All rights to Hannibal (TV) belong to NBC.
This chapter is dedicated, once again, to LisaxDeanshipper97 and MariDark for being my consultants and confidants on this fanfiction. Also, special thanks to YAYA Kitsune, Twelia, CaptainMC, Sanja, Guest, LaylaBrangwin and to all who favorited and added this story to your alerts. I love you guys. Seriously, don't think that I don't know your usernames by now. I've read and reread your words. They strengthen and motivate me to not give up writing. So, thank you for helping me pull through.
Finally, WE FINALLY REACHED 100K WORDS.
Damn this story is going to be a lot longer than I thought, BUT I'm excited and I hope you are too!
Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, Baltimore, Maryland
The snow was thick. More than a foot high, a sea of white surrounded the hospital, a daunting, sharp edged building with what would have been an inviting temple front, had it not been the cold, bare trees on either side. Standing at the face of the building, before the smooth, ivory colored steps, baring witness to this place, this cold and uninviting place that was able to feel so dark despite bathing in the sun, she couldn't help but feel the hair on the back of her neck rise, her skin prickling with unease.
Something was not right.
Her eyes swept over the sides of the building, marking every single crystalline window in sight. None of them were small, none of them baring heavy iron bars meant to keep the criminals in and the rest of the world out. It was both a relief and a source of discontent. She knew the kind of people they kept locked away in the hospital, the things they did to earn a place there. It was an architectural beauty, complete with even an almost religious dome like structure atop an entablature at the head of the building, a crowning jewel the building's composition. It was too beautiful of a place to be for the "criminally insane".
The inside betrayed the external.
Just beyond the front doors was what felt like a hall of mirrors, brutally cold and suspiciously clean. Every surface was of a dull shade, making every reflection look devoid of any life. Light came from above or streaming in from windows, clear and crisp particles of dust dancing in the air as though time slowed. This place felt of a prison. As soon as she realized this, her eyes wandered back to the front doors as a feeling of distrust rose within. There were no bars of decaying metal on the door, but nonetheless it seemed impossible to leave after it slammed shut.
She regretted not wearing running shoes. As her eyes swept over the entrance hall, she felt a thousand and one eyes on her, yet she found none. Her skin prickled, hair rising on the back of her neck. Instinctively, she lightly kicked at the floor, testing its grip, the question of running or hiding sounding in the back of her mind where even she did not hear it. All she did was blink. Once. Twice. Thrice. On the third blink, a jolt ran through her at the sound of footsteps echoing down from the left hand hall. Her eyes were draw to the sound like a frightened animal's did at the sound of a snap of a twig or rustle of leaves. Something felt amiss. Something felt undeniably wrong.
Yet, there was nothing there but a man. Not a monster that went bump in the night. Not a predator hiding in the shadows. Just a proud man in a tailored suit, gliding on the shiny marble floor towards them, her, Jack, Will, Alana. She was standing at the back. Despite being an inch or two taller than Dr. Bloom, combined with Jack and Will's heights and mass, she was hidden. This was where she took comfort most of the time, watching others from a safe distance, obscured from vision, unseen and unheard, but there all the same. She would have stayed that way if not for Jack's asking her to act far beyond what should be properly sanctioned.
It took Will having gone there and returned safely for her to consider going. She would have been content with spending the day with Abigail without the worry of Dr. Bloom's skeptical eyes finding them. Instead, she came, and here she was, feeling like she stumbled into a clearing for all to see. It was boggling to say the least, resulting in the slight hunch in her shoulders, trying to become smaller and less visible than she was.
He found her all the same.
"And who might you be?" the man asked, his eyes unconvincing as they sparked with recognition.
His head was tilted, craning in an attempt to look over Will's shoulders, his eyes drinking in as much as possible.
Bella stifled the urge to curl of her lips, wanting to bare her teeth, warning this proud man away. And he was just that. A proud man.
He stood taller than her, even when she straightened her back, by half a foot. He was shorter than Will and Jack, but with his head held high, tilted a little back as he preened, radiating energy, drowning in his thoughts of his own greatness. Her eyes raked over him in his french navy suit and dark and shiny dress shoes. He reflected his surroundings, screaming who he was before he could even announce it.
She almost wanted to stay silent. Was there much a point in talking, in making an impression, when he already decided on one?
"Special Agent Bennet," Jack answered for her. Today, he was acting as her shield.
His hands were soft, but his shake was assertive.
Insecure.
She appeased him with a faint smile and approving nod. The man - "Frederick Chilton" as he introduced himself - grinned happily, standing a bit straighter, preparing to snatch up an opportunity to bask in the glory of himself and what he imagined to be an achievement despite it costing him the life of a staff - a nurse with a husband and children left without a mother due to his incompetence.
"You are the shiny new topic of discussion among psychiatrists, Ms. Bennet."
He spoke as though it were a compliment, turning on his feet, leading them down the hall. She followed him and the rest albeit reluctantly, only by Will's all too knowing and irritated gaze. It was nice to know she wasn't alone.
"I cannot imagine why," she said, almost breathing it out, her voice carrying as though they were on water. Slow, soothing, unassuming.
"A young, striking, pretty woman who is appreciative, empathetic, and bares the scars of a victim as she acts as a hero."
His head turned, eyes lingering on her during his compliments. She gave no reciprocating emotion, allowing her eyes to dance over her surroundings, landing everywhere except him out of spite. She didn't need to look at him, to see the slight flare of his nostrils, to know he was irritated by the lack of response. "Of course, that is what others say," he went on to say, testing her with the idea of people looking into her, scrutinizing her. She gave no response despite the sinking feeling in her chest. This time there was a twitch of the eyes as he pushed open the door to his office, welcoming them in. He was quick to pass Will and Alana their clearance to interview the possible ripper. She was to be the last to talk to Abel Gideon; she was the most inexperienced; she was the one he turned his attentions to when Will gave him nothing.
"Perhaps you would like to wait here while they conduct their interviews?" he offered, eyes sparking with anticipation. Bella's eyes found Will. She could see it in his eyes. He would take her away, protect her, shield her, if she only asked. Her lips stayed shut, if only to do the same. Will was already under enough scrutiny. "Perhaps you can explain this talent you have to understanding most terrible crimes."
"If it would please you," she answered compliantly. This was a man without anything except his reputation to lose, and she had no grip on it. He was unprincipled, dangerous. She would be as compliant as she could if it meant sparing herself and Will. And so, she found herself seated before Dr. Frederick Chilton, reminding herself that all things living were finite, even this conversation between them.
Bella let the silence separate them like a wall made of glass. He could not touch her, he could not hurt her, but he could see her, watch her, examine her. She tried to swallow the rising panic. She knew her role and she played it well. People loved talking, and she knew this man was no different. She would guess that his favorite topic would be himself. As bland and tiring as it would be, she would have much preferred digesting his words than lie waiting in the silence for him to pass his judgement.
He was drawing her out.
She often played the silent roles. He knew that from the moment he saw her that she was a quiet one with watchful eyes and sensitive ears, yet held no intentions to use what she saw and heard for her own gain. She took her surroundings in, breathing it in, letting it become a part of her. She was enriched by it, bottling everything up inside. It was fascinating. She gave so much, yet betrayed so little. A paradox by design. He only wished to know whose design it was. Hers or another's.
"Might I see your notes?" she asked, looking over his shoulders, nodding to the wall of shelves, filled with journals no doubt containing sufficient information on his patients. "On Abel Gideon," she clarified, her eyes returning to him.
