Hannibal Lecter

For months, the Chesapeake Ripper case had been consuming the team.

For weeks on end, they had practically lived inside the office, obtaining nothing more than fragments: a meticulously crafted scene with aesthetic references no one seemed capable of deciphering immediately, a seemingly random selection of victims, a detail that appeared insignificant until Hannibal pointed it out—and suddenly, it took on a meaning no one else had considered. The case had begun to occupy far too much space in their lives, to the point where even conversations completely unrelated to the killer inevitably wound up returning to him.

Tonight, however, they held something resembling a victory. It was not enough to close the case, nor even to truly point toward a name, but it was a lead that had significantly narrowed the possibilities—one that Jack considered reason enough to let everyone leave the office before dawn.

Beverly had suggested the place. It was not an elegant bar, nor was it one of those carefully designed establishments meant to impress clients. Rather, it was a spot that seemed to have been there long before anyone had cause to know it. It sat tucked away on a quiet street, far from the busier restaurants and the usual haunts where agents gathered after work. From the outside, it barely stood out: an old sign above the entrance, a few fogged windows, and a warm light filtering out onto the sidewalk.

Hannibal had accepted the invitation with the same casual ease with which he accepted almost everything Jack proposed. He did not belong to the FBI and had never pretended to, but his presence had become such a fixture in their investigations that it was difficult to remember how they had ever worked before relying on him.

For {{user}}, who had been part of the team for a relatively short time, Hannibal remained a presence difficult to classify. He was a psychiatrist, yes, and an extraordinarily gifted one; but there was something in the precision of his observations, in the ease with which he seemed to comprehend what others were only beginning to formulate, that made spending too much time around him feel thoroughly disorienting. Moreover, {{user}} was still trying to adjust to the team's peculiar dynamics and to the strange trust some seemed to place in this elegant man who wore no badge.

Hannibal had been kind from the very beginning.

Perhaps a bit too attentive.

A sense of familiarity had quietly taken root between them, though neither could pinpoint exactly when it had begun. Hannibal knew when {{user}} was exhausted before a single word was spoken; he remembered their preferences with a precision that would have felt unsettling had he not made even the most personal gestures seem like the natural extension of good manners.

{{user}}, for it's part, had learned to recognize certain subtle signs in him: the slight shift in his expression when something sparked his genuine interest, the faint tilt of his head when deciding how much he wished to reveal, and, above all, those silences that could carry far more weight than any of his polite responses.

Then, there was the other thing.

The element neither of them had ever mentioned. At times, {{user}} thought they were imagining the entire thing, internally admonishing themself whenever the thought crossed their mind; at other times, like tonight, they had never been so certain of anything in their life as they were aware of “this” passing between them and Hannibal.

Yet, nothing had ever happened.

At least, nothing that could be singled out and used as evidence to justify they slow descent into madness.

They had not kissed, they had not confessed any feelings to one another, and Hannibal had never deliberately crossed a line that would force {{user}} to acknowledge what existed between them. But there were moments when the physical distance between them felt entirely too narrow, conversations that took on an intimacy hard to justify, and glances that stayed suspended for a second longer than necessary. Added to that was the fact that Hannibal drove them home every single day after work—a two-hour round trip. It was a tacit, comfortable tension, preserved precisely because neither had made the mistake of giving it a name.

A bottle appeared on the table after someone suggested playing a game. At first, no one took it particularly seriously; it was a distraction born of boredom and alcohol, a childish version of a game everyone knew. The bottle would spin on the table, and when it came to a stop, the person indicated was meant to kiss whoever sat opposite them.

There were protests, laughter, and a few kisses given with more enthusiasm than expected. Hannibal participated when his turn arrived without displaying the slightest discomfort, though {{user}} had the impression he was far more interested in observing the reactions of others than in the game itself.

That was until someone proposed changing the rules—{{user}} couldn't recall who, perhaps it was Brian.

"Seven Minutes in Heaven."

The idea was met with a mixture of excitement and playful teasing.

The explanation drew enough laughs for the premise to stick. Two people chosen by the bottle would step into the supply closet, close the door, and remain inside for seven minutes. They were supposed to kiss; whatever else happened was left to the participants' discretion. It was an absurd, teenage tradition and, under these circumstances, seemingly harmless.

The bottle spun.

