A/N: This is AU by this point, but I will tie in pieces of the show where I can. Thank you to everyone who reads my stories, and as ya'll know, I don't own Hannibal (If I did, it would have been Bedelia in the bed, not Alana tee hee).

Savor: Chapter 7

"I needed to ask you something." His body momentarily freezes before he sees the sleep-hazed smile on her face. "Are you free tomorrow night for an outing?" She's smirking at him now, just like on the first night they'd spent together, when she asked him to join her and Glen for dinner. He forgets that she's still relatively unstable and just drinks her in like the wine still on his lips. She's his Bedelia again, the once broken pieces finally assembling. He will not refuse her request, because he knows she needs control over her own recovery. He obliges her, tilting her head up and placing a kiss on her lips. He can forget about Will Graham, and his glare in the courtroom and just kiss her lips and listen to her mew as he cups her breast gently.

"An outing sounds like an excellent idea."


She's breathing deeply, petrified and on the verge of a panic attack, but disguising it well as lust. In out, in out, as the man grabs her thigh under the table, smirking at her. Her cheeks are flushed and in his egotistical muster he believes, truly believes, he is irresistible- he's got her exactly where he wants her. Her blue eyes are locked with his brown and she can see the aggression, the hunger, but she must continue her act. She slides from the chair smoothly and excuses herself to the ladies room, flashing her dinner companion a smile. He knows she's going there to calm her nerves, to possibly pull a stronger drink than the light wine she's been offered all night. He only hopes that she doesn't have a Valium in her bag. They'd dealt with that months ago and he'd hoped she would never touch it again.

His eyes land on her dinner companion, impatiently shoving his steak into his mouth, and he wants nothing more than to kill him right there. First, he'd slice off the tongue that was whispering crude obscenities across the dinner table-obscenities he knows that the dinner guests in the dinner table over heard. They think she's dirty now. His Bedelia. Next he would cut off the fingers that grabbed her knee roughly under the table. But he can't. He takes another drink from his aged scotch- too expensive for this establishment but decent nonetheless, and remembers why he's here. She needs this. This is her work, and although it pains her now- she needs it. He knows she feels she will never recover without this final step so he must let her go through the necessary steps on her own. She eyes him on her return from the powder room and her heels click confidently on the mock marble floor of the want to-be fancy restaurant. Her head is held high and her hair is swishing from side to side as she slides back into her seat with this miscreant urchin disguised as a 'handsome' businessman.

She wants him to believe that she is calm, that she is in control- and he will oblige her. He's long since forgotten her cruel words in their 'sessions,' where she pretended that she didn't know him, and pushed him away, numbing herself from head to toe from him. From herself. She'd surrounded herself in walls and he climbed each one, losing his footing at places but still continuing the climb. He waited patiently for her, seeing more of his Bedelia as each day passed and now, here they were.

She's sipping her glass of wine and smiling demurely at the man seated at the table across from her, lifting her glass to her true companion as the dinner guest continues to shove meat into his face, taking her dinner roll off her plate without asking. He's always admired her for her precision. For her ability to find the one who was just right. Everything she did was calculated- a science and he appreciated the details she put into her act, especially the red lipstick and her walk. Hip, leg, hip, leg he could never decide what to look at. The way she shifted her hips as she left the establishment made him suddenly wish they were home and she was in his bed. Or on the counter. Or his piano. She hadn't been to his home in such a long time. He would devour her. He missed her sitting in his lap, as he moved her hands, and kissed her neck, teaching her how to play the Theremin. And she laughed and laughed, and asked him why he couldn't play a normal instrument, while grabbing his lower lip with her teeth. Kissing him deeply, her tongue in his mouth, the smell of her hair in his nostrils. He shook his head and returned to his task, shifting in his seat.

He couldn't hear her from across the bar, but he knew the way she exhaled her words into the man's face, letting him see just a glimpse of her milky skin and the fabric of her black lace lingerie.

Her prey was hot on her tail and practically running after her.

He is number one. There will be two more and they will be in quick succession.

