The water rushes over him, soaking his hair and filling his mouth. Droplets of blood sluice off of his skin and clothes, and dye the white porcelain of the shower a pale pink. The blood flows off him. He closes his eyes and tilts his face up against the spray, ignoring the itch that rises in his cheek as the hot water irritates the wound. He remembers the stinging cold water of the Atlantic washing the Dragon's blood off of him, and it feels impossible that it was only last week that he had a completely different life.
In his other life, Will Graham was a husband and father. It was, of course, preposterous. Jack had played along nicely with Will's fantasy of normalcy, but when he'd seen Alana the amusement on her face had been clear, and he'd known she was right, even if he hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. He was hiding in a borrowed life, playing the role Wally's father had left behind when the cancer had taken him. He was her sweet man, even though nothing about him has ever been sweet in his life. He'd let her believe he was good; it was easy, because it was what she wanted to believe. He told himself he was reforming, taking her needs and emotions into account when he told her a heavily abridged version of his past.
But the truth was he just wanted the new sensation of being stable and happy, a good man, sweet, even. It was a costume he had enjoyed, while it lasted. It made the days easier to endure, though at night he'd still had his dreams to swallow and be swallowed by.
The water is a comfort, a pacifying sensation on which his overstrung nerves can focus. He feels each drop hitting his body, the water cascading seemingly in slow motion so that his body can have time to record each motion. He sighs, tilting his head so that the water runs through his hair. Every touch feels amplified, as if he's missing the top two layers of skin, nerves across his whole body exposed and hyper-sensitive, every sense more attuned to the material world, to the way the light bends around his fingers as he raises them into the spray of the shower.
When the world had finally stopped quaking around him and he'd been able to open his eyes, he was staring into Hannibal's blood-soaked face, Hannibal's blood-colored eyes. Hannibal's hand gripped the back of his neck, forcing his gaze. And Will had rejoiced, as the fecund earth rejoices at spring rains, at the new-born things blossoming within him, watered by the shower of Ingram's steaming blood.
Hannibal had forced him, fully clothed, into Ingram's shower, held him under the spray of water until it was clear that Will wouldn't collapse if left to himself, and his mind was starting to clear, even if his body and blood still shrieked with euphoria.
Alone now, Will isn't sure how long he's been standing in his soaking clothes beneath the jet of hot water. He peels his clothes off carefully and rinses the rest of the gore away. When he steps out of the shower, he sees that Hannibal has laid out a change of clothing. He finds a clean towel in the cabinet and leaves his wet clothes on the shower floor.
The Chesapeake Ripper never left evidence, but Will isn't nearly that uptight. He's not worried about evidence, he realizes, because he wants Jack to know he's alive, that he's finally made a choice he can't step back from. Maybe when Jack knows, he thinks, and when they're finally on opposing sides and not in some uneasy half-alliance, he'll be able to relax a little with himself. He's feeling more relaxed, already.
In the living room, Hannibal nonchalantly studies the contents of the duffle bag he'd brought along with them. He's still wearing the same blood soaked shirt, now also damp from the shower so that it clings to his chest and stomach as he moves. Will watches him for a moment, enjoying the disheveled luxuriousness of Hannibal, drenched in carnage and utterly in his element.
"What do you intend to do about the body?" Hannibal asks, without ceasing to rummage through the bag. "If you want to cover our tracks, divert suspicion, we could make this look like a burglary gone wrong." He looks up at Will, a lock of greying hair tipped in red falling across his forehead.
Will frowns. "I don't intend to cover anything up," he says, not missing the glint of approval in the other man's eyes. "Quite the opposite, actually, I was thinking we could...make an announcement."
Hannibal studies him, his expression carefully neutral, but Will can tell he's pleased. He wonders for a moment if he's not playing right into Hannibal's hands, falling for some trick of the doctor's. He decides it doesn't matter; he feels too good for anything else to matter.
"If that's what you want," Hannibal answers. "What is it you plan to announce, Will?"
Will smiles.
If she were anyone else, Freddie would have screamed. Because she is Freddie Lounds, she takes pictures, does a quick, sensational write up, and then calls Jack Crawford. She uploads the photos and article to Tattlecrime while she waits for him to arrive. She works on her laptop in the bedroom, because even with all her ambition, it's uncomfortable being in the same room with it.
