All rights to Hannibal (TV) belong to NBC.
Dedication goes to LisaxDeanshipper97 - I can never thank her enough for the help she gives!
Special thanks to Kasanii, Mellimeldiseil, Quiet-Hoshi99, Sanja, inari of the skies, and Angrypancakegoddess for your support!
I cannot stress how much your time and words mean to me.
Unknown Location
White.
She lost herself in the color, but not in the way she used to.
Back then, white was beautiful. It was the color of the snow. Quiet. Pure. Renewing.
Now it is loud, deafeningly so, and isolating.
Stark white was the ceiling.
She recognized it better than anything else.
When she was in and out for - well, she couldn't tell how long she was out. Hours? Days? Weeks? She couldn't recall anything, save that blinding color and the shadowy outline of someone - someones? - from when she fought to the surface of consciousness before she was sent back into the dark with a faint sting in her arm.
Even when the fog of drowsiness began to fade and everything came into focus, the stark white was still there, waiting for her.
She memorized it, gazing into it as though it were the night sky - something she had been deprived of.
Someone fashioned her a pretty prison, but it was a prison all the same, taunting her with all the things she could not have.
A large, frosted glass window that had a design of calla lilies etched onto it. She could make out the light and with it the vague time of day and possible weather, but she couldn't see the sky. She tried to recall the look of the night's sky as she often would find in Wolf Trap, but after so many nights, her memory began to be as frosted as the window she gazed out of.
She considered breaking it once in a while, if only to see the night's sky.
Escape through the window wasn't an option.
Though she couldn't see much out the window, she could make out the decorative bars that made sure she was reminded of what she was.
When she would get sick of looking at it, unable to stomach being so close to what she wanted, what she once had - close to making a mistake that could make things worse - she would pace over old looking wood that whined under her weight even as it lessened. If not pacing, she would sit at her desk - wooden, but painted white to match the room. Sometimes she dared sit on its surface and run her hands over it, trying to find any faults.
Textures never became more interesting until she found herself in this room. She couldn't even guess how long she spent, touching the creaky floors, the smooth desk, even the plastered walls. Her most favorite thing to touch - the most beautiful part of her room - was her bed. It had a Chantilly bedspread, white with a soft beige tone, and after her body began to weaken most of her time was devoted to tracing her fingers over every bit of the pattern.
She traced it now even, waiting for dawn to break, for when one of the two doors to her room unlocked and opened.
When it does, she feels her heart stop for only a second before racing with excitement at the sight of dark hair.
Whatever she thinks of her captor, it is hard to not foster any fondness for the woman who brings her food and, if she is really good, books and a change of clothes.
In the woman's hands today was her breakfast. A poached egg and half of a grapefruit along with a small cup of what Bella had been told were vitamins. She used to care. She used to refuse to eat out of fear of being poisoned. Now, she keeps her eyes cast down. She doesn't even twitch when she sees the woman move. She just continues to silently eat, taking joy in getting half of a grapefruit instead of the usual quarter.
There is an anger that she bottles and buries within her that comes from the power she's given the woman, but she is too shaken from the last time she dared speak against her captor.
She didn't get food in a week or so, only a bottle of water every so often, rolled in through a small sliding panel of the bottom part of the entrance door.
The old Bella might have faired better, but alone - with nothing to hold onto save memories that only served as a reminder of what she no longer could have - and hungry, she broke enough to eat when she was next offered food.
She eats, takes her vitamins, and speaks if spoken to.
She'll play a good doll if it gives her more time.
She clung to her hope. She knew of the likeliness of that hope being futile, but she couldn't help it.
Hope was keeping her alive.
Bella made sure to eat slowly, silently, obediently.
As much as she wanted to hate the woman, her heart began to ache for the sound of her voice. Interaction. And, when the woman did speak, Bella had to close her eyes, breathing through the relief.
If she closed her eyes, the softness of the woman's voice, the youthful pitch, almost reminds her of Abigail.
"I was thinking," the woman began, moving towards the foot of the bed. Bella took it as an invitation to finally look at her, and, when their eyes met, Bella found herself both relieved and disappointed. She was relieved to see a gentleness to the woman's eyes, a kind smile playing on her lips, and a warmth to her cheeks. The disappointment came from having found any beauty in her at all.
Why couldn't she be ugly?
"-you might like another bath. Would you like that?"
She knew she had been bathed before.
Sometimes, after a meal, she would feel tiredness engulf her. She would slip far too easily into sleep, only to wake up with damp hair and the smell of vanilla and roses on her skin.
But this was the first time she was asked.
Bella could only assume this was an offering to consciously bathe herself.
So, she nodded.
A pleased smile bloomed onto the woman's lips, giving her one last look before turning her back to her.
Time stopped.
Bella's hold on the silver fork she'd been given tightened, tempted to lung forward, driving it into the woman's back - Her neck, maybe?
As if hearing her thought, the woman stopped, slowly turning around, raising a brow.
Bella's fingers loosened as she set the fork down, climbing off the bed, and following, three paces behind, to the second door.
When the woman opened it, passing through to allow her in, Bella's hand instinctively reached for the door frame, grasping onto it when her legs felt weak.
Color.
The bathroom was a lot like her room. Bare. Empty.
But there was color.
She left a porcelain cage and entered an ocean.
