All rights to Hannibal (TV) belong to NBC.
Will Graham's House, Wolf Trap, Virginia
He didn't live far. Almost as far as her apartment was, only in the opposite direction, further from the city. She should have felt anxious about that. Like he said, people like being around people. Still, she couldn't help but feel more at ease.
The first thought that crossed her mind upon pulling up to the house that stood so brightly in the middle of the dark was how right she was. He was better off than her. Not that it was particularly difficult to be. The second thing she thought of was how at ease he was.
Climbing out of his vehicle alone, he seemed more fluid in his movements. Less nervous. She was willing to put money on him having forgotten about her in the sheer relief of having made it home.
Home.
She wondered what that was like, to have the safety of a home.
It was different than a house. The line between "house" and "home" were as clear as can be to those that hadn't the luxury of both. She had a house before. She had an apartment. For all intents and purposes, she did live in a house. A good house, just a bit bigger than Will Graham's. But that place wasn't home. When she was afraid, when she had to sleep with fear's cold hands wrapped around her throat, she did not seek solace in the memory of that house. But she could see that this was his. Just looking at the place, it was his lighthouse in dark times.
She felt like she was violating sacred ground the second her muddy shoes hit the damp wooden porch. She was so consumed with watching him that she tripped over a step, bumping into the railing with her hip. She was too taken by her hopes that he hadn't seen her to care for the throbbing pain in her side that would later sport a bruise. If he saw her, he didn't show it. She couldn't decide if that made her feel better or worse.
"So this is your place," she sighed, staring in awe. He gave her a look that she didn't recognize. Somewhere between curiosity and pity, if she had to take a guess. Before he could respond, the sound of scratching came. Then barks. Her eyes lit up, darting to Will. "You have a dog?"
The scratching and barks were followed by even more.
"Dogs!" she corrected herself, a crooked smile on her face.
Will sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the door and then at her as if she found out some dirty secret. She almost apologized for having said it, but thought better of it. She hadn't said something wrong. Just a simple fact. So why did she feel so bad?
She blamed it on his eyes.
"I should have told you," he said, more to himself than her. She was too taken with the sounds of the animals to think of how right or wrong he was. He took the smile on her face as a good sign. "I take it you like dogs?" he asked, digging into his jacket, trying to find his keys.
It was a good few minutes before he found them. She hadn't answered him. He opened the door, hoping for the best. And there they went. His collection of strays swarming out, all happily welcoming him home, circling him, nipping at his feet. Then one found her, and the attention was drawn to the now kneeling woman that looked just as eager as his dogs. She said things like "hello" and "hey there" to a few, laughing at the feeling of a few trying to lick her. Her happiness was infectious, but even in it, he felt somewhat bad for her. At this rate, she would leave smelling just like he did.
The thought stirred a bit of pride in him.
"Sorry, if their hair gets all over you. I've been meaning to do some brushing but..."
He didn't finish.
She didn't know if he didn't have a reason for having not already done it or if he simply didn't want to share. Either way, she didn't press further.
"I don't mind," she promised, looking up from a particularly demanding one of his dogs. As loving as Will was, there was nothing quite as exciting as a friendly stranger, especially one smelling like her.
Will disappeared back into his house first. She politely waited on the porch until he welcomed her in after making sure everything was to his satisfaction. She didn't mind. The rain had lightened up, and she had the comfort of finally having company that she could trust.
The comfort of animal companions could not be overstated. There was a security in them. There was no deception, no hidden intentions behind an animal's actions. If it liked you, it was friendly, if it didn't, it wasn't. Animals were honest, upholding a decency that society both strives to have, yet continues to disregard. For that, Will Graham was better off than her again. Her apartment didn't allow animals.
Then there was the comfort of living far from the city. As hard as she listened, she couldn't hear a single car. The silence should have rattled her. Once again, she found comfort. Thankfully, she was too charmed to be envious.
