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the crow chasing the butterfly (HANNIBAL rp, Seridano & that chick nicole )
Screaming and her own breathing. Those two sounds had become Eden's closest friends for three horrifying days. Seventy-two hours of agonizing hell that had left her body bruised, but her mind torn, perhaps beyond repair.
When they had found her, she had been strung up by barbed wire, the barbs cutting into the delicate skin along her body that never seen such an array of horror. Bleeding, bruised, broken, but alive. She hardly remembered the bastard leaving, and hardly remembered the police arriving. The first thing she did remember was awaking in a hospital to the sound of her own breathing and her own screaming. She had been struggling, fighting against those trying to help her, though she wasn't quite sure why. The feeling of unwanted hands on her delicate figure had brought her back to that room...back to that box. She was the only escaped victim of the murderer coined 'The Rose Heartbreaker', most likely due to his habit of leaving his victims strung up in roses when he left the bodies. Including herself, there had been four victims so far. She confirmed the FBI's suspicions that he kept his victims alive before killing them: he'd had her for three days, but in those three days, he'd managed to do quite the number on her. He'd never hit her, but the torture was systematic, was careful and precise: lacerations that were afterwards carefully tended, the man liked knives. He'd used barbed wire to restrain her, most likely because his signature roses wouldn't have been strong enough to hold her, and from what little the police had gotten from the traumatized woman, he'd locked her in a very small box for several hours, dark and silent. Sensory deprivation-- the man certainly knew what he was doing. She had been sedated upon her arrival at the hospital, and had been slipping between consciousness and sleep for the past week. She had only fully come to that morning, bandaged up to the best of their abilities, body feeling well enough but the will to fight was gone. She wanted to go home, back to her quiet and empty little townhouse and be left alone. After a week of consciousnesses, they had released her from the hospital, but only under the condition that she agreed to see a shrink. She didn't NEED to see a Shrink, her head was fine. She just needed to work. To be left alone to her job. She had been glaring a hole in the wall for Gods knew how long, waiting to be seen to. She had only spoken to one person about her ordeal, her supervisor, and even then she had not told him everything. She had no family to call on her, no friends to speak of, and she preferred it that way. She just wanted to be left alone, to slink into the deepest corner of the world where she could never be found, and stay there until she died. She had done her research on this Dr. Lecter. A spotless record, to be certain, which made her even more ill at ease. Everyone always had something to hide, but not this one. This one had hidden his secret so well that there was no finding it. She sighed heavily, checking her watch. She had been waiting long enough. At least she could say she tried. She stood from her chair, grabbing her phone and tucking into the pocket of her denim jacket, for a moment looking at the door that lead to the Doctor's Office. She then turned to make her way towards the exit, but froze in her tracks as the doorknob leading into the office jingled. God damnit. |
“My 3 o'clock will be here shortly, Will. We should consider calling it a day.”
“If they're into waiting, maybe. 3 o'clock was fifteen minutes ago, Doc.” “Was it?” Dr. Lecter makes a show of checking his watch, but his eyes skirt over the face and meet Will's gaze instead, causing the other man to duck his head and focus on the carpet with a surprising amount of intensity. Eye contact – it is one of the many areas where Will Graham still struggles. Hannibal notes that he has trouble allowing his eyes to linger, yes, but only when others are watching. If the eyes are, indeed, the windows to the soul, as some literature would suggest, Will doesn't want anyone looking in. The good doctor finds this fascinating. “Will, look at me.” The profiler's gaze rises, fixes on a point just above his shoulder. “I am looking.” “Are you truly? And what is it that you see on my wall? Has someone scuffed the paint?” Will meets the doctor's eyes for a moment then, looking chagrined. His fingers thread through his hair, a nervous habit, and Hannibal smiles at him. It isn't returned, or it is, but it comes as more of a grimace, the grimace of an individual caught in the act of a lie, like a child caught with his hand wedged in a cookie jar ten minutes before dinner. “You said that there was something that you wished to speak with me about, something urgent. What was it?” “I have...nothing, it's not important.” “It sounded important.” “Well, I was wrong...Wouldn't be the first time.” “You are worried. You believe that each of your failures is a life lost, that somewhere a light goes out of the world, and you are the one who snuffs it.” “I can't keep doing this. They found the last one alive, sure, but what about the next one, and the one after that? Jack doesn't understand, I don't just look at the