Walls of sea glass green, soft light scattered by textured glass, a warmth coming from the thin pale yellow. . .
Bella, overwhelmed by the change of scenery, took a few moments to notice the bathtub. It was a shiny white claw foot tub. It matched the sink, the toilet.
Everything was perfectly neat and clean.
"How hot do you like it?"
Bella blinked slowly as she was pulled out of a bittersweet daze.
The woman only waited patiently by the tub, standing gracefully, weight shifted on one leg, one hand gingerly placed on the slightly bent elbow of her other arm.
Beautiful. The thought made Bella's stomach before another heartbeat passes. Bella couldn't help but feel as though she always thought of this woman between heartbeats. One filled with admiration, the other with regret.
"As hot as it will go," Bella answered, her voice breathy and raw.
The woman nodded, watching her carefully before she reached across the tub, turning the knob.
The running water sounded like a rushing waterfall compared to the silence Bella dwelled in. The sound made her weak. The heat from the rising steam made her weak.
And the woman took advantage of that, moving in front of Bella, who was slowly slipping, almost melting, onto the floor, shaking hands reaching out towards the tub, trying to reach past the woman. The woman's cool fingers curled over her shoulders, stopping her, steadying her, reminding her who's hands gave her this relief - who's hands could easily take it all away.
Those hands gathered her limp, oily hair, moving it over her shoulders, untying the thin ribbon that kept her long and loose white nightgown secure. When the woman moved the soft cotton off her shoulders, down her arms. Bella didn't want to move, but when dark eyes flashed to her own, she knew her orders. She drew her arms out of the sleeves, hoping that the woman wouldn't notice or be offended the goosebumps that rose - the air was too warm to blame it on the cold. By the time her arms were free, the gown just dropped, pooling at her bare feet.
She might have tried to stay present in another time, another life maybe.
Instead, Bella allowed her eyes to go out of focus, a numbness to set into her bones.
She hid so deep within herself, she truly became a doll, an empty body to be controlled.
When the water rose high enough, the woman helped her in, making sure she didn't slip or fall, making sure she didn't bruise her grey skin. And, for a moment, Bella came back, relishing in the warmth that nearly swallowed her. It melted the fear around her heart some, enough for her to dare sink below the surface, submerging herself under the water, hiding from her new reality. She stayed there until she heard the sound of something scraping against the wooden floor. Hesitantly, she rose, dragging her hands over her face, wiping away as much of the water from her eyes before opening them. Her eyes found the closed door, and, for a moment, she thought she might be alone.
Then she felt her hands running through her hair.
Craning her neck back, she saw the woman, smiling down at her.
"You have such lovely hair. . ."
Bella closed her eyes tight, pretending that it wasn't her, pretending it was someone else, anyone else.
She tried to picture Will.
She was so close to seeing his face in her mind, eyes telling her that she would get through this.
The woman tainted it, stealing the fantasy away, with her voice.
"You are so much more well behaved than those before you," the woman mused.
Images of three women flashed before Bella's eyes. Beside an image of herself, she couldn't see why she was chosen. She couldn't see what this woman saw in her.
It didn't matter anymore.
I'm already here.
"I can count on my fingers right now, just listing how much better you are."
I don't want to be better. I just want to go home.
"You see clearly."
Not clear enough. I didn't see you.
"You see what I want you to become, what you are meant to become."
No.
Bella's eyes opened, gazing up at the woman with the dark eyes, who smiled so proudly at her. The woman had a vision, but it was false. Bella didn't know how she knew it, but she did.
This is not what I am meant to become. . .
. . . But I know what I have to be for now. . .
Behavioral Analysis Unit, Quantico, Virginia
There was a ringing in his ear. Distant. Sporadic. Painful.
He closed his eyes as if that could shut out the pain. Even with his eyes closed, the memory flooded him. Blurry flashing lights of police cars, an ambulance, the various voices rushing and distorting. The scene of the crime. His eyes move fast over the memory, fleeting until he notices him. The doctor, dexterous hands at work, performing surgery, trying to save the life of a man, greying by the minute, in his late twenties. He kept the grey man alive until an EMT came.
His name was Simon Holcroft, and he died before he could reach the nearest hospital.
He now lies still under a thin white sheet, Jimmy Price listing off his findings.
Will might have once cared to listen to the details, but all he could hear was his breathing.
Staring at the sheet, he felt the blood drain from his face, something in his heart dropping, wondering if this was going to be how he would find her.
Everything is muffled, foggy. Even Jack's rapid-fire, loud enunciations sounded as though he were far away.
All he could do was stare.
When he heard his name, likely for the fourth or fifth time, Will rakes his nails over an unshaven cheek, trying to scratch away some of the weariness. There wasn't much he could do. It was setting, carving into his skin, in his blood, in his bones. The paranoia. The defeat. The grief. All of it swallowed him whole, consuming him, leaving him in a void, as though everything that was light was absent.
This was how he was left.
Lost. . .
When his eyes met Jack's he felt a frustration begin to set in at the look of pity.
There were a million things Will wanted to say, to scream, to cry out. He wanted to point a finger at Jack, to blame him. Instead, all of his fingers curl, digging into the palms of his hands so hard he nearly broke skin. He swallows his rage, his guilt, knowing that he needed to stay calm, to stay as clear as possible.