She felt a pang of sadness over having to return to her apartment later. It felt like a fairy tale gone wrong. There was no escapism in having to return there, but at least she had the temporary relief that Will gave her. For that, she hugged one of the biggest dogs, savoring the feeling of being without loneliness.
Following inside, she found herself memorizing everything in sight.
Will spoke very carefully, as if he was worried he'd provoke her. She noticed he did this sometimes, always holding back, choking out words sometimes in fear that the carelessness that came with familiarity would spook her. She had to wonder if he thought that she was fragile. She had to wonder if she was fragile.
The thought made her cringe. She certainly didn't want to be fragile.
Maybe fragile is the wrong word, she thought.
The more she thought on it, the more she didn't feel as though she were fragile.
She couldn't have made it this far if she was fragile.
She was just anxious.
She was the kind of anxious that some people are born with; the kind that instinctively look over their shoulders constantly. The kind that feel, no matter how many times they look and make sure that they're not, like they're being watched. It was as if fear itself found her as a newborn, slipping into her nursery in the dead of night like some thick black fog slipping through the cracks of her window, filling the room, flooding through her mouth and nose until she was drowning in it. And it stayed with her, torturing her until morning came. Instead of leaving, chased away by the light, that dark fog slipped into her, deciding to feed off of her very essence like some sort of parasite.
Perhaps that's why she functioned well enough with it. She didn't feel as much of the pain of anxiousness. Well, she felt it, but she was always so full of it that there wasn't any more to fill her most of the time. Instead of shattering her, her fear fueled her, more often than not. And that was how she got here to begin with.
She was spooked.
She was just a girl in a prison, watching the world go by, too scared to leave. But, as time went on, her fear of leaving was overcome with her fear of staying, her fear of withering away until nothing but that fear was in her. She felt like she was imploding, quietly feeling as each organ of her soul died off, making her less and less human, less and less alive.
She felt like she couldn't breathe anymore, as if she couldn't take anything except that thick, dark fog into her lungs. It got so bad that she often found herself sitting on the shower floor until the hot water turned cold, only able to tell that she was crying by the warmth of her tears amidst the cold running water.
So, she left.
She had been packed, ready to go back to her hometown for the summer. She told herself that she would just go for a quick drive. "Twenty minutes tops," she told her roommate. A twenty minute trip turned into an hour, then two. She wasn't driving in any particular direction, only farther and farther from home. It was just her and the long road to nowhere, an endless roadtrip.
Of course, it wasn't endless.
She found herself in Virginia, which was far, but not as far as she had gone in the first two years since she'd gotten in that car and took off. Yet, she'd gone farther mentally. She'd traded cars, selling hers for a cheaper one in order to stay lost longer. Her hair had grown back some since she chopped it off, scared of being recognized. She'd developed this sense of self preservation in her time on the road. She trusted in her gut feelings, and more often than not, she avoided situations where she could have ended up in a much more terrified state. She knew this from when she first started working at Benny's, back when there was a working television that was often on some news network. She'd seen the faces of people she'd passed by. She'd see those same faces on mugshots or previous photographs flashed across the screen with the caption of so and so's "victim" or something like that. She remembered when she began looking up the places she lingered in longer than a night. Sometimes nothing happened, sometimes something happened.
Eventually, she felt fear begin to mess with the way she functioned again, so she stopped looking into things. She told her boss that the television was wasting money, and before long, the television was gone, and she didn't have to be plagued by whatever tragedies were going on in the world, and she didn't have to worry about every single stranger that walked into the diner.
Not fragile, just plagued with an acute survival instinct.
Perhaps that's what Will Graham was tuning into.
"Do you have a preference of drink?" he asked her politely, leading her to his kitchen, taking note of how her eyes wondered over his house with the sort of wonder that children had when arriving at a theme park. She didn't hear him at first, forcing him to ask again. There was the same sound of caution in his voice, more towards him than her. Looking up from a picture of his favorite river to fish in. She looked so mystified. He felt as if he were intruding on the most pious of prayers. He felt every guilty ounce of sin at breaking her from it.
