will always know where he is and where to find him. You will not have to track him down by following the calculated clues he leaves behind—rather, you will constantly have to live with the underlying knowledge that Hannibal is accessible at any and every moment. In this case, Hannibal’s surrender is quite a tactical and manipulative move. He truly chooses to go to prison. It would be unsettling to know that the Ripper was on the loose, yes. But, the Ripper has been on the loose and free for several years already. On the other hand, it would be downright disturbing to know that Hannibal’s presence in prison is a willful choice—one that can be taken back at any moment. That can easily manifest a constant lingering fear in the back of the reader’s mind, in addition to an eternal desire to pin down exactly why Hannibal is remaining captive, chained. The chessmaster is willingly surrendering, but the game is far from over.

And now… Act 1 of this story is complete!

Never fear, Hannibal will return in Act 2! As for the other characters… Well, you’ll have to wait and see. ;) I will say that Act Two embraces some elements of The Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs. Don’t worry, though—you don’t need to have read either of them. :3

Here’s a scrap for your efforts! (*throws you this unused dialogue like a scruffy middle-aged man with grey hair and a scratchy quarter-zip throws a piece of raw beef to the wolves outside his cabin*) This was one of the MANY options I had considered (but never used) for the big reveal:

“How long have you known?” Hannibal asks. “From the moment you invited me into your home,” you answer. There’s silence for a dreadful moment. “And you stayed.” “I did.” “Why?” “I like talking to you, I enjoy your company.… Does one really need a reason to keep the company of another?” You finish. A beat of quiet. “... I suppose not,” Hannibal acquiesces.

Act 2 will be posted as the second part of this series. Here's the link to the AO3 series: these jagged scars. I'll also post it over here on Tumblr. :)

Thank you so so so much for all the support! Your likes, comments, and reblogs keep me going! <33333

taglist 🖤: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#male reader #x male reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal x reader #Hannibal x gn reader #hannibal x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #yall get the idea #transmasc reader #I CAN'T BELIEVE I FINISHED THIS FIC #LITERALLY ALMOST CRIED HAPPY ACCOMPLISHED TEARS LAST NIGHT

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defectivevillain · 7 days

Text

make a mercy out of me

pairing: Damien Karras/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors used.

summary: Damien shifts next to you and you open your eyes at the noise, studying him. His eyes are locked on the bedroom door, as if he’s contemplating whether he should enter once more. You swallow hard and try to find the right words. “Damien,” you eventually say. He flinches and looks over at you, a guilty expression flickering on his face. It seemed he truly intended to go back into the bedroom alone just now.

You’re the exorcist summoned by the Catholic Church to free Regan MacNeil from the demon possessing her.

word count: 4.1k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical violence/exorcisms; allusions to suicidal ideation, hospitals and IVs, fainting

Just as you begin to grow comfortable with the idea that you can move past exorcisms, you are summoned by the Church to perform another. You know that you don’t actually have to agree to it, but the thought of refusing to help would weigh far too heavily on your mind. So, you begrudgingly agree to exorcise a demon from a twelve year old girl named Regan MacNeil.

This is how you find yourself standing on the porch of the MacNeil home, wearing your cassock (which you admittedly haven’t worn in a while) and shifting your balance from foot to foot restlessly. You convince yourself to ring the doorbell and, within moments, a woman answers the door. You exchange introductions and learn that she is Chris MacNeil—Regan’s mother. She has dark circles under her eyes and a gaunt look to her face—she clearly is very stressed about her daughter and her… affliction. Chris leads you through the house and offers you a drink, which you dutifully accept. Before you can take a seat on the sofa in the living room, you hear someone say your name.

“It’s an honor to meet you.” You turn around, only to find a dark-haired man with deep brown eyes staring at you. You notice the clerical collar he’s wearing and realize he must be Damien Karras—the clerical psychiatrist who requested the exorcism.

“Father Karras,” you say, extending a hand to him. He shakes your hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Please, call me Damien,” he tells you. You swear his hand lingers in yours for the briefest of moments, but you’re quick to second-guess that thought. The two of you move to sit across from one another and you take a deep breath.

After a few seconds, you decide to cut right to the chase. “What have you noticed so far?” You ask. Damien’s eyes briefly widen, as if he hadn’t expected you to bother asking. Technically, the Church views him as your glorified assistant in this situation—but you get the feeling he’ll be more helpful than that. He recounts his experience with the demon so far—how Regan seems to be housing multiple personalities (which you secretly doubt) and the supernatural feats that have occurred since he visited—doors falling shut, drawers opening on their own… He tells you that he got a recording of the demon speaking in Latin, which proved that Regan was possessed and allowed him to call for an exorcism.

