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This chapter is dedicated to to LisaxDeanshipper97, once again (Seriously, thank you for all that you do!)
AND, special thanks to JasmineTheWitch, CaptainMC, Mara-Lethe, KrispyDragon, Insert cool name, twelia, Lady Avarice, SaucyAnts, and Kasanii. I've read your reviews (more than I probably should, but damn its good motivation, something I'm lacking waaaay too often to actually be productive in daily life), and I appreciate each and every one of you.
Thank you for all your support!
Hannibal Lecter's House, Baltimore, Maryland
They were seated silently, respectfully. All that could be heard was music, a classical selection chosen by their host, who sat at the head of the table, looking quite pleased with himself.
He was a king, watching over a kingdom of his own making.
To his left sat Frederick Chilton.
Next to Hannibal, he looked dull, small, envious. He might have looked swell in his tan Italian cut suit, but next to Hannibal, looking dapper as ever in a colorful English cut, Dr. Chilton looked bland, tasteless. Her lip twitched, noting that his cut of suit was so telling. Of course, Dr. Chilton would prefer heavy padding on the shoulders whilst Hannibal held little to none. He didn't need to make himself appear bigger. He towered before them all, a monument, an idol, a god. Dr. Chilton was the unfortunate man who attempted to imitate him. Bella couldn't blame him. Looking at Hannibal and all that he was, it was hard not to want to become him. He was easily the smartest in the room, not even giving them the luxury to spare someone else for being more attractive. His attractiveness defied age. It was sinful. Off, but too pleasing to question.
Beside Dr. Chilton was Alana Bloom, looking to her with a tight lipped smile. She, in her velvet dress of a dark purple color that matched her own elegance all too well, made Bella feel severely under dressed and inadequate. Her long hair was curled, her lips colored a pink that was as soft as her presence was. The color against her flawless skin, made her look youthful, more beautiful, whilst still maintaining a professional posture, every bit the psychiatrist she was. Her blues eyes, as kind as they were, narrowed slightly. Only one at the table hadn't noticed, and that was only because he was baring a sight greater than them all.
She was at his right.
Bella was not raised in wealth, but she was raised with tradition. Summers with her grandmother were agonizing, but they did yield some lessons of worth - lessons that only recently came in handy. Lessons such as seating arrangements. She never held a dinner party, but she knew the rules. She knew that a host placed the female guest of honor at his right; the male guest of honor at the right of the hostess. Though, she supposed that without a hostess that to the left would work all the same. Regardless, looking at Alana with a knowing gaze, she felt her heartbeat slow. She understood now. She took something Alana wanted. Again.
Will. Abigail. Hannibal.
Bella sat still, hands folded, looking down at her plate, hiding behind her hair as she tried to silence the pride in it, the feeling of having so much. She wasn't a glutton. Most of her life, she felt hallow, starved with only loneliness to indulge with. Yet, here she was, the subject of jealousy. Alana saw her as stealing something of hers. Looking at Hannibal out of the corner of her eyes, finding him looking back at her as though they were trading unspoken secrets, she wondered if she was.
She never intended for her to fall this deeply into his hands. It was as though she were sitting on the edge of a bridge, peering down at the water rushing below. With every second she saw, the more she became hypnotized, entranced by the beauty, the freedom, of those waters. She would lean over, more and more, until the water was carrying her away, not even aware that she fell over until it was too late. It was an accident.
No, her mind whispered, flashing back to that night, their dinner.
He invited her in.
She accepted.
This was no accident.
No innocence.
She could plead "not guilty", she supposed. She may have allowed their relationship, their friendship, to be built upon, but he established the foundation.
This was his design.
"I don't think I've ever had tongue."
Alana's eyes rested on Hannibal, looking wider, slightly more demanding than usual. Her voice was soft, velvety, enticing. Bella could hardly blame Alana Bloom for wanting Hannibal's attentions. The man was immaculate in almost every visible way. Even allowing her own eyes to drink in his elegant and angular visage, she found her own heart beating quicker, yet, the fear of him was gone, replaced with trust.
Abigail.
Her sweet blue eyes shined brightly even in Bella's memories, a reminder of why she was placing her trust, her faith, in him.
Hannibal will save her.
The thought echoed until the tension brought on by seemingly endless worry lessoned.
She had to trust him.
"It was a particularly chatty lamb," Hannibal replied, lips curling into a smile.
Bella's nose wrinkled and a breathy laugh left Alana. Frederick, however, tilted his head, a sharp smile on his own lips.
"Romans would kill flamingos just to eat their tongues."
To this, Hannibal's smile grew.
"Don't give me ideas. Your tongue is very feisty and as this evening has already proven, it's nice to have an old friend for dinner."
Bella's eyes flashed to Hannibal, finding him looking back. There was something in his eyes, a message she could not decipher, but she felt her lips twitch into a poor grin.
The honor of a toast belonged to Hannibal, yet Dr. Chilton was the one raising a glass.
When she looked at him, she found him changed. His smile, still present, was tighter, thin wrinkles appeared on his finely sculpted face from the strain as Frederick raised his glass to the Chesapeake Ripper, Dr. Gideon.
Clearing his throat, seeing neither her or Alana raising their own glasses, he lowered his.
"Of course, there are some who do not believe him to be the pure sociopath that he is - and he is," he stressed, looking pointedly at both her and Alana. "It is only natural that those who do not understand understand the complicated science behind psychiatry to acknowledge the reality that is Abel Gideon." His eyes switched to Bella, a spotlight on the one that was not like the others. "You cannot blame yourself, Ms. Bennet. You do not have the same experiences we have."
She averted her eyes in the case that she couldn't stop them from rolling. She was hiding, and for that, he drank in the sight, this false shift in power.
She told herself that Jack was the one who let it slip, who, perhaps, described how she came to work for him. She knew that he couldn't know more about her than what Jack knew, but the tension in her spine refused to leave. So, she simply told herself that this is who he was, who he always felt compelled to be: an entertainer.
She imagined him as a child, picturing him as a boy who learned how to talk and never stopped, reaching the height of his life early and resigning to some cruelly mundane life where his only sense of joy came from standing above others. She knew the agonizing loudness of life. The difference was that she found her outlet in reflection, and he found his in reputation.