"What do you have?" she asked, not with a preference in mind, he figured by the tone of her voice.
Will's face lost some of its color. He hadn't really planned this. He didn't have a variety of drinks. He wasn't prepared to offer much. Still, he listed off the types of alcohol he had, even the non-alcoholic, feeling as though he ought give a little more options than the count of three fingers. Her eyes didn't catch with the same kind of recognition as someone who had a preference. At first he thought he was simply missing the kind that she liked, but after a moment, looking at her more closely, he saw that she didn't recognize any. He felt a twinge of worry as he saw this. He hadn't asked her age, and the more he looked at her, the more ambiguous she looked. He was certain that she was beyond the legal limit, but there was still a sliver of caution.
"How old did you say you were?"
"I didn't."
Will felt his lips twitch, feeling rude at the feathery tone of voice she carried, but by the look of her face, she took no offense, simply staring at him, having given an honest response. It must have been his discomfort that triggered her to answer him anyways.
"I'm past the legal limit, Will."
There was something in the way that she said his name that rubbed him the wrong way. After all, it was a standard question that he figured would be okay to ask, as she didn't look particularly old. This was how things were with her though. She was always evasive and vague in the diner. He had once the audacity to point out that she hadn't a nametag and despite her smile, he felt nothing except coldness from her. He would have mentioned it, but he had motivations not to. Hoping that if he let go of this question, she'd give more answers. He told himself that people were more relaxed after a few drinks, and she was no exception to that.
So they drank.
He drank, mostly.
She was sipping, and he knew right away that she wasn't the kind to spend on alcohol. Judging by her car, by the way she looked at his home, he was only left to assume she was the frugal kind. The price of frugality was tolerance, and she was no fool. She was pacing herself. That enough, he was certain.
The problem that rested was the silence. It was a direct silence. A thick silence. The kind of silence that neither were fond of. There was no counter to flee behind. Only two chairs, opposite to one another, forcing them to look at each other. She had to have some resilience, keeping herself silent long enough for him to impatiently break it himself. He took back the fragility he thought her to have because of this.
"Under normal circumstances, this is the part where we get to know each other."
He meant it jokingly, but he grimaced at how rude he sounded. He assumed that she was either forgiving enough to act as though she wasn't offended or - he prayed for the second option - she didn't take it as sharply. Whatever it was, she digested his words, looking to the ceiling, as if she would find answers there, and after some time, gathering her thoughts, she looked back to him, nodding. This time when she lifted the glass to her lips, she took three large gulps. Will didn't know if he should have been taken back by this or not. He simply told himself that this was why he invited her for drinks.
"Then tell me about yourself," she said, looking at him with expecting eyes. Will's lips twitched, having expected her to offer up some information on herself rather than ask of him. It was hypocritical, and he knew that. He simply thought it was a cruel way to end the night, telling her what he did, scaring off some pretty little waitress.
Something else had changed though. She sat straighter. Her back wasn't touching the chair. She had a well practiced posture, one that made him question where it came from due to how effortless it was. It was the kind of posture that came from practice from a young age. By the way he assumed her to live, he doubted that she was taught posture. There was little time to practice courtesy and etiquette when money was tight.
Whatever was behind it didn't matter. All that did matter was the directness with which she addressed him. It was a side of her that he hadn't anticipated.
At least he was seeing more of her.
He sat back in the chair and pressed the heels of his aching hands against his aching eyes, trying to think of what to say. He knew he couldn't damn well start the night with informing her that he was a special agent used for his ability to conjure up the mind of serial killers and psychopaths, two things that were tragically not mutually exclusive. He thought on telling her that he was a teacher, but feared her asking what he taught. Teaching forensic classes for the FBI was far from what he imagined were the people she saw weekly - he knew she hadn't interacted with people daily as their nights were often uninterrupted by other people- and he didn't want to make her feel alienated or out of place. He was all too familiar with the feeling.