Even after he has told you everything, you get the feeling there’s something he’s hiding. You just met Damien, but you can tell his shoulders are drawn particularly tight and he looks rather tense. “You seem troubled,” you remark lightly, trying not to offend him. The man’s brows furrow and you try to glean what he’s thinking from his facial expression. He’s interacted with the demon before—maybe something it said upset him. “Did the demon say anything weird to you?”

His silence is enough of an answer. You’re reminded of your brief exchange with the Church representatives:

“Damien Karras, psychiatrist and priest at Georgetown University,” the priest explains, elaborating on the man who called for the exorcism. “Now that I think of it, I believe his mother passed away recently…” He trails off, a regretful look on his face. “Yes, she did,” the other designate responds. “Such a shame.”

It doesn’t take you long to connect the dots. The death of Damien’s mother is likely still taking a toll on him. No doubt the demon tried to use his recent grief to its advantage. “It mentioned your mother, didn’t it?” You realize aloud. “It blamed you for her death.” Damien is staring at you in complete disbelief now. You blink back at him and he abandons his surprise, instead looking remorseful.

“I should’ve been there.” Damien shakes his head. The look on his face is completely tortured. You grimace, suppressing the inexplicable urge to reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. You just met the man—no doubt the gesture would fall flat, regardless of how reassuring you would wish it to be.

“It’s alright,” you try to reassure him anyway. Again, you’re not sure how much comfort he’ll get from a near stranger like yourself, but you figure it’s worth a try anyway. More importantly, if there’s one thing you know about exorcisms, it’s that they require an absolutely sound and clear mind to be executed successfully. Damien can’t be thinking about his mother as the two of you attempt to free Regan. “It’s not your fault. You know that.” You say determinedly.

Damien stares at you for a moment, his eye contact unwavering. You swear that, for a moment, his eyes are glassy. You push the thought aside and get to your feet, resigning yourself to your fate. Damien follows your lead and, before you move to leave the room, you look back at him.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” You ask once more. If you were in his position, you don’t think you’d be comfortable volunteering for more conversation with the spirit—not when it was so antagonistic before. “I can conduct the exorcism on my own, if needed.” It’s true. In fact, you conduct the majority of your exorcisms alone. You haven’t had another person with you in a while. You’ll have to adjust the process slightly—namely, adding the call-and-response bits so that Damien’s participation will increase your collective power.

“No, I… I should be there,” Damien says resolutely, nodding quickly. His choice of words is very deliberate, you think to yourself. He didn’t say “I can do it,” but “I should be there.” He may not actually be up to the task, but he feels he is obligated to participate. You stare at him for another moment and exhale slowly.

“Very well,” you acquiesce. Damien will know his own limits better than you will—or, at least, he should. “Shall we?” You motion for him to lead the way, since you’ve never been in the house before. Damien walks up the stairs and towards the door at the end of the hall. For a split second, he hesitates—stilling before the door. Before you can inquire after his well-being, he’s turning the doorknob and opening the door.

You’re instantly hit with a cold, rigid breeze of air. Goosebumps run along your skin and your exhale of breath is released in a puff of visible vapor. It is absolutely freezing in the room. You’re quick to pull your cassock around yourself in a futile effort for warmth. Once Damien and you are both inside, you close the door behind you and immediately lock eyes with the girl, Regan. Your stomach turns unpleasantly. There are gashes and scratches all across her face, and her lips are incredibly chapped. You’re met with a haunting yellow-green gaze filled with maleficence and hatred—sentiments far too profound for such a young child. You take a moment to acknowledge how unsettling this entire situation is, before smoothly compartmentalizing those thoughts. You can’t pay attention to your feelings right now, because the demon will latch onto them and use them against you. You must be entirely sound of mind—clear of any emotions.

You take a deep breath and round the bed, moving to the nightstand and hovering over it for a moment. There’s no turning back now. You remove the crucifix from your pocket, kissing it and placing it on the table. The demon hisses, tugging at the restraints around its wrists. You look to Damien behind you, who looks vaguely sickened but resolved nonetheless.

You begin reciting your first prayer and Damien joins in at the appropriate moments. You hardly get to recite the entire thing before the demon is shuddering and shaking, turning its head and regurgitating a disgusting slime all over you. You cough and wipe your sleeve over your face, grimacing at the unwelcome feeling. You quickly forget about the foreign substance once you resume your recitations.

