All rights to Hannibal (TV) belong to NBC.
This chapter is dedicated to LisaxDeanshipper97. You wouldn't believe how much you help with my writing.
Special thanks to Imperia Phantomhivefor, Sevotharte, CaptainMC, Anna.B, Dark-Enough-Conspiracy-Theory, LPWomer, acetwolf96, Codenameyikes, and anna5000 for your support!
A few notes before I begin though. One, I changed the rating, so mind that. Two, sometimes things that don't make sense now will later.
Hannibal Lecter's Office, Baltimore, Maryland
She came to his office searching for answers as to what was wrong with Will. Instead, she found herself in the midst of a brutal devastation. Bone crushing blows. Bloody and jagged wounds. Violent screams.
She saw Hannibal and a man. Bruised, battered, bloody. Neither one of them took notice of her. Not as Hannibal, who was, with a surprising grace, expertly avoiding the slashing of a letter opener. The man wielding it snarled - a mix of blood and spit leaving his mouth with the sound. Her heart pounded heavily within her chest, her feet planted firmly on the floor, watching in horror and fascination.
She didn't see Hannibal pick up a pen, but she did see the movement he used with it - tearing the man's forearm open from his hand to elbow. Her hands slapped over her mouth as the man cried out, dropping the heavy letter opener to the ground.
Hannibal's movements grew more furious. There was an unfamiliar look in his eyes - it should have terrified her - when he moved to finish the man off, thrusting the pen towards the man's throat.
When the man lands a sharp blow to Hannibal's throat, a scream ripped through hers.
The man's head snapped in her direction - a primal rage burning in his eyes - for only a second before he lunged at Hannibal, tackling him to the ground.
That is when he noticed her.
From the ground, holding onto consciousness, his eyes found hers.
And she knew.
A cord snapped in her chest, and she moved.
Hannibal felt a swell of pride, distracting him. Tobias struck him three times in the face. The skin on his right cheekbone tore open.
The pain was distracting but not exhausting, yet he feigns a need for recovery, watching their movements - her movements.
She was unpracticed. There was little technique to the way she fought; it was apparent by how easily Tobias deflected her blows. He did not fault her for her brutish and frantic style. Rather, he was pleased by the fury of it all.
She was quick - he forgot how fast she could be - and despite Tobias' experience, she did land a blow. A bruised fist collided with Tobias' chin. Another followed, striking him on the right of his face, sending him back a few steps. Tobias took less than two seconds to recover, diving down, swiping up the letter opener.
Hannibal thought to intervene then, hearing Tobias slash at her - metal cutting through the air.
There was a flash of fear on her face as she tried to avoid the blade. She was near stumbling as she drew closer to the a wall. Her lips pulled back in a wild rage, a roar ripping through her throat as she caught Tobias by the arm holding the letter opener. She pulled him forward, twisting her upper body, using her elbow, hitting him in the head a third time.
The corner of Hannibal's lips twitched.
Tobias' hunched over. In that second, Bella made the mistake of hesitating, and before she could deliver another blow, Tobias swung his arm back out.
Hannibal heard him slice her cheek open before he heard her cry out and fall against a console table. She snatched a book sitting on the table and swung it in front of herself in time to block the letter opener. Realizing it was lodged inside the book, she yanked it aside, driving a fist into his chest.
Tobias grunted, taking only one step away. He grasped onto her should and shoved her into the wall with a loud thud. Not allowing her a breath, he grabbed her by the arm and shoulder, turning and throwing her.
She cried out after hitting the ground, her eyes screwed tight, face twisting with pain.
As Tobias grabbed her by the hair and neck, pulling her up, and drove his knee into her abdomen, he thought to intervene.
Her sounds turned to more towards pain than rage, but she still fought.
In between the punching and the kicking and breaking his other a glass table, Tobias managed to get his hands around her throat, shoving her back against Hannibal's desk.
She howled in pain.
Tobias' hold on her neck tightened, silencing her. She clawed at his face, but Tobias didn't let go. Her hands slow until they drop, weakly pulling at his.
That was when Hannibal intervened.
When Hannibal wraps the crook of his arm around his throat, only then does Tobias let go. As he struggles, Hannibal's eyes remain on Bella. She slid off the desk, crumbling to the ground, gasping for breath.
It was the only assurance Hannibal needed.
Before he could kill Tobias, the man kicked off the ground, forcing them both back. Hannibal's hold loosened. Tobias broke free and began again.
Despite Tobias' growing exhaustion, he landed a few more blows - twice to Hannibal's face.
He tasted blood as he fell back against his ladder, staring down at Tobias, who only grinned.
Hannibal regretted not snapping his neck while he had the chance.
His heart was beating too heavily to hear the drumming of a heavy booted run, but he heard her scream - a battle cry if he's ever heard one.
Unfortunately, Tobias also heard it and took Hannibal's moment of recovery to stop her.
Using her momentum, he caught her by the shoulders and threw her. She hit the bookshelves with a sickening crack, falling to the cold floor, books and two shelves raining down on top of her.
Hannibal hadn't a second to worry for her. Tobias snarling and swinging at him. Hannibal swiftly moved out of the way and behind the ladder, catching his arm on the other side, pulling back until he heard the bones crunching.
Tobias screamed.
Hannibal might have felt satisfied if he were not ready for to be done with it.
With one arm, Tobias swung at him. With his front open, Hannibal struck him in the throat. Tobias fell to his knees, hunching over, coughing, a hand at the newly damaged area.
He was not getting up.
Satisfied, Hannibal's eyes moved to Bella, who was shaking on her hands and knees, trying to get up.
Hannibal, despite his own exhaustion, moved to help her stand, steadying her.
When he looked at her face, he was not assessing the damage done to it, rather, admiring it. It was a mess of blood, bruises, and scars. She would have been a pitiful sight to bare if he had not seen her fight through the bulk of it.
She would have been hideous if not for how she looked at him, how she clung to him by the lapels of his jacket.
Another moment to savor, to memorize, to tuck away in his memory palace.
