Avoiding Hannibal soon becomes a full time task for Abigail.
After his near death experience, Hannibal decides to take time off of work, and unfortunately for her, he decides to remain at home most days.
She starts by trying to keep herself confined to her room, but it doesn't take long for her to get antsy; she's become too reliant to being able to roam the house.
Abigail wants to venture down to the basement to work out, and burn some of her nervous energy off, but she doesn't want to face Hannibal. And, if she's being honest with herself, she doesn't know if she can bring herself to train anymore.
She had thought Hannibal was teaching her so she could defend herself, but he just wanted to make her a better hunter… just as her father had.
Their intentions don't matter, she reminds herself. My choices do. And I do want to defend myself if need be.
After two days of seclusion, and two nights of ignoring Hannibal's offered dinner invitation from outside her door, she stands frozen, trying to force herself to reach for the door knob.
Music is drifting upstairs, and she knows Hannibal is at the harpsichord composing. If she's quick, Abigail might even be able to slip downstairs and into the basement without him noticing.
Breathing deeply, she takes the plunge and opens her door.
Listening to the lilting melody, she tiptoes down the stairs, cringing as the last step creaks.
The music in the other room stops, along with her heart, but after a few moments it picks up again, and she assumes he was just making a new notation.
Once she makes it into the basement, Abigail breathes freely again, though, she still chastises herself for her weakness.
You know better than to let his honeyed words fool you.
Do I? What if I want to be fooled?
Transferring her anger at herself into the already burning anger she has for Hannibal, Abigail does some warm up stretches before turning her attention to a large punching bag.
Imagining it is Hannibal she's attacking, Abigail throws herself into her training. She falls into the rhythm of her punches, her wrath and resentment creating her own internal melody.
Upstairs, while pausing in his composition, Hannibal can hear Abigail's grunts and cries, confirming that he was right when he thought he heard her come down earlier.
While he would like to go watch her train, or even help her, he knows she would not allow it. She is still avoiding him.
Hannibal suspects that were Abigail to spend more than five minutes in the same room as him, he would be able to explain, to make her understand, why he did what he did. He also suspects she knows this, and that is why she is avoiding him.
When at last the sounds of her training begin to quiet, Hannibal rises from his harpsichord and goes to the kitchen.
When Abigail is too exhausted to continue, she quietly makes her way up the basement stairs, and presses her ear against the pantry door. Music is still filling the house and she sighs gratefully, glad to slip past unnoticed once more.
Pulling the pantry door open, Abigail steps into the kitchen, only to stop dead in her tracks when she sees Hannibal.
"I made you some lunch," he says conversationally, glancing up at her.
Too late, she realizes that the music is a recording.
"I'm not hungry," she lies, and her stomach gurgles, giving her away.
"Nonsense. You were down there for quite a while. I hope turkey is alright."
He holds up a sandwich to show her, before setting it back down on a plate and cutting it in half.
She can't help but swallow uncomfortably when she sees the knife in his hand, not entirely certain he's ruled out getting rid of her since his plan to control her backfired.
Placing the knife back on the counter, Hannibal picks up the plate and walks around the center isle to stand right in front of Abigail.
He holds the plate out for her, but she doesn't take it.
"Abigail, I wish you would talk to me about what happened."
"I don't think there is anything to talk about," she says, trying to make her quavering voice sound as steely as possible.
You can't… you can't forgive him.
"If you would only let me explain, I—" Hannibal is abruptly cut off when she jumps forward, stretches onto her tiptoes, and kisses him.
He's momentarily caught off guard, and stands there, frozen, until his body responds of it's own will. Her form pressed up against his, and those familiar lips softly urging him, erase all other thoughts.
Slowly, he lets his free hand wrap around her waist.
Then, as quick as it happened, she pulls away.
Hannibal blinks, dazedly, as she gives him an unreadable expression, takes the plate from him and walks away.
It isn't until much later, after collecting his thoughts on the incident, he considers that perhaps she didn't really want to kiss him, and that maybe she was that desperate not to talk.
While her last ditch effort to avoid discussion with Hannibal worked, Abigail realizes as she lies in bed that night, that it was a double-edged sword. While yes, it prevented him from spinning the lies she suspects she'd believe, it also reminded her of what she is missing.
Her bed feels cold and empty, and the longing she feels goes far beyond that of logic. No matter how many times she tells herself Hannibal is not good for her, it does nothing to lessen her ache.
Hannibal is toxic. She knows this… but he's also addicting, and Abigail is longing for a fix.
When she hears his footsteps pass in front of her door, she has to bury her face in her pillow to stop from calling out to him.
How can my mind and my body be calling so desperately for two different things? Abigail wonders.
Her body wants nothing more than to wrap around his, but her mind is screaming disagreement.
I will not let someone else shape who I am, and make my decisions for me.
The next day Abigail stays in her room once more, not risking another trip to the basement. She's not sure she'd be able to pull away if she were once again forced to stop Hannibal from speaking.
When he comes to her door with another request that she join him for dinner, she ignores him, but can't stop her feet from carrying her to the door.