For her.
"Do you need a moment?" Jack asked.
"I need more than a god damn minute," Will wanted to say. Instead of losing what little patience he had left, he cast his eyes down, shaking his head, motioning for Jimmy to continue, to get things over with. Jack was all too willing to continue with hopes that Will would put a stamp on it: Ripper or not?
It was disgusting.
Will had to turn his head to keep from showing the sickness that overcame him, watching how Jack was willing to pay any price for the Ripper, even if it was a life that wasn't his to give.
It had been weeks.
He spent most of his days pouring over the evidence of the "Dollmaker's" victims and what little evidence was left from Bella's own kidnapping. He spent less than half of that time searching for some organ harvester that he was already certain wasn't the Ripper, yet he still found him before her.
He knew better than to give into failure, but that didn't stop that dark and heavy feeling spreading through his veins.
Guilt.
Fear.
More guilt.
He was breeding his own misery, and, with it, more nightmares.
He would wake drenched in sweat, gasping for breathe. Tears carved rivers on his unwashed face, and apologies rained down from his lips when he found her spot empty, leaving him alone, fingers grasping onto the bare sheets, closing his eyes waiting for her touch to wake him from a nightmare. And, when she wouldn't, he would open his eyes, an empty and shallow breathe leaving him, when he would remember what happened.
Most nights, he would dream of the last time he saw her. Yet, where there once was forgiveness in her eyes, that same unconditional love she bared for him, there was a forlorn expression, betrayal riddled across her fragile features. And, when Jack called on him, she clung to him desperately. Tears streamed down her face as she begged him to stay. He never would. No matter how much he fought to stay, he would walk away, leaving her behind. If he closed his eyes, he could still hear her sobbing.
That alone was enough to wound him, but what killed him was knowing that the nightmare wasn't completely false.
He left her.
He chose to pursue a false ripper and she might very well die because of it.
He took off his glasses, using his free hand to wipe at his face. His hand lingered over his eyes, his fingers drawing together, pinching the sides of his nose, letting a long breathe pass slowly through his mouth, trying to calm the storm beginning to brew within his chest. Yet, even after he lets his breathe leave, his lungs relax, he ground his teeth and lowered his hand, and opened his eyes, wincing at the brightness of the lights reflecting off of everything. From the dark tiled floor to the smooth metal table the dead man lied on.
He had an abundance of reflections to look at, but none of them reflected himself as clearly as the one with soft skin and a warm heart.
All of the others were . . . too cold, too dark, too distorted.
This was the problem he had searching for her.
Even in her absence, the silence that swells within it, memories of her echo loudly in his mind, distracting him. Will knew the only way to find her was to construct a wall between his heart and his mind, to stop himself from assuming every possible scenario of what her mind has become and focus on the one who took her.
But he couldn't.
He tried and tried and tried, but the picture wasn't coming together.
He could see the Dollmaker. He could understand the design: beauty, excellence, tragedy. The victims were dolls, something to dress up, to act out with, tools, not people. They were cherished, conditioned, fit for the houses built for them. They weren't to be harmed in the time it took to gather what was needed to put the scene together - the story was never the one in production, not with all the contemporary works that were becoming more and more popular.
But the pattern was changing.
He knew it the second he first placed himself in the mind of the killer.
Security was tightening up. Girls were given extra protection. The window of time to snatch one up was closing, which he assumed was the reason why Bella was taken. She didn't fit into the design in the present, but she would when everything was said and done.
If it gets to that, he reminded himself.
He failed her once.
He didn't intend for it to happen again.
I won't let it happen again.
A wave of calm washed over him, knowing what he needed to do.
Hannibal Lecter's Office, Baltimore, Maryland
Hannibal Lecter nearly felt his heart being torn by the sharp edges of the shattered man that was Will Graham.
He was ruinous, even seated across from him, holding himself together with thin strings.
Will was held together by the smile Hannibal gave him, as though the slightest upturn of Hannibal's lips could bend their story to his will, as though he could promise, truly and honestly, Will's deliverance from these dark days and even darker nights. Will found himself trying to swallow the confusing rush of emotions that came with just one look from the doctor, but they still rise and spread, soothing his all too pained soul.
In the seconds that followed, when Hannibal's expression broke into pain, face twisting with grief. The comfort of knowing he wasn't alone was enough to only shake out only one pain relieving pill and not two when he took his seat. His place was directly across Hannibal, staring into his eyes as close and intimate as he would with his own reflection.
Will used to shy from his gaze, shoulders hunched over, hiding from the man's all too knowing eyes. Now? Now, he kept his eyes straight and steady, unapologetic in his search for something he didn't quite know just yet.
Hannibal didn't miss this.
He didn't miss the way Will's body relaxed, sinking into his chair, head tilting a little to the right tiredly, still keeping his eyes straight. He didn't miss the way Will forced his lips into an exhausted smile, the muscles around his mouth twitching, quaking with strain. Hannibal didn't miss the message, the dedication of this single act: for you.
The unspoken words sound more beautiful than most of what Hannibal has ever heard. They touch his heart, feeling of smooth silk, tasting of the sweetest delicacies. It left him leaning forward until his elbows rest on his knees, his body reaching for Will. He allowed his suits to fall, revealing his mind, his heart, briefly, if only for Will Graham. He stopped himself after a few seconds, before his own lips could move. Hannibal silenced himself with the promise that one day they would both be bare, vulnerabilities exposed for the other to memorize.