She could hide, respectfully, from his gaze behind the fine leather skin of a journal or a thick manila file.
He saw threw her request, but couldn't find an appropriate reason to decline.
A "special agent" was still an agent.
"It is a rather gruesome sight-"
"Please."
He handed her the file with little complaint to be heard, eyes loudly crying out in discontent. She did not dwell on his disappointment. She only skimmed through pages of careful writing, too flowery for her tastes, until she comes across the incident report followed by pages, photos and forms filled with information on what happened to Elizabeth Shell, a loving wife, mother of three, and beloved staff member. Bella could only trace her name, having a moment of silence, apologizing for what happened before she set aside the file, examining the photos.
She gave him the courtesy of not asking who he had take the picture, but he didn't return the favor.
"What exactly are you looking for?" He asked curiously.
She kept her eyes on the largest photo.
"Nothing specific," she said in a hushed voice, trying to speak so softly as to not drown out her own formulating thoughts.
Anything and anything he said after that fell onto deafened ears.
She drew out her phone, opening a pdf on it containing copies of the original murder. It was only two years ago when a man, Jeremy Olmstead, was killed in his workshop. His tools, every tool he had available, used on him. And like the murders that came before organs were removed, surgical incisions hidden by, what she imagined the ripper saw as, tastefully placed props. The tools. Jeremy Olmstead, like Nurse Elizabeth Shell, was robbed of abdominal organs. Shell, like Olmstead, was impaled by the tools and equipment available in her surroundings. Both were hit in the throat to stop them from screaming. All things save those were different.
"Exactly alike. Tragic way to announce himself," Dr. Chilton sighed with a click of his tongue. "I cannot help but feel responsible. I never saw this coming."
"You are responsible," she wanted to say. She held her tongue, instead she told him, "If we could see problems before they happen, we wouldn't have problems."
He only gave a faint hum of acceptance, leading her to close her eyes, wondering how a man as duplicitous as him found his way into authority over vulnerable minds. She pitied the criminally insane. They would find no redemption in a man with dubious ethics like him.
"You're right."
"Yes, I tend to be that," he smiled as she laid out the photos before him.
"They are alike," she began as she pulled up another photo on her phone, laying it out in front of him.
If he wanted to see what she did, he would see it.
"But I can understand how you can miss it," she finished, finally meeting those mossy green eyes.
Dull, dark, and dishonest.
"This is from Feldbunch Der Wundarzney, the Field Book of Surgery. It was a woodcut by a German Renessiance artist named Hans Wechlin," she explained, using her fingers to zoom in, letting him take in each and every detail he could of the original. "It acted as a manual and guide to battle injuries. Most importantly, it gives directions on procedures such as amputation and-"
"The Chesapeake Ripper's profile painted someone with a medical experience, someone in the surgical field. Abel Gideon fits that profile," Dr. Chilton reminded her, his tone short and strained, losing the fondness as soon as she began to present something contrary to his own belief.
She swiped her finger across the screen to the photos of James Olmstead.
"This is the Chesapeake Ripper's interpretation, his own design, being executed. And these-" she pointed to one of the three photos. "-are. . . imitations. Plagarism."
Dr. Chilton's eyes snapped back to her, a look of betrayal in his eyes as he leaned back in his seat away from her, taken back by her forwardness. She did not shy. Instead, she stared straight into his, lowering her head, chin pointed down defensively, but her eyes read of an alarming aggression. He found himself pursing his lips, brow furrowing at the change in who she was and who she had been not too long ago.
"The Wounded Man is your Venus of Urbino. It is aware and serves a purpose. James Olmstead is your Olympia: provocative, aware, and assertive. It maintains a similarity to The Wounded Man, perhaps even referencing and elevating it to the level of art as the painting baring the same name. Nurse Shell is your Portrait (Futago). Sort of. There is nothing to ," she added quickly, her attention momentarily wavering to the photos. "Abel Gideon doesn't demonstrate the same level of precision, of artistic intellect as the Ripper."
"No crime is ever the same-"
"He gauged out her eyes, Dr. Chilton."
Her voice was raw, the first fully honest reaction he'd seen. The disgust, the horror in her eyes. He noticed the faint twitch in her features by the fine scars on her cheeks, her brow, the sharpness of her jaw when she clenched it tightly as she swallowed.
"He's violent."
"He's a psychopath, Ms. Bennet. He has been in my custody for two years, so forgive him for his lack of class. He is the Ripper."
She closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath through her nose, letting it pass through her lips before she opened her eyes again, getting a look at him. He was not listening. That left her with two assumptions. Either he unknowingly made Abel Gideon a pretender to the Ripper's throne or he made a monster to bolster his reputation. She would rather him play the fool.
"You should hope so."
She fell into silence, and he was left uneasy, disturbed by the fierceness in her eyes.
It was a feeling similar to being woken in the dead of night, eyes wide and frighteningly watchful, sharpened with the fear of what woke him only to find nothing. He shifted in his seat, his heartbeat rising, but all that was before him was a woman.
And he watched.
In the time that followed, he watched her, barely blinking, out of curiosity, out of fear. He looked into her before. When looking into Will Graham, he found an article by one Fredricka Lounds that mentioned her name and a brief summary of the woman's view on her. It was kind in comparison to Will Graham's, but it sported a vagueness that was unlike Lounds' previous works. When he dug further, he could find nothing as far as the eye could tell. No social media, little to no record of her existence save a few newspapers that were archived online from her hometown. As far as anyone knew, she was born, grew up, lost someone, and then lost herself. Years later, she was a part of the FBI. He wasn't the only one with a curiosity towards her, but he was one of the few presented with an opportunity to catch a glimpse of her in person. He hoped to pluck out the pieces of her person, to piece them together and be granted a clearer picture.
He thought her to like Alana Bloom, but with a marred face.
He was wrong.
He was wrong because he so quickly took in her pretty face, writing off her slightly distressed expression as belonging to an innocent woman forced to examine things that an innocent woman shouldn't. He could easily tell why she drew attention. She looked sharp, yet soft. She was decently dressed. Unlike those she arrived with, she wore a modestly cut light green dress. It was inviting, comforting, and safe. She looked feminine. Her decent dress and wide-eyed expression made her out to be a good woman with little room for assertiveness. Then she changed.
She became like someone else, yet, all the same, entirely herself. Sharp, narrow-eyed, with a quarrelsome nature. She became strong before his very eyes and the second he recognized it, the second he subconsciously began to shy beneath it, she retreated to a middle ground. Someone placid, but only when not interacted with. She gave him a warning, and he, without intending to, allowed it to wrap around his neck, weigh him down, and obey.
It was a surprise, one nasty and biting, but a surprise all the same.
It was the kind of surprise that incited a hunger for knowledge.
She was something lurid in the fine details of her person.
Something puzzling, yet true.
He wanted to see her, but he made a mistake, one he hoped to be made right with his silence.
Time went on and as it did, so did she.
She moved from being seated across from him to the window. She didn't lean against the wall, nor did she rest against the windowpane. She only crossed her arms, standing a foot away, staring out in the distance. She tilted her head to one side, leaning back. She looked thoughtful, contemplative, maybe curious if her brows weren't pulled slightly downward and lips a little too tense. She stood there, like a statue, something to be examined and admired, but unable to be interacted with, separated and solid, but outside of time. She didn't move until she was called upon.
