Disclaimer: I don't own Hannibal.
A/N: Let's see what happens, shall we?

Title: Shades of Red
Summary: They love broken men who love each other. Great minds think alike and then converge.
Pairing(s): Alana Bloom/Bedelia DuMaurier, mentioned Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter,
Warning(s): femslash, AU, fluff out the ass . . . yeah, I think that's it

Xxxx

Strawberry

The first time is after a conference. They go out to a restaurant to eat and drink, maybe share some stories. It's nice until it isn't, and the awkwardness hangs in the air like a shameful secret. They go outside because the inside feels stifling. Alana's a little drunk, and Bedelia smokes like she's a chimney starved of coals.

Alana looks up and says, "It's a beautiful night."

Bedelia smiles but her eyes are empty and pale. She says with a mouthful of smoke, "It's a night like every other night."

Alana shakes her head, the alcohol thrumming in her system and warming her blood. "There's something different about tonight."

The night is a little warm, and Alana's hair is starting to curl. The dress feels too tight around the waist, and she knows the stripe of wiry hair on the back of her leg should be bothering her more than it is; but she feels too loose to care.

"Getting buzzed is a great cure for depression," Alana says more to herself. Bedelia doesn't respond. She talks louder, "I suppose some people think smoking has the same effect."

Bedelia laughs, humorless and deep. "Smoking makes me feel like I'm in control. Drinking must have the same effect for you."

Alana shakes her head. "I'm always in control. When I drink, I feel out of control."

"And you like that?"

Alana looks at Bedelia out of the corner of her eye. Bedelia has the profile of someone who's overcome some great disaster; she stands straight as she physical can, her hair over her shoulder, head tipping back with every exhale of smoke. She's beautiful in a worn-down kind of way. Her dress fits her just right, her makeup done simple enough to enhance her eyes. She looks at Alana looking at her, and Alana doesn't try to look away or cover herself up. Bedelia's lips are the pale pink of strawberries still in development.

"What is it?" Bedelia asks.

Alana shrugs and says, "I don't know."

The rest of the night is spent in silence.

Cherry

Alana and Bedelia analyze each other during breaks. They go to a Starbucks, and Alana orders coffee black enough to make her growl at the bitterness while Bedelia gets thick iced coffee with a sticky-sweet cherry on top; inside or outside doesn't matter. They just need there to be enough noise so they're not stewing in the silence.

Alana speaks first because she sat down first, "Did you love him?"

Bedelia tilts her head, eyes unblinking but smiling. She says, "Who?"

"You know who."

Bedelia hums in her throat and takes the straw into her mouth. Alana watches as the muscles in Bedelia's throat work as she swallows. There's something graceful in the flex and pull of her throat. Alana hides a laugh by taking a drink of her coffee and thinks, Even her swallowing is perfect.

Bedelia's tongue swipes across her lips in a motion so quick Alana thinks she may have missed it. After swallowing what collected on her lips, she says, "I like to think I could have loved him. Maybe, maybe not, I don't know." Bedelia laughs and lifts her straw up and down, staring at the green tube plunging to the pale brown slush like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. She says, "Isn't that the funny thing? We psychiatrists are taught to clean information from our patients, make assumptions we know are right because they're telling us everything without saying everything. Even with the smallest bit of information, we can extract child abuse, sexual trauma, mental illness—everything and anything. But when we're faced with our own demons, we come up empty."

Alana nods, watching the way the sunlight catches Bedelia's hair, turning it the pale blonde of wheat. It's easier than looking into her eyes and saying, "I know; believe me I know." Instead she asks, "I'm assuming it's the same question for me?"

Bedelia answers with a nod. Alana takes another drink, and her tongue is so burnt she can no longer taste the bitterness. After swallowing she says, "I think I did, but it never would have worked out. He thought himself too broken, and I agreed with him."

"Did you really?"

"Yes and no," Alana twirls the cup, the brown liquid inside sloshing against the hollow inside. "When I was a kid, I liked helping my dad put things together. It's one of the best memories I have of him. When I met Will, I thought I could put him together—despite the sharp edges." Alana pauses and almost gags on the bitter taste that erupts on the back of her tongue. She chokes it back, lets out a shaky breath and says, "But the truth is I don't think he wanted to be fixed."

"He wanted acceptance," Bedelia says and turns to look out the window. "He didn't want to be fixed because he was painfully aware of how broken he was."

Alana can't stop herself from saying, "And Hannibal did that for him?"

