All rights to Hannibal (TV) belong to NBC.
This chapter is dedicated to paninihead and Anna.B. I was stuck in a block and then I reread your comments and it motivated me because you two are picking up on stuff and it makes me feel validated as a writer.
Special thanks to Codenameyikes, Pretty-Little-Crazy, and Skyxcx for your support!
Also, please read end of the chapter notes.
Will Graham's House, Wolftrap, Virginia
He felt like he was drowning when their eyes met.
One last parting glance before she walked out of the door.
No kiss on the lips. No gentle touch on the cheek. No words.
She did this nearly every day after he stayed the night home. He wondered, briefly, if it were on purpose. A silent warning, a reminder that she could leave. It wasn't on purpose though. He knew that. He knew that she needed one last glance as much as he did. Maybe even more. It did nothing to comfort him, however.
There was still a divide. Less of a wall between them than a veil. They could even touch the other. They could hear the other. They could make out the shape of the other. But there was something thin still between them. Something they could not fully ignore. Yes, they lied together at night, broken and tired, but every morning they parted ways.
One last glance.
He stored each glance in his mind.
He remembered what she wore. Today, like every day since the storm, she wore her own clothes, somewhat fashionable and sharp pieces he didn't remember her buying. She took to wearing her own clothes more. Even at night. She no longer wore his shirts. He never imagined he would miss seeing someone else in his clothes. Although, he did suspect it had less to do with it being his clothes and more to do with her wearing her longer ones. He missed seeing her legs. He missed seeing her bare shoulders. He missed touching her.
He wondered if the last time he touched her would be the last time he ever would.
He remembered what she left in.
Her car. He didn't ask when she decided to get one. He didn't ask where she got it or how. All he knew was that he left for three days and when he came back, she had a car. He wanted to ask her where she was going, but he no longer felt it were his place to ask. She didn't ask where he was going. She wanted to. He knew that too. Yet, she didn't ask. He couldn't.
He remembered what she took with her. A bag. He didn't know how heavy. He didn't know what was in it either for the same reasons why he didn't know where she went.
All he knew was that she left and that it hurt every time.
He still winced when he heard the door shut behind her. His feet shifted, itching to chase after her. He doesn't. He sat there and tried to focus on his current case. For once, he preferred working. He was only partially successful. The details pulled together wrong. The images of the crime tangled with his memory when he closed his eyes.
Eyes shut, he saw himself holding her—clinging to her— with blood on his hands. She held onto him just as tightly. There were specks of red at the corners of her mouth. He remembered wiping at them; he remembered his horror when her skin sliced open.
His eyes snapped open.
He had to wash his hands until they were raw.
That nightmare stayed with him.
He once thought to go to Hannibal. He could make the drive there and back before she usually got home. He didn't know why the thought of getting home before her came. He didn't have anything to hide. However, neither did she. Or did they?
They didn't.
He realized that after the second day. Now, they were going on a month. It was both a day and a lifetime of separation.
The second time he considered going to Hannibal (excluding the times when he unknowingly found himself in the man's office or home), he realized that she might be going to him as well. It left him uneasy. He didn't want to put Hannibal in a place between them. He didn't want to make Hannibal choose a side. Was there sides?
No.
He realized that after a week. They weren't fighting. How could they when neither wanted or had grounds to?
Yet here they were.
Alone.
Together but alone.
That night he caught her. Or, at least, he felt as though he did. He was ready to break the silence, to tear his way through the veil to her. He missed her. He missed her in a way he forgot he was capable of. He missed her in the way a person missed their late partner.
But she was here.
And so was he.
She came out of the bathroom. He was already ready for bed. He expected her to be dressed in her pajamas. Long sleeve and sweats. Instead, she was dressed for dinner. Her hair was styled. Her clothes too—she wore a sand colored blouse and high-waisted, wide-legged trousers. It was entirely different from the morning's dark neutral long sleeve and black pants. She even wore a dainty necklace. A single pearl hanging on the end of a thin gold chain.
"W-where are you going?" he heard himself ask.
She looked surprised. Not offended that he would ask. Just startled by the sound of his voice, by the shattering of the silence between them.
"Dinner."
He drew back slightly, confusion written across his tired face.
