Chapter Text
She had debated cancelling. Then reminded herself that nothing about Hannibal Lecter ever unfolded more smoothly when avoided.
And so here she stands on his doorstep, impeccably tailored coat wrapped against the faint bite of late afternoon wind.
It opens not to Hannibal, but to a lady.
Young. Early twenties, perhaps. Long blonde hair, platinum like her own, though unmistakably natural. Barefoot. She looks a little disheveled, yet not unbecoming, like a deliberate chaos. The girls eyes are intense. A little like him, Bedelia thinks, unsettled. As if something is watching from behind them.
“Hello,” the girl says, her mouth curling faintly.
Bedelia’s spine straightens, just slightly. Before she can respond, Hannibal appears behind her.
“I see you’ve met my daughter.” He steps forward.
“Genevieve.” The girl offers her hand. A silver, snake-shaped ring coils around her thumb.
“Bedelia Du Maurier.”
“Ah, the unrivaled head doctor.” Genevieve says, “You look different than I imagined,”
“I do?”
Genevieve studies her. “More powerful.”
“I take that as a compliment,” Bedelia replies, measured, but there’s a small lift at the corner of her mouth.
Genevieve smiles back, as if she’s won something unspoken, and gestures for her to come in.
“I didn’t know you had children,” Bedelia says quietly, turning to Hannibal as they walk down the hall.
“Just the one,” he replies. “Have I truly never mentioned her?”
She shakes her head slightly. “You haven’t.”
“Your floors,” Hannibal begins.
“Are almost done,” Bedelia finishes. “I apologize for the inconvenience. From next week on, our sessions can take place at my home again.”
Genevieve has moved behind them and now stands by the doorway. She doesn’t leave. She has that same quality, that strangeness. Bedelia wonders if Hannibal raised her, found her, or made her.
Hannibal settles across from her. Watching her reactions. Always observing. Like his daughter, whose stare she can feel on her back like the weight of a second coat.
“I have no objections,” he murmurs, “as long as our sessions take place."
Bedelia senses the unspoken conditions beneath his words. It’s a quiet assertion of control that makes her choose her next words with care.
“It’s curious,” she begins, her tone measured, “seeing you in a domestic context. With a daughter.”
“Does it alter your opinion of me?”
“Not particularly,” Bedelia replies. “I’m a neutral party.”
He studies her silently.
“She seems kind,” Bedelia adds, watching him closely. “And observant.”
“She is both,” he replies.
“Do you have much in common?”
Hannibal folds his hands, voice light but deliberate. “In temperament, no. In curiosity, overwhelmingly so.”
“Are your curiosities... complementary?”
He glances toward the door, where Genevieve’s faint footsteps now echo her departure. “She has quite an interest in death,” he says. “Purely academic, of course.”
Bedelia tilts her head. “Does this worry you?”
“Not in the least,” he replies.
“And how does she feel about your... vocation?” Bedelia asks.
“Intrigued,” he says, a faint note of pride lacing his tone. “Though she prefers practical knowledge over theory.”
A beat. “And what form does that preference take, exactly?”
“At the moment, she’s studying to become a restorative mortician.” Hannibal explains, “Less paperwork, more art.”
Bedelia blinks once and keeps a steady neutral tone. “That must be... interesting, for you.”
“I do find it interesting,” Hannibal says, with a hint of amusement. “But it wouldn’t have mattered if I didn’t. My only concern is that she thrives — wherever or whatever she feels compelled to be.”
“And does she find it fulfilling?”
“Oh yes. She says it’s the only place where the company doesn’t try to talk their way out of her services.”
Outside the room, the sound of a cackle rings out. Genevieve’s laughter ends in an infectious giggle.
Hannibal beams, ear to ear.