For now, they would sit and speak just as they have before and will again.
"This works best if you are honest. With yourself and me," Hannibal insisted, allowing himself to relax into his seat, just as Will had.
He could spend hours in silence with Will, no words passing through the space between them. However, he knew Will came here with a purpose.
"As my psychiatrist or as my friend?"
"Both."
A shared smile passed between them, but it only lasted a few moments before Will's face slackened with defeat.
"I need you."
As soon as the words passed his lips, he felt red begin to return to his cheeks.
"I need your eyes," he corrected himself with, turning away for the first time, eyes searching the room for something to look at, so long as it wasn't Hannibal's face. "You were the last one to see her," he added after he gathered himself.
Hannibal nodded, eyes falling shut at the memory, with it came the feeling of falling, a paranoia that came with not knowing when it would end. The feeling was as unsettling as it was intoxicating. Exotic by nature, the way these two pulled the strings of his heart, playing a symphony of emotions to discover. It was their song, which now sounded like a requiem, reflecting on someone who was living.
And she was living in his eyes.
One could see her big brown eyes and think her a doe, but he caught a glimpse of her teeth, sharp, vicious, capable of so much more.
Yes. She's alive, Hannibal decided, opening his eyes and looking to Will, watching him closely, wondering if Will knew the woman, if he could see the untapped potential this woman had.
He had to wonder who would she be after this.
As upset and frustrated as he was, finding that someone had snatched her up, locking her away as though she were something to be caged and tamed, the worst feeling of it all, the most provocative towards his anger was jealousy. Jealous that someone else had her, that someone else was shaping her, grinding her down, shaping her and placing her in a role that could be filled by someone else. Anyone else.
He wondered if her scars would be covered, glazed over, polishing her up like a porcelain doll. The thought struck a cord in his heart. The thought of her being wasted. The scars that held her story, stories he had yet to hear, being sanded down and smoothed over, erasing her meaning. . .
. . . It was disgusting.
If he was wrong, if she died, he would strip her killer down, dragging death out slowly, making certain that the feeling of being taken from, of being robbed, would be the last emotion to pass through the heart.
If, he reminded himself.
Remembering Will, hearing the aching silence that rested between him, Hannibal rose. He turned his eyes away, predicting Will's discomfort as he removed his suit jacket, gingerly folding it and placing it in his seat before moving across the room to the back of his office, centered against the wall directly behind his desk. It was small, made of rosewood, a dark detail against the rich red wall. He rarely opened it. Counting the most recent times, twice was it with Will, once with Alana. This would be Will's third.
"I don't think Jack would like that our sessions are spent over a bottle of wine," Will pointed out dryly as Hannibal knelt down, procuring two glasses and a dark bottle of red. Dry to match Will's habitual tone.
"What Jack doesn't know. . ." Hannibal trailed off, looking ever his shoulder, finding Will trying his best to scowl. He couldn't miss the relieved glint in the man's blue eyes, even at a distance.
"I said I needed your eyes," Will reminded. Hannibal didn't look up as he began pouring the wine. "I need to be focused. I need to-"
"Rest," Hannibal finished, holding out a filled glass to Will. "You cannot think straight hunting two killers," he reasoned.
Will took the glass, but set it down defiantly. Hannibal didn't know whether he found it thrilling or rude. Perhaps a little of both.
"You're my-" Will stopped, confused as to where they fell. None of the labels felt right. None of them felt honest. "You think you can find the Dollmaker?" Will asked, his nose wrinkling at the name. What else were they to call their killer besides the name Freddie Lounds all too easily coined?
"I already found your Dollmaker once," Hannibal reminded, as though it were simple and weightless. "I even suspect that is one of the reasons why Bella was taken. The killer was there. As well as Bella attempts to make herself invisible, one look on Ms. Lounds' website would make her at least familiar, marking her as, at the very least, tied to you, a known FBI agent. The killer might have thought we were close to a discovery. Taking Bella would be two birds with one stone."
That was when Will took a drink.
Hannibal clicked his tongue before he raised his glass, slowly taking a drink, savoring the flavor.
He made a promise to himself to teach Will to do the same at a later time.
For now, they talk.
Unknown Location
She shouldn't have asked.
You cannot be haunted if you aren't aware of any ghosts.
But she was aware.
She was haunted.
Nine girls, not three. For every one put on display, there were two that were discarded, cast aside for their faults, for their "resistance."
Bella shivered, hearing the woman's voice ringing in her ears still, seeing the shapes her mouth made, letting the warning fall from her lips.
She tried to behave, to bury every emotion she felt, but it was hard. In solitude, the only company she had were her own thoughts and feelings, each louder and more vibrant than she thought imaginable.
On the days that the woman is gone - Bella trained her ears, pressing them against the floor or the door, waiting for the sound of a door opening or shutting, then waiting to hear of any movement - Bella found herself crying often. She never imagined a loneliness as loud as this.
Back in the days at the diner, she would see strangers, co-workers. She had books, music, a mop to keep her busy. Here, she had nothing, not unless she behaved. Even then, with the slightest provocation, everything could be ripped away, leaving her starved and desperate.