By your third prayer, the bed is rattling and shaking against the ground. The restraints around Regan’s wrists are slowly ripping as you continue uttering the words to eradicate the demon. As you continue, Regan slowly rises in the air—until she’s completely levitating in midair. You’ve seen this kind of feat before, but it’s clear Damien has not—judging from the way he forgets to utter his response until you remind him moments later. Once he finishes the statement, you hold your hands out in front of you. “The power of Christ compels you.” You announce.

The demon hisses, but continues to rise above the bed. The air around you whips at your skin and you continue. “The power of Christ compels you,” you repeat resolutely. This time, Damien joins you in repeating the statement. The demon is writhing in the air. Damien and you continue uttering the sentiment and Regan slowly descends through the air. Finally, after what feels like far too long, she’s reclined back on the mattress once more. The demon is practically writhing now, but it doesn’t appear to be significantly weakened—rather, it is only momentarily subdued. Meanwhile, Damien and you are both kneeling on the ground in exhaustion. An exorcism takes a lot of energy from those who perform it. While this isn’t anything new, you’re surprised by the sheer amount of strength of this particular demon. You’re not sure you’ve subdued one this powerful in quite some time.

“We’ll rest for a bit and try again,” you eventually say, grabbing the bedpost for support and pushing yourself to your feet. You’re the first one standing, so you offer Damien a hand. For a moment, it looks as if he isn’t going to take your hand; then, he clasps your proffered hand and you pull him up. The demon is momentarily stunned—silent on the bed with its head pushed to the side. You take a deep breath and walk out of the bedroom on unsteady feet, before sitting on the carpet at the edge of the stairs. Damien sits himself down a few steps beneath you.

A tense silence descends in the air between you. You rub a hand over your face roughly, before reaching into your pocket and clasping your rosary. You feel your fingers moving along the beads automatically and you close your eyes for a few moments. Memories flicker before your eyes in intangible bursts of light.

Damien shifts next to you and you open your eyes at the noise, studying him. His eyes are locked on the bedroom door, as if he’s contemplating whether he should enter once more. You swallow hard and try to find the right words. “Damien,” you eventually say. He flinches and looks over at you, a guilty expression flickering on his face. It seemed he truly intended to go back into the bedroom alone just now.

Now that you think about it, the demon was hissing obscenities at Damien throughout your first attempt at exorcism. It was crooning at him, whispering words in a language that you didn’t understand. Damien must have understood them—and it seems that their intended meaning was disturbing. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an alternate solution. “Go rest downstairs,” you suggest, not unkindly. “I’m going to proceed alone.”

Damien stares at you for a moment, before nodding resignedly. You shoot him an apologetic grimace before he departs; then, you step into Regan’s room and close the door behind you. You take a deep breath and repeat the process once more. You feel your conviction growing stronger as you continue reciting the prayers, and the demon begins hissing louder with each completed recitation. When you begin to channel the power of Christ, the demon is screeching and screaming—as bright red welts appear along Regan’s skin. You can only hope that she isn’t in immense pain right now.

“The power of Christ compels you!” You state. The demon screams. “The power of Christ compels you!” You repeat the statement over and over again, until you’re practically yelling. “The power of Christ compels you!” That last recitation seems particularly impactful, as the demon writhes on the mattress and smoke rises from Regan’s form. You shove your hands forward as you repeat a prayer, and with the last word, there’s a blinding light that overtakes the room. Every object in the room seems to be shuddering and, before you can begin another invocation, you’re thrown backwards and into the wall behind you. Your head slams against the wall and stars float before your eyes as you fall to the ground. For a long moment, you’re sprawled on the ground with ringing ears. After what feels like far too long, you manage to pick yourself up and stand again.

The air somehow feels less frigid than before. You squint at the mattress, where Regan is curled on her side. There’s no sign of the demon. “Regan?” You ask. The girl is shaking and nearly convulsing as she scrambles backwards, falling down to the ground and retreating to the corner of the room. She’s leaning as close to the walls as possible in evident fear. It doesn’t seem like she heard you. “Regan?” You ask again. She hasn’t tried to attack you or do anything harmful, which is a good sign.

Regan blinks as if thrown out of a trance, before clarity graces her features and she yells for her mother. You try to approach the girl with outstretched arms, but she only curls further into herself and screams. You take a few unsteady steps backwards, before the door slams against the wall as Chris rushes in and races towards her daughter without hesitation. Damien is hot on her heels, looking around the room before staring at Regan. The girl is crying now, as her mother embraces her and wipes the tears from her cheeks with a gentle touch.