"Hannibal is having Freddie, Abigail, and I for dinner."
Not only was he thrown by the reminder of Abigail, but the knowledge that Hannibal had not invited him. That stung as much as their last glances.
She saw how her words cut him.
"He wanted to invite you. I just..." She didn't know how to invite him. "I didn't want to."
"You didn't want to invite me?"
"No!" She said it so quickly, the shock was overwhelming. He could only blink. It took her hands, her cool fingers curling around his own, to pull him from such shock. His eyes flickered from their hands to her eyes. For the first time in a long time, he felt himself breathe easier.
So that wasn't the last time he would be allowed to touch her.
"I didn't want to force you to make a decision."
She let his hands fall from hers.
"About what?"
Both fell silent. Neither looked away.
She saw he genuinely did not know. He saw that it pained her to confront what she thought he should.
"The future. Our future." That brought a frown to his face. Her face matched his. She twisted in her spot, uncomfortable. Everything she kept to herself threatening to spill free. He once wondered if he would feel satisfied to watch her squirm, but now he knew he didn't. He never would. Her distress was akin to a bird when trapped in a cage.
Bella did not deserve to be in a cage.
He forced whatever tension he held in his body to lessen, not that it was hard to. She had a way of making him slip into honesty as easily as slipping into water would be.
"I thought I made myself clear that morning."
He genuinely did. All this silence and distance only made him all the more certain that he didn't want her to go. She was as much his home as he was hers. Why it has taken so long to admit that, he didn't know. He supposed that it might be because he was never in this place before: having someone.
"You did then," she acknowledged, turning her head away with a distrust she did not want to feel. He could see that there was far too much backing it to be only him.
She turned her eyes from him, ashamed.
He held his suspicions as to why—his own loss and bitterness over it all was enough to give him shame.
"It wouldn't be the first time someone told me to leave."
He felt it then. A wave washing over him. His eyes fell to the ground, but hers lifted. He could feel them, searching him, wanting so badly to meet his.
She had been hoping to reach him this whole time. Not fully knowingly, but she was. All those last glances were questions. Chances for him to tell her if he wanted her gone.
He shuts his eyes tight guiltily. In that moment all of the suppressed anxiety about her leaving him became real. She would have left. She would have gotten in that car and driven away if he asked that of her. What left him wounded was the thought — her thought — that he would ever want that. He didn't. After everything since, he doubted he ever would.
"This whole time..." He opens his eyes. He felt his lips lift into a grimace or a smile. He didn't know whether he should feel relieved or worse than he did before.
He saw her then, staring in confusion. Her brows worried. Her brown eyes wide, searching for meaning. He should have been worried for her then, but he was too taken by the mistake of it all.
Eventually, her distress overcame his shock. He found his way back to himself and her. She didn't deserve to remain lost any longer than he had.
It was with a hopeless and sorry smile that he shook his head, saying, "I never wanted you to go."
He could see how his words hit her. He saw the quiet breath she drew in, the hesitance in her eyes. The truth of his words washed over her. Not like a wave. Like shower water. Cold at first. Her body became tense, unsure of how to respond. But then, the words like water become warm. They run over her, washing away all the ugliness. It left her feeling clean. Cleaner than she had that very morning. She was near motionless in her recovery, but she did.
She still looked surprised. "You didn't?"
"I don't think I ever wanted you to go," he said, his shoulders sinking. Hearing himself say it aloud was a relief. The unseen veil between them tore in two. Finally, he knew what to do. He was no longer lost. "I was angry that you didn't tell me about Abigail. I felt betrayed."
Her face turned ashen, yet she refused to break on that note.
"It wasn't for me to tell."
He thought about arguing then. He thought that he might explain that he wouldn't have given Abigail up, but when he saw her face, her torn expression, and he realized the secret kept was truly never about him. She carried secrets like scars. She refused to give them up without blood.
"It just feels like you didn't trust me."
A sound came from the back of her throat.
"It wasn't my place," she insisted, frowning with more determination in her eyes than he would have expected.
He felt useless and guilty. He apologized genuinely; the fact that she would not give one in return shouldn't make him feel as deprived as he did. He was not entitled to one. He knew that. Still, he felt insulted.
