All rights to Hannibal (TV) belong to NBC.
This chapter is dedicated to LisaxDeanshipper97 and MariDark.
Also, special thanks to hannahizar, CaptainMc, and Sanja
Behavioral Analysis Unit, Quantico, Virginia
It took a moment before they saw each other as they were.
Both were lost in the memories of who they once were to see straight.
Neither would ever know that the first memory the other chose to unpack first was the same.
It was an early Wednesday morning, just a few hours into the day. They were lying in bed, bathing in the moonlight streaming in from the large angled window beside Alejandra's bed because of how safe they felt falling asleep under the stars even on the darkest of nights. Both stared, half-awake, with their eyes growing heavier each time they closed, looking anywhere except one another, making shapes out of the darkness. There was a thin sheet separating them, just as it had been lately in those times, a bittersweet reminder of what no longer was, those days when they, naked and comfortable with their vulnerability, held onto one another until their hearts slowed to a simple and restful beat.
That night Alejandra stared at the endless night sky, face twitching, fighting back growing tears. Beside her, Bella laid on her side, wrapped in a thin grey sheet, legs drawn close to her chest, refusing to be touched, to be held as she once was. There were no tears in her eyes, but the heaviness of her heart was almost unbearable. Both wanted nothing more to touch one another, to hold one another, to cry onto the other's shoulder and whisper to each other, "Everything will be okay. . . I got you. . . you are safe." Yet, neither moved. In a big drafty house that was once filled with loving memories, they both felt ruined, and all they had to blame was themselves. They both felt the crippling loss of a loved one even with them lying at their side.
Their love, their future, was a river that ran dry, the skin and bones of something that was once alive.
Their love was brought to ruins, and that night, it was crumbling. And all they did was lie there for hours after trying so hard, so desperate, to rekindle what they once had. Their love was too delicate to last. The cracks ran too deep. The only choice they had was whether to watch it slowly fall apart or to take their love, grasp what little love living was left, and shatter it. It would have been a mercy, but neither had the courage. Neither had the heart to destroy what they still cherished. For all their faults, they loved each other.
They had their good moments. In fact, during the day, during the times when they were filled with more life, this feeling, this loneliness, was far from their minds. Even in her apprehensiveness, she could find herself almost filled with love. It was only when the day turned night, when their movements slowed and the silence settled in, when that thick black fog slipped back into her life, into the air she breathed, into the blood in her veins, was Bella lost, too deep in her sea of sorrows for Alejandra to pull her back to the surface.
That night, Alejandra pulled herself into a sitting position. She expected Bella to sit up or at least roll over to face her. She was disappointed. Bella didn't even give her the courtesy of pretending to sleep. Despite Bella's lack of response, she still chose to speak, only after a heavily exhausted sigh left her lips, lips that Bella once watched, so enchanted by their shape, by the words they whispered, lips that she now reluctantly met, too guilty to let them touch her own.
"Bells," she tried, reaching to place a hand on Bella's bare shoulder. Her fingers were just about to graze against her pale when she withdrew her hand. It didn't feel right to touch her. It felt like a violation, like she wasn't welcome to touch her like a lover did. "Bella, I love you."
Her voice had been so terribly broken. The confession wasn't sweet. It sounded more like an apology. It had sharp edges and it cut into Bella's heart. Bella's fingers dug into her pillow, eyes closing tightly as she tried to stomach the sickening pain that she caused. Alejandra, this beautifully kind woman, this woman who swam out into the depths and pulled her to the surface, was growing weary, slipping under the water with her, too much in love to let go and save herself. Bella blamed herself. Alejandra was good; Alejandra was kind before she walked into her life. Alejandra made her better for a while, and what did she get in return? All Bella could see was how she dragged Alejandra into the waters of misery and clung to her until she was drowning with her. It was a terrible, horrible, awful thing to do to her first and only love at the time.
"I love you too," Bella said in return. There was an unspoken apology in her voice as well. That is when tears began to rush towards her eyes. All she did was hide behind her hair, ashamed. Her voice was brittle, just like their love.
"I. . . I know," Alejandra said hesitantly.
She wouldn't argue with Bella. She wouldn't argue because she knew that Bella wouldn't fight back. Bella loved her too much. Bella loved Alejandra not as her equal, but as someone who was better, someone who didn't deserve the burden that Bella saw herself as.
Bella jolted, a sob wrecking through her body. That was when Alejandra touched her. Her whole body shifted, ready to fall back into the places they once were, to love the pain away. Bella didn't have the strength to push her away, but the word, the single word that left her lips, was enough.
"Don't."
"Bella, please."
Bella only shook her head, drawing her knees to her chest, clinging to herself. She was too guilty to love Alejandra freely.
"Don't cry, Bella," Alejandra pleaded in her softly spoken voice. Bella didn't need to see her to know she was crying too. "Bella, what do I do? What can I do? How do I help? How do I make it better?" Alejandra asked desperately. With every question, her words quickened, wanting - needing - to know how she could save her. When she was met with silence, there was this sinking feeling in her heart. Suddenly, she couldn't find that sad love in her anymore. All the love that was left was angry and violent. "Go."
Bella sat up, looking at her with wide eyes, understanding, but heartbroken all the same.
"Ale-"
"Go!" Alejandra shouted, eyes shutting tight. Her hands fell over her eyes, not wanting to see herself break, not wanting to see herself break Bella. "That is the choice, Bellamy. You can either stay or go!"
"I want to stay. I've always wanted to stay-"
"What's the point?" Alejandra cried out, opening her teary eyes. Her head shook slowly, so terribly ruined in disappointment. Her dark eyes looked to the place, the empty place on the mattress where Bella often lied. "When you're here, you're not really here. . . So what's the fucking point?" she asked bitterly, closing her eyes once more before looking to the woman she loved.
Her heart broke even more when Bella didn't fight back.
"Just. . . go," she whispered.
She told Bella to go, but she wanted nothing more than for Bella to stay.
"I'll go."
And that was that.
Bella left, and Alejandra fell back to her cold and empty bed. She cried until the sun rose, until she fell asleep again. The day after that, after she felt the gaping hole left in her heart, she went to find Bella, to apologize, to tell her that they could still make things work. When she got to her hall, to her room, Bella's roommate answered, telling her that Bella went for a drive.
"Twenty minutes tops," her roommate repeated to her. Alejandra gave a weak smile and nodded. She told herself that she could wait. So, she went downstairs, waiting in the lobby. The minutes passed by. Then an hour. Then two. When the third hour hit, she went home, calling Bella's phone. A few days passed by, and Alejandra called Bella's family. They hadn't heard from her. When she visited some of her classes, she found that Bella hadn't gone to any. She was just. . . gone.
It broke her to know that the last time she saw the woman she loved was when she was sending her away.
And here they were, staring ghosts of the pasts in the eyes, never expecting something broken and left behind to return.