He gave her instruction, watching for any reaction, wanting to see if she would fearfully enter the lion's den with hesitant steps.
She walked steadily, head leveled, looking forward with a calmness that had him narrowing his own eyes.
She would shy under the eyes of a stranger in a suit (at first), but not a psychotic murderer.
She was startled more from the steel doors of the maximum security section closing behind her, the rough bolts sliding into place, than what awaited her and her alone after he left her side. It wouldn't be until he reviewed his recordings, video, would he notice her falter. He would see her then, the way her eyes flickered to her right, to the surveillance cameras, and to her left where cells, some that are padded and others are barred - something she notes - before turning her eyes forward again the second one of the occupants would look her way.
She didn't need any of them, save one, to know her face.
He was at the very end of the hall.
He was pale. Under the harsh flourescent lights, he looked sickly. There was a sag to his cheeks, wrinkles above his brow, and a natural downward tug to his chapped lips. He should have looked like a worn-in patient, yet he looked every bit as sharp as he could. His beard was trimmed, his hair brushed, his uniform fairly free of wrinkles and stains. His very posture, held enough tension to look straight, yet relaxed.
He didn't move towards her, waiting, standing still, for her to come closer.
There, a safe distance away from his barred cell, was a simple folding chair. She only looked at it once before returning to looking at him, a reciprocation of his own attentions.
He watched her, the way she carried herself. It wasn't confident. It wasn't fearful. She walked at a casual pace, taking her seat across from him as though she were an old friend.
His lips pulled upwards, excited by the "fresh meat" being presented.
"I don't remember you," he stated, eyes narrowing as he moved closer, wanting to get a better look at her. The bars only allowed him to go so far, but he could make out the little lines on her face. "I would have remembered a face like yours."
She remained silent.
"You don't look like a doctor," he deduced, noting the difference in her eyes and Alana's. Watchful, but no gears were turning. She was listening, but not picking apart his words, his actions. Just watching. "You don't look like an FBI agent either," he added. She was too relaxed for that. When she looked at him, she did not see a criminal. That enough, he could tell.
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"So she speaks," he said, eyes lighting up at the sound of her voice. "I'm sure you can guess it," he challenged.
When she gave no response to that, still watching, silently, as before, he sighed, looking to the ground, feigning disappointment.
"It's your face," he answered, raising his eyes, looking her over carefully. Not a twitch of her fingers or shiver down her spine. She just blinked, slowly, as if she were not seated across from a known murderer. He couldn't tell if he was irritated or intrigued at her lack of fear. She didn't pay him the respected response that he deserved. His eyes flashed with anger, nostrils flaring briefly at the slight. He came out of retirement and they send in an inexperienced woman.
It was insulting.
"Big baby brown eyes with a sugar sweet smile and rosy cheeks," he added, too calmly to be comfortable. "I want to crack open your skull like an egg and see what's inside."
She didn't bat a lash.
It was infuriating, yet, in some insane way, refreshing.
He couldn't tell if he should be delighted or enraged.
"Tell me about your wife," she said after some time passed, her head tilting to the side with subtle interest.
He nearly groaned at the banal questioning. Perhaps he was wrong to assume she was any different than his other visitors.
"Why don't you ask about the nurse or my first victim. Surely that can help you work a better profile for whatever it is you've come here to understand," he said, turning on his feet, starting on a languid pace. Back and forth as he often did when restless.
"Your wife was your first victim."
He hesitated on his next step as his wife's delicate face flashed through his eyes. Honey hair, brown eyes, freckled cheeks. . .
"I killed her last."
His voice was hollow, his eyes distant, as he recalled the memory of Jean, sweet and frail Jean, as she took her last breath.
"You don't have to be murdered first to be the first victim."
Jean had looked at him as if he were a stranger, frightened, terrified.
"You betrayed her."
He turned his back to the woman, eyes darting around his cell and the pale sparse, bolted-down furniture inside.
"You cannot betray a wife you didn't love," he said, trying to find certainty.
"Didn't you?"
She couldn't see him. He kept repeating that thought in his head, but her words echoed louder. He knew she couldn't, but he felt as though she were shining a light on his dark places.
Despite his narcissism, he was always scrambling to snatch pieces of who he might be. He could never get a grasp on who he was, but he always felt fairly certain of what he'd done that night until now.
"I remember what I did to her," he said, nodding as he turned back to face her, an attempt to take back the power that he hadn't realized she'd stolen from him. "I brutalized her like I did that nurse. Not exactly, but I did leave her just as messy, just as bloody." Specks of red on Jean's pale face. "If I loved her, why would I not elevate her to my art?"
"Your art?"
There was something too knowing about her tone, like a parent questioning the innocence of a child they knew was guilty.
"My art," he repeated, anger laced through his smoothened tone. The interest and delights were long gone. "What are you here for? Like I told Will Graham: I don't need to convince you I'm the Chesapeake Ripper."
"I'm not here for convincing," she answered calmly.
His grip on the bars tightened. He hadn't known when he grasped onto them. He only knew he had when his knuckles turned white.
"Tell me about your wife," she pressed. "If you want to discuss murder, you can start with why you killed her," she offered.
"You want to know why I killed her?" he asked, hoping to get a rise, any rise from her. "I killed her because I didn't want to be married to her." He remembered how he ripped the ring off of Jean's cold finger. "She was a stranger I didn't want to be tied down to." He remembered Jean asking him what he was doing as she scrambled, trying to get away from him.
"She was the stranger?"
"Yes." No.
He remembered Jean.
He remembered his Jean with her honey hair pulled back, lips pink, dark eyes bright with happiness as she caught his gaze from across the table. He remembered her nimble fingers curling around a mug, smiling at him as she drank her morning coffee, drinking to their marriage of fifteen years. He remembered how he thought, with bitterness, how clueless she was, how she expected him, her husband, her equal, to do everything she wanted with nothing in return.
"Why did you kill your wife?"
"She wanted me to move to Missouri."
He could remember it now, as though he were reliving the past.
"We argued all night long." He could remember him yelling at her. "She wanted me to move to Missouri with her. She wanted to 'start a new life', as if she had a life before then. Jean hadn't any friends. Only her family. Not much of a life to give up," he scoffed, trying to sound as if he didn't care. He couldn't hide the dull ache in his heart from himself. "I, on the other hand," he began, switching to something easier to talk about, something that had always been easier to talk about. "-had a practice, friends, colleagues, actual merit." Despite his words, he didn't find himself remembering the faces of those colleagues or the names of the awards he was given. "I had fifteen years of her asking things of me, taking things from me, expecting nothing in return except her love."
Her brow furrowed.
It was the only response, true response, he had seen so far.
"I'm sorry, Ms. . ."
"Bennet."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Bennet," he began, wry smile on his harsh face. "Did you think that marriage was about love? Unconditional love?"
It was the first time she looked away, averting her eyes, briefly retreating into her own memories. Even from the corner of her eyes, he could see her discomfort at the mention of marriage and love.
"I'll let you in on a little secret, Ms. Bennet," he announced, leaning towards her, his face in between the bars, cold against his skin. "Marriage? Love? It's not all its made out to be." He told himself that he didn't love Jean. How could he love someone who brought him so much misery. "You can get to know someone, their traits, their likes, their dislikes, but you won't know them. Not really. You'll only know the way they act, the way they respond. You can never truly know someone. My wife is proof." Jean never thought he would do it. Not even when she was clawing at his hands as he held down on her throat.