He mistook her silence for submission.
When words began leaving him again, they fell unto her deafened ears.
She fell back into her old self, the one who drowned out the world, staring out the dirty windows of a diner in the middle of nowhere.
Her eyes went out of focus. The voices around her blending together, muffling as she drifted away from everyone else and into herself until she was surrounded by nothing.
It was dark, this nothingness. . .
. . . until it wasn't.
She found herself back in Hannibal's dining room, this stage Hannibal created, sitting across from a pair of pretty blue eyes rather than brown. A sharp and vivid version Abigail instead of the fading memory of her brother.
And she was stunning.
Abigail sat before her, smiling innocently, dressed simply in a white t-shirt, pale pink cardigan. There was a dainty silver necklace hanging from her scarred neck, absent of the many scarves Alana bought her. She wasn't ashamed. Her eyes were no longer distant. She was completely aware, completely whole with no empty spaces within herself to slip into. She was beautiful, happy, and young. She was a child again.
Her smile grew as she tilted her head back, craning it a bit sideways as a figure entered. Bella's eyes drifted away from Abigail and watched as the figure came into the light.
Hannibal. He was in a button up shirt, lacking a sharp edged jacket or even a vest. He lacked his well tailored armor, placing his trust in his company. As he took his seat, his pale blue shirt wrinkling a bit as he settled in at the head of the table, his rightful place, a charming smile on his face as well. He looked every bit as content as Abigail, who looked at him as though he were every bit the hero he promised to be.
And then he came.
Will strolled into the dining room. Like Hannibal, he was in a button up shirt, though it was grey and far more wrinkled. He took his place, at her side, and he looked to her, and just like the rest of them he smiled. He leaned forward, placing a kiss on her cheek. She could almost feel his lips on her cheek, chapped from the dry wind outside, and she felt her own curling up into a smile, matching this little family of hers.
"Gross," she heard Abigail whine. When Bella's eyes reached Abigail, she found the young girl rolling her eyes. Hannibal and Will, their faint laughter melded together by the time it reached her ears. "Eat up. You're food is getting cold and Hannibal and I worked really hard on it," Abigail urged, lifting her fork to her mouth as if to show Bella how to eat.
Abigail's cheek was enough to bring breath of a laugh to her lips as she cut herself a bite. She was indulging herself with a fantasy of a family of more than two, a world for more than two, and was beautiful up until the moment it ended, fading away in a cloud of dust.
Her cheeks were dusted with a rosy color, realizing she had either been spoken to or spoken of.
"I'm sorry," she choked out, setting her silverware down, as if to repay her lack of attention before with extra. "I just have a lot on my mind," she said, louder than a whisper, but almost too quiet to be heard.
Tilting his head, feigning a look of concern, Frederick dared to ask, "How often do you find yourself this distracted, Ms. Bennet? Have you considered-"
"Thank you for your concern, Dr. Chilton, but I don't need it," she dismissed coolly, looking at her wine glass rather than him. She wouldn't allow him even a chance to look her in the eyes, gouging for a trace of any thoughts or feelings.
The silence was broken by Alana, playing her part as a peacekeeper.
"Hannibal was telling us how you helped him with dessert."
Her smile was gentle, polite. For a moment, Bella almost felt as though she wanted trust her.
She didn't.
"Yes."
Short answers again.
Perhaps alone, she would feel more at ease, less twitchy, less inclined to keep her eyes lowered, choosing every word and movement carefully in fear of the ramifications of a single misstep or misspoken word. She didn't need, nor did she want, either of them passing along their findings to Jack - or to anyone else. And if Frederick Chilton was one thing, it was a sellout. Empty and desperate. A part of her didn't blame him for snatching at anything he could get his hands on, but she could blame him for the broken pieces he left behind.
Abel Gideon.
Elizabeth Shell.
There were more names. She didn't know them, but she knew there were more just as she knew there would be more to come.
Cockroach, she thought, wrinkling her nose.
When invited to help Hannibal serve dessert, she accepted. She rose from her seat, moving across the dining room and into the kitchen so quietly as if to not disturb the air. She felt as though she was keeping a secret. Another secret, she corrected internally, remembering his kindness. This was another. She knew Hannibal could serve dessert alone. He planned this evening alone. Yet, she came and he allowed her to join him, to become an extension of his own hands.
And it felt right.
When they were away from prying ears, Hannibal stopped before her, looking her in the eyes, brows furrowed with concern.
"Thank you."
The words left her lips easier than she anticipated.
She felt her armor fall from her body and mind, standing bare, vulnerable, for Hannibal to bare witness to.
And he savored the taste of her trust, which flowed from her words, dripping from every action she took. With one promise, he strengthened bond between them, watching with excitement as it began to take shape. He could see her becoming more comfortable with him, since he fell into the category of "us", when it came being "us" or "them". They had a secret between them, a plan, a plot, something that would rest in a garden of their own making for him to tend to, to make it grow. He wanted it to be watered by those painful secrets that would bleed out from her when she was ready. And he would tend to her and what rested between them post-confession. He could taste it, as though those secrets, so close and intimate, were beginning to trickle down subconsciously.
He could see it.
She was raw, quiet, and withdrawn with Frederick and Alana, but only after she decided that they were not worth her time. Before she fell into herself, he saw her and all her potential. Beautiful, confident, smarter than she was credited with. And even before then, speaking to him about Abigail, he found a deeper sensitivity. Her being was refreshing to him. Her and Will.
Thinking of the handsome and haunted "special" agent, Hannibal recalled the latest missed appointment. Though he had seen the man, hearing that his absence was caused with "chasing the Ripper" - another reminder of his stolen identity, another reminder as to why he so longingly wished it was Frederick's tongue or, better yet, Ms. Lounds' to which they feasted on - he realized that his time with the agent would be sparse as of late. He was lingering on Will's absence, chasing that dull aching in his chest, foreign to anything he felt before, so enticing due to not being able to recall the exact time he felt it, he forgot of who else Will would be stolen from until she found her way into his home. It was fate, he wanted to believe.
As much as he longed for Will's presence, he would make use of the time spent focusing on his little doe, who now stared at him, wide eyed, lips parted, distracted yet present.
