Will has a visitor. He hears the click of stiletto heels on the concrete, the swish of soft fabric. It's a woman. Then he sees her, and something in him knows she is so much more than that.
"I don't know you." But I'd like to. It is an indefinable and inexplicable attraction. He could see where men would find her attractive- she dresses well, her hair is nicely done, she hasn't spoken yet but he thinks hearing her voice will be like taking a sip of fine wine. But something in him is drawn to something that rests beneath her exterior- to the heart, to the soul, to the mind.
"My name is... Bedelia Du Maurier."
Ah. Then I do. "You're Hannibal Lecter's therapist." It's stating the obvious and he finds himself annoyed by the statement. He can only imagine how a woman that has tackled that particular mind must feel. The self-loathing prompts a curiosity, and he's grateful for the new tack. "What's that like?" He is genuinely curious, but the question comes out whispered, almost reverent- as though Hannibal is not meant to be discussed and dissected by mere mortals.
Apparently she feels that too, since she completely ignores his query. "I've heard so much about you, I feel I almost know you."
"You don't." His swift rebuttal sounds muted and harsh. He doesn't want to be harsh. He wants to be blunt and to the point, and he wants her to keep talking.
"No I don't." The admission is hushed, as though she's embarrassed by her lack of knowledge... as though she'd really like to. "But I understand you better than I thought."
She has taken a small step towards him, somehow not making a sound, and stands facing him with her hands clasped before her. The posture is too young, too supplicant for her. He doesn't like it. "I wanted to meet you before I withdraw."
Ironically, as she says this, he advances, drawing closer to the bars between them. "What are you withdrawing from?"
"Social ties." He takes another step before he replies, vaguely registering that their conversation is almost a Lecter-ian level of intelligent stilted banter.
"Well you're a psychiatrist. Isn't our sense of self a consequence of social ties?" He continues to get closer.
Despite the quiet tone in which she speaks, her answer nearly shouts its significant underpinnings at him like a raving lunatic. "They certainly are in your case. It may be small comfort, but I am convinced Hannibal has done what he honestly believes is best for you."
"Oh. That isn't small comfort; that would be no comfort." The twist of a half grin, a facsimile of pained amusement, punctuates the statement.
"The traumatized are unpredictable because we know we can survive. You can survive this happening to you."
Her words catch in his ear like a line of barbed wire. "Happening to me?"
Those impressively high heels walk closer, a steady quiet staccato as she steps up to the bars, reaching a hand to wrap around the cold metal. For support, for stability, a grounding point in the storm threatening to swallow her. The guard's order to keep back is blithely ignored; she couldn't stop moving if there was a gun to her head.
She's leaning in, the points of her chin and nose and cheekbones crossing the inviolable line of the bars- the demarcation of separate existences- like she is slipping her face into a clear pool of still water. She is reaching for him, her eyes drawing him nearer, willing him to move.
His hand reaches for the bar where her hand rests, and for an instant he considers wrapping his hand around hers, to feel connected, to share contact with someone if only for a moment. At the last moment the intensity in her gaze brands him a coward, and he settles for the space above.
He is leaning in, and her lips part, and the scent of her winds around him like a caress as their noses nearly brush through the gap in the metal.
The thought she might mean to kiss him is through his mind so swiftly he doesn't see it, but all thought ceases anyway when he hears the exhalation of her confession.
"I believe you" she breathes, and he pulls back a moment to blink and register the words.
Then, guards be damned, he steps in again and captures her lips with his own. The fingernail on her upright thumb grazes the edge of his pinky, and they stand thus engaged, oblivious to the world at large.
It lasts a second, it fills a lifetime. He breathes her name, she moans for him, they drink of each other, and their skin slides over one another as they explode quivering into the air that hovers between two stars.
She is led out of his life, and he stands amazed at the revelation, and that night in the dark wonders if she will ever come back.
A/N: this was done in a hurry after I got through S1 and started in on S2. I'm officially hooked. and hope it stays good.
comments are appreciated. hope you like it.