Bedelia turns away from the window to stare at her eye, her pale eyes going from startled to liquid soft. She uncaps the lid on her drink and retrieves the cherry, holding it in front of her like she was a jeweler observing a crystal. She bites it in half, and juice slips down her chin. She wipes it away with a thin finger. Alana thinks she could break it if she had the chance.

Bedelia chases the juice off her finger with her tongue and says, "Hannibal accepted Will's brokenness and in turn, Will accepted it. What Hannibal failed to understand is that he is broken as well. He's just better at hiding it."

Ruby

Alana gets a postcard from Will. He's standing on a beach in white pants and a shirt with a deep v that splits open to reveal his red chest. He's barefoot and his toes are hidden underneath white sand that glitters like it's been studded with countless small gems. He's smiling so big his face must've been hurting. He looks happy. It makes Alana hurt.

She shows Bedelia the picture when they meet for lunch. Bedelia stares at the picture and, without saying a word, retrieves her bag off the floor. She rummages through it and, after a few moments, retrieves a picture from her bag. It's Hannibal, on the same beach, but standing in front of one of those beach houses always advertised in high-grade magazines. He's shirtless with sweatpants fitting snuggly around his sharp hips. He looks startled, but there's a smile tugging on the right corner of his mouth.

Alana blinks and then laughs. She says, "That's Hannibal in sweatpants—Hannibal."

Bedelia flips the picture over and smiles. "He looks so relaxed."

"Will looks good, too."

"I wonder if it was taken on the same beach."

"Is there really any doubt."

The photographs look like they belong together. Side-by-side, Will and Hannibal look content in a way Alana hasn't seen in a long time.

Bedelia says with a soft absence, "They're wearing matching pieces of jewelry."

Alana looks at the photos until spots start swarming in the corners of her eyes. Tucked into Will's shirt, a piece of red stands out against the stark white fabric. On Hannibal's left hand is a ring the same color as the piece around Will's neck.

"They're rubies," Alana says and laughs because Hannibal has always been a little twisted. "Why is Will's wearing his on a chain?"

Bedelia answers without missing a beat, "He doesn't trust it on his finger, so he keeps it on a chain close to his heart."

Alana smiles but her heart hurts like someone punched her in the chest. Bedelia looks like someone stabbed her in the leg and proceeded to beat her while she was down.

Scarlet

The dress is red in a way that makes Alana cringe, but she'll never say it because Bedelia pulls it off. The dress is open in the back and long but form-fitting. Her hair and eyes are brighter, more alive than they've been in the past few months.

"What do you think?" Bedelia asks spinning in a small circle for effect.

Alana smiles, "It looks great on you."

The dressing room is small but with enough room for two. Outside there are footsteps and murmurs, the sound of fabric being split open by tiny zippers as clothes are worn and tossed aside when the fabric isn't quite right or the fit isn't just at the right angle. Alana feels out of place but doesn't mind when Bedelia says this is a day for treats, and she feels like treating Alana to a shopping splurge.

"Would you like to try it on?"

Alana laughs, coughs and laughs some more. Bedelia tilts her head. "I'm being serious."

Alana blushes because she doesn't know what else to do and says, "That dress won't fit. It's not my kind of cut."

Bedelia takes Alana by the hand and pulls her up—forceful but fluid. She strips, so comfortable with her nudity it makes Alana jolt like Bedelia rubbed her feet on the plush carpet and touched Alana with a finger charged with electricity.

"You can take your clothes if you want," Bedelia says, the dress draped over her arm like a matador cape. "I'm sure I can make the dress fit over your clothes."

Alana says nothing but chooses to strip instead. She removes her blouse, then her jeans that struggle to crest the hills of her ass. Her underwear and bra are a matching set, but Bedelia's are as red as the dress, her skin golden and smooth, a little faded with age but nonetheless beautiful.

Bedelia hands her the dress, and Alana puts it on, cursing as the fabric catches on her foot. Bedelia smiles and says, "It's alright, just take your time. We're having fun, remember?"

Alana pulls on the dress and turns so Bedelia can zip it up. The zipper comes to rest just below the curve of the circle. The air on Alana's back makes her shiver despite the fact that the store is warm as the sun seeps through the windows.

Alana says, "See? I told you it doesn't fit."

Bedelia is silent but Alana can hear her feet on the carpet. Her hands come to rest on Alana's shoulders, and Alana is spun around so fast, she almost tumbles over. Bedelia rests her chin on Alana's shoulder, her hands sliding down her arms to rest at her waist, her hands cradling the curves rather than holding. Her smile is playful in a way that makes Alana smile too.

"See?" Bedelia lifts a long hand to point at the mirror. "It fits just fine."

