All rights to Hannibal (TV) belong to NBC.
This chapter is dedicated to Anna B. and MariDark.
Also, special thanks to Mara-Lethe, Random Person 94, CaptainMc, and Sanja
PS: I remade the cover!
I love how you guys are noticing the different dynamic and noticing that Hannibal notices her somewhat primal urges! I really hope that Bella isn't coming off as a flat character because humans themselves are complex creatures capable of feeling a multitude of things. And with Bella - with everyone on this show, really - there is always this feeling of dissonance.
As to her not being a part of the FBI, I really wanted to get this outsider perspective because I feel like Jack and his team have this strength, this sense of invulnerability and unanimity and I don't... I want to convey a character that doesn't have that. I wanted to create a character that is rough and strong, but also holds this fragility and anxiety in her.
Speaking of anxiety, I hope that this chapter clarifies why she feels that way and why Hannibal is taking an interest in her.
Also, for anyone who has good memory or has recently read this, there is a surprise in store.
Port Haven Psychiatric Facility, Baltimore, Maryland.
The ground was covered in golden fallen leaves sprawled over the elegant stone path to the garden. As she carefully tread over the path, out of the corner of her eyes, in between worn in stone pillars, were faces. Old men and women in wheelchairs or clutching their walkers or the arms of one of the staff members. Off in the distance, there were the younger ones, girls she's had to sit in front of and pretend as though she had a sliver of something in common. The sight made her cringe. It was as though life were taunting her with images of what could have been. Instead of being in a park with friends and family, she was in a hospital with her therapist. It left a sour taste in her mouth and thickened air in her lungs, wondering why her father was the way he was. What had she done to make him hate her? What had she done to trigger such a terrible bloodlust in him? What had she done to deserve the scar on her neck?
Her only thanks towards her father was that he didn't give her a larger scar.
"I can hide what happened to me," she said to Alana, glancing at the doctor from the corner of her eyes, taking in her casual pace. "I can hide what happened to me. All I need is a scarf to pass. Or a turtleneck, the right high collar."
She learned that from Bella along with how to cut and die her hair as quickly as possible. She learned to carry a small tube of concealer, and a sufficient amount of cash, but not enough to sound alarms. Though, she wouldn't tell Alana that. Already, there was enough distance between the two of them. Half out of guilt of what transpired in her house, half out of mistrust she already held towards the woman.
"Part of the process of recovery. And hiding what happened to you defeats the purpose of being here. Sharing will help normalize," Alana insisted, using that same motherly tone.
Abigail only scowled at that.
"What happened to you isn't normal."
She was never normal.
"I just mean-"
"Some of these women aren't even sharing," Abigail snapped, not letting Alana finish. "They speak in little girl voices telling everyone what was done to them and how they hurt without saying a word about it." How many times did she sit in a circle and was forced to listen to the lot of them, trying to swallow her own resentment.
"Certain traumas can arrest vocal development. It's not always voluntary-"
"I know."
She didn't mean to be short with Alana. She hated how Alana spoke to her. There was something in her voice, something gentle as if speaking to a child, yet suspicious as if she caught her in a lie.
"It just makes me want to go home and be normal again," she said, rolling her eyes at the thought and how far away from reality it was.
Still, Alana was her doctor, and things typically moved faster the more she told her how she felt.
"Have they sold my house already?" She asked, not bothering to meet Alana's eyes.
Yesterday was been her mother's birthday. In another life, she would be climbing Eagle Mountain, the highest point in Minnesota, to celebrate. In another life, she'd be staring out at Lake Superior, drinking in the sweet and fresh air of the summit. She couldn't even imagine it now. Not for long, at least.
"You'll have another home. I'll help you find it." Abigail didn't call it her home. "Abigail-" She almost rolled her eyes at that tone. "I want you to give the support groups another chance."
For a moment, she was a teenager again, complaining about something she didn't want to do.
"No. The support groups are sucking the life out of me through a narrow straw."
"Isolating yourself can suck just as hard and through an even narrower straw. You have to find someone to relate to in this experience."
"I already have."
Hannibal Lecter's House, Baltimore, Maryland.
From the time she left the house until the second he opened the door, she ran on shallow breathes without knowing it. She only realized this when, upon entering, her first deep breath was overwhelmed with a sweet, yet savory aroma. The next deafened sense was her eyes, blinded by the sheer opulence of his home. Everything was so clean, so renewing, a tabeleau of a secret era that would live and die with him and the few he chose to share it with. For a moment, she was filled with wonder, brown eyes wide with awe, drowning in shades of purple, red, and cobalt. Everything was planned, organized. From while molding across the tops of the room, forming subtle and timeless arches decorated with various plants and paintings in some sort of artificial environment. On the eastern wall of the dining room, she found herself planted before a display of a tamed flora herb wall, set before a a wallpaper - Oscar Grosch, she recognized.
Every inch was enriched with colors and textures, both elegant and exotic. She could feel the very tension in her shoulder lessen at the sight of the flowers. Beyond that, to the southern wall, there was a display of feathers, butterflies, and beetles. She almost missed the pleased smile resting on his lips at her admiration of his home.
For a second, she wondered why she was so reluctant to gravitate towards him, but then she saw him up close. When her eyes met his, she felt her own smile falter. It wasn't so much his smile but rather how much she wanted that smile to remain. There was something about him, his strange personal manners that set him apart from the others. He was both brilliant, almost effortlessly in tune with the world around him, and beautiful, put together from the metal cuff links on his sleeves to the finishing touches on his dress shoes. She always assumed that his home would carry this cold and serene air similar to a funeral, yet she was wrong. With soft piano music playing, beautiful art and nature around her, the smell of warm food, she felt anything but cold and serene. No. For once, around him, she felt almost enlightened.
And that is what made her wary.
She came to dinner with an open mind, yet the second she found herself drawn in, the second she realized it, she hesitated.
"Are you hungry?"
"Famished."
He seated her near the head of the table, to his left, where she was left to take in her surroundings more under the spotlight of a black Murano glass chandelier. It was breathtaking, though she dared not say it, not even whisper it while alone, waiting for him to present her dinner. His dining room, however beautiful, was a re-natured nature. It was an illusion of a natural environment. All of this, from the herbs on the wall to the wood in the fireplace, was controlled.
When he reentered the room, she noticed something she hadn't when she walked in. His coat. On every other occasion she had seen him, he was dressed, adorned in a sharply tailored and well coordinated suit, yet here he was.
Unlike all previous memories, he stood, dressed simply in a cream, pin-striped button down shirt covered by a brown vest and a pair of slightly lighter brown slacks. It was almost casual, considering who he was. She wondered if she would have underestimated him, if she would have trusted him a little more, had he been dressed this way when they first met. She wondered if this was intentional. Looking beyond him, at the wall behind him, the color of it, the indigo that matched the night's sky without appearing as empty, she knew.