She was a wild thing.
He knew this when she looked at Tobias, the man who tried to kill him and her - though Hannibal doubted it was the latter that caused the contempt in her eyes. Hannibal, turned his eyes to a heavy metal stag statue sitting on a nearby pedestal, only looking back to her when her eyes followed.
A silent question hung in the air.
She answered by letting her fingers uncurl from his jacket, her hand sliding to his pocket, and in one movement, pulling free his pocket-square and offering it to him
He almost smiled.
He retrieved the statue, walking towards Tobias.
Raising the statue high, he spared her one last glance. Seeing her expression, giving her one last chance to possibly change what what was to become of the man. She only stared back at him, something unreadable in her eyes - yet not an ounce of objection.
Hannibal turned his head back to Tobias, and in a swift violent swing, he brought the statue down, hearing Tobias' skull crack.
Tiredly, he lets the statue fall from his hands.
Something heavier hit the ground soon after.
Turning his eyes towards the sound, he found Bella, standing over a now knocked over pedestal.
Her eyes met his.
And he knew.
Mercy Medical, Baltimore, Maryland
Despite everything, Will looked the worst out of them all.
His expression was of near devastation and sheer relief at the sight of them bloodied but alive.
Hannibal watched as Will drew in a deep breath and held it for a few moments before moving to Bella.
Hannibal watched as the rest of the world faded away for Will Graham.
He only saw her.
Hannibal might have felt a twinge of jealousy if not for the way he looked at her - the way he touched her.
He, with a shaking hand, gently cupping her face with one hand - the other wounded from what Hannibal assumed to be Tobias' work - his thumb tracing below the wound closure strips on her left cheek. Her doey eyes fell closed and her features twisted in a mix of comfort and pain. She melted into his touch.
In all of his years being satisfied with his own solitude, Hannibal was struck with an immense longing.
He needed no comfort, yet he still craved it.
The sound of familiar heavy footsteps drew him from the sight. Jack Crawford was never one to be particularly sensitive to others, especially Will, but he gave them a few moments. Hannibal suspected this gift was courtesy of Jack's own guilt for the third time she was injured by a killer he chased. So, Jack turned his attention to Hannibal. His eyes were narrowed, the slightest bit of suspicion swimming in them.
"How does Tobias Budge, who killed two Baltimore police officers, find himself in your office only to be overcome by a doctor and a..." Jack spared Bella a look of regret and confusion. "-a woman like her."
Hannibal, too, spared her a look, drinking in the sight of her once more.
Jack knew nothing about what Bella was actually like. He saw only the aftermath. The woman with skin in bloom of bruises and dried blood. A woman so fragile in the arms of an even more fragile man. He knew nothing of how she fought. He knew nothing of what she became when he was in danger - her rage was a result of his own importance to her left a pleasant taste on his tongue. Jack did not see how merciless she could be. Jack saw nothing of what she became in those moments.
It took Hannibal one glance into Will's eyes to realize that he did not either.
Hannibal was the sole witness to what she became.
His lips twitched, fighting off the devilish grin that came with such a delicious fruit of knowledge.
"He came to kill my patient," Hannibal stated, his eyes purposefully looking distant - a touch forlorn.
He held little doubt that Jack already knew this. Tobias was not the only one who left his office in a body bag.
"I caught him off guard."
Jack and Hannibal's eyes turned to Bella, who separated herself from Will.
"How did you come to be there? Like you said, you caught him off guard. Hannibal was in the middle of an appointment," Jack pointed out.
Hannibal fought the urge to sneer. He did not need to show his disgust.
Will displayed enough for the both of them.
"Are you - is this an interrogation?" Will asked, his voice raising, outrage seeping into his words.
"I'm only asking a question, Will," Jack replied, never moving his eyes from her. Bella blinked a few times, turning her eyes away as if in shame. Jack's shoulder drew back, strength found in what he assumed to be a fault in the narrative they told. "Ms. Bennet, why were you at Hannibal Lecter's office?"
Slow seconds ticked by before she answered.
"I was worried..."
"About Dr. Lect-"
"...about you, Will," she cut Jack off with.
Will's head snapped back to her, confusion riddled across his features.
"You've been getting worse."
Hannibal felt a string in his chest pull. A touch of guilt at being responsible for her own near devastation.
It has to be done.
There was no beautiful becoming without pain, and theirs would be made of suffering.
It has to be this way.
"...been sleepwalking more. You lose time! I've tried to work around it and- Will, what was I supposed to do? Just let you keep getting worse?"
They continue in hushed tones, an argument they would have had and resolved in their own little bubble brought before others.
Jack hadn't the decency to appreciate it.
"...I'm... I'm managing it," Will said finally.
He meant to comfort her, to console her worried and tender heart, yet there was only a look of disappointment in her eyes.
She shook her head slowly, tabling the argument for a later time before looking back to Jack.
"I was worried. He's getting worse, so I went to the only person who I know genuinely cares for him."
The word "only" struck Jack hard. His lips parted and snapped shut, swallowing what little offense he could rightfully carry. Even he, to some extent, knew his relationship to Will Graham was not in the latter's best interest. The only one who would push Will farther than Hannibal himself was Jack.
"I still don't understand how Tobias Budge came to your office."
This time Will supplied the answer, explaining how Franklyn suspected Tobias to be the one responsible for the murder at the symphony. Hannibal filled in the rest, describing how Tobias was the one who broke Franklyn's neck; how Tobias attacked him; how Bella arrived and distracted Tobias from murdering him; how they both nearly died and, by a stroke of luck, managed to stop him. He spun a convincing tale, one that ended with an apologetic and shameful averting of the eyes.
Will stared after the man, a glare hardening his worn face.
It wasn't until after Jack was out of sight that his resolve crumbled.
Burying his face in his hands, he let out a heavy sigh before turning guilty eyes to Hannibal.
"I got you involved."
False. Hannibal was the one who mentioned Franklyn's suspicions. Hannibal was the one who walked into Tobias' shop and baited him. Hannibal was the one to invite him to dinner.
