Chapter Text
The first thing Alana Bloom had noticed about Dr. Hannibal Lecter was his precision. Not just in his work, but in everything: the immaculate cut of his suits, the careful cadence of his speech, the deliberate way he arranged even the smallest details of his life. When they first met at Hopkins, she had been momentarily unsettled by the presence he commanded. Tall, refined, and profoundly unreadable. Over time, however, she had come to consider herself one of the rare few, at least in Baltimore, who could claim to truly know Hannibal Lecter.
Or so she had thought.
There were certain things about him that many people overlooked, small eccentricities hidden beneath his cultivated charm. His superstitions, for one. She would never say it aloud, but she found them almost endearing. The way he sidestepped cracks in the pavement with unconscious grace, or ensured his umbrella was fully closed before stepping inside. Some of his peculiarities seemed to stem from his childhood abroad, though he never elaborated on their origins. One unfortunate doctor had never quite recovered from the withering look Hannibal gave him for attempting to shake hands through a doorway, and woe betide anyone who presented him with an even number of flowers. Alana had witnessed more than one hapless admirer turned away, having unknowingly offended his cultural sensibilities.
Not that they would have stood a chance regardless.
Because the other thing Alana knew, the thing few others seemed to realize, was that Hannibal Lecter was a widower.
He never said it outright, of course. That wasn’t his way. No, Alana had pieced it together from the quiet, persistent echoes of another presence in his life.
First, there was the ring. Worn on his right hand which was enough to throw off the casual observer. At a glance, it seemed a plain silver band, but Alana had seen it up close in his kitchen, when he removed it before cooking. The engraving inside had caught her eye, and later, in the privacy of her car, a quick search translated the words from French. Mon âme. My soul. Not the sort of inscription a man, even one as particular as Hannibal, would commission for himself.
Then, there was the house.
The first time she visited, she had noticed small incongruities scattered throughout his otherwise impeccable home: a framed illustration of fishing lures, a book on entomology marked with annotations in truly horrendous handwriting, a pair of mismatched coffee mugs adorned with stag antlers, two well-worn leather armchairs positioned side by side in front of the fire. None of it fit with Hannibal Lecter as she knew him. Someone else had lived here once. Someone who had left their mark.
But it was two years ago that she found her final, undeniable proof.
She had been invited to one of Hannibal’s dinner parties for the first time, having spent the last few years traveling out of state. The guests were an impressive collection. Jack Crawford and his wife Bella, Frederick Chilton, and a handful of others she recognized by name or reputation. As they were called into the dining room, Alana noticed something strange.
There were more place settings than there were guests.
Before she could take the seat nearest to Hannibal, who at that time was still the only person in the room she knew well, Bella caught her gently by the wrist.
“Don’t sit there,” she murmured. “He always leaves that one empty.”
Alana hesitated, bemused, but did as instructed. And sure enough, as the other guests filtered into the room, not one of them took the seat to Hannibal’s immediate left. It was avoided with the sort of silent, practiced ease that suggested long-standing familiarity.
When Hannibal entered moments later, a bottle of wine in hand, his gaze flickered to the chair as if to confirm its vacancy before he turned his attention back to the guests.
“I selected this particular vintage upon my return from a most illuminating summer in France, where I had the pleasure of observing Dr. Henrí Morgan’s refinements in laparoscopic technique. A most delicate art, much like the appreciation of a fine bottle. I trust you will find it… agreeable.”
With a flourish, he uncorked the wine and poured it expertly. Alana might not have thought anything of it until she noticed the first pour went into the glass at the empty place setting.
Across the table, Bella met her gaze, her expression unreadable.
No one commented. No one reached to clear the glass away.
The dinner continued without disruption, and the untouched wine remained as it was.
Later, as the night wound down and the last of the guests departed, Alana lingered by the doorway. She had declined Hannibal’s offer to call her a cab, opting instead for the crisp winter air. Yet something compelled her to look back as she stepped outside.
Through the window, she could see the dining room as the hired staff cleared the table, moving with quiet efficiency. And there, just beyond them, stood Hannibal.
Alone.
He paused before the empty chair, his head bowing slightly almost as if in prayer before he lifted the glass and drank. The red of the wine as dark as blood.
With the dim glow of the chandelier casting shadows behind him, he looked, for a moment, like a saint taking communion. Devotional. Tragic. Lonely.
Alana had always wondered if Hannibal Lecter, so composed, so methodical, was even capable of love the way ordinary people were. She had even, briefly, entertained the notion that he might one day feel it for her.
But as she walked away from that grand, empty house, with its annotated books and vacant chairs, she realized how profoundly she had misunderstood him.
He wasn’t aloof because he considered himself above the people of Baltimore.
He was grieving.
That night, Hannibal had never seemed more human, or more alien, than he did in his solitude. A man marooned on an island of loss, surrounded by the remnants of someone who was no longer there.
In the years since, Alana had often wondered if Hannibal only threw these lavish gatherings as an excuse to sit with his wife again, even if only in spirit. Perhaps that was why he still set her place, why the seat remained open.
To pretend, just for an evening, that she had merely stepped out of the room and would return at any moment.
She wasn’t the only one who had come to this conclusion. A little while after that first dinner, over coffee with the Crawfords, the subject arose.
“The poor man,” Bella murmured, as her husband rather conspicuously took her hand under the table. “It must have been years ago, if you never met her while you were at Hopkins together.”
A silent agreement passed between them then. In quiet deference to their friend, they would ensure his unspoken ritual was respected. At each dinner, if a newcomer reached for the wrong chair, a subtle shake of the head or a gentle redirection was usually enough.
Because, after all—who would be so rude as to sit in a dead woman’s chair?