evidence and guess at these things, I live them, and I can't...I don't know if I can keep it up. Every day, fiddling with boat engines looks more and more promising.” “You don't like feeling responsible for the deaths of these women. Jack makes you feel this way, makes you feel like you are the only one in the world who can bring their killer to justice. He does not see you as a man, Will. He sees you as a tool, a hunting dog with a surprisingly keen nose that he has come to rely upon. He does not understand, because he does not want to understand. If he let himself understand, you would become a man again, capable of being lost in the worst possible way, and there would be guilt.” “An old hunting dog...” “Pardon?” For a moment, Hannibal looks perplexed. Will shakes his head and makes his way to the door, pausing with his hand outstretched, fingertips nearly touching the knob. He doesn't have time for this...but even so, he can't quite bring himself to leave Hannibal in the dark. “An old hunting dog, it's almost an apt metaphor.” His hand is on the doorknob now. “Do you feel old, Will?” Will laughs, it's a bitter thing. “Me? Old?” He tries to deflect. Glances over his shoulder. Fails. “Sometimes.” His voice is quiet, almost hesitant, as though he fears to reveal even that much, though it must already be painfully apparent based on their earlier conversation. Hannibal nods his approval. Honesty – it is a step forward, a step toward resolution, toward dependence. Will opens the door, and then he is gone, as he wishes to be, fleeing in the face of his own revelations. He does not even see the woman heading for the door, even as he nearly collides with her. She would look all too familiar if his eyes weren't fixed upon the carpet. Hannibal watches the exchange from the door frame with knowing eyes. “You'll have to excuse Mr. Graham, he has a lot occupying his mind right now." It is not that he feels any inclination to apologize on Will's behalf, merely that he wishes to set the woman at ease, and he is always unfailingly polite, if nothing else. "Please,” he says, stepping aside to admit her, “come in. I hear we have much to discuss.” |
Eden turned as the door opened, watching the all to familiar figure of Will Graham nearly collide with her on his way out the door. Her brow arched, watching his retreating figure before turning to look at the figure of whom she assumed was Dr. Lecter framed by the doorway.
Cat-like eyes glanced up and down him briefly, a simply flick down and then back up to his face. Tall, thin, lanky, he towered over her by quite a bit, but she had stopped being intimidated by height a while ago. She exhaled hard to keep herself calm, not wanting to be there, or anywhere near that office, even as he was inviting her inside. For a moment, she looked as catlike as her eyes suggested. Despite her tired, pale complexion, the bruises still lining the skin of her neck and the exposed parts of her body, the small cuts that still lined her wrists from where he had been strung up with barbed wire, she looked ready to dart at a moment's notice. But if she did not comply with the Doctor's orders, there was no telling when she would be allowed back to work. Her only hope was to convince him in one visit that she was perfectly fine and perfectly capable and he would return her to work. She tucked her hands into her pockets, nodding to his apology before moving back towards him. She stepped around him, giving him a wide berth, her own shoulder hitting the door frame to avoid even the minutest of possibilities that it's opposite twin may touch him. Even the slight heat of his body as she moved past him was almost too much for her to handle, and she retreated around him quickly into his office, standing awkwardly in the middle of the grand space. While Eden had never been one for touching others, her experience as a captive had made her even worse. And, despite her attempts to maintain an air of professionalism, being in the strange space left her shaking like a leaf, no matter how she tried to hide it. Immediately she accessed all points of exit. As high up as they were, the only safe way out would be through the door she had come in, and the figure of Dr. Lecter was currently blocking her from that exit. She wanted to go home. Back to her dark town home where she could lock herself in forever... Her hands, which had been shoved into the pockets of her denim jacket were now clenching and releasing rhythmically, trying to stop her from shaking. It helped slightly, though the slight trembling of her bottom lip still gave her way. She watched him with wide, whiskey colored eyes, in complete silence, content not to speak unless spoken to, and perhaps not even then. |
She darts around him quickly, reminding him of a stray animal cornered in an alley. It is clear that she fears him, fears the heat of him, the heat of hands that might come for her, and fell her, and bind her alone in the dark, yet he means her no harm. Not like the last man who had her alone. That man had a design so very different from his own. He means her no harm. She has already suffered enough, and that suffering has made her beautiful. Hannibal takes note of this, just as he takes note of the fact that she is shaking, and of how hard she struggles to master herself. She almost succeeds.
