Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The crime scene was in Towson, which meant Eureka had approximately fifteen seconds of warning before realizing that the FBI consultant already on-site was exactly who it couldn't possibly be.

Except it was.

Hannibal Lecter stood beside Jack Crawford, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the body with the expression of someone evaluating a student's thesis defense. He looked exactly the same. Immaculate suit, that particular way of holding himself like gravity was a suggestion rather than a rule. When he glanced up and saw Eureka emerging from the FBI sedan behind Will Graham, something crossed his face that might have been delight if delight ever learned to be dangerous.

Eureka, though, couldn’t say the same way around.

"Fuck." – She murmured, very quietly.

Will, who'd been mid-sentence about something related to the arterial spray pattern, stopped. 

"What?"

"Nothing. Thinking out loud."

But Will's eyes had already tracked the trajectory of Eureka's gaze, landing on Hannibal, then back. 

"You know Dr. Lecter?"

"We've met." – Eureka's hands found pockets, a defensive posture masquerading as casual. – "Professionally. A while ago."

"He's good." – Will offered, which was either reassurance or warning depending on how you parsed it. – "Strange, but good."

Strange doesn't cover it, Eureka thought, but Jack was already waving them over, and there was no escape route that wouldn't involve explaining why escape was necessary.

Hannibal's smile when they approached was the kind that made you remember that humans were technically apex predators. 

"Agent Crawford. Will." – Then, with a particular weight to the words, – "And Eureka. What an unexpected pleasure."

"Dr. Lecter." 

The name came out flat, professional, giving nothing away.

"You two know each other?" – Jack's question had the tone of someone who'd just realized he'd missed a memo.

"Old colleagues," – Hannibal said smoothly. – "We both lectured at Quantico some time ago. Though I believe Eureka had to cut that engagement short. Something about Sicily, wasn't it?"

The bastard. The absolute bastard.

"Research project." – Eureka replied, matching his smile with one equally empty. – "Very time-consuming. You know how it is."

"I'm sure it was fascinating." – Hannibal's eyes hadn't left her face. – "You'll have to tell me all about it sometime."

Will was watching them both now with that particular intensity he brought to pattern recognition, and Eureka could practically see him filing away the subtext for later analysis.

The crime scene discussion was mercifully brief. 

Hannibal's insights were clinical and precise, offering nothing that revealed anything beyond professional expertise. But every so often, Eureka would feel the weight of his attention, that peripheral awareness of being observed by something that had decided you were interesting.

When Jack finally closed his notebook and announced they were done here, Eureka was already calculating the fastest route back to the hotel.

"Since we're all in the area," – Hannibal said, and the phrase landed like a trap springing shut, – "perhaps you'd all join me for dinner? My home is nearby. Closest option, really, given the hour. Unless you'd prefer the drive back to Quantico on empty stomachs?"

Jack perked up immediately. 

"That's generous of you, Dr. Lecter. Will?"

"Sure." – Will shrugged, hands in pockets. – "Beats FBI cafeteria food."

Three pairs of eyes turned to Eureka.

Fuck.

The silence stretched long enough to become obvious. Refusing now would require explanation, and explanation would require admitting things that couldn't be admitted. Hannibal knew this. Hannibal had planned this. Hannibal was standing there with the patient expression of someone who'd already won and was simply waiting for everyone else to acknowledge it.

"That's very kind," Eureka said, hating every word. "Thank you."

The smile Hannibal offered in return was luminous with victory.

—

The house was exactly what anyone who'd spent five minutes analyzing Hannibal Lecter would expect: tasteful, expensive, filled with the kind of art that whispered old money and older sensibilities. Eureka took in the details with the resignation of someone walking into a beautifully appointed cage.

"Make yourselves comfortable." – Hannibal said, already moving toward the kitchen. – "This won't take long."

Jack settled into the living room with the ease of someone who'd been here before, already pulling out his phone. Will drifted toward the bookshelves, fingers trailing over spines.

Eureka aimed for the chair furthest from the kitchen and had almost reached it when Hannibal's voice carried from the other room.

"Eureka, would you mind assisting me? I could use an extra pair of hands. If I recall correctly, you mentioned enjoying cooking?"

The sentence landed like a bear trap.

Because yes, Eureka had mentioned that. Months ago, in some conversation that had seemed harmless at the time, some throwaway comment about finding cooking meditative, about having decent knife skills from years of stress relief via meal prep. The kind of personal detail you share with a colleague and then forget about.

Hannibal, apparently, never forgot anything.

Every instinct screamed no. Every social convention – and worse, every past conversation – screamed yes.

Will glanced up from the books. 

"You cook?"

"Sometimes." – Eureka said, reluctantly moving toward the kitchen because refusing now would require explaining why, and explaining why would require admitting that they're somewhat close. Hannibal Lecter had a better memory than God and twice the patience for it, but she didn't. – "When I have time."

"Wonderful." 

Hannibal clasped his hands together as Eureka entered the kitchen, and his smile was the kind that made you regret every honest thing you'd ever said to him. 

"I remember you mentioning your knife work was quite good. Something about finding it therapeutic?"

The kitchen was all stainless steel and marble, surfaces so clean they could perform surgery on them. Hannibal was already at the counter, ingredients laid out with the precision of a man who treated cooking like the art form it was.

"I'm impressed you came." – he told her without looking up. – "I half expected you to manufacture an emergency."

"I considered it." – Eureka leaned against the far counter, maintaining maximum distance in the limited space. – "But Jack would've asked questions."

"Mm. And you prefer to avoid questions." – Hannibal's hands moved through the ingredients with practiced efficiency. – "Sicily must have been very enlightening."

"Didn't go to Sicily."

"I know." – He glanced up then. – "You're not very good at lying, Eureka. You're excellent at evasion, at misdirection, at leaving before anyone realizes you were there in the first place. But direct lies? Those you struggle with."

"Maybe I just didn't want to have dinner with you."

"Maybe." 

Hannibal turned back to his work. 

"Or maybe you did want to, and that frightened you more than not wanting to ever could."

Eureka said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.

"Come here." – Hannibal said after a moment. – "I need you to trim these."

It was phrased as a request but carried the weight of inevitability. Eureka moved to the counter, accepted the knife that was placed in hand, perfectly balanced, probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, and looked down at the cutting board.

Meat. Of course it was meat.

"I thought I mentioned I was vegetarian."

"You did." – Hannibal was very close now, ostensibly reaching for something beyond Eureka's shoulder but somehow taking up far more space than the action required. – "I've prepared alternatives for you. But Will and Jack will appreciate the protein. Unless you'd prefer I handle it myself?"

The subtext was so heavy it had its own gravitational field: Admit you lied, or commit to the lie.

Eureka picked up the knife and started cutting.

"There we are." – Hannibal murmured, and something about his tone made every nerve ending fire warnings. He'd moved to retrieve a pot from the upper cabinet; a completely normal action that somehow required him to reach across Eureka's space, his chest briefly pressing against Eureka's shoulder, the scent of his cologne cutting through the kitchen smells like a signature.

"Sorry." – he said, not sorry at all. – "Narrow kitchen."

"It's really not." 

But Eureka didn't move, because moving would acknowledge that this was anything other than normal dinner preparation, and acknowledgment would give it power. Give him power.

Hannibal returned to his station, began working on something else. For several minutes, the only sound was the knife work. Eureka's deliberately methodical, Hannibal's fluid and precise.

"You've gotten better at this." – Hannibal observed. – "Last time you claimed complete culinary incompetence."

"I can cut meat. Doesn't mean I eat it."

"Mm." – The sound was agreement and skepticism in equal measure. – "Your knife technique suggests otherwise. That's not the grip of someone who avoids animal protein. That's muscle memory."

Eureka's hands stilled. 

"You're profiling how I hold a knife?"

"I profile everything." 

Hannibal moved again, this time reaching for a bowl that was definitely on Eureka's side of the kitchen, his arm extending past Eureka's waist, creating a cage that lasted two seconds too long to be accidental. When he straightened, he was close enough that Eureka could count his eyelashes if forced to. 

"It's what I do. Surely you remember that about me."

"I don't remember a lot of things about you."

"Do you?" The question was soft, dangerous. "Then why did you run?"

"I didn't run. I had work."

"In Sicily."

"In–" – fuck. She stopped, realizing the trap too late. – "You're enjoying this."

"Tremendously." – Hannibal stepped back, giving space that felt like mercy, and at the same time, control. – "I've thought about you quite a bit over the past eighteen months. Wondered where you'd gone. What you were doing. Whether you ever thought about our conversations."

"I've been busy."

"Clearly. Busy enough to avoid Quantico entirely, I noticed. They invited you back twice for lectures. You declined both times."

"How do you–" – Eureka bit off the question. Of course he knew. Hannibal made it his business to know things. – "I had scheduling conflicts."

"Of course you did." – Hannibal returned his attention to the stove, adjusting heat with minute precision. – "It's a shame, really. I was looking forward to that dinner. The one we never had."

"You seem to be making up for it now."

"Hardly." 

He glanced over his shoulder. 

"That dinner was meant to be just the two of us. This is... a compromise. But I've learned to appreciate compromise. It's how you maintain civility when what you actually want would be considered impolite."

The air in the kitchen had become something solid, something that required conscious effort to breathe through. Eureka focused on the cutting board, on the repetitive motion of knife through flesh, on anything except the weight of Hannibal's attention.

