Couplet - (NBCHannibal, M)

[Garnet]

I've been posting most of my fics on other fetish-forums, but for the sake of the broadest audience, here's something I've been plucking away at since Season 3 of Hannibal premiered. It was originally a series of drabbles.

There's a brief mention of nudity, but as it's non-sexual and without detail, I didn't feel the need to put it on the Adult boards. If mods feel otherwise, please move accordingly.

Enjoy.

---

She should have tasted the wrongness in the air immediately upon stepping into their apartment. Even on the good days, Bedelia is an animal forever poised and alert, frozen on the razor's edge of fight and flight. The world may see her mask as composed and distant, eyes only drifting occasionally towards sadness, but within she is a constant, crackling chill of tension.

It's quieter, today. The grey drizzle over the city has driven most of Florence from the streets, and she took the long walk back from the formaggeria just to savor the cobblestones glazed with rain, making the whole city smell like dark earth and stone, something ancient. It settles her thoughts, calms her headspace so that she is feeling something dangerously close to content when she closes the door behind her.

Even the soft notes of Mendelssohn to announce a second presence does not displace her mood. Hannibal is home. Today, she is satisfied and confident enough to enjoy his company for what it is. She will not mince cautiously over micro-expressions and tiny details, treading the constant balancing act that is their relationship. She will not be worn thin by the exhaustion of it. Sometimes it's tempting. He would love that. But not today.

The paper bag dangles from the hook of her fingertips as she clicks quietly through their living space and towards the kitchen, her heels telegraphing her arrival even more than the catch of the door or the notes of her perfume do. She crosses the threshold, neither greeting nor ignoring her ex-patient's tall figure, standing at the counter with his intimidating breadth of shoulder. He dices greens with thoughtless precision, the blade silver sharp, his hand fast and terrible, creases forming and relaxing in his shirt. The kitchen is cool, and she finds herself hungry. There is no hissing fat and steam in the pan from a too-familiar meat that would put her off her appetite. She doesn't pull towards saltwater-wet oysters and roasted acorns either, her harbor from Hannibal's darker tastes. That dish comes with knowledge that he is purposefully culturing her own flavor profile, so it as much a relief as it is a hovering promise. One day she may be the too-familiar meat.

She puts up the cheeses, folds the bag, and considers whether Hannibal might be in the kind of humor to fix her something novel. Also, whether she trusts him to do so without her careful observation.

Today, yes. She thinks so.

The bag is resigned to a space beneath a cabinet, and she steps forward to offer proper acknowledgement. "Are you--..." She begins, but pauses when something crunches underfoot.

She glances down, and startles at the sight of a shattered teacup. At once, the air is no longer quiet and intimate, but alien and threatening. Bedelia takes very particular care to step backwards without making any noise. Hannibal's posture goes unchanged, neither turning his head nor stiffening his relaxed stance.

If she closes her eyes, and pretends to be Will Graham for even a fraction of a second, she can perfectly envision him ten minutes earlier earlier, in exactly the same epicenter of radiating calm. He would be mincing garlic one moment, finger-sweeping it from the edge of his blade. Without any shift of emotion, no flicker of whim, he would reach for a teacup from the cabinet and describe a neat arc of it to the floor. In her mind's eye, he would regard the shattered white china for some long moments, unblinking, and then wordlessly resume his mincing.

She knows the motions firsthand; she's seen him do it at least once. Bedelia also knows the kind of moods that lead to teacups, and the broken edges of porcelain from the dark-lacquered floor may as well be neon caution sign. Hannibal is not in a good headspace.

Bedelia does not apologize for intruding into his bower so blithely, she doesn't risk speaking at all. Instead, she plucks a small, sweet tangerine from the bowl on the counter and quickly finds her egress.

Just before she leaves, Hannibal sets down the knife. Despite herself, Bedelia pauses in the sudden quiet. She's lingering with a hand on the doorframe as he turns to one side and cants an arm upwards, hesitating. She mistakes it for a precursor to a comment or gesture until he breathes in, sharp, and smothers himself into its crook.