Of course, it was intentional.
They unintentionally mirrored each another.
She did not miss the surprised, yet pleased look on his face when she entered.
Looking at her as he placed a porcelain plate before her, he noticed just how well she blended into her environment.
When he welcomed her into his home, he offered to take her coat, a worn in olive green jacket, he took the opportunity to circle her thereafter under the guise of hanging it. She came to him in a modest dress of a soft pink. Not long, but not entirely short, ending just below her knees. The neckline was deeper than he ever saw her wear, diving only about to where the center of her heart was. Whilst she could have hidden the area with a necklace or cardigan, she left the area bare.
She was so much like she had been the last time they were alone, yet entirely different.
She still held her distant nature. He could see it in the way her fingers laced together, squeezing tightly whenever he drew too near. Yet, she kept herself still, forcing herself to appear calm, content, and comfortable. The sight of her, a gentle smile on her lips as she gazed up at him in the second the plate was placed before her - he wanted nothing more than to capture it.
Her brown eyes were wide and aware. They were beautiful in a classical way. Not demure or chaste, but rather. . . alive. Her lips mostly relaxed, parted with an unheard breath passing through them, yet there was tension in the bottom lip. Not quite a smile, but close. The way the light came down, cascading onto her features, the faint scarring on her softened face, catching in the colors of her hair and the smooth and cool fabric of her dress, matched with the glimmer of an equally luxurious golden and rose porcelain, she looked to be every bit the woman she was when she was in his office, leaning against the wooden railing, looking down from the upper floor.
How perfect she looked. The epitome of intelligence and sensibility.
He felt it then.
It was a kindred urge, similar to that he felt when sitting across from Will Graham in his office. It was this near compulsion to create. With Will, he saw someone who could see him, understand him. It was a tempting idea, to expand beyond such a bleak and lonely existence, to take on a companion. Yet, despite all he could do to lead Will to the river, to tempt him so much to drink from a new and near-forbidden existence, Hannibal could not make him enjoy it. This was the downfall of empathy. One could empathize with his greatest of enemies, yet that does not make them less of adversaries. But with her? She was something different.
Though she could not see through his eyes, she could see him. She, who held a heart so worn in, yet new all the same, could be crafted, sculpted, the tableau of his own design.
It was tempting, and what made matters all the better was that the two had paired off, a lovely set to finish his collection.
"I am somewhat surprised to reach this point," he said, taking his rightful place at the head of the table. His hands reaching, claiming a knife and a fork with them. "Bella." He enjoyed saying her name, the familiarity of it.
Bella blinked twice, somewhat understanding, somewhat confused.
"Twice, officially, we have prolonged this," he stated, an amused smile playing on his lips, telling her he was not truly upset with her. The first, he could hold against her. The second was entirely due to Jack Crawford's insistence on Abigail Hobbs returning home. While they could have dined there, as she so kindly pointed out, he refused for their first shared meal to be by anyone but him.
"This?" Bella repeated, feigning innocence in her voice.
"Therapy over dinner," he humored her with.
The right corner of her lip twitched upwards, but she didn't spare him a glance, instead focusing on taking a sip of her wine.
"This isn't simply dinner?"
"Dinner would be asking less of you."
"You would never ask for less," she pointed out, taking another drink. She had yet to cut into her dinner, but he dared not point it out. He wanted it to be her decision. He needed it to be her decision.
On some level she knew this.
Her plate was made up of a salad of greens and root chips and slices of meat - "Rare roast tenderloin", he called it. On the right hand side of the salad was a bird skull - purely decorative, she assumed. What truly caught her interest was half of a pomegranate at the center of the plate; its bright seeds almost appeared as rounded rubies spattered over the tenderloin and resting in the heart of the pomegranate.
She thought to ask if it was often served this way, or if it was purely his design.
She knew better.
This was her invitation.
Watching her examine the dish, dark lashes cloaking those warm and sweet brown eyes as she blinked slowly, Hannibal felt an excitement rise, wondering if she understood, and, when those very eyes rose to meet his gaze, as her lips bloomed with a smile as soft as a rose petal, he knew. Here was a woman, so bright and young, everything a woman from stories was painted to be, yet she was cloaked in this dark smoking shroud of fear. Her ability to so easily recognize and capture the world, the people, around her all out of fear gave her a beauty that he could only describe as sublime.
Fear was her shield.
She was so accustom to it, that intense and overwhelming sense of fear, that it did not touch her in the way it touched others. If it had, she would be different. That brightness about her, that effervescent youth that he and those watching close enough would bare witness to, all of it would be gone if that darkness could touch her in the way it touched others. No. He came to the understanding that she and him were similarly different, just as she and Will were similarly different.
She needed to invite him in, just as he needed to invite her.
So he watched, almost hungrily, drinking in the sight as she lifted a bite of that rare roasted tenderloin, sprinkled with the forbidden fruit, to her lips.
She accepted.
He smiled, feeling like a conqueror, feasting his eyes on unknown lands, knowing that greatness lied ahead.
"Shall we start on a lighter topic?" he asked, courteous as always. She didn't answer verbally, only giving a shrug. He would have to teach her differently. "Work, perhaps," he prompted, knowing full well about her workplace actions through one Will Graham. Although, he only knew the surface of her actions. Will never betrayed her trust. It was frustrating to say the least, yet, here he was, trying to overcome that frustration, using it as an incentive to collect them both, to pay just as much attention to one as he did to the other, not wanting to lose a second of either. They were rare wild animals, every second of beauty was a gift to the watcher.
"Work is a light topic?" she asked, bitterness dripping from her voice. Her eyes winced with regret at the sharpness of her voice. "Sorry," she muttered. "Work is a sensitive topic," she clarified, giving him a slightly scolding look. "I would assume you knew that."
"Therapy sometimes requires stimulating the sensitive."
"Sometimes," she echoed, returning to eating. "I had to recuse myself from the current case," she offered him, yielding little by little. She was a difficult one at times. These small instances where she struggled against him served as a reminder that she could be so much more than she was. She could be more than the lot that she stood with.
"Care to share why?" He expected a short "no" and end of discussion. He would have spent the night trying to draw out anything else he could from her, building a friendship for their next dinner to be more successful.
"Yes."
He blinked, only allowing such a small amount surprise to show. When her smile came, he knew she caught it.
"It's not easy to talk about."
Nothing ever seemed to be with her. She and all her vulnerability were lost in a sea of tall trees. He could draw her out, but she would slip away. No. She had to come out on her own, reveal herself on her own.