He expected her to turn away, to close her eyes, to take the pain of which his words should have caused.
She didn't.
"Gone silent again?" he teased.
"No."
"No?"
"No," she repeated, this time shaking her head. "I'm just thinking."
"Of?"
"Of how wrong you are."
His right eye twitched.
Her eyebrows rose as though she were barely bothered.
"Dr. Chilton has you written down as having psychopathy and being riddled with narcissism. What could you know of love when you can't see past yourself or feel beyond your own feelings? What could you know of marriage?"
He wore his diagnoses like medals, but he couldn't take pride in them. Not now. Now, they made him feel nastily ignorant.
"When did you decide to kill your wife?" she asked, turning the conversation back to the place he hadn't known he wanted to avoid until he was faced with it.
"The morning I murdered her."
He answered quickly, honestly, impulsively.
He knew it as soon as he said it.
He made a mistake.
He felt as though he were caught in a lie, a fault that he meant to cover.
How could the truth worry him as though he were lying. . . unless it wasn't the truth.
He was struck with doubt, so much that he didn't see her rise from her seat and leave him alone with nothing but his memories and an echo of what Will Graham said during his own interview concerning his need, or lack thereof, to convince others of his being the Ripper.
"Seems that's what you need to do. It's certainly what someone needs."
The gears began to turn as he was faced with the answer as to whom would benefit from him being the Chesapeake Ripper.
Jack Crawford's Office, B.A.U., Washington, D.C.
"I want you off this case."
"Okay."
He was taken back.
He expected her to fight him more.
He heard of what she told Abel Gideon, what he told her. She was showing a fire inside her, provoking someone that she should know better than to provoke. She was smarter, sharper, observant and willing to use her observations than he expected her to be. She showed a level of willpower that he thought he recognized from long ago. She was hardworking, loyal, dedicated, but not to him, not to the job. He was once again faced with who he wanted her to be and who she wasn't, all within a span of seconds.
"I don't want you to be put on the Ripper's radar any more than you need to be," he explained, settling into his seat. Looking around his office, devoid of any decoration besides his awards and a single picture of him and his wife facing him on his desk, he realized this was the first time they were alone, truly alone, together. It was hard to imagine her without Will nearby, but he had a lecture to teach, yet another thing that escaped Jack's attention: Will being a teacher.
"I don't think Abel Gideon is the Ripper," she voiced, not to protest his decision, merely a reminder that none of them were certain, save Frederick Chilton.
"Regardless, he is a murderer, and I don't want you getting too close."
He promised Will that much.
"You let Will," she pointed out.
Jack didn't need her to say it to know the truth. He was letting Will too close. He knew it, but refused to admit it.
"Hannibal is keeping a close watch on Will. Besides, I've given him a chance to walk away. He didn't take it."
He wouldn't walk away. Not like she would.
"If I can save one of you, I will."
"I'm not yours to save," she said quickly. Briefly, as she stared into his eyes, he saw something. Pain. "I can't be."
There was something raw in her tone. Something that read of experience, a painful and tragic experience that followed her just as he was followed. He almost thought to ask, but he knew she wouldn't tell. He knew she wouldn't talk because he wouldn't. He could barely stand to remember Miriam Lass. To speak of her, to merely say her name, brought pain, regret, and guilt to the surface.
"You work under my watch," he continued, leaning forward, resting his weight on his elbows as he looked her in the eyes, promising truth. "If anything happens, it's on my hands."
It was then Bella saw it.
She'd seen it before, but she wasn't sure until now.
Care.
He cared.
But not for her.
She would have to be blind and deaf to not know of Miriam Lass, what became of her. She could see it in Jack's eyes. Familiarity, nostalgia. He looked at her as if he knew her, who she was, who she wanted to be. He looked at her intimately, as if she held a piece of his heart, of his mind, of his memories. For a time, she let him. She knew what it was like to lose someone. She knew what it was like to look for them in anyone and anything, relishing in the feeling of their presence being so close, if only through a memory, a reminder. She knew what it was like to linger in an illusion.
"I'm not Miriam Lass."
She meant to sound strong, firm, distant as she had with Frederick Chilton. Instead, her words came out in a whisper, delicate, gentle, and apologetic. How could she be harsh when she knew the agony of grief?
"It was a long time ago," Jack said after some time, looking down to the papers on his desk. He understood it now, her affect on people. This knowing sight that she had. It felt unnatural, unnerving, yet, strangely, cathartic. "It's all in the past." He didn't want it though. He wasn't ready. How could he be?
"The past tends to find it's way back to us," she reminded him with a bittersweet smile. When he looked back at her, he saw it and was reminded of Alejandra Alvarez. The woman still lingered in his department, currently watching Zeller, Price, and Katz at work on Elizabeth Shell's body. He noticed her eyes always find their way to Bella when she was near.
"Yes, well, I can only hope for the good to come back."
"Me too."
He never asked her about her brother.
He knew it affected her still.
"Does it get easier?" he asked after the dull ache in his chest returned.
"What?"
"Losing someone. They say it gets easier with time," he added, leaning back in his seat. The line had been delivered to him over and over, drilling it into his skull, memorizing the words with hopes of it actually working. "It's been two years," he stated, looking her over. She had almost a decade experience with loss. She was the expert now. "Sometimes I feel like I'm better, like I moved on." A majority of days, he can go without thinking of her. "But then it comes back. It feels like its following me. It feels like-"
"-like you're being haunted?" she finished for him, brows raised unsurprised. "That's grief for you."
He sighed with distain, looking upwards as if he would find answers somewhere above.
"This isn't how its supposed to be," he muttered, shaking his head. His eyes fell closed, wanting to hide from the memories. Even with his eyes closed, he saw her. Miriam.
"No. It's not how its supposed to be, but that's how it is," she said. His eyes opened when he felt her cool fingers on his hand, gently holding him. It was a strange thing. He knew her enough to know that touching was something she often didn't do. Not with him. He knew that the majority of the time that she held anger towards him, resentment even, yet here she was, reaching her arms across his desk, holding onto his. He should have felt regret, guilt, remorse for all he had done, for how his actions have and continue to affect her life. Yet, for a moment, a brief moment, he felt at ease. For the first time, during all this mess of murders, of loss, of preparing for loss, he didn't feel alone. All that anger, at others, at himself, at the world, dissipated.
He understood it now, why people like Will Graham and Abigail Hobbs gravitated towards her.
She knew how to make a storm still.
"How do you deal with it?" he whispered, as though the walls had ears, too scared to be heard in his fragility.
She instantly pulled away, her hands slipping from his. He hadn't realized he'd been holding onto her too.
"I'm not a professional," she dismissed, eyes following her hands which folded and rested on her lap.
"How?" he insisted. "Please."
She looked back at him, lips pursed.
"For the longest time, I didn't," she admitted. He felt a wave of weariness wash over him. She had a decade of experience with loss. If she was still struggling, what hope did he have? "I didn't want to grieve, to admit I lost my brother. For years, I clung to hope." He was hit with guilt. It had been two years, and he'd given up hope that Miriam was alive. It was easier to think she was dead than to imagine what would become of her if she was still alive. Then that phone call came. And a breath of life brought back his hope.
"Your brother could still be out there," he said, if only to try and give her back something he lost once, trying to return it to her like it was to him.
"So could Miriam."