It fits like a glove, but the color makes Alana look like a ghost, and her eyes are a little too bright and wide. She looks like a startled animal, her hair clinging to the corner of her mouth. The empty spaces inside the dress are still warm from Bedelia's skin.

"I think it looks beautiful on you," Bedelia says.

Alana swallows and says with careful hesitance, "I think it looks better on you."

Bedelia nods but doesn't say anything, just stands there and breathes. Alana breathes with her. They breathe in the smell of perfume, of each other's skin, of new fabric. The noises outside and the sound of air going in and out of their noises is loud enough to keep the silence away.

Bedelia says, "Come over for dinner." Her tone leaves no room for argument.

Maroon

Dinner is Chinese takeout with Alana drinking a damn good beer the color of syrup and Bedelia nursing wine a soft shade of pink that makes Alana think of bridal showers and nursery rooms. The movie on Bedelia's television is old enough to make Alana feel so nostalgic it makes her laugh. Bedelia keeps smiling at her, and she smiles back. They're sharing a secret, but neither one knows what it is yet.

Alana says, "Thanks for inviting me."

Bedelia raises her glass and says, "To good company."

Alana mimics her action and takes a small sip. The beer makes her fuzzy and loose. She thinks she's high rather than drunk and giggles. Bedelia's all smiles and asks, "What's so funny?"

Alana answers honestly because, for some reason, alcohol makes her honest. She says, "I feel like I'm floating, like I could take off at any moment."

"Alcohol is freedom for you," Bedelia says lightning a cigarette that appears to have come out of thin air.

Alana counters with, "And smoking is freedom for you."

Bedelia closes her eyes and hums, the smoke sliding out of her nose and curling around her like a loving pet. "Everyone has a vice they consider freedom."

The movie ends, the takeout grows sticky in the cartons, but neither one of them move. They drink and smoke, breathing and listening to the theme playing as the ending credits across the screen. The silence is coming; they can both feel it pressing down on them. Alana shifts, stretches and groans to keep the silence at bay. Bedelia keeps humming every time the cigarette touches her lips.

When the silence does come, Alana says, "I miss them."

Bedelia blinks at her, her face glowing in the light coming from the television. "You're not mad."

"I am," Alana says, "but I'm madder that I didn't see anything. I'm supposed to be his friend, and I didn't see anything."

Bedelia draws her leg up and rests her knee on her chin. With her blonde hair falling her face, bouncing around her, she looks young. "I can't even say I was Hannibal's friend. I told him I wasn't, and yet I still feel guilty. Like, if had I seen something sooner—peered through that veil—I would have been able to save him."

Alana finishes her beer, smacks her lisp at the sweet taste and says, "We'd make horrible saviors."

Bedelia drains her glass and says, "We were never meant to be saviors. We weren't even meant to point them on the right path. We're the basket bins that they use to sort through all their problems; and once we're full, we go in the closet and wait to become useful again."

Alana nods her head, but the movement isn't loud enough; the sound of her hair rubbing against her jacket isn't enough to force away the silence. She stumbles over her words, the sounds pushing at her mouth, begging to be let out. Bedelia beats her to it and says, "I don't want to be alone tonight. I don't want to wait in the dark by myself."

Alana looks over at her, and there's color on her cheeks—a red so deep Alana thought she was bruising. Her eyes are glassy and bleached of their blueness, leaving a gray so cold Alana is reminded of the sidewalk beneath a heavy rain. She's shaking like she might cry but keeps swallowing so that nothing will come out.

Alana goes to her, reaches out and touches her hair. Her voice trembles as she speaks, "I don't want to wait in the dark either. Then I'll have to come to terms that I'm not needed anymore."

Bedelia smiles at her, but it wavers and slips until Bedelia is looking at her with eyes that are both exhausted but hungry. She reaches up and touches Alana's wrist, her nails grazing the skin with feather-soft weight. "You're needed," she says. "You're needed, Alana."

Alana says, "So are you, Bedelia." She means it with everything in her being.

Bedelia's cheek flush as she cranes up and kisses Alana with school-girl hesitance. Alana kisses back because the feeling of being needed fills her and pushes away any doubt. It makes her wrap her arms around Bedelia and hold her close because she knows this is what Bedelia needs—what she needs. They both need to feel useful, and comforting each other makes that feeling swell and rise until it fills them both.

Vermillion

Bedelia's bed is so big it makes Alana feel small. Bedelia is on top of her, moving in languid curves that Alana traces with her hands. Her hair moves over Alana's breasts, tickles her nipples and slithers down over her belly like dropped silk. Her hands cradle Alana's thighs, keep them apart without imposing any force. Her mouth leaves wet smears in the creases of her thighs, over the expanse of her pubic bone. Alana breathes through her mouth, sighs with each kiss.