"I would prefer to view what happened as inevitable," Hannibal offered with a small and humorous smile. Will gave a broken one in return.
In truth, there was no joke, no humor, just him taking solace in the fact that they were all still alive and well.
Will almost died today too, and the thought did leave a bitterness in Hannibal's chest, one that was lessening with each passing moment.
"I feel I've dragged you both into my world."
Will plucked a piece of gauze off a small cart by Hannibal's bedside. He moved towards Hannibal, not hesitating once before gently dabbing Hannibal's forehead.
"I got here on my own." Hannibal closed his eyes, savoring the almost-vulnerable feeling of being cared for. "But I appreciate the company"
He heard a breathy laugh.
He did not have to look at Will to know he was smiling.
"Personally, I could do without being thrown into a shelf, but its not so bad," he heard Bella joke. He opened a single eye to find her rolling her head back, a few pops sounding off. He wondered then what she might have done if she arrived before. What would she do if she saw him snap Franklyn's neck? She walked away from murder and almost being murdered easier than he would have originally thought. He knew it was not the worse she endured, yet, he still held some doubt of her allowing him to do what he had. What she knew nothing of.
"Not so bad," Will echoed incredulously. "You're making a habit of almost dying at the hands of serial killers. You're becoming familiarized with violence."
She lifted her split lips into a bittersweet smile.
"You say that as if I haven't already known violence."
When Hannibal looked to Will, he could see in the way Will parted his lips that he wanted to say more but held back.
And so, her words hung in the air.
Eventually a nurse came, a young man with blond hair and bright green eyes, happily chirping at how lucky they were that the damage was not worse, that their recovery would be quick but not entirely painless ("Although we'll try to reduce whatever pain there is the best we can," he added encouragingly). He quickly ran through advice on what to do and what not to do. He emphasizes the need for rest.
When they were finally allowed to leave and go their separate ways, Hannibal felt a small hand catch his wrist.
He turned to see Bella, looking up to him with a regretful grin.
"I guess we'll have to cancel that dinner party." He almost mirrored her regret before she continued. "Maybe one with just the three of us."
It would be rude to cancel so suddenly, but he (quite satisfied with this change) supposed they had a valid excuse.
"Maybe Abigail too."
She did not see his satisfaction fall.
Behavioral Analysis Unit, Quantico, Virginia
When she asked Will Graham about his recent absence, his answer sent her reeling.
Every time she thought she was starting to bury her past, it came clawing back to the surface.
But, she allowed it this time. She allowed her former love and care for Bellamy Bennet to return, if only whilst she read through the report.
It was hardly the most violent of scenes, yet, the thought of Bellamy, even as she knew her now - and she barely did - surviving an attack from a man, who bound and gagged a man to a chair before slicing and removing his trachea to insert the neck of a violin, left Alejandra sick with guilt.
In the days since she received her dinner invitation, she had been caught between respecting and resenting Bellamy Bennet. Respect, in that she was demonstrating growth, inviting her to a social gathering - something the old Bella would rather avoid at all costs - to make amends for the wrongs they'd done to each other. Resentment for partially wanting to avoid the woman all together. Alejandra still blamed Bella for the hurt she caused by leaving, but she also accepted the blame for pushing her away to begin with.
It took a shameful amount of courage to decide to go, and an even more shameful amount of indignation at the dinner's cancellation.
And then she found out.
And she couldn't stop thinking about it.
Ever since she first found her - and she was still not over the fact that she found her. Of all places, with the FBI? - she had been feeling haunted. Haunted by the past; haunted by dreams of other lives that weren't as cruel as this one. And this one, she found, was by far one of the cruelest. At least to Bella, Alejandra decided as she tried to pretend to reread over the last of the reports for Kade Prurnell as she walked through to the morgue. Once, years ago, she wondered if Bella was chased by tragedy or running straight towards it.
She still didn't know the answer.
She did, however, know her response then, and she felt an echo of it now.
Even now, if she could, she wanted to spare this stranger of her suffering.
But it wasn't her place now - not that it ever truly was.
When that simple fact sunk in, it almost felt easier to breathe.
She closed her eyes for only a moment, drawing in a slow and steady breath.
And then she was hit with a sharp pain to the forehead.
Her report fell to the ground with the sound of papers sliding and pens clattering on the cold floor. One hand flew immediately to her forehead. The other flew out in front of her, grasping onto the shoulder of who ran into her, steadying her self.
The sound of a laugh is what pauses her irritation and urge to snap.
When she looked, she found herself looking at a woman. Dark brown curls, light and soft looking skin, even softer pale pink lips, and profoundly blue eyes that stared back with an apology that tumbled from her lips only seconds later. It took Alejandra a good half-minute before giving her a, "No. I'm sorry. I should be paying more attention."
"Well, trust me, I wasn't paying attention either," the woman said, her lips falling easily into a look of disgust.
Alejandra raised a brow, watching as the woman gathered her thoughts, censoring them.
"A really bad plan is going to be executed." To this, Alejandra's brows furrowed. She truly didn't need an answer, but she would bite, if only to take her mind off of everything. "Jack Crawford might be placing my patient in danger based on a hunch."
Prurnell will want to hear of this... Fuck.
"How much danger are we talking about?" Alejandra asked as she knelt down, gathering her things. She half expected the woman to as well. When she didn't, Alejandra stole a glance and found the woman looking down on her with narrowed eyes.
"Irreparable."
The answer was pronounced, distant. Suspicious. Quickly snatching the last bits of paper, Alejandra rose, standing tall now. Whatever softness she might have developed was gone with the woman's anger towards Jack Crawford. All of it dissolved into a defensive loyalty. How the man managed to incite such a feeling within his colleagues and associates, Alejandra didn't know.
"I didn't catch you name," Alejandra mused, tilting her head in a convincing-to-the-outsider confusion. She checked the badge on the woman's right breast. VISITOR, it read.
"Alana Bloom," the woman answered hesitantly.