"You can go check on the others if you'd like." – Hannibal said after another long moment. – "I can finish here."

It was permission to flee, offered with perfect understanding of how much Eureka wanted to take it. Which meant taking it would be surrender, and surrender wasn't an option.

"I'm fine." – Eureka told him. – "What else needs doing?"

The smile that earned was genuine, pleased in a way that made Eureka's spine straighten involuntarily.

"Hand me that dish from the upper shelf? The white porcelain."

Eureka looked up. The dish in question was on a shelf that was reachable but required some stretching. 

Before any movement could be made, Hannibal was there. 

Stepping directly behind, reaching up, his body bracketing Eureka's against the counter. He didn't touch, not quite, but the proximity was its own kind of contact, the heat of him present in the centimeter of space that remained.

"This one." 

His voice was at Eureka's ear, and every word carried implications that had nothing to do with dishes.

"S-sure." – The word came out tinier than intended. – "That one."

Hannibal retrieved it with agonizing slowness, lowering it down to place it on the counter beside Eureka's hand. His fingers brushed Eureka's knuckles in the transfer. Brief, possibly accidental, definitely not.

"Thank you." – he murmured, still too close, still taking up too much space. – "You're very helpful."

Then he stepped back, returned to the stove, and continued cooking as if the past ten seconds hadn't been psychological warfare dressed up as kitchen choreography.

Eureka exhaled very carefully and decided that the cutting board needed intense focus for the rest of this goddamn dinner preparation.

—

Dinner itself was a different kind of torture.

Hannibal had prepared something that looked like art and probably tasted like it too. Not that Eureka could properly appreciate it while trying to maintain normal conversation with Jack and Will while also fielding Hannibal's periodic observations that seemed benign on the surface but carried the weight of private jokes that weren't funny.

"This is excellent, Dr. Lecter." – Jack said, already reaching for seconds. – "You'll have to give me the recipe."

"It's quite simple, really. The key is patience." 

Hannibal's gaze drifted to Eureka. 

"Some things can't be rushed, no matter how convenient rushing might be."

Will, who'd been mostly quiet, looked between them with increasing interest. 

"How long did you two work together at Quantico?"

"Not long."

"Several months."

They looked at each other.

"... It felt shorter." – Eureka amended.

"Strange." – Hannibal took a sip of wine. – "I found it quite memorable. Though perhaps memory is subjective. Some moments expand, others contract. Time is funny that way."

"Hilarious." – Eureka muttered.

Will definitely caught that, his expression shifting into something between amusement and concern.

Jack, oblivious, launched into a story about another case, another consultant, another crime scene. Hannibal engaged with perfect social grace, asking appropriate questions, offering relevant insights. But every so often, his attention would slide back to Eureka with the persistence of water finding cracks.

When Jack finally checked his watch and announced they should probably head back, Eureka had never been more grateful for FBI scheduling.

"Thank you for dinner, Dr. Lecter." – Jack laughed, shaking Hannibal's hand. –"Unexpected hospitality."

"My pleasure, Agent Crawford." 

Hannibal turned to Will, who nodded his thanks with that distant expression he wore when processing too much information at once.

Then he turned to Eureka, and the smile was all teeth.

"We should do this again sometime." – he said, extending his hand.

Eureka took it because refusing would be strange. His grip was exactly as expected. Firm, warm, lasting just slightly too long.

"Perhaps next time you're in the area," – the psychiatrist continued. – "you'll stay nearby. I have several guest rooms that see far too little use. It would be more convenient than whatever hotel you've booked."

Every word was a landmine dressed up as courtesy.

"That's very generous," – Eureka replied with a smile, extracting hand from his grip with deliberate casualness. – "but I'm sure the hotel will be fine."

"Pity." – Hannibal's eyes held that particular gleam that suggested he knew exactly how uncomfortable he was making this and was savoring every second. – "Though I suppose convenience isn't always the priority. Sometimes distance is preferable. Safer, even."

"Sometimes." – Eureka agreed.

"Well." – Hannibal stepped back, hands clasped in that same behind-the-back posture from the crime scene. – "Should you change your mind, the offer stands. I'm very good at hosting guests. Very... attentive."

Jack was already at the car, Will halfway there, both oblivious to the subtext thick enough to choke on.

"Good night, Dr. Lecter." – Eureka said, already turning away.

"Good night, Eureka." – His voice followed like a haunted curse. – "Do try to stay in the area this time. Sicily is so far away, and I'd hate for our reunion to be another eighteen months in the making."

Eureka didn't respond, just kept walking toward the car where Will was holding the door open with an expression that promised questions later.

Behind them, Hannibal stood in his doorway, backlit by the warm glow of his entrance hall, watching them leave with the satisfaction of a cat who'd successfully cornered a mouse and was content to let it run for now.

The game was back on, and this time, Eureka had a sinking feeling that exit strategies weren't going to work twice.

Chapter Text

The lecture hall at Quantico smelled of institutional coffee and the particular anxiety of people who'd chosen to study monsters. Hannibal Lecter stood at the podium with the posture of a man conducting Brahms rather than discussing the psychology of serial offenders, his suit immaculate in a way that made the fluorescent lighting seem like a personal affront to taste.

"The organized killer," – he was saying, voice carrying that Baltimore lilt wrapped in something older, European, "understands delayed gratification. He plans. He fantasizes. The crime scene becomes, in essence, a staged performance."

From the third row, Eureka watched him with the expression of someone watching a cat pretend it hadn't meant to fall off the table. The beige cardigan was cashmere: Hannibal had noted this immediately, along with the Patek Philippe that occasionally caught light beneath the cuff. Young, certainly. Mid-twenties at most. But the way those dark eyes tracked his movements suggested something that had nothing to do with youth.

"The question we must ask," – Hannibal continued, allowing his gaze to drift across the room without quite landing on that particular face, – "is whether the performance is for us, or for himself."

Eureka's pen hadn't moved across the notebook in twenty minutes.

The break came with the usual shuffle of bodies toward bad coffee and worse pastries. Hannibal remained at the podium, organizing papers he'd already organized, watching from peripheral vision as Eureka made no move toward the exit. Most auditors fled quickly, uncomfortable with lingering in the FBI's institutional gaze. But this one simply sat, notebook closed, fingers drumming an arrhythmic pattern on the desk.

He approached with the careful casualness of someone who'd planned the trajectory three moves in advance. 

"I noticed you in the audience." – Hannibal said, stopping at a respectful distance. Close enough to converse, far enough to allow escape. – "I hope the lecture was useful."

Eureka glanced up, and there was something behind those eyes that reminded Hannibal of looking into a darkened window and not being certain whether there was someone looking back. 

"It was fine. Informative."

"Fine." – – The word hung between them. – "High praise indeed."

A pause. Eureka's fingers stopped their drumming.

"You're asking me to be honest, not polite." 

Not quite a question, but not quite a statement either.

"I find I learn more from honest assessments than polite ones." – Hannibal tilted his head slightly. – "Professional curiosity."

The silence that followed was longer than comfortable. Hannibal waited, and the waiting itself became a kind of conversation. An acknowledgment that whatever was about to be said required the space to be said properly.

Finally,

"The Chesapeake Ripper case. The seventh victim, the one in the church."

"Yes?"

"The positioning was anatomically impossible without breaking the femur first. Post-mortem, obviously. Lack of hemorrhaging and all that. But that's not really about performance, is it? That's problem-solving. He wanted a specific aesthetic, the body wasn't cooperating, so he made it cooperate." – Eureka's gaze drifted somewhere past Hannibal's shoulder. – "Very practical, when you think about it. The whole lecture was about staging and symbolism, but nobody mentioned that sometimes the staging is just– carpentry. You know? Logistics."

Hannibal felt something shift in his chest, a card being turned over in a game he hadn't realized he was playing.

Hannibal felt something shift in his chest, a card being turned over in a game he hadn't realized he was playing.

"You speak as though you admire the pragmatism."

"I speak as though I understand it." – Eureka's head tilted fractionally. – "Isn't that what you were just teaching? Understanding without condoning? Or did I misread the lesson plan?"

The smile Hannibal offered in return was genuine, which made it more dangerous than any of the ones he'd deployed at the podium. 

"I find your analytical approach refreshing. Most students are so concerned with moral posturing they forget to actually think."

"Moral posturing." – The words were repeated back. – "Yeah, I guess that's one way to put it. I just figure, if we're going to catch these guys, we should probably understand that they're not playing the same game we are. Different rules. Different win conditions."

"And what," – Hannibal asked, very carefully, – "do you suppose their win conditions are?"

But Eureka was already glancing at the clock, that smile never quite settling into anything readable. 

"Depends on the player, doesn't it? Anyway, good lecture, Dr. Lecter. Very informative."

—

The second time was three weeks later, another lecture, this one on organized versus disorganized crime scenes. Eureka arrived late, coffee in hand, settling into the same third-row seat with the air of someone who'd assigned it to themselves through sheer force of habit.

Hannibal was discussing the Ripper again. One couldn't discuss elevated serial homicide without eventually circling back to his own work, and there was something delicious about the double-blindness of it. He watched Eureka's face as he described the musicality of the organ placement, the way each victim had been transformed into a grotesque still life.

Nothing. Not even a flicker.

When he mentioned the victim found in the museum, arranged to mirror Botticelli's Primavera, something like amusement crossed those features before being carefully tucked away.

During the break, Hannibal didn't wait. He approached directly, two paper cups of terrible coffee in hand. 