He felt a mild sense of pride, hiding it behind concern.
She wants to speak, but is afraid of who might hear.
"Thank you," he counters. His voice smooth, silky.
She struggled, uncomfortable with her own words being returned to her, but she eventually accepted, not wanting to meet his eyes, not wanting to disappoint him.
"I mean, thank you for trying to make me feel. . ." The words do not reach her lips, but he knows.
She was observant, noting that it was from his plate he shared food with, to his side she was placed at. He made her feel welcome, even with the unwelcoming company, and that was heartbreaking in his compassion. She felt an echo of the lurid feelings from her and Will's first night drinking, that sense of wonder and disbelief at a home, but it was just that: an echo. Despite the beauty of his home, this world of his own making, it was lonely. The unconditional promise of safety, security, and love given by dogs wasn't present.
And to some degree, she understood that Hannibal came with conditions.
Did she mind?
He could see the gears in her mind turning, the fine muscles of her brow pulling them down as she began to slip away again.
He decided to be bold.
Stepping forward, he placed a hand on the side of her face, and her eyes widened as she was pulled back to the present, commanded by his touch. He could see her trying to relax, but her cheeks were reddening, her pulse quickening.
Nothing wrong with applied pressure and heat.
With that, he would make diamonds out of both Bella and Will.
"You can leave, if you wish," he offered, his eyes flickering to the doorway that lead down the hall to the front door.
He would spare her the rest of the night, letting her steal away, lying for her, knowing that another secret, this one small, yet still rich, between them. He would watch as she ran away, knowing that she would eventually come back to him.
But she didn't run.
"And miss dessert?"
She meant it as a joke. Neither of them laughed, but Hannibal's lips did curl into a smile, pleased with her choice.
Will Graham's House, Wolftrap, Virginia
When they arrived at her home, she tried to hide the disappointment in her eyes when she saw Will wasn't home. This was the second - or was it the third? - consecutive week where she was the first one home. She tried not to blame Will. She couldn't fault him for trying to make the world a little less dark and dangerous. She couldn't fault him for trying to save people from the cruelty that these killers made of their last moments on earth. She could only fault him for doing this, knowing what a toll it took on him and their home.
Every night, she would wait, pouring over her own case, until he found his way back to her. And, when he did, he would find her, waiting with fading patience, longingly. She wouldn't move from her place, often on the couch, wanting him to come to her as compensation for making her wait in the first place. She was never still for long. She would always move, sometimes climbing onto the edge of the couch to meet him, no matter how sweaty and tired he was from a long day. And they would linger in that moment, in a blur of hungry, yet tired kisses until he would leave to shower. Once done, they would go to bed, tangled together trying to find some peace of mind.
Every night, she felt more and more distant from Will. She could see the weight of his work baring down on him, causing him to crack, his breaking showing in the form of nightmares. Every night, she would get less and less sleep, waking him from his nightmares, watching over him, not wanting to leave him to face his fears alone. The nightmares only grew worse, as did her sleeping schedule. This was why seeing him gone this late filled her with such dread.
When she turned to Hannibal, meaning to thank him for the ride home, she found herself startled. He was looking not at the empty space meant for Will's station wagon with concern, but her. She heard herself speak, thanking him for the ride, for dinner, for "everything."
When she tried opening the door, she hesitated, feeling a burning in her lungs. She realized then that she was holding her breathe. Not knowing why, she tried to let it go, letting her hot breathe pass through her lips in a long and even sigh. She could see it, with the cold weather, it was as though she were breathing out smoke. She knew Hannibal could see. She didn't want to explain why she was holding her breathe, whether it was out of tire or anticipation - she couldn't tell which it was - so she left. She crossed the yard quickly, not wanting to look back, but when her fingers curled over the cold door knob, she felt her body twist and her eyes begin to search as though to find his eyes in the distance, in the dark. She didn't see him. She couldn't.
Yet, she knew he was smiling even as he drove off.
When she entered the house, she found herself welcomed with all the love and affection she missed during the day from the dogs, returning that love and affection in kind as she waited in hopes of Will being not too long after. When he didn't, she, heart heavy with disappointment, went to the kitchen, pouring herself a glass, not even bothering to check the bottle. She downed it and followed through with the same ritual she kept for the past three weeks. She showered, prepared for bed, and read over files silently until she heard Will pull up to the house. This time, it was after midnight.
When he walked in, she felt her frustrations wane, seeing him exhausted, so much so that when his coat fell after he tried hanging it, he simply abandoned it. She opened her mouth, wanting to ask about the case, any news of progress, any news of its end, but his movements, despite his weariness, were quick. He crossed the living room quickly, and before she could process any of his movements, his expressions, to prepare, a hand was in her hair and an arm around her waist, pulling her towards him until their lips collided.
Their lips moved together, desperate and hungry.
Her lungs burned, but she didn't mind, not until he pulled away. Needily, she tugged on the back of his neck, trying to pull him back to her, wanting nothing more than to lose herself in him, but he resisted, resting his head against her. His breath on her lips was agonizing. He was so close, yet so far. . .
"I missed you."
"I'm right here," she whispered, brows furrowed, lips pulled down, heart aching in how badly she wanted to scream that for the past weeks.
His eyes opened as he pulled away, watching as she, exasperated, sighed and let her grip on him slacken, arms falling to her sides in defeat. He didn't let go. His hands slipping to her hips, holding on loosely, but refusing to let her go. He refused to let her slip from his fingers.
His lips parted, wanting to apologize. For what, he wasn't sure.
Was it for allowing their home to slip away without consultation? Was it for the ties he feared were being severed in his absence? Was it for abandoning their rituals, those unspoken, yet unbroken until late promises they kept for one another? Was it for chancing their relationship when he knew so much of it depended on the stability they maintained for each other?
He couldn't dwell on it now. He wouldn't spend time wallowing in guilt when she was right here.
Still, he wanted to apologize, especially when he felt her gentle lips on his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead.
She was covering him in love and affection, and what did he have to give her in return besides late nights and tiring mornings?
"I was held up," he tried explaining. "Beverly and-"
"Shh. . ."
He blinked, feeling her hands pressing against his chest.