"Please, have a seat." He gestures to a nearby chair, though he does not expect her to take him up on the offer. The chair would restrict her movement, keep her in place. It would be certain to remind her of her time in captivity. When she declines, he will not insist. It will be a show of good faith, of understanding. It will give them something to talk about, or it will become a challenge, another way in which she might struggle to master herself before him, to attempt to create the illusion that she is fit to return to duty. She is not. He does not need to play at a game of question and answer to see that, and he knows well enough that the bureau is not expecting him to clear her. Though, were he to do so, no doubt they would be overjoyed to have such a resourceful agent returned to them. It will be just as it was with Will Graham. To them, Eden is a tool and nothing more...but perhaps he can change that with time. Hannibal offers her a small smile. It is not meant as a comfort. She does not wish to be here, that much is clear, but that does not mean that they cannot be civil toward one another. He turns his back to her for a moment as he makes his way over to his desk and seats himself behind it, his fingers questing first for a drawer, and then for a single sheet of paper within it. He places it upon his desk, glancing up at Eden only briefly before beginning to write. "Do you know what this is?" he asks as he finishes, sliding it across the desk to give her a better view. "This paper states that I have evaluated you and found you of sound mind. In other words, it will allow you to continue your duties at the FBI. I am hoping that getting this little formality out of the way will allow us to speak more frankly with one another." He pauses a moment, watching her to gauge her reaction before he continues. "You believe that this session is a waste of your time, do you not?" "A man nearly killed you, and you only are here because you want nothing more than to throw yourself back into your work and find some way to forget about it, but you cannot do that until I clear you for duty. I want you to know that I have absolutely no intention of keeping you from your escape, Eden." It is the first time he uses her name, yet it sounds familiar upon his tongue, as though he's addressing an old friend rather than a new patient. "I do not want to be your enemy." |
Eden cannot help but watch the doctor with the same sort of wide-eyed but silent terror that she had been showing since the minute she entered his office. Even the few steps he took towards her were almost enough to send her running in the opposite direction, but she stayed in control for the moment, swallowing hard and still clenching and releasing her hands in her pockets. When he gestured to the seat, those wide, frightened eyes turned from him to the chair, looking it up and down as if, afraid for a moment, it will bite her.
A moment longer's hesitation before she finally moves across the room with careful steps, walking around the chair to perch, oh so very carefully, on the edge of it. Both feet are still firmly planted upon the ground, ready to pick her up the moment he got too close. She sat almost awkwardly on the edge of the chair, looking down at the interweaving threads of the khaki pants she wore, listening more than hearing Dr. Lecter move across the room. Seventy-two hours of captivity had reassured her that hearing was better than sight sometimes, and trained senses could pick up his soft footsteps as he moved across the floor to his desk, the soft squeak as he lowered himself into his chair, the shuffling of papers before one in particular was placed on his desk. When he addressed her once more, she looked up, noticing he was addressing the piece of paper he was now writing on. She stood slowly, carefully, and approached his desk. She stopped still far enough away that she was out of grabbing distance, but still close enough that she could still see the paper he was talking about. And close enough she could smell his cologne. Soft, elegant...expensive. It was reminiscent of what Drew wore... that in and of itself almost calmed her. Drew.... He had not come to see her in the hospital, but no doubt he had not been allowed. Hell, her family had not even been allowed. But she had grown so used to his presence, that first night in the box had been frightening due to being in the box, the second night because she missed the feeling of his arms wrapped tight around her, the feeling of his back rising and falling against her back as his breathing deepened with sleep. His questions brought her back from her reverie and she looked down at the paper carefully. "Yes, I believe this is an absolute waste of my time. I don't wish to be touched so they throw me into the crazy bin with the rest of the fucked up psychos you treat to get checked out. Just because I don't want some strange male doctor touching me after being locked up by a complete basket case for seventy-two hours, I'm unfit to return to work." Her tone was icy, bitter, her anger misdirected at him instead of at the situation in general. It was that simple? He was giving her that paper before even speaking to her? Some shrink he was. But a moment longer looking at the paper and skepticism filtered in. Nothing was that simple. Ever. She lifted her eyes from the paper to look at him once more, eyes narrowed. "What's the catch?" |
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