"And how is Crawford placing your patient in danger, more specifically?"
She can see the woman, Bloom, consider answering honestly. Alejandra can all but see the scales of benefits and consequences tilting back and forth. On one hand, Alejandra could be asking out of concern for her patient. The other, Jack Crawford could find himself in trouble. The second was inevitable, not that the woman would know. Though, Alejandra supposed that it should be a given. When a well known person will find plenty the enemy. And Kade Prurnell was one nasty enemy.
In another life she might have found herself with the same amount of loyalty and respect for Jack Crawford as those who worked with and for him.
Not this one.
"A boy," Bloom began carefully, watching for anything insincere in Alejandra's eyes. "The brother of a murder victim confronted my patient, accusing her of being involved in his sister's death. His body was found recently and Jack thinks my patient might be responsible."
Alejandra blinked, waiting for more details.
Bloom gave none.
With a quiet but heavy sigh, Alejandra reached into her back pocket for her phone.
"I could put in a request for a second psychiatrist to evaluate her. If you're truly concerned-"
"He already received his second opinion."
Bloom's voice was flat, riddled with frustration - this time with someone other than Jack Crawford.
"Oh?"
Bloom's eyes softened, a fondness that she could not deny filling into her cold blues.
"Might I ask who?" In truth, she didn't need a name from Alana Bloom. She could ask Crawford. He would hate her for it, rightfully suspecting that she might have caught onto something to send to Prurnell. From Bloom, it would be easier. It left her little room to be the messenger in threat of being killed. Prurnell would be happy and Crawford would have someone else to blame if trouble came knocking on his door.
"Dr. Hannibal Lecter." Bloom recognized the flash of recognition in her eyes, her own narrowing with a polite curiosity. "You know him?"
"Not personally," Alejandra breathed. In truth, her heart and mind lurched forward at the name - a name that kept popping up in the strangest of places. Will Graham's doctor. Bella's friend and likely hero. And now, a consultant. She made a note to look into him later as a strange stirring began in her chest. "I was invited to dinner."
"You didn't go?" Bloom asked, as if the idea of her declining was outlandish.
"It was cancelled," Alejandra corrected with a wry smile. Bloom's lips parted, her eyes far away for a moment. "I assume you know why."
Bloom nodded silently. The ashen look upon her face was telling enough to how she felt towards the doctor: strongly.
"How's he holding up?"
That was when Alejandra saw a spark of - of what she couldn't tell. Unease? Uncertainty?
"I can't imagine it is easy," Alejandra wondered, purposefully sounding sympathetic. In truth, she held no feelings for the man. She would blame her own nature for that, but, in truth, she held unfounded suspicions. She never seemed short of those feelings since she found Bella. Perhaps that was where her suspicions stemmed from. You left me with so many questions, and I've so many more since finding you.
"It's not his fault," Bloom quickly responded, her shoulders rising, prepared to defend the man. Alejandra reminded herself that he killed a man. "It was self defense. He was protecting himself - and someone else." The way Bloom tacked on his saving Bella caused Alejandra's brows to twitch. "He was dragged into-into all this." With the way she said it and surveyed her surroundings with a look of - distaste? - Alejandra would assume he did not often find himself in trouble often.
"By who?"
Alana Bloom's gaze was cloudy with the question she so clearly was asking herself. It was a comfort to know that Alejandra was not the only one trying to sort her way through a tangled mess that was not hers.
"I want to say Jack," Bloom admitted. Her manicured hands that were so tightly fisted unravelled. "But... But it was me." Her shoulders dropped, caving in with the weight of her own truth. Whatever strength she carried vanished; Alejandra's returning as she caught onto a scent. Of what, she did not know. A gut feeling, she told herself. "I was the one who recommended he evaluate Will Graham. He's a-"
"I know Mr. Graham," Alejandra interrupted. Bloom spied a look of reservation crossing the other woman's face. "Is that how he met Ms. Bennet?" She was not asking for Prurnell. She was asking for herself, and she knew it based on how hot her breath was, how she had to slow her words and not appear deeply concerned.
"He evaluated them both."
And they have dinner.
"He's their doctor?"
Bloom could see the confusion written across Alejandra face. A look of understanding came across hers.
"It's not conventional," Bloom began, a wry smile working its way onto her pink lips. "But after everything they've been through, its hard to stay in lines with the typical standards."
Alejandra nodded, trying to look accepting as she took in the doctor's words. She'd only known of what happened with Eldon Stammets, Irene Matlin, and, now, Tobias Budge. One near death by a serial killer was enough, but three? The possibility of there being more caused her stomach to knot. She tried to rationalize with herself, telling herself that any of that wasn't a surprise in their line of work.
But it was.
She could feel it in the way her heart drummed to a different beat, in the way the hairs of her body prickled at this all.
Something was wrong in all of it.
"Of course." A wavering smile on her face, Alejandra nodded at Bloom. "Anyways, I have to go," she excused herself with, motioning towards the morgue.
Bloom gave her a polite smile, much better than Alejandra's own.
"I...I'll see you around, Dr. Bloom."
The smile on her lips faded into a smooth indifference as she circled into the morgue, finding a swarm of crime scene investigators. The morgue has never been busier or exhausted. There are long window sized photos of a grotesque human totem pole, boards of names and details, arrows pointed, circles drawn. At the center of it all was Price, Zeller, and Katz.
When they notice her, they still, staring at her.
"How many?" she asks, moving towards the wall.
"It's hard to say right now," Katz answered.
Alejandra nodded, a sickening feeling returning to her. In her distraction, Price moved to the drawers, opening and sliding one open. The sound caught Alejandra's attention, and she looked. Her stomach dropped.
"Our drawer of heads would say fifteen - but we got a whole one and one on the table, so seventeen," Price said casually enough for bile to rise in her throat.
"Drawer of heads," she echoed, brows furrowed but eyes wide.
Price nodded.
"We're calling it 'Satan's Jigsaw Puzzle," Zeller piped.*
"We're starting with the heads and are working our way from there," Katz explained, holding her hands apart and bringing them closer in a "working inwards" gesture.