She began to hate herself for craving even the briefest moments where the woman would come to her, loathing the rush of excitement that overwhelmed her, the betrayal that flooded her when she was left alone. For that, she was glad that the woman removed almost every reflective surface in her room. She doubted she could stomach looking at herself, what she has become.
Tonight is the worst, she thought with a wave of nausea nearly drowning her from trying to stifle a breathe of relief at being touched.
The woman's arms were around her, for just a second, as she drew measuring tape over various parts of Bella's body. Despite how her touch draw goosebumps over her flesh, for a moment, Bella is comforted, taking solace in the warmth of someone else - someone real - but the relief was short after remembering who she was, who she was to Bella.
The numbness would follow. At first she welcomed it. She thought that numbness was once synonymous with relief, but it wasn't. It left her feeling lesser, more empty, as though a part of her body, her heart, or her soul was absent. It left her too fatigued to be furious, too sluggish to fight. All she has the energy to do was think, but she was beginning to fear that it was a curse as well. Her mind would take her back to her home, to the family she made, to the one she wanted to make, but every time she was pulled back, she was still in the white room, cold and alone. It was why she couldn't sleep anymore. Waking up was too painful.
"Would you like to try on the costume?"
The woman didn't look at Bella, even as she dragged the back of her hand over Bella's cheek. She was too busy admiring her "doll" to realize there was something still living within it. Bella fought the urge to curl her lips back and bare her teeth. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to feel less damaged. When she heard the rustling of fabric, Bella made the mistake of opening her eyes, catching sight of the white feathers, the embroidered fake jewels. She might have thought it beautiful if she didn't know what it was meant for.
A pretty dress for a pretty corpse, Bella thought to herself.
She didn't feel pretty.
But, that didn't matter to the woman.
It wouldn't matter to many people, she supposed.
She could almost see it now. The headlines, the shallow pity people would shed for only a few minutes before moving on with their lives. She didn't have too many people to mourn her. The people that mattered to her, the people she mattered to, would have to move on. That's what life and time did. No matter how desperate one clung to the past, it would slip away, leaving only echoes to haunt the present.
How long would this haunt her if she made it out?
"Fits like a glove!" the woman declared, a proud smile on her face as she finished with the ties in the back.
Bella felt her heavy heart sinking, feeling as though the ribbon were around her neck, tightening, giving her taste of what was soon to come.
Still, she reaches for hope.
Only, this hope has less to do with the smiling faces of those she loves as she tries to make out shapes from the window, and more towards lying, flat on her back, at night, staring at the white ceiling, picturing various violences against the woman who looks at her as a tool, an instrument, something only for her to use. There was no empathy in this woman's eyes. They shone too bright with ambition to stop and see the price of her art. The first time she saw it, she knew there was no point in crying, in falling to her knees and begging for mercy.
So, she didn't cry. She only stared, hollowly at the bare wall beyond the woman's shoulders. Even when she felt the woman's hands on her cheeks, she didn't focus her eyes or energy.
She, for just a second, wondered about the three women that made it to the stage. Did they feel the same hollowness that she felt inside? Do they cling to hope just like she did? Did they tell themselves that they would make it out or did they just give up? It couldn't be painful, the way they were killed. There was no brutality. The other six, Bella wasn't sure of. When thinking of the six, Bella only recalled something the woman said when she asked if there had been others.
"I can be kind," the woman told her then.
Can, Bella reminded herself, is different than 'am'. Can is the ability to, not the nature of.
"H-how much longer?" Bella heard herself ask. Her voice hoarse, foreign sounding to her own ears. It was nothing like the smooth internal monologue she kept inside her head.
The woman's smile waned, her blinking becoming a little too paced, too controlled, slow and unnatural.
She made a mistake.
France-Merrick Performing Arts Center, Baltimore, Maryland
She always loved the rush that came with productions, especially in the costume shop.
Even now, as late in the evening as it was, overworked costume makers were rushing about, checking measurements, analyzing, calculating for the perfect fit for their performers, most of whom wore a professional expression, used to this kind of chaotic efficiency, an array of adjustments, everyone working over the edge to make something perfect. If only for a little while.
Across the room, she spotted a dancer. Dark hair, dark eyes, a look of determination in her eyes as she was measured. Graceful, disciplined, strong.
A thought, passed through her mind, a temptation lasting one beat of the heart before it was gone.
She didn't need a strong woman.
She needed a tragic woman, and a tragic woman she had.
She was just angry.
Disappointed would be the right word, she supposed, reflecting on the last moments she spent with her. She tried to tell herself that it was only natural for one to want to know how much time they had left. Time to find peace, acceptance. It would be better that way. It would be real. Yet, a part of her couldn't let go of her frustration. She liked to think that this relationship between them, between an artist and medium, would bare a sort of intuitive connection. And, for a time, in those moments when the woman would close her eyes and allow herself to become a vessel for her artistic vision, she thought it was there.
But then that woman just had to open her mouth, and in a brittle tone, shatter the fantasy and pull her into reality.
Reality was, this woman didn't look at her with acceptance or understanding.
She looked at her as if she were something. . . monstrous, ravenous even.
I'm not a monster.
"Irene!"
She turned her head towards the director, a smile coming onto her face.