The man is stumbling into the home his legs feeling numb as he, plants wet, hot kisses on her neck, and she fights back a shutter. She needs to do this. He needs to die- he will not terrorize women any longer. Hannibal is watching from the shadows, his eyes focused on her skin, the erection pressing against his pants and into the plastic suit he is wearing to assist her later. What he enjoys most is seeing their face once they realize that they are not the predator but the prey. He's not at all alarmed by the plastic draping on the furniture as she whispers, her words breathy as she removes his shirt that she's returning from a long trip. He smiles, whispering that he's going to take her on a trip and presses his erection into her body. She stiffens momentarily but pushes him on the bed, and before he knows it, he's cuffed. He wants to shake in the cuffs, to tell her to 'get em the fuck off, bitch. He's not a woman,' but he's occupied by the feeling in his legs- better yet the lack of feeling. Why are his legs numb? She leaves the room- must be making herself right for him.

10 minutes go by and his is head is hurting and he can't feel the thrill in his underwear any longer. It's the liquor. The liquor. The liquor. His fraternity brothers warned him of this possible effect some 20 years ago, but he never believed them. He looked down to see that he no longer had an erection.

'Picture her tits. Picture her tits. God, don't disappoint. Be the man. Teach her to be submissive. Where the hell is she?'

"Alice, babe, what liquor was in that drink you gave me?" He calls, irritated, hoping she returns at his beckoning and lets him out of the cuffs so he can pop his Viagra. He was going to fuck her brains out. Make her really scream, even if she didn't want what he was going to give her. She was a whore anyway-picking him up in a bar. Coming on to him. She was going to take all of him. Everywhere.

She glides into the room, clad in her black bra and matching thong- a personal favorite for her companion in the shadows. She has a plastic suit of her own, but he knows that for these particular jobs, she needs the contact-craves maneuvers to get a better view. He must see her eyes. She mounts the man, one leg over another, and presses her sex against his jeans.

"Take 'em off." He commands, no longer in the mood for her foreplay. She grins as she takes the butcher knife from behind her back, and the companion for dinner's eyes become huge, bugging out of his skull. She runs it down his body, leaving a small line of blood in her wake as he whimpers.

The thrill he sees in her eyes as she sinks the blade into her prey is astounding. For such a small woman, she has great power. She stabs once, twice a third time and throws her head back in ecstasy and lets out a scream, smoothing her hands over his bloody chest and watching as it bubbles in his mouth. She slithers up his body letting the blood ooze over her body, down the plastic and onto the covered floors, as he begins to breathe his last breath. "You wanted this. You asked for it. Babe."


He's killing at a rapid rate now; one person after another, while simultaneously working to free Will Graham. It's a dangerous game, wanting to be friends with someone who wants you dead. It was a game he enjoyed. Will Graham was just like him- He just didn't know it yet.

He doesn't expect her to walk into his office; her brows knotted in anger and confusion. She's poised and ready to fight, her chest heaving though none of it present in her voice. "You didn't need to kill Beverly Katz."

"And you didn't need to tell Will Graham that you believed him."

"But I do believe him," she grins. It's not a grin he likes to see, no, this one is filled with Malice. "And I needed to see the man I was ditched for." He steps toward her aggressively, just as she steps back. She will not admit that she still has fears of his hands going around her throat, but she doesn't have to.

"I came to your house, ready to assist, but left instead with a bottle of perfume. It seems to me that I was the one ditched."

"You were late." She moves to leave his office, but his hand around her wrist stops her "Hours late." She shakes herself free. "You want him as a friend, Hannibal, but he wants you dead." She leaves his office; she needs to get away. He was dangerous, living his life like this. He would get them killed, or worse, caught.

She has a feeling. A strong feeling, and it's eating at her insides. Will Graham will kill him. She calls his phone. Once. Twice. Three times. In spite of herself, she can't help but worry. Graham is locked up but that never stopped anyone before. By habit, he should be swimming, but she can't shake the fear that the reckoning has arrived. Will Graham will get revenge for Beverly Katz.


It is a week later, when she has completed her third murder and ignored Hannibal that she hears that Will Graham has made an attempt on his life, manipulating another person. She is not surprised. She is however, surprised that he is still fighting for the man's freedom. Will Graham will be the one to catch Hannibal, she's sure of it. Whimsy will be his downfall.

He never calls her back.