"No more work," she pleaded, brown eyes glistening with crystalline hope.
How could he deny her?
Nodding numbly, he let her go when she pulled away, watching her as she moved towards the left-side shelves by the fireplace. He saw her rise to the tip of her toes, reaching for a box, one of the few things she brought with her during the move. From that box she procured a cd, holding it up with a smile. His eyes narrowed curiously as she moved towards his stereo, slipping it in. It took some time, the cd likely scratched, but, eventually, music streamed out.
It was an old one, sounding of country with traces of jazz and blues from what he could tell.
"No more work," she insisted, sauntering towards him, a hand outstretched, both an offer and a plea.
His own slipped over hers, a smile on his face as she with that same surprising strength pulled him towards her, against her. Her arms gingerly wrapped around his neck, laughing lightly as they began to sway.
"I go out walkin' after midnight, out in the moonlight, just like we used to do. . ."
She was singing along, softly and fairly off-key, but he didn't mind. He only laughed, feeling the weight of the world lift from his shoulders, if only for a night.
Swaying there, to some song he didn't know, but would be humming months later, despite feeling as though he were slowly deteriorating, he felt whole again. He knew he likely wasn't handsome. His face had been hollow, more disheveled after hours in the lab, examining all their recent evidence, previous evidence, which only came after enduring Jack, more panicked than he ever seen or heard, confiding in him, sharing this haunting he experienced and continues to experience, the one that threatened his home, his wife, and having to consider what may happen to his own home, his Bella. He came home, terrified of what could have happened in his absence, what might happen in his absence, seeking out his Bella, and trying so hard to take her into himself, and shield her from everything and everyone, especially this Chesapeake Ripper.
Yet, it was the way she looked at him with her own tired eyes, as though she were seeing a sunrise for the first time.
When the cd finished playing its few outdated songs, she was the one who made him shower, the one who kindly made their unmade bed fit for sleeping. And that night, they both felt a moment of relief to be warm, to be free of worries of if they would make it through this roughness. Though the nightmares came, mercilessly, Bella, as always, was there, and, if only for one night, he didn't feel guilty for taking comfort in the arms she held him with. These empty hours of doing nothing except resting from the world outside were what he'd come to miss.
Mutual comfort.
It was a good night. . .
. . . But it didn't last.
Opéra de L'ouest, McCluster Hall, Baltimore, Maryland
Among the finely dressed cultural elite, she was a refreshing sight.
He could find her in the sea of dark colors - black, navy, maroon, the reserved and "refined" colors that the majority of women prefer here - in a shorter dress, looking like the first breath of spring in a peach colored dress, the warm color giving her a delightful glow. Though she was still in a modest dress, Hannibal drank in her form, having never seen her show as much of her skin. Her shoulders bare, exposed all the way to the end of her shoulder blades; legs looking toned from short heels - he smiled, knowing she would only go so with the risk of shoes if she needed to run - and longer than he first imagined under a full skirt, fabric falling naturally and asymmetric.
Though not as surrounded as he, there was a flock of socialites at her feet, each trying to catch a glimpse of what was behind this woman. She wore a polite smile, head tilted slightly downward, eyes slipping to her glass of champagne. She was the epitome of classic femininity, warm, inviting, humble. He caught her smiling, laughing at what he held no doubts the joke of someone wanting so badly to hear that very laugh. Her head tilting back some, pearly teeth flashing as she smiled carelessly.
She gave a false illusion of what she just might become under his care.
She turned her head, her eyes finding him naturally - she did not appear to be searching for him. She found him as though her eyes were drawn to him, as though there was some force pulling them to him. He doubted this, but the thought pleased him, even more so when she made her way to his side, smiling at his own audience, looking as cordial and forthcoming as Will Graham was avoidant. It was a surprising change from the quiet, internalized woman he dined with two weeks prior.
The first to notice her was Mrs. Komeda, a brittle woman in her late fifties with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and lips as red as the dress she wore. She was elegant, poised, standing alone despite her husband's longing looks. She, among all the patrons, was the most well versed in the arts, appreciating every detail of every craft, one of the many reasons he enjoyed cooking for her, something she so eagerly asked him to remind her of. "It's been too long since you've properly cooked for us," she had said. Her praise was interrupted when she noticed Bella approaching, eyes widening with interest when she took her place at his right, blinking innocently.
If he didn't know any better, he would fall under her charms. Appreciate them, he did, but he wasn't blinded by them.
"Impressed" was a more fitting word.
"Hello, dear," Mrs. Komeda greeted Bella with, her voice gentle, yet excited, as though talking to a child. Though, he supposed she was young enough to be to her.
Bella gave a smooth and respectful nod.
"Hello."
Her voice was softer, lighter even, earning a pleased grin from Mrs. Komeda.
"I don't recall ever seeing you here before," Mrs. Komeda said, trailing off as though she were looking back through hazy memories. Hannibal knew she was sharp, but the sentiment played beautifully with the scene.
"That would be because this is my first time to the Opera - thanks to Hannibal, that is," Bella added, giving him a polite smile, eyes flashing with something he let slip away before he could fully decipher it. Mrs. Komeda's eyes flashed with something too, noticing the familiarity of his name on her lips. Not Dr. Lecter. Hannibal. Looking at Bella again, he felt admiration rise within, knowing exactly why his name left her so easily. She knew his name held weight among these people.
"How do you know Hannibal?" Mrs. Komeda's eyes lingered on Bella's face, analyzing the maturity of it before looking to him, eyes narrowing, yet a grin still playing on her lips.
He did not answer.
He wanted to hear hers.
How would she describe their relationship?
"He's a dear friend of mine," Bella answered simply, but happily, even going as far as to look at him, fondness filling her eyes.
"Then you know what a wonderful cook he is then," she said pointedly, giving a friendly glare at him as though he was caught in a lie. Never. "I was just trying to convince him that a dinner party would do well to liven our spirits."
If it was a dinner party she wanted, he would be happy to follow through. He only needed time. . .
"Liven your spirits," Bella echoed, smile fading from her lips, head tilting with false confusion.
Mrs. Komeda gave a heavy sigh, looking to the other patrons, wondering just who was willing to risk scaring Bella away.