When Jack arrives, accompanied by Price, Zeller, and a couple grim faced men in FBI windbreakers, he looks worse than Freddie has ever seen him. And then he looks even worse when she shows him what she's found in her living room.
"Jeez," Price exclaims. "And you didn't hear anything in the night?"
"I'm often asked how I sleep, and the answer is soundly," Freddie tells him.
Zeller shoots her a look. She smiles back at him sharply, and he looks back to his camera, snapping several pictures in a row.
The body isn't anyone she recognizes, and for that Freddie is profoundly grateful. It's hard to tell the age, after what's been done to it, but she can tell it's male, white, and she'd guess mid-thirties. In life he was probably in good shape. In death, sitting on her couch, he's not a shape nature intended.
"Body appears to have been bisected post-mortem," Zeller dictates. "Knife wounds to the left latissimus and across the throat were probably the cause of death, the killer..." he stares through the camera for a long second, "the killer probably used some kind of table saw to get the body to cut this easily. It's...similar to what happened to Beverly." He swallows thickly. "Body was sewed back together with red wire thread. Stitches look surgical."
"Does he look familiar?" Jack asks. "It's hard to tell with..." he gestures, indicating the general state of the stitched together corpse, its features crossed by a drastic red line that runs from his hairline to groin. The corpse is clean and unbloodied, apart from the thick blood-red line of thread. The pallor of death has settled over its features. Still. "I think he looks familiar."
"I'll run the prints and we'll see," Price chirrups, sounding far more chipper than the circumstances warrant.
"You do that," Jack replies with a deal less mirth. "Zeller, I want copies of those pictures ASAP. There's someone I need to talk to."
The mutilated body presides in silence over the tense room. "I wonder what you'll discover missing when you open him back up," Freddie muses. "You know as well as I who did this. Your pet bloodhound turned out to be a wolf, Jack."
Now the tension is palpable, thick as fog. Jack's every muscle is tense beneath his suit, and Price and Zeller have stopped their work to stare at her.
Finally, Jack asks, "Is that what the Tattler will run?"
"It's what it's already running," Freddie tells him, "online. The paper copies will be a day behind the breaking news, but I still imagine they'll sell."
"If I were you, I'd consider why they chose you," Jack warns in a strained voice, fury barely in check, "why you're the one waking up to one of their transformations."
Freddie smiles placidly, and watches as a muscle in Jack's jaw twitches in response. "I'm not worried, Jack. I know exactly why they chose me, and I think you probably do, too. But if you need a second opinion, by all means, go get it. And when you're done, try doing something to stop them because we both know this means they have no intention of stopping on their own."
Hannibal
Episode 2:
"Dinner for Three"
Starring...
Mads Mikkelsen as Hannibal Lecter
Hugh Dancy as Will Graham
Caroline Dhavernas as Alana Bloom
Laurence Fishburne as Jack Crawford
Gillian Anderson as Bedelia Du Maurier
Lara Jean Chorostecki as Freddie Lounds
Raul Esparza as Frederick Chilton
Recurring...
Scott Thompson as Jimmy Price
Aaron Abrams as Brian Zeller
Nina Arianda as Molly Graham
It seems far easier for Hannibal to settle on what to cook now that he has his main ingredient. Will's stomach tilts a little at the smell of garlic and cinnamon, like it's unsure whether to choose hunger or disgust. He already knows there's no point in pretending to himself that he won't eat whatever Hannibal serves him. After all, it's a little late now to stop.
Will watches him cook. Hannibal's shirt sleeves are rolled back above the elbow, exposing finely muscled forearms. There's a vein in his arm that stands out slightly when he wields the knife to remove the remaining arteries and excess fat from the heart. Not that there's much fat to trim; Ingram was in excellent shape.
"You're doing exceptionally well," Hannibal tells him, even though the only thing Will is doing at the moment is sipping a glass of wine and watching Hannibal cook them supper. Or is it breakfast?
The sun was just starting to peek over the horizon when they'd staggered back on board, having left most of Clark Ingram for Freddie to find. Will knows he should be tired, and he will certainly collapse soon, but at the moment his body and brain are humming with energy. Besides which, he's still reluctant to let Hannibal out of eyesight, and Hannibal clearly intends to remain in the kitchen. He'll get some rest after breakfast (supper?).
"What exactly is it I'm meant to be doing well?" Will asks. He takes another long sip of wine.