"No doubt that Will has told you about it," she said, not wanting to relive the moment she walked - fleeing from that house with the second murdered family and the charred body of a missing boy. Her ears fell deaf to people, mostly Jack, shouting at her. She was falling into instinct, and the second she felt someone's fingers graze the fabric of her jacket, she broke into a run. It wasn't until Will caught her by the arm that she stopped, if only to whip around and throw his grasp off. She remembers Will's worried expression, the complete terror in his eyes. She knew she must have looked mad, eyes wide and dilated, looking to him as if he was a stranger.
She felt shame.
She felt regret.
She felt sorry.
"He voiced his concerns. He, too, doesn't connect well with the idea of family. Like an 'ill fitting suit', if I remember his words correctly," Hannibal recalled.
"Do you struggle to connect with family?"
At the mention of family, Bella did not feel the tension of her last visit to her mother's house. She did not remember the nostalgia of reliving her favorite memories of her brother. No. She felt warmth at the memory of Will and her, smiling, carrying the few boxes that were her life into her new home. Their home. She remembers the nights spent on the porch or out on the lawn, a drink in hand and a smile on her face, as the dogs ran about. She thought of her and Abigail, painting their nails and flipping through frivolous magazines.
"Not as much as I used to," she answered with a ghost of a smile. She was getting better. Life was getting better, if only by a little. She had a family now.
"Used to?" He repeated. He knew only as much as Abigail. She had a missing brother and a strained relationship with her parents, her grandparents.
"You're surprised, aren't you? How could someone like me have anything less than a perfectly happy family?" A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "No. No. I didn't. . . I. . . I didn't connect well. Not with my parents."
"Just your parents?"
"Parents, grandparents. I simple human connection was never easy for me - or maybe it was too easy," she said with a shake of her head, unsure of which was truth. "I was too sensitive."
"Do you think sensitivity is a bad trait in a child?"
"I think a highly sensitive child is difficult to those who aren't sensitive," she clarified, pursing her lips shortly thereafter. She was still hurt by that family. She was still haunted by that outsider feeling within her old home. He now understood why she took a step away from the case.
"How do you see your sensitivity now? Do you see it as something that helps you navigate daily life?"
"Considering I fled a crime scene from the mere sight of it, I wouldn't say its something helpful."
Hannibal chuckled, looking at her and her bittersweet grin. She took pride in her failures. Reclamation. She was taking that of which should hurt her and placing it on display, using it as a shield, just as she did with her fear. It was tragically brilliant.
"Highly sensitive people are often mocked for being just that. Personally, I do not see it as a negative trait. To feel so passionately, that level of intensity, it shows that one is alive. Do you think Will is broken? He is the most sensitive of us all."
"Of course not," she muttered. "Rough around the edges, maybe, but broken?" She gave another shake of the head. She loved him. Hannibal would be blind not to see it.
"There is no shame in being sensitive, Bella."
He would bask in the authenticity of her emotions if she allowed him to liberate her, to slip through the veil of norms and be elevated to a higher existence.
"Well, my mother would digress," she said, trying to push his attempts at giving her pride in that sensitivity away. He knew it wouldn't be easy. "She often had me confined to the house, to my room, when I was being too 'difficult', and I was never easy. My grandmother reminded me of that. I still wince whenever someone puts a hand on my upper arm. She used to pinch me whenever I was misbehaving in church."
"You misbehaved in church?"
It was hard to imagine her acting up, even as a child. When he looked at her, he saw a woman so aware of herself and her body that he could imagine her as a dancer. So smooth, so fluid, so in tune with the space around her. She was well behaved, even when she wasn't. His next assumption would be that it was beaten into her, drilled in by physical punishment. She rubbed her arm, even at her own recount of her grandmother, soothing a pain that was long ago and far away from where and who she was now.
"I was restless. The first ten minutes of church, I was okay. I was quiet, still, and had my head raised with every intent to listen. Twenty minutes after that, I was tapping my foot, drumming my fingers, a thick feeling in my chest that made me want to run, for hours or days with no direction. By the end of church, I was digging my nails into wood, sometimes carving patterns. Once my mother found out, after being punished for that, I just moved from wood to my skin," she explained with a faint scoff. She raised her left hand, showing the back of it to him. There, marring smooth skin, was crescent shaped scars. When she turned her wrist, showing the palms of her hands, he saw, below a thickened line cutting her palm in half, was a mirror of those scars.
"Do you resent your mother for the pain she caused you?"
"Yes. I hate to say it, but yes. I do," she admitted, averting her eyes with shame. "I know I wasn't an easy child to care of. . ."
"But you were still a child."
She nodded.
"Is that why you struggle with caring for Abigail?" Her eyes snapped to his, a hint of betrayal in her eyes for asking such a bold question. Hannibal did not apologize. "You waver, drifting from being close to being far away."
"In my defense-" There was anger in her voice, and it thrilled him. "I think I have a right to be wary. Surely, a psychiatrist would understand that being told 'kids turn out like their parents' doesn't always bring comfort. Surely, a psychiatrist would understand a hurt person's fear of becoming the person who hurts people."
Her nostrils flared, eyes narrowed, fingers curled tight over her knife and fork.
There was that anger, that rage, that primal predatoral look in her eyes.
Yes, she could be so much more than the little doe that she appeared to be.
"The fact that you are concerned with becoming a mirror of your mother certainly brings into doubt on whether you would," he reasoned with. "Aside from that, do you think Abigail benefits from you drifting back and forth on whether or not you want to be close to her."
"I don't waver in wanting to be close to her," she quickly corrected, eyes softening, losing that angrily sharpened edge. "I just don't know whether it's good for her. I'm not a psychiatrist," she reminded him. He briefly wondered how often she thought that about herself, how inexperienced she was compared to those she was around. How often did she use that inexperience to her advantage? "A part of me wants to be there for her, to protect her."
"There is nothing wrong with a paternal instinct. It is Jack and Alana's greatest concern when it comes to Will, Abigail, and I. Though, for different reasons."
Jack suspected Abigail of using her status as a victim to influence Will and him. It was somewhat insulting to be thought of as so easily swayed that a child would manipulate him. However, he quickly stepped over that slight, especially once looking to Will Graham and his tender heart for Abigail, who was far stronger than most gave her credit for. "Most" being Alana Bloom, who looked at Abigail is such a fragility that she feared for her health. It was earlier in the morning that she came knocking on his office door, telling him she was worried about Abigail's growing anger and possible depression. She wanted to immerse Abigail in her tragedy, stuck in a primary clinical treatment facility. Alana would, intentionally or not, sooner snuff out the embers of a fire than let it grow into something bright and strong.
"And the other half?"
"The other half wants to teach her how to fight, how to survive. She can't do that if I'm holding her hand the whole time."
