12. Mea...culpa?

[orderfromchaos]

[Public, video]

[They're the kitchen of Dillon's parents' house: relentlessly suburban, a few southwestern touches, from the touristy Navajo-ish vase on the table to the sepia color palette, well-coordinated. There are floral magnets on the fridge, and one Hannibal Lecter humming as he makes what appears to be gourmet tomato soup and fresh-baked bread. He's wearing an open lab coat over his suit that he grabbed while attempting to join an infirmary shift, right before Dillon hurriedly hustled him out.]

I kind of...fixed him.

[Not like you fix a car; Hannibal wasn't broken, he was himself. Like you fix a dog.]

I thought it would wear off but it hasn't, and his room is the same so it doesn't count for graduation but I don't. Actually know how to undo it.

He's not faking, either.

[Voice pitched more deliberately across the room, though he hasn't been been whispering or anything; Hannibal could have heard him before if he was listening.

Hey, Hannibal, say sorry to the nice people.

[Hannibal pauses, sets down the wooden spoon and turns to the comm, contrite, shifting, a little uncertain.]

I'm terribly sorry for what I've done. It seems almost unreal, but I do not mean to belittle anyone's suffering. I apologize.

[Dillon waves him back to the soup.]


[Private to Jean]

I'm pretty sure what you do is more. Versatile, than mine. I know it's a lot to ask, but could you check and see if you can reverse it?

Comments

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[fireincarnate]

[Her lips curl, just slightly, as she glances at Dillon.]

You're not helping.

[It's more chiding than anything, though, and her expression smooths almost immediately.]

You're not whole, Hannibal. [Was he whole in the first place? No, that's not the point.] You can be like this again - kind, and gentle - but you need to want it. You need to make it happen yourself. And you can.

[She's not sure if it's a lie or not. He wouldn't be here if he couldn't change, but she doesn't know if he'll ever be kind. But right now, she's just trying to make it easier for the man in front of her.]

spam

[orderfromchaos]

[For a few seconds, he takes Hannibal's hand, lets his heartbeat resonate through the conch shell of Hannibal's current being, patterned and lovely as a pale pink Fibonacci spiral, brittle and empty and scoured clean.]

I'm sorry.

[Soft, sincere, for the shell and no one else; because he is Dillon's creature, because Dillon has always owed his creatures better than he could give them. Because he feels, even if he doesn't have a human's true complexity or independence. Because Dillon made him apologize, and it - fits.]

I'd have made you better if I knew how.

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[youwill]

[Hannibal's hand tightens on Dillon's, and his eyes, when they settle on his maker, are more expressive than they have ever been. He feels battered and broken, but whole, too: he could be made whole again, the spiderweb fractures filled in. But he will not be. Not like this.

He will remember the whys of everything he has done, but he will do those things again.

He lets out a short breath, and nods. The apology must be enough - Dillon is sorry that he will - vanish, disappear, die? Will it be like dying? Being replaced by another, darker entity? Someone else will come to fill his shell.

Hannibal nods.]

Thank you.