He swallowed that. All of it. It felt like a rock down his throat, but he meant what he said before.
"I don't want you gone."
"I don't want to be gone."
"But what if we don't have it?" He wanted to lie down and go back to that night. He wanted to ignore the problem. "Trust."
"I trust you," she tried relentlessly. "More than anyone."
"Do you?" That was insulting. He might have apologized for that, if not for her own resolve bleeding into his.
"Yes!" There was a shift in her tone. A sharpened edge to her voice as she stared at him, lips pressed tightly together. "You think I wanted to keep this from you?" No. He didn't. He just wanted her to hurt like he did. "I didn't betray you." She straightened her spine, squaring her shoulders. The look of surprise in her eyes told him that she only just came to that conclusion. "I didn't." Those very eyes hardened. He hated it. He never wanted to be on the receiving end of such a look. "If you want to believe that I did, fine."
She started towards the door.
He panicked.
"Don't-" His fingers brushed against the fabric of her blouse. He drew back as though it burned him. He had no right to make her stay; he had no right to stop her. "D-don't go." He badly wanted her to stay.
God. He wanted her to stay more than anything.
She turned back to him, crossing her arms. He saw then how badly she wanted to.
"I won't stay here and be punished," she told him. "I love you. I do. . . But I can't. I won't."
He stood there. Silence ringing in his ears. Numbly, he nodded.
There was nothing he could do to make her stay.
Nothing except forgive her.
Why couldn't he forgive her?
He tormented himself with that single question, unable to stop.
Port Haven Psychiatric Facility, Baltimore, Maryland
Abigail wiggled her toes, gazing at the fresh nail polish.
A fleshy pink. It was entirely girlish and unlike what Abigail, even when she was considered a normal teenage girl, would have chosen, but she liked the cool feeling of the polish. She shifted, causing the head of blond hair to look up from her feet. Blue eyes met blue.
"Something wrong?" Emily asked, wide eyes boring into Abigail's with a stunning and near-convincing amount of concern.
Abigail shook her head silently. Emily watched her a few seconds too long before going back to painting her nails. Abigail, not for the first time or the last, began to wonder what they were doing.
They weren't friends.
Emily wanted to be, though. At least, she made it seem like she did. With her pearly white smiles and her slow blinking eyes pleading for Abigail's attention. She wanted to charm her, something Abigail imagined she was rather good at with everyone else. She was sweet. Sugary sweet. Honey sweet. Sickly sweet. She would run her cool fingers through Abigail's hair, murmuring compliments as she braided it. Sometimes she would slip a flower into Abigail's hair and preen as though it were in her own.
She was perfectly practiced, which made Abigail all the more certain there was something wrong with her.
It made Abigail miss Marissa. She missed the way Marissa and her would paint each other's nails, while sucking on sour lollipops and watching something forgettable on the TV. She missed the way Marissa's face would twist whenever Abigail said something she didn't like. She missed the way she would roll her eyes. She missed the honesty in their friendship.
"Pretty and pink!" Emily announced, looking to Abigail for approval.
Abigail only nodded with a weak smile.
"You don't like it?" Emily asked. There was a flash of something in her eyes but Emily buried it before Abigail make out its shape. A glimpse of her true feelings before her babydoll like mask slid back onto her face. When Abigail didn't respond in time, Emily frowned. Frustrated, then a rather believable sadness. "You don't."
She wanted Abigail to feel guilty.
Instead it only made her feel tired and irritated.
Yes, she would take imperfect Marissa over perfect little Emily every time if she could.
"It's pretty." Abigail's words sounded like lies they were. "I like it."
Abigail was starting to think she hated Emily.
"You should paint mine. We can match!"
She was also starting to think Emily hated her too.
"Sure," Abigail breathed, making room for Emily. Emily nodded eagerly, climbing onto Abigail's bed. Abigail moved so she could put her little feet on her lap. Emily near shoved the bottle into her hands, a toothy grin on her cherubic face. She waited, excitedly and expectantly as Abigail resumed the character she never wanted to be cast as.
"I'm glad you're here," Emily said. "None of my friends come to visit me anymore. People don't want to talk to you when you remind them of something terrible."
"What did you do?" Abigail wanted to ask. Instead, she hummed, keeping her eyes on Emily's nails.
