Hannibal's had enough of dancing around carefully crafted lines with his psychiatrist.

A/N: Story breaks from storyline (meaning books/tv) here and divulges into my own plot bunny. Principle characters are now being brought in.

Savor: Chapter 4

"I would like that. Thank you." He can feel her breathing in his scent as her curls rest against his strong back and he smiles, the first genuine one since he realized how useful Will Graham could be to them.

The buzzing in his pocket breaks him from his smile but he refuses to answer the call he's receiving. Whoever it is can wait now; he was finally making progress with her. His phone goes silent and he relaxes until it begins its onslaught on their peace again. He feels her arms tense and slide off his body. She walks past him and into the kitchen, heels clicking across the hardwood floor. He wants to call out to her, but he knows her walls are up once again. She's determined her actions as foolish. Instead of going after her once again he takes out the phone that continues to ring, revealing several missed calls. He answers this time, and it's Will Graham calling for an impromptu appointment. She's handing him a glass of wine, drinking her own.

"I understand." She affirms, taking another drag from the blood-red liquid. She always was one for red wine. She doesn't want him to think she's this desperate, this needy, but she feels better knowing that at least she could touch him again without being reminded. She was never was before and she certainly won't make a habit out of it now. The appointments were enough. He already thought she couldn't handle her own mental health, she didn't need to give him another reason. He catches a glimpse of the mark on her neck and immediately she notices, sliding her hair to cover the mark.

"You have a beautiful neck." She immediately shakes the memory and gets back to the conversation at hand. She needs to tell him; he must listen.

"Be careful with Will Graham. He's not what you thought."

"I am in control."

"Whatever you're doing with Will Graham" she begins, pursing her lips, ready to deliver the word that she needs to be firm. He has to listen to her, if only for this. "Stop." It's one of the few times she's been so dominant with him, but he recovers quite quickly. Jack had begun to get too close, and if he was too close, what did that mean for Will Graham? She'd had this conversation with him before, and he was simply sick of it, but she continued nonetheless. "You cannot function as an agent of friendship for a man who is disconnected from the concept as a man who is disconnected from the concept." His eyes dart to hers, the mask flying over his eyes before he can show his shock in them. He finds it difficult to hide himself around her; like she has the zipper to his person-suit in her agile fingers and slides It down when she wants, revealing his true skin. He wonders when he began to put this suit on in front of her; probably around the same time she began to veil her neck. He's always loved her hair, but now he wishes to push it all aside and leave bite marks along the pale skin that flushes when she's nervous. Instead of snapping at her for her seemingly rude comment, he continues with their conversation.

"I'm protecting Will from influence." She loses concentration at the moment, solely focused on his body…the way it was tensing. "I'm not comfortable telling Will that my very best attempts to help him may fail and that my loyalty to him and his treatment could be compromised." That I failed you. She's alert to his words again then; she's got him finally showing emotions. He claims that she's the sick one but he's fuming, pacing back and forth. They'll discover him quickly if he begins to devolve and she refuses to let that happen.

"Then tell him something else," She speaks then from between her teeth. He doesn't get the message that he's gotten too close; that he isn't seeing Will Graham as an object of their use anymore. When he still looks unfazed at her words, she continues, aiming to get his attention. She will have it. She's tired of dancing around in circles with him even though she knows it's of her own making. This was her design and she despised it. This is about us, Hannibal. Our lives. Not Will Graham's: "Agent Crawford also asked me about my attack."

He stops pacing and his voice is nearly a whisper, one that sends a shiver up her spine. "I see…what did you tell him?" For a moment she is truly terrified. She feels like she doesn't know him anymore.
"Half-truths," she says. "That... a violent patient swallowed his tongue while he was attacking me. I didn't tell him how or... why... or who was responsible." At the end of their conversation he leaves without hesitation, irritated with her insinuations but more so with himself. She shouldn't have had to fight for his attention; she shouldn't be questioned about her attack by strangers. Jack Crawford had targeted her; he had the audacity to read her file and attack her. She'd always been strong willed, constantly telling him to be careful when she could barely stop herself from shaking when she collected her mail. He hadn't been careful enough and now Jack Crawford was coming to question her. He can't be around her right now, knowing that he's put her in danger. The half-truths will begin to pile if he doesn't sort out these issues. It is time; he must tie up the loose ends so they can move on.