The first thing Alejandra noticed once she rose from her memories was Bella's face. The thin scars on her former lover's beautiful face. The next was her eyes, those warm browns that now were cold and wary, not in the anxious way they once had. No. There was a hardness to her eyes, a familiarity with pain and experience.
She was so much like she had been the last time they were alone, yet entirely different.
Her hair, her long brown hair that Alejandra would spend hours just running her fingers through as they lounged about, was gone, cut shorter, just a little beyond the bottom of her neck. Had she asked, she would have found out, much to her surprise, that it had been shorter than this. She didn't ask. No. Her eyes took in Bella's overall appearance, noting everything that was different.
Everything was different.
Where was her sweet sweater wearing love? The girl with the long brown hair and doll like brown eyes? The girl who was like the spring? Where was the Bella she knew?
"What are you doing here?" Alejandra asked, blinking as she remembered that they weren't alone. Her eyes flickered to Jack Crawford and, recognizing him from pictures, Will Graham. She noticed him quickly by the way he stood. It wasn't him alone that caused her eyes to take him in as well. It was how he stood that startled her out of her thoughts and memories. He stood at an angle, weight shifted as if waiting for the moment to move, to throw himself in front of Bella, shielding her.
Her eyes narrowed as she felt a pain in her heart.
It was Jack Crawford who answered.
"Ms. Bennet is similar to that of Special Agent Will Graham. She helps solve some of our more, ah, difficult cases," Jack said carefully, noticing how Alejandra's eyes kept wandering to Bella.
"Special. . . Agent," she breathed, looking to the ground, lost in confusion, if only for a moment. Quickly she shook her head, remembering who she was and what she was sent to do. Clearing her throat, standing straighter, yet not as straight or strong as she had before, she looked to Jack. "Agent Crawford, my name is Alejandra Alvarez. I work as an investigator for the Office of the Inspector General. I work for Kade Prurnell," she clarified. At the mention of being an investigator, all but her changed. Jack's worry turned to irritation and Will Graham's caution turned to downright defensiveness.
"Are you here to investigate my team?" Jack asked, growing angered by the thought of someone turning him in.
"No," Alejandra quickly answered. "I'm here as more of an inspector than investigator. Its more of a formality, really," she promised. "Is there anywhere we-" her eyes briefly flickered to Bella. "-can talk?"
Jack, noticing the way she looked at Bella, nodded.
"Follow me," he invited, directing her back towards the way they all came from. Before he followed, he looked to Bella and Will. "Go on without me."
Alejandra turned quickly looking from Bella to Jack, unspoken words resting on parted lips.
"That won't be a problem, will it?" Jack asked, distrust showing in his voice.
Alejandra's lips shut quickly, noticing the change.
Still, she looked to Bella.
She was untouchable.
"Of course."
Will Graham's House, Wolftrap, Virginia
Will didn't ask her how she knew Agent Alvarez. Based on the look on her face, he knew he couldn't expect an answer. Her face was pale, her eyes distant and cold, too far from being alive to give him any comfort or security. He had no problem giving her time, giving her space. If she needed silence, he gave that to her. He didn't leave her alone though. Bella wouldn't want to be alone. He could all but hear an echo of her words on that first night at his house. "When we're all alone, we're hopelessly lost. . ." He knew her. He knew her like he knew himself.
And so, when she closed her eyes, brow furrowing as she fought off all that was once buried and rising once more, he took her cold hand in his. Her eyes opened, her brow relaxing, and her eyes falling onto him despite his own being focused on the road at the time. She didn't voice it, but he heard her thank him all the same. This was how well he knew her. A touch of the hand, no matter how faint, was enough to calm her, his silent promise that he was there, that she wasn't alone anymore.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked quietly. She didn't answer at first and her eyes didn't leave him, silently testing him. When he didn't force her too, she let out a sigh of relief, placing her free hand over the one that covered hers. He wondered if there would ever be a time when he would tire of the feeling that rushed through him at her reciprocation. That is what life felt like it was becoming. He was no longer alone.
"No."
He would have left her alone, but she didn't give him the chance.
"I don't want to because I'm afraid," she clarified, swallowing the truth. "I'm not used to my past coming into the present, especially parts of my life that I've buried. It feels like-"
"-Night of the Living Dead?" Will guessed. She scoffed, rolling her eyes, but when he glanced at her, she wore a faint smile. Should I be worried for you?"
"No," she said with a shake of her head. "She's an. . . an ex."
Will's eyebrows rose. He knew he shouldn't have been surprised. He always figured that he wasn't her first relationship. He couldn't picture her with very many people. He couldn't picture himself with many people, but there was something oddly inviting about her. It was her touch. The complete relief it gave. It was a feeling akin to a blessing. He felt as though he was new. He wasn't the only one familiar to that touch. Abigail felt it. It was something that Alana voiced her concern over.
"She sees Bella as some sort of. . . angel. I don't think its good for her," Alana had told him.
Will knew Alana was wrong.
Bella wasn't an angel in Abigail's eyes, but she did carry an unconditional love that felt almost heavenly. He could imagine how that love could attract others.
"Do you remember how I said I dropped out of college?" she asked, knowing full well that he did. That night was engraved in his memory. He could still remember the taste of her lips, the feeling of her cheeks, cold from drying tears. "I was dating her at the time. I had been falling apart in the absence of my brother. For a while, I was okay. She made it better, but. . . I guess I wasn't strong enough, I wasn't ready to let go."
"You were young," Will tried to reason with. He knew guilt too well to not recognize it in her voice.
"I know-knew he was alive. I just thought. . . I was falling apart in more ways than one. Our relationship was the only thing keeping me together, and eventually that fell apart too."
Will couldn't tell if he should be thankful or sorry.
"The night we broke up was bad. I got a call from a random number. It was just someone breathing, but I could have sworn that it was him," her voice fell quiet, breathy. The look in her eyes was far away again, lost in hopes she would never let slip away. He gave her hand a squeeze, pulling her back to him. "I was so hung up on that. I could tell that she wanted me to move on, so I kept it to myself and. . . That night we had an argument and everything fell apart. . . I just left."
"It was your breaking point?" he guessed.
"It was more freeing than that," she said, lips pursing together in confusion. "I guess I took it, breaking up, as having no reason to stay. She told me to go - it was. . . I was finally free. I didn't look back. I didn't think - I never thought. . ."
"You never thought you would have to see her again."
The look in her eyes when she saw Alejandra. The love, fear, confusion, and heartbreak made sense.
In the silence that followed his realization, Bella panicked. She squeezed his hand tightly.
"Will, I would never do that to you. I'm not scared of. . . I don't know what," she sighed, frustrated. Will wouldn't deny it. A part of him, for a second, questioned if she was afraid of intimacy. Perhaps she still was, but the thought died quickly. She wouldn't have stayed as long as she had if she feared intimacy more than she cared for him. "Things are different now. I have a life here. I've let go enough of my brother's memory and I have. . . I have a family, people I love and care about. I have a home. I have you."
He took his eyes off the road, for just a minute, to look her in the eyes. The sincerity was clear as still water. She loved him. She loved him unconditionally.