Alejandra nodded again slowly before beginning to shake her head.
"The heads are the corners," Price added, as though that would help.
"That's a lot of corners."
"That's what I said!" Katz began before beginning "renaming" negotiations.
Whatever else followed was muffled by Alejandra's own thoughts.
The totem pole murders were surprisingly the least confusing of her visit when compared to Bellamy Bennet, Will Graham, and the strange but present Hannibal Lecter.
Will Graham's House, Wolftrap, Virginia
Her recovery was physically slow and agonizing. Her refusal to take any of her pain medicine was becoming more and more apparent. Especially at night. Each night they spent together was interrupted by pain. He would find himself awake on the edge of her bed, the sounds of her groaning as she tried to sit up. She made a habit of touching him. Fingers curled into his shirt, an arm draped over his chest, sometimes tangling her legs with his. She found her ways to be aware of his sleepwalking - her body as her own alarm to wake her when he did.
She used to be able to guide him back to safety, and he would wake up the next morning none the wiser about his walks.
Now, he knew. He knew why she was so worried for him.
The night before, he woke to the sound of her falling. He managed to get out of bed - her fingers slipping from his shirt. He was walking towards the door when she fully woke. She rushed to get up, and in doing so tripped. She turned in her fall, her bruised back hitting the ground first, her head striking the wooden floor with a harsh crack.
He apologized. Endlessly.
Each time, she told him that it wasn't his fault. Each time she tried to assure him, he was more sure in the opposite.
He was never more sure than when he heard her swear the next morning during her bath.
He knocked on the door to the bathroom, his heart beating heavily - guiltily - with every passing second of silence. Her back was bleeding again. He was silent, not knowing what to say. Thankfully, she was the one to break the silence with the sound of splashing water. Then, he heard her speak in a hesitant voice, asking if he would help her.
He was surprised at how easy it was to do so.
He once imagined that to see her naked - or near naked - would make him nervous. It didn't. It felt almost entirely natural to see her. Her arms crossed over her chest, habitually hunching over out of more pain than emotional discomfort. She bared her back to him, and he saw everything.
He saw the angry breaks in her skin, the dark ranges of colors spreading from them. The darkest were at her lower and upper back, where she'd been crushed onto Hannibal's desk and thrown into his shelf. What drew his eyes the most when gently washing her back was old raised scars among the new. They were catches of silver among the blue and green toned skin. Almost a pattern in how intricate they looked. He was distracted, tracing over them with a finger that he almost didn't realize how painful they must have been.
Almost distracted that he almost spoke the question they brought.
He never spoke.
Yet, she answered all the same.
"They're the prettiest ones I have." She looked over her shoulder, watching his face closely as she drew her legs close, resting her chin on her knee, giving him a better look at her scars. "They're the only ones I wanted." He swallowed, thoroughly caught off guard. "Constellations," she murmured, turning her head forwards, somehow looking into the past. "My brother was obsessed with the stars. He knew and loved them in a way I could never understand. I always wanted to, of course. These were a way to be closer - or, at least, feel closer."
"Would a tattoo not be easier?" he asked as he began to clean the part of her back that needed to be tended to. His words came out almost convincingly casual, but she heard his real question: Would it not be less pain?
"That's not me."
Will didn't know what to say to that. He never had a chance to love someone as she so clearly loved her brother. She would drown in pain if it meant holding onto him. She carried enough of it to last a lifetime. As much as it would and did fade, as much as she could put it behind her, she carried it always.
So he carried on, trying hopelessly to make it easier for her.
And she let him.
And she loved him for it.
At night, while drawing circles around Andromeda, he thought back to the woman he found in a diner off of Interstate 95. The woman with a skeleton of an apartment. The woman who could pack her life away in a box or a luggage bag. The woman who held onto nothing that wasn't a part of herself. He thought back to her and stared at the woman in front of him. This woman who had a very filled home. This woman who leaned into the touch of another rather than shy away from it. This woman who had people to hold onto that were more than just a memory.
He thought of them and pressed his lips to her left shoulder-blade where Andromeda rested.
She shifted as a sigh - light yet heavy - left her.
She looked over that same shoulder, gazing back at him with her dark eyes. She recognized the words in his eyes, and something foreign and familiar came flooding into hers.
She pulled herself upright, the covers with her. In light streaming in from the windows, he could make out her shape. Her shoulders. Her chin. The curve of her spine shifting with each breath. She turned. A leg over his, a hand over his heart. Her eyes stared into his and she understood. Parted lips slowly closing, fingers curling to fist his shirt, she murmered a single word.
"You."
She pressed her lips to his.
He felt feverish.
She was the one pulling up his shirt. He propped himself up, lifting each arm obediently, distracted by the way she so furiously placed her lips on him as it happened. His stomach. His chest. His neck. His lips. He thought to ask her if this - if intimacy now of all times - was what she wanted, but the second her fingers curl over the hem of his shorts the only thing leaving his lips was a heated breath. Words leave hers, and though he cannot make out what they all were, they sound certain.
She peeled off what little she had on. He thought he heard her mumble something about fairness as she did before losing them to the sheets.
He felt almost selfishly warm at seeing her, especially when her face caught the light.
Rosy cheeked, furrowed brow.
She reached for him and found him hard - he almost felt like a fumbling teenager again, trying to find his way. This time when a light breath left her lips, it sounded like a laugh. He blinked a few times and found the corners of her lips lifting ever the slightly before his name left them. The sound was selfishly sweet on his ears - selfishly for him or her, he did not know. All he knew was that he never felt as sweet a relief as when her lips pressed against his forehead.
"You," she said again.
The word sounded like a prayer.
He was invigorated.
He placed his mouth on one of her breasts, trying desperately to give her what she gave him. A tremor ran through her. Whether it was a laugh or a broken gasp, or a bit of both - again, he did not know. He only savored the way she rested her hands on his shoulders, nails biting into his skin.