"Bedelia," Alana says, her lungs struggling expand and relax. She feels like she's drowning, like she's on fire and breathing in sweet smoke composed of Bedelia's perfume, the wine on her breath, the conditioner in her hair.

Bedelia hums against the meat of Alana's thigh, takes the flesh between her lips and suckles. She doesn't use any teeth, just her lips and the cavern of her mouth. She moves to the other thigh, her mouth hot and wet, sucking just enough to give Alana an idea of what it will feel like when Bedelia finally moves to Alana's clit. Alana moans and lifts her hips. She's wet, wetter than she's been in a long time.

"Please," she says and is surprised when it comes out deep and rumbling instead of high-pitched and needy, "please don't tease."

Bedelia pulls her mouth away, smiles so soft it makes Alana's heart flutter, and draws her hair over her right shoulder. Her head drops down in a fluid motion, and her mouth encircles Alana's clit. Alana tips her head back and moans so low she can feel it rumbling in her lungs.

"Yes," Alana moans and her chest hitches with every flick of Bedelia's tongue. It's all she can say.

Bedelia's drops her right hand down to come between Alana's legs, and her fingers are met with no resistance. Two fingers slip inside, crook up and send Alana's hips off the bed. The sounds are obscene: the creak-creak-creak of the bed, the sound of Bedelia's mouth sloppily sucking, the moist sound of Bedelia's fingers going in and out.

The tingling and warmth build like a crescendo, and Alana can only tense and moan while her orgasm breaks like a wave and fills her. She gasps like she's drowning, moans and whimpers, bucks her hips a few times just to make the feeling last. She comes down onto the bed in a heap that isn't quite boneless.

"Holy shit," Alana whispers, "holy shit."

Bedelia crawls on top of her, her arms forming a cage around Alana's body, and kisses Alana on the chin, on her cheeks, her eyes, her nose, her lips. Her mouth is wet and slick; it tastes of wine and musk and salt. Alana takes long laps, hums and says, "Let me take care of you."

Bedelia sits up, runs her hand over her breasts and gives them a firm squeeze. Her nipples are hard and are the same color of red that's on Alana's thighs. Alana reaches around to pat Bedelia's ass, urging her up higher. Bedelia obeys and her thighs tighten as she attempts to keep herself balanced over Alana's face.

The first lick is hesitant, but then Alana cranes her head up just enough to create a vacuum and suck. Bedelia's thighs clamp around her head, and through the ringing in her ears, Alana can hear Bedelia moaning and panting. She's just as wet as Alana was, and Alana beats her tongue in a steady rhythm against Bedelia's clit. When Bedelia comes, she bends back like a perfect bow, and Alana gingerly swipes her tongue up Bedelia's moist slit. Bedelia shudders and looks down at her.

Her eyes are so open and honest, Alana feels alive.

Rose

Breakfast is eggs, toast, bacon and sloppy kisses. Alana's wearing one of Bedelia's old shirts, and Bedelia matches her with the shirt Alana wore the night before. It hugs her breast so hard that every time a breeze filters through the open window, it makes her nipples stand out. Alana wants to lean across the table and take one in her mouth, but she crunches down on bacon instead.

Bedelia says, "I got a letter from Hannibal a few days ago. He said he and Will might be coming back for a few days."

"Oh?"

Bedelia nods and takes a drink from her coffee cup. "He won't tell me where they're staying, but I think he's thinking you're going to tell Jack."

Alana laughs and scoops up egg yolk with a dark piece of toast. "I won't. Jack and me haven't been on the same page since day one. You can imagine what happened after Hannibal and Will left."

Bedelia raises on eyebrow at her. "You're not the least bit curious."

Alana tips her head, listens to the sound of the air conditioning, of Bedelia breathing slow and steady. "I am," she says, "but I can't fix something that never wanted to be fixed."

Bedelia stands up, walks around the table and wraps her arms around Alana's shoulder. Alana thinks Bedelia is going to sit in her lap and is only a little disappointed when she kneels on the floor. Bedelia's eyes are asking, Are you sure?

Alana cups Bedelia's cheek and says, "It's hard to let go, but we always tell out patients to move on. We have to listen to our own advice."

"Even though it tastes bitter," Bedelia says and her smile is alive and light.

Alana kisses her because it feels right, and the morning is warm and tinged with red. Alana can't help but laugh when she realizes she's thinking of roses instead of blood.