She had a family.
She had a home.
She had him.
When they got back home, they walked together, arm in arm, to the front door and inside where they were greeted with eager dogs. They shared a smile and spent the afternoon trying to relax, to take their mind off of work, off of their fears. As day faded into night, they lounged in the living room and did what couples did: read, watched good and bad films, listened to music, and lied still. That night, she laid her head on his chest as she often did, her arms around his abdomen, holding onto him tightly. She was so afraid, even then. She didn't want to lose Will, to lose the life she made, to false hopes and dreams based on memories.
"I. . ."
She didn't finish, only looking up at him as he ran his fingers through her hair, not strong enough to say a truth that had been lingering in her heart for so long. He understood. And so, he gave her a reassuring smile, placing a kiss on her head when she laid it down on his chest once more. After an hour of her restlessness, she fell asleep, her heart lining up with his slow and steady tempo.
The next morning, Will was called away for his case. "The Angel Maker", he called it when he came back. She just spent the day pouring over her own case to no avail, too distracted by memories. Days passed by, some of which she briefly went into town, but most at home, too afraid to go back to Quantico. Days became weeks. When she was stuck, she would look around, searching for a clue as if it could be found like lost keys. Yet, when she looked around the house, her home, she couldn't help but compare it to the one she used to have with Alejandra.
She didn't call it a home.
She didn't live there. All she had were a few insignificant things of hers lying around, things so unimportant that she couldn't recall the look of them. Despite her happiness with her life now, she was haunted by the regret of what she failed to do in the past. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes, frustrated by the files of her case, she would see Alejandra's face, and the look of betrayal on it.
Bella never thought too long about those she left behind, save a few, but those people were the kind like her. They would avoid her too, more likely than not.
Alejandra wasn't like her.
The more she thought about what she had done to her former lover, followed by the frustration over not solving the case, she found herself growing sicker and sicker with guilt. In the end, she would sit on the floor and lose herself in the love and loyalty of the dogs. Her excitement became set on the nightly calls from Will or the occasional visits she paid to Abigail. She wouldn't have been worried until she woke up on the side of the road.
In her inability to sleep due to thoughts of Alejandra and the case, she took to running. She would run as far as she could, until her restlessness faded and when she felt nothing except the burning in her lungs and her heavy beating heart, until she could think of nothing but sleep after a long shower. The habit gave her a sense of control. One night, however, she went running and slipped. She fell and hit her head on a rock, waking god-knows how much later, having to drag herself home.
She felt like she was going stir crazy.
Will was the one to suggest seeing Hannibal.
To be reluctant would make her a hypocrite. Still, she couldn't help but want to avoid "making an appointment" to see him at his office. It felt as though doing so would be admitting to a fault in her being, a fault to how good the life she made was.
So she didn't make an appointment.
Hannibal Lecter's House, Baltimore, Maryland.
The faint sound of water splashing was enough to catch and hold her attention in the silence. The foreign noises, those not caused by her, took her by surprise. She could all but feel her shoulders rise in discomfort, lowering only when she glanced over her shoulders, looking for people who weren't there, noting doors when she didn't need them. She knew she must have looked like a mess.
Her hair was brushed, her clothes cleaned, but Hannibal, even caught off guard, seemed more put together than her. He wore a charcoal colored bathrobe with white lining that matched a white buttoned undershirt he no doubt put on for courtesy, his hair brushed not styled. Still, he looked better than her fully clothed. She wondered if the feeling of being out of place would ever fully leave her. She hadn't visited enough for her to worry much about it, though.
"I'm sorry," she croaked, wincing at her low and roughened voice. She sounded like she had a sore throat. Clearing her throat, she said it again to no avail. Less of a croak, but husky nonetheless.
"There is no need to apologize. My home is always open to friends," he reassured her with, passing her a delicate cup of tea.
"I'm sorry for wanting tea then," she half-joked with.
He had been making coffee prior to her arrival. His offer to share was declined under the fear of her heart might not take well. He had been kind enough to offer tea. She tried saying no, but he insisted. Still, she felt terribly rude for ruining what felt like a sacred ritual.
Everything in his life had a beauty and excellence that was almost cathartic in a religious way.
"Nonsense. I would still be happy to cook for you, if you so desired," he added with his lips curling into a tempting smile. It was somewhat infectious. She gave a faint smile, but was quick to look away.
"I should be cooking for you," she mused, trying to stir her tea, but stopping at the sound of her silver spoon scraping against the porcelain cup. "The FBI is paying for me to see you. I have yet to show my gratitude."
"Is this an appointment?" he asked, standing straighter, giving a tilt of the head. Even the slightest of movements were beautiful on him. At this angle, the light highlighted his best features, his eyes, his cheekbones, the slight upwards curve of his lips. Statuesque, the epitome of art and excellence effortlessly. She was too full of admiration to feel even the slightest envy.
"Am I still entitled to confidentiality?" she asked, lifting the teacup to her lips. Only when he answered did her eyes light up as she took a quiet sip.
"Of course."
The corners of her lips twitched, but she didn't smile, not with the heaviness in her heart.
It was a turn of events.
A few days early, Will Graham showed himself almost exactly like she had: early, unexpected, and distressed. Where Will gave into the feel of their usual sessions over a cup of coffee, Bella was silent, retreating to the back of her mind, hiding from her memories among them. She was a frightened woman. Hannibal knew better to expect a full change after their dinner. One kind gesture wasn't enough to earn her loyalty, only her favor. For that, he could forgive her silence. A little coercion was no stranger to his practice.
"You seem troubled," he states, looking her over as if he hadn't already noticed every possible detail.
"I look better than I feel then," she muttered bitterly.
As soon as the words left her lips, she looked to him, an apology crystallized in her eyes. He simply gave a forgiving smile, something he'd been doing more and more often. A smile was kind. A smile was welcoming. A smile was a sign of trust. These smiles they shared, ones that were between them and only them, were the beginnings of what he intended to be a beautiful delight, an exotic delicacy that he would savor for as long as he could. For as strong as Bella's eyes were, she couldn't see beyond his smile. She could see his pleasure by her actions, his forgiveness, his fondness, but she couldn't see the reason behind it. She was so very human.
"I think I'm cracking under pressure," she confesses after some time, her eyes transfixed on her golden colored tea. Her shame was tragically beautiful.
Her head was tilted to the side, slightly tilted backwards to where her chin, her soft, yet shapely jaw being put on display. Her hair moved away from her face, drawn back by the simple pull of gravity. She would have looked youthful, innocent perhaps, if her eyes rose, looking upwards for mercy rather than down. Her hands cradled the delicate teacup at the precise level where they could so easily be resting over her heart. In a long sleeved modest white shirt, she would have looked like a modern depiction of the Virgin Mary. Instead, she looked downwards with a crestfallen expression. The fine muscles of her left brow pulled into a slight furrow. Her lip held just a sliver of tension, looking as if she drew in a single breath, unsure of whether or not she should speak. Her neck looked long, elegant even, luminescent, catching more from the light in the window than those above her. It was her eyes that drew his attention most, however. With a dark, heavy-lidded downward gaze, an hazy, dreamy, intimate gaze that made her matter shame look to be the most mouth watering emotion of the human experience, especially when her gaze turned to him, an urgent cry for help echoing from behind her very own windows to her soul.