"--hhRRSHHue!"

Her brows notch upwards. It's the usual sound of his familiar-company sneeze, throated and hard. He holds them in commendably in polite crowds, near silent, and issues them with flurrying, wolfish satisfaction when he thinks himself alone. She sees far more of the former than the latter, with the events they attend. This is some conceding middle ground, allowing the draw of attention if it means better satisfying the itch.

Almost.

Bedelia watches serenely, eyes sloping to half-mast as his ribs expand with breath. The muscles beneath his back stand out, tense beneath the thin material of his shirt. She gets a fleeting, profile glance of his anguished expression, the grimacing moue of his mouth and hard-edged flare to his nostrils. It's pronounced enough that she can see, even from here, the pink sliver of his septum, the same color and shape as the inside of a seashell. Then he tucks into the same arm, and quakes into release.

"...heh'RRSSHH-ue!"

Bedelia waits a beat as he relaxes, sniffs once, sighs. He can go back to his quiet fugue, and she can retreat from the allure and danger of it. Instead, she rolls a word around her mouth for a moment, testing its sweetness, before offering it up like an olive branch.

"Salute."

To her quiet relief, Hannibal turns enough to meet her gaze. His head dips in a single, appreciative nod. "Grazie."

Bedelia plays it safe, and lets it rest at that. She takes her tangerine and leaves to keep her own company.

---

She spends most of the afternoon in the study, with its tall windows that face the city and let in the heady grey light of day. She shuts herself in, both for peace of mind and because Hannibal is respectful of closed doors. When it suits him. The tangerine both settles and brightens her stomach, peeled away in a long, thick spiral of rind before she eases into sorting some records. When the music quiets from outside, she transplants herself to the piano and occupies a couple hours threading out fantasies based on Don Pasquale. Hannibal has not yet found a harpsichord in Florence that suits his taste, but the Bechstein grand suits her very well. There is an ache and a comfort in the arch of her fingertips over the keys.

Some time into the day, she feels shored up enough to deal with his mercurial nature, and is subsequently surprised to find an olive branch of his own laid out by the door. Sitting on the end table nearest the study is a glass of red wine and a little plate of crostino. There are castelvetrano olives, dates, and roasted rapini from the night before that has been re-invented as a cold salad tossed in lemon, oil, garlic, capers and crushed walnuts. Even Hannibal's version of leftovers is marked with his indelible panache.

To her tentative relief, she can find no trace of animal proteins outside of the goat's milk cheese she herself purchased this morning. The tang of it melts on her tongue, cutting through the buttery richness of the olives, the mealy sugar of the figs, and dissolving into the acid of the rabe in its baste. Her eyes flutter shut, satisfied.

She eats three, then takes the plate and the wine into the kitchen to pick away at the rest. En route, she glances past the open door of the master bedroom and there finds her companion.

He's stretched out atop the covers, shoes removed and an arm resting over his eyes. That's a bit strange. Although he sleeps late into the mornings, given the opportunity, she's never known Hannibal to nap. She leans her shoulder in the doorway and sips thoughtfully at the wine, considering him with clinical interest. After a few minutes, she moves on to the kitchen to finish the crostino and wash up her single platter. It nearly slips from her soap slicked fingers, however, at a wrenching "--HRISSSH'ue!" that erupts from the bedroom.

Oh.

Bedelia takes her time drying and polishing the dish, dabbing her hands on a towel before she ventures out across the veldt of their flat. She's prepared to offer her blessing belatedly, but it ends up being right on time as she discovers Hannibal halfway to sitting upright, features curled into ugly irritation. He's recovered a handkerchief from somewhere, and presses it under his nose just in time to receive a rushing, "H-RSSHHHhh!"

"Bless you," she offers, in a tone that seems gentle and quiet against the immensity of his sneeze.