He arrives at her door much later than his regular appointment time, calling her this time to remind her of his intended lateness. She knows why he hadn't called last time, attempting to save her from the barrage of questioning from Jack Crawford. If he didn't call her, she knew nothing…he couldn't ask her anything. He waltzes into her living space-turned therapy room, remembering when people would come to her home and admire the art, the flowers, the wine..her. She smiles slightly, happy that he has listened and backed off of Will Graham. He created a replacement for his sister in Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs by mistake. She already pushed him to kill Abigail Hobbs and if Will kept influencing him, she might have to do it herself; that is, If she could ever step two feet out of her house. She knows he'll never leave him alone, as apparent from his recent visit to the jail, but Will's current state of jail time has given Hannibal time for reflection; it's why he hasn't called her for a week since their dinner. She's worried that he'll soon find his way on the other side of those bars if he continues with Will Graham, but he's angry. In their previous conversation he attempted to bait her with Abigail Hobbs, failing miserably.

"I never considered having a child…"

He had hoped it would be an easy stab to open her up like one of his previous speciments. He should have known it would never be easy with her, but he'd hope seeing his mourning would make her remember; make her feel again.

She knows he'll be coming for her sanity soon enough…she knows. Their dinner previously had the potential of escalating quickly before she shut him down by warning him about his pattern. Distracting him had been her goal and he left soon after, leaving the sweet taste of 'veal' in her mouth. He's been going easy on her for the past few sessions but she knows soon he'll be fed up with this fake relationship they've created and perpetuated. Quite frankly she's tired of pretending as well. She imagined their previous dinner would have tasted even sweeter secondhand from his lips. No. She needed to stop herself before she let herself go completely. This was the only control she had left, but she felt like he was planning on making her lose that today. Soon as she sits down in the chair, he begins his onslaught.

"I lied when I told you I never considered having a child," He catches her eyes for a brief moment, but knows she is too polite to interrupt their conversation, so instead she runs her thumb over her hand. He needed to be honest; being their conversation with something to catch his attention like she had previously done to him. He brought this conversation up before, but she skimmed over it with ease, sliding well into the role of his psychologist. Will Graham is out of his mind now, successfully framed and locked away. She warned him of Will in their previous dinner conversation but he doesn't think of that now. He thinks of wishing to bring her to the Gallas; sit with her at the Opera. He misses the moments when she would sit next to him in her regalia, using her crystal-blues to focus briefly on the rude people in the crowd, and then running her soft fingers over his suit sleeve with a coy tug of her lips. He will move her past this, despite the consequences. He needed her emotion back, her passion. It was in there sometime, buried underneath all the nightmares and apathy. He will unzip the person suit she's wearing, first by taking off his own. He's prepared to dig into this subject, pulling it from the pits of her soul and putting it on a platter, much like he did with Abigail. At least he got her to eat last week after their brief spat. It was the first time he'd cooked for her in ages. They need to stop this psychologist-patient act. Her lips are thin and small lines frame her face because she knows what's coming next. She made it through their first conversation; his mock mourning over a child he had minimal feelings for. He has to continue, as much as he hates to do this to her. He misses the talks they used to have wrapped in elegant silk blankets, and he needs to talk to her; she's the only one he can truly talk to. Will Graham was their science experiment together. Now, it seemed like it was all useless; she can't leave the house and has little interest in anything. He wonders briefly what she does all day in this house, alone. Why is it that she's still able to dress elegantly when the sun hasn't drenched her skin for months? He knows she's trying to maintain her dignity, to keep herself up for appearances because she feels like it's all she has left. He continues, nonetheless, hoping to expose her. She needs it…needs to be herself again. "5 months ago is the first time I ever considered it." He delivers the words with a shutter of his lips, something she hasn't heard since that day and she can't bear it. His emotions were always the hardest for her to deal with and she will not be toyed with. He will not manipulate her like this, but his eyes catch her off guard. The windows to the soul, she was once told, and his glistening pupils were telling her that he was not playing with her like he had Will Graham. She can't. She just can't.