"While I agree that Abigail should be out in the world, finding her footing and the confidence to move on, I do not agree that she has to do so without someone else's help." At the sight of her lips parting, a breath being drawn in so quickly and so deeply that it looked almost as if she were trying to puff out her chest and look bigger than she was, he knew she misunderstood him. She was, after all, only human. "I'm not suggesting that you, or anyone else, smother her. I'm only suggesting that she wouldn't be harmed with simple guidance."
She yielded, if only for a second, but the light left her eyes just as quickly, leaving her to resume eating the tenderloin that was missing only a few bites. She ate slowly, often stopping to devote her full attention to him. It was endearing just as much as it was frustrating.
"Doesn't matter much, does it? You and I are not in charge of her life. That would be Dr. Bloom."
"She won't always be," he pointed out, raising a slice of the tenderloin high, a subtle reminder for his guest. The sound of metal scraping against the fine china let him know she was quickly cutting into it.
Good girl.
"So, what would you have me do, Doctor?"
"I would want you to not limit yourself," he answered. "This case, the one you walked away from, is it truly family that made you run away? Or is it your inability to give them back a family that saddens you."
She didn't answer at first, instead seeking solace behind a mouthful of food. He waited, patiently, knowing that she would run out, and she would have to open her mouth again.
"I'm not sad."
"Oh?"
"I'm angry."
"Why?"
She gave him a pressing look.
"I'm angry because I can't do it. I can't help these 'lost boys' find a family, and I know - god, I know - how it feels to be without one."
Her eyes fell shut, her brows furrowing, bottom lip caught between her teeth. She looked to be in pain, and she was. He only wished that she would tell him why. What pained her? What struck that vulnerable heart so deeply that she hid from everything and anyone else, even Will Graham? Who was responsible for who she became?
"Have you ever had someone, someone that you would do anything - and I mean anything - for?"
He did. He closed his eyes, wiping away the memory.
"Yeah. Me too."
He didn't have to say what happened. She knew. She didn't know, but she knew that whoever it was, whoever he would have done anything for, was just like her brother. Gone. She, despite all cruelty of the thought, hoped he had the relief of at least knowing why they were gone.
His eyes opened, staring at her with a haunted look in his eyes, searching her own, trying to find out how and when she saw him. She didn't, yet at the same time, she did. As godlike as he was, she knew he was human. Hannibal had a mother. Hannibal had a father. He had a family, and one that he never spoke of. He was alone. He was just alone as Will was. He was just alone as she was. It was then, looking at those dark eyes that she was reminded of why she came to this dinner to begin with. She wanted to be his friend.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
This time, he frowned. Not as harshly, not as angrily, but just as confused.
There she was again, staring with doe-like eyes, with words resting on the tip of her tongue and the edge of her lips, so soft that they might have drifted off, if she would only allow it.
"What are you sorry for?"
There was along pause, into which Bella's lips moved ever the slightly in an attempt to find just the right words to answer his question. And finally, those lips snapped shut, and she looked down, head hanging in shame. He noticed she was done with her food.
"I've forgotten why I'm here."
He could not tell what she meant by "here". Here with him? Here in his dining room? Here in Baltimore? Here as in alive?
He did not know.
"Why are you here, Bella."
"For you."
It was his turn for his lips to part, something unspoken resting on them.
"As a therapist?"
"As a friend, Hannibal."
This was why she attracted him so, he remembered. It was these moments, the moments when she stared straight, eyes wide with so many emotions that by the time he could recognize one, there was another rising. She could see him so clearly, who he was, what he wanted, what he expected, and she could so easily meet them. All she needed was what she was so scared of giving: guidance.
His spine straightened, rising in height despite being seated, staring down at her, she who had eyes that were far more pleasing and defined than by the simple color of them, feeling nothing but a tenderness he had long since forgotten.
"I forget how similar we are," she said with a tired sigh. "You're somewhat immaculate in the way you present yourself," she muttered. He was not sure if he was meant to hear it, but he had. "I forget that you too are looking for someone."
"Who do you think I am looking for?" he asked carefully.
She thought for a moment before giving a half-hearted smile.
"What everyone is looking for, I suppose. Someone to share your nature with, to form a genuine connection with."
"What kind of someone would that be?"
"I don't know. A sibling, a friend, a lover. Maybe something else entirely. Life is long, but short. No one should live it alone, though. That enough I know."
"Do you think that someone is yourself?" he asked after some time.
Where did she see herself in all that he was and would be? Of all the things she listed, did she see him or herself as just that? She was a fine work of art. Everything she was was set before him, and the more he noticed, the more questions he had. He wondered if she thought the same. How well did she know herself?
"I don't know," she answered honestly, taking a drink, wanting to wash away all her own thoughts and fears concerning just as he asked, her placement in relativity to him. Time passed, slowly ticking by, but after a while, she somewhat smiled. She looked as if she only half understood it herself. "I think I could be, though."
All he could do was stare with a smile.
"I think you could be as well."
There was something there. Something unseen and unspoken resting between them. He knew that he had her now. By the trust in her eyes and the hope resting in his chest, he knew it by sense alone. He drew the little doe to the waters and made her drink; Persephone ate the pomegranate.
"Are you done?"
"Yes. I believe so," she said, rising from her seat.
"Would you like dessert?"
"I'm afraid Will will be here soon," she declined with.
Hannibal dared not take it to heart. She'd pleased him enough tonight.
"Something to go? For Will," he added quickly, his lips curling upwards as he walked her to the door.
She gave him a kindhearted smile, unaware of what she would be, quite literally, bringing to their table.
"I think he would like that very much."
Will Graham's House, Wolftrap, Virginia
When he returned home from catching what Freddie Lounds called the "Blood Brothers", the unfortunate boys that were taken from their homes and made to kill their families, he was nervous. Coming home, especially after seeing what could happen to an otherwise happy family, he was unsure of how to handle himself, how to present himself as himself and without traces of what was left of the mother, the psychotic woman who murdered whole families by proxy. He didn't know how look Bella in the eyes and act as if he could think of home the same.
Yet, there she was.
He found her in the living room, just as she was that first time, lying among the dogs, happily reading a book, enjoying her time off from work. He didn't have it in him to resent the relief she was given.
He didn't have it in him because the second he saw her and she saw him, he saw light, life, pure energy fill her. She sprung to life, a smile radiating from her features, eyes brightened with recognition and familiarity, with love. He couldn't find it within himself to be angry. All he could find within himself was relief and joy. She glided towards him just as she had in his dreams, welcoming him home with a hug and soft kiss on his cheek, leading their pack of dogs that circled him, nipping at his feet and jumping about.
This is what home feels like.
"I would ask you how was work, but I'm fairly certain of the answer," she jokingly said.
He laughed, not because he found her words funny - it wasn't enough to permit a laugh - but because of how much he missed her.
"Should I expect dinner?" he asked jokingly as well. She rolled her eyes, knowing he would never ask her to do that. He ate enough badly cooked foods from her already.