There was silence, both of them trying to swallow the reality of what could be if they were alive. Miriam would be tortured by a psychopath, a serial killer. He didn't know about her brother, but he could imagine it wasn't much better.
"Is it so wrong to cling to hope?"
"It can be," she answered.
It wasn't what he wanted to hear.
"You should get going," he said, finally, using his hand with the pen to point towards the door. He sat up, pretending to be interested in the papers sitting on his desk. Reports from Will and Alana on their professional opinions of Abel Gideon.
He heard her get up, the metal legs of the chair scraping against the floor. Soon enough, the sound of her footsteps followed, but stopped.
He looked up, finding her looking back at him with one hand on the door.
"Jack."
"Yes?"
"I spent years looking for him."
"My hope hasn't run out."
"Mine either," she admitted, thinking back to that night in a Studio 6. She still would swear up and down that she could feel it. "But chasing after a ghost comes with a price. A high one."
What price did she pay?
What price would he have to pay?
"So what do I do? What am I supposed to do?"
"Hold onto what you do have," she answered simply. "Life is precious because it runs out."
He knew that. He knew that all too well.
"Go home to your wife and the life you built," she instructed, an apologetic smile on her face. Bella. His Bella, waiting for him, all alone at home. "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."
He nodded, slowly, understandingly, as she opened the door.
"Bella," he called, stopping her just as one foot crossed the threshold. She looked back at him, genuinely curious.
"Yes?"
"Which wise person said that?"
Her lips blossomed into a toothy smile, the first full and proud one he'd seen on her. It was one of the purest things he'd seen.
"Albus Dumbledore."
He laughed, taking in a deep breath afterwards, feeling better. Watching the door closed, he couldn't help but shake his head, still smiling.
No. She wasn't Miriam Lass, but he still felt that compulsion to protect her.
Port Haven Psychiatric Facility, Baltimore, Maryland.
Abigail was standing in front of her mirror, tilting her head craning her neck, examining her own reflection, wondering what others saw when they looked at her. Her hand rose to her neck, fingers tracing the puffy pink scar. With a sullen expression, she covered it with the palm of her hand, looking back to her face. Her face was unblemished, yet the scar beneath it felt as though it made her ugly, hideous, a marking her as a pariah. Still, she tilted her head, widening her eyes, narrowing them, smiling, frowning, testing out every expression.
She wanted to notice things they would, to scrutinize herself, seeing every last visible detail.
She took a step back, turning to reach for her scarf when she heard the door open. She turned quickly on her feet, putting on an angered expression only to drop it as soon as she saw her.
"Bella."
She moved one step forward, but felt the breath in her lungs leave her, telling herself to stay put.
Raising a single brow, she crossed her arms, faintly hearing the ringing of disappointment that loudly played in her ears for the past three weeks. She didn't even get to mention that Bella hadn't visited in what felt like forever before Bella gave her an apology.
Her eyes were genuine, reading of the same pain of being apart as Abigail had.
Abigail couldn't bare a grudge, even if she wanted to.
Dropping her hands to her side, she let the scarf fall from her hands. By the time it hit the floor, she was holding on tightly to Bella, fingers digging into the woman's shoulder, burying her face in the crook of her neck. The second Bella wrapped her arms around her, Abigail let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, all but falling apart at the simple embrace. Her breathing was broken, shaky, her eyes shut tight, burning, overwhelmed to the point of almost crying. Yes. She missed Bella terribly.
"I was afraid that you weren't coming back," Abigail mumbled.
Bella froze, closing her eyes, apologizing again.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, placing a hand on Abigail's head, running it over her hair. It felt as natural as breathing. Holding her close. "I'm here now," she said, pulling away, not forcing Abigail when she hesitated to let go. The girl looked like she was clinging to life itself. She'd only been present for a few moments. "Sit down and I'll tell you everything," she promised.
And she did.
Bella told her of all that had happened with Abel Gideon to her trying to find a new killer to dinner with Hannibal. Abigail cared most about Hannibal, asking what he said, what she said. Bella wanted to spared her of their discussion of their relationship to her. She didn't want to tell Abigail that her fears of Bella's distance were almost true. Abigail didn't need that. She didn't deserve to have any more fears and worries. Just this once, Bella told herself, she would keep a secret from her.
In return Abigail described her days while lying her head on Bella's lap, telling her about how she spent one morning just looking at old snapshots in a photo album of her family before she thew it into the back of her closet. She told her how she spent hours upon hours within daydreams, running from memories. She told her about how she wasn't even allowed to look at a newspaper, not even to do crosswords. She told her about how she'd been cooped up in her room since the snow began to fall. "Too many patients slip" was what they told Abigail when she wanted to go out. Abigail's only company were girls mousy, quiet, and too fragile for her to actually have a conversation with.
"I just want to go out. To have a normal life again, just for a little bit. It doesn't have to be long," she sighed, looking to the window, distressed. Bella knew Abigail wanted to leave. She always did. But never did she see Abigail look so longingly out the window. She looked broken.
"I miss all the stupid things," Abigail said bitterly, looking down at her hands as though all those things had been plucked from her grasp. "I miss going shopping. Just walking around, seeing people pass by, laughing and smiling and whispering to Marissa." Bella couldn't imagine that Marissa was good company, but she would bring her back in a heartbeat if she could, if only for Abigail. "I miss listening to music - new music," she added quickly before Bella could offer to grab her another cd of her music. "I miss seeing movies," she smiled, remembering how she and Marissa would always mix chocolate candies with the popcorn that was never as good as they wanted it to be. "I miss going to fast food places."
"I could grab you something-"
"No," Abigail snapped, immediately looking at her apologetically. "It's the place. Going somewhere where no one cares who else is there because, well, no one really goes to fast food places too be seen." She wanted to be invisible, but not untouchable. "I miss going places." She missed the freedom the most, the breathless and exciting feeling that came with driving with the windows rolled down or songs that would be forgotten in under a season playing.
She itched to sneak out, to climb the fence and go somewhere. But where would she go? Hannibal already told her that she couldn't visit anymore.
"It won't always be this way," Bella promised, not knowing what else to tell her. "I'll talk to Jack-"
"It doesn't matter," Abigail said bitterly, rolling her eyes at her own hopeless state. "Dr. Bloom won't let me." She couldn't remember it well. It felt like a dream, but she was certain it was real. Dr. Bloom yelling at Hannibal for even taking her out of the hospital to have dinner. Dr. Bloom ruined it.
She ruins everything.
"She treats me like I'm fragile; I'm not. I know I'm not. The only thing that's breaking me is keeping me locked up like I'm some sort of-of prisoner." Abigail stumbled, trying not to think of how right it was. Her hands were dirty, but no one else knew. No one except Hannibal. He was one of the only people who saw her as she was. "She says I'm a 'survivor', but I know she means 'victim'. The only one keeping me from moving on is her."
"Abigail," Bella began, a scolding voice that Abigail could have sworn she'd heard all her life.
"I'm not trying to blame her. It's true," she insisted. Despite her protesting, there was a pleasantness to it, to a disagreement. It felt like home. Arguing with her, being scolded. It almost felt real.
"Abigail," Bella began again, this time having a firmness to her voice, one that didn't hold and was replaced with a tone light, yet tired. "I'm sure Dr. Bloom sees you as a survivor. Just the wrong kind." Bella was certain Dr. Bloom didn't do what she did intentionally.