"You…" She begins coolly, closing her eyes for a moment and bringing her fingers to the bridge of her nose to regain her composure. "This is not prope-" He mustn't let her regain her composure, so he continues immediately.

"He would be one month now-"

"I am not doing this." She sighs with frustration, running her hand through her hair, breaking one of the curls which slides easily back into place. She uncrosses her legs and attempts to leave the room, only for him to rise in front of her. She knew he wasn't going to let her past, and her fists ball at her sides, feeling the fury rise like bile in her throat. "You're not my psychiatrist, Hannibal." She sidesteps to leave the room, as he anticipates her movements and mirrors her. The quick movement startles her and she steps back for a moment before attempting to move again. She feels so empty; She wants her words to hurt him like knives, and she knows exactly where to stab him. They are nothing. "We are only colleagues." She lies, knowing that it will infuriate him beyond all belief, similar to how he's done to her. He wasn't the only psychologist; not the only one capable of simple manipulation.

He grabs her shoulders then, sick of dancing along imaginary lines; climbing walls only to have them built higher. He feels like the World is crumbling; their standing on castles made of sand, and he needs her the most now. He shakes her like a soda can and can't control his anger . "We are anything but colleagues." He spits and her eyes shake in their sockets, focusing on his. She thought she could deal with this side of him but her vision begins to swim and her knees give a quick shake before stabilizing. Her windpipe suddenly feels really tight but she feels his fingers tightly pressed to her collar bone and shoulder blades. God, she thinks he's going to kill her. He brings his voice down when he notices her terror, but refuses to let her go; to return to her room and stack her walls with more mortar, for him to climb over; to lock herself away from him again. "We nearly had a child together." At this, her hands grasp his arms through the pristine suit and she tries to push away from him, her face flushing pink.

"Stop," She commands, with a roar in her voice he hasn't heard in months.

"You can't avoid him, Bedelia." Her head shakes and she pushes his chest. He finally lets her go and she stumbles back, trying to get as far away from him as possible and grasps her couch, gasping for air.

"Stop!" Her shaking hand reaches up and moves through her curls, a futile attempt to calm herself. Her voice is stern and commanding when she finally feels it's safe to speak again. She is in control. " ." When she doesn't hear his feet or the telltale sound of her heavy door closing, she spins around, livid. Her neck is slightly showing and he can see the hints of red slashed across.

"I will no-" The slap to his face stops his words.

"He was our son!" She explodes, wrathfully hurrying over to the flowers he had sent, as if she didn't just assault him. Her voice is rough and dry when she snarls , anger plastered on her beautiful features, "And you didn't care." Her hand sweeps violently across the table, sending the vase crashing to the floor of and the orchids tumbling over his feet. He strides over to meet her and grabs her struggling wrist, tugging her toward him admist her protest. He runs his hand over her long sunbeam hair and flicks it back to reveal the jagged red scar that taints the angelic color of her flesh. His voice comes out like a canon, booming over the whole room, as his face contorts in anger.

"I didn't mean for this to happen!" The sudden coolness on her neck is alarming and her eyes widen in an attempt to hide it from him; from herself. Flashes swim in her vision and she must push them away, push him away.

"Help, oh God, please help me" she cried, calling for a god she didn't believe in.

Hands around her neck, pain stabbing in her abdomen, blood seeping into her underwear.

"Get off of me!" She shrugs aggressively away from his touch, wanting to put up more a fight, to beat at his chest, but her voice is raw when she responds softly, tears running down her face.