"Peace offering." – he grinned. – "For boring you."

Eureka looked at the coffee, then at him. 

"I wasn't bored."

"No? You had the expression of someone waiting for a punchline they'd already heard."

"Maybe I'm just not great at looking interested." – The coffee was accepted though, held but not drunk. – "Or maybe your lecture was more accurate than you think, and I'm sitting here wondering why nobody's asking the obvious question."

Hannibal settled into the seat beside, close enough to be conversational, far enough to avoid seeming predatory. An animal's calculation. 

"Which is?"

"Why the museum?" – Eureka stared at the cooling coffee. – "You put a body in a museum, you're basically guaranteeing it gets found quickly, right? Climate-controlled environment, security guards, morning staff. Maximum two, three hours of display time before discovery. So why bother with all that staging if your audience is so limited?"

"Perhaps the limited audience is the point."

"Or," – (and here Eureka finally looked at him,) – "the discovery is the point. Not the display. The finding of it. The reaction. You're not staging for the victim or for yourself. You're staging for the moment when someone turns the corner and sees what you've made. That sharp intake of breath. That's the real art."

Hannibal found himself genuinely delighted. 

"You have a rather sophisticated understanding of aesthetic violence."

"I write fiction." – Said like that explained everything, and perhaps it did. – "You spend enough time trying to figure out what makes a scene impactful, you start noticing patterns. Same tools, different medium."

"Fiction." – Hannibal let the word sit between them. – "Would I have read anything of yours?"

"Probably not. I write under a pseudonym, and it's not exactly–" – A wave of the hand. – "It's not bestseller material. More like, exploring uncomfortable psychological spaces kind of thing. Most people don't actually want to think that hard about why violence fascinates them."

"But you do."

"I think about why everything fascinates me. Occupational hazard." – The coffee cup was finally lifted, examined, set back down without drinking. – "Speaking of which, you mentioned earlier that organized killers often have professional success, normal social lives. Do you ever wonder if that's cause or effect?"

"In what sense?"

"Like, does having a normal life create the pressure valve that requires violence, or does the violence create the need for a convincing mask?" – Eureka's fingers drummed once against the cup. – "Chicken, egg, Ripper, really nice dinner parties where he probably serves things that are ethically complicated."

The last part was delivered with such studied casualness that Hannibal almost laughed.

"You have a dark imagination."

"You're a psychiatrist lecturing at the FBI Academy about serial killers. I'd argue you do too."

Touché.

—

He began seeing Eureka everywhere after that, or perhaps he simply began noticing. At the library, tucked into a corner with books on abnormal psychology and Renaissance art. At a café in Baltimore, typing away at a laptop with the focus of someone who'd forgotten to blink. Once, memorably, at the symphony, alone in a sea of couples, watching the conductor with that same analytical distance.

After that particular concert – (Beethoven's Ninth, which Hannibal had opinions about) – he engineered a coincidental meeting during the exodus.

"I didn't take you for a classical enthusiast."

Eureka didn't startle, which was interesting. 

"I'm not, really. I just like watching people do things they're excellent at. It's– calming isn't the right word. Grounding, maybe?"

"Strange choice of venue for grounding."

"Strange choice of observation for someone who definitely saw me here and decided to say hello instead of just nodding and moving on." – That smile again, quick and gone. – "We're not friends, Dr. Lecter. We're colleagues who keep having the same conversations in different locations. There's a difference."

"Is there?" – Hannibal felt his own smile, the real one, the one he usually kept locked away. – "I was under the impression we were two people who found each other interesting."

"Interesting." – Eureka tested the word. – "Sure. That's one way to put it."

"And how would you put it?"

But Eureka was already walking away, and Hannibal let it happen, because the hunting was better when the prey occasionally chose to run.

—

The dinner invitation came three months into their strange orbit. Hannibal extended it after a particularly engaging discussion about the psychology of cannibalism in criminal cases – theoretical, of course, always theoretical – and Eureka had gone very still before responding.

"That's kind of you, but I'm vegetarian."

A lie. Hannibal had seen the way those eyes lingered on the lamb at the café, the unconscious lean toward the scent of cooking meat. But he accepted it graciously, pivoted to discussing vegetable preparation with the same enthusiasm most people reserved for sports teams, and watched Eureka's expression shift through several variations of trapped.

"I'm also terrible company at dinner parties."

"I wasn't planning a party. Just dinner. Two people, good food, better conversation." — He paused, judged, deployed. – "Unless you're afraid of me."

The laugh that got was genuine, sharp and bright and slightly unhinged. 

"Dr. Lecter, if I were afraid of you, I wouldn't keep showing up to your lectures."

"Then you have no excuse."

"I have lots of excuses. Being afraid isn't one of them." – But something in the posture had shifted, a resignation to inevitability. – "Fine. One dinner. But I'm bringing wine, and if you serve me anything that used to have a face, I'm leaving."

"How do you feel about mushrooms?"

"Suspicious of them, generally, but willing to negotiate."

—-

The dinner never happened.

Two days before the scheduled date, Eureka called. Not texted, called, which itself felt like a small violence against the established pattern of their careful distance.

"Dr. Lecter." – The voice on the other end had that particular quality of someone delivering pre-rehearsed lines. – "I'm afraid I need to reschedule our dinner."

"Oh?" – Hannibal cradled the phone between shoulder and ear, continuing to dice shallots with perfect precision. – "Nothing serious, I hope."

"Work, actually. I have to fly to Sicily. Something came up with a research project I've been consulting on. Very last minute, very irritating timing." 

A pause that lasted just slightly too long. 

"I'm sorry. I know this is rude."

"When do you return?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Two weeks? Maybe three? It's one of those open-ended situations." – The sound of movement, fabric rustling, the ambient noise of someone already packing. – "Can we reschedule when I'm back? I'd hate to miss the opportunity to negotiate with suspicious mushrooms."

There was something in the tone. It’s too casual, too carefully constructed. Like someone who'd spent considerable time crafting the perfect exit line.

"Of course." – Hannibal said, very gently. – "Sicily is beautiful this time of year. I hope your research proves fruitful."

"Research. Right." – A breath that might have been a laugh. – "I'll send you a postcard, Dr. Lecter. The kind with terrible puns about ancient ruins."

The line went dead before Hannibal could respond.

—

Eureka did not send a postcard.

More significantly, Eureka did not return to any of his lectures. Not after two weeks, not after three. The third-row seat remained empty, a gap in the pattern that Hannibal found himself noticing with increasing frequency.

He made no inquiries this time. The message had been clear enough.

It was, he reflected while preparing that dinner for one anyway – mushroom risotto, since the joke demanded completion even in absence – perhaps the most elegant withdrawal he'd ever witnessed. No confrontation, no dramatic revelation, no messy entanglement of the sort that required cleaning up afterward. Just a polite excuse, a promise of future engagement that both parties understood would never materialize, and a vanishing act that left no trace beyond empty seats and unanswered questions.

Sicily. As if Sicily were far enough away from anything that mattered.

He thought about that first conversation, the casual dissection of his own work delivered with the detachment of someone discussing carpentry. The way Eureka had looked at him during that discussion of the museum—not with horror, not with fascination, but with something closer to recognition.

And then had chosen to leave anyway.

Hannibal raised his glass to the empty chair across from him, the same chair that would have held a vegetarian who wasn't, a writer who understood aesthetic violence too well, a colleague who'd seen exactly what he was and had decided the smart money was on not playing.

"Sicily." 

He murmured, and smiled, because even in lying Eureka had been honest about one thing: the open-ended situation, the uncertain return, the fundamental understanding that some games were better left unfinished.

Somewhere, perhaps actually in Sicily, perhaps in another lecture hall in another city, perhaps simply in that third-row seat of some other monster's performance, Eureka was probably doing exactly what she'd always done. Watching, analyzing, understanding, and maintaining that crucial distance between observation and participation.

The game continued. It always did.

Just with different players, in different rooms, with one seat permanently, elegantly, empty.

Hannibal cut into his meal and found himself genuinely delighted by the absence. It was, after all, the most interesting thing anyone had ever done to him: seeing clearly, and choosing to walk away while the walking was still an option.

Very well played indeed.

Chapter Text

The warehouse had been a mistake from the beginning.

Eureka knew this in the abstract, academic way you know things when adrenaline is still doing most of the decision-making. The suspect had gone in armed. Will had said to wait for backup. Jack had agreed. And then Eureka had seen the side entrance, the one that was definitely unlocked, the one that would cut off the escape route if the suspect bolted–

The knife had come out of nowhere. 

Or rather, it had come from exactly where knives come from when you corner desperate people in warehouses: fast, brutal, and with enough force behind it that Eureka's attempt to dodge had only partially succeeded.

Now there was blood, quite a lot of it, and the suspect was in custody, and Jack was yelling into his phone about EMTs while Will pressed his jacket against Eureka's side with the grim efficiency of someone who'd done this before.

"You're an idiot," – Will said, not unkindly.

"Noted." 

Eureka's voice came out thinner than intended. The warehouse ceiling was doing interesting things, spinning in ways that architecture generally didn't.

"Ambulance is twenty minutes out.” – Jack announced, phone still pressed to his ear. – "Traffic's fucked because of construction."

"Twenty minutes?" 

Will's pressure on the wound increased, and Eureka made a sound that was definitely not a whimper because whimpering was unprofessional.

"I'm fine." – she managed. – "It's not that deep."

"You're bleeding through my jacket."