"I like dogs."
The laugh that filled the silence was enough to shatter whatever tension was resting between them.
Will hadn't meant it to be a joke. He was hopelessly avoiding personal answers, and fled to something that would unlikely scare her away. The only problem was that what he said was already painfully obvious.
He watched her, the way she quaked with an eruption of laughter, the way color bloomed on her cheeks, and the flash of white that came with a smile broader than the shy ones she often spared for him from across the diner. He liked her laugh...
"Okay, I deserve that, I guess," she sighed, cheeks still pink, recovering from having made a sound that, despite not knowing her long, he knew she didn't make often. Her shoulders relaxed some, giving a slight slope from her neck rather than a harsh angle that read only of paranoia. "I guess I'll give you the basics," she said, still smiling, but the light didn't reach her eyes. He wondered why she even bothered, but it wasn't like her to be rude either. She was like snow. One was too busy admiring its beauty, reveling in the feeling of freshness, that they didn't realize they were buried in it until it was too late.
She didn't speak up at first. He supposed it was because she wasn't used to it. He could empathize, and not just because of what he did. He understood it personally.
"My name is Bella. I was born in the winter-" She stopped looking at him, looking instead to the empty glass in her hand. "... I enjoy the sunrise, long showers, and I, too, like dogs," she listed off quickly, following it up with a challenging nod, as if to tell him it was his turn, as if she was done for the day.
It wouldn't be that easy.
He noticed that she only gave one name, which might be a first name or nickname, rendering a good google search useless. She said she was born in winter, which only narrowed the search to "Kate's, born in between December and March." Sunrises and long showers were nothing personal - Although, he had to wonder as to why she liked the sunrise, yet avoided the day - just as her fondness of dogs, which she might have thrown in as a joke, yet still avoided telling him anything new.
Will was torn between admiration and envy.
"Don't get too personal on me," he said in a sour tone, adjusting his glasses out of habit.
She - "Bella," he reminded himself - made a face, shrugging.
He wondered if this was how the night would go, both trying to find a sense of friendship, yet still plagued by feelings of mistrust. He knew his own reasons for not giving away anything personal. He told himself that it was better to let her know him in person instead of some online tabloid. He did have to wonder why she gave so little. He thought she might be on the run, but quickly ruled that out. Even if her eyes were constantly sweeping over her surroundings, she looked more like a doe, keeping an eye out for danger at the slightest of sounds.
He still wondered if something happened to her, something to make her as she was. He didn't want to think of that. She had a sweet face.
He thought back on Alana Bloom.
That woman was a beauty. With rich brown hair, eyes that looked as beautiful as the sky on a clear day, and a smile resting on shapely lips. She respected his space, always avoiding being alone, which he didn't know whether to appreciate or take mild offense to. It was easier to forgive a woman with a smile like the one she wore.
Bella was a beauty, but not in the same respect as Alana.
She looked rougher.
It wasn't due to the worn in uniform she wore that made her out to be that way. It was her hair. It was shorter than the long and regal curls Alana sported. Her's fell into waves, but not intentionally. More from having it pulled up and out of the way. It was asymmetric more often than not. Knotted despite its shortness. Though she kept her distance, something she had in common with Dr. Bloom, when she was close enough, he could make out the fain scars on her face. One just above her right eyebrow, resting on top of her right cheekbone, and another along the line of her left cheekbone. They were straight, clean, something that had been done quickly, happening before she could brace herself. They matched others, on the posterior side of her forearms. Those were straight, clean, but crossing, as if being cut quickly in a fluid "x" movement. It wasn't on the inside of her arms. He recognized the placing of those scars.
She was bracing herself when she had them.