His name left her lips, sounding both virtuous and sinful at the same time.
When his lips curled upwards, when pride flooded his system, he realized something.
She came to me.
Whether Will suggested she come or not, whether she was influenced or not, she came. A part of her, no matter how small - though he was more than willing to bet that the part of her that yearned for his company was much bigger than even she had the courage to admit - wanted to see him when trouble came knocking on the door to her and Will's quiet lives. Their lives, the three of them, were beginning to weave together, their delicate strings wrapping around their wrists, tethering them to one another. He all but licked his lips at the appetizing thought. He was no longer alone.
"Well, I am glad you came to me," he told her, giving her a nod of approval as he moved across his kitchen, opening a drawer and procuring a box of recipes.
Having caught her attention, out of the corner of his eyes, he sees her set down her cup, leaning over the counter with curious eyes. His smile grows a little at the movement. He was a proud creature, and her attention, those big brown eyes drinking in his own movements, it made him devastatingly proud.
"This visit calls for celebration," he told her, giving her a look of appraisal. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he did not miss the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She wouldn't be as narcissistic as to bask in praise. Humility was a trait she and Will shared, just as they shared under-appreciation; both of which he would use to his advantage. It was pragmatic. They could understand that, surely. "Progress," he explained. "Your fear is the backbone of your daily life." Before she could argue, he held up a single finger, and she obediently maintained her silence. "This is not to say that you are weak or disadvantaged in any way. In fact, I would like of you to think of it with pride."
"Pride in being afraid?" Confusion riddled her fair face.
"Pride in the benefits it has given you," he clarified. "You are careful. The things that have happened to you-"
"You don't know what I've been through," she interrupted, looking at him through an uncertain gaze, wondering if, just if, he did know. He tried not to mind the look in her eyes, the sound of mistrust in her voice. For now, she was perfectly safe, if not more.
"I know your fears aren't irrational. I know that you have felt pain and suffering," he insisted, his hands stilling as his whole body moved to face her. There was nothing but honesty and sincerity in his voice. She heard the care, the concern in him, and she didn't know whether or not it frightened her. "I would advise you to look at yourself, your fears and what they have done for you with pride. Your fear, your suffering, it has served you well. You are alive, after all."
He saw how, for a brief moment, her shoulders rose, a fragile confidence building, only to slacken twice as fast.
"Fear and suffering aren't what keep me alive," she muttered, raising her eyes to meet his, a burning rage brewing somewhere deep within them. The anger, the rage, the passion in her eyes was delicious, but she quieted her flames before they could rise high enough to hurt anyone. She turned her rage into sadness, something to keep her quiet, to keep her safe. "I mean, I get it," she sighed, shaking her head and looking back to her cup of tea, still warm from holding it with both hands. "It's your job," she said, looking upwards, not rolling her eyes, but having might as well.
"What is?"
Her lips pursed, slight frustration in making her explain.
"Giving hope or something," she answered with, distancing herself by sitting straighter.
He was losing her.
"Don't get me wrong. I appreciate it. The thought that bad things - terrible things - happen for a reason or that they serve some higher purpose can be helpful, but there are other ways to cope," she sighed, looking to him with a forlorn expression. It was not him who abandoned her, that he knew. Yet, she felt abandoned all the same. It was more than her brother. He knew it by the way she avoided talking about the years she spent searching for him, in the way she never talked about her scars. Yes. She was abandoned in more ways than one. Which one was deserving of her loss of hope, he did not know. "I'm not like most people. I know that suffering doesn't always serve a higher purpose. Sometimes suffering is just suffering, just like how sometimes people are alive just because they haven't died."
It was a terribly cruel world. He knew that; he knew that she knew that. He only wanted to know how.
"And what is your view on a 'higher purpose'?" he asked. He would not try her view of suffering so soon. He had to build more trust, more loyalty. Rome was not built in a day, he reminded himself.
"I have always wrestled between science and superstition," she admitted. He smiled at this. The only man of god he was, was his own. To call a "higher purpose" "superstition" was the flash of his own reflection, skirting the notion of a god one would call right and just in all things. "I was raised Catholic."
"How did that treat you?" he asks, returning to his box, giving her the privacy to confess. He found the idea tempting, to be her priest, to lead her, to teach her the ways of a life lived by his own god's doctrine.
"I don't think - it wasn't - I. . ." she stopped, taking a moment to collect herself. He wanted nothing more than to know why looking back was so difficult for her. "It was hard to connect to. I don't blame the people, the church, however. You cannot place divinity in the hands of humans and expect things to go right, I suppose," she shrugged. A hand drifted to her knee, rubbing it gently to soothe the memories of the bruises she earned from her grandmother forcing her to her knees to pray. "I won't bore you with stories, Dr. Lecter." He frowned at the formality. "I won't say that the church turned me from God. They didn't. I just. . . I don't know. All I know is that I want God to be real. I do."
Her voice fell into a whisper, her eyes shining with a tragic sense of hope. Hannibal imagined her then, a quietly abused child, waiting, hoping, and praying for a God he didn't believe in to save her, to save those she loved. He wondered how this woman who was so uncertain of God was more certain than most. It was a paradox, an enigma in the shape of a woman. This is not the first time wanted to capture her in the way any artist would. She would have been a beautiful subject of art, Renaissance art. A woman of guilt, faith, and duty. He imagined her to be the kind of woman that would draw those to the church, encapsulating all things human and heavenly, a paragon of a Christian, yet, at the same time, not at all.
"You would wish for a god that allows you to suffer?" he asked. She knew he didn't ask in an attempt to turn her away. There was curiosity in his eyes, the same way Alana Bloom looked at Will Graham with. Professional curiosity, she told herself.
"If God exists, then that means the Devil would too. It would mean that there was a reason for all suffering, that there was a purpose to this hell." It would mean that if Hell existed, so did heaven, one where she would reunite with her brother.
"If?" Hannibal repeated.
"I don't know if there is a god or not. I only know - I only feel as though death is not the end. How can it?"
The silence between them lingers, neither knowing what to say, but he is the first to recover.
"You said you thought you were cracking under pressure," he recalled bringing her back to the reason for her being in his house, in his kitchen. "The pressure of what?"
"What doesn't stress me?" she scoffed. The skin under her eyes weren't too noticeable, yet almost seemed prominent in her bittered expression. "The past has come knocking on my door, Jack gave me a case of my own, and I'm. . . I'm lonely without Will," she sighed, cringing at how pathetic it all sounded to her. Hannibal reached towards her, placing his larger hand over one of hers, drawing her eyes to his. He gave her a reassuring smile, one that she mirrored in her lips alone.