"It's not a very thick jacket."

A car door slammed somewhere in the chaos of police vehicles and flashing lights. Footsteps approached with that particular measured pace that Eureka's hindbrain recognized before conscious thought caught up.

No. Absolutely not. Not him. Not now.

"Agent Crawford." 

Hannibal's voice cut through the commotion with the clarity of a bell. 

"I heard the call on the scanner. What's the situation?"

Of course he had a police scanner. Of course he was here. The universe had a sense of humor like a sadist with a medical degree.

Jack turned, relief crossing his features. 

"Dr. Lecter. Eureka's injured. Knife wound to the side. Ambulance is twenty minutes out."

Hannibal was already moving closer, and when his gaze landed on Eureka – sprawled on the concrete, Will's jacket pressed to ribs, definitely too pale – something flickered across his expression that could have been concern, had it not been for the glaze in it.

"Let me see."

"I'm fine." – Eureka said.

"You're clearly not." – Hannibal knelt with the fluid grace of someone unbothered by concrete or blood, his hands already reaching for the jacket. – "Will, may I?"

Will hesitated, looked at Jack, received a nod, and carefully lifted the fabric away.

The wound wasn't life-threatening; Eureka's dodge had seen to that. But it was deep enough to be alarming, long enough to require serious stitches, and bleeding enough that Hannibal's assessment took approximately three seconds before he was shaking his head.

"Twenty minutes is too long. The bleeding needs to be controlled now, and this requires proper suturing." – His eyes met Jack's with the weight of professional authority. – "My home is seven minutes from here. I have a fully equipped medical office. I can stabilize and treat this properly while we wait to see if an ER visit is even necessary."

"Dr. Lecter, I couldn't ask you to–”

"You're not asking. I'm offering." 

Hannibal's attention shifted back to Eureka, and the smile was gentle in a way that made every survival instinct fire warnings. 

"Unless you'd prefer to bleed on warehouse concrete for another fifteen minutes while we debate the propriety of my hospitality?"

Eureka wanted to argue. Wanted to demand the ambulance, the hospital, anywhere that wasn't Hannibal Lecter's house while injured and vulnerable and very much not in any position to leave quickly if leaving became necessary.

But the warehouse was spinning again, and Jack was already agreeing, and Hannibal was helping Eureka up with hands that were steady and sure and impossibly warm against skin that had gone cold and clammy.

"Easy," – Hannibal murmured, taking most of Eureka's weight as they moved toward his car. – "I've got you."

That was, precisely, the problem.

---

The car ride passed in a blur of expensive leather and increasingly concerning dizziness. Hannibal drove with one hand, the other pressed against the wound with clinical pressure that would have been reassuring from anyone else.

"Stay awake." – he said, voice cutting through the fog. – "Talk to me."

Took Eureka a while to actually comprehend it.

"About what?"

"Anything. Your book. Your thoughts on the case. Why you decided that cornering an armed suspect alone was a sound tactical decision."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time."

"I'm sure it did." – The pressure on the wound shifted slightly, and Eureka hissed. – "You have excellent instincts for analysis and terrible instincts for self-preservation. It's a fascinating combination."

"Glad you're entertained."

"Oh, I'm not entertained." – Something in his tone had gone darker. – "I'm concerned. There's a difference."

The house materialized faster than seven minutes should have allowed, and then Hannibal was helping Eureka out of the car, through the door, down a hallway that was too elegant to be seeing this much blood, into a room that looked like a private clinic crossed with a museum.

"Sit." – Hannibal instructed, gesturing to the examination table. – "Or lie down, if sitting is too much."

Eureka sat, mostly because the alternative was falling, and watched as Hannibal moved through the space with practiced efficiency. Gathering supplies, washing hands, pulling on gloves with the snap of someone who'd done this thousands of times.

"First, we need to remove your shirt." – Hannibal said, matter-of-fact, already moving closer. – "I can't work through fabric."

Eureka's hands moved to the hem automatically, then stopped. 

"I can do it myself, Hannibal."

"Can you?" – Hannibal's eyebrow lifted. – "You're shaking, as far as I'm concerned. Blood loss and shock don't pair well with fine motor control. Let me help."

Before Eureka could protest, Hannibal's hands were there; careful, clinical, easing the fabric up and over. His fingers brushed against skin, warm and steady, lingering just slightly longer than necessary at the shoulders, at the curve of waist as the shirt passed over.

"There." – he murmured. – "Much better."

The exposure was immediate and visceral. 

Cold air against skin, Hannibal's gaze traveling across the revealed expanse with an attention that felt less medical and more... cataloging. Like a collector examining a new acquisition.

"Beautiful proportions." – Hannibal observed quietly, his hand already moving to assess the wound. Fingers traced the edge carefully, but his palm rested against the curve of Eureka's side with unnecessary linger. – "Classically built. The blade missed anything vital, fortunately, though it came very close."

His thumb pressed gently into the soft flesh where waist met hip, ostensibly checking for additional damage, lingering there.

"You should see to the wound." – Eureka said, voice tight.

"I am." – But his hand remained a moment longer before he stepped back to retrieve supplies. – "Though I must admit… medical detachment has its limits."

He returned with antiseptic, bandaging, and a glass of water with pills dissolved in it, the liquid slightly cloudy. He held it out with that same patient expression.

"What is it?" 

Eureka asked, not taking the glass.

"Ibuprofen for inflammation and pain. A mild muscle relaxant, too. Your body is already trying to guard the injury, which will make suturing difficult. And something to take the edge off the anxiety. All standard for this type of procedure." – His voice was perfectly professional, perfectly reasonable. – "It will make the next hour significantly more bearable."

Eureka stared at the glass. Every instinct said not to take anything from his hands, but the alternative…

"Or," – Hannibal continued, setting the glass down on the tray beside him, – "I can work without medication. Raw suturing. You'll feel every needle pierce, every thread pull. It's quite painful, though. I've done it before on patients who refused sedation. They typically change their minds around the third stitch, but by then we're committed to the process." 

He picked up the suture needle, let Eureka see it. 

"Your choice entirely."

The memory surfaced unbidden, and he hid his grin under a tilted head to a direction Eureka wouldn't see. Months ago, a paper cut on her index finger during one of his lectures, the sharp sting that had made her gasp audibly. Hannibal had noticed, of course. Had offered a bandage with that slight smile, commented on pain thresholds and how they varied person to person.

He knew. He knew she couldn't handle pain well, and he was using it.

Eureka reached for the glass.

"Wise choice." – Hannibal murmured, and his satisfaction was palpable.

The water was cool, bitter underneath the attempt to mask it with something else. Eureka drank it all because stopping halfway seemed more dangerous than finishing.

"Good girl." – he praised softly, taking the empty glass. – "Now, let's begin. This will sting."

The antiseptic was fire, and Hannibal's free hand came to rest on Eureka's hip. Steadying, he would claim, though his fingers pressed into the hollow there with deliberate firmness.

"Breathe through it.” – he instructed, but his thumb moved in a small circle against bare skin, the gesture unmistakably intimate despite the clinical context.

Within minutes, warmth began spreading through Eureka's chest: artificial, chemical, more intense than what he'd described. The edges of everything softened. Her head felt heavy, thoughts slowing like honey.

"How are you feeling?" – Hannibal asked, his hands now preparing the suture.

"Fuzzy," – Eureka managed.

"Fuzzy is better than agonized." – His hands were working now, cleaning the wound with careful attention. – "You're lucky, you know. Another inch to the left and we'd be having a very different conversation in a very different location."

"Lucky. Right."

"You don't feel lucky?"

"I feel like I drank something you gave me and now you're touching me with sharp objects." – The filter between thought and speech had definitely weakened. – "Seems suboptimal."

Hannibal laughed – actually laughed, quiet and genuine. 

"I promise the sharp objects are medicinal in nature. Though I appreciate your consistency. Even drugged and bleeding, you're suspicious of me."

"You're a suspicious person."

"Am I?" – The suture needle pierced skin, and Eureka felt it but distantly, like hearing about pain secondhand. – "I'm a psychiatrist who's helping a colleague. Quite altruistic, really."

"Altruistic." – The word was hard to pronounce. Everything was getting softer, warmer, more difficult to hold onto. – "You don't do things for free."

"Perhaps I like you."

"You like that I'm interesting. Different thing." – A pause, then she adverted the topic. – "You said mild."

"I said it would make things easier. There may have been some additional anxiolytic compounds. You were quite tense, and tension makes suturing more difficult." – His voice held no apology. – "Don't worry. You're simply more relaxed now. More... receptive to treatment."

He began the second stitch, and his other hand pressed flat against Eureka's stomach – supposedly to keep her steady, but the touch spread wider than necessary, palm hot against soft skin.

"You have excellent bone structure." – he said while threading the suture, conversational. – "I've thought about that before. The architecture of you."

"That's weird." – Eureka said, but the words came out slower than intended.

"Is it?" – The needle pierced skin, and she felt it again distantly, dulled. – "I appreciate aesthetics. You're aesthetically compelling."

His hand on her stomach moved slightly, fingers tracing the curve where waist dipped inward, thumb brushing just beneath the band of her bra. Not quite inappropriate, but close enough to feel deliberate.

Each stitch was accompanied by touch that wasn't quite clinical. His hand at the small of her back, ostensibly for support but fingers pressing into the curve there with clear appreciation. His palm across her sternum to "monitor breathing," the weight of it heavy and warm against her chest. Then it curved around her side, thumb stroking along her waist, following the line where flesh gave most readily.