"No, but I did make you a drink. Besides, you don't need to almost choke to prove you like me, Mr. Graham," she teased.
"I'll drink to that," he shot back, moving towards the kitchen. He could hear her snort and mutter under her breath. It brought a smile to his face to hear her and her bitterness. When he walked into the kitchen, he was partially surprised, finding no take out boxes inside the trash. "Did you actually cook?" he asked, half teasing and half serious, turning to look at her. She stood, leaning against the door frame, unamused, yet her expression faltered.
"Hannibal came. He brought the dogs food as well," she informed. Will raised a brow, half surprised again. Though, he should have known. Hannibal was a good man, a better friend - he could no longer see the line between their doctor-patient relationship and that of friendship. Neither could Bella, after hearing of her dinner with Hannibal. "He asks that you come to dinner next time," she added, averting her eyes as she revealed she promised his presence without consulting him. He could hardly blame her. They both, according to societal norms, needed more friends. Although, he would argue she was in more need. She took even less to Jack's team than he did.
"Next time?" he repeated. "Should I be worried?"
"Should I?" she shot back, moving towards him, taking her glass when he offered it. "It wouldn't hurt to get to know him, would it?"
"We do know each other," he tried.
"In a informal and non-professional environment," she clarified. "I was so. . . wary of him before."
She was still wary of Hannibal. Less so, but she still was. She wouldn't mention that though. She took her own paranoia as just that. Her fears and anxieties trying to overwhelm her judgement. Negative feelings aside, when she thought of Will and Hannibal, the way they stood together, spoke together, she could so easily see them as just that. Them. They could be friends. They could expand their bubble just enough to be seen.
"And all that changed with a dinner?" Will asked, taking a gulp of whiskey in disbelief.
"Well, no," she confessed, briefly regretting how well he knew her. Briefly. "I just. . . I don't know," she ended with, looking down at the amber colored drink.
There was a surge of panic in him, but his face only twitched in response. He should have known better. Bella was a fragile strong woman. She wasn't strong in the sense that nothing could hurt her. She wasn't Jack, who would be the human version of rock. No. She was his woman of the rivers, enduring despite obstacles. Not so much as indestructible as she was able to adapt to circumstance. Jack was the hero. She was the survivor. It was both a comfort and a concern. He knew she could live a long life, but at what cost?
He remembered a time - a time he wasn't apart of, but knew nevertheless - when she was so beautifully alive. He remembered the photograph of a girl with a bold smile and unapologetic happiness. Though he adored the woman before him, he would have given anything to see her colors return to her washed out living. He wanted her to be more than content, more than a survivor accepting the short moments of relief they were given. He wanted to give her what every person in the world wanted: peace and happiness.
Wishing for something didn't make it so. That he knew.
And so, he would swallow his wants and give and take where he could.
"No. Talk. Talk to me."
She looked up from her drink, unsure of what to say, what to do. For a moment, he was lost in the memory of their first shared drinks. They came too far to revert back to that level of uncertainty, that level of anxiety, riddled with fears of what the other would see them as.
She took a breath, looked back to her drink, and then at him again, openly contemplating if she would or not. He knew her decision before she did, and all he did was wait. She would talk to him just as he would talk to her.
"I just think I might be wrong," she settled on. "You weren't fond of him at first either, and now you're confiding in him," she reasoned, giving a pleading look.
"He is my therapist. Yours too."
"He could be more."
Her words were not what struck him silent. It was how her words already echoed a thought he never put into words: friendship. It was a frightening concept, the intimacy that he could share with Hannibal. He never spoke of his fondness towards the "good doctor", always too afraid of this man, this man who saw him almost effortlessly, hearing him. As much as he adored Bella, he fostered an unprecedented fondness for Hannibal. His very exquisite and complex nature, the tragedy in the man's eyes, Will craved an understanding of the man in a way that he never knew he could yearn for. The only thing holding him back was the very same thing that held him from Bella (or her for him) in the beginning: a lack of courage.
Perhaps it was inevitable.
He slunk into a weary wooden chair, hiding his tired eyes behind calloused fingers.
"Will."
Why did she have to say his name as if it were prayer?
"Will."
When he felt her cool fingertips curl over his hands, drawing them away from his eyes, he tried looking anywhere except where she was. Yet, when he couldn't see her out of his peripheral vision, he searched for her, only to find her, kneeling before him, looking up to him with pleading eyes as she said his name once more. She was commanding even when she was being gentle. When his eyes softened as they always had, the corners of her lips lifted with pride in her accomplishments, and he remembered how young she was.
"Don't worry yourself," she whispered, reaching a hand towards him, tenderly moving his hair from his eyes, offering him the sweetest of smiles. "You don't have to do a thing. I'm perfectly fine with it being just you and me and our little bubble." What he would give to spend his life with his family of strays, not having to look out into their cruel and ugly world that Bella somehow found beauty in. "Come to bed," she murmured, rising to her feet, sliding her hand from his roughened cheek to his shoulder, where it lingered for only a few seconds longer before she turned away, leaving him and their drinks behind.
He had half a mind to take their drinks to the room but decided against it. He didn't need a drink to sleep anymore. He had her to hold onto, her to slow his heart, her to tether him to reality while he slipped off into a dream.
In bed, he told her about the lost boys. He told her about that woman who tried building a family by blood that didn't run in their veins, but that of others. He told her about how he didn't connect to the idea of family, not in the way that Beverly, Jimmy, or even Brian Zeller connected to it, and she told him not to worry. She shared with him memories of her own family. She told him of her mother, her grandmother, of how she became an unwilling only child. She told him of how she, an imperfect little girl was forced to be molded into their flawless image, and how she failed.
"They'd disown me if they could," she murmured, half asleep, his forehead resting against hers. What felt like a long time ago, he would have been afraid of being this close. Now? Now, he rested easier with her close. "They won't. I'm their legacy, whether they or I like it or not."
Will mentioned how he didn't know his own mother. All she could say was "neither did I." The topic of motherhood, what it should be and what it was to them, stirred the same desire and aversion to parenthood. Usually, they would both close their eyes, let the ideas slip away and carry on their peaceful way. Tonight, they didn't. Bella opened her eyes, looking into his, and she asked, "What do you want your legacy to be?"
He rolled onto his back, pulling away from her, uncomfortable. It wasn't so much the topic of a "legacy", but what the topic might do to them. This was why their rules stood in place. Both of them were impossibly terrified of ruining the bliss between them with trivial topics that ended a majority of relationships.
She knew him and understood him too well.
Not even a minute after rolling onto his back, she placed a hand on his cheek as she rose, propping herself up on an elbow to gaze down at him. However hollow eyed and vague she was moments ago, she was lively now. And, once again, she said his name, letting it leave her lips effortlessly. Staring at her, in this moment, seeing how much she cared, how much she felt for him, he realized that her love was unconditional. For anyone she ever loved, she loved fully. Her brother, Abigail, and him. No boundries, no limits, no conditions. She loved him.