"Start with the first," Hannibal offered guidance with.
Bella was reminded of what he said before about Abigail. She thought him to be right in this moment. She didn't feel that co-dependency she feared would happen if she indulged Abigail. Perhaps he was right after all.
Nodding, she lifted the cup to her lips, taking a final gulp out of habit from her and Will's late night drinks. Perhaps this will be their own ritual.
She told him about the case. She told him about what she saw, what she didn't see, what she felt and what she couldn't feel at all. She told him about her loneliness without Will; she spoke of how lost she felt without him. She told him about Alejandra. She told him from their blushing infatuation with one another over study groups; their psuedo cohabitation; their accidental "I love you"; their crushing end. She painted the transition between their exciting start and their depressing ending; their first breath of romance to the terminal illness that was their break up. Everything.
He gave her the courtesy of being understanding. Not once did he look even the slightest judgmental. Not once did he avert his eyes, hiding from her. No. Hannibal wasn't the kind to hide, she supposed when she tried to still her squirming under his gaze. He had a subliminal pride, the kind that wouldn't permit him to hide, from her, from the law, from God. The notion brought her to discomfort, only relaxing once she took solace in the fact that he liked her. She refused to forget that this man, this beautifully sculpted man, was dangerous. How easy it was to forget, his danger, lost in the sea of trust.
When she asked him if he ever had a love like she had with Alejandra, he said, "No." He told her that he was fortunate enough to not experience the tragedy that was a terrible relationship. To that, she took and showed her offense. To this, he said, "Never had anyone hurt me so deeply that I came to fear intimacy in the pursuit of romance." It would be the second time she fell silent, lost in mixed feelings for the other woman.
"I don't blame her," Bella said quickly, closing her eyes, fighting away any doubt she had over that. "What happened between us, the fallout, it was because of me."
It was me. It was me. It was me.
"Bella."
"No," she said sharply. Her jaw was set, clenched with an almost defiant strength. Hannibal might have let the subject drop if not for the look in her eyes. The downward curvature at the base, the pleading furrow of the brow that sang of loss and a plea for guidance. She was too proud to ask for it, but he was generous enough to give it to her regardless. "I was the one at fault. It was me. I. . . I'm the broken one," she insisted with a single nod. "I was too messed up. Any pain-" she closed her eyes, feeling her stomach knot at the guilt of seeing the betrayal in Alejandra's eyes. "-Any pain caused was nobody's fault but my own. Her only fault in it all was placing her love and trust in me." Her heart began to weep. The only way to stop her eyes from following suit was to shut them tightly. "She was brave and kind and I broke her."
"You do not know that," he argued.
"I know that I became someone I never wanted to become." Tears were falling. "Hannibal," she cried, wiping her eyes. He tried to ignore the jolt in his heart at the sound of her plea. She made his name sound sacred, a devout follower calling upon her maker. It was sublime. "I hurt her. I hurt her just like I was. I hurt her in the way I never thought I would hurt someone. Anyone."
She wiped furiously at her eyes, her cheeks red with embarrassment and rage. She was angry and heartbroken, terribly guilty of abandoning someone she loved.
"Bella."
It was his turn to say her name, letting it fall from his lips, rolling off his tongue, sounding of nothing but forgiveness. She was confiding in him, confessing to him. Was it not right to grant her forgiveness?
"She told you to leave," he said sternly, watching her now red eyes open. She sniffled, trying so hard to keep herself together. She should have looked a terrible mess of emotions just as Franklyn Froideveaux, a patient with severe neurosis, often was with her red cheeks, puffy eyes, a runny nose. Yet, the way she looked at him, as if he were the savior she were waiting her life to meet, he saw nothing of the sort. Bella blinked, not knowing when he moved around the counter, when he stood before her. All she felt was his hands cupping her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. She wondered if this was what Abigail felt. Lost in the middle of a storm, scared and alone, only for him to emerge, making time stand still.
It was entirely different than when Will held her. It lacked as much touch, yet, all the same, it was intimate.
"She asked you to leave. She demanded that you leave-"
"I should have known that she wanted me to stay."
"Bellamy," he said once more. Her lips snapped shut. "You are not a mind reader." Not even Will Graham could manage that. Hannibal couldn't tell if he should be disappointed or grateful over that simple fact. "You are not at fault. Your hands are clean," he insisted, allowing his hands to slide from her cheeks to her shoulders, holding her steady. She did not flinch at the touch. She trusts me.
"I'm sorry," she apologized once more. "This isn't like me. I'm not. . . I'm not this weak."
She turned her head away, still wallowing in shame. He wondered who taught her guilt and shame, but disregarded the thought. It mattered not who created the faults in who she was. All that mattered was what he intended to do to mend those faults.
"Do not apologize for fragility. There is beauty in your pain."
She scoffed.
"Only in your eyes," she muttered. Her lip curled up with disgust. "To me, pain only feels of. . . pain."
Exquisite.
The amount of emotion that resides in her.
"I think there's something wrong with me," she whispered. "I wasn't like this before. I was better at this. I feel like I am coming undone."
This time, he sighed, drawing his hands down her shoulders, down her arms until he held her hands. He gently ran his thumbs over the scars on them. He understood the significance of hands. Will's hands were rough, calloused, worn in with years of hard work. Anyone could tell the hardships he faced based on the thickness of his skin. Yet, Bella's, hers were soft, smooth. There would have been an old-fashioned femininity of her tender palms and slender fingers if it weren't for the scars that marred them. Her hands read of endurance, just as Will's had, yet her skin wasn't as thick. Her heart was so easily influenced by sadness, anger, pain. It was the kind of hands one would grasp as sweetly as to lure her into the dark. He could be that. Her most trusted guide.
"You have spent a long time avoiding intense emotions," he said gently. She would learn to find comfort in that voice if he played his cards right. "It is only natural that you would react this way when being reintroduced to them."
Her fragility, he would leave for now, appreciating it while he could. Yet, he knew himself. He knew her and what she could become. And that soft skin of hers would have to harden some. She would learn to go beyond her emotional and physical limits.
But that will come later, Hannibal promised himself. He felt his lips lift into a comforting smile as the pace in which her chest rose and fell lessened, as the redness left her face, leaving behind only wine colored cheeks, still flushed from exertion.
"Your fears from how it ended with Alejandra no doubt have caused you stress not only from her but also for what it might mean for you and Will. To that, I want you to remember all the ways you and him are different from you and her," he instructed brushing a hair from her face. "You care for him; he cares for you."
"And what if that is not enough?"
"It will be."
He would make sure of that.
"Go home."
"But what about the case?"
"Another day."
"Jack won't like it-"
"I am not FBI," he reminded her as he lead her towards the door, noticing how her steps subconsciously match his pace quickly. She was a chameleon of a woman. "My duty is not to Jack Crawford. It is to your health, to your becoming the person you are meant to become."
"Because you're my psychiatrist?"
"Because I am your friend."