"Remarkable." – Hannibal murmured, more to himself. – "Such elegant proportions. Well-fed. Healthy." 

His hand squeezed once at her waist, testing softness. 

"Phenomenal, really."

He trailed off, lost in thought, and the images in his mind were sharper now: how this flesh would present properly prepared, how the marbling would be exquisite, how someone who ate well and lived fully would taste different from the lean, stringy desperation of most of his acquisitions. The softness would yield differently under a blade, would cook differently, would offer a completely different textural experience.

His mouth watered.

"You're staring." – Eureka said, words slurred.

"I'm concentrating." 

But his hand slid down to rest on her thigh, nowhere near the injury, fingers pressing into plush flesh there with unmistakable appreciation.

In his mind, the images were sharper now: how these ribs would look displayed, how the muscle structure would present if separated from bone, whether the organs would be as pristine as the exterior suggested. He thought about consumption, about communion, about making someone part of yourself in the most literal way possible.

"You're touching me a lot."

"I'm treating your wound. Touch is necessary." – His other hand rested just below her ribs, curved around the soft abundance of her waist. 

"Does it bother you?"

"Yes."

"Good." 

The word was soft, pleased, and his hand squeezed once – testing density, appreciating fullness – before returning to the legitimate work of suturing. 

"It should. Self-preservation is healthy." 

Though not particularly effective when you were this soft, this yielding, this perfectly proportioned for–

He caught that thought, tucked it away for later examination, refocused on the medical work that was providing such excellent excuse for exploration.

Another stitch. Hannibal's breath was warm against Eureka's shoulder as he leaned in to examine his work, and the proximity was suffocating, deliberate, a reminder that all the space in the room belonged to him.

"Almost finished." – he told her, and there was regret in his tone. – "Pity. I'm quite enjoying this."

"Enjoying stitching me up?"

"Enjoying having you here. Knowing you can't run this time." 

His fingers brushed along the completed sutures, checking tension, but the touch was appreciative. Possessive, to some extent. 

"You're very beautiful like this. Vulnerable. Trusting me with your flesh."

The drugs had smoothed away alarm, leaving only fuzzy awareness and heavy inevitability.

"I don't trust you."

"No." – Hannibal agreed, tying off the final stitch. – "But you're letting me touch you anyway. The body knows what the mind refuses to acknowledge."

His hands – both of them now, medical pretense dropped – spread across her ribs, mapping the terrain, feeling the flutter of pulse, the warmth beneath his palms.

"You're staring." 

Eureka said again, thick and slow.

"I am." – He didn't deny it. – "You're worth staring at."

One hand lifted to cup her face, tilting it toward him. They were close enough that she could see the dilation in his own pupils, the slight parting of his lips.

"So fragile." – he murmured, thumb tracing her lower lip. – "Such delicate machinery. It's remarkable how much trust it takes to let someone this close to all your vulnerable places."

Another beat of silence.

"You're quiet." – Hannibal observed. – "The medication?"

"... Tired."

"That's normal. Blood loss and sedation don't pair well with consciousness." – Another stitch, another small pull of sensation that Eureka felt through layers of chemical cotton. – "Almost done. Just a few more, and then you can rest."

"Can't rest here."

"Why not? I have guest rooms. You remember, I offered you one once before. You declined then, but you're hardly in a position to decline now." – His smile was visible in peripheral vision, sharp and pleased. – "Consider it medical necessity. You shouldn't be alone tonight, and the hospital would only pump you full of more drugs and keep you in fluorescent lighting. This is much more comfortable."

The logic was sound, which made it more dangerous. Eureka's head was getting heavy, listing slightly to one side before conscious thought could correct it.

"Easy." 

Hannibal's hand – the one not holding the needle – came up to steady, fingers curling against Eureka's jaw with impossible gentleness. 

"Don't fight it. You're safe here."

"Don't feel safe."

"No." – Hannibal agreed once again in the night, thumb brushing once across Eureka's cheekbone before returning to the wound. – "You feel trapped. But trap and safety can coexist, can't they? The mouse in the cat's mouth might be caught, but it's also warm. Protected from other predators. Sometimes surrender is the most pragmatic option."

"You're comparing yourself to a cat with a mouse."

"I'm comparing you to someone too intelligent to miss metaphors even while medicated." 

The last stitch went in, and Hannibal tied it off with careful precision. 

"There. All finished. You'll be sore for a while, but barring infection, this should heal cleanly."

He stepped back, snapping off the gloves, disposing of them with practiced efficiency. When he returned, he had a blanket and that same expression of patient victory.

"Guest room." – he said, not quite a question. – "Or I can call Jack to collect you and explain that you're concussed, drugged, and really should be supervised for the next several hours."

The choice wasn't a choice. Jack would worry. Will would ask questions. And the thought of moving, of getting back in a car, of doing anything other than lying down somewhere soft was overwhelming.

"Guest room." – Eureka conceded, hating every word.

"Excellent." – His smile was radiant with satisfaction.

His arm came around her waist, supporting weight that had become difficult to manage, and they moved through the house together. 

Prey and predator, patient and doctor.

The guest room was elegant: soft lighting, softer bed, cream and burgundy. Hannibal deposited her onto the mattress with surprising gentleness, arranging pillows with care.

"Rest." – he told her, pulling the blanket up. – "I'll check on you periodically through the night. If you need anything, I'm just down the hall."

"That's not comforting."

"It wasn't meant to be comforting. It was meant to be honest." – He paused in the doorway, backlit by hallway light. – "Sleep well, Eureka. We'll talk more in the morning."

The door closed with a soft click.

Alone in the dark, in Hannibal Lecter's house, drugged and injured and exactly where every instinct had said not to be, Eureka stared at the ceiling. The medication made decisions academic. Sleep arrived like a wave, pulling her under into dreams that tasted like expensive wine and felt like being held too tight.

Somewhere in the house, Hannibal was probably smiling.

The bastard.

Chapter Text

Hannibal had been thinking about Eureka for six hours, which was four hours longer than he typically devoted to anyone who wasn't actively on his dinner menu.

The thought gave him pause.

He stood in his kitchen, preparing osso buco that would never include the marrow he truly wanted, and considered the nature of his interest. It was a question that deserved honest examination, and Hannibal prided himself on self-awareness even when, especially when, that awareness revealed things that would horrify lesser minds.

Sexual desire was straightforward. He understood it the way he understood any biological imperative. Mechanical, chemical, fundamentally boring in its predictability. Hannibal had experienced it, certainly. Had acted on it when the theater of romance served his purposes. But it was always performance, always a means to an end, the way a wine pairing enhanced a meal without being the meal itself.

With Eureka, the calculus was different.

There was aesthetic appreciation, certainly. Those proportions were objectively pleasing. The curve and softness, the kind of figure that artists had spent centuries trying to capture because some part of the human hindbrain recognized it as ideal. When Eureka had been on his examination table, shirt removed, skin exposed in the clinical lighting of his office, Hannibal had felt his body respond in ways that were distinctly, inconveniently human.

The curve of breast, soft and full, rising and falling with each breath. 

The dip of waist, the generous swell of hip. 

The way flesh gave under his fingers when he touched: ostensibly medical, actually exploratory. 

He'd felt heat pool low in his abdomen, felt his pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with medical professionalism.

He'd wanted to touch more. 

Wanted to map every inch of that skin with his hands, his mouth. Wanted to feel the weight of those curves against him, wanted to hear what sounds Eureka would make when touched with intent rather than clinical precision. The thought of Eureka beneath him, soft and yielding and finally, finally accessible, it had a pull that was distinctly carnal.

So yes, sexual desire was present. His body was human enough to respond to beauty, to softness, to the particular appeal of someone who was both intellectually compelling and physically abundant. There were nights when he thought about it.

About peeling away those professional layers, about discovering whether Eureka's control extended to physical intimacy or whether it would fracture under the right pressure.

But, and this was crucial, the sexual desire felt like a subset of something larger. A component of hunger rather than the hunger itself.

The sexual urge told him to possess this body, make it yield, hear it cry out. The cannibalistic urge told him to consume this body, make it part of yourself, carry its essence forward. Both were forms of hunger, but one was temporary satisfaction and the other was permanent unity.

He'd touched Eureka's skin and thought about both. About the heat of arousal and the heat of cooking. About penetration and consumption. About the sounds of pleasure and the sounds of yielding flesh under a very sharp knife.

The fact that both thoughts could coexist, could intertwine, could feel equally compelling was what made her so fascinating. Most people inspired one appetite or the other. She inspired both, and Hannibal couldn't quite decide which would be more satisfying to pursue.

He wanted to open her up. Literally. Wanted to see what made that mind work, whether the brain would look different from others he'd examined, whether intelligence had a texture or flavor profile, like how people in that Southern country enjoy eating raw brains of monkeys. Wanted to know if someone who understood him so clearly would taste different from the dull, uncomprehending meat he typically consumed.

There was intimacy in that desire. The most profound intimacy possible – to make someone part of yourself, to consume their essence, to carry them forward in your own continued existence. 

Sex was penetration. Consumption was unity.

The osso buco required attention. Hannibal turned the veal shanks with practiced precision, watching the Maillard reaction transform the surface, thinking about transformation more generally.

The problem – if it was a problem – was that Eureka was too interesting to eat immediately.