"There has been a few tragedies lately in our well cultured circles," her husband answered, uncomfortably clearing his throat. Bella didn't press him with words, only allowing her lips to part, just a hint at the question that rested on the edge of them. "The ballet in this region has been, for the lack of a better word, the obsession of a serial killer."
Swallowing, looking uncomfortable, looking as though she hadn't known every possible detail available, she manages to hesitate without saying a word.
And Mrs. Komeda was quick to salve her conscience.
"Of course, the Baltimore Ballet is taking precautions. Their performance of Swan Lake is coming up," she added. Her shoulders slackened, turning her head, exposing a long and pale neck, wrinkled with her aging, eyes rolling as she sighed. "They were planning on doing a new version of Sylvia. Can you believe it?" she asked, unimpressed. She went on describing the reasons why the simple suggestion would have been a bad idea, why Swan Lake was better, how many connections she had, making it out to be as though it was by her will alone that they changed productions. Though, Bella did consider the fact that she didn't know this woman, and she very may well have.
This wasn't her natural environment.
Not in the slightest.
Bella excused herself, unable to even pretend to listen. She moved fast after uttering an apology, trying to drowning out the merciless voices. All that was on her mind was of her killer. She tried to remember the name Freddie Lounds coined.
She thought about what Will said.
What Jack said.
"He'll likely stop at Baltimore. Classical ballet, not too high on security, but still big enough to make a grand statement."
When she came to this event, she had it in her mind that everything would work out, as though by the time the night ended, she would have already figured out the killer, that she would pick up on something. It had been hours, and she felt just as lost as she did when she first took on the case.
She was doing the detective's equivalent of throwing darts at a board with a blindfold on in hopes of accidentally hitting the mark.
At least outside, in the cool and quiet hallways, she felt safe a little safe again.
She put on a good face. Lying was easier than she remembered - though, she should have expected it to be. This wasn't lying to someone who knew her, or, rather, thought to know her. This was lying to strangers, who knew nothing of her besides what little she presented to them. And her presentation? It was an easy sell.
She wasn't blind. She knew that she had a pretty face despite the scars. She knew she was fit, a nice body - again, despite the scars. She knew that warm colors looked good on her, that it attracted attention. She showed enough of herself for others to want to know her. The scars helped especially. She was so used to hiding them, the ones on her back and arms specifically, that she forgot their uses. Besides being a risk for being recognized, for those who didn't know where they came from, who they came from, they were whatever she wanted them to be. Tonight, they were a tool. A polite, clever, and sociable woman with scars wrapped in a pretty package was inviting.
She could see it in the way some of the men looked at her.
Men loved to play the hero, so she let them have their fun. She listened patiently, understandingly, giving a charmed smile here and there. When shyly turning her eyes away, she would catch sight of their wives, lovely, gorgeous and matured. Some bared twitching smiles at their husband's interests in a woman younger than them. She wasn't even necessarily prettier. Just something shiny and new to distract the sad excuses that were their husbands, who were divorced from them long before papers would be drafted. Most, however, looked to her with a keen level of curiosity as well, some enjoying a new person to share with - and the sharing was important, for both men and women. Men, for the most part, shared their experience. That's how a majority made friendships, at least, that's what she read somewhere at some time before. She would follow through their journeys and memories, and they would look at her as though their interest validated their experience or further affirmed their own notions of themselves.
There was many like Frederick Chilton in this crowd, and she took them with grace, and for what?
She felt no closer than she was before. According to Will, they were in the right region for the killer, but that very region covered more than one state. So, the chances of her killer being in this single community now felt smaller and smaller. She wondered whether she overestimated this network. . .
Her ears caught onto the sounds of heavy, shuffling feet. She kept her eyes down until the person drew closer. Their pace wasn't quick enough to cause extreme alarm.
When her head lifted towards the sound, she caught sight of a man. He was heavy, but well groomed. As he drew closer, she began to pick apart his facial features. His bright eyes were the first thing she noticed. Despite the beard and forehead wrinkles that aged his rounded face, there was a youthful spark to his brown eyes, a childlike crookedness to his natural shaped lips.
"Excuse me?"
There was a slight quaver to his voice, and when he stopped before her, at a respectable distance, his head slightly leaned forward, an unofficial bow.
Bella lifted her shoulders, falling back into her role, but a genuine compassion when her lips lifted, wanting to ease the stress of a stranger. This man was different than the others. He carried a humbleness to him.
He let a breath of relief pass through his lips, as though he didn't expect to even get as far as a response from her.
"I couldn't help but notice you with Dr. Lecter."
His calling Hannibal "Dr. Lecter" was another sign, naming him an outsider. She would have had to be deaf not to notice the familiarity to which the others spoke to him with. Hannibal was well acquainted with this crowd. How could he not be? These people seemed to be of the closest caliber to his own skills and passions.
She might have felt ashamed, out of her depth compared to these people if she didn't see the shallowness of most of them. They, who so eagerly bred their pleasures, would drown in them. They weren't interested in art, wealth, and power as much as they were driven by the idea that having an abundance of any of those would sooth that tell-tale emptiness in their hearts. It was all worthless, their pursuits, their motivations. She could see why Hannibal, though entertained by them, would want more.
She only wondered if she and Will were the "more" he was looking for.
If Will wasn't busied with the Ripper, would he be here by Hannibal's side instead?
Would that bother me?
Should that bother me?
Bella couldn't find it within her to have any jealousy. She didn't know what kind of jealousy to even have. The idea that it would be Will instead of her, or that it would be Hannibal instead of her.
A dusty rose color came onto her cheeks as she felt a sort of excitement at the thought of those two, side by side, immaculate in appearance, just as Hannibal would demand. Together.
Everyone has their fantasies, a softly spoken voice in the back of her mind all but whispered.
Her heart nearly skipped a beat, a dizziness invading her mind and body.
She was smart enough to pull herself back to the present, back to the stranger, who waited, looking somewhat concerned over her silence.
"I. . ." She lost hold of her acting ability, her false self slipping away in her diverted attention. Her shoulders even pulled forward to a natural hunch. She pulled back her shoulders, back straightening, eyes blinking as she tried to recover.