The Office of Hannibal Lecter, Baltimore, Maryland
When Will Graham asked to see him, he was flattered, especially when Will called upon him before Bella could suggest the idea. He, too, was beginning to be drawn in, tightening the strings on his wrists that tied the three of them together. However, Will is also the one who put off their appointment once more, telling him that Bella and him needed to talk. It was a terribly lonely night, waiting in his office, watching the fire burn out, wondering just what exactly those two were doing at the exact same time.
He imagined them to be tired from an emotional conversation, one set forth by his own prompting. He imagined Bella stumbling through, trying to let her guard down for Will. He imagined that Will, given the chance, would climb over that wall, saving her from herself like a hero from a song. The two were desperately in need of hope, that timeless hope caused by loving and being loved in return. He imagined them, lying before a fire of their own, together. The reminder of his own solitude stung like a thick needle, digging into his flesh. Yet, he was still proud.
The two were growing stronger. In the days following the death of the "Angel Maker", the close of Will's most recent case, the two were once again together. What pleased him more was the way they carried themselves in the brief glimpses he had depicted through Alana's description. Alana painted them in a negative light, telling him that they were forming a "troubling co-dependency" on one another. Hannibal knew better. Both were not dependent on one another. Both could live without the other. In another life, it would just be Will as his sole possible companion. Perhaps in another it would be just Bella, somehow finding herself in his company.
Regardless of either possibility, the reality they all lived in was becoming more and more clear. Will and Bella were beginning to merge, keeping their walls high and far enough to not be touched by outsiders like that of Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom. They were becoming invulnerable to the attacks of others, strengthening each other in the other's moment of weakness. Nothing, however, pleased him more than to know that however high their walls were, however many people couldn't so much as catch a glimpse inside their world, he was invited in. A welcomed guest into their lonely lives. It was a gift he had given himself, one that came to his door, unwrapping itself when he hung his dog-hair covered coat onto a rack.
"Right on time," Hannibal commended, a proud grin on his face, one that Will sheepishly returned, if only for a second.
"Bella was very insistent on us not being late anymore."
"A relationship milestone, taking care of one another," he tried again. Will was just as much insistent on humility as she was when it came to things that did not include shame or guilt.
"One we passed sometime back. Since she moved in, she's been. . . good to me."
There was a certain satisfaction in Will's voice. The fulfillment he felt was put on display in the way he carried himself. His glasses were pushed upwards on a respectable height on his nose, no longer hiding behind the frame anymore when it came to his time with Hannibal and sometimes Jack. His chest, more visible without a jacket Hannibal recognized Bella wearing from time to time covering him, was swelling with pride. It was a glimpse at what could be. Yes, Will Graham was still rough, but he was cleaning up. Hannibal almost wanted to expect him to change the aftershave he commented on in a previous session, perhaps even doing more than a simple brush of his hair in the morning. Yes. Bella was good to him.
"How has that been treating you both, living together?" he asked, leading the way to the center of the office where their seats awaited.
"Fairly well. She told me about her running, something she stopped doing after we talked. Thank you for that - talking to her, I mean," Will added, a nod of gratitude being enough for Hannibal in return. "My sleepwalking, however, hasn't, ah, solved itself as easily."
Hannibal doubted it would have. What was wrong with Will was beyond the damage done by his empathy. It was tragically physiological. The disappointment and concern on his face was sincere, as was his interest in hearing of Will's latest nightmare: his Angel Maker, looking at him with a face of flames, unworthy of forgiveness and mercy without his penance, something Hannibal assured Will he did not need. His doe and stag were so eager to martyr themselves. Something he would have to mend before he could truly claim them as his. What exactly they were to him, even he did not know. All he could determine was that they were the key to ending his life spent in solitude. They could be his friends, his family, or anywhere in between or beyond. He cared little for inane labels.
The only ones that needed to understand their position in relativity towards one another was themselves.
"Have they worsened since your case ended?"
"Only by a little more than they were before. I try to take something to make me sluggish in my sleep. I'd rather not scare Bella."
Will didn't mention how a few nights prior was one where Bella woke up alone with him gone and the door wide open with nothing more than knocked over things to tell what happened. She ran barefoot down the road in search of him, fearing the worse happened: some psychopath finally coming for him. When she found him, he woke with a jolt, having trouble recognizing her as her. Seeing her scared, seeing her in just a t-shirt and shorts in the cold with bare and bloodied feet, he knew he couldn't go on with just hopes of it ending. For that, he tried and tried again to treat himself. Sleeping aids, locking the doors, etc..
"The last thing she needs is to be sleep deprived. Jack has been pressuring her to find a shred of evidence where there is none."
"How is her case?" he would be lying if he said he wasn't interested.
"She's been drafting up possible meanings behind the killer. I have yet to disprove any. So far, she believes the killer isn't killing out of anger or rage, but is rather elevating these dancers to art. He's 'immortalizing them in the most coveted roles'."
Hannibal had caught a glimpse of the crime scene through TattleCrime. He almost felt an impulse to thank Jack for not giving her an ugly crime. No. This was a case she deserved. Something artistic, something that was deserving of those concerned with beauty and excellence. He could see Bella doing well with those.
"How does it make you feel knowing she is being placed in the same position as you?"
"Scared. Relieved. Both," Will shrugged, leaning back in his seat, looking up at the red wall and pristine white trimming. The office had become a place of comfort. Dr. Lecter's unconventional practice created another safe place, a place outside of the eyes of those who would judge him on what he couldn't control. He never felt the crime of being profoundly human under the watch of Hannibal. "A part of me still wants to pull her away, to tuck her into a nice life that she's been robbed of." Will was always careful about what he said or implied, just as Hannibal was with him. "Sometimes I wonder if things would be better if I never invited her out that day. I wonder if she would still find her way into my life. Maybe in another life she is happily singing and unaware of the gore that is working for Jack Crawford."
"Whether you invited her into your life, that part of your life, or not, she would still be exposed to the cruelty of life." The scars on her body told that much. What both would give to know who gave her them. "Try not to linger on possibilities. Savor moments when you can. You never know when those memories will be all you have."
She would not be leaving them soon. He would make sure of that as well.
There was once a girl who loved him unconditionally as well, and all he had left of her was those memories.
Hannibal was no stranger to loss.
They moved on. Instead, they spoke of the falling out he had with Jack, him threatening to quit, Jack all but daring him to.
Jack alone was a sensitive topic. In Will's and Bella's absence, he found himself drawn into their lives, their fights, their romance. It was a Shakespearean romance. A man who played the hero to a woman who couldn't be saved; a hopeless woman sparing her love the pain of losing her suddenly by breaking his heart slowly.
This was the confusion of love.
Hannibal knew himself. He knew that he never experienced love, understanding what it meant. It was a magnificent weakness, having one so intimate, so understanding of one's own heart that the lines between them blurred. It was a terrifying thought, to place his life in the hands of another. That was before he was tempted with the presence of two who could, with time, understand him, two who could blur the lines of who he was and who they could be. Yes. It was the greatest temptation: love.