He ran his hands over her and she let him. Down her spine - minding its tenderness - over her breasts, her thighs, her shoulders. He found Orion easier than he would have ever in the sky.
She tasted him slowly at first. Her softened lips against his chapped ones before she ventured further. She kissed her way from his lips and over his jaw and downwards. His whole body convulsed when he felt her tongue at the crook of his neck.
He felt her teeth when he nearly lost himself - just grazing against his skin, a small bite.
She guided him.
It passed by hard and fast and again.
She clung to him as much as he did her.
He felt hot tears on his shoulder and she felt him shudder.
They fell apart, twisted and tied to each other.
Her leg over his, his arm around her, her head tucked below his chin.
A single word left his lips, and he knew.
"You."
Hannibal Lecter's House, Baltimore, Maryland
He watches her hands as they moved in slow, methodical motions, drying each dish with the attentiveness one would give to a sacramental. He has seen those hands do many beautiful things. Preparing a liver. Flipping through the pages of Faust, Part One. Pulling free a piece of cloth that would give him deniability. She used those hands to hold a knife and fork an hour ago to cut into the heart of a young man that interrupted one of their grocery shopping trips. The man who asked her if she would take a picture with him - he even apologized at first, saying, "You're one of the dolls right? Bellamy Bennet? I'm sorry, but can I take a picture with you?" She politely and uncomfortably declined. Not a word reached the man who carried on, prattling on about how "inspiring" she was to have "survived that crazy bitch." He moved close to her and snapped a quick picture. He gave a tasteless "you look so pretty in person" before trying to make off with the picture.
He would rather her cut the man open herself, but she was not ready. A heart would have to do.
"Staring is rude." His eyes find her smiling lips, amusement not quite reaching her eyes. "Though, I suppose I'm just as guilty."
He noticed the lack of guilt in her voice - the lack of guilt in general.
He wonders if taking a life - if participating in taking a life - weighs as heavily on her as Will. He easily recalled how the man burst into his office the night before, carrying an overwhelming amount of disappointment and rage, announcing that Abigail Hobbs killed Nicholas Boyle. He remembered how he confessed to knowing, to talking down Will from revealing the girl. He remembered how he understood in that moment how desperately Will wanted Abigail to be innocent in her father's crimes.
If Abigail was innocent and could walk away from the ugliness of her past, so could Will. But she couldn't. She unearthed her past, knowing it might mean burying him in the process. That enough he knew by the way she dug up Nicholas Boyle's body.
He should be thankful, however. She was at least partially responsible for driving the both of them to him.
"You are forgiven," he assured.
"I'm not looking for forgiveness."
"But you are looking."
She blinked her eyes slowly, as though regarding him, before relenting. "I am," she relented. Her eyes moved back to the dishes, denying him of the quickest way to her thoughts and the pleasure of her full attention. He denied her as well, moving to pour them another glass of wine; his back to her.
They work in silence until she began again. She knew he would not ask a second time.
"Will is sleepwalking," she began. He heard her set the dish down. He heard the sound of her shoes against his tiled floor as she turned. He did as well, only with a drink in hand. She took it with enough gratitude in her eyes to be forgiven. They drink to an unspoken truce. No more denying - for now. "He's slipping."
Fading. That was the word he used the last time he and Hannibal had an official meeting.
"I try to stop him - to help him." It was out of her control. He pitied her knowing full well that Will's worsening condition was by his hand. "It's not enough."
He could see guilt eating away at her in the way it ate at Will, who was not only trying to hide his growing encephalitis (not that he even knew it) but for keeping Abigail a "secret." "She loves Abigail... And Abigail loves her. I can't take that away from them," Will decided, not realizing that it would be near impossible to do anyways. If there was one thing Hannibal was certain of, it was her willingness to kill or die for the ones she cared immensely for.
He was proud to be one of those very people.
"Do you worry that you are not enough?" She would never be. Her hands could create and destroy beautiful and dangerous things, but not even they could save him from that.
"No. I'm not blind," she easily disputed. She never thought herself to be enough for anyone. She never wanted to be. "I worry he will not care to find out if anything will be enough. He's not even considered going to a doctor."
Hannibal raised a brow.
"A non-psychiatrist," she clarified, not rolling her eyes but her stare felt as though she might as well have. "He's getting worse and-and I need him to not... I need him," she admitted, setting her drink aside.
She looked to him as she did when she arrived on his doorstep on that snowy night.
"Can you help him? Just get him to seek other help."
She looked at him as though he were the god to bring Will deliverance from his breaking reality. It brought an aching regret to his heart. She could not see it yet. His breaking was his deliverance.
He could not answer her in the way she wanted, but he could give her what she asked.
"I can."
The look of blessed relief washed over her features. Her eyes, gazing up at him with a bright gratitude, a hand loosely holding a knife, the other resting against the cutting board. He could memorize the slight curve of her parted lips, the tension of them when she drew in a breath to speak, the way they relaxed when nothing but a breath passed between them. Hannibal was struck by the contrast to the woman he first met. The one with downcast eyes full of longing, hiding within herself, a frightened femininity. He found pleasure in the sight. Eyes awake, facing forward not turning her head away, tension within her.
She was lively again.
They ate at a leisurely pace in the quiet. Not full silence, but their voices locked in a slow and quiet murmur, discussing the things they've found, experiences outside in their individual lives, events they look forward to (Mrs. Komeda asked him to invite her to see Don Quixote). He allowed himself to retire his person suit. At some point, he said something innocuous and trivial. He should have been disappointed by the magnitude of her reaction, but the genuine smile on her face?
He wore it on his own.
"And Abigail?"
His face was smooth, not allowing her to see an ounce of betrayal he felt or the rage he felt at not yet knowing how to separate the girl from the life he wanted for them. Abigail could have fitted perfectly into that life, but she made a choice.
She made a choice and would have to suffer the consequences.
"I promised you Abigail."
"She's still in the hospital."
He searched her face for any defiance, for any challenge or distrust she might have carried at his yet unkept promise. He found none. Instead, he found patience. She fully believed in him and his promises.