"Oh, I didn't mean to fluster you!" the man stammered, looking more worried, more rattled than her. "I just - I didn't know he had a girlfriend, especially someone so young."
"I'm not his girlfriend," Bella quickly corrected, cheeks red. Her heart had been racing, but her mind came to a complete halt at the man's claim. Swallowing, trying to delve deeper into the sturdiness that was in her voice, in that moment, she licked her lips. The cheap lipstick she wore losing some of its color.
Young? How young do I look?
Her mind flashed back to Will and her's first date - could that first night at his house sharing drinks and trying to evade each other while testing one another count as a date? It wasn't exactly the standard first date. Then again, everything about their relationship seemed a bit vague, a bit hazy. However, things didn't need to be defined between them.
She shook the thoughts, memories, and slight-offense away.
"Oh." What redness faded from her cheeks bloomed on his. For a good minute, he fluctuated between opening his mouth and shutting it, looking like a puppet as he tried to find his footing. In that time, Bella wondered if it was natural for the socially inept to attract one another. Did he recognize that she too was an outsider? Was her costume not as well tailored as she thought it to be? Maybe I am more out of my depth than I thought.
"I was just. . . After you left, I approached him. I thought it would be okay since he's my doctor-" Bella half pitied his apparent desperation and longing and half worried if that desperation and longing would prove to be a threat. "-and I think I might have embarrassed him." She wouldn't be surprised if he did. As good natured as his intentions seemed, she caught onto the feeling that he was overwhelming. He doesn't know how to love moderately. "I just - I thought maybe I could introduce myself to you and apologize."
The regret glistened in his eyes. A child ashamed of humiliating a maker that wasn't his.
Yes. She pitied him.
"I just thought since you came with him, that you and him were. . ." He trailed off, not wanting to say the word "together" as though it were scandalous. Though, in a way, she suppose it would be.
Glancing back towards the doors leading back inside, she imagined Hannibal there, looking pristine as always.
It would be a scandal. Someone as messy as me, even under the finest of masks could only pale in comparison to him.
"Do you think you could tell him I'm sorry?" the man asked, eyes wide, hopeful.
She knew she shouldn't. This was something between Hannibal and his patients. She was his patient. On paper, that same soft spoken voice corrected.
"I don't know your name."
She knew that this was was a bad decision, but the sheer relief in his eyes, as though she were giving him absolution broke her heart too much to not follow through. He so badly wanted to be liked.
"Franklyn!" He chirped eagerly. "Franklyn Froideveaux," he clarified.
She watched as he stumbled over himself, uncertain of how to show his thanks, eventually giving her an actual bow that followed a handshake where he took her smaller hand into his, giving it a trembling shake. She wanted to close her eyes and shake her head at this man. He so badly wanted to be touched by Hannibal's greatness. And, a part of her understood.
She lingered there for a moment, just digesting the small interaction, the messiness of it, before returning to her own stresses, her own shortcomings. When she had enough of swallowing her own suffering, she returned to the social masses, her tired lips pulling into a smile as she weaved through the crowd, stealthily plucking a champagne flute off of a server's tray, downing it quickly before setting it on another's tray and picking up a second glass. She held no doubt that someone or two saw her, but she couldn't find it in herself to care. The only one she could tell that saw her had an amused smile playing on his lips, one that only grew when she returned to his side.
"Bella."
Her name left his lips, sounding of silk and silver. She could see how he attracted everyone's attention, and she wondered how she ever feared him before.
He is so easy to like.
"Mrs. Komeda promised a tour of the theater in exchange for a dinner party," he mentioned, smiling happily. Bella's eyes narrowed slightly, knowing he would not bend to the will of someone else. No. He was getting exactly as he wanted. The small dinners with Jack, Alana, Frederick, herself and Will weren't enough. They were private performances, but he was itching for an audience. She could see it in how he grinned at the Komedas and their companions.
She should have been worried at this show of power, of influence, but she only felt proud. And it was then she understood why she no longer feared him, but rather respected him. They were on the same side.
"Thank you," she said, turning her gaze to Mrs. Komeda. The woman only gave her an elegant shrug, rolling her wrists as she brought them to shoulder length with a false grandiosity.
"What can I say? His dinners are as delicious as they are beautiful, and I'd be fool not to try and make a deal to get one out of him."
Bella glanced at Hannibal, seeing him poised, relaxed, not looking the slightest bit pressured.
He would let them think that. He would let them buy into the illusion that they were getting something in return when all that is really happening is that he's being treated twice - No. Wait. . .
There was a pride in her heart when she realized that she was wrong. That it wasn't him being treated twice. He would have had the dinner party regardless. The invitation to the theater was for her investigation. For her.
"Bella has quite the eye for beauty and excellence. I have no doubts that she will appreciate the ballet's beauty to the fullest extent."
The ballet is not all I appreciate, Hannibal.
France-Merrick Performing Arts Center, Baltimore, Maryland
She thought it strange, how different they were from what they started as. She thought it strange, how different she was from who she started as. No more was she the waitress, trapped within the bleak routine that was her life at the diner. And though there were times when she longed to go back to its simplicity, she knew it was a lie. As complicated as things were becoming, there was a thrill to it. She knew it by the way she woke up in the morning, no longer rising from a stiff bed as though she were a shell of herself. No, she rose with a drive within her, more than one purpose powering her person.
Will. Abigail. Hannibal.
At first, she wondered if she was just deluding herself. She began to fear that one day she and Will would find themselves drifting apart as she and Alejandra had, that she would, under the right amount of pressure, leave behind someone who was so good for her. That she would leave this life behind after it began to peel away and reveal something crude and ugly.
Now, she understood that she wouldn't run. She wouldn't run because, somehow, she found her heart changed. She found a reason to stay, and she knew this because things were getting crude and ugly. Will's nightmares were worsening. The night before hers and Hannibal's trip to the theater, she woke him from a nightmare, and he still lost within his own terrors, didn't recognize her. By the time she hit the floor, he broke free from the dark part of his mind's hold, and he shattered before her eyes, falling to his knees, scrambling towards her, and with trembling hands tried to draw her close, apologies flooding from his lips.
The old Bella would have left.
