When he pushes against her, against her knife, the hot blood is quick to spill over the sides of her hands, of her fingers. She can feel his pulse as it trickles over her wrists, embeds itself into her pores. Even as she watches him stagger backward, listens to his haggard breath and then the fall of his body against the half-carpeted floor, she is acutely aware of the redness digging beneath her fingernails, flowing between the creases in her palms.
She hears the exact moment his heart stops.
She staggers awake and finds herself on his bright blue couch, hair sticking to her forehead and scarf damp against the bandage; her clothes are disgusting with sweat but she barely notices against the furious racing of her heart. She can still feel the hot blood on her hands—
But her hands are clean, the body is gone. The room is cool and incredibly empty.
You find me if you're having trouble sleeping.
He had retired before her, coming up noiselessly behind her on the second floor of the office to alert her of his retiring. His smile was mechanical as he gave her directions to his guest bedroom, to his own bedroom. He said he'd be up for another hour, but she should feel free to wake him if necessary. She had nodded, had known she would never take him up on his offer, had watched him walk down the hallway before climbing down and taking a seat on his couch, planning simply to rest.
Now, she shakes the tremors out of her arms, rolls her shoulders. Her heart won't stop, the images in front of her eyes won't stop flashing over and over.
So much blood.
She stands carefully, wary of putting all her weight on unsteady legs. It takes a moment for her to balance in the dark office, barefoot on the beautiful hard wood. She takes a few steps, luxuriates in the feel of the rug between her toes when she comes to it slowly. Focuses all her nervous energy on the sharp fibers against her skin.
But the second she closes her eyes the blood returns, the heartbeat pounds furiously in her head, and the thought of closing them again terrifies her.
She thinks she may have a problem.
The only light in the office comes from the open door on the second floor: the hallway into his home is lit and looks warm, almost inviting. She can't get his voice out of her head, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.
She shifts her weight from foot to foot, embarrassed at the concept of going for help—but eager for at least a bit of release from this nightmare. Her eyelids are growing heavy again, her brain cloudy. She makes up her mind.
The ladder is a bit more difficult to manage in the darkness but she handles it well, and treads through the new hallway shyly. She finds Hannibal's door open at the end of the hall: when she peeks in, cautiously, she finds him under the sheets and propped up against the headboard with several pillows, reading a thick novel. She isn't at all surprised by the black silk bedding. The bedroom is stylish and the light makes it warm, homey. She knocks, once, on his door.
He doesn't look surprised when he turns to meet her eyes.
"Come in, Abigail." The book is placed on his leg and he beckons her with a newly freed hand. She comes in, timidly; it takes a few more gestures to come the whole way. "Sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
She hesitates before taking a seat; the bed gives easily to her weight. For a moment she finds herself comforted solely by his presence, by the now-familiar lilt of his voice. She gives herself this moment of peace.
"Lie down." It's neither quite a command nor a suggestion, but she does it anyway, haltingly placing her head on the silk pillow and stretching her knees out until she lies parallel to him, struggling to find his features against the shadow his head casts from the lamp behind him. "There. I think you just need some company."
He offers another mechanical smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes; she smiles back automatically. "Try to sleep." She can't help herself: she shuts her eyes on command.
He doesn't follow his own command, but turns back to collect his book once more. She listens to the rhythm of his breathing and his gentle turn of the pages. But she's still tense in her shoulders; her wrists tremble as they support her head.
She can't stop the words.
"Can you read to me?"
She can feel his amusement, but he does as she asks. It's something in French and the words are unfamiliar but they lull her into a safe space. She drifts, and doesn't feel the blood.