Alana Bloom was lighter more honest than most. There was a goodness about her. Bella would have to be blind not to notice the rigid emotional compass that resided the woman's heart. It was one that Bella found herself envious of, that embodiment of safety and stability which screamed goodness. She had the benefit of being sharp. She was a professional, and she was, for the most part, good at what she did. She knew herself, her own patterns. Bella was only vaguely aware of her own sensibilities. She was analytical, assessing everything she did and said. And maybe that spared her from a lot of the suffering Bella had to endure. Yet, she endured it, and she learned from it, and she was better because of it.
Alana would not knowingly hurt Abigail as much as she was.
"There are those who live, actively making choice that lead to survival. Then there are those that are simply left alone, left existing, when others do not," Bella said, softly brushing Abigail's hair with her fingers.
Abigail remained silent, her eyes closed, brows furrowed, enjoying the feeling of warmth, of care. She took in Bella's words, letting her mind consume them, turning them over, trying to figure out how she felt about them, to find the taste of them once they rested on her tongue, and respond in kind.
She blinked a few times as if waking up as she realized what Bella was implying.
"What kind do you think I am?" Abigail asked quietly.
"I think you're smart enough to know I won't judge you for what you've done," Bella said, just as quietly, still combing her hair, not giving her a second to doubt her intentions, her place in relativity to Abigail. She was trying to be the person Abigail deserved. Still, Abigail was not put to ease, her body tensing, her heartbeat rising, fear climbing up her throat.
"That would make me a monster." Hannibal told her she wasn't, but, still, she couldn't shake the feeling of disgust, of revulsion when she was left all alone with nothing but herself to look at, to be with.
"No," Bella said quickly. "It doesn't."
"But that would make it my fault. What my father did. . ."
"You didn't do it."
Abigail felt like she had.
Tears began to form.
"I chose my life over theirs," she breathed, hot tears falling from her eyes, hand quickly grasping onto Bella's, which rested over her shoulder. Her hold was tight, desperate, pleading Bella not to leave her all alone. Bella's moved her hand, Abigail gasping, her hold tightening to where Bella almost couldn't move her fingers. Almost. She used that strength most forgot she had, curling her own fingers around Abigail's hand, holding onto her just as tightly.
Bella didn't need to think on Abigail's words. She wasn't surprised. Abigail wouldn't have the nightmares that she did, the guilt that she did, if she didn't have a choice in her survival. Finding this out, it made no difference to Bella. Her heart still cried out at seeing Abigail in pain.
"You were a child Abigail. You were scared," she whispered, using her other hand to run over Abigail's head, trying to console her. She shushed Abigail as she began to sob, grabbing onto her with her other hand.
"I'm scared. . . And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," Abigail cried, her whole body quaking as sobs wrecked through her.
"It's okay," Bella whispered, feeling her own eyes begin to burn with tears as she bent over, placing a kiss on Abigail's head, running her hand over her hair, trying just as desperately as Abigail cried, to comfort her. "It's okay. . . It's okay. . . You'll be okay," she repeated, shaking her head as tears began to fall.
"You don't know that!"
"Yes! Yes, I do," Bella swore.
Abigail only shook her head, turning it, hiding her face in shame, in fear.
"Abigail, listen," Bella said, taking a breath to calm herself. Abigail sniffled, shuddering, trying to quiet herself. She was so afraid. "I will not let anything happen to you. Anything."
Abigail slowly turned her head, not looking at her, but not hiding either.
"I'm here, Abigail."
Her breathes were slowing, hear heartbeat calming.
"I won't let anyone hurt you."
Abigail's hold loosened.
"You're okay. . . You're going to be okay. . ."
Bella would say it until Abigail believed it. Over and over again, like a prayer, she said it, slowly, gently, promisingly.
"I know," Abigail whispered after some time. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slowed to match the careful cadence of Bella's words.
Bella could only sigh in relief, rubbing Abigail's shoulder.
"I just. . . I don't want to be scared anymore."
Bella nodded, eyes on the door. She couldn't just tell Abigail to behave, to be good in hopes of an eventual release.
"You don't have to be, Abby," Bella said softly, looking down at the young girl. "I'll get you out of here."
And she knew exactly who to go to for help.
Hannibal Lecter's House, Baltimore, Maryland
He stood proud, head held high, eyes downcast, drinking in the sight of a masterpiece in the making. His. His hands resting on the counter, fingers curling over the edge, grasping hard onto the marble to the point of pain, he savored the moment. A measured breath left him, nostrils flaring ever the slightly, heated air passing through him, anger leaving him as he regained control of himself, refusing to fall pray to primitive and destructive anger that filled his lungs, burning him from the inside as his mind recalled the article, "How the Ripper Rips: An Exclusive Interview" by none other than the ambitious and serpentine Freddie Lounds. He almost regretted letting her live, thinking back to that day in his office, fantasizing about an alternate reality where he would feast on her lean meat, treating two worthy companions to her tongue baked in salt and served with blood red summer pudding for desert, a tribute to the material from which she built her fame.
But it hadn't happened. And now he understood, that fantasy was not going to happen. Not any time soon. There was no sense, no time to dwell on a dream that would not come to pass. Instead, he focused his energy on a new dinner presenting itself, revisiting the idea, the theme, of swallowing the tongues of those that allowed a slip of the tongue one too many times.
Half a week prior, he advised Jack Crawford; he quelled the man's worries about his marriage, his job. Allowing Freddie Lounds to run a confirmed story about Abel Gideon - The unknowing liar, the puppet who's strings were pulled by a clever fool. It was a slight he was not inclined to forgive. One he would repay in kind. With a shaking of his head, a disapproving tsk-tsk-tsk passing from his lips, Hannibal moved to the dining room, to the table, where a lovely bouquet of roses sat for the past few hours, waiting for this very moment. He smiled at their rich color, thinking of how well it would contrast with the frosty sugar that would coat their soft petals. A wine jelly, he decided, would better serve this supper among colleges than pudding.
There was music playing, a simple Clair de Lune. The sweet notes drowned out by a loud knock.
His brow twitched, his personal performance inturrupted.
To his delight, when he opened his door, he was greeted with the sight of Bella Bennet.
Her usual messy, sometimes brushed, hair, now reaching where he recognized her clavicle to be located, was styled simply, yet neatly. Under an open fitted leather jacket, he could make out a modest heather charcoal colored sweater. She wore dark jeans, thickened boots fit for a long trek through a multitude of environments. She looked fairly put together. Yet, it was her face that drew his attention, as it often did. Opening his door, he cast a bright warm light on her, a spotlight separating her from the darkness, illuminating all the lurid colors on her face from her dusty rose cheeks and the pink of her lips to the warmth in her eyes, an infectious warmth that touched his very heart in the way that they shone when she recognized his face. There was something vibrant about her gaze. Something all-consuming.
Snow, thick flurries, falling, kissing her golden skin, touching her lips like sugar on a rose, she looked delicious.
"Hannibal."
His name left her lips in a sigh, her shoulders falling, lips lifting, brows pulling upwards at the forehead, a middle raised, full of relief. He felt heroic. He felt powerful. He felt as though everything that was stolen from his person was returned to him. She felt of a gift, the kind that he would put on display privately, for his own enjoyment, for only the utmost worthy to bare witness to.
His irritation was long since forgotten.