He entertained the idea of killing them both.
Staring at the fireplace that lonely night, he considered it, being done with the risk, killing them both and continuing his finely tailored life. He would have feasted on Will's brain, consuming the mind of someone who felt anything, everything; he would give Will the courtesy of being paired with her heart, not fully cooked, bloody but tender. He closed his eyes, relishing in the thought of it. The most appetizing course.
He couldn't.
He felt electricity run through his veins at the risk of ending it, this agonizing loneliness. It was as disgusting as it was invigorating at first, to know that he would almost throw his life away, all he had ever done and accomplished, for a chance of being loved. He didn't know whether to curl his lip up into a snarl or draw his tongue over the bottom at the thought of becoming close to them, so close that where they began and he ended was indefinite. He wanted to free them, to draw out parts of themselves that would be impossible to find if not for him.
A god in love with his creations.
He wanted them to be enlightened, but by his hand and his hand alone. Because of that, he decided, Jack would have to go.
He was too enamored with both of them to let Jack ruin them. He did not hate Jack Crawford. He hated what Jack did to them, forcing them to their knees at the alter of justice, forcing them to stare at the blindingly bright rays of righteousness. He would gladly watch two of his best burn if it meant catching one of the worst. Disgusting was the general who disregarded the lives of his soldiers. Disgusting was the man who left a trail of abandoned, broken creatures. Hannibal thought it more than just to remind Jack of those that he left behind. He was unworthy of finding peace in Hannibal's eyes.
Jack was unworthy of the admiration growing in their eyes.
He refused to call it selfishness to want their admiration to be for him instead.
"How did Jack's disregard for you staying or leaving make you feel?"
"How did it make me feel?" Will asked, his voice drenched in sarcasm. "An awfully weak question for a psychiatrist," he pointed out. Hannibal simply raised his brows, not yielding, not allowing Will to get even the faintest of rises out of him. The challenge, though, was endearing. Will, seeing he was outmatched, let a sigh pass through his finely-shaped lips, his tongue running over his bottom lip. The action alone earned more of a rise out of Hannibal, his fingers digging into the leather armrests of his chair. "It made me feel. . . angry. Betrayed."
The look of shame on his face was clear.
"Jack is your chosen leader-" He emphasized the choice in the matter, giving Will a reminder that he had a chance to choose differently in the future. "It is only natural that the loyalty that comes with having a leader is one that promises safety and respect in return. Your feelings of betrayal are not invalid. You trusted Jack to protect you from getting too close, and to stay with you if you do. His abandonment, his disregard for your mentality is a betrayal."
"Are you trying to alienate me from Jack Crawford?"
Will's words are sharp, but his lips betray him. Though he glared at Hannibal through the narrow shape of untrusting eyes, his lips are relaxed, parted with gentle breaths passing between them with a serenity that was found often in sleep. He could not hide it. He trusted Hannibal enough to not believe that Hannibal would do such a thing: alienate him. For that, Hannibal was grateful.
"I am simply trying to help you understand yourself."
I know you better than you know yourself.
As if hearing his thoughts, as if he were dwelling in Hannibal's head just as Hannibal did in his, his eyes lifted from the ground. His blue eyes were wide, searching, looking at Hannibal as if he were the light at the end of the tunnel, a bright and silvery moon on the darkest of nights. He looked at Hannibal as any and every man wished to be looked at: with an unprecedented rush of emotion, shamelessly understanding. And, for just a flicker of a second, Hannibal returned that look, that unpredictable rush of emotion.
Just as quickly, they fell back into their skin. It was a transient attraction, but the feeling did linger beyond simple attraction.
"And you can do that?" Will asked, already knowing the answer, but refusing to let himself admit it. He knew himself so well in moments like these, with brown eyes staring back at him, with the tumultuous waters of life stilling with the gentle cadence of the voice of someone he cared for. He blinked a few times, drawing differences between the brown eyes, the two with them, and what they meant to him.
Both had dark shades, but neither's was endless. There was depth, but it was not endless, it was not untouchable. Their eyes were warm, welcoming, feeling of what he could only describe as home. They felt safe. This is where their similarities ended. Their shape was different. One carried the wrinkles of a longer life; the other held a youthful smoothness, even with a bold smile. Then there was their wine colored eyes. His was of an old wine, more transparent, honest, with golden shades. Her's, however, was of a young wine, more opaque, harder to navigate, with deeper and darker hues. Both were impossibly intoxicating.
Will tried swallowing the feeling.
"I believe that you are already in the process of discovery. Bella has proven that enough."
They both think of a time before her, a time that seemed so far away, a memory so distant that it might be mistaken as a dream.
"Whilst I might not encourage your relationship with Jack to fester-" Jack Crawford would allow Will to deteriorate, whether he admitted it or not. "I can encourage you to further grow your relationship with Bella." There was something so natural about associating her with growth. She brought out the life in others, an invigorating will to live. She inspired that in Will, in Abigail, in him.
Will's eyes flickered beyond him, looking at the pale off-white door, seeing beyond that, finding that place he and her made and called "home".
"Few have the luxury of finding happiness as you. It is not wrong to indulge in your happiness."
Will Graham's House, Wolftrap, Virginia
They lied in bed silently, his arm around her, holding onto her dearly, just as she held onto him, her fingers curly, grasping, at the fabric of his shirt. His thumb drew patterns on the skin of her waist, left bare by her shirt riding up when she settled down against him. She closed her eyes, listening, letting herself find comfort in the sound of his heart beating. An hour ticked by and they both lingered, pondering on the question of what love was and what it meant to them.
They both thought of the women that left them in what felt like love - or what they thought was love.
They both remembered the feeling of sweaty palms and their hearts beating so fast that it almost felt as though the little organ would give out. They thought of that time, of Alejandra, of Alana, and they think of the "now". They thought of this moment, this sweet feeling of comfort and home, and they both wondered if they ever truly knew what love meant.
This love, their love, was the most intimate.
They knew it when she looked up at him, when he looked down at her, when their eyes met, finding each other, as they always seemed to. They knew it when a smile came onto their faces with just a simple look at one another. They knew it by the softhearted simple pleasure that came with just being near one another. They knew this was what love was. Knowing that, when Will looked down at her, he let a breath, an unbelievable sigh pass through his lips, gazing at this woman he was so lucky to find.
She loved him.
He heard Hannibal's words echoing in his mind, telling him that this love was not a common love, that this love was something worth indulging. He heard the gravity of that truth, and he placed a kiss on her forehead, feeling impossibly strong when she all but melted into his touch.
When he pulled away, she lifted her head again, her lips parted with a loss of words. She wondered if there were there any words that could truly capture the feeling in this moment. She shuddered, closing her eyes tightly and holding onto him tightly, so very afraid of losing this. She thought she had given up praying long ago, but there she lied, praying that this would last, that this dream that felt so real would last.