"You know what that's like," Emily continued. Abigail's hand stilled. She looked at Emily, frowning. Emily stared back, completely unbothered by the sharpness in Abigail's eyes. "You're all alone here."
"People visit me," Abigail said, going back to Emily's nails. Her steady hands purposefully moved the brush with a childish and petty sloppiness.
"You're getting it on my skin!" Emily whined.
"Sorry."
Emily bristled at her lack of care. Crossed with Abigail, she continued.
"I meant people who actually care about you. Not doctors or cops."
"I have one doctor. Alana Bloom."
"What about Lecter?" Her smugness nearly distracted Abigail from her fear. "I heard that woman - the curly haired one - call him 'Dr. Lecter.' You say he's not your doctor. What's he? Your dad?"
Abigail thought back to a time when she wanted him to be her father. She still somewhat did, but her fear - his threats - made her too scared to continue to play into the role of a daughter.
The dream was broken. All that was left was a frightening reality.
"He saved my life." He just might end it too.
"What about the weird one? He reeks of law enforcement," Emily commented, wrinkling her nose.
"He killed my dad."
That caught Emily's attention enough to silence her, if only for a minute.
"Did you like your dad?"
Abigail frowned. That wasn't what she was expecting. She expected sympathy. Maybe even pity. She never imagined Emily would ask if she liked her father, if she wanted him gone, if Will was as much a hero as Hannibal. Abigail wondered if that was the imperfect part of Emily. Maybe Emily had someone like her father. Not a cannibal, but something just as ferocious or someone just as violent. Maybe Abigail wasn't as alone as she thought. Maybe, if she tried, she could like Emily.
"He killed people."
"Shit."
Abigail instinctively pulled the scarf around her neck tighter.
Emily stared at her for a moment. Abigail swore that she saw a twitch at the corner of the girl's lips.
"You wanted him to love you."
Blue eyes met blue.
"God. What did you let him do to you?"
Hannibal Lecter's House, Baltimore, Maryland
She was distracted throughout dinner. There was a heaviness in her eyes, in her movements, in her attention. He was not the only one to notice. She finally woke to the present when Freddie Lounds attempted to take advantage of her distracted state. She turned the conversation on secrecy and exposure to Bella. Bella, at his side and opposite to Freddie blinked slowly, unresponsive at first.
He did not speak on her behalf. He, too, was curious. Though he knew more than he would ever tell, every so often he would catch a glimpse of a memory resurfacing in her eyes, secrets she had yet to share. No memories slipped through her veneer of composure. She continued to eat as though they were discussing the weather.
"There is so little on you before the past year. One would think you didn't exist before," Freddie said, dragging her knife against her plate, demanding attention. Bella only raised her brows with minor interest. Only he, who watched her so closely, could see the guarded nature in her eyes. It was a change.
A small transformation.
She, who once hid her eyes out of fear of someone finding the truth, now stared directly into the eyes of Freddie Lounds, unafraid.
"Or think that you've buried your past," Freddie tried again, leaning forward, a wicked grin on her face as she tried to gouge Bella's reaction. "Deep."
"You've looked into my past," Bella stated. She did not sound frightened, not in the slightest. Was that boredom in her eyes? "Not much buried there."
Not much at all. He could only find broken threads of information, traces to who she once was.
"Just you. . . and your brother."
A crack ran through her composure.
Bella's dark eyes lifted to Freddie's, her whole body drawing back, her spine straightening with a faint crack. Her eyes bore into Freddie's. The journalist was cut by the intensity of her eyes. Her clever blues narrowed, wondering if she found a vulnerable nerve.
"Groundbreaking research," Bella said, taking a sip of her wine. He noted the way she savored the taste, even when receiving Freddie Lounds' bitter words. "I'm certain a journalist of your caliber had to dive to the depths of your respective search engine for that. How many pages did you have to look through? I assume your own clickbait pushed my brother's disappearance to at least page two."
Hannibal hid his grin with his own drink. Another rude remark he would easily forgive.
"I would think that you'd be happy I'm looking into all important aspects of Abigail's life."
"I'm sure my brother's disappearance has influenced her greatly," Bella bit out.
"His disappearance influences you; you are an influence on Abigail."