"Resisting your natural inclination towards panic," Hannibal answers pleasantly, as if he hasn't just payed Will the most backhanded compliment Will's ever heard. The annoyance must read on his face, but Hannibal doesn't amend his statement, just smiles beatifically over the button mushrooms he's sauteing.
"It's just always such a tremendous relief when I'm not the one you're carving for dinner," Will rejoins.
Hannibal chuckles. He spares Will a smoldering glance, his lips parted just enough to reveal sharp teeth, eyes heavy lidded, darkness rolling off him like smoke off a pyre.
"Living you shall be my feast," he says, dropping his eyes back to the heart on the cutting board, "not slain at the altar."
Will isn't sure what to say back to that. He knows Hannibal must be quoting something old and dignified, but he'll be damned if he's going to ask what. The words themselves send a tremor up his spine.
"Good to know," he finally says. He can hear Hannibal chuckling softly, but stares resolutely into his wine glass, at the ruddy reflection frowning back up at him. It's as if his face is stained and dripping with blood, as if he's gazing at his own corpse. "You could kill me any time you want," Will says, voice soft, speaking down into the reflection that whispers back. He's aware that Hannibal has stopped moving in the tiny kitchen. He's watching Will intently, radiating curiosity. Will knows just how he'll look if Will decides to raise his eyes from the distraction of his own likeness. He does not decide to do this. "You could change your mind; you've changed it before." He can feel the other man regarding him for the space of several silent moments.
"Never without provocation," Hannibal says. "I've never behaved capriciously towards you. You've made far more attempts on my life, Will, and exhibited a much more volatile nature."
Will can't deny that there's a lot of truth in what he's saying. Hannibal has been consistent - perhaps even loyal - as far as Will is concerned; it's Will who has played fickle all these years, speaking out of both sides of his mouth, never fully willing to commit. Until now, he thinks. Still, the acknowledgement of his hypocrisy does little to dull the fear that creeps into him at times like this one, over what Hannibal could do, might do. No amount of forgiveness could ever erase the memory of Hannibal's hands, firm and graceful, exsanguinating him.
"You used to tell me you imagined killing me with your bare hands," Hannibal reminds him, his voice fond. "How would you kill me now, Will?"
"I wouldn't," he frowns. "I didn't know..."
"What didn't you know?" Hannibal prompts him after he trails off. "What knowledge stays your bare and righteous hands?"
"That great truth beyond us," Will says, finally lifting his eyes to let them flicker over Hannibal's form and face, "the unattainable greatness which only the mad know."
"The mad," Hannibal answers, holding Will's gaze with a look so intense Will swears he can feel the brush of Hannibal's hand on his cheek, even though they are standing feet apart. "And those who listen to the mad, and then believe."
Bedelia Du Maurier makes him schedule an appointment in order to see her. The days of her sitting in interrogation rooms, she's decided, are over. If they insist on involving her, she can at least ensure it is on her terms.
"I wish I could say it was lovely to see you," Bedelia tells him. "What are you hoping I'll do for you?"
"I need you to profile someone," Jack answers, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
She quirks an eyebrow. "That's not my line of work."
"No, but in this case, I think you're uniquely suited to the task." He produces a plain white envelope from his jacket pocket and places it on the low table between them. She can tell the envelope contains photographs the second she picks it up, and she can guess what she'll see.
"Hannibal's escaped," she says, envelope cradled in her hands.
"You don't sound surprised," Jack accuses. "It's surprising news."
Bedelia shrugs. "Not if you know Hannibal." She opens the crisp envelope and pulls out a stack of crime scene photos. She keeps her expression neutral as she flips through them, and hopes he cannot hear her heart pounding. God, it feels like a sparrow is trapped in her ribcage, frantic to get out, like her heart is beating through her chest. She forces herself to breathe deep and slow through her nose, letting her eyes cross slightly so the images in the photographs begin to blur and double.
When she is once again certain her voice will be steady, she says, "You want me to tell you what this monument means."
"I'd like your opinion on what's going through his mind," Jack agrees.
"You think this is Hannibal's work, but he's not the only one who escaped, is he, Agent Crawford?"
The look on his face amuses her. "What is this monstrosity supposed to signify, Dr. Du Maurier?"