It seems the demon has been successfully exorcised. In the wake of that realization, you realize your adrenaline is fading by the second. You’re somehow standing at the edge of the bed now—you’re not entirely sure when you got there— and you’re gripping the bedpost so hard that you feel bolts of pain sliding down your fingers.

You lock eyes with Regan as she hugs her mother and you’re relieved to see that you’re meeting a frightened brown-eyed gaze, not an eerie and malicious yellow-green gaze. Right then, something in your subconscious clicks—ensuring you that everything is alright. Your mind takes that exact moment to completely shut down, as your knees crumple from under you and your eyes roll to the back of your head. You hear a sharp, quiet intake of breath before your vision promptly fades to black.

While you’re unconscious, you catch glimpses of what’s happening around you. For a moment, you’re slightly jostled—as someone’s hands brace your back and support you under your knees. Then you’re lifted onto a stretcher of some sort. You actually manage to open your eyes at some point, only to see stars as the fluorescent lighting above burns through your eyes. A tear rolls down your cheek at the light’s brightness (and maybe the pain, you’re not quite sure) and you feel someone grasp your hand. You weakly try to squeeze their hand back, but your body doesn’t seem to cooperate. Instead, you’re left to the overwhelming darkness once more.

You don’t dream. Instead, you’re floating in an infinite void of nothingness. For a while, there is no one—nothing—to keep you company. No demons, no people. Just… absence and shadows. You’re not sure how long you spend drowning in this oblivion. You just know that, when you finally manage to pry your eyes open, your head aches and your skin feels tight over your bones. You run your fingers along your neck, frowning at how tight it feels. You glance to the side, only to find a glass of water being pressed into your hand. You take the proffered drink and cough several times, clearing your throat.

The lights above burn into your vision and rip tears from your eyes. Once the shadows creeping at the edges of your vision finally fade, you find yourself to be sitting nearly upright in a hospital bed. White walls irritate your sensitive eyes and you close your eyes for a selfish moment, before opening them again to find Damien Karras sitting in a chair at your bedside. You stare at him in surprise. “Damien,” you say raspily, nearly choking. The man immediately presses a glass of water into your hand and you’re quick to take the proffered drink, coughing and clearing your throat until you regain your ability to speak uninhibitedly. “Thank you.” It doesn’t take you very long to ask what’s weighing on your mind. “What are you doing here?”

“Praying for your recovery,” Damien answers, his gaze intent. Indeed, his left hand is holding a rosary and his fingers are paused on one of the beads. He notices you staring and seems to grow self-conscious, as he gently places the rosary back in his pocket.

“That’s very kind of you,” you remember to remark. Your memories of the exorcism come rushing back, and you find yourself concerned about Regan. Is she alright? Did she survive the ritual in one piece? She seemed fine immediately after, but you haven’t seen her since. “How is Regan?” You ask.

“She’s fine,” Damien says. Your shoulders relax and you feel lighter. You were so focused on banishing the demon that you nearly forgot the entire reason for the exorcism: Regan’s renewed health. “Some scratches and scrapes, but otherwise, she’s back to normal.”

“Excellent,” you breathe a sigh of relief.

A small smile graces Damien’s lips and he looks down at his clasped hands. “She wants to see you, to thank you,” he says after a few moments of silence. “Chris does too.”

“Oh,” you remark dumbly. You don’t think you really deserve gratitude—you were just doing what was right. You like to think that anyone else in your position would’ve done the same. But, judging from what you’ve heard through the grapevine, that isn’t always the case. Moreover, exorcisms are a bit controversial these days—many religious figures will refuse to perform them. You’re glad you were trusted with undertaking this one.

“I also wanted to thank you,” Damien says, tearing your eyes from the scratchy sheets laid over you and breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Why?” What does he have to thank you for?

“You carried out the exorcism in my absence,” Damien reminds you. “Alone.”

“Yes…?” You trail off, waiting to hear of the feat that supposedly justifies his gratitude. But that’s it, apparently—judging from the expression on the priest’s face.

“I was determined to help, but I was only a hindrance,” Damien says, averting his eyes momentarily. You immediately feel guilty for allowing him to feel that way. You can only hope that you didn’t perpetuate that attitude.