After he cried himself to sleep, she would have ran away, not giving him another chance to so much as look at her again. She wouldn't have given a second chance to be bruised or scarred. The old her would have done all the tricks she passed onto Abigail, and she would have disappeared. Again.
But she didn't go.
She didn't feel scared for her own safety. She felt scared - terrified - for him. For Will. She held him tight, letting forgiveness pour out of her, trying to fill whatever Will lost in one mistake. Every time he shamefully looked away from her, she matched him by placing her hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look, to see that she didn't blame him, that she still bared the same love, if not more, that she did before.
When he left her, going off some organ harvester or, possibly, the Chesapeake Ripper, she clung to him, not letting go of his hand when Jack called to him from a black FBI SUV that was as intimidating and forbidding as a hearse. She did something bold, something impulsive. When he looked at her in confusion when she refused to let go, she yanked him back to her, and when his body collided with hers, so did their lips. She pressed hers against his with a near bruising pain, begging him, desperately, to come back to her.
When she let him go, looking to him as brokenly as he did her, he couldn't help for another apology to rain from his lips.
She was left devastated, and it was that devastation that made her change visible.
It made it real.
Hannibal would have to be blind not to see it, that sometime between the short time in which he saw her last to the present, something happened. Something close, something intimate to her heart which lead him to think of two people who could have caused this cementation of change. Abigail or Will. Based on the swell of her lips and the dark grey mourning colors of her clothes, he knew it to be Will. And while a part of him bared pity for the price of Will's becoming, he told himself that this would all be worth it in the end. He saw through them, and he found a reflection of himself, and he knew that their tragedies, their pain, would be the foundation for something exquisite, something perfect.
When he found her, sitting on the front porch of her house, Will's house, their home, she looked more like herself. Hair messy, face void of any color save her cheeks, pink and raw from being scratched by dry and heavy wind, skin covered in grey. Grey was the long sleeved wool dress which bared wrinkles when she stood to greet him, grey tights that were, at least, darker than her dress, forcing him to acknowledge that she was at least trying, and grey were her boots - though, he did suspect they were once black, just weathered away with age. The weather, cold, dry, and cloudy did nothing for her beauty, and a part of him wished to mourn the loss of who she was the night of the opera.
Yet, he knew that he could draw out the real version of that woman. He just needed time to know her intuitively, intimately, and he would turn her inside out, pulling her true nature into the light as he would Will.
He tried drawing out something, anything, out of her during the ride to the theater, but she just continued to look sullen in silence.
She kept to her silence, even when they were greeted by the director, a man closer to his age than hers, but with the same unkept look that she bared. Loose clothes, tousled hair, weariness in his eyes. A smile spread across his features when he spotted Hannibal, looking at the man as though they were the dearest of friends. When his eyes fell onto Bella, Hannibal spotted the swell of the man's chest, the way he stood taller, trying to take up more space, to look bigger than he was.
"Bella," the director purred, looking at Bella with the same honey-like sweetness that dripped from his voice. She only gave a polite smile, distracted still.
Throughout their whole tour, she was drifting away. He could see her struggle to focus, but her mind kept wandering. In the end, she was too far gone, leaving him to give thanks, to promise that they were eagerly awaiting opening night.
"Do come back again, 'annibal," the director welcomed before leaving them outside, returning to his place - inside the theater, ordering his dancers, commanding them to perfection with a magnetic intensity that could only belong to a man who gave his life to the arts. No friends, no family, just his art. Bella might have noticed his obsessive nature if she hadn't retreated too far into herself to notice.
Even now, looking at her, Hannibal wondered what exactly occurred in her home, briefly worrying that he, for the first time in two years, made a mistake.
"Bella," he called, saying her name as gently as he imagined Will to. He wanted to have the same hold Will had on her.
He had to call her again before she gave the slightest response, her shoulders rising as she took a long and shaky breath.
"I don't. . ." she stopped for a moment, her head turning, not far enough to see him clearly, just to see the shape of him, the idea of him and opening up. He could see the side of her face, the way her lips parted. "I don't know why I thought any of this would be easy," she said bitterly, finally turning around to face him, brown eyes filled with regret, guilt, shame.
"This?" he repeated, his eyes searching through hers, sifting through her emotions, trying to find the cause. She couldn't form an answer, but her lips moved, just for a moment, forming one sound. Will's name almost left her, but she couldn't say it. "Did something happen?" She wouldn't betray Will. Looking at her now, he could see that. She wanted to tell him, so badly, what was wrong, what happened to warrant her closing up again, but she wouldn't. Her loyalties were impenetrable. It was admirable, but inconvenient. "I thought we were beyond keeping secrets from each other."
There was pain in her eyes, a frantic burst of guilt at the slight against him, against their friendship, but she still didn't say a word.
He appreciated this side of her. The side that would swallow her pain if it meant protecting someone she loved. He wondered how much she would suffer for him now, how much she would suffer for him when he was done with her.
He wondered, briefly, if he ever would be done with her.
"I think he's getting worse."
Her voice was brittle, but her eyes remained on his, refusing to break under the pressure he applied, trying to squeeze the truth from her. He could see the sickness swelling within her, the guilt rising up her throat. She wanted to trust him. He could see how she so badly wanted to confess to him, but she couldn't. Not without shame soon setting in her bones. It was a bitter temptation, to want to see her authentic self, but only for it to be followed by regret.
He didn't want her to regret him.
He wanted to see her exposed, for her to offer that tender heart, so raw and pure, of hers to him without resistance, without shame.
She wasn't ready.
"Will you tell. . ." Jack, Alana, anyone. He could see her fears, how petrified she was at the possible cost of her honesty.
"No."
It wouldn't do well for Will's becoming if he was treated for what Hannibal was exploiting.
"Why?" Her voice was tight. She was trying to regain her composure, to look stronger than she was, less confused than she was. "Shouldn't you- you're his doctor," she argued, her eyes flickering to the ground, to him, trying to sort through the dissonance. "You're-I. . ."
He moved closer, taking note of how she didn't shy away, how her eyes, however much distrust and doubt was forming, softened when he reached out a hand, touching the side of her face. His touch was light at first, but gently pressed into her cheek - or was she leaning into him? - quelling her quickening thoughts. He forced her to look at him, drawing a thumb over the scar above her cheekbone.