He catches her a helpless look, mouth still cramped open and welling tears making the red of his eyes that much more apparent. Apparent, and vaguely unsettling. The handkerchief folds back in place, as his head turns away.

".... HEH'RSSHHhhh-ue!"

Bedelia waits a few beats after that, both impressed and surprised by the single, faint note of sympathy plucked from a string in her core. That doesn't often intrude into the boundaries of her curiosity, her relationship with Hannibal has ever been a familiar but emotionally aloof one.

"Excuse me," he sighs, this time, to preempt her blessing. His voice his thick and rough with sleep and congestion. The string is plucked again, this time poignantly enough that she wants to reach inside herself to still its reverberation. Stop that.

"Are you catching a cold?"

Hannibal tilts his head in a wordless gesture to the negative. Well. Small reliefs, although the look she gives him must be a dubious one. He lays back with a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if to hold the rising tide of neuralgia at bay.

"It's not contagious, I assure you."

"That's not why I asked," Bedelia says softly, but she at last relents her lean and pads slowly towards the bed. Hannibal watches her approach with hooded eyes and no reaction. As she scorns the empty side of the bed and circles around to the one he's occupying, however, she's read the situation right and he shifts over to let her ease down to its edge. His temple leans into her hip, as one hand smooths his bangs back from his brow. Better. "An allergy?"

"Something akin to it."

"Ah," she says, intuitive, and gently traces a thumb over the invisible pathways of his trigeminal nerve. It's been a long time since medical school, but she can still perfectly visualize it like a road map threaded across his too-sensitive sinuses. "I forget that this comes with drawbacks."

Better than forgetting about his hyperosmia to begin with. That's a mistake that has gotten many a person killed, she thinks, or close to it. The tiniest of details too easily reveal the shape of certain lies. A clandestine contact, a location meant to stay hidden. Bedelia has always been very, very aware of those parameters, and yet it still unnerves her that he can pick out which gallery she's been to by the faint scent of linseed oil in her hair and clothes. Naked honesty with him is the most difficult act she's ever undertaken.

"The triggers are usually avoidable."

"Mm," she agrees as she thumbs the sloping line of his nose, not unlike a Grecian statue. She herself owns one of those triggers -- a little crystal vial of Artemisia that makes him wrinkle his nose and politely avoid her company for as long as the scent lingers. She never wears it, she hasn't yet needed to utilize a kind of chemical or sensory warfare in their relationship, but keeps it tucked in the back of a drawer. Just in case.

"Is it painful?"

Hannibal turns his head easily into her touch, letting her memorize the lines of his profile, sharp cheekbones, broad jaw. They aren't unfamiliar to her. "On occasion. It was worse when I was younger, sans any sort of filter for it."

"And do you have one now?" She hums, resting a fingerpad gently over his ethmoid sinus and rocking very gently in place. It's just enough to put the faintest crease of discomfort between his brows, the edge of his upper lip tensing with want to curl.

"A mental veil, at be-- hh!" He catches, sudden, as she presses a little too hard and upsets the delicate balance. Bedelia should, in turn, immediately withdraw her touch and offer up an apology, a submissive lilt of the tongue. Instead, she lets her expression go unchanged, cool and clinical, as she worries that spot on the edge of her thumb. Hannibal stiffens and contorts, reeling in an enormous breath. She plucks her hand away only to let him steeple his nose in the handkerchief and wrench from her side.

"-- HEH'RHSSSHhh!"

"Again?"

Hannibal nods through the tickle without removing the handkerchief. Instead, the crease of his eyes marks the mounting urge until it peaks.

"heh....! HRISSHH-ue!"

The entire bed shakes. Relief bleeds out of him in palpable waves, however, twinged with a pain he's not admitting. The headache is rolling back in like a threatening, dark cloudbank behind his eyes. Only then does Bedelia feel a flicker of guilt, and it doesn't last long.

Still, she's kind enough to pretend at apology. "Forgive me, that was unwarranted."

