Hush, My Rue (Day 8 of 30 Days of Hannibloom): Hannibal, Hannibal/Alana, pg-13
Title: Hush, My Rue, Day 8 of 30 Days of Hannibloom
Fandom: Hannibal
Pairing: Hannibloom
Rating: pg-13
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In the following weeks, Alana went through the motions of the days like a phantom. She did not think, nor did she feel anything.
But nights were the hardest. After the day’s light departed, she was mentally visited by the dead and the not-so-dead. Will, not free, but still locked up, not only physically but metaphorically in the depths of his encephalitis madness, passed through her head. He chastised her for not helping him. Then he ran through specters of other victims. “See?” he asked. “See?” She saw.
She saw Abigail, on her knees, pleading for her life. She saw the spreading pool of Dr. Chilton’s dark red blood beneath him on a dirty interrogation room floor. She saw the councilman from the park, his organs arranged artfully over a picnic blanket covering the open cavity of his chest and abdomen. Her mind ran through them like she watched a slideshow, but real; she knew she could reach out and touch each victim at any time in her mind. It felt so very real. She could not focus on anything around her as she saw them again and again.
She excused herself from Hannibal’s dinner table yet again and speed-walked to his bathroom. She flung open the door and fell to her knees in front of the porcelain basin, where she vomited the dinner Hannibal had cooked for her. She closed the lid and flushed, then rubbed the back of her palm against her sour mouth. She felt sweat drip down her forehead, which she then rested against the lid of the cool bowl. She began to cry.
Alana heard the door open behind her. Hannibal knelt beside her on the floor.
He brushed back her hair and kissed her sweaty neck. Then he sang, “je, liuliai dukreli, liuliai rūteli, užmik, mano aušrela, užmik, mano gėlala.”
His voice soothed her quickly beating heart. The lulling timbre of his voice washed over her, and her heart beat slowed and steadied. She took one shaky deep breath, followed by a steadier one. Then another. She listened to him sing, feeling his soft breath tickle her neck.
He sang, “je, liuliai dukreli, liuliai aušreli, užmik, mano saulala, užmik mano vyšnela.” Then he too took a deep, shaky, but steadying breath.
She turned from the toilet and pressed herself against Hannibal. “Beautiful.” She let out a small hiccupping sob. ‘Thank you.”
“Hush, my girl, hush, my rue.” He rubbed her back with one wide, strong palm.
Alana sighed. “Did you sing that to Mischa?”
He stiffened. Neither of them had mentioned his sister since the day he’d showed her his sister’s picture. She knew it pained him still, the loss of his sister, who was brutalized and murdered. She didn’t know the details, nor did she want to know them. All she knew and needed to know was that part of Hannibal’s innocence was stolen the day his sister was killed. The strange man she knew both intimately and not at all was in large part the result of that traumatizing act against his kin.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she apologized repeatedly.
“It’s fine, Alana. I just haven’t talked about her to anyone in my long life.” He sighed, and then added gently, “Nor do I want to.”
She nodded. He helped her to her feet. She brushed her teeth and then kissed him for a long time until she was out of breath. Then she kissed him again.
She thought about the lullaby he sang to her. She kissed away the questions on her tongue, questions about his sister, yes, but also, questions of “Have you ever thought of children?”
It wasn’t appropriate to ask such questions at this stage in their relationship. They were still relatively new. Yet she had known him for years, had ached for him, desired him, yearned for him for years. Her proverbial maternal clock ticked. His sweet lullaby had woken something inside her. The deaths had woken it too; her body and mind wanted to create new to combat the death that lingered around them.
She kissed him again, wondering what he would be like as a father. She let him lead her to bed, where she made love to him. Then she fell asleep in his arms.
That night, she dreamt of a little girl between her mother and father on Hannibal’s piano bench. Hannibal guided the small girl’s hands to play Chopsticks, while Alana laughed at their little daughter.
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Hannibal sings this Lithuanian lullaby to Alana: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASLnzu-fvYc.