He knew that it was okay.
Their rule of not talking, their rule of trying to tiptoe around what might break what was between them, was obsolete.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Satisfied, she lied back down, resting her head on his chest, an arm wrapped over his abdomen.
"That's okay," she sighed. "I don't know either."
She was his mirror.
"I was scared of caring for Abigail," she admitted. It was hardly a surprise. He would have to be blind to not notice the intimacy between the two. Even Jack saw it. The difference between him and Jack was that Jack wanted to use it against Abigail. Bella would never do that. She loved Abigail.
"Was?" he repeated, brow furrowing.
"Yes."
"Cognitive reappraisal," she yawned.
With that, she went to sleep, leaving him to think on doing just that.
Behavioral Analysis Unit, Quantico, Virginia
It was her first time back in the lab. In all honesty, she didn't understand why she was needed. She wasn't like Beverly, Jimmy, or Brian. They had a role to play in this maddening war they all fought in. They knew their role. They knew what they had to do and when they had to do it. And her? She felt like a mistake at worst, a useful mistake at best. She wasn't chosen. She wasn't sought out. No. She was found. As easily as Jack Crawford plucked her from her quiet life, he could all the easily drop her at a moment's notice.
Yet, she couldn't find it in her to be worried.
She would have been content with her life if she was still cleaning broken linoleum tiles and peeling off-colored walls waiting as time ticked by. She could live out her days in a self-induced haze. It wouldn't be as enjoyable, but she knew she was capable of it. The likes of Jack Crawford and his team might not. They were so hungry, so desperate to feel important. She could see it in Brian's eyes most. She could smell it on him some nights, those nights when they're all called from a good nights rest to see what the most horrible crimes by and against their own kind were. He reeked of alcohol and wallowing in his own sorries on those nights. She could understand loneliness, the scars it left on a person's soul, but she didn't hide it. She lived in them. Brian was a coward, hiding under a humorous tone and behind a smug grin. He was terrified. He could never lie with those eyes, so sad, so lonely, so hungry.
Even Beverly was riddled with some hunger, some thirst for playing some important role. Unlike Brian, she adorned herself in a rigorous and eager cloak. She spent most of her nights awake, always pushing herself to find more, to do more. She was the gun and Jack was the one pulling the trigger. She had someone to believe in. While Bella acknowledged that most people were like this, needing someone or something that was strong and right and just, Bella knew there were other ways to do it.
The only exemption could be Jimmy. Jimmy was a rather happy member of the team, playing his part, but he understood something Brian and Beverly did not. All these things, these terrible crimes they surrounded them with, it didn't make them important. He believed in doing his part, not because he had an important role to play, but rather because he could play a role that thousands could do. He was doing his part not out of some obligation, but because it was right and just. He was his own maker, and for that, he slept better than the lot of them at night. He had something even Bella didn't have: separation. She once thought to ask if he had a family beyond the twin he so clearly disliked. Did he have a spouse? Did he have children? Did he have loved ones that kept him grounded? Is that where he found hope?
Those same kinds of questions wandered into her mind as she stared at the body on the autopsy table.
Adelaide Atwood was her name, a beautiful name to match a once beautiful girl. If Bella closed her eyes, she could picture her, alive and well. She would have been a woman of gold. Golden strands of hair twisted into a tight bun; golden skin shining with a thin layer of sweat as she danced for hours a day; and honey colored eyes that would sparkle like gold under a spotlight as she captured the love and affection of her watchers. In Bella's mind, she would have moved with a grace that was underappreciated. She would have carried a rhythm in every step, whether music was playing or not. In Bella's mind, she would be every bit as beautiful on the inside as the out; a woman whose smile was as sweet as sugar.
Now, under fluorescent lights, she lost the golden tone in her skin. Her eyes, when opened, read of emptiness. Her body was no longer a vessel for art, just a body, an empty shell that they sliced open with sharpened scalpels. It made Bella want to turn her eyes away. It was a tragedy to see people this way, a reflection of what death took.
It steals everything one is. Their joy. Their fear. Their desire. Their rage. Their love. Death takes everything, stealing away into nothingness, leaving behind nothing but her loud voice: that terrifying silence. Anything it touches, it poisons. Childhood never truly ends until its touched by Death.
Was Adelaide Atwood still a child when she died?
"Third one this year," Jack Crawford announced, passing her by, handing a file to Will, who was leaning against a wall, staring at Adelaide's body, his eyes almost as far away as Adelaide's. In another time, Bella might have been frightened that look. Now, all she felt was sympathy. Jack was wrapping another rope around Will's neck, asking him to find someone, a monster in human flesh, or hang himself with those righteous ropes if he failed.
Bella could never truly tell how she felt about Jack because of this.
"Officially a serial killer," Bella stated, only to hear Brian Zeller purposefully cough. Glancing up, meeting his gaze, she raised a brow. He averted his own eyes before correcting her.
"That's going by the 1998 definition, yeah. It would be, but nowadays it can be used at two or more, not three or more, if they meet the same requirements."
"Oh."
"Don't worry too much on it. You probably didn't know about the 2005 Serial Murder Symposium."
His smugness in reminding her of her place didn't bother her any. She knew where she stood when it came to experience. She was the unofficial baby of the team, just stumbling about, trying to figure out how things worked.
Perhaps more than a baby.
"Terminology doesn't matter," Jack reminded, calling them to attention. All but Bella stood a little straighter. She did not want to be a performer in their little arena. She wanted to be a watcher, safe in the shadows. "What can you tell me about the victim?"
Bella felt her stomach knot. She wanted to remind Jack that Adelaide was a person, that she was and should be more than a victim. Now was not the time, nor the place. Though she knew it was entirely appropriate, she still felt sickened when she looked at what was once a person and now was stripped of everything she ever was or could become. She was just a "victim" in everyone's eyes now. It made Bella wonder what would become of her after she died.
"It didn't take us long to identify the body," Jimmy began.
"She was gifted."
All eyes fell on Will, who was busy reading the file, much more content with reading than listening to the chipper voice of Jimmy Price. It was unintentionally disgusting to hear how this was a puzzle to him.
Bella wondered if she would ever be like them. Would she become immune to the tragedy of death?
"She was found by her director," Will said, taking a glance at her. Answering the silent call, she moved to his side to take a look.
It was beautiful.