Hannibal crinkles and relaxes his nose a few times, but seems to bear her no ill-will for the brief experimentation. He is a string puller of the highest caliber, however, so perhaps there is some measure of professional respect there. At the very least, she is owed an occasional cruel indulgence with him.

"And yet a hardship I think I will survive," he returns, just wry enough to make her smile. Some of the tension sighs out of her, too.

"How magnanimous of you."

Hannibal sniffs and returns to her side, back to the bell curve of her hip and the ruched fabric of her dress. "I have suffered worse retributions than being made to sneeze against my will," he reminds her, though his tone is light, even amused.

Bedelia hadn't considered it a retribution, not truly, but the flavor of it is similar. She resumes combing his hair back from his brow, sliding the silk-soft and unstyled fringe of it between her fingers. She studies the line of one forearm where it rests across his abdomen, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow to bare the long, deep scars carved into its sinew. They're not the only ones he carries, although not all are so visible. She thinks back to the kitchen this morning, and it seems incongruous with this lounging and self-satisfied Lecter -- wounded but settled in his domain.

"So you have," she agrees, and touches one fingertip to the end of his nose with great care. "Have you taken anything for this? An anti-inflammatory?"

Hannibal makes a dismissive sound in his throat, eyes shut. "They don't help. It will pass, with a few hours of sensory abstinence."

"I should leave you, then."

"Only if you like. Your scent is not a hindrance."

Bedelia contemplates that for a few moments, weighing the strangeness of feeling flattered. She hasn't bathed since last night, or put on any perfume today. She can't imagine what he's smelling, salt and sweat as the bacteria on her skin thrives, or perhaps the fragrance of wine making her blood heady and sharp. No doubt he knows when her period will start before she does, or if there is a cancer taking root in any of her organs. The slight, acrid sting of digestive acids going to work may be as evident as the tangerine lingering behind on her fingertips. "No?"

Hannibal slivers his eyes open, dark and wet like coagulated blood. He turns his head by the tiniest increments and flares his nostrils on an inhale to test the air. "Very much the opposite."

After another long, considering pause, she stands from the bed just long enough to unfasten the clasp and zipper of her dress. It parts down her back to bare the naked V of her spine, the delicate wings of her shoulders. She is not wearing a stitch of fabric beneath to keep her modesty intact, as she lets the garment pool on the floor. That dress cost more than her first car did, but she leaves it there and eases back onto the bed, where Hannibal has shifted to allow her greater real estate.

She faces him, opening an arm, then tucks her chin down as he settles into the bower of her loose embrace. She is bare to every touch, but feels invulnerable. Hannibal's hold on her has never been physical. His contact is sexless and chaste, filling up his senses entirely with her unmitigated scent instead.

"Better?"

"Indescribably," he says in a murmur, his breath a warm sigh across her breasts. "Thank you."

It's a strange form of treatment, but then no stranger than whisking teacups to the floor to stave off dissociative spells. His therapy has always been alien and intriguing, completely beyond anything else she's ever touched, or will again. She's almost going to miss him when Will Graham puts a knife through his heart.

Edited March 18, 2019 by Garblin

[alias]

This is lovely. Absolutely lovely. Everything about this captures the essence of the show perfectly. I could see it and hear it in the same cadence, and color, and ambience as when I'm watching it on my television. I'm blown away by how on point this is. You even evoked that same tense, complex dynamic between Hannibal and Bedelia that had me on the edge of my seat throughout the first episodes of season three. Some of this is, aptly, terrifying. Beautiful piece of writing, Garnet.

He is a string puller of the highest caliber, however, so perhaps there is some measure of professional respect there. At the very least, she is owed an occasional cruel indulgence with him.

^^I LOVE THIS.

Also, that end line. Best ending line ever.

[Aranea]

You make really excellent use of sensory details in this, and your tone and characterization matches that of the show perfectly. The way that you describe and show their relationship - the intimacy and trust and certainty Bedelia has, the fine line she walks with him knowing where it will most likely take her - all of this is elegantly and almost effortlessly described. This is just flawless.

