[The common perception of hypnosis involves not remembering, not being consciously aware of the process. Iris is capable of doing that, but she doesn't: this is a journey together. Iris' presence is a formless knot of affectionate commentary coiled behind Cain's eyes as they travel over his recollections.
She doesn't communicate in words at this level; it's more like a second set of thoughts, thinking themselves in parallel with Cain's own. She watches Hannibal's hands, chopping and peeling, unobtrusively competent, and she watches his eyes, impenetrably smooth as river stones. The only people who might have seen anything real from this man had already had their eyes dug out; that, she realises now, is what she found creepy, the too-perfect blandness of his disguise, calculated to the finest degree not to arouse suspicion.
She's impressed without admiring: so much groundwork, so much intelligence, put in service to such a pointless end. Such a tortuous way to pump his ego. No doubt he thinks of that, too, as a gourmet: it needs the equivalent of forcefed geese to satisfy it.
She's aware, too, of the undercurrent of wordless, pitiless curiosity: she shares it, to some extent, because learning what would break this man would be a valuable thing to know. She's not repelled at it; but she wouldn't approach Hannibal that way and she doesn't want Cain to. Zane's words come back to her, and she holds the shining memory of Zane's uncomplicated insight: it would be letting him win, and she knows it for truth. Hannibal wouldn't be the first to accept death and torture as a price for the equal damage done to his torturer. He'd use it to foster an unwanted intimacy. We can do better, Iris thinks, and she doesn't mean that in kindness or compassion; she means they can come up with something far more efficient, that if/when they choose to attack him, they need to choose a different battleground.]
no subject
She doesn't communicate in words at this level; it's more like a second set of thoughts, thinking themselves in parallel with Cain's own. She watches Hannibal's hands, chopping and peeling, unobtrusively competent, and she watches his eyes, impenetrably smooth as river stones. The only people who might have seen anything real from this man had already had their eyes dug out; that, she realises now, is what she found creepy, the too-perfect blandness of his disguise, calculated to the finest degree not to arouse suspicion.
She's impressed without admiring: so much groundwork, so much intelligence, put in service to such a pointless end. Such a tortuous way to pump his ego. No doubt he thinks of that, too, as a gourmet: it needs the equivalent of forcefed geese to satisfy it.
She's aware, too, of the undercurrent of wordless, pitiless curiosity: she shares it, to some extent, because learning what would break this man would be a valuable thing to know. She's not repelled at it; but she wouldn't approach Hannibal that way and she doesn't want Cain to. Zane's words come back to her, and she holds the shining memory of Zane's uncomplicated insight: it would be letting him win, and she knows it for truth. Hannibal wouldn't be the first to accept death and torture as a price for the equal damage done to his torturer. He'd use it to foster an unwanted intimacy. We can do better, Iris thinks, and she doesn't mean that in kindness or compassion; she means they can come up with something far more efficient, that if/when they choose to attack him, they need to choose a different battleground.]