"I am his friend, just as I am yours," he promised, leaning his head forward ever the slightly, allowing her a better look into his eyes, as though to show her his honesty, his genuinely, the kind he wanted to see from her. "Trust that the choices I make, however unethical they are, hold my best intentions." His and no one else's. "Can you trust me?" Trust me.
When she turned her head away, he nearly felt a hot and angry breath threaten to leave him, but then she looked back. Neither of them breathed, both waiting to see what the other would do, what the other might say. One, out of curiosity, the other out of uncertainty.
"Yes," she answered.
He didn't move for a moment, just watching her as her answer settled, the hot breath her answer left her lips with catching in the freezing air, slowly dispersing.
How many times would she accept his invitations?
How many times would she choose to eat the same seeds he offered her?
How many times would his lips curl upwards in pleasure at her going beyond her fears for him?
When he stepped away, he saw her shoulders move as her legs shifted, weight changing sides. Her expressions indecipherable, not because she was hiding them, but rather that so many were stirring within her. He would take his time tasting each one of them as he drawed her out.
"Come. I find that a warm meal can heal some of a wounded heart."
He offered her a hand, but she shook her head, looking towards the direction where they parked.
"You go ahead. May I have a few minutes alone?" she asked, trying to sound polite, but more strong. She, at least, had her politeness. She shook too much from the cold to look conventionally strong. "I just need a few to collect myself," she added, this time imitating his earlier actions, tilting her head forward, silently showing that genuine honesty he craved.
"Of course."
Prior to leaving her, he removed his coat, not even looking at her to ask for permission when he walked around her. Only when he was out of sight, he looked up. As much as she trusted him, he could still see the rise of her shoulders. She was responsive, even in her silence. One simply had to pay close attention.
Though he placed a warm coat over her shoulders, she looked no less cold, not relaxing even as she was wrapped in a symbol of his protection, as if she still could not quite understand him.
One day, he promised. When we both cast aside our suits, exposing our true natures.
In his absence, Bella cast her eyes down, not moving, not knowing how to.
She would have been alone, trying to do as she promised, sorting her own thoughts, her own emotions, but she heard footsteps followed by the sound of something - someone- hitting the ground.
She moved quickly.
She was turned around in a second, on guard for whoever might be responsible, her weight resting on the balls of her feet, readying to run, but her adrenaline began to plummet with each blink as she batted her lashes, trying to clear the scene before her.
A woman in all black, on the ground, eyes shut tight, clutching the arm she likely broke her fall with.
"Jesus," Bella muttered under her breath, quickly moving to help the woman. "Are you okay?"
As she came closer, the details of the woman became more clear.
Dressed in black, she was still something vivid. She was thin, a long and slender body showcased by tightly fitted clothes. Bella would have had to be blind not to notice her fitness. When her eyes flickered upwards - only after a few short seconds - she took note of the woman's dark hair, an inky black, and dark eyes, almost too wide and awake, too ravenous, but all the more captivating.
Her previous self might have felt a stronger rush of excitement, the kind that came with an encounter with a woman with dark hair and dark eyes.
I have a type when it comes to women, she thought inwardly, trying to excuse the loss of thought she felt when the woman gave a weary smile.
"I'm fine," she answered. She raised the arm she once cradled close to her chest. "Bumps and bruises never did hurt too bad," she promised with a friendly smile, trying to rid of the worrisome crease forming on Bella's brow. "Gotta watch out for the ice, though."
Bella's eyes flickered to where the woman came from, the entrance was just solid cement, just barely containing traces of ice and snow that came with the morning.
She raised a questioning brow at the woman, who simply rolled her eyes playfully.
"I just have rotten luck," the woman sighed dramatically, flashing a smile afterwards to show she wasn't too hurt or humiliated. "You just going to stand there or are you going to help a girl out?" she asked, cocking one of her own brows upwards challengingly.
Bella huffed, but felt the heaviness in her chest lift, as she reached a hand out, rolling her eyes casually, mimicking the familiarity the stranger gave her, feeling a lightness return to her.
The feeling didn't last.
In the short time she allowed herself to roll her eyes, she lost sight of the woman. She didn't know what happened until she slammed against the harsh concrete.
The bright and hot pain in her skull masked the burning in her arm.
She couldn't see straight, but she could make out the blurry outline of the woman, crouched above her, something in her hand.
Bella, one hand shakily pressing against her head, trying in vain to sooth the pain, the other pushing her upright, body twisted, trying not to fall back, head first, onto the ground. It takes her a moment - or more, she couldn't tell time - before she makes out what the woman is holding.
That is when Bella notices the burning and reaches for her shoulder.
The ache is dull.
Everything is dull.
But its there.
It's there, and as everything begins fading, Bella looked back at the woman who, with stronger arms than hers, begins to pull her languid body up.
Her eyes, against her will, began to fall close, and the last thing she heard was her own slurred words.
"Did you just. . ."
Yeah, so Bella was distracted this go around and it has consequences.
I'm not sure if this chapter comes a cross a bit back and forth, but I really wanted to include a bit of softness about her home life (you know, before going back to how Will's health is going down the drain because of someone). Don't worry, this isn't the end of Bella and Will, just a reminder that Will is coming undone.
You'll see more of him next chapter. I plan on having more for his point of view as well as Hannibal's. So you're going to see just how well Will handles what he's done - even though it wasn't his fault - and what he has to do. Hannibal's will not be as paranoid. I feel like it isn't in his nature to be as much of a worrywart as Will is, but he will definitely want to see how things play out.
ALSO, next chapter you will officially be meeting what I'm thinking of calling the Dollmaker.
I'm not sure how much I want to say about how that will go down. I do just hope I haven't, shall we say, pushed this fic and I off a cliff?
Poor joke, I know.
Anyways! I'm sorry for the over a month wait. I lost the first write of this - when will I learn to save more than one copy? - and had to rewrite, which is why I feel like it didn't really come together - I know I say this all the time, but honestly, I'm paranoid.
If you liked this chapter, thank you! I'll be glad if I'm wrong.
If you didn't like this chapter, I'm sorry. I'll make things right or will die trying.
Please, don't be afraid to leave me what you think. I really do pay to mind the things you say.