She can hear him breathing, just on the other side, and raises her hand to rest on the cold wood between them.
"Abigail?"
She shakes her head, despite the fact he can't see her, and backs away, retreating to the bathroom.
You need to break this hold he has on you… before you lose what little there is of you left.
In an attempt to drown her problems, at least for a little while, Abigail draws herself a bath.
Hannibal can hear the water running from downstairs, where he sits alone at a table set for two.
Feeling his temper rise as he looks over the wasted elaborate display, he begins to wonder if perhaps he's taken the wrong approach to the situation with Abigail.
He rips his napkin from his lap and throws it, wadded up, on the table. Sliding away from the table, Hannibal stands up and marches up the stairs.
Not stopping once he reaches her room, he walks straight to the bathroom and throws open the door without knocking.
Abigail is reclined in the bath and he has a brief flashback to her first night here, when she tried to drown herself.
Jumping at his intrusion, Abigail slops water over the side of the tub as she tries to cover herself.
"Hannibal! Get out," she orders, reaching for her towel.
Hannibal is quicker, and snatches it away.
"We need to talk, Abigail."
"I told you I don't want to talk about it, and your little mind games and—and power plays won't work this time."
Abigail stands up in the tub, spreading her arms wide.
"Take a good look," she sneers. "It's not like you haven't seen it before. You think you can just burst in and make me feel vulnerable so you can spin your pretty explanations and make me forget what you did."
"I'm not asking you to forget," he says, "and I'm not asking you to forgive."
She crosses her arms, more out of skepticism than modesty.
"We don't even have to talk about what happened," he insists, "but we do have to talk. So, are you ready to listen, or am I going to have to make you?"
She glares at him defiantly.
"Abigail," his voice is a warning, "you won't like it if I have to make you."
With a heavy sigh, she sits back down in the tub.
"Say what you need to," she says.
"Good choice."
Hannibal goes into her room to fetch the seat from her vanity, refusing to sit on the closed toilet lid.
Once he situates himself beside the tub he begins.
"This cannot continue. We cannot be at odds with each other this close to making our escape."
"Our escape?" she questions.
"Yes. Our escape. I said I would protect you, and that protection doesn't end just because you are upset with me."
"When are we leaving?"
"Soon, very soon. I just have something to take care of before we go. I have to give the FBI the Chesapeake Ripper."
"I—I don't understand," Abigail stutters. "You're not going to—"
"No, I am not turning myself in."
"You're framing someone else?"
"I won't go into details about it now, but in a few weeks the FBI will have undeniable proof that I am not the Chesapeake Ripper, and I will fall from their radar completely. Then we can slip away," Hannibal explains, "and once we have settled into our new identities, if you still wish to… have nothing to do with me, then we may go our separate ways."
"You would still take me, knowing I would leave you?"
"I would," he says solemnly, nodding. "Now, that being said, I'm going to need your help with a few things in the weeks to come. And that would be much easier if we could at least be civil with one another. Do you think we could manage that?"
She swallows loudly, and nods almost imperceptibly.
"Excellent. I know you are upset with me, and that you may not agree with my methods, but never doubt how much I care for you, Abigail. I would do anything to protect you… even let you go," he tells her, almost sadly.
Hannibal leans over the edge of the tub and cups her cheek, leaning in to press a chaste kiss to her forehead.
"Now, why don't you get dressed and join me for dinner. It's probably gone cold, but I'll see to it. Alright?"
"Alright," she croaks, reaching once again for her towel, only this time Hannibal hands it to her.
After they come to their agreement, to any outsider it would appear they put the past behind them. Appearances, however, can be deceiving.
While Abigail does stop hiding in her room, she doesn't go so far as to encourage conversation with Hannibal, and any exchanges between them are oddly formal.
If she must ask Hannibal for anything, such as help reaching a tall shelf, or to pass the salt at dinner, she makes sure to keep her voice and face neutral. It is the same when he asks her a question, or attempts to talk about something at length.
If she were honest with herself, Abigail would admit she's actually quite proud of how she's mirroring Hannibal's usual expressionlessness.
However, it seems Hannibal feels quite the opposite about her new behavior.
On one particular night, Abigail pushes the formality even further and finally seems to pull the last straw.
"How are you enjoying the new art books I brought you?" Hannibal asks.
They are both in his study; Hannibal sipping an evening brandy, and Abigail pretending to pay attention to some dusty old medical book instead of the way Hannibal's sleeves are rolled up and how his top three buttons are undone on his dress shirt, revealing a dusting of chest hair.
"They are very interesting, thank you," she says, glancing up briefly, and then back down at the same page she's been on for twenty minutes.
"And the new paper? I've recently tried it myself and find that it is much less prone to smudging, wouldn't you say?"
"Indeed. I've noticed little smudging."
"Perhaps you might show me what you've been working on sometime," he presses.
"Perhaps."
"Is there anything else you need? I would be more than happy to provide you with almost anything, Abigail."
"While I appreciate the offer, I am quite content. Thank you, Dr. Lecter."
She doesn't look up as she speaks, and she doesn't need to. She can feel his anger rolling off of him in waves.
