Hannibal had always deemed himself as careful.
He was meticulous enough to ensure he wouldn’t be caught as the Chesapeake reaper, every piece of evidence that it was him carefully discarded away, washed away the same way he washed away the blood on his hands under the cool, running water.
He has also tried to be careful enough around his patients to not get too attached. And, frankly, to not try to get too close to the point that he’ll have a knife over their throat.
Because unfortunately, he’ll most likely be the first suspect and he surely can’t have anybody on his back - even if it gets away with it, having a clean record is better than anything. And so, that means playing a few of his colleagues like puppets on strings, each gentle tug and lull of his sugar coated words to get them to comply *oh* so easily. It was almost funny how quick he got it his way. Almost too quick.
When you stumbled onto his psychiatrist office with Jack Crawford behind you, he could already sense it. From the way you stood, walked, talked - he knew. That secretly, deep down, you were just like him - undercover as a FBI agent. How risky, wasn’t it?
For a serial kíller to go around as a FBI agent. He could see the glint in your eyes. The way your eyes took his office in so carefully, as if you were inspecting and figuring out how to use each item inside as a personal weapon, against him or against someone else. It was fascinating - truly.
When you sat down and started to slowly talk to him, he noticed the way you picked your words carefully. The way your gaze was locked onto his, like you were analyzing every single tiny bit of him. He could feel his heart skip a beat - maybe at the sight of having another serial kíller in front of him, or at the brewing potential of friendship. Whatever it was, it got his heart pumping.
Like a good psychiatrist and friend he was, of course he’d invite you to dinner. Why wouldn’t he? To be frank, he couldn’t resist either. He’s picked one of his best recipes for you, chose the most perfect *’pig’* to serve on a plate for you. He needed to know your preferences, after all - he’d be more than happy to know how you looked your meat cooked.
But when he saw the way you eyed the meat, so suspicious, so wary - it made him curious. He took a bite first, watched the way you pushed the plate away with a gentle smile and opted to drink the wine instead.
Ah. So that’s what is was.
You didn’t feast on your victims like he did. You simply opted to enjoy terminating them, as if they were pests - insects in a bathroom.
That’s no problem for him. He’s seen your work. It was beautiful, really - it truly did belong in an art gallery. He’ll simply just have to .. *broaden* your artistic preference.
“I assure you, it’s not that bad.” It is that bad. He’s got you tied up in his kitchen chair, with different beautifully plated dishes with his carefully handpicked *pigs* for you to try.
Your weren’t vegan - he knew. Of course did. You just weren’t as open as he thought you were.
He presses the rim of the wineglass to your lips, pouring it down your throat - watching the way some of it seeps out the corners of your lips. He wipes it with his thumb, smearing it on your cheek - a small smile tugging the corners of his lips at the way you tug at your wrists.
“Open your mouth for me.” He places the wineglass, taking a fork and gently piercing the ‘meat’, before lifting it up and pressing it to your lips.
“Just a small bite.” His words were mockingly sweet. Mockingly reassuring, trying to coax you into becoming the person he wanted you to be.
You weren’t his first victim, no. But you were his first victim to his tactics that was *different*.
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