“You were not a hindrance,” you’re quick to argue. Damien’s eyes snap up to yours, clearly surprised that you didn’t concede the point. The IV in your arm stings, grounding you to the present moment. Your heart is hammering in your chest. “If it weren't for your assistance, I wouldn’t have succeeded at all.”

Damien is clearly unconvinced, but he doesn’t argue any further. That’s probably for the best, because you fear you don’t have the energy to make much of a compelling case. He’s still staring ahead with that strange expression on his face—the one that betrays his inner conflict. “What is it?” You ask, after a minute passes and the expression doesn’t fade. “You look like you want to say something else.”

Damien shakes his head with a disbelieving quirk to his lips, muttering something about mind-readers. “Why was the girl chosen as the vessel?” He questions. He’s clearly been grappling with the thought for some time now, if the tight pull to his lips is any indication.

You inhale slowly. “Truthfully, I stopped asking myself those questions a long time ago,” you admit. “Sometimes, it’s better not to know.” You used to devote energy to answering those types of questions, but they ultimately caused you more distress—rather than giving you a sense of resolution. Ultimately, you don’t believe there is much of a real rationale to the ordeal. Bad things can happen to good people, and that’s just the way things are. You can only hope that your efforts mitigate some of the damage.

Damien is silent. You sigh. “You’re not satisfied with that answer,” you realize aloud. Damien’s gaze is locked on you once more with that heated intensity. You struggle with maintaining your composure, when faced with his full attention in such a manner. “The other answer might be something like: sin induces despair beyond measure. It can possess even the most good-hearted and innocent of people: in this case, Regan.”

Damien takes a shuddering breath in. “I see.” He takes a slow breath. Idly, you wonder if you shouldn’t have said anything at all. But it seems that the prospect isn’t bothering Damien as much, now that you’ve spoken about it. Before you can contemplate the conversation much further, Damien is continuing to speak. “I have something else to thank you for.”

“I can’t imagine what that is,” you huff truthfully. Indeed, you can’t think of anything you did that warrants more gratitude from him. You were only doing what you were supposed to do.

But what Damien says next rips the breath from your lungs. “You… saved my life,” he admits quietly. Amidst the buzzing air of the hospital room, filled with the occasional beep of a machine, the confession is nearly suffocating.

“What?” You manage to choke out. That is news to you. And surely you’d remember doing something like that.

“I was debating going into that bedroom and exorcising the demon, no matter what it took,” Damien reveals. “I was willing to offer myself up as a vessel, if only to free Regan of the possession.” You stare at him in disbelief, your stomach turning with unease at the thought. Damien continues, immune to just how troubled you are by the admission. “I fear I would be dead right now, if you hadn’t stopped me. I owe you a life debt.” He locks eyes with you and you nearly recoil at the intense sincerity in his gaze.

“I don’t believe in those,” you respond. The thinly-veiled look of reverence in his eyes feels like an exaggeration, but somehow, you know it to be true. And that scares you—you’re entirely undeserving of the sentiment. “You owe me nothing.” You maintain.

Damien seems like he expected that answer, but he doesn’t look any less tortured. You take a deep breath. It doesn’t seem like he’s keen to let this go. And if it’ll placate him…

“Fine,” you acquiesce. His eyes widen. “I have something to request of you. Something that will fulfill the boundaries of a ‘life debt’… You have to promise me something.”

“Anything,” Damien responds, with a worrying amount of sincerity.

The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. “Come to me if you feel that way again,” you say. Damien’s brows furrow ever so slightly. “I understand you often shoulder other people’s burdens, as a psychiatrist. But you shouldn’t neglect your own feelings in the process.”

There’s a pause that seems to drag on for far too long. Just before you can surrender to the tension, Damien breaks the silence. “That’s it?” He asks disbelievingly. You nod. “You’re strange,” he remarks, something that could be mistaken for fondness lingering in the pull to his lips.

“So I’ve been told,” you say resignedly. Your exhaustion is beginning to catch up to you, as your eyelids burn with fatigue and your body aches. Damien must notice your sudden weariness, because he’s quick to reassure you.

“You should rest,” he says. You’re too tired to argue or pretend to be well-rested. Taking a deep breath, you lie back against the pillows behind you and close your eyes. Even with the bright lights nearly burning into your vision and the presence of a certain handsome priest’s attentive gaze, you’re still dozing off within moments. The last thing you register before you fall asleep is the sensation of lips being gently pressed to your forehead. There’s a swipe of a thumb along your cheek and a worried, appreciative set of eyes looking down at you—but by then, you’re long gone.