"H-Hannibal…what's happening?" She moans as she slides down the wall, his arms reaching to brace her weight. Her attacker is gone, but her vision is in stars and she can't seem to see anything, only his eyes. One of her eyes feels bigger than the other and her body seems to be on fire. She's slipping in and out of consciousness, but she's suddenly aware of the trickle down her legs and into her carpet, shoes long kicked off in battle. "You can't save him." She grabs out for his arm, and lets out a small gasp of pain before slipping into the darkness.

She means to yell at him again, but instead "I let him die," tumbles out of her mouth. He pulls her close to him, wrapping her in his arms and breathing in her scent deeply.

"You did not. It wasn't your fault." He whispers into her hair. "We cannot keep hiding from each other." She is reminded of their words spoken in hushed voices under her covers. She feels empty. She misses him. Her ears suddenly perk at a clanging noise and she sees a form come into the panel of her window. Her tiny form stirs against his chest, and he lets loosens his grip, only to realize that she's walking towards her garden.

He turns around and sees nothing, but is quick to follow on her heels. She reaches the storm door revealing her garden sporting a newly grown red fern.

"Ms. Lounds." She states, stopping the curly red head from her attempted getaway, her clothes snagged on the thorns of her plants. She even had difficulty coming to her once loved garden, which is now overgrown, vines climbing up the side of her house. She begins to quake and stills herself. She takes several steps out onto the cobblestones she paved herself, as Hannibal stood in the doorway, watching with fascination as she fought with her body, attempting to stop the quakes that rattled her in fear. Bedelia smiled as she walked to the now trembling Lounds, crouching down to grab her sweater with agile fingers and remove the thorn vines that had kept her in place. "These plants can be tricky, Ms. Lounds," Bedelia says as looks up at the woman and notices that she unclenches her fists from the guard that runs around her back patio and garden. She continues:

"They used to snag me all the time, but I came up with a trick to stop them from sticking me." Her voice is soft and fragile and it fits from the information she wheedled out of her source. She talked as if someone's hands were still wrapped around her neck. Freddie laughed nervously and straightened her sweater. At least she was around this Bedelia woman. She knew Hannibal was a monster, she just didn't have any evidence. She was sure Hannibal would have harmed her if he caught her again, so she decided to make small talk with this woman who'd inevitably saved her. This poor, kind soul.

"What do you do to stop the snags?" She humored the woman. Honestly, she needed to work on her sleuthing skills. These easy finds recently had made her rusty. She had her sources, knew when he visited this woman. She'd attempted to tail him before but when he knocked on her door, meal in hand, he found her hiding place immediately. Needless to say she left tire marks on the street. How was he always a step in front of her? He was hiding something, and he brought the frail woman in front of her into it. She hadn't seen anything on this 'stakeout' but Hannibal hugging the woman who appeared to be crying. Why was she crying as his therapist? What had he done to convince this woman to be his therapist? Had he been her strangler? The woman was shaking from being around him, and Freddie felt bad for her. She thought for sure she was more careful this time in her sneaking, but the previously trembling woman who'd saved her from Hannibal's wrath found her without missing a beat. Must be the red hair. Suddenly, a thought hit her when she caught the woman's icy blue eyes, cold and unnerving. Her eyes were just like Doctor Lector's, depthless and unsettling. She must be in on it, Freddie Lounds pieced her thoughts together. Whatever evil he was doing, she knew. There was nowhere to go, the young journalist realized glancing around the darkened gated garden. She waited anxiously for the woman to rise and give her a cryptic answer, sending her on her way like Hannibal had once done. Bedelia gave her a soft smile then, rising to her full height from her previous crouched position.

"The key is pull them before they grow thorns."

Before she knows it the kind Dr. Du Maurier's tiny hand is on her face, squeezing. She tries to scream, but the falling sensation is short and her head soon meets the stone.