She always tried to avoid growing attached to anyone, knowing that after "tragedy" struck that she would quit and move on somewhere else, but it was hard not to like him.
Valentin Laurent, a romantic name in itself, one that matched him and his messy artist look. His shirts always loose, sleeves rolled up, a testimony to his hands-on work ethic. Messy, but beautiful. He lost himself in the art too. The ballet was all he had. No true friends, no true family, no legacy save the memories of his work, his productions. He was alone, just like her. The only difference was their medium. She wanted to leave something behind, something beautiful and unforgettable. She wasn't satisfied with just doing a reedition. She wanted to put life into the work.
Even if if she hadn't done the things she had, if she wouldn't do the things she planned on doing, she wouldn't have pursued him. He was an artist. His life was no longer his. It would be a cruel thing to take his attention away from the ballet.
"Irene is one of our new additions, but she is, by far, one of the greatest I have ever seen," Valentin introduced her as, twisting his upper body to make eye contact with - her heart shook, her smile faltering with fear, recognizing the sharply dressed man.
An image flashed before her eyes. Him. With a hand gently placed on her cheek, head tilted forward, he looked so deep into her eyes he might have been lost. Her. Staring back at him, eyes truly glistening with so much emotion, she looked like the definition of tragic.
It was then Irene felt a slight pain in her heart, wondering if this was the Prince Siegfried to her Odette that was waiting, wilting away, in a house outside of Emmitsburg.
"Irene, meet 'annibal Lecter," Valentin introduced in return as the two neared her, a proud smile on his face.
Irene had to make certain to look courteous, trying to keep this nauseating guilt from rising.
The dancers she took didn't leave behind others in their lives. Maybe a parent or friend at most - funerals attended by coworkers rather than loved ones.
"Pleasure to meet you, Irene," the man, Hannibal, said, a polite and slightly charming smile on his face. She remembered he had an accent, but hearing it up close, the smoky sound of it.
"Pleasure," she said, echoing his greeting, her voice taut rather than its usual velvety sound.
She wanted to curse him.
With any other woman she took, she was able to be unfeeling, to consider only the beauty of what she would create. That focus permitted her meticulousness, but even now, as the curtain call drew near, she felt frazzled, on the edge, forgetting the details - she nearly forgot her safety measures, her "tools" to make certain that on Bella's opening and closing night she wouldn't be disturbed.
She would have thought this man would be less refined than he was, yet he was more put together than she was.
He wore a long overcoat, the four horn buttons on the right side, similar to the one he shrouded Bella in many nights ago. The cut of it was sharp, bold despite its tan tone, elegantly defined with flapped pockets and breast pocket. The lapels of it matching with his bulky tie tucked into the low collar, five buttoned vest. His three pieced suit taunted onlookers with dark and confusing patterns. Staring at them, she could hear the words that were drilled into her when she was just barely picking up the basic skills of sewing. "The outside appearance, the things we dress ourselves in, often reflect the inside." She wondered if this was an accurate reflection of him.
Perhaps he looks like a Siegfried with his fine fabrics and attractive foreign tongue but is a Rothbar underneath it all. If your suit crumbled to dust, would you still draw in others as you do now?
For a second, she wanted to belief he was, that Bella was a blind fool, that she was saving a pretty bird from falling into the hands of someone destructive.
But it didn't matter.
Her story isn't the one being told. It doesn't matter.
Looking back to the man, meeting his eyes, she found something strange. Something knowing. There was a depth to his gaze, a knowingness to the elegant curl of his lips.
Her heart counted the time. It took fifteen heartbeats before Valentin's attentions were drawn away to someone else. His eyes never lingered on her. She tried not to let the wound of being outside his attentions more often than not fester.
He excused himself to go and fix whatever imperfections he saw, leaving her.
And him.
Alone.
He changed before her eyes, standing just a bit taller, but it might as well be a mountain of a difference. He looked as though the world could shatter to pieces, and he would still be standing, impervious to its destruction.
She frowned.
Why was he not in ruins? Why was he not distraught over someone snatching up Bella Bennet and caging her like the wounded little bird she was?
"I heard about what happened to that woman you were here with," she began, testing the waters of their relation.
"Then I suppose you know what will follow her," he said, a bone chilling emptiness to his voice. The expressionlessness of his face. He looks like the word sharp. His words cutting into her flesh, tearing her apart with just a look of his eyes. Dark. Dangerous. They weren't the kind to swallow someone whole, not in the way hers were. No. He had teeth, and she could almost bet they were as sharp as the rest of him. He looked of a delicious pain, and even someone as ravenous as her knew better than to stand too close.
"The FBI," she said, her voice weak, undermined by his own composure.
"And more."
His words catch and were lifted, carried by the soft air. Despite the delicateness of the sound, she could taste the warning.
"Her kidnapper, this Dollmaker-" There was venom dripping from his voice, and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as they began to stand. "-was desperate." She hated how right he was. It wasn't entirely planned out, she'd give him that, but she was certain not to leave anything behind or take much with her. "I can only assume they thought themselves close to being found out." She had. That was one of the reasons why she took Bella rather than risk another dancer. Ruffling the FBI whilst still having someone terribly tragic to put on display.
"Thought?" she echoed, trying hard not to look bothered.