She turned, only a bit, to glance over her shoulder, watchful eyes scanning for anyone that might be looking their way. It was cautious, moreso than usual. Her right arm lifted, her hand to her neck, disappearing behind the curtain of her hair to scratch nervously at her neck. She looked excited, yet secretive. Her body was angled, one foot pointed towards the street that she looked down, her arm raised, body twisted with motion despite stillness. He could have circled her, admiring the curving lines of her body, the asymmetry, as though she were a Rococo sculpture. The details of her, the way her lips parted still from his name, looking breathless, was inviting, an invigorating breath of life in a still-art. A paradox by nature. Yes, he found himself missing it.
When she turned back to him, she gave a smile, one half of her face lifting into that same hopeless grin he saw often sported by their good Will Graham, the man having stopped by only a week ago, bringing concerns brought on by Jack's paranoia, his own growing distance with the woman he built a life with. Jack, with good intentions, separated the two once more, driving a secretive wedge between him and Bella.
She was unaware of the worsening nightmares, missing the daytime terrors that Will faced, finding herself miles away, not knowing what was becoming of him, trusting that others would watch in her stead. It brought him no pleasure in seeing her growing trust being placed in the wrong people. Alana was blind and Jack deaf. Hannibal exposed that; he exploited that. What he could enjoy, however, was how it was driving her to him once again. She did not visit out of missing his company. Not yet.
"Did you walk here?" he asked, looking over her shoulder noting the lack of a vehicle there, before she could speak. Her lips shut, her eyes looking embarrassed to the ground. The light struck her cheekbones, making them appear more prominently. He tried to appreciate it in the short seconds he found before she turned her head once more, facing him head on, not shying away for long.
She did not hide for long.
She was growing braver.
Frederick Chilton let it slip, his encounter with a "rather puzzling young woman". Hannibal recognized it quickly, the envy in the man's eyes when he proposed dinner. Hannibal held no doubt in his mind that the man wanted to discuss patients, boasting his holding of the "real" Chesapeake Ripper, unintentionally insulting the host, whilst attempting to pull information out of him about Bella Bennet and Will Graham. Hannibal was surprised at the retelling - though he knew Frederick had a habit of embellishing a story - of their encounter, his finding Bella Bennet to be "looking of a pliable nature, but capable of something much more devious - should she desire it." Hannibal held little doubt that there was a pliability to her nature, something hardened, malleable, and light. It was beautiful, to be able to absorb, to take that in which would break others, and be made anew. The capability of something devious, he was unsure of what to make. Deviousness lacked honesty; it was planning with malicious intent. He knew she was capable of manipulation, of what some might deem to be devious, yet he could not call her such. Her eyes were much too honest, her intentions lacking a violent and unjust intent.
Frederick Chilton stole a moment from him.
He saw the majesty of her becoming in its infancy, and he had the audacity to look at it with disapproval.
Bella was revealing herself, becoming undoing the ties that others bound her with.
She was freeing herself.
It was only natural to want to know what brought her to his doorstep, unapologetic and eager for his presence.
"Yes," she answered, looking as though she wanted to say more.
He was not disappointed. Change happened slowly, purposefully.
With a proud grin on his face, he stepped aside, inviting her in without asking for her reason for coming to him. She would tell him, on her own terms, feeling welcomed, feeling safe.
She returned his grin with a genuine smile, ducking her head gratefully as she stepped inside, eyes widening, drinking in her surroundings, appreciating the details of his home, reading the story he curated over the years for his own enjoyment. He could feel his chest swell at the way she read his home, him. Her eyes lingered on the differences that came since her last visit. He did not know if she purposefully gave a nod of approval, yet he gave one to himself all the same, feeling accomplished in a way he had not before. It was a wholesome feeling, one he discovered in himself, falling into a foreign sense of fascination. It was a natural unfolding, he found, the skin of his heart peeling away, revealing something tender, something longing for company.
She understands.
She does not know it, yet she understands.
Tearing her eyes away from the walls of his home, she looked back to him, longingly, traces of desperation and devastation within her own. Her lips moved and he saw them say his name without sound, afraid to ask of him. It was invigorating, knowing that she wanted something of him, something only he could give. He could see it in her eyes, the hesitance, the caution, wanting to trust him, but her instincts, her prior experience of others in general, telling her otherwise.
"I need your help," she confessed. "I didn't know who else to turn to-" His mind flashed to Will, wondering why she came to him and not their wounded empath. "-and I don't know if you even can help-" He could. He was capable of more than anyone could ever imagine. "-but I have to ask."
Ask and it will be given to you.
When he helped remove her jacket, he took notice of her scent. Despite the weather, she smelled like spring. Lemons, a mix of rosemary and mint.
And Will's dogs.
Beneath the surface, there was traces of Will Graham, lingering on her clothes, her hair, her skin. He left his mark in the same way she left hers. During his last visit, Hannibal could smell her on Will. The two did not leave his company without his own mark, be it the food he cooked or the wine he procured for them. They were all growing roots, leaving traces of themselves on each other. It was a dangerous thing, to leave his mark on the living, but it felt right. It felt as though his very life source was expanding, the more they connected.
"I would never turn you away," he promised, slowly moving towards the kitchen, but stopping halfway through the hallway. He looked over his shoulder until she could see one eye looking back at her, calling her to him, commanding her to follow. And she did, happily, until she reached the threshold into the kitchen, stopping immediately, looking at the line where the dining room ended and the kitchen began, eyeing it as though it were sacred ground and she was something dirty, something tainted.
You are clean, Bellamy.
"I am afraid, however, that you've caught me whilst I was preoccupied," he continued, drawing her attention to him. His head titled back and to the side, welcoming her in. She did not move. "You have come here to ask of me something, and now I must ask something of you." His lips curled as her eyes narrowed, the wheels of her mind turning. "Would you like to assist?"
Bella's lips were quick, her head shaking.
"I-I can't cook," she stammered, thinking back to how long it took her to cook a decent omelet. "I'm terrible at cooking. The only thing I'm good - adequate at making are strictly elementary level - breakfasts and lunch," she insisted.
"Then dessert," he offered. He would not force her to touch the meat. He wanted her to knowingly cook as he did, to know what she was cooking, who she was cooking. He wanted her to feel powerful from it. She wasn't ready. Not yet. No. He would have to start off small.
"The only desserts I know how to make come in boxes where I only have to add water, butter, or eggs," she scoffed, more disappointed in herself than upset with him.
"I can teach you."
For now, she would learn his ways, the Aristotle to his Plato.
"I'm rotten in the kitchen," she sighed, regretting avoiding her monster of a grandmother, if only to learn the basics of cooking. "I don't think I'd be a good student."
"Under my supervision, I am certain you will create something beautiful."
His words struck her silent. She was still, but slowly she approached him. She stood before him, waiting for instruction, a clean and willing canvas. He took pride in the sight, in the feeling of her trust, before he opened a drawer, pulling out the very apron Alana Bloom left behind, hoping to be in the very place Bella now stood in, being welcomed into his life.
"Turn around."
Her breath hitched. Blinking quickly, his words washing over her, she moved, steadily tearing on her feet until her back was to him. She heard the sound of fabric rustling, and then, swiftly, she felt him close. Her eyes fell shut and her breathing stopped. Seconds ticked by, feeling him draw the apron around her waist, she opened her eyes, turning her head, trying to look at him. Yet, when she saw him, eyes looking back at her rather than the strings he tied, she turned her head forward, feeling her cheeks heating up at the closeness.