This was unusual. Hannibal's typical pattern was straightforward: identify the rude, the boring, the ones who cluttered the world with their aggressive mediocrity and remove them. Improve them through careful preparation then serve them to people who would never know they were participating in his art.

But Eureka wasn't rude nor mediocre. Was, in fact, probably one of the only people Hannibal had met who could follow his thoughts into the dark places and emerge not just intact but amused by the journey.

That first conversation about the Chesapeake Ripper about carpentry, logistics and the practical problem-solving required to position a body in anatomically impossible ways had been revelatory. Most people couldn't discuss his work without moral posturing, nor the tedious weight of ethical consideration. She had simply analyzed the technique, appreciated the craftsmanship, understood the art without needing to condemn it.

It was foreplay of a kind. Just not sexual foreplay.

Hannibal added wine to the pan, watched it deglaze, inhaled the sharp complexity of alcohol meeting fat and heat.

So not sexual desire, or not primarily. Aesthetic appreciation, certainly. Cannibalistic urge, absolutely. But there was something else, something that sat uncomfortably in his taxonomy of appetites.

Possessiveness.

He'd felt it acutely during those months of lectures, watching Eureka sit in the third row, never quite giving him full attention, always maintaining that careful distance. The flight to Sicily – the obvious lie for that elegant retreat – had been infuriating precisely because it was well-executed. Eureka had seen what he was and had chosen to leave before he could properly sink his teeth in.

Metaphorically. Or perhaps not entirely metaphorically.

The injury had been a gift from the universe. Eureka in his home, on his table, drugged and soft and unable to run. Hannibal had touched every inch of exposed skin with medical justification, had felt the give of flesh under his fingers, had imagined approximately forty-seven different ways to prepare each section of that abundant body.

But he'd also been hard. Inconveniently, distractingly hard, in a way he hadn't experienced with a patient in years. The softness under his hands, the small sounds she made when the sutures pulled, it had all coalesced into arousal that was both unexpected and undeniable.

He'd wanted to push Eureka down onto that examination table and find out if all that softness felt as good as it looked when pressed against him. Wanted to see if he could make Eureka make different sounds. 

Not pain. Pleasure. 

Wanted to watch those dark eyes go hazy with something other than drugs.

The fact that Eureka was also drugged, injured, and completely at his mercy had only intensified the appeal. Power was aphrodisiac. Vulnerability in someone usually so controlled was intoxicating.

He'd managed his arousal through clinical detachment and the knowledge that acting on it would be strategically foolish. But the want had been there, visceral and demanding, layered underneath and intertwined with the other hunger.

The one that wanted to peel back skin and examine what lay beneath.

When he'd cupped Eureka's face, thumb tracing that lower lip, he'd thought about both. About claiming that mouth with his own, about tasting it in the conventional sense. And about tasting it in the other sense. Prepared properly, seasoned well, understanding its construction through consumption.

The duality was maddening. Arousing in its own right.

But he hadn't.

The osso buco was nearly ready. Hannibal prepared the gremolata – lemon zest, garlic, parsley – with the mechanical precision of someone whose hands knew the work while his mind wandered elsewhere.

The question was: why hadn't he?

Opportunity had been perfect. Eureka was isolated, drugged, injured. No one would have questioned if something had gone wrong during treatment. Accidents happened. Blood loss was unpredictable. He could have had everything he wanted. The flesh, the organs, the brain he was so curious about. Could have finally satisfied the hunger that had been building since that first conversation about anatomical impossibilities.

Instead, he'd stitched Eureka up carefully, provided appropriate medication, tucked that soft body into his guest bed like something precious.

Hannibal plated the osso buco with deliberate artistry, each element positioned according to principles of composition that most people couldn't articulate but everyone responded to.

The conclusion was uncomfortable: he didn't want to eat Eureka because eating Eureka would end Eureka, and he wasn't ready for that ending.

This was unprecedented.

Hannibal had delayed gratification before. Hunting required patience, preparation took time, and the anticipation was often as delicious as the consumption. 

This was different. 

This was recognizing that some appetites couldn't be satisfied without destroying the thing that created the appetite in the first place.

He wanted to eat Eureka. But he also wanted to talk to Eureka, to watch that mind work, to see what Eureka would do next. Those desires were mutually exclusive.

It was rather like the paradox of Schrödinger's cat, except the cat was a person, and the box was Hannibal's kitchen, and the quantum state was "consumed" versus "preserved for further observation."

He ate his dinner alone, as always, and tried to decide which appetite deserved priority.

—

The situation became more complicated when Will Graham entered the equation.

Hannibal had been treating Will for months now. Interesting case, fascinating mind, all that empathy turning septic without proper guidance. He'd been carefully cultivating Will's instability, nudging him toward useful directions, enjoying the project of corruption the way a gardener enjoyed training a particularly promising vine.

Then Eureka had returned, pulled into Jack's orbit as a consultant, and suddenly Will had a friend.

Hannibal noticed it during a session, watching Will's body language shift when discussing a recent case. Less tension. More animation. The kind of ease that came from connection and being understood.

"Eureka's interesting." 

Will said, unprompted, staring at Hannibal's ceiling the way he always did when avoiding eye contact. 

"Doesn't push. Doesn't try to fix anything. Just... sees the patterns and lets them be."

"You've grown close." 

Not a question.

"Close enough. We get coffee sometimes. Talk about cases. Normal friend stuff." – Will's fingers drummed against the arm of the couch. – "It's nice having someone who doesn't expect me to be okay all the time."

Something cold and sharp crystallized in Hannibal's chest.

He recognized it, cataloged it, examined it with clinical detachment: jealousy. Not sexual jealousy: he had no sexual claim on Will, no sexual interest in him either. But possessive jealousy nonetheless. The jealousy of a collector watching someone else handle a piece from his gallery.

Will was his project. Eureka was his fascination. Having them form attachments to each other felt like watching his possessions consorting without permission.

"I'm glad you're finding support." – Hannibal said, perfectly sincere in tone, absolutely lying in substance. – "Friendship is important for your wellbeing."

Will made a noncommittal sound. 

"Eureka gets it. The way patterns stick in your head. The way you can't unsee things once you've seen them. Doesn't try to therapy it away."

Because Eureka understands that the patterns are the point, Hannibal thought. Because Eureka sees the same things I do, just from a different angle.

"Perhaps we should invite Eureka to dinner." – he suggested, casual, already planning the menu. – "If you're comfortable with that. It might be interesting to observe your dynamic."

Observe. Evaluate. Remind both of them exactly who was the apex predator in this particular ecosystem.

Will shrugged. 

"Sure. Might be nice. Though Eureka's weird about food. Claims to be vegetarian but I've seen the way she looked at my burger. Mixed signals."

Hannibal smiled. Yes. He'd noticed that too. Another lie, another layer of defense. Eureka was excellent at misdirection, but Hannibal was excellent at seeing through it.

The dinner was scheduled for the following week.

—

Watching them together was educational.

Eureka arrived exactly on time, dressed in that familiar beige cardigan over a dark turtleneck, carrying wine that was probably expensive enough to be respectful but not expensive enough to be competitive. Will was already there, comfortable in Hannibal's space in the way Eureka never was, sprawled on the couch like a stray cat that had decided this was acceptable territory.

"Hey." – Eureka waved, and Will grinned. Actually grinned, which was rare enough to be notable.

"Hey yourself. Hannibal's making something that probably costs more than my rent."

"That's a low bar. Your rent is depressing." 

Eureka settled into the chair. Not the couch next to Will, Hannibal noticed, maintaining distance even in friendship, and looked around with that analytical gaze that saw too much. 

"Still a nice place. Very... you."

"Thank you." – Hannibal said from the kitchen doorway. – "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't an insult." – A pause. – "Wasn't entirely a compliment either."

Will laughed, the sound easy and unguarded, and Hannibal felt that cold sharp thing twist again in his chest.

Dinner was duck. 

Not because of any symbolic resonance, but because duck was elegant and Hannibal wanted to watch Eureka's face when confronted with obviously non-vegetarian fare.

"I prepared a vegetarian alternative," – he said while plating, –  "but I recall you expressing some flexibility in your dietary restrictions during our last encounter."

Eureka's expression flickered – caught, aware of being caught, deciding whether to maintain the fiction.

"The injury changed some things." – Eureka told him finally. – "Doctor's orders. Needed the iron."

A lie, but a decent one. Hannibal allowed it with a small smile.

The meal proceeded with surprising ease. Will and Eureka had a rapport that was comfortable, familiar, built on shared understanding of darkness without needing to discuss it explicitly. They talked about a case, some killer in Minnesota who was leaving bodies in increasingly theatrical arrangements, and their conversation was a tennis match of analysis and insight.

Hannibal watched, contributed, played the host. Beneath the social performance, he was cataloging every interaction, every moment of connection between them, every instance of easy understanding that reminded him uncomfortably of what he and Eureka had once almost had.

"You're quiet." 

Eureka observed, looking directly at him for the first time since the meal began.

"I'm listening. Your analysis of the Minnesota case is quite thorough."

"Will did most of it. I'm just bouncing off his framework." – Eureka took a sip of wine, and those dark eyes stayed fixed on Hannibal's face. — "You look like you're thinking something loud."

Will glanced between them, suddenly alert to subtext.

"I'm thinking," – Hannibal said carefully, – "that you two have developed quite the partnership. It's gratifying to see my patients and former colleagues finding meaningful connection."

The words were polite. The subtext was: I see what's happening here, and I'm allowing it for now, but don't forget who holds the cards.