"Unity," Bedelia breathes, "this isn't Hannibal's design; it's an ode to him. You can see the precision typical of his handiwork, and it's certain he helped, but this isn't the work of his imagination." She studies the photographs for a moment. "Will Graham has felt pulled in two directions for as long as you or I have been aware of him. He's played both sides, fracturing his personality, never wholly certain for himself which master he serves. It must have felt," she sighs, "like he was being torn in half. Split right down the middle. But, it seems, he no longer feels that way."
Silence. Then, "I'd hoped, if it ever came to this, Will would convince him to give up killing."
Bedelia scoffs. "Hannibal sacrifices to no god save himself - and to his belly, greatest of all deities." She enjoys mapping the look of horror which spreads over Jack's countenance at her words. He'd eaten at Hannibal's table quite often, she recalls. "Will Graham is whole now, Agent Crawford, they're whole, two halves of one complete creature joined together at last. And they want you to know. Will, I think, especially wants you to know. Hannibal would let this be his idea, let him make this declaration to you, and, in so doing, to Hannibal as well."
Bedelia can see Jack's jaw working, silently, as if he is physically chewing his rage. This is and has always been his worst case scenario, she realizes, losing his luminary to the pull of the beast.
"A man like Will Graham," she continues, slowly, watching his expression shatter with a secret, torturous delight, "should never have gotten so close to the darkness."
"I will find them," Jack grits, voice unyielding.
"Be ready to kill them both, then."
"If it comes to that, I will."
Bedelia has her doubts about Jack's convictions, but none at all that it definitely will come to that if Jack ever again manages to get in between Hannibal and Will Graham.
"Hannibal has waited a long time for this," she warns, "too long to let anyone get in his way. He doesn't form attachments easily, but in this case I believe him to be," she inhales deeply and fixes Jack with her sharp gaze, "territorial."
Jack plucks one of the discarded crime scene photographs off the table and studies it for a long time, as if he'll find something he likes better if he looks hard enough.
"A man is like the company he is wont to keep," Bedelia can't keep herself from adding. She can remember being a gentler version of herself, a version who wasn't always ready with the perfect, painful bon mot in ever instance. She wonders, sometimes, where that person went, and when it was she left. Maybe that night she found him stepping out of her shower when she came home, she thinks, maybe the moment that she lowered her gun.
"You used to keep his company quite often yourself," Jack answers in a rough voice. His frustration with her is palpable.
Bedelia finds she often has this effect on people, now. "So did you," she says.
Jack glares mutely for an extended moment. Finally, he stands. "I have to try," he says, "I owe Will that much."
"Soon," Bedelia tells him as he walks towards the door, her eyes resting on the photograph he's discarded, and the thin stitch of red bisecting the frame, "all you will owe him is awe."
The dream is a deep one, thick and dark as treacle or tar, and he drags his way back into consciousness, limbs still aching with the weight of sleep. He senses it is later than he would have expected to awake, but it's hard to tell without a good source of natural light.
Hannibal is sitting upright in the opposite bed, back propped against the wall. At first, Will thinks he is reading, despite the dim lighting, but then he sees that Hannibal's hands are empty. His eyes are closed, but Will can tell he's not asleep. There's an alertness, a presence that gives him away. Will doesn't think he's seen Hannibal asleep, but he supposes that eventually he will, especially if they're going to stay on this boat for much longer. Although, it's been days now and Hannibal hasn't let his guard down enough to be caught in even a light doze.
Meanwhile, Will can't fall asleep without keeping Hannibal in his line of vision until the last blurring blink of his eyes, and he's almost always in the room when Will wakes, is often even the first thing Will sees and is consciously aware of upon waking. It's disconcerting, but so is almost everything about Will's life now.
Will rises, stretching until his back pops. He feels radiant, despite the lingering throb in his stomach and cheek, and the dull ache of the bruises he sustained in the fall. He wonders if this is how Hannibal feels all the time. In his head, there's the echo of Hannibal's voice, six years younger.
"Killing must feel good to God, too," Hannibal says, his voice overlapping with the one in Will's mind. Will blinks at him, dazed by his clairvoyance. Hannibal just smiles. "When I was incarcerated, I visited you often, in my memory palace, in those rooms we share." Hannibal looks up at him coyly from beneath the short fringe of his bangs, and Will's heart hammers, knowing what question will come next. "Did you ever sense it?"