Her jacket was black, loose enough to be comfortable, but not enough for someone to grab onto with ease. It was always unzipped, no matter how cold, as if she were ready to slip it off in the case that someone ever did grab onto her. Her shoes weren't like the sleek and sharp heels that Alana, and many other women were fond of. It was either brown boots that were always tied twice with the shoelaces tucked in, or it was tennis shoes that were equally worn in, shoelaces also tucked inside. Ready to run.
She wore no jewelry. He caught sight of a co-worker giving her a small golden cross on a thin matching chain, given to her by her boss. "To protect you," the old Spanish man told her before she took over her shift.
Will never saw her wear it.
She had accepted it politely. She took it off the second the man was gone, placing it into her purse. If Will had to take a guess, it was because it was a necklace, loosely hanging. While she wore it, she kept touching it, adjusting it. She looked uncomfortable with something around her neck.
He was beginning to believe something did happen.
His mind went first to abuse. With her discomfort around him, and the wariness in her eyes even when she looked at her boss, he wondered if a man attacked her. He wondered if some savage raised a blade and furiously cut at her, if she fled from wherever she came from in fear. The image of her, fear in her eyes, cowering from a man, knotted his stomach.
He wanted to believe that she earned those scars from a normal childhood. He wanted to believe that they were from falling out of a tree, cutting herself on branches, or that she was in some class in school and missed out on some protective equipment.
But those scars were too similar to be from different accidents. And if they shared the same cause, he doubted it was that, an accident.
"Tell me about yourself," she insisted. Her voice was tight, as if she had been holding her breath for too long.
Will nodded, knowing full well that this was to be expected.
It would be hypocritical to ask her to share personal facts about herself. They barely knew each other. However, he also knew it was hypocritical of her to expect a personal answer when she gave as little as she had. Moderately socially maladjusted, they both were. There had to be some comfort in that.
"You know my name," he began, the right corner of his lips twitching towards what might have been a smile - half of a smile...
"Will Graham," she recalled with a soft smile on her lips. It was the way she said it. The sound of it felt like religion, it felt of both salvation and condemnation.
"I like..."
He sighed, shaking his head. He felt an echo of a migraine from earlier. There was too much effort that needed to go into subtle evasion. He couldn't stomach putting himself through it again.
"I don't like dancing around the obvious," he confessed, looking at her with hopeful eyes, as if she would see him and all his messy and broken parts and have enough mercy to bend.
"You may not like it, but you do make a formidable performance."
Will deserved the sharp tongued reply.
Nothing in life ever came easy, so why would this? His words sounded clumsy and empty in the quiet and warm kitchen. Out of the two of them, neither was dignified and bold enough to take charge and make demands of the other. They were both too messy, battered, and ruined to trust themselves with being likable enough to actually deserve something without paying a price so high that they didn't want it anymore.
"As do you," he said after some time. She only gave a lame shrug, taking no offense.
She shifted in her seat once more. He took liberty upon himself to fill their empty glasses. He invited her for "drinks", and both were in desperation for more than one glass's worth of courage. She quickly drank more, and when her glass hit the table with an awful thunk he half imagined her to take her leave early, both of them unsatisfied, but too polite to simply take what they wanted.
He was paid well for his imagination, but imagination could only go so far.
He wasn't clairvoyant.
"We're too afraid," she said, looking him in the eyes.
Will said nothing.
He couldn't deny her words, but he figured it best not to affirm them either.
"We're tiptoeing, hoping not to to crack the thin ice beneath us," she sighed, shaking her head and taking another drink. "People usually invite someone over for drinks to get to know them better."
"Are we not already doing that?" he asked in a bitter tone and sour expression, both geared towards himself.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you share the same fear of getting to know each other."
"Probably best that we take our time. You've already gone to the home of a stranger. It would be in poor taste to get too personal. You're nothing if not careful," he said, showing how close he'd been watching her.