Everything felt right. In his arms, surrounded by their strays, warm in their house - their home. She allowed herself to enjoy it. She let her fragile heart beat, basking in the feeling of to love and to be loved in the way they both deserved. And, all of a sudden, her eyes opened, so moved by an epiphany that she almost felt the need to cry. A tear slipped from an eye, falling onto his shirt, catching his attention.
She was not afraid.
She loved him.
He loved her.
"I love you," she whispered.
Will blinked a few times before it hit him. They never said it before. Yes. They loved each other. Yes, they understood that, yet neither said it.
"You don't have to say it back," she whispered after a moment of silence. Her heart didn't waver with heartbreak over him not saying it back. She knew better than anyone else how terrifying it must be to entrust someone else with their heart, pleading, begging them not to break it. "I just. . . I wanted you to know that I-"
Just like that night in that hotel, she felt his lips on hers, tasting sweet, yet salty with tears.
Just like that night.
It was long. It was sweet. It was loving.
She felt loved, not needing the words to prove it.
And so, when he pulled away, she felt a happy tear slip down her cheek as a hopeless smile bloomed onto her blushing face. He truly was her happiness. So, she said it again, making up for all the times she didn't.
"I love you."
Now, he was smiling, just as hopelessly, at her.
"I love you."
She was laughing, so filled with joy, relief, and so much more.
It was infectious.
"Will Graham," she began, sitting up, through a breathy laugh, recovering from her confession.
"Bellamy Bennet," he said back, sitting up to look her directly in those eyes like wine.
"I wouldn't mind spending my life like this."
"Like this?" he asked, knowing the answer, but needing to hear it.
"With you," she said, barely above a whisper.
Will let it sink in for a moment, blinking slowly as his heart steadies quickly. There was such a wholesomeness to this, he realized. This moment, he realized that this was the best part of his life so far. Her. And so, he placed a hand on her wrist, and in a fluid motion, he pulled her back, them falling into the mattress, where they lied moments before. He gazed up at her delighted expression. She was glowing.
With his own excited smile, he held her by the waist, gently rolling them over until she was under him, giggling at the surprise.
She is beautiful.
"Here," he said, nodding, looking around at their house, at the life they built together.
"Here?" she repeated.
It's beautiful.
When he looked back at her, seeing her loving eyes looking back at him, hair sprawled out over a pillow she substituted him with most nights, he felt the urge to kiss her once more. He doesn't. Instead, he let his hand, the one on the arm not baring his weight, slip behind her head, his fingers curling into her hair, still damp from her shower. He took one deep breath, just as she had.
"I wouldn't mind spending the rest of my life here," he agreed, looking only at her. The house could be swapped out. His home wasn't in the walls. It was with her. It was so simple, he wondered how he missed it in all the time they've been together.
"With me?" she asked, her smile softening with the seriousness of what he was saying.
Will swallowed a brave lump in his throat; he nodded all the same.
"With you," he confirmed. It was then that he leaned forward, his eyes falling shut, just as hers did. And, just before their lips met, so close that she could feel his breath, he makes his own confession. "Because I love you."
Quickly, their lips met. Her fingers tangled into his curls, his in hers, their lips moving as one.
The tenderness, the sweetness of the moment fades into something else.
Something far more simple to understand, yet enriched, complex by what they made it from.
She felt his hands on her hips. He felt her fingers curl into the back of his shirt and her legs move, shifting, lifting until they were wrapped around his waist, her lips never leaving his until her hands found their way to his shoulders. She didn't push, yet he pulled away all the same.
Time stopped.
It was just her, her looking at him through heavy lidded eyes, so undeniably in love.
She nodded, giving him the permission he needed.
He leaned back down, their lips just grazing each other's when his phone rang.
The loud and blaring tone startled them enough for him to pull away, blinking in confusion, recovering from how this moment, their moment, vanished.
Bella was quick, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.
A distressed frown came on her face.
"It's Jack."
Will would have told her to ignore it if he didn't know any better. Jack never called this late if it wasn't serious.
He moved off of Bella, sitting up straight with his back to her, drawing the phone to his ear, answering it.
Few words were exchanged.
The only words that left him were a "yes", then a "what", then a "when", and then a grave "okay".
When he hung up, he turned back towards Bella, all that happiness gone, lost in worry.
"What happened?"
"Jack says we might have found the Chesapeake Ripper."
She didn't recognize the name, and he knew it by the look on her face.
He swallowed, closing his eyes, trying to hide from the nightmare to come, silently wishing he didn't answer the phone, that he just took one night for himself.
"A serial killer. . . They think he took another victim."
So, I know I said that there would be more on chasing the killer and Abel Gideon and Frederick Chilton, but I got carried away. However, I guarantee that they will be in the next chapter.
Right now, we are, technically, episode six of season one, as far as the television timeline goes. I know. I should probably be going faster, but I just feel like I need to invest in these moments before I pick up the pace. Needless to say, things are going to get a little darker, a little sharper, and a little more. . . revealing? You'll get a bit more on Bella (God, I'm going to have a so much fun writing the next chapter) and her past (spoiler, but not really, it's rough. She's seen some stuff).
Also, I hope you guys don't mind the hannigram in this chapter. Yes, when I made this fic, I did know I wanted it in here. I love hannigram and as you know,"You can't control with respect to whom you fall in love." Besides, I feel like that's entirely Hannibal to be infatuated with two. I mean, if you've seen the third season and that one part where Anthony Dimmond (bless my sweet and unfortunate poet) asks Hannibal and Bedelia,"Is this that kind of party?" Insinuating a rather, ah, shall we say less than conventional activity involving three people. Anyways, Hannibal smiles at Bedelia, who just gives him a look that says, "Don't." So, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that, yeah, he's not going to have any qualms tempting them both.
With Mads Mikkelsen's portrayal reflecting Lucifer rather than Hopkin's psychopath, and with the show's portrayal of Will and Hannibal, I hope you also don't mind Will's attraction to Hannibal. Of course, attraction pales in comparison to the love he feels for Bella.
I hope you guys enjoyed that by the way.
Before I go, I'm going to tell you that Alejandra will be in future chapters - she hasn't yet filled her purpose yet. Although, I am contemplating how exactly I want her to exit this story. I don't know. I have a hazy picture of how I want things to come out, and that's likely to change. I mostly just have bits and pieces, scenes that I want. Don't worry though. I have full intentions to give you guys the ending you deserve.
Once again, thank you to all who reviewed! Seriously, it makes all the difference in the world. And don't think for a second that I don't take them to heart! I do! To those who have reviewed or will, I see you and I recognize you and honestly, I wouldn't be here without you.
ANNOUNCEMENTS (I guess. . .):
1) Okay, so I have a Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire fic that's coming together. I just started writing and it kinda just came together. If anyone is interested in that, hmu. I'm still weighing if I should put it out here. I mean, I'm not exactly experienced with writing and I wouldn't want to do injustice to it, especially since the genre is different than Hannibal.
2) The rating will probably change to "M". However, if anyone has concerns, please don't hesitate to voice this. I am not like Hannibal. I am very susceptible to even the slightest influence.