He allowed his impassive expression to fall, if only to allow a slight upturn to his lips, subliminal pride showing.
"A coincidence. Had she not been taken, the bureau would have never known their killer to work here."
She felt as though there were shards of glass running through her veins.
Out of a rush of self preservation, she tried to give a sweet and ignorant smile, blinking slowly as though she was not following. But she was. She was rushing past the face of his words, going straight to the bare skeleton of it all.
He knows.
"He works here?" She asked, letting her fear pour out in hopes of it being read in her favor.
He spared her no sympathy, still standing, unmoved by her attempt at timidity, watching her silently, unamused.
Not a Siegfried, indeed.
She looked behind him, half expecting there to be armed officers waiting to come and drag her away. She decided, in that moment, that she would not fight. She would not become something wild and feral and ugly. There were none, though. Switching her eyes back to the good doctor, she couldn't settle on whether she was thankful or wary over that.
"Where are you hiding her?"
Irene didn't take the bait, instead she gave a look of mostly confusion and slight apprehension, dark eyes widening despite her brows pulling down. Fear that widened her vision.
"You can't think that I-"
"I fully expect you to tell me."
There was an anger in her. One that filled her lungs, burning her with every breath. She could feel the rise and fall of her chest quicken. She could feel her face begin to contort, as if to display every ounce of rage in her body in one single expression, but she stopped, smoothening her features before he could speak again, before she could find the right words to say.
There was no script for a found criminal.
"Otherwise," he began again, his voice smooth, velvety, appealing despite her growing hatred. "Her beauty will be wasted."
She hated how simply he spoke.
She hated how she felt as though she were a child.
"How?" she heard herself ask, eyes, despite her resolve, curious.
He smiled, head tilting just slightly. It was prideful, but not arrogant enough to be called smug.
"You enjoy your work."
"Yes."
"You want to continue it."
"Yes."
"Then I would suggest you make the choice to continue rather than allow yourself to be caught, than allow Bellamy Bennet to rot away while you face trial - you will be in for life for what they will make you out to be."
An image flashed before her eyes, her most favorite of girls, lying on the bed or on the ground, curled into herself with pain carved onto her pretty face. The nails Irene so attentively made strong would would weaken until they would fall off. Her warm skin would grey as she began to wither away. Her beautiful body would collapse to dust, all out of a selfish and childish decision to discard her toys before they were taken away, if only so no one else could play with them.
She hated this.
She hated how he knew just what to say, what to do, to make someone like her fall into place.
String me up as though I am a puppet for your own show. The irony.
"What will you give in return?" she asked wryly, looking back to her work desk, the fabrics, the measuring tape, the sewing machine. . .
"Your freedom."
Her eyes flashed to him, red lips curling back, exposing pearly teeth, unsure how to react to his offer. She settled on vigilance.
"It would be a shame for your work to come to an end this early. They were beautiful."
She felt her heart begin to sting and ache. It was just one word. Beautiful. It's all she ever wanted to be, all she ever wanted to make.
When she took Bellamy Bennet, she expected the woman to be honored, to appreciate the beauty she would become, the perfection. She didn't fight, but Irene could see it in Bella's eyes. The tears. The sorrows. The ugliness.
"So that's the deal?" she asked, feeling a sickening mix regret and relief. "I tell you where she is, and I walk free?"
"I would suggest running, but yes."
She half believed this to be a trap, that she'd tell him, he'd call in the police, and that would be that. Yet, if that were true, even if she didn't leave, she would still be apprehended. This wasn't luck. It might have been the first time, but now? This man standing before her, he knew.
She had nothing to lose.
Not even Bella.
She was never mine to take.
Half in grief, looking him in the eyes, straight faced, she gave a single nod.
"There's a house under my name. It's just outside of Emmitsburg. Should be easy to pull up," she said as she moved to the other side of her desk. "Go off to Valentin."
"You're leaving," he concluded, brows raised in slight irritation.
"You said to run," she pointed out, trying not to look him in the eyes. Her brain was already suffering under the bulk of a thousand and one questions, most of which along the lines of: Who are you? She didn't need to know the answer. All she needed was to stop by the bank and take out as much as possible, to get on the road as fast as possible.
Only when his back was turned did she raise her eyes, watching him stroll across the shop's smooth floor.
Her heart swelled with a storm of emotions, and the closest she could identify was the feeling of having a brush with death, leaving her thankful, but robbed.
Irene Matlin's House, Emmitsburg, Maryland
It had been over a day - maybe two - since she last saw the woman.
This wasn't the first time it happened, but it was the first where she wasn't given water.
When she first asked about how much longer she had left, how much longer she would have to live before she took the stage, she was prepared for the worst. At the time, the woman left her quickly, making sure not to leave even a feather behind to give Bella something to look at, to distract her from her own suffering. She thought that was the end of it, that she would still get her poached egg and grapefruit in the morning - maybe just the grapefruit - and that she would never speak again.
She thought the woman sensed the soft flicker of fire within, the one threatening to turn to flame the second death drew too close.
It wasn't much of a plan, but she had nothing else to go on.
If she escaped - if she even managed that - she still had no idea where she was going. She was too weak to lift anything particularly heavy. Her muscles were no longer what they used to be. She would get caught if she couldn't make sure she wasn't followed, and there was only one real way to ensure that.