Hannibal, so good at closing others out, hates to be the one outside the door. He slams back the rest of his drink and storms out of the room.
Abigail doesn't look up from her book until she hears his keys jingle and the front door slam shut.
Part of her wants to chase after him, but another part reminds her that if she lets her guard down, he will use her again and again, until he molds her into whatever it is he dreamed she'd become.
The next day Hannibal tells her over breakfast that she'll need to stay in her room and be quiet come dinner time, because Alana is coming over.
Sensing he wants to get a rise out her, Abigail just shrugs and continues eating.
She doesn't see him again until late that night, after she hears Alana drive off.
Hannibal comes up to bring Abigail some leftover dessert.
"Thank you."
"Of course."
She perches on the edge of her bed to eat the berry tart he brought her, and Hannibal lingers just inside the doorway.
"Alana says she can't forgive Will for what he did to me," he says.
"That's only because she doesn't know the truth," Abigail replies, trying not to scoff too hard and spit tart everywhere.
He watches her, eyes calculating and predatory.
"I'm having a dinner party in a few days. There will be lots of guests, and I have some caterers coming to help me with the finishing touches. There will be people in and out of here all day. You'll need to stay hidden."
"Naturally. What's the party for?"
"It is essential to our departure."
Before she can ask any more questions, or inquire if he'd like help, Hannibal takes her empty dessert plate and wishes her a goodnight.
The day of Hannibal's dinner party, Abigail wakes up to find a silver platter waiting on the floor just inside her door. It's laden with fruit, nuts, and other foods that won't spoil.
No note, she thinks, slightly disappointed.
Out of curiosity she tries her door handle and finds it locked. She wonders if it is to keep people out, or if he doesn't trust her and it is to keep her in.
If he didn't trust me, he wouldn't let me stay up here where I could possibly make noise or yell to draw attention.
He'd probably just give me a pill to knock me out.
Abigail looks at the platter again, suddenly suspicious, and decides to eat from her own stores today.
Listening intently she can hear Hannibal's booming voice instructing caterers and decorators on where they should be.
As the day drags on, Abigail finds it harder and harder to focus on anything but the sounds from downstairs.
Once, in the afternoon, Hannibal checks in on her to see if she needs anything. When she assures him she's fine he leaves, this time not locking the door.
At dusk she can hear the first guests arriving, and she realizes just how badly she misses other people.
Abigail has never really been fond of people in general, but after so long of communicating with no one but Hannibal, she would love to be in a room full of people.
She tries to keep herself busy, but just can't focus on anything, her mind keeps drifting, wondering what it would be like to attend one of Hannibal's parties.
Eventually Abigail lies back on her bed and allows herself to daydream.
I would wear something sexy, but classy, something Hannibal would love… a little black dress with a string of pearls.
At least in her fantasies she doesn't have to worry about Hannibal trying to control her.
I'd wear my hair down to hide my ear, but every once in a while, when I would be talking to someone, and I'd feel Hannibal's eyes on me from across the room, I would tilt my head just so and reveal my scar.
She imagines how his gaze would burn, his passion growing with her brazenness and the ease with which she traverses the crowd.
Maybe I'd even flirt a little bit, just to see Hannibal's jealousy spike. He'd glide across the room, still maintaining the façade of gracious host, and politely take my arm to ask for my assistance in the kitchen.
As soon as we get out of the sight of the guests, Hannibal would have me pressed against a wall, his teeth nipping my neck as he pins my arms above my head with one hand.
His other hand would slip under my skirt and edge up my thigh…
Abigail sits up in bed, and takes a deep steadying breath, feeling ridiculously flustered.
Whatever logical part of her brain that has been reminding her to stay away from Hannibal, that he can't be trusted after he yet again tricked her into killing someone, is silent now, drowned out by her hormones and lust.
In this moment Abigail doesn't give a damn about anything other than feeling her body pressed against his.
Downstairs the noise is growing quieter and quieter, and she hopes the party is almost over.
Abigail picks out one of her more revealing nightgowns and readies herself to surprise him.
She can hear footsteps on the stairs and… laughing?
There is someone else with Hannibal.
She sees the shadows of two sets of feet pass her door and scowls.
He's probably just showing off more of his art collection.
However, when the feet do not pass back by her door within ten, fifteen, twenty minutes she starts to wonder what is going on.
Pressing her good ear to the far wall of her room, she can hear muffled voices, and she thinks more laughter.
Her stomach turns uncomfortably.
Finally, after more than forty minutes from when the pair first came upstairs, a single set of feet pass her door again.
Downstairs she hears the front door open and close.
Deciding to risk it, Abigail slips out of her room and treads quietly towards Hannibal's.
His lights are off, but she can see him in bed.
No…
It's not Hannibal in his bed, it's Alana Bloom.
Author's Note: Wow! This was a long chapter! I just wanted to get us up through the dinner party. I hope you enjoyed it, I know it was a lot more introspection than interaction, but I really wanted Abigail's confusion and inner turmoil to come through. As always, reviews are very much appreciated!