"For now," he assured with one last bite.
The heart was ruined with bitterness.
Port Haven Psychiatric Facility, Baltimore, Maryland
Abigail gravitated to her protector. She could not bare the weight of Will's kind yet distrustful eyes or that of Hannibal's disappointment. Instead, she latched onto the older woman. She clung to her tightly. She hid her suspicion of the two behind big blue fearful eyes. Hannibal's were too sharp to miss it. Will saw it too, but he softened when Hannibal did not. When she pulled away from the hug, she kept her hands on Bella's as if that would tether her to Bella's life.
As if it would protect her.
"What happened to you?" Abigail asked, genuinely concerned. He and Will were an after thought, a flicker of the eyes. Bella didn't answer, and when Abigail realized she would not easily give one, she took it as an insult. She, too, knew nothing of Bella's becoming. "You can tell me. I'm not a child." She was not a stranger to violence. She was both an observer and a participant.
"Wrong place, right time," Bella answered as honestly as she could. "Someone tried to kill Hannibal."
Abigail gave a look of concern. It was genuine, only not for his wellbeing. She would miss him if he died, yes, but that was one less person who knew her secret. He could forgive her for that. Perhaps only that.
"Did you kill him?"
Her words land on Will bluntly, heavily. Before he knew what he did now, he might have thought her anxious, worried for their safety. He knew what she did. He suspected why she did as well, but the curiosity in her voice left Will's ears ringing.
He looked to Bella then, briefly entertaining the thought himself. Would he forgive her if she had? Would he forgive her if she lied about it? He absorbs the thought - a scene playing out before him of her, his scar faced partner slamming a stag statue over the head of Tobias Budge with a smile. What is unsettling is how he is unbothered by the thought. What is unsettling is how he only wanted to hold her all the more.
"No."
Despite his readiness to accept the opposite, had it came to pass, Will's shoulders relaxed some. She missed this, but Hannibal didn't.
He was watching Will just as closely as he did her.
He could see Will watching the two as their conversation switched to an offer from Freddie Lounds. Abigail avoided both Hannibal and Will's eyes as she considered the offer - she wanted to change what people thought of her. That was true. All of them saw how she faired under the eyes of those who saw her as guilty. The only lie that left her lips wanting "everyone to know the truth."
It was then Will's face changed.
"That's a bad idea." It wasn't discernible, whether it was concern for Bella's, Hannibal's, or Abigail's involvement in the overall story that troubled him. Regardless, Will draws a line, warning her of what was to come if Abigail continued. "If you do this, you'll be giving up all of your privacy."
"Ours as well," Hannibal warned.
Abigail's face twisted. She looked like the teenager she was as she crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair away from the two. Her head turned to the person she trusted most, calling on her.
"Mine's already gone."
"Abigail," Bella sighed, a bruised hand reaching out to the younger girl. She took her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "It's not."
The certainty in her voice sparked suspicion in Will. Head tilting away, eyes still focused on them. Did she know? Would she have kept this from him?
"Everyone will forget about this."
"Cannibalism isn't the easiest to erase from a person's image," Abigail snapped back. Bella only blinked patiently. "Besides," Abigail began again, sharp eyes looking to a man she might have seen as a father. "It's not like either of you have anything to hide. No one's calling you a cannibal or an accomplice to one. . . Not when you fire ten bullets into one."
There was a vicious defiance in her eyes, a grudge she had yet to acknowledge baring towards Will as she reminded him of one of his worst moments. She stared at him, just waiting for a seemingly inevitable snap. She truly saw him as herfather at times, and she was tired of hiding from him. Her father. But, Will's face fell and her heart softened.
She wanted to apologize. The right corner of her pouted lips twitched, but she didn't let the words go free. She was tired of being sorry, of being guilty. She was already drowning in self-loathing and fear. She was near broken, clinging onto old habits, old faces to hide behind.
Instead of apologizing, she went on to talk about her book that would never be published. Hannibal did not bother with the details. Instead, his eyes wandered.
Across the common room, he spied a young girl perfect and poised as she hunched over, picking at the petals of an unfortunate flower. A young girl with her angelic face focused intently on Abigail Hobbs; fascination and frustration swirling in her eyes. Blue like the sky. Her sharp eyes shifted from Abigail to him. Something flashed in those very eyes, too quick to recognize. She tilted her head down, long blond hair falling in front of her face in a stream of curls.
Curious.
Hannibal turned his head away from her, looking back to Abigail. He allowed himself to be drawn back into the conversation.
When they began exchanging goodbyes, he saw the girl once more. Pink lips pressed together, jaw clenched, arms crossed, and one emotion screaming from her pretty blues.
Jealousy.
As he passed by her on their way out, he caught a whiff of envy and violence.
Curious, indeed.
Will Graham's House, Wolftrap, Virginia
Her fingers remained curled around the doorknob when she looked him in the eyes. Her grip did not lessen when they bored into hers, a question he so desperately didn't want to ask rising in his throat. For a moment, just one, she fell back into her old self. An ambivalent self. One that would run, eyes shrieking, heart pounding, feet on the ground carrying her farther and father away from what frightened her. And what frightened her this time? The look of heartbreak in his eyes.
"Did you know?"
His voice was broken. A whisper should have never been as loud.
She waited for him to raise it. She expected him to be impatient. She expected him to break through her, demanding why she would do such a thing. She waited. . . and waited. Will's eyes continued to stare into hers. Lips parted, breath hot as he tried to catch himself. It was then that she realized with wide eyes and a tilting head, that he was not angry. Not at her hiding Abigail from Jack.
"Know what?" she asked carefully.
It was then that she saw his anger. The skin of his face tightened as his brows rose, disbelief written across his feathers. He took a step forward then. The doorknob clicked when she gripped it tighter. The anger drained from his face. Just as quickly, his face reassembled in regret. All he is is tired and sorry in that moment. It left a bitter guilt in her mouth at the same time.