Eureka's smile was small, sharp, knowing. 

"Gratifying. Sure. Let's call it that."

They understood each other perfectly, as always.

—

Later, after Will had left and Eureka was preparing to follow, Hannibal manufactured a reason to walk them to the door. Alone in the hallway, away from Will's empathic perception, the air changed temperature.

Eureka looked tired. The evening had clearly been an effort, maintaining social performance while navigating the complicated dynamic between the three of them. The cardigan had slipped slightly off one shoulder, and Hannibal found his gaze drawn to the exposed curve of neck, the soft slope down to collarbone.

He thought about putting his mouth there. About feeling Eureka's pulse against his tongue, about whether the skin would taste as good as it looked. About backing Eureka up against the wall and finding out exactly what sounds that careful control would fracture into under the right pressure.

"You're good for him." – Hannibal said, stepping slightly closer than the conversation required. Close enough that Eureka would feel the proximity, would have to actively choose whether to retreat or hold ground. – "Will needs stable influences."

"I'm not stable." 

Eureka held ground, but the pulse at that exposed throat jumped visibly.

"No. But you're consistent. That's more valuable than stability." 

He let his gaze drag deliberately down, then back up. It’s a clear assessment that had nothing to do with professional courtesy. 

"I'm pleased you've stayed in the area. No more trips to Sicily?"

Eureka's breath had gone slightly shallow. Noticed, then. Good.

"Sicily was crowded. Virginia has better... opportunities."

"For work?" – Hannibal shifted closer, and now they were definitely in each other's space, close enough that he could smell Eureka's perfume. 

Something subtle, probably expensive, definitely distracting.

"For various things." 

Eureka's hand was on the door handle, knuckles white with tension, but still not leaving yet. The body language was fascinating in his eyes. Wanting to flee, choosing to stay, caught between self-preservation and curiosity about what would happen next.

Hannibal let the silence develop, heavy and charged. He could close the distance. Could find out if Eureka would push him away or freeze or, interesting thought, respond.

"Thanks for dinner." – Eureka said finally, voice slightly rough. – "The duck was excellent."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. We should do this again. Perhaps without Will next time." 

He let his hand come to rest on the doorframe, beside Eureka's head—not trapping, but implying the possibility of trapping. Close enough that Eureka would feel the heat of his body, would have to look up to meet his eyes. 

"I find our private conversations so much more... engaging."

Eureka's pupils were dilated, breath coming faster now. Arousal or fear or both, the physiological responses were similar, and Hannibal found he enjoyed the ambiguity.

"Perhaps." 

But Eureka was already opening the door, already stepping through, body angling away from his proximity with visible effort.

This time, Hannibal let it happen. But as Eureka walked toward the car, he noticed the way those shoulders were tight, the way the steps were just slightly too quick to be casual.

Rattled. Good.

He closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, acknowledging his own arousal with clinical interest. The interaction had been charged, deliberately so. He'd wanted to see how Eureka would respond to overt attraction, to the implication of physical interest layered on top of all the other complicated dynamics between them.

The answer was aware and uneasy.

Also good.

Patience. Anticipation. The long game.

He closed the door and returned to his kitchen, began cleaning up the remnants of the meal, thought about the nature of hunger and possession and the complicated mathematics of wanting something without destroying it.

His body was still responding to the encounter in the hallway. Arousal hadn't fully subsided and the memory of Eureka's quickened pulse. That moment of charged possibility. He thought about what would have happened if he'd actually closed that distance. If he'd pressed Eureka against the wall, put his mouth on that exposed throat, found out whether all that control would shatter or hold.

The thought had appeal. Distinct, carnal appeal.

But layered underneath, or perhaps intertwined with, was the other hunger. The one that looked at the curve of that neck and thought about different kinds of claiming. About the taste of flesh, about preparation and consumption, about making Eureka part of himself in the most literal way possible.

Both desires existed simultaneously. Both felt urgent, compelling, necessary.

He could seduce Eureka. Probably. He could pursue that, could satisfy the conventional appetite, could discover what sounds Eureka would make and how that soft body would feel and whether the intellectual connection would translate to physical chemistry.

But seduction was temporary. Consumption was permanent.

The conclusion was uncomfortable, yet undeniable. He wanted Eureka. Wanted to possess, to claim, to consume, to understand completely that little one. The sexual component was real – his body's response proved that – but it felt like an appetizer rather than the main course. A prelude to something more fundamental.

Because sex was about pleasure, about connection, about two bodies finding mutual satisfaction.

What Hannibal wanted was unity. Taking someone inside himself, literally, making them part of his continued existence. About the ultimate intimacy of consumption.

He dried the last glass, put it away, stood in his immaculate kitchen, and acknowledged the truth. Eureka was the most interesting person he'd met in decades. Possibly ever. And that made Eureka simultaneously the most precious thing in his collection and the most dangerous.

Because the things we find most precious are the things we most want to consume.

And the things most dangerous are the things we can't bring ourselves to destroy.

Though perhaps, and here was an interesting thought, perhaps he could have both. Not simultaneously, but sequentially. Seduce first, consume later. Enjoy the conventional pleasures while building toward the ultimate intimacy. The anticipation would make both experiences richer.

Hannibal smiled at the darkness beyond his window and began planning their next encounter. There were so many ways this could develop. So many potential outcomes.

All of them delicious.

Most of them fatal.

Some of them, perhaps, worth postponing for the pleasure of prolonged anticipation. Both kinds of pleasure, both kinds of anticipation.

Time would tell which appetite won.

Or whether, fascinatingly, he could satisfy both.

Chapter Text

The alley behind the opera house was not where Eureka had planned to be at 11PM on a Thursday, but the shortcut to the parking garage required passing through it, and the alternative was a fifteen-minute detour that felt unnecessary.

Until it wasn't.

The figure slumped against the brick wall was familiar even in the dim lighting – the cut of the coat, the particular way the shoulders held tension even in collapse. Eureka stopped, every instinct screaming to keep walking, to not get involved, to pretend this was someone else's problem.

But Hannibal Lecter looked up, and even in the shadows his eyes were sharp, aware, calculating despite whatever had put him on the ground.

"Eureka." – His voice was steady, which was somehow more alarming than if he'd been slurring. – "How fortuitous."

"What happened?" 

The question was automatic, professional detachment sliding into place even as every rational thought said to run.

"A disagreement with someone who lacked proper dinner etiquette." – Hannibal shifted, and the movement revealed the dark stain spreading across his side. – "I'm afraid I need to impose on your assistance."

"You need an ambulance."

"No." – His word was sharp. Final. – "I need you to help me to your car, drive me to your residence, and provide basic medical care. Nothing that requires hospital involvement."

"That's– I'm not doing that. You need actual medical attention."

"And if you call emergency services, I'll inform the responding officers that you were present during the altercation. That in fact, you participated in it. I'm quite convincing when injured, and my word carries considerable weight with local law enforcement." – His smile was terrible, all teeth and threat despite the blood.  – "So you have two choices: help me now, or explain to Detective Kowalski why you fled the scene of an assault."

The calculation was instant and ugly: fight this battle or concede to fight a different one later. Hannibal had always been better at long-term strategy, and Eureka was too tired to argue with a bleeding man who would absolutely make good on his threat.

"You're a bastard."

"Yes. But a bastard who needs your car within the next ten minutes before blood loss becomes a more pressing concern than legal threats."

---

Getting Hannibal into the passenger seat was like maneuvering a very polite, very dangerous piece of furniture. He was heavy – solid muscle under expensive fabric – and even injured, he moved with more control than most people managed while healthy.

"My place is twenty minutes away." – Eureka said, starting the engine. – "You better not die in my car."

"I'll do my best to accommodate your upholstery concerns." 

The drive was silent except for Hannibal's breathing, which remained disturbingly steady. When Eureka glanced over at red lights, he was watching, always watching, even while bleeding into the leather seat.

The apartment was small, utilitarian, nothing like Hannibal's elegant house. He looked around with clinical interest while Eureka cleared the couch, spread towels, tried to remember where the first aid kit was.

"Bathroom." – Eureka shuffled through the things. – "We need to get you cleaned up so I can see what we're dealing with."

"How efficient." 

But Hannibal was already standing, already moving toward the indicated door with that same unsettling grace.

The bathroom was cramped with both of them in it. Eureka started the shower, kept it lukewarm, turned to find Hannibal watching with that particular expression that meant he was thinking things that should stay internal thoughts.

"I need to–" – Eureka gestured at Hannibal's coat. – "The clothes have to come off."

"How forward." 

But he was already shrugging out of the coat, hissing slightly when the movement pulled at whatever damage lay beneath.

The shirt followed, and the wound became visible: a deep gash along his ribs, nasty but probably not fatal if treated properly. Knife wound, definitely. Clean edges.

"In the shower." – Eureka instructed, trying to maintain professional distance while staring at Hannibal Lecter's bare torso in the terrible fluorescent lighting. – "I need to clean this before I can do anything else."

Hannibal complied, stepping under the spray fully clothed from the waist down, which was probably for the best given the circumstances. Eureka grabbed a clean washcloth, moved closer, started cleaning away the blood with careful efficiency.

This close, the intimacy was unavoidable. Water sluicing over skin, Eureka's hands on Hannibal's ribs, the heat of the shower and the heat of bodies in close proximity. Hannibal's breathing had changed. It’s still steady, but deeper, more deliberate.