The curtains were drawn. A painted background of lush hills bathing in the colors of sunrise; flowers of white circled a glass clam-like bed structure that was raised above a porcelain colored platform by dark brown - almost black - branch like legs that cradled the bed of glass. The glass was decorated with golden vines and leaves from the bottom and the top that was held open, revealing flowers, stunning pink carnations, as the cushion on which she, Adelaide, adorned in a gown of white, was laid upon. Her hair was left loose in waves, fanned out over a pillow of flowers, and on her head was a crown of golden leaves. Her hands, covered by white lace gloves, were folded over her heart. Her face was so gentle that she might have been sleeping, dreaming of a love as sweet as the flowers she lied on.
"How'd she die?" Jack asked, tearing his eyes from the picture, from what he saw. How lucky he was to not have eyes that saw as Will's did. How lucky he was to be able to turn his eyes away.
"Unlike the others, she didn't die from a lack of heart," Brian said, half-joking. Beverly was the only one to openly roll her eyes.
"The other two died because he removed their hearts - Well, he put them under anesthesia and, for the lack of a better phrase, took their hearts," Beverly clarified, walking over to Adelaide's body. "This one is different, though."
"He didn't remove her heart," Jack guessed.
"Oh, he did," Beverly corrected. "He just put it back. She died a month after 'surgery', judging by scar development," she said, pointing to the same area where Adelaide Atwood's hands were once folded. "She died of an overdose, but that came at least a month afterwards."
Her killer hid her scar. Was he hiding what he did? Was he preserving the beauty she was before?
"She wasn't just set apart by giving back her heart," Will said. Finally shutting the file, passing it to her. Bella flipped through to the previous women. Both were dancers, both on display in beautiful sets. "She was also the only one that went missing for longer than a month before she ended up dead. . ." Whatever else he said was lost on Bella. All her attention fell on the pictures.
One of them, Mia Kingston, had a simple set. A background of the woods at night, distinguished only by the faint outlines of hills against the night's sky, two trees and two piles of decorative rocks on either side of the stage. Once again, in the center, dressed in white was a dancer. This time she was on the ground, her right leg folded beneath her, her left extended outward, towards the audience. Her upper body folded to the point where her head, crowned by flowers, was by her knee. Outstretched to either side were her arms, a white scarf wrapped around each.
The other two were. . . off.
She recognized the scene immediately.
Looking at the second, she saw a forest-like set. A background with the night's sky again, with the outline of trees, with a grave stone sitting in the left side of the set where a bouquet flowers once again rested. Unlike Mia Kingston or Adelaide Atwood, Eleanor Jenkins was sitting upright. On her knees by the grave, arms delicately extended upright, in them was a single white rose, making her look as if she were offering it, a parting gift. Yet, the defining feature was not her being upright. It was the veil on the back of her head.
Yes. Bella recognized this one as well.
"They're ballets," she said. Though her voice was quiet, the fact that she was speaking called some attention.
Jack, however, wasn't too pleased with her realization.
"Yes. They all were ballet dancers. We knew this."
"No," she said, shaking her head, fighting off the infectious frustration passed onto her with Jack's tone. "These are ballets. They are depictions of the classics," she insisted. Pulling out Mia Kingston's photo, showing it. "This is La Sylphide."
"La. . ." Jack didn't recognize it. None of them did.
"La Sylphide, a scottish farmer falls in love with a spirit, a sylph, on his wedding day. At the wedding the sylph steals the ring and runs off. The farmer chases her, and along the way is gifted a scarf that, if bound by it, he'll be able to keep the sylph. He does it, but instead, she dies. Mia Kingston plays the sylph," she explained. "Eleanor Jenkins," she said, pulling her picture. "Giselle. A nobleman, pretending to be a peasant, falls in love with a peasant girl, Giselle, but he's already betrothed. Once she finds out, she dies of a broken heart and becomes a wili, a virgin girl who dies of a broken heart. Adelaide Atwood-" This time Bella doesn't pull out a photo. "She is Sleeping Beauty. We all know the story of that one."
"So our killer likes ballet?"
Bella let out a frustrated sigh.
He still doesn't get it.
Thankfully, Will did.
"The third doesn't end with the woman dying," Will realized, looking to Bella with a mix of confusion and pride, but only for a moment. Then, his eyes turned to Adelaide Atwood.
"He didn't intend for her to die?" Jack guessed. Bella could only shrug.
"I don't know. Maybe they did, maybe they didn't."
Will just shook his head, drifting closer to Adelaide's body.
"No. He did intend for her to die," Will insisted.
"Then why did he give her back her heart?"
"I don't know."
"How do you know he intended for her to die then?"
"If he was making a second attempt, she wouldn't have a closing scar when she died of an overdose," Will said. "Why he kept her alive for a while and not the others, I don't know. Not yet," he snapped.
Jack's eyes read of betrayal at Will's sharpened tone. He expected Will to come when called, yet here Will was, growing his teeth and baring them at the dangling of the fatal leash Jack all but thrusted upon him.
"Just give him some time," Bella said, moving forward until she stood almost directly between the two.
"We don't have time. For all we know, he could already have another woman," Jack snapped.
Bella was at a loss of words for a moment before she flipped through the file again, finding the dates each woman went missing and turned up dead. "This person, they take at least a month in between murders. Adelaide Atwood was found four days ago-"
"Time of death was a week," Jimmy added.
"Plus, the first two were taken a week before their deaths. The only one missing for more than that was Adelaide Atwood, but that was after a two month cooling period. Until we have a lead, just have every ballet company on the east do a check for their dancers in their dancers," Bella instructed. She held her head straight, not faltering as she looked, almost glaring, into Jack's dark eyes. "Would you rather waste time on a false lead or wait a little and get the right person?"
Jack didn't waver, however. Instead, his head tilted, sizing her up in the way he had on their first case.
"Okay," he said, nodding slowly. "You have a feel for what this guy's pattern's are-"
"I wouldn't go that far."
"Regardless," Jack dismissed. "I want you on this case."
"I thought I was already on it," she said confused.
"I have another case, one that's a little less. . ." Jack trailed off, looking at Will as he tried to find the right words. "Refined." There was an unspoken insult in his tone, whether he intended their to be or not.
"You'll take a lead on this one like Will would," he decided. Will began shaking his head, already beginning to protest. "Will, I have another case-"
"She's not ready. She hasn't even reached double digits whenever it comes to catching more additions to your Evil Minds Museum," Will snapped. Bella couldn't agree more. "She's not a professional."
"If you don't think she's ready, I'll just have her cleared by Dr. Lecter. He's a professional," Jack echoed.
When Bella's eyes swept across the room, she found Jimmy's, Brian's, and Beverly's eyes anywhere else but on the tension resting between Will and Jack. She both wanted to sigh in sympathy or scowl in disgust. But, she didn't. She of all people couldn't truly judge them on wanting to survive. Jack was the one at risk at the moment. He was angry, insulted, and had enough power to make whatever he decided hurt. Will, at worst, he could hang up his coat, take her hand, and go back to teaching if he so wanted. His biggest action would be leaving - though she doubted Jack would even allow that. He held and exercised his power more often than he cared to admit.