Freddie Lounds head collides with the ground, knocking her out cold; if she was awake she would feel the sensation of being punched repeatidly, but alas, she feels nothing; sees nothing. Bedelia lets out a small huff of exhaustion and grabs the woman's shoulders,her body like a ragdoll; head falling back uncontrollably. She bashes the woman on the stones of her garden over and over, letting out the anger and aggression she's felt for months. About her child, about Hannibal. The tattler's blog has been quite insulting lately and she vowed to kill the woman if she could ever leave her home, but the woman had the audacity to come to her. How dare she interrupt them! How dare she! This was her home. She felt safe hereand she tried to ruin it,ruin him. Her blue orbs were wide and crazed, her hands balled in the fabric of the woman's sweater. She would not let her take him from her. He was hers! Rude to her core, she had to die. The blood begins to seep into the grooves of the stone when she stops, examining her work. She turns to Hannibal who stands in the doorframe, looking at the now deceased Freddie Lounds. She rises to her feet, brushing her hair out of her face with the back of her hand.

"That was quite direct for you, Bedelia."

"What she wrote about you was despicable." He grabs her wrist and pulls her close, his lips meeting softly with hers at first, before he moves his tongue into her mouth, eliciting a moan.

Her hands are on his chest, removing his suit jacket as they move backward into her living room. She jumps him, his hands moving quickly to cup her firm butt in his hands, as her legs wrap around his back. She aggressively smashes her face against his, shoving her tongue into his mouth. She grabs his lip with her teeth and pulls back, gasping for air after she's drawn blood.

"Bedroom."

He runs his hands over her body as they ascend the stairs and kiss with desperation. His shirt is soon added to the stairs ascend, his fingers working the buttons of her blue blouse as he deepens the kisses. Pasionate. Desperate. Hungry. The door to her room slides open and he pushes her to the bed, climbing atop her. She lifts her hips and he drums her hip bone with his fingers before sliding off her skirt, revealing black lace underneath. She's reminded of her neck when she notices his eyes are on it and moves to cover it when his hand stops her.

"It's beautiful-You're beautiful." She looks apprehensive, but moans his name when his teeth nibble on her collar bone, tongue sliding up and over the scar, making a swirling motion when he gets to the jagged mark. His fingers slide into her and she forces her head back into the lush pillows of her bed. She tightly shuts her eyes and grabs his arms, pushing the flashes of memory that attempt to ruin the pleasure with success. Soon, she's begging him to enter her and her fingers are working at the belt of his dress pants.

She pushes him on his back and slides carefully on him, her hands planted on both sides of his toned stomach. He groans when she begins to move and gasps when her rhythm becomes a quick pounding movement up and down. She throws her head back, hair sliding over her shoulders like golden rivulets as she shouts, her hands splayed against his chest, and eyes rolled back in her head. He grabs full handfuls of her butt and aggressively forces her down on him once more and her eyes widen as he closes his. She feels warmth for the first time in months, and smiles in ecstasy. Sliding from him, she positions herself next to him, his hand caressing her face.

"You're the only one I can show my true self to." He spoke, knowing that she already heard the words before. His fingers trailed along her face and tipped her chin up so she could look him in the eyes. She needed to hear them again. Words like "I love you" were trivial and simple. People loved their homes, their food. It didn't express how they felt about each other.

"I'm sorry you've been hiding for so long… … I've missed you." He kisses her slowly and sensually. Anyone who would describe Hannibal Lector as a sociopath was terribly wrong. He felt. It just took the right fingers to take off his person suit. He broke the kiss and looked into her eyes, ones that finally conveyed emotion like they once had.

"I believe Ms. Lounds is getting cold, my love." He begins, moving out of the silk sheets of her bed. Their dinner would be delicious, although unfortunately for Ms. Lounds, she wasn't vegetarian in death. Tsk Tsk, such a hypocrite.

"Would you like red or white?" She asks, sliding on her clothes and fixing her hair.

"I think something pink."

A?N Next Chapter: There's trouble afoot when Will enters the picture once again. Be prepared for a more vivid/violent flashback of Bedelia's in the next chapter along with more prominent addressing of their almost child together. Next chapter will finally reveal the details of her attack. Thanks for all the support! Keep reviewing and I'll keep writing :)