It was then Abigail looked up from her plate for the first time during the meal. Even she was curious about the subject.
"I didn't bury my brother." Her words were meant to come out with enough certainty and sternness to put the topic to rest, but her eyes brimmed with too much grief and her voice shook with the rush of pain and tenderness of a reopened wound.
"No," Freddie conceded, leaning back into her chair. "Must be hard not having any remains."
Bella said nothing, only drinking what was left of her wine. When she set down the glass, he noticed the red at the corner of her mouth. He wondered then if he would one day let her taste the blood of the woman before her. He imagined she would enjoy it, knowing or unknowing. The way her lips pull back, white teeth ready to bite, told him that she would savor the taste knowingly.
"You don't have to write about her," Abigail then said, big blue eyes almost innocent in the way she plead to Freddie. Freddie smiled easily, her teeth catching the light. She reached for Abigail's hand, a blatant attempt to seem empathetic. All of them saw through it.
"Of course not."
Freddie's knife scraped against her plate as her hungry eyes fell back upon Bella.
"But it's good to have answers to questions people are bound to ask."
It was then that Bella excused herself, leaving the dining room. She slipped away to somewhere—his private study, he would later discover—she could be alone, safe from the claws Freddie Lounds ached to sink into her flesh. This act was not missed by the tabloid blogger. There was an thoroughly smug look to her lips when she noticed the familiar way Bella moved about his home. Most saw his dining room, his parlor, his kitchen. They were all the stages he performed on. Few had the luxury to peer behind the curtain. By the looks of it, Freddie understood this all too well.
She would go on to write down the observation after she left.
And she did leave quickly after the meal, after Abigail and Hannibal gave all she wanted.
As soon as she no longer shared the same air, Bella made herself known once more. Hannibal allowed her to pull aside Abigail, to try to sway her away from Freddie. What might have once become a camaraderie was ruined with Freddie's taste for a truth to twist. Bella was ready to cut the woman clear out of their lives. Whilst Hannibal would rather dispose of her through his own means, he could be satisfied by Abigail going back on this book. Perhaps he could, in turn, forgive her for her betrayal.
He washed the dishes in silence, carefully listening to her warnings. Her murmurs had an edge like broken glass, but they fell on deafened ears.
Abigail believed in Freddie's words.
"This book is about my innocence," he heard Abigail parrot. "This book will protect me. It'll give me a future."
Abigail could have had a future.
She could have had a family as well, but she made her choice. She would face the consequences.
"I can protect you."
He could taste the betrayal in Bella's voice. He could taste the guilt in Abigail's silence.
"My mom said she could protect me too."
Violence and silence.
It was music.
"Do not let her punish you." Quiet and ferocious notes carried his words, soothing her worries, when they were finally alone. Under his eyes only, she unraveled. A glass of red in one hand, the other picking at the edge of his couch, a forlorn look resting on her delicate features. Her eyelids looked heavy with the way her eyes cast down towards the cool and clean wooden floor, lashes casting shadows over her brown eyes. Her pouting bottom lip twitched with the impulse to speak. It was tragic how graceful she wore her grief.
"I was made for punishment." There was a hollowness to her voice. Her eyes moved, allowing him a glimpse at what she was thinking, at where she was at. They were too dark, too far to tell. Memories from the past confusing themselves into a decided truth.
"To punish or be punished?"
With one look into his eyes, she was back in the present. Her brows tugged downward, new thoughts clouding her sight. She never considered there was a choice in the matter. She was a woman ruined by grief, she always assumed her body was meant for scars, never once considering the scarring. It should have disgusted her, how quickly a yearning bloomed in her chest. How easily, she could have struck back at Abigail, at Will, at everyone who's guilt she bared. She replayed their interactions, picturing how they would shoulder the blame. Fragile.
A cruel sense of pride filled her. She raised her glass, not once looking away from him, as her lips began to pull into a crooked ghost of a smile.
His own lifted in response.
Maybe.
"Will is angry with me," she confessed, eyebrows raising as if his anger was ill found. She remembered his pain as if it were hers. Maybe it was. She could feel it pulling at her, so gutteral and desperate. The realization that someone was not as a person so desperately wanted them to be. "I am," she wanted to tell Will. She wished to wipe away this stain on her character, to bring back his hopeless smiles. But wishing did nothing for her. So, she tucked those hopes away under bitterness.