"Can we just take a break?" Bella asked exasperatedly.
When their eyes fell on her, they saw her, brows furrowed, lips pressed together, and a disappointed look in her eyes. For a moment, both felt a level of failure. For Jack, he felt immature, a level of unprofessional-ism that was as unbecoming of him as it was of the likes of Freddie Lounds. For Will, he felt guilty of having done what he knew she didn't need. For all her fragility, Bella was a strong woman.
"While I don't agree that I'm near ready to take on a case - nor do I ever think I will be - I don't think that arguing about this is good for anyone. Right now, like Jack said, we need clear minds. Teams fall apart due to instability and the first sign of instability is tension like this," she snapped. "We can afford at least a day - at least a few hours, to ourselves - before we turn on the focus lenses again," she added with a sigh. "Can we just take a break?" she asked, looking to them both.
Will didn't take long to yield. He simply looked to the ground, half in shame, and nodded. Jack, on the other hand, stared for a moment. He just stared at - No. No, he stared into her. There was such a foreign familiarity in his eyes, and though she did not know it, he was staring into the eyes of a memory of a young woman that was, like her, talented, tired, but had a level head in times of distress. If he could have given that woman a break, just a little more time, he would have. And so, he yielded.
"Two days," he gave her. Though it surprised everyone else, she took it in stride. Instead of being smug, she smiled, a kindness Will wanted to protect. Despite all her fear, anger, and sadness, she was compassionate enough to appreciate what she could, and this gift was something even Will appreciated, though much more reluctantly.
"Thank you," Bella said quietly.
After a few seconds of thinning silence, she pulled up her right sleeve, checking the watch on her wrist. It was almost noon.
Looking up at Jack, not Will, with a slight glimmer in her eyes, the right corner of her lips lifted.
"Lunch."
"Lunch?" Jack repeated, only to receive an assured nod.
"If I've learned anything this past week, it's that a good meal and a moment to breathe can open her one's eyes to more than they thought they would."
Will knew she was talking about Hannibal. He would have had half a heart to worry about her admiration for the doctor, had he not carried his own admiration for him. For all his cautiousness, Will was growing his own soft spot for Hannibal. Perhaps Bella was right to encourage a friendship. If she could get Jack Crawford to yield so early in their relationship, she must understand something he didn't. Alana took years to skirt Jack's anger, and Bella, not even a year in, was figuring it out.
Before fully committing to having a dinner with Hannibal Lecter, he supposed he could test his openness with Jack.
"I could go for a meal," Will agreed with.
Though Jack appeared skeptic, it was only for a moment. Before long he gave a nod and motioned for them to lead the way. Bella only gave a faint smile before nodding towards the hall, leading the way out. In this, he was reminded of how willful she was. She rarely took control so openly, yet, when she did, it was almost too natural to even notice. For as passive as she was, floating through the stream of life, when he found her, he was coming to know that there was strength in her body, a will to swim to the shore if her life's current was not to her satisfaction. It made her slippery, someone that could leave so easily, but that was one of the beauties of her. If she was seen, it was because she allowed him to see it - or so it felt.
When he looked at her, and when she looked at him, they felt it, this pure human connection that everyone longed for. It was the kind of look that was recognizable, identifiable as "love". It was the kind of love Jack once had for his own Bella.
For that, he found himself following the two with a slowing heart, lost in the nostalgia of his own youth.
He was so lost that he almost didn't hear his name being called from behind.
Almost.
When he turned, he saw a woman rushing towards him.
She was young, no older than mid thirties. She was tall, something shown by a sharply tailored suit. She had dark skin, dark hair, and dark eyes. She looked flushed from having ran to catch up. When she stopped, her reddened lips curled upwards into a proud and welcoming smile, one that illuminated her whole face. Even those dark eyes shined like the night's sky. Holding out her hand for him to shake, he returned her smile.
"Agent Crawford, my name is. . ."
Her eyes had drifted from his for only a second, but that was all it took. Suddenly, the color drained from her face, and her lips slowed until they were silent and downturn. Her hand which proudly grasped onto his turned limp the longer she stared over his shoulder. When he followed her gaze, all he saw was Will and Bella. As he turned, Will did as well, catching his eyes before falling on the woman. He must have been sharing a joke with Bella, as the smile on his face vanished as well. At the sight of that fading smile, Jack felt his stomach drop, wondering what Will could have done to drain the woman's light so quickly.
"Ms. . ."
Her eyes didn't waver. Not even a slight dilatation from being called on. She looked half frightened and half relieved. It was as though she were staring at a ghost, her own personal haunting.
"Ma'am," Jack tried again. "Are you okay?"
It was all he could think to ask.
Behind him, Bella turned on her feet, a confused look on her face at Will's sudden change of attitude. When she followed Will's line of sight, her whole body changed. Her weight shifted, feet perpendicular to one another, ready to take off once more. Feeling her move, Will looked to her, seeing her eyes ignite with recognition. Her colors washed away just as the woman before Jack had.
The woman's lips quivered, so many unspoken words just aching to be let free, yet all that escaped were three syllables.
"Bellamy."
She all but ripped her hand from Jack, moving forward. Every step grew in sound and force. Her movements were sharp, harsh, and angry. All the same, Bella moved backwards, her movements fluid, her steps light.
Both took about five steps before they came to a standstill.
"Bellamy."
Her voice was filled with with a quiet anguish, but her eyes? They screamed, crying out as old scars were ripped open.
And Bella? Will had only once seen her eyes filled with guilt, so many apologies resting on the tip of her tongue. All that left were four syllables. One word.
"Alejandra."
So there it is! For those of you who don't remember, it'll be explained in the next chapter, so don't worry too much. For those of you who do, I hope you enjoy this and are excited!
Before I end this note, I do want to apologize again.
I know. I know. I say this so often, but honestly, I didn't intend for this to take over a month! University is hard, and I'm going through a bit of a rough patch right now. . . I was on the verge of abandoning and giving up, but then I got your reviews!
To hear your thoughts, theories, and understandings of what I write. . . So few things can compare to the pleasure and delight I feel whilst reading them. (Anna B., I actually changed the cover because I had a new one and hadn't uploaded it; Mari Dark, you inspired me rewrite the dinner scene)
FINAL NOTES
I hope you enjoyed the surprise at the end and the murderer/serial killer I've begun. I've recently taken an interest in the ballet, so I figured "why not".
The next chapter will be featuring a little on chasing this killer, delving into a past relationship, ABEL GIDEON, and FREDERICK CHILTON (maybe a little bit of Freddie too. . . I haven't decided yet).
So please, don't be shy, drop me a review. I always love hearing your thoughts, feelings, and questions.