[Sharpie]

Okay, so I was going to reply, but then I forgot, now I'm here and I have remembered to reply: We need more Hannibal stuff on here because there's like, none. This was extremely in character and Hannibal was just so... Hannibal-ly. Idk, and (as expected), Bedelia was a charm, and the chemistry between them worked so well too.

[meepsy]

I only have a really cursory experience with Hannibal, but enough to know that the language you use in this fic is totally evocative of the mood of the show -- that is to say: highly stylized, indulgent of the senses to the point of over-stimulus, and unbearably clever. I would read this purely for your choice of words -- every sentence is perfectly executed.

These are my favorites:

Instead, she rolls a word around her mouth for a moment, testing its sweetness, before offering it up like an olive branch.

"Salute."

Bedelia waits a few beats after that, both impressed and surprised by the single, faint note of sympathy plucked from a string in her core.

(and it's reprise)

The string is plucked again, this time poignantly enough that she wants to reach inside herself to still its reverberation. Stop that.

she stands from the bed just long enough to unfasten the clasp and zipper of her dress. It parts down her back to bare the naked V of her spine, the delicate wings of her shoulders.

and (of course)

His therapy has always been alien and intriguing, completely beyond anything else she's ever touched, or will again. She's almost going to miss him when Will Graham puts a knife through his heart.

Wow. Perfectly moody. Perfectly terrifying. You have such a versatile writer's voice, it's almost as if every fic you write has it's own vernacular and personality. it's a true talent, and quite a treat to read.

Edited July 12, 2015 by meepsy

[Bruyere]

I haven't started watching S3 yet but I really loved reading this. You write their dynamic in such a distinctive, beautiful and chilling way.

[curlyq9393]

I AM OBSESSED WITH THIS. Their relationship/chemistry is so difficult to capture but you managed to do it so beautifully.

[bangbang]

I told you I would be back! It took a while, but I've returned to rave over this.

First - the prose, oh my god. It's so rich - as rich as Bedelia's goats cheese - and you have a curiously tripping turn of phrase. It settles you into a lull and then yanks the rug out from underneath you. Much like Hannibal himself (and itself) does. Your writing never fails to awe me.

Second - oh, man, I can hear their voices in this. Your dialogue is wonderful and sharp and accurate, to the extent where I'm now kind of suspecting you work for the show in some capacity because how do??

Third - Bedelia. Oh, Bedelia. You capture her quiet, complicit desperation as beautifully as Gillian Anderson does. Her eating the orange made me weirdly emotional for her.

Fourth - the meat of the story (I am a terrible person and a worse pun-ist.) I love love love the idea that Hannibal's overactive sense of smell can be a curse as well as a blessing - not quite an allergy, but an intense disruption... It's a lovely and unusual thought.

Fifth - that scene. You know which scene. Hnnngh.

Sixth - I love the platonic naked cuddling. (Not that Hannibal would accept that it was such a thing as cuddling.) They've got a weird knife-edge relationship that's, in my mind, more than a hint maternal despite their similar ages, and you display it very well.

Sighhhh. If you couldn't tell, I loved this - and it's made me even sadder about the cancellation because NOW I won't get to read more Garnet Hannibal stuff. Someone else needs to pick this show up ASAP. But thank you. This was beautiful.

[happybunny]

I love Hannibal and this is the only fanfiction that I know of on this board. You got to mood down so perfectly! Everything was dark and suspenseful just like the show. I loved this!

[Garnet]

N'aw, thank you all much for the comment break downs, they are my very favorite things and I cherish them always. Aaand don't worry, I'm sure I can always find it in my heart to do more Hannibal stuff :x

I love Hannibal and this is the only fanfiction that I know of on this board. You got to mood down so perfectly! Everything was dark and suspenseful just like the show. I loved this!

There's actually quite a bit of it on the forum (most of it... written by me, but still) though it's tucked fairly far back now.