She hears a knock at the door, and eagerly walks to open it, knowing it's not him- but still hoping. Since their last spat she hasn't heard from him, knowing that he's engrossed in Will Graham and his release from 'prison.' That he's excited Will Graham has decided to return to him for counseling. But today, today is different. He should be with her today, of all days. But it is past 7 and by now she knows he isn't coming. Much has happened in these few weeks and although she helped with Miriam Lass, they haven't seen each other in nearly three weeks. She unlocks one, two, three locks and opens the door to see Jack Crawford standing on the porch of her rural home. The door is opened wider and the man, shaped like a linebacker, offers her a greeting of 'Dr. Du Maurier' and shifts confidently in her home, his eyes still bagged from the recent suicide attempt of his wife.

"Sorry for the late night intrusion, I hope I haven't caught you at a poor time." Jack's heavy laden voice echoes from the walls in her home, as they walk through her foyer and into the kitchen. "Freddie Lounds has been missing for nearly a 40 days. Have you seen her or heard anything about her from Dr. Lecter?"

She doesn't question the amount of time, knowing that the F.B.I. was happy to have her out of their hair. That they only got involved when a fellow writer threatened exposure. She will feign ignorance, although she hopes they are here to investigate Hannibal solely on a hunch from Will Graham. He has too many hunches for her liking, but she will squash them. She extends the bottle of wine she's holding, offering him some of her best but he refuses. She pours herself a glass anyway, disregarding the fact that she's already had a glass and a half to get her through the day, and it was only 7pm.

"The reporter Ms. Lounds? I'm afraid I haven't met her before, Mr. Crawford."

"Now isn't the time to play coy, Dr. Du Maurier. We know of your relationship with Dr. Lecter"

"And what relationship would that be?" she stares, taking a long drag from her wine. "He is my patient, and-" she's cut off before she can continue

"Freddie Lounds' sent herself encrypted emails. It took a long time to get proper orders and fish through bogus emails, but we found something she sent to herself around the time she was last seen." He turns his iphone around and she sees a grainy video, but recognizes her home immediately, hears his booming voice immediately

"I didn't mean for this to happen!"

"Get off of me!" she sees herself and Hannibal, grainy, but identifiably them- their intimate argument, caught on video, displayed for the world to see. She hears herself say "I let him die," and sees him wrap her in his arms. The memory is fresh and feels too real when displayed on Jack Crawford's phone. The video abruptly stops when Freddie whispers "shit," a pot clinking on her side.

"Funny how you've never seen her, but she has a picture of you in her apartment, along with information about your attack."

She swallows. Then swallows again, the knot in her throat refusing to disappear. She flips her hair to the side, pushing it over her shoulder when suddenly she feels dizzy. They think Hannibal killed Lounds. She can already feel Jack Crawford ready to lock him up as the ripper as well. They know. They know. She'll have to tell. He's going to know now. Everyone will know of her mistakes, of her failure. She must. She cannot let them lock him away.

"Care to share who the "him" you let die was, Dr. Du Maurier? About the mysterious death of your patient." Jack Crawford says proudly, tucking the phone back into his pocket and crossing his arms over his chest. He's won this argument, one of many, and he's pride is shining through his grief ridden eyes. She places the glass of wine down and her hand falls to her stomach briefly, as she contemplates her words, realizing she must tell the truth- that it is no longer a detail she can keep so secret that sometimes she can will herself to forget. Not today. He came today, of all days. He knew he could trigger her. He was hoping for it. Half-truths. Half-truths. There was no way to divide her failure in half, to disguise it.

"I-" She pauses, moving her hand from her body and bracing herself on the counter. "I was pregnant when my patient attacked me. Hannibal, he-he saved me. I let our son" she stumbles over her words and brings the back of her hand to her mouth, shaking. She's not ready to talk to him about this. She isn't ready to talk to anyone besides Hannibal and even then…; She steadies herself, refusing to cry, to show another vulnerability to this man. She must go on, she must tell him or Hannibal will be further investigated. This will help buy him, them- if there is a them any longer, time. Finally, she finishes. "I had a miscarriage. Our son…he died." The words are thick as black sludge in her mouth, sliding up her throat. She feels sick.

Jack suddenly looks very uncomfortable and shifts his weight dramatically. He didn't mean for this to happen, he didn't know.

"That wasn't in the report. I'm sorry."