Slowly, she let go of the doorknob. He did not deserve to feel guilt for her easily frightened heart. Moving through the thick silence, she peeled off her coat and scarf, hanging it on one of her hooks. When she turned back to him, she lifted her chin, prompting his response.
"Are we really going to do this?"
He didn't want to fight.
"I would have to know what you're talking about to do anything."
She didn't either.
"Abigail."
The word left his lips in a tired and drawn out breath.
Her footsteps that carried her past him and into the living room stopped.
Neither of them wanted to disrupt the peace they found together.
"Did you know she killed Nicholas Boyle?" he clarified, following her, closing whatever distance she created.
She didn't avoid his eyes. Instead, she looked directly into them, allowing him to see her.
"No."
His face twitched, not being able to settle on an expression. Relieved. Hesitant. Worried.
"We never talked explicitly about him."
Will stared at her, searching her eyes. He wanted to know if this was a deliberate choice. He wanted to know if she kept this from him. Then, he blinked and slowly nodded. This was not unlike her.
"She took a life."
"Haven't we all?"
The truth of it hit him hard. He moved to sit on the couch. A few dogs came flocking to his side, sensing his distress. He allowed himself to run his fingers through Winston's long fur, to scratch behind Buster's ear, to look back at Bella when she settled down beside him.
"We have to lie for her. All of us," he pointed out.
Bella gave a slow and certain nod. He didn't know whether to feel at peace or more conflicted.
"This doesn't have to change anything," she tried, a hand on his wrist. There was fear in her eyes that he found. He understood in this moment why she wouldn't say anything - why he didn't say anything when he found out. They both had something to lose.
But they didn't.
"It does change things," he insisted, but his voice undercuts any gravity he tried to impose on her. He was forgetting his anger, the betrayal that doesn't sit right with him anymore. He may not have told her any time soon, had he not seen her devotion under a new light. She may not have told him either. Even he could not deny how badly he wanted Abigail to be truly innocent. It may have been a daydream to one day take Abigail fishing (she was always smiling in those daydreams. Her biggest were when she would reel in a trout caught on a lure named after him), but he wanted it all the same. "It does change things."
She was silent after that. Her heart sunk. By the way her shoulders drew forward and her chest fell, it almost looked real. The sinking. Her lips parted, a hollowed breath leaving them. She turned away from him, so clearly devastated. For a moment, he thought she might cry.
She didn't.
Instead, she rose from her place and left. Three dogs trailed after her, one of them Buster. He heard the sound of the fridge opening, glass clinking against glass, and then the sound of her footsteps as she passed by. He heard the bathroom door opening and closing. A part of him wished she would have slammed the door, but it's the quiet turning of the doorknob and lock clicking that broke him.
He could hear Heidi and Buster padding back and forth in front of the bathroom door, whining. It's not guilt he felt anymore or blame. It was loss. One of them should be looking at the other with accusations written on the tip of the tongue. That was what normal people did. Place the blame on each other. Though, he supposes he never knew someone quite like himself until her. The self-loathing was like looking in a mirror..
He distracted himself with his dogs and a beer.
She returned to him two hours later. By then he was in bed. Her skin was hot and her fingers pruny. He felt them graze his arm for almost a second before they were gone. The heat too. She pulled up the sheets, turning over on her side away from the middle of their bed. She settled her head on a pillow, the cool cotton warming against her heated cheek. Her breathing was broken, never steady. He could feel her tension without touching her. He felt the aching. The longing.
Eventually - however many hours pass by, he was unsure - he turned over.
He expected her to be cold, clutching the sheet tightly in her sleep. Her legs were drawn upwards, but not entirely to her chest. Her fingers were curled around her own shirt. There was a shattering feeling that accompanied the sight. A long sleeve sweater, covering her arms and back.
It was then he couldn't help himself. He woke her with how the mattress moved when he moved closer. She tensed at first, but melted so easily in his arms. He wasn't the only one who couldn't remain angry.
In the morning, he woke for the first time because of her. She untangled herself from him, quietly walking away. He heard the sound of running water. He was left in a half-dream state. When she came back, she had a glass in hand. Water. He was always thirsty in the morning.
Last night left him feeling worse than a hangover would have. The sunlight hurt his eyes. Undoubtably her still red ones ached at the brightness. Still, gently, she placed a hand on his cheek. Without thinking, he leaned into her touch, placing his own over hers. He heard her breathe. A relieved sigh. His lips curled involuntarily.
She brought the glass to his lips, pouring some in his mouth. He drank readily, left wanting when she pulled it away, gulping the rest. It was then that he got a better look at her. The sweater remained. The silence too.
His fingers curled around hers. She spread hers before trying to slip free of him. He didn't let her go. She gave an entranced expression, an unsure one.
"Will," she whispered. He said nothing. "Do you want me to go?"
Her words struck him wide awake.
"You live here," he managed to choke out.
"I can go," she promised, trying to hide the pain brought on by his words, misinterpreting it as the only reason why he wouldn't want her to leave.
She tried again to slip out of his grasp, but he held on tight. He then pulled her to him. It was a tug-like motion, not entirely sure of anything more than wanting her to stay. She sunk down before him.
"No."
He wrapped his arms around her. Tired, longing arms. He could feel her try again to maintain some rigidity, some distance, but the safety and warmth she felt overcame that.
"This is your home."
Her eyes stung as she understood.
I'm your home.
"I'm sorry," she finally said.
"Me too."
Burying her face in his neck, she breathed him in.
In that moment she knew.
Yes, things had changed, but one thing remained the same.
*Dialogue taken from iZombie. Season 4, Episode 9 "Mac-Liv-Moore"
SO I didn't technically wait half a year before updating!
. . . Sorry.
Anyways, I just wanted to let you all know I am not giving up on this. Updates are coming! Slowly but surely.
Anyways, do leave a review telling me your thoughts! I know this wasn't the most exciting chapter, but it is needed for what I have planned!
No previews for the next chapter. This chapter is your preview if you're a good guesser!
PS: I know I could have introduced the scene with proper narration, but you've all seen the show.