October 8, 2024 | Trent as Hannibal's patient

 “How does it make me 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭? Are you fucking serious right now? This is what I’m paying for from an internationally-renowned psychiatrist?” Trent ranted, pacing the tastefully-furnished office and running a hand through his sleek bronze hair. “My marriage ended before it even began because my fiancée was jealous of my best friend. My other best friend was brainwashed into marrying this guy who’s jealous of 𝘮𝘦. I had an actual social group for the first time in my life and we went from being a fun group of friends to probably THE most toxic couple-versus-couple, oh and let me just add that most of the people in the couples don’t even 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 each other! Let’s see. Faustus resents that he’s been blackmailed on pain of death to marry his wife. Nathaniel hates how controlling George has become. I loved Rebecca to death, almost literally, but I’ve had to face up to the fact that that girl is a mess, which 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 lead us to Serena’s situation—Sebastian’s situation? I don’t know—ugh, don’t even get me started on that. And you want to know how it makes me 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭. How would it make YOU feel, Dr. Lecter?”

 Hannibal watched impassively as the man who’d entered his office meek and mild-mannered now paced frantically like an agitated caged tiger. He couldn’t answer Trent’s question; if any of his friendships had had that level of drama, he hadn’t paid enough attention to let it affect him. He chose to deflect. “We’re not here to talk about me, Trent.”

 Trent barked out a bitter laugh. “No, of course not. God forbid a psychiatrist actually be useful.”

 “I could write you a prescription, if you’d like,” Hannibal offered, “but I think in this case it is important to identify how you feel. Untangle your thoughts, if you will.”

 Trent sat down and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I… I don’t know,” he said.

 Hannibal waited for Trent to elaborate; he didn’t. “You’ve told me about your friends. You haven’t told me about you. It makes it harder to recommend treatment, don’t you agree?”

 Trent agreed. “Okay… uh… I was born in Des Moines, Iowa. My mother’s great, father’s—was—an ass. He, uh, left my mother for her sister. They had a child together. We never really got along. I almost drowned in our pool the day my half-sister was born. My best friend was our next-door neighbor. We practically lived together till college, and then we 𝘥𝘪𝘥 live together. We were very close, but…” He sighed. “We were going to date but I met this girl and it all went out the window. I chased after her my entire adult life. Got hit by a bus after rescuing her from her first wedding. She shoved me off a rooftop into a pool. Broke every bone in my body both times, but I still loved her. I thought we’d be great together. I thought we were written in the stars. My best friend was also my lawyer and 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 her. I thought it was just jealousy at first, because of what happened in college, but…” Trent shrugged. “I guess sometimes if you can’t trust your instincts, you should trust your friend’s, right?”

 *x*

 While Trent was awkwardly recapping the last 30 years of his life to his new psychiatrist, said best friend was waiting outside the building, sitting on the steps and smoking a clove. The doctor’s next appointment parked and, approaching the steps, commented, “I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke out here.”

 Bright teal eyes met cobalt blue. “What are you, a cop?”

 A slight huff of amusement, accompanied by a twitch of the lips that could almost be a smile. “I’m FBI. Special agent.”

 “Really.” The hooded figure pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as if taking this in. “What a coincidence. I’m special, too.” Noting the agent’s blank stare, he chuckled. “I had dyslexia and selective mutism as a kid,” he explained. Spreading his arms, he added, “But look at me now. Passed the Bar on acid, and I never shut up.”

 After a pause, the agent spoke. “You do know I’m not the psychiatrist.”

 “Well, that 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 be awkward, considering I dropped my friend off for his appointment almost an hour ago.” He held out a clove. “Smoke?”

 “Uh… No, thanks. I have a headache.”

 “Suit yourself.”

 

*x*

 

“I’m afraid our hour is up,” Hannibal said. He’d at least had the grace to wait until Trent had finished his latest run-on sentence. He believed in old-world politeness, a set of habits so deeply-ingrained that they held fast even through his eagerness to see his next patient.

“Okay.” Trent’s meek demeanor had returned. “I’ll see you again next week.”

 When he left the office, he collided with a scruffy, harrowed man. His apology was brushed off with an awkward nod, but Trent couldn’t help but observe aloud, with his signature grin, “I have a friend who smokes cloves, too!”

 The other patient seemed to look at him now, not through him. “Your cologne is clove-based. Seems to be a popular scent.”