He sees her flinch and recoil at his words "you had no right"

"I'm sorry," he says solemnly, feeling pathetic.

"I think I'd very much like for you to leave now, if there aren't any further questions," she says harshly, finishing the glass of wine on the counter and pouring herself another. He clears his throat, mutters another apology and she sees him out, closing the door. The locks are returned, one, two , three in succession, and she glides to her bedroom, taking the rest of the bottle with her. He had to come today. Today of all days. And Hannibal didn't care. Didn't bother to call. Too wrapped up in his new apprentice Will Graham and Alana Bloom's legs, she was sure of it. She could be wrapped too. But she wouldn't. She couldn't. Not today, of all days. Jack Crawford targeted her, choosing to come on the anniversary of her attack-she was sure of it. She took a deep drink from the bottle, already finishing what was in her glass.

'I need sleep. Sleep. Sleep. I can't be awake, I can't. Not now.' Stumbling into the master bathroom, she fishes through her cabinet amidst a forthcoming panic attack, moving things aside-throwing his shaving razor to the floor. It's not in here. It hurts, everything hurts, and she can't breath. She wants to sleep, to forget- just for right now. She feels empty, and begins to undress herself, to examine herself. Standing only in her lace brassier and panties, her satin top and formfitting skirt discarded on the floor, she turns from side to side, having trouble as the liquor quickly catches up on her empty stomach. When did she eat last? Yesterday morning? She hasn't been shopping in weeks.

She examines herself, and rubs her hand over the flesh, knowing that she will never carry a child again. Her mother was right all those years ago when she told her she'd never be a mother. He was their one and only, a gift they hadn't anticipated. And she couldn't protect him. Staggering to her bed, she rummages through her bedside table, her agile fingers now fumbling as she curses under her breath. She needs to numb the pain, if just for now. She's a Doctor, she'll be fine. She takes a Valium, and then a second pill from the bottle and washes it down with another swig of wine, then deciding that she really, truly, deeply, needs a third and forth pill.

Before long, from a combination of terribly dry wine and prescription medication she'd promised not to take -but he doesn't care so it really doesn't matter anymore-, she's passed out, strewn across the bed and tangled in the thick covering she bought on her trip to France, pulling it closer and closer to her body, scrunching up the sheets- almost believing he's laying beside her.


The next day, 7:37 am

He hasn't seen her in weeks. It's been too long. They haven't seen each other in weeks. He should have helped her with her second, her third, but he didn't. . He's wrapped in Will Graham, fascinated… 's finally found a friend. Will Graham has finally decided to join him, but he hesitates sharing the news with Bedelia, knowing that she will reject it. She will say that Will Graham is a traitor, that he will turn them in. That's why he's kept him at a moderate distance- he's been clearing away his enemies to prepare a getaway if needed, but he's surprised when Will Graham brings him the flesh of Gideon. He'd had a plan for that man, but the offering was well accepted.

He's clearing away his enemies, and carefully keeping the blind, blind. Alana Bloom doesn't laugh the way Bedelia does when they play the Theremin, and she doesn't arch her back or whisper to him in French while they have sex, but it is enjoyable nonetheless. And he must keep her blind. He just has to deal with the Vergers, and then they would be fine. His apprentice will take initiative there, he's sure of it. His apprentice. His friend. He smiles.

He flips open his copy of the paper, not noticing the date-he's been so busy it could be from yesterday or last week- and notices that there's a special article about the 'Soapbox Seducer.' He observed the cluelessness of the F.B.I. through the newspaper and directly through Jack's musings and was genuinely impressed. She was better than ever, the precision and detail superb. Her last killing was a couple of weeks ago, though, which is why he's surprised to see an article. He flips to page 7 to see that 'The Sun' has decided to have an interview with a 'private investigator/master profiler' in the private sector to gain information about Bedelia. He scans the article, reading that the woman must be very beautiful, but charming to get not only the attention of these high-profile men, but their trust. At the end, the article paints her as a vigilant, almost hailing her work. He is seriously surprised. It seems as though she has become an icon, the article ending with:"But, these men were wolves disguised in sheep's-clothes, or business suits for that matter, and we must question whether or not we are better off without them lurking, thirsty for the blood of the next little red riding hood." He closes the paper and takes a drink of his morning coffee, freshly brewed and smelling exquisite. He should eat breakfast and enjoy is Saturday off.