"You're very gentle." – he observed.

"I'm trying not to make it worse."

"Mm." – His hand came up, ostensibly to steady himself against the tile, but the movement brought him closer. – "You know, I've thought about having you in a bathroom. Though the context was rather different."

Eureka's hands stilled. 

"Don't."

"Don't what? Don't acknowledge that we're both aware of the tension between us? Don't mention that you're currently touching me while I'm half-undressed and bleeding?" – His voice had dropped lower, more intimate. – "Or don't act on it?"

"All of the above." – Eureka stepped back, putting distance between them. – "Get out and dry off. I'll get bandages."

The wound was clean now, visible in its full extent. Deep enough to require stitches that Eureka wasn't qualified to provide but would have to attempt anyway. Hannibal emerged from the shower, towel around his waist, water still beading on his chest and shoulders, and the domesticity of it was so at odds with who he was that it created cognitive dissonance.

"Sit." – Eureka told him, gesturing to the closed toilet lid.

He sat.

The first aid kit yielded butterfly bandages, antiseptic, gauze. Not enough, but it would have to be. Eureka worked in silence, hyperaware of every point of contact. Fingers on skin, the occasional brush of knuckles, the warmth radiating from Hannibal's body.

"You're very good at this." – Hannibal murmured. – "Have you done it before?"

"A few times."

"For whom?"

"People who couldn't go to hospitals for various reasons." – Eureka applied the last butterfly closure, reaching for the gauze. – "Don't read into it."

"I always read into things. It's my nature." – His hand caught Eureka's wrist, gentle but unmovably firm. – "Look at me."

"I'm trying to finish–"

"Look at me."

Eureka looked up, met those eyes that saw too much, and felt something in the air shift dangerously.

"Thank you." – Hannibal said, and the sincerity in his voice was somehow more frightening than any threat had been. – "For not leaving me there. For bringing me here. For taking care of me despite every intelligent instinct telling you to run."

"You didn't give me a choice."

"I gave you the illusion of no choice, actually." – His thumb stroked once across Eureka's pulse point. – "You could have called my bluff. Could have dropped me at an ER entrance and disappeared. But you didn't."

"You would have–"

"I would have done nothing. The threat was empty." – His smile was small, genuine, terrible. – "But you believed it, and that belief brought you here, and now we're in your bathroom with very little between us and a great deal of possibility."

Eureka tried to pull away. Hannibal's grip tightened.

"I'm not done bandaging–"

"Yes, you are. The wound is closed, cleaned, sufficient for tonight." 

He stood, and suddenly the small bathroom felt even smaller, Hannibal's presence filling all available space. 

"What's not done is this."

"This?"

"Us. This dynamic we've been dancing around. The way I've wanted to touch you since that first lecture." – He took a step closer, and Eureka took one back, spine hitting the sink. – "I've been very patient. Remarkably patient. But patience has limits, and blood loss makes one... impulsive."

"You're injured. You need to rest."

"I'm functional enough for what I want." – Another step, and now Hannibal was right there, close enough that Eureka could feel the heat radiating from his skin. – "And I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you. Under me, against me, finally within reach."

His hand came up to cup Eureka's face, thumb tracing the line of jaw with inappropriate tenderness.

"Don't." 

Eureka breathed, but the word came out breathless, uncertain.

"Don't?" – Hannibal leaned in, mouth at her ear. – "Or don't stop?"

Then his lips were on Eureka's neck, hot and demanding, and rational thought scattered. Eureka's hands came up to push him away, but Hannibal caught them both, gathered and then pinned them against the sink while his mouth traveled up the column of throat.

"Stop–" 

Eureka tried to twist away. Hannibal's other hand fisted in her hair, tilting the head back, exposing more throat. His teeth scraped skin, not quite biting. Promising to. 

"I've thought about this. About tasting you, touching you, hearing what sounds you make when you can't maintain that careful control."

"You're– this is–" 

Words were failing, scattering under the assault of sensation.

"This is honest." 

His mouth found hers, demanding, consuming, and the kiss was nothing like the clinical touches in his office had been. This was hunger, raw and undisguised, Hannibal's tongue sliding past lips, claiming territory with the confidence of someone who'd already decided the outcome.

She bit him.

Hannibal pulled back with a sharp inhale, blood on his lip, and his expression was incandescent with something between rage and arousal. 

"Spirited. I appreciate that."

"Get off–" 

Eureka shoved at his chest, forgetting the injury, and Hannibal grunted but didn't move. Instead, he spun her around, pressed that body against the sink, used his weight to pin. 

"No. I don't think I will."

"Stop– Hannibal–" 

Panic was starting to override everything else. This was bad. This was so bad. All those calculated distances, all that careful management, and now he was here, in her apartment, injured and somehow still stronger, and there was nowhere to run.

"Shh." 

His mouth was at her ear again. He’d released her just to use one hand to wrap around both wrists, the other sliding down, over the curve of waist, hips, possessive and deliberate. 

"I'm not going to hurt you. Well, not permanently. But I am going to have what I want. What I've wanted since you sat in that third row and looked at me like you could see exactly what I was."

He bit down on the junction of neck and shoulder, hard enough to leave marks, and Eureka cried out. Surprise, pain, something else that didn't have a name.

"There." – Hannibal murmured against bruising skin. – "That's better. I want to hear you. Want to know what you sound like when you stop thinking and start feeling."

His hand slid under her shirt, palm hot against skin, fingers splaying across ribs, thumb brushing the underside of breast through fabric. The touch was possessive, exploratory, mapping territory he'd only touched clinically before. She twisted hard, managed to get one hand free, swung back. Hannibal caught the arm, and the movement that followed was clinical, precise, agonizing: shoulder dislocating with a pop that sounded too loud in the small space.

The scream was involuntary, pain white-hot and consuming.

"Oh, sweetheart." – Hannibal cooed, and his voice was so gentle it made the violence worse. He turned her back around, took in the tears streaming down, the shoulder already swelling, and his expression was tender. – "I'm sorry. I am. But you keep fighting, and I can't allow that. The next thing I break will be something that doesn't heal as easily. Bones, perhaps. Small ones. Do you understand?"

Eureka understood. Understood that there was no winning here, no escape, that the predator had finally decided to stop playing and start taking.

"Please," – She whispered, hating the word but unable to stop it. – "Please don't."

"'Please don't' what? Please don't touch you?" – His fingers wiped away tears with surprising gentleness. – "Please don't want you? Please don't finally take what I've been patient enough to wait for?" 

He leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. 

"I'm afraid it's too late for 'please don't.' We're well past that now."

He gathered her up – easy, despite the injury, despite everything – and carried her out of the bathroom toward the bedroom, ignoring the whimpered protests, the useless struggling of one good arm.

"Shh." – he murmured again, laying her on the bed with surprising care given everything else. – "I know it hurts. I'll fix the shoulder after. I promise. But first–" 

He covered her body with his own, pinning effectively, mouth finding that neck again.

"--first, I'm going to have this. Have you. The way I've been thinking about for the years."

"Hannibal–" 

The name came out broken, wet with tears.

"Say it again." – His hand cupped Eureka's face, turning it toward him. – "Say my name like that.”

"Please, Lecter, you–"

"Perfect." 

His mouth crashed against hers again, swallowing the protests, the pleas, consuming everything with the same methodical hunger he brought to everything else. His hands were everywhere, cataloging curves, testing give, learning the geography of a body he'd only had clinical access to before.

Eureka was crying in earnest now. Pain, fear, helplessness, all bleeding together into tears that Hannibal kissed away with inappropriate tenderness.

"So soft." – he murmured against wet cheeks. – "So good for me. I knew you would be. Knew you'd feel like this under me. Better than I imagined, and I imagined this extensively."

His weight was crushing, inescapable. The dislocated shoulder screamed with every movement, every attempt to push him away. And Hannibal just kept touching, kept tasting, kept cooing soft reassurances that made everything worse.

"That's it." – he breathed against her throat. – "Stop fighting. Just let this happen. Let me have this. Let me have you." 

His hand slid down and she sobbed.

"I've wanted this for so long." – Hannibal whispered, mouth at her ear while his hands continued their exploration. – "Wanted to touch you like this, taste you like this, hear you cry for me. You have no idea how much restraint I've shown. How many times I could have taken this and didn't. But I'm done being patient. Done waiting for you to stop running."

"Please stop," – Eureka whispered, voice wrecked. – "Please, Hannibal, please–"

"No." 

Soft, final, gentle as a knife. 

"No, I don't think I will."

---

Later, much later, Hannibal fixed the shoulder with the same clinical precision he'd used to dislocate it. Eureka lay still, tears dried to salt tracks, body aching in too many places to count.

"There." – Hannibal said softly, testing the joint with careful fingers. – "All better. You'll be sore for a few days, but no permanent damage." 

He pressed a kiss to the abused shoulder, tender. – "I told you I'd fix it."

She said nothing. There was nothing to say. Hannibal gathered the broken body into his arms, held with possessive gentleness. 

"Sleep." – he murmured. – "You're exhausted. We both are. We'll talk about this in the morning."

As if this was something that could be talked about. As if this was anything other than what it was.

But her body, betrayed by pain and exhaustion and shock, was already sliding toward unconsciousness. The last thing processed was Hannibal's hand stroking through hair, his voice soft and satisfied:

"Finally."

Then nothing but dark, and the weight of him, and the inescapable knowledge that running had never been an option.

It had only ever been delayed capture.