My poor, naive Alana. Should she pursue this topic further with Hannibal?
Fandom: Hannibal
Pairing: Hannibloom
Rating: pg-13
------------------------------
In the following weeks, Alana went through the motions of the days like a phantom. She did not think, nor did she feel anything.
But nights were the hardest. After the day’s light departed, she was mentally visited by the dead and the not-so-dead. Will, not free, but still locked up, not only physically but metaphorically in the depths of his encephalitis madness, passed through her head. He chastised her for not helping him. Then he ran through specters of other victims. “See?” he asked. “See?” She saw.
She saw Abigail, on her knees, pleading for her life. She saw the spreading pool of Dr. Chilton’s dark red blood beneath him on a dirty interrogation room floor. She saw the councilman from the park, his organs arranged artfully over a picnic blanket covering the open cavity of his chest and abdomen. Her mind ran through them like she watched a slideshow, but real; she knew she could reach out and touch each victim at any time in her mind. It felt so very real. She could not focus on anything around her as she saw them again and again.
She excused herself from Hannibal’s dinner table yet again and speed-walked to his bathroom. She flung open the door and fell to her knees in front of the porcelain basin, where she vomited the dinner Hannibal had cooked for her. She closed the lid and flushed, then rubbed the back of her palm against her sour mouth. She felt sweat drip down her forehead, which she then rested against the lid of the cool bowl. She began to cry.
Alana heard the door open behind her. Hannibal knelt beside her on the floor.
He brushed back her hair and kissed her sweaty neck. Then he sang, “je, liuliai dukreli, liuliai rūteli, užmik, mano aušrela, užmik, mano gėlala.”
His voice soothed her quickly beating heart. The lulling timbre of his voice washed over her, and her heart beat slowed and steadied. She took one shaky deep breath, followed by a steadier one. Then another. She listened to him sing, feeling his soft breath tickle her neck.
He sang, “je, liuliai dukreli, liuliai aušreli, užmik, mano saulala, užmik mano vyšnela.” Then he too took a deep, shaky, but steadying breath.
She turned from the toilet and pressed herself against Hannibal. “Beautiful.” She let out a small hiccupping sob. ‘Thank you.”
“Hush, my girl, hush, my rue.” He rubbed her back with one wide, strong palm.
Alana sighed. “Did you sing that to Mischa?”
He stiffened. Neither of them had mentioned his sister since the day he’d showed her his sister’s picture. She knew it pained him still, the loss of his sister, who was brutalized and murdered. She didn’t know the details, nor did she want to know them. All she knew and needed to know was that part of Hannibal’s innocence was stolen the day his sister was killed. The strange man she knew both intimately and not at all was in large part the result of that traumatizing act against his kin.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she apologized repeatedly.
“It’s fine, Alana. I just haven’t talked about her to anyone in my long life.” He sighed, and then added gently, “Nor do I want to.”
She nodded. He helped her to her feet. She brushed her teeth and then kissed him for a long time until she was out of breath. Then she kissed him again.
She thought about the lullaby he sang to her. She kissed away the questions on her tongue, questions about his sister, yes, but also, questions of “Have you ever thought of children?”
It wasn’t appropriate to ask such questions at this stage in their relationship. They were still relatively new. Yet she had known him for years, had ached for him, desired him, yearned for him for years. Her proverbial maternal clock ticked. His sweet lullaby had woken something inside her. The deaths had woken it too; her body and mind wanted to create new to combat the death that lingered around them.
She kissed him again, wondering what he would be like as a father. She let him lead her to bed, where she made love to him. Then she fell asleep in his arms.
That night, she dreamt of a little girl between her mother and father on Hannibal’s piano bench. Hannibal guided the small girl’s hands to play Chopsticks, while Alana laughed at their little daughter.
------------------------------
Hannibal sings this Lithuanian lullaby to Alana: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ASLnzu-fvYc.
My poor, naive Alana. Should she pursue this topic further with Hannibal?