a/n: An imaginary interlude between the events of the Season 2 finale and the first episode of Season 3. Feedback is very much appreciated.
They land on the island of Sicily. Dense, Mediterranean air greets her as she steps out of the plane, and she dons a pair of Prada sunglasses to shield her eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. Sweat runs down her temple, a mosquito buzzing at her nose. He barely seems to feel the heat, even in a wool suit. Sharp, unflinching – that is who he is. Adaptability has always been Hannibal's greatest asset; he has never failed to do what needs to be done, to resolve complications as they arrive with the utmost skill and discretion, and he will not break from tradition now. Especially with the bounty on his head.
"Come," he says. "I have a villa to the east of here. My driver will take us there."
"What if they're searching for you here?"
His eyes flicker to her worried hands, clutching and unclutching her purse. "I have the situation under control," he replies, the faintest hint of disdain in his voice. "You must trust me, Bedelia."
And she has no choice but to go along with his plans.
The villa is made of pale bleached bricks and closed in by towering black gates tipped with metal barbs. A grove of trees is tended to by a tanned, beaming gardener, who waves to the car as they drive past him. Rosebushes, in immaculate order, line the entrance. Inside, sleek leather couches and white vases lead into a gleaming kitchen, with a basket of fruit perched atop a coffee table. Briskly, he carries her luggage to an upstairs guest room and tells her she will be staying there. He produces a bottle, setting it by the sink in the bathroom.
"It's dye. Do your hair. I'll be out settling some accounts of my own, but I will return later."
"Should I cut it?" she asks.
"No." He twists a strand around his finger. "I like your hair long."
Facing the mirror, she washes her hair through and then applies the dye. Black as jet, it clings to the gloves she uses, swirling down the drain like a dark cloud. Blonde has always suited her. This new color is his creation, a subtle exercise of his influence over her will. Bedelia cocks her head, examines the woman in the glass. The discrepancies between her old self and this new form are jarring.
Dimly, as though through a foggy lense, she remembers the knock on her door. He had stood there, soaked to the bone, and told her where he was going. Invited her to come with him. She saw the red stain on his collar, the cut on his nose. The people suit collapsing upon itself. Wisely, she had not declined.
Her profession has always advocated change. In many occasions, forced it. For a time, she'd enjoyed the work, refining the minds of her patients and using her psychiatric scalpel to root deep into the memories and dream-shapes, cutting away deviations from healthy thought and putting names to the faces of monsters. It had given her confidence. He saw that. Used it against her. The man who swallowed his tongue during her act of self-defense.
She dips her fingers in the murky water, swirls them around. She thinks about the path her life is heading towards, and wonders where her dominion ends and Hannibal's begins.
By the end of two weeks, she has acclimatized somewhat to her new surroundings. Black may hide part of her identity, but her skin, Baltimore-white, is a glaring piece of evidence against who she claims to be. Flesh slick with suntan lotion, reclining against a chair, she tans sporadically. A few men pass by the villa and catch sight of her, in her bikini, and call out in raucous Italian. She ignores them, but she is troubled.
Hannibal observes her concern. In the kitchen, over cups of strong coffee, she confesses her fears to him. There is so much she has to say, it seems, that it all rushes out. He is quiet as he listens, sipping calmly from his cup and interjecting only occasionally. She chokes back her indignation at his posture, his smile – he is treating her like a child. Patronizing her. Two steps ahead, as always, while she and the rest of the world are always lagging behind.
"I don't wish to stay here much longer." A teaspoon of cream dissolves into the coffee, spreading into a cloud. "It's unsafe and impractical. You must have other safe houses in Europe, in Asia."
"It's barely been a month," he responds. "I've covered my tracks well. They've not yet issued an international warrant for me, and I have no intention of hopping from country to country, stirring up trouble in my wake."
"Your victims may not be as dead as you believe them to be. They can testify. Even if they are gone, the mess inside your house will be convincing enough. You ran. You didn't have time to clean up."
"As soon as the time comes, Bedelia, we shall go. Besides," he chuckles – a wholly new and strangely musical sound, "the Mediterranean suits you. You've got new color in your cheeks."
"In my hair, as well."
"A pity." He rises. "Are we finished, then? It has been an hour."
"Yes," she agrees. "I suppose we are."
"I know you have doubts," he tells her, stopping her at the doorway. She turns and he is staring, waiting for her to listen to him. "I cannot help you if you do not trust me. I've told you this before. You must have faith that I will do what is best."
He cooks for the two of them, going out to buy groceries in the morning and preparing them in the evening. The meals are wonderful: figs and slices of prosciutto, bresaola with lemon juice, plates of pasta with tart tomatoes and smoky meats, melon, crumbling cheeses, sweet and fragrant wines. Octopus, fried and chewy, in a savory stew; fork-tender fish; minestrone, vegetable-filled, with rice. Confectionery, crisp cannoli filled with ricotta and honeyed marzipan. His movements are graceful, almost unearthly, as he moves food from bag to cutting board to plate.
She notices each supple flick of the wrist, the coiling of muscles in his arms and back. Here, in the kitchen, he is in his element. Sovereign. Tracing the arc of the knife as it lands, thuds dully against wood, and separates the head of a bass from body. Julienne cuts, crisp and clear as a carrot and a cucumber unfold into strips. Hannibal does not look away from what he is doing. He does not need to.
Suddenly, looking at the scatter of pomegranate seeds across her bowl, their juices red and glistening, she feels quite out of control.
Her nightgown is thin chiffon, tulip-pink. His hands are hot on her shoulders as he slides it off of her, deftly undoing her bra. Their bodies crash into each other, heavy and feverish, her desire seeking his own. Their way of making love is impassioned, brutal, and sometimes it is her nails which dig too deeply into his biceps, drawing blood, or his weight which leaves her breathless, but when she hears his cry and feels his body arch against hers, there is a brief flash of victory.
Bedsheets curl around them in sleep, soft landscapes of former fires and visceral meanings. They face each other. He cups her cheek, and his brow is furrowed with some heavy darkness. The morning is cold.
Two months of peace. Then, one day, he knocks as she is bathing. Wrapped in a towel, she approaches him. The question she had planned to pose dies on her lips as soon as she sees the look on his face – utterly ruthless. The mask and the people suit. Bedelia is afraid.
"I said I'd tell you when the time came."
"And?" She feigns indifference, but he sees through her, sees into her, and turns her inside out.
"Pack up your things. We leave tonight."