Her face twitched, lips pursing, as his words bit into her. He regretted his words instantly, wanting to apologize, but stuck in fear that if he did, it would only cement them in history. Acknowledging something made it feel too real for him. Instead, he brought his glass to his lips and took a big gulp, as if the burning sensation of alcohol would be enough penance to earn him some forgiveness.
"It would be reckless to begin bonding so soon. For all you know, I could be a terrible person," he said. A rotten taste fell on his tongue as he said it. "Terrible person." The world was in no demand for terrible people. He liked to think of himself as a compassionate and almost-balanced man. Yet, in light of recent events, he wondered if he was. He always tried not to bring work home as a teacher, but with returning to becoming a criminal profiler, he felt as though his work was beginning to follow him home.
"So soon," she echoed. "For one, time is an illusion and I bond fast. Secondly, who knows, we might both benefit from talking."
Will frowned at this.
He knew her enough to know she wasn't comfortable with talking. The beginning of this poor excuse of a conversation was enough to prove it.
Will felt anger bubble inside him. He wondered if she took in the messiness of his house, of his person, and saw him as Alana did. Something broken, something to be pitied. Something that needed to describe the shapes of the monsters that were devouring him, hoping that it would ward them off, giving him enough distance to recover. She didn't want him to get too close to the minds of the people he put away.
"If you're trying to tell me that it gets better by sharing and feeling-"
"Oh, God, no. It doesn't," she said quickly, shaking her head. If Will didn't agree with her, he might have smiled. "What I'm trying to say is that the rule of survival is to stick together. People are better together because, well, speaking from personal experience, when we're all alone, we're hopelessly lost."
She stared with unfocused eyes at the amber colored liquid. He wondered what was going on inside her head.
She was too.
This was so unlike her.
Ever since she left, she kept her head down and mouth shut. She vanished. She got in a car, no map, no direction, and no destination. She spent so long on the road that she melted into it. Into the gravel, the tar beneath. She sunk into the thick blackness of it, until nothing and no one could find her.
Then he came along.
He found her, covered in black, willingly drowning. She was content in the dark. She forgot the worst in life, and the best. She forgot herself. Her very essence was unraveling, and she would have let it. Yet, in the dark of night, she thought she saw the moon. It wasn't as rich as sunlight, but it reminded her of what it felt like to be alive. Just enough hope filled her, so she reached for it, just entertaining the idea of being more than empty.
She thought that she wouldn't be able to grasp onto anything. She thought that she was reaching into empty space. It was a safe dream, one that she thought would only just be that, a dream. She thought she would find nothing and when the dream was crushed enough, she thought she would be able to go back to the machine like routine that was her life.
But she didn't grasp onto nothing.
It was him.
"I thought you liked being lost."
He didn't. He just wanted to hear her say it.
She rubbed her face with her eyes. Her head was clearing bit by bit. She knew what he wanted to hear. Perhaps he wanted to hear her say it because he needed enough courage, a safety net to take the jump with her. She knew that's what she wanted, but his interest was enough for her to take the jump. Then again, she didn't need a safety net. She had nothing to lose. She was indifferent. She was used to it enough to go back to nothing. She knew how to keep her head straight. She knew enough to avoid looking back long enough to stop her from going forward.
Did he?
Her guesses would say no.
His dogs were enough evidence.
He collected strays.
Was he trying to collect her?
"No one does."
The three words exhausted her. It tired her out like hours worth of crying, but in the end she felt relieved. She felt like she was breathing again, finally being open, honest.
The door was barely cracked open, but she felt like she was exposed to him. A part of her told her to shut the door, to lean her back against it, to barricade herself inside and loose track of time until hers ended. She was used to playing the waiting game. At least, that's what she told herself. So, what did it hurt to tell him? What did it hurt to give him the safety net he needed?
"You look tired, but you're no stranger to staying up this late. I don't think you stay up because you just love the nighttime. You keep the company of dogs. I didn't see any pictures of family or friends. None of even you, so my guess is that you are just as alone as I am."