She couldn't do it.
But she wanted too.
There were times when she tried to find enough bravery, enough courage to do something her normal self would call stupid. She tried and tried and tried, knowing that if the stars aligned then maybe, just maybe, she would get away. Yet, the second she found a shred of strength, she was lost, left with all her doubts.
She was weak.
Aside from having to fit into something meant for someone thinner and taller, starving her out was a good way to tilt the scale out of her favor and into her captors.
And she was strong.
Bella saw the muscles on her arms, on her legs. Not entirely vicious in size or definition, but she knew that someone didn't need either to be able to lift a body twice their size or, at the very least, knock them down. And Bella knew she'd go down far to easily.
She didn't need a mirror to know her own frailty - a different kind than she was used to.
She didn't know what else to do except draw her legs to her chest and close her eyes. She didn't find sleep, too scared that if she did, the last thing she would see would be this room. She already decided that, when the time comes, she'd break her fingers trying to claw the woman's eyes out or cut her own skin breaking a window and either jumping out of it or using a shard as a knife.
She didn't care.
She'd break her own body trying to stay alive, even if it ended with the opposite, to spite her.
The amount of pleasure she felt at the mere thought of defiance was intoxicating, bringing an unhealthily cruel smile to her face.
That smile faded at the sound of something crashing.
She felt a surge of energy, a jolt in her muscles, and before she could process her own thoughts, her own movements, she was sitting up, back arched, palms pressed into the mattress and legs twitching, wanting so badly to do what she did best, still knowing that there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
What dissipated her fear was the sound of heavy boots striking the floor, a drumming too fast to be one person, despite it muffled from being on the other side of the door, on the other side of the floor.
Her heart began to match the rhythm of the boots. She felt her weary heart quicken in the sharp bursts of what she could only assume were doors being knocked open. It came to a clear stop when she heard a loud and booming voice that could only belong to Jack Crawford. The rhythm began again, this time louder, closer.
And then she heard her name, called out by him.
She never heard so sweet a sound.
If she closed her eyes, she could see him.
Her lips parted, but all that came out was heavy breathes. She didn't realize she was crying until a sob tore through her lungs, and with it, her voice was returned.
"Will!" she cried, choking on the single syllable. She scrambled off the bed, rushing at the door so quickly, her body collided with it in a brutal burst of pain. "Will!" She shouted again, the scratchiness of her voice cutting through the silence she once knew.
"Bella!"
She nearly collapsed.
He's here. . . He's actually here. . .
Her tears were carving rivers down her cheeks. Her lungs burning with all the screams and cries that were strangled and stolen from her. Unthinking, unknowing, she pressed herself against the door, so close, so agonizingly close, as though if she tried hard enough she would pass through.
She was too ruinous to hear him at first, his rushed words, telling her to get back away from the door, asking if she understood. She didn't know how many times he said it by the time she gave a brittle "Yes."
Time slowed the second the door was knocked off its hinges.
With wide eyes, parted lips, and tender lungs, she took what felt like her first breath when she saw him.
His hair was tangled, overgrown. His clothes, wrinkled, stained a little if she looked close enough - she didn't. And his face. . . There were dark circles under his eyes and worsening wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and between his eyebrows.
He was a mess, falling apart before her eyes, but she couldn't help but feel as though he was the most beautiful thing she ever saw.
He took one step towards her, one slow step, cautious, mindful of every possible state she could be in.
Alana had told him to be careful, to be gentle, more so than he ever had before. Looking at her now, he understood.
She looked as though the slightest of touches would shatter her.
There were five steps between them, but by the time he reached the third, she moved towards him, swaying, unbalanced, unsure. He tried to hold her, but she stopped him, her feeble arms pressing against his chest, her hands latching onto his shoulders.
He froze, watching her, how her shaken eyes flickered over him, locking on her right hand, her fingers grasping tightly onto his shirt, fabric shifting under her fingers. Then, her eyes moved to her other hand, watching as though she was no longer in control of her own body, as though she was just as much an observer of her own actions as he, when she drew her fingers to his unshaven face, a fragile smile hesitantly forming on her chapped lips.
She looked him in the eyes, brown eyes meeting blue, and then her body fell against his.
Instinctively, he drew his arms around her, holding her close.
The second his arms were around her, he felt her sigh, just as she always did right before she fell asleep.
He knew she was awake - He knew by how tightly she was clutching onto him - because, for now, the nightmare was over.
At least, the worst of it was.
Yikes. Yeah, so I'm like suuuuuper late, as per usual, but, in my defense - actually, I have no defense. I was just hit with an agonizing case of writer's block.
Anyways, I know this isn't my usual style, that there is a lot of time missing, but it is that way for a reason. In addition to that, I don't want you to think that the happenings in this chapter are said and done with. They aren't. The effect this has isn't just this chapter and the next.
However, the next chapter is picking up some of the effects of this one.
In short, we'll be starting on the road to recovery.
ONCE AGAIN. . .
Thank you for all the reviews. I know I don't update enough, but they do help keep motivation! I love hearing your thoughts, theories, and comments!
No matter how short or long, I read them all - probably more than I should - and they really do make a difference.
So, thank you, and I hope you'll stick around to read the next chapter because I am SO EXCITED!