Her eyes darted about the room when she felt his fingers move aside her hair before tying the top strings together. She could feel the roughness of his fingers against her neck, the hair there rising in anticipation. Her heart pounded within her chest, but she remained silent and still until he drew his hands away, until she felt the heat coming from a close proximity vanish. Then and only then did she let out the breath she held.
When she turned, she found him turned around, busy at work with his cooking. She moved to his side, looking at his work.
"Tongue," she identified, looking over the vegetables surrounding it. Mushrooms, carrots, tomatoes, and something green.
"Lamb's tongue," he specified.
"Six," she counted, raising a brow. "You're expecting company."
"Frederick Chilton and Alana Bloom."
He didn't miss the faint puff of breath leaving her, not happy with the names.
It brought a smile to his face.
"So what are we making?" she asked, turning her head to the sweets on the side counter. She moved towards it, noting how it was lower and separated from the main one; a small counter for smaller dishes. He explained to her the difference between that grape and others, the way the inside was the same as its skin. An honest grape. One that she could "trust". It brought a smile to her face, the lingering overtones of his words. Trust.
They were silent at first, save for his instructions. He was waiting for her explanation, waiting for that sense of bravery that lead her to him to return to her. Just when her heart would warm with certainty, a cold rush would wash over her. He would come to her side, guide her through the steps. It left her breathless at first, but she adjusted, adapting to him.
He was folding parchment into lotuses where all but her lips stilled.
"It's Abigail," she said, closing her eyes, still hearing the sound of the girl's cries. "She-she's withering away in there. All I could tell her - all I've been telling her - is to be good, that her being there wouldn't be forever, but I can tell." She knew what it was like to shatter, to break under the pressure of her own mind. "I can tell that she's coming undone."
Hannibal looked up from his origami, frowning as though he could hear her mind, her memories. She knew he couldn't, not exactly, but he could hear the echo of them in her eyes, in the brokenness of her voice.
He could see it in her eyes, desperate for stability, for clarity, for salvation, but not for herself. For Abigail. He could see it. The panic, the half-craze that was rising within, a compulsion to do something, anything, for Abigail. It was worry. It was love. Not the same kind of love that she looked to Will with, but the kind that belonged to a mother, not a lover.
"I have to get her out of there," she muttered, more to herself than him. "She doesn't belong there," she said sternly, looking up at him again.
"In a hospital?"
"A prison."
Her lips curled back, a disgusted snarl on her face. The expression was not directed at him. It wasn't directed at anyone except the unfairness of life.
Her face softened, eventually.
"No matter what she's done, you and I both know that she doesn't deserve it."
He froze, eyes twitching at her words. He stood up, spine aligning until he, even at a distance, towered before her.
Still, she did not look afraid.
"You know."
Her eyes flashed towards him, lips parting, cheeks pulling up as she frowned.
He was wrong. She did not know of his involvement with Abigail. Not fully. He could see it in her eyes, the betrayal, the accusations.
"You know," she threw back, shaking her head. Her left foot drew back behind her, weight not on it, but still ready to step away, to take back two steps for every one she took forward. Crossing her arms, she asked, "How long? Did you not think to tell me?"
"It was not my secret to tell."
She hated that she couldn't be mad at him for that.
Mad at herself for not being able to be mad at him.
Mad that his secrecy, his betrayal, was respectable.
"I'm sorry," she sighed, her arms uncrossing. "I'm sorry. . . I just. . ." She looked drained, tired, scared. She was riddled with worry and stress. "I want to help her. I need to help her. I just don't know how."
Hannibal wondered if she was trying to save Abigail because Abigail shared similarities in herself, in her former self. He knows the two share loneliness, loss, devastation by a family member they once trusted, once loved. Was saving Abigail was saving herself by proxy? He considered the idea of "saving" her, earning the eternal trust from Bella, becoming this beacon of hope and possibilities for her. He soon realized, with discontent, her trust would only last for as long as Abigail did.
He wanted her trust, her loyalty, for himself.
Not for Abigail.
"Can you do it?" she asked, moving across the cold kitchen floor to him, eyes wide.
So willing.
He only nodded.
"How?"
He could not tell her.
"What did you tell Abigail?" he asked, inciting her empathy.
She frowned, displeased, but complied.
"I told her that it was going to be okay. I told her that I'm here and I won't let anything happen to her."
Her devotion to Abigail was beautiful. . .
. . . and tragic.
"You asked her to place her trust in you."
"Yes."
She was looking at the ground, unable to match the intensity of his gaze, but she could still feel it. His eyes.
"Can you do the same?"
His words slipped into her mind like smoothened silk. His voice close, intimate, feeling of strength, of invisibility.
He would give her exactly what she asked.
All he asked in return was faith.
"Can you place your trust in me?"
She drew in a deep breath, lifting her eyes to meet his, feeling like she was exposing every thought and emotion she ever felt and ever will feel.
She felt as though she were placing everything into this moment.
She felt as though she couldn't breathe, as though she couldn't draw air into her lungs, but she managed it, choking it out as though it were her last breath.
"Yes."
ANOTHER APOLOGY:
Okay, so I know that this chapter was a bit everywhere, but all for a reason. Part of it intentional, the other part due to having written out a whole chapter and losing it all and having to reimagine everything. However, it came together, even if it doesn't feel like it now.
Shoot. Even now, at this chapter's close, I feel anticipation rising from the center of my person, coming up through my throat, frothing at my mouth.
But I swallow it because I know that I promised a story and I will complete it. I owe a story to you, my dearest readers, and I'll give you the one you deserve - or at least try to.
I, again, apologize for another late chapter. My reasoning being a nomination of a personal nightmare leaving me stressed and unmotivated.
But I read the reviews. Again and again until I remembered why I started this story.
I love writing. I love writing something beautiful, meaningful, and, somehow, someway, I've managed to write something nice, something you guys enjoy.
So, in the past few days, I pulled this chapter together for you, as both an apology and a thank you for all the things you, as a reader, have given to me.
So, I'm sorry.
ANNOUNCEMENTS (. . . kinda)
I'm moving along in the story, and I pray that my writing in this chapter wasn't rushed. I was hoping to match the pace with the feelings of panic, of the tensions that are rising.
So you know how I say that certain things will be in the next chapter and they sometimes come true? Yes, well, I'm excited to tell you I know exactly where the next chapter will begin and that's kinda where we leave off: a dinner between Bella and Hannibal. . . and Frederick. . . and Alana. The rest is not as solidly centered as the first scene of it, but it will be more of Hannibal and Bella. Sorry to those that like Will/Bella, but he's busy. He's got murders to catch and nightmares to run from. Jack's trying to be a good man and spare Bella, hence why her murderer is her only job. A murderer interested in classical art? Huh. I wonder who could help her?
Just a little somethin' to look forward to.
LAST NOTES
I hope you didn't hate this chapter. I really do. . .
I may not deserve it, but I'd really appreciate hearing your thoughts. You guys don't understand how much your comments/reviews, no matter how long or short, I take to heart and cherish.
Plus, since I am a baby at writing fan fiction and clearly am much more impressionable than I originally thought, you guys can really shape this story. Think of me as driving and you guys holding the gps. I know my destination, but how we get there can be influenced by you and what you tell me.
I am happy to say that right now, I've already started working on the next chapter. My motivation has returned to me. I was originally going to post this yesterday, but I was behind schedule since I didn't start writing on my birthday as planned (January 6th - shoutout to my capricorns if you're reading this).
POINT IS: Do not be worried. I'm not going to let you down again by waiting so long before writing.