SUBLIME, Hannibal Lecter

x. another version of me

"You want people?" Price interjected suddenly, leading Jack to another part of the lab. "The Chesapeake Ripper has been tying flies with them, just like Will Graham allegedly did." They stopped in front of the new evidence collected from the hospital. "Hair woven into the mono filaments is Beverly's, bone fragments of Miriam Lass, veining from Sheldon Isley, uh, optical nerve and arteries from Judge Davies, and a toenail from James Gray, our muralist. All victims of the Chesapeake Ripper," he finished listing.

"These four lures are almost identical to what we found in Will's house, made with materials from the exact same human remains. Abigail Hobbs. Donald Sutcliffe. Marissa Schurr. Georgia Madchen," Price added.

Silence fell among them as Jack's mind worked. At last, he reached the conclusion: the truth Sloane had been trying to make him see from the very beginning. A truth he had perhaps realized too late to save her.
"Will didn't kill any of these people. There was  no copycat, never was. It was always the Ripper. Finally taking credit for all of his murders."

. . .

After Jack's visit, the kitchen was steeped in an unreal quiet, as if it had never happened. The smell of coffee mingled with toast and eggs; everything had returned to its normal rhythm.

Hannibal sat at the head of the table, impeccable as ever, despite the slightly rumpled red sweater. Sloane, beside him, idly stirred her spoon in her cup, her gaze lost somewhere beyond the window.

She was the one who broke that fragile illusion of perfection.

"Where did you go last night?"

The question fell into the air like a silent blade, slicing through the calm Hannibal had wrapped around himself like a tailored suit. For an instant, his eyes lowered slightly to the cup before him, then lifted back to her with his usual composure.

"I couldn't sleep," he answered in that soft, controlled voice that could disguise any lie. "I got up, walked around for a while... Sometimes sleep eludes me."

Sloane watched him with an expression difficult to read. It wasn't outright suspicion. It was something else, something subtler. A latent awareness. She knew she'd slept poorly, too poorly not to notice the absence of the body beside her. She had felt that emptiness in the bed, that missing warmth, the way one feels a held breath.

"I see," was all she said, but it was enough.

A corner of Hannibal's mouth lifted in a calm, perfectly crafted smile as he reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers with deliberate gentleness. "You don't need to worry about me, darling. Sometimes my mind refuses to rest."

She let their hands remain together. She didn't say anything, didn't challenge him. But her gaze, for a fleeting instant, sharpened, more aware, more awake. Perhaps she didn't know what he was hiding. But something deep inside her had registered that fine, invisible crack.

And yet, instead of resisting it, she leaned into it, as if that crack were part of their intimacy, part of what bound them together.

A soft silence settled again between them, but it was different now. It carried weight. Hannibal looked at her like a man who knew she was still on his side, even if she didn't fully realize it herself.

And Sloane... kept staring back at him, with a calm that wasn't truly calm.

. . .

For Sloane, it was finally time to go back to work after the longest break she had ever taken in her entire life. Strangely, it wasn't something she actually wanted to do—she didn't want to see Jack again, didn't want to risk running into Will Graham once they inevitably released him, and she definitely didn't want to relive, day after day, the memories that haunted those corridors.