Hannibal nodded, keenly remembering the overwhelming sadness in Will's eyes. "Tell me why you know" rung in his ears along a pleading and forgiving,"Why?" He knew why. He, with even the slightest and unaware nods, accepted Hannibal's excuse. "For Abigail" is what Will heard. It was what he wanted to hear. What did he want to hear from her?
"He's angry because I won't apologize."
Her resolve was unwavering. That was new.
The woman he first met was a flightly little thing. A wide eyed doe so easily spooked. Beautiful and fleeting.
Who was she now?
She still carried that same girl full of self loathing and fear. She still wore her grief. She drank it down like the smooth and semi-sweet wine almost gone from her glass. Yet, there was something new. She was still raw, still somewhat broken, but she was coming together.
It excited him enough to smile, a smile that she mistook for his blessing. Her chin even lifted, a satisfied and low burning brightness came over her.
"Will sees the best in you."
As if anyone did not notice the hopefulness that became him where she was concerned.
"What do you see?"
Hannibal pulled himself up then, his back aligning perfectly. She was familiar with the sight, the drawing upwards, away. Not so much because he was afraid of someone seeing him, but because he wanted to see them clearly as they saw him. How did she see him?
He had seen her many times before. Yet, as she looked at him now—the rosy color to her cheeks, the parting of her lips, the severity of her eyes, the way they lifted with just as much interest as he held for her—he felt a warmth bloom within his chest. Pleasant and dangerous. It spread throughout his body, firing through each nerve, a rush of energy.
The only movement he gave was the rise and fall of his lips and the single word: "You."
Something pooled into her eyes. Her jaw clenched. Where his body did not betray a single thought, hers moved with a storm. From her head which turned away, giving him a chance to admire the smooth slope of her nose or the length of her neck, to the tips of her fingers, which tightened around the glass, which dug into the fine fabric of his couch.
He reached for her. He drew her hand, a scarred and calloused hand, and her attention back to him. He held it firmly with one; his other tracing the lines of her palm.
"He's a good man," she murmured, staring at their joint hands. Hannibal hummed. Whether it was approval or disapproval, she did not know. Regardless, her eyes fell, shutting tightly. She took a heavy breath, letting the feeling of being touched overwhelm her. "I never had to be good," she breathed, shaking her head, eyes still shut. He did not answer with words. He, instead, ran his thumb over her knuckle. He remembered the bruises and broken skin after she fought Tobias Budge with fondness.
His mouth did not move, but there were words he wanted to say. She could feel it in the way his motions still, in the way his eyes searched hers. She might have turned away from his gaze again, but she enjoyed it. Letting someone in, someone who would sooner absolve her of any and all guilt than let her swallow one more ounce of it. It felt good to not have to explain herself. The words were too heavy, any excuse lodged itself in her throat. She could not deliver any apologies to Will. It was only natural he received none either.
But he didn't ask for one.
"What do you want to be?"
It was different from the usual questions she was asked. "Who are you?" "What have you done?" Those were the usuals, but not this.
The words touched her.
And she burned.
PERSONAL NOTE
So, this chapter was originally longer, but incomplete. I decided to break it into two because, well, I feel like its been so long and you all deserve to know that I am not abandoning this.
Life and a lack of motivation sorta had me stuck. I hope this will be the longest you have to wait. I hope to have the other half of the original chapter up before winter.
I know this chapter is short as hell, so I apologize for that as well.
ON THE BRIGHT SIDE, I am planning on starting a different fic, not in the Hannibal fandom at least, so follow me if you're interested. Feel free to message me as well.
END OF CHAPTER NOTE
PLEASE VALIDATE ME with a review. They honestly are the best way to motivate me and keep this story alive.
Thoughts about what happened or what will happen are great. Questions you have, I'd love to keep in mind are good as well. Even if it's just a small one to three words about what you think or feel would help.
THINGS TO LOOK FORWARD TO IN THE NEXT CHAPTER
Will continues to unravel.
Alejandra continues to dig.
Hannibal is paid a visit and gains a new patient. Not necessarily by the same person.