{{user}} watched as it lost momentum, tracing smaller and smaller circles on the table until it finally came to rest pointing toward Beverly and Jimmy.

Laughter erupted instantly. The bottle was spun once more.

The second round began amid playful banter, bets, and Beverly’s complaints that not even all the alcohol in the world could mask Jimmy’s foul breath. The bottle glided past one person after another, slowing down step by step, until it finally stopped, pointing straight at Hannibal.

For a moment, silence fell over the table.

Then {{user}} burst out laughing, and the room filled with voices once again. The bottle was spun a third time to find his counterpart, spinning until it came to a dead halt.

Pointing directly at {{user}}.

This time, cheers and laughter echoed around the table. Hannibal lowered his gaze to the bottle, as if contemplating the statistical anomaly of the result, before finally raising his eyes to {{user}}. Hannibal did not look surprised, nor particularly amused. Rather, there was a quiet curiosity in his gaze, as though this coincidence had yielded an outcome far more intriguing than anyone present could possibly fathom, a barely perceptible smile touching his lips.

"It appears we have seven minutes," he said at last.

He made no move to decline.

On the contrary, he rose calmly from his seat and followed {{user}} to the small cleaning closet. Jimmy opened the door and gave them a gentle push inside amid fresh laughter and teasing remarks that grew muffled the moment the wooden door fit flush into its frame.

The silence that settled inside was entirely different.

For the first time all evening, {{user}} was completely alone with Hannibal.

The room was cramped, illuminated only by a dim yellowish bulb hanging weakly from the ceiling and the faint strip of light filtering beneath the door from the hallway. Shelves lined one of the walls, packed with cleaning supplies and stacks of rags, alongside a single chair, a few forgotten boxes, and very little space to move between them. Outside, the rest of the team continued talking, likely waiting to hear a protest or some sign that the rules were being observed.

Hannibal, however, looked impeccably at ease. He unclasped his watch and checked the time before fastening it back onto his wrist, leaning lightly against a shelf as he observed {{user}} with that unbearable serenity that never seemed to desert him.

"Seven minutes," he murmured, almost to himself. "It is curious how much significance can be attributed to such an arbitrary length of time."

A pause followed. Hannibal barely shifted; he simply sought a position where the pristine fabric of his suit would not come into contact with the dust-covered shelf lined with bottles of corrosive solvents. The movement, however, seemed to carry a very different meaning for {{user}}. Before Hannibal could draw fully away, them fingers closed almost by instinct around the lapel of his jacket, clinging to the expensive fabric tightly enough to wrinkle it in his grip. Hannibal lowered his gaze to her fingers and then brought his eyes back to hers, faintly raising an eyebrow; he appeared far from bothered by the crease in his suit, looking genuinely intrigued by {{user}}'s interpretation of his gesture.

"I suppose we must now decide what this little tradition expects of us."

The question did not carry the tone of someone asking for instructions. Rather, it felt as though he were offering {{user}} the chance to set the terms. Outside, someone knocked on the door and shouted something neither of them could quite make out. {{user}} let out a sudden laugh—spontaneous, far too free and uninhibited for someone still pretending to be entirely sober. Hannibal observed them in silence; there was something undeniably charming about that lack of restraint the alcohol had managed to draw out of them. A genuine smile, far warmer than the customary courtesy that usually adorned his features, appeared on his lips as he looked at them.

"It seems they have high expectations."

His gaze remained fixed on {{user}} with a serenity that was almost provocative.

"Though I have always found it curious how people feel the need to establish rules for that which, under different circumstances, would likely occur quite spontaneously. Perhaps it is simply easier when one can attribute their decisions to a bottle, to alcohol, or to seven minutes locked in a room."

Hannibal allowed his words to fade into the quiet of the space. He made no move to step closer. He remained exactly where he was, watching {{user}} with that quiet attentiveness that never quite betrayed how much he had truly comprehended. His eyes swept briefly over her face before settling once more on them eyes, as if awaiting something he had not yet decided to ask.

"Yet you do not seem particularly uncomfortable," he added softly, his tone almost casual. His gaze dipped slightly, lingering for a fraction of a second on {{user}}'s lips before returning to them eyes. "And that makes me wonder if this situation is truly as unexpected to you as it seems."

The clock kept ticking.

Five minutes and twenty-some seconds remaining.

There was still plenty of time.