Suddenly, he feels a pang of guilt in his chest. Has she been eating? He worries, wonders if her agoraphobia has kept her in the house, spare for luring her three prey. Has she regressed? Has his presence or lack thereof made a difference or is she functioning fine without him. He decides he can no longer brood on the fact that she was correct previously about Will Graham intending to kill him. Things are different now, and he needs to make sure she's okay and eating properly. He begins to pull the ingredients out for frittata, knowing that she will complain about the calories and fat in the dish, but devour it anyway- it was her favorite and he really did need something delicious to apologize. As he turned to his table to take a swig from his coffee cup his eyes scanned over the newspaper, noticing the date for the first time. His eyes widened and he dropped the cup, the pieces shattering at his feet, hot liquid splattered over the bottom of his slacks.

He grabbed his keys, not caring for his coat and ran from his house and slid into the car, his foot heavy on the gas. 40, 50, 60, 70, 80. The car whizzed around the twists and bends to get to her home. He called her, once, twice, three times. No answer. 'You've reached Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier' Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. He tossed the phone on the seat and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. His knuckles her white as he tried to reason with his thoughts. She was fine. He was exaggerating. He should have taken better care of her. No. She was fine.

His phone screamed for attention and he palmed it fast as he could, answering it before checking the number.

"Hannibal, -"

Dammit. It was Jack Crawford. Dammit. Dammit. He listened to the man apologize for the time, and go on and on. He wasn't listening. He could only hear her voice in his ears, begging him to help her, screaming his name. Jack Crawford's mention of Bedelia drew him out of his reverie.

"What?"

Back-tracking the conversation in his head that he wasn't really listening too, he realized Jack had paid Bedelia a visit. The man continued to explain until Hannibal cut him off, furious.

"You harassed her! You were planning to trigger her," he growled into the phone, ending the call as Jack apologized and throwing the phone as hard as he could against the closed passenger window, resulting in a crack in the window and the shattering of his iphone screen.

Finally, the car skidded to a stop outside of her rural home. Sprinting to the door, he fiddled with the locks, one, two, three- the two added right after her initial attack. He jammed his key into the last lock and once successful, threw the door open, and slamming it shut. "Bedelia," he bellowed, searching the rooms on the ground floor for her presence. Maybe she went for a walk? Maybe she's in her study listening to Mahler? Maybe she's concentrating in her study with the door closed? Or tending to her precious flowers? "Bedelia," he called again, taking the steps to her second floor two at a time. The door to her bedroom was locked. Locked. Dammit. He couldn't. She wouldn't have. She promised. The doorframe shattered into splintered wood as he kicked the heavy mahogany door open, gaining access to her bedroom, where she lie sprawled on the King sized bed, her tiny frame appearing even tinier and frail as she laid only in her undergarments, her pink dainty toes peaking from under a sheet. The light shined through her tasteful curtains, making her skin glisten and her hair look like a golden crown on top of her head.

He rushed to her, kneeling on the bed, the sheets rumbling and wrinkling under him as he lifted her by the shoulders, so she was sitting up, braced by his arm and chest. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. She needed to wake up. He had to wake her up. He saw the bottle of wine-empty, and the spilled bottle of Valium. He hadn't been there to comfort her when she needed him most. Will Graham. Will Graham. He'd forgotten all about her. She sought comfort and got it from somewhere else."Please."

Her head lolled back as he lifted, long blond hair with fallen curls descending over his arm that held her firmly in place. Her skin was warm, but so was the sun that shone brightly on her uncovered skin. He knew what he had to do, but he was terrified. He couldn't. Her neck was exposed to him, and she looked peaceful even though he was viewing the long, jagged scar across her milky flesh in daylight. "Delia," he whispered, moving his hand to her neck, running it across the scar to reach his destination. Tears in his rimmed eyes, fought their way onto his cheeks, falling with a light splash onto her velvety skin "I'm here now." His two fingers have positioned themselves properly and are now on her carotid as he waits.

"Delia, please."


A/N:I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. Thank you to everyone who reads my work, I really appreciate it.

Also: Praise in the revelation that Bedannibal/Hannidelia is CANON! Woot Woot!