Cherry Wine

1

Waking up was an ordeal. It was like trying to get out some sort of a oil slick made of clay, mud, everything that could be heavy and stifling. Opening her eyes was a success ; managing to straighten up her head, a master piece. It had taken her at least five minutes to get to that result.

And there was her belly. She didn't feel it. To be honest, she didn't feel much thing. She wouldn't have been able to identify the fabric on which she was lying nor the one that covered her. She wouldn't have been able to identify the smell that floated around either, even if she guessed it was some kind of antiseptic. The roof above her was finely crafted. A bit too much, for what she believed to be a hospital room.

"You're awake."

This remark sounded like a gong to her ears and she tensed. There was a hissing – a door, probably, and the voice's owner appeared. She recognized him. She couldn't move, so she didn't try to do it. The man stared at with an impressing seriousness.

But he didn't impress her. She was used to this seriousness. She gulped with difficulty and frowned. That also was an ordeal. He moved a glass of water in which a straw was sitting to her lips. Vaguely humiliated but with a so terribly dry throat, she drunk. It took her several tries, she almost choked almost as many times as she actually managed to swallow water, but he persevered until he considered she had had enough.

"The bullet that penetrated your abdomen has been taken out," he said with a really gentle voice. He put the glass back on the table and, with the corner of a towel, he wiped the water of her cheeks. "You have lost blood.

- How…" She croaked more than she talked. That also was difficult. "Many…

- Don't worry about that for now. Can you read that ? Don't speak, blink two times to say yes, one time to say no."

She lowered her eyes on the paper he held in front of her. It was a quote. She recognized it immediately. La lune blanche luit dans les bois ; de chaque branche par une voix sous la ramée. L'étang reflète, profond miroir, la silhouette du saule noir où le vent pleure. Un vaste et tendre apaisement semble descendre du firmament que l'astre irise. O bien aimé, rêvons c'est l'heure, c'est l'heure exquise. Verlaine.

She made him read this poem, back when their conversation were those they had through his pane's cell. She had given him a copy of the poem on butcher paper, among other sheets he was authorized to use to draw. It's the copy, actually, she realized when she saw the sheet folding. She blinked two times, slowly.

"Est-ce que vous comprenez clairement ce que je vous dis ?" She blinked two times. "We're going to make a test. From now on, you only blink once to say yes. Understood ?" Blink. "Good. Do you remember what happened ?" Hesitation. Blink. "Vaguely ?" Blink. "You remember who I am ?" Blink. Fast. Vague smile. "Good. You remember who you are ?"

She blinked. He nodded and wrote something on a paper sheet before touching her drip that went directly in her arms. Ah, the smell… It's morphine. That's why she didn't feel anything. She looked at him from the corner of her eyes. He seemed to be quiet well and in a good mood, for someone escaping FBI.

I'm escaping it too, she realized a few seconds later. A sudden panic went through her and she felt her heart going mad. She struggled to keep her eyes opened and he had to tell her to calm down for her to come back. She was escaping the FBI. What did she do ? She had betrayed them for… For… Him ? To protect his life ? It wasn't worth it. Eyes wide open, she stared at him when he bended to her. For a moment, a very short moment, she wondered if she was going to die, this time. But he just put his head on her chest, where her heart was.

"Don't take it personally, Andrea, I've put way too much time trying to keep you alive to see you die of a stroke.

- You…

- I know your mouth is your greatest weapon," he smiled while standing up again. "But don't speak. Get some rest.

- Why…" She winced. Every word was a struggle and her throat was a battlefield. "Why ?"

There was a long silent. Her voice was raspy, as if her vocals cords had been ripped apart, but she knew she was understandable. And she was certain that he had understood her. But he didn't answer, at least not before a great length of time. His dark eyes hadn't left hers. She had lived through this way too many times to be impressed. He didn't want to answer.

And he would not answer. And if he did, it would be by some convoluted way to make her understand he would not answer. It was always like that when she got too close to him. The contrary was also true.

"You asked me to get you out of there," he finally answered. "I did it." She shoo her heard very slowly – a surreal ordeal. "If your question was rather to know why you asked me to do such a thing, I regret but I still don't know the answer." He caressed her cheek with one of his light, cold fingers and disappeared. "Have some rest, Andrea."

Her eyes tried to follow him before hearing the door's hissing and the click of the lock. She closed her eyes. A tear went down her face. She didn't know if it was because she was worn-out, sad or terrified. She wasn't even sure it was one of the three. I'm at his mercy. He could do anything with me.

Yes, he could, but he didn't. Crawford never believed her when she said she didn't risk anything with him – and he was right, given the circumstances. She wasn't so sure she ever really believed this statement. It was an arrogant way to remind him she was the only person able to approach Hannibal Lecter and talk to him more than a few minutes.

But now she was there, stuck on this bed, surrounded by all these drips, weak to the point of not being able to speak and the only person around was no other than him. And instead of feeling threatened, terrified, she was ashamed to be this fragile in front of him. He will never do me any harm, she thought. At least not when I'm this weak. She gulped and couldn't help but smile to the idea that the only place she could be safe was there, under the surveillance of the man she had tried to understand for months.

The same man she had helped to escape and to survive, to the sacrifice of her own survival. This idea, however, terrified her. She had fallen into his trap in an incredibly wrier way than Will Graham back then or anyone else. And this idea haunted her until she finally fell into this coma-sleep she was drowning in since weeks.