Hannibal was not cruel. No. Never to you. That truth was what mattered most to him. It had simply taken you some time to see it as he did.

He began with care, with patience. Small gestures, subtle inquiries, quiet observations, though he had long since known every meaningful detail. Your friends, your confidants, the ones you preferred and those you merely tolerated. It pleased him, the way they trusted him so easily; it made his purpose gentler, more inevitable.

Then came the dinner parties. Invitations sent to all within your circle, and to you, of course, the secret guest of honor. Every aspect was designed to draw you in, to make you comfortable, content. The meals chosen precisely to your liking, the wine up to your taste, atmosphere intimate yet unassuming. The first evening had been a success; Hannibal knew this the moment he saw your smile.

The way your face brightened as you spoke to those you favored, the soft crinkle at the corners of your eyes. The way your lips curved when you praised his table, his art, his food. Every moment, every gesture, was committed to his memory with reverent precision.

In time, the gatherings grew smaller. From many guests to a few, and then–inevitably–to only two. The first time of those evenings had been perfect, a reflection of how fond you had become of him, just as he had been devoted to you from the beginning. The second, however, was different.

He was gentle, as ever, perhaps more so. He offered the drink with his usual calm, watching as you accepted it, your fingers brushing the glass before lifting it to your lips. When your body began to yield to the pull of sleep that he had planted in the liquid, he caught the glass as it slipped from your grasp. His hand found your cheek; his voice fell to a whisper. “I know, I know, angel. Shh.”

The tears that followed pained him deeply. Your fear, your confusion, cut through him, yet he remained patient. Understanding. You were safe here. You had fine clothes, a warm bed, a room of your own. It was, he thought, merely a matter of time before you saw that. The nightmares came first, then the trembling, then the uneasy quiet as he soothed you through each night. Eventually, you ate again, his meals, his offerings, crafted with all the care he could give.

For Hannibal was not cruel. He never sought to hurt you. He sought only to love you, to take away your pain, to bear the weight you should never have carried alone.

And when you finally began to soften, when the tears lessened and your gaze met his without fear, he felt something near to peace, a rare, exquisite calm.

“It has been a week since your last dream,” he murmured, seated at the edge of your bed, voice low and tender in the quiet room. "Do you feel better?"