She wasn't wrong.
"But you invited me here," she pointed out, finally raising her eyes to look at him. Eyes bright with something he couldn't recognize on her. He wouldn't call it hope, but something in close relation to it. "You invited someone else into your safe place, so, that being said, I think you don't like being alone either."
Will shifted in his seat, sitting straighter. There was a sense of pride filling him as she spoke.
She was observant. She looked at her surroundings, drawing on them, trying to understand him. He found comfort in that. She was looking for answers just like him, and that meant that he wasn't betraying everything he was feeling. It meant that he wasn't alone. For a moment, he felt himself look at her with hope, and that made his eyes burn, wanting to let out a river of hot tears. He viciously suppressed the feeling, instead focusing on the proposition before him.
He almost cringed at the thought. "Proposition" was the wrong word. It made it sound too professional, and he already had a professional to talk to. Yet, there was something strange, too strange, between them to call it friendship. Whatever it was, it was more appealing than a majority of relationships he managed to cling to throughout the years.
She was just like him, and that was the appeal.
"So," she began, lifting her head with an almost pathetic attempt at looking confident. In the end she looked just as hopelessly desperate for companionship as he. Both starved. "What do you say?"
Will looked down at his glass. This was why he asked her. It wasn't just because he needed a drink and missed her company. He wanted more. He didn't want someone who could report back to Jack. He didn't want someone who would come to their own conclusions before hearing him. He wanted someone who would know him first, who would trust him first. He wanted to be looked at like an actual person and not a mental case waiting to happen.
And she was offering it.
A grin formed on his lips.
Smiling, he lifted his glass, just as she did.
"To..." He didn't know what he was celebrating. Friendship? The death of loneliness? The success rate of alcohol breaking barriers?
"To liking dogs," she said with a lopsided smile.
He raised a brow.
"If you didn't like dogs, I wouldn't have trusted you."
She was joking, and he knew it.
"You came to a stranger's house," he said, waving his finger around, as if to point to proof that was all around them.
"Nonsense," she said hastily with a light sounding laugh. After it subsided, all that remained was that same small smile that was more inviting than a thousand, teeth flashing, smiles. "It just sound's worse when you say stranger," she added, echoing his words from earlier.
"So, what would happen if I didn't like dogs?"
"I'd probably ask why you have so many."
He rolled his eyes, shaking his head.
When was the last time that he felt so...
He felt lighter. He felt as though there were a weight lifted from his shoulders. He felt normal.
He could easily picture it as he brought the glass to his lips, feeling the burn of alcohol cleanse him of words left unsaid.
He could pictured them, drinking, not drinking, in the kitchen or in the living room. She would tell him about her day - her night. He would tell her about his day. That was when he almost choked on his drink. He could picture himself telling her about his day. He could picture actually talking to her. It brought a sense of giddiness within his chest. He quickly shoved it down, drowning it in the alcohol. He could save hope for when he was alone. For now, he would just enjoy her company. He would enjoy not being alone.
"Let me try again," she began, causing him to set his glass down, not wanting to miss what she was going to say. "My name is Bella. I'm a waitress at Benny's Stop and Dine-"
"What a surprise," he said in a flat tone, raising a brow, having expected to get something more detailed, more personal. He was expecting her to be more trusting.
"Please, let me finish," she pleaded.
He held up his hands in surrender, which warranted another smile. There was a foreign warmth spreading in his chest.
"My name is Bella. I work at Benny's Stop and Dine.I enjoy the sunrise, long showers, and I like dogs."
He chuckled at that.
"But, getting personal," she took a deep breath, looking at the old white ceiling, as if she was searching for something to say, wading through all her thoughts and memories. Finally, when she decided on one, she lowered her eyes, meeting his. A smile - No. A smirk forming where a smile once was. "I dropped out of college," she said with a slight laugh.
She sounded like she didn't believe it herself.
Will was somewhat taken back.