It is difficult to swallow. How to speak of what he felt, lying awake at night, losing the rhythmic sound of the dogs breathing - of Molly breathing, once he found her - as reality would melt away? Or sometimes, in the day, as he worked on repairing a motor or took his coffee on the cold porch, how his consciousness would suddenly bend, light streaming in and suddenly that voice, thickly accented and husky from disuse, echoing within the chambers of his mind. Hello, Will...
"Sometimes, I felt like we were doing the same thing at the same time," he admits, finally, voice low. As if I was his shadow, Will thinks, or he was mine.
"Even in my memories, you would not speak to me," Hannibal confesses, sadly. "But I hoped you would hear me."
Will wants to ask him what it is Hannibal hoped he heard, but a part of him is still afraid to hear out loud what he's only heard whispered through the dome of his over-active imagination. And what if it is the same? What if Hannibal really can reach into his mind?
"What you're suggesting is irrational," Will tells him, voice little more than a hoarse whisper.
"Aw, but you and I understand that the universe must allow room for the irrational, in healthy balance with the rational." Hannibal peers up at him, eyes dark and reflective. "Did you hear something, Will?"
He swallows, closing his eyes against the swell of music lifting in the back of his skull. He feels sunlight on his skin, can smell the candles burning. Within the chambers of his mind, beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Cappella, Will keeps his eyes closed and listens unavailingly for a whisper. It frightens him, this subtle seeming-confirmation of Hannibal's divination, of his witchcraft. He opens his eyes at the touch of Hannibal's hand on his face, immediately sinking into his own reflection in the mirrors of Hannibal's eyes.
"Don't leave me again," Will breathes, trying hard to keep his voice free from desperation. The hand on his face caresses his bandaged cheek gently, fingers skimming his cheekbones in veneration, and his wound throbs at the touch.
"Foolish boy," Hannibal replies, "how could I possibly let you go after all of this?"
Will feels the sink of the hook in him at the words. This is truly and finally it; he will be with Hannibal until he dies. He knows that any attempt to leave now won't be met with tolerance or understanding; Hannibal is his end. There's a terrifying comfort in the awareness of being so utterly possessed.
Will wishes he could just stay quiet, but he can't dam the flood of his words. "You know I didn't intend to kill us in the fall. Or to watch you die."
Hannibal smiles, cupping Will's face. "You mean you didn't intend to watch the Great Red Dragon change me?" He paused before continuing, "I know. It's important to you that I know, that I trust you." He cocks his head to the side an inch, the gesture - and their proximity - so familiar, so reluctantly missed all these years. Will can hear his heartbeat drumming in his ear. "You worry I won't ever trust you again fully, after you've betrayed and rejected me time and again. I told you once, I don't need a sacrifice. You provided one nonetheless."
Will swallows, willing his words to come out clear and steady. "You're referring to Dr. Chilton."
Hannibal looks so satisfied, so content holding him there in a state suspended between revulsion and desire, Will is convinced that if the man could purr he would. "That was a very nice gesture, Will."
Will says nothing, but manages, finally, to tear his eyes away from Hannibal's, fixing them instead on Hannibal's sharp smirk.
"Like Helen, Will, the dowry you bring for yourself is destruction. It is one thing that cannot be resisted."
"One thing you can't resist, anyway," Will rejoins, still fighting for composure as Hannibal caresses his burning face.
"Can you?" Hannibal lets his hand drop, and Will has to stop himself from taking a step closer. "All those times you imagined yourself in someone else's mind, always holding yourself back, allowing yourself only those small tastes."
"I missed even those, after I left the bureau," Will admits. "But I wanted to forget."
"Abigail once told me that she felt most alive helping her father trap his prey," Hannibal says, brushing his hand over Will's arm at the indrawn breath that accompanies her name. "How do you feel?"
"You know how I feel," says Will, breath shaky. This is too much, this, plus the pulse of energetic awareness he feels with every beat of his heart. It's all too much.
"Tell me anyway."
"Free," Will says, "I feel like you feel. I feel free."
"But you're not free, Will," Hannibal tells him calmly. "You belong to me."
Will can't speak. His heart is hammering in his throat, as if he's just swallowed it whole. As if it was his own heart he ate, instead of Clark Ingram's. Or maybe it is Ingram's heart, come back to life and pounding in his guilty throat. Standing this close to Hannibal, he is losing their boundaries. He's becoming uncertain, again, about which feelings are his, and which belong