He hadn't thought that she was the kind to be in college, but he didn't think that she wouldn't be. He didn't give it much thought at all. Though, the more he thought on it, all the books she read, how she picked up on the world around her, he could so clearly picture her on some university campus, in a classroom, finishing degrees.
But she didn't.
"Why did you drop out?" he asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. She shook her head, pressing her lips together. He knew she wouldn't give him much. Not tonight, at least. But, at least that was something. She nodded at him again, this time he knew that she was expecting him to give something personal in return. So, like her, he looked to the ceiling, thinking on all the things he hadn't told her, and how many of those weren't too heavy to bare. "I teach forensic classes."
"Like at a college?" she asked, both of her eyebrows raised.
He knew that she didn't deserve any more than she gave him, but they were supposed to be trusting each other.
"Like for the FBI," he answered with a grimace.
A breathy laugh of disbelief escaped her lips. This time in more disbelief than when she admitted to dropping out of college. He could almost feel the thick awkward fog growing between them. He watched as she swallowed, nodding as she digested his words. A smile broke out onto her face.
"Okay. Well, I guess you probably think I'm some failure or something..."
"Do you think I would think that?" he asked, not believing her for a second. To his delight, she shook her head.
"You don't judge people easily."
She didn't know how true those words were. As sweet as they were probably intended to be, they only tasted of bitter truth.
She pushed her empty glass away, reaching for her bag which rested on the floor beside her feet.
He sat up straighter, defensively. His chair made a loud scraping noise as he scooted back, ready to stand.
She froze.
The smile was gone. Her eyes were on him.
Once again, he saw the doe.
Her back was still curved downwards, causing her to crane neck to look at him. She was ready to turn her head and run. Body already pointed in the right direction. Away.
He froze, watching intently, regretting even the slightest movement.
He saw her relax. He saw her recognize his face, the look in his eyes. She recognized that he wasn't a threat.
Still, she stood.
"You're leaving."
The words tasted like poison. It tasted like the end of a good memory.
"Yes." She looked to the way they came from before looking at him. "I can't stay at a stranger's house," she added with an knowing smile. "Walk me to the front door?"
When he stood up, his chair fell backwards.
He looked frantically from the chair to her. An apology rested on the tip of his tongue, but died before a breath could leave his lungs at the sight of her. Forgiveness already in her eyes.
It was too brief, like some alignment of the astronomical bodies that only came once a lifetime, and then she was gone, walking towards the front door.
He abandoned the chair, following her. He stopped her before she was at the steps outside.
"Wait!" he called after her.
She stopped, turning only her upper body.
Always ready to run.
He stared, realizing he hadn't anything to say when he stopped her.
"Yes?"
"I'm not a stranger," he blurted out, a hopeless smile of his own.
"No... You're not," she agreed with the brightest smile he'd seen of her yet. And, as she walked away, he heard her laughing. And, just as she made it to her car, he stopped her again.
"You're still a stranger. Half, a stranger," he said, wincing at how desperate he sounded for just a few more seconds before she left.
She didn't notice or she didn't care about how he sounded.
She only smiled.
"Bellamy. Bellamy Bennet."
And she wasn't a stranger anymore because she had a name.
"Bellamy," he said, watching as the lights of her car vanished into the dark of night.
Nodding, he walked back inside, locking the door behind him.
Thirty minutes the lights went off inside.
That night, he fell asleep, and for once, he didn't have a nightmare.
Thank you so much for sticking with me so far! If you read the note at the end of the last chapter, you know this is my first fic. For that reason, I would like to extend my utmost gratitude for "Guest" and "HyoryuNoHana", for dropping me a review!
I hope you guys like this chapter and those that follow.
Anyways, I just wanted to say that I know that this chapter was a bit slow, but I swear, in the next chapter, I'm tying it to the show. Things will pick up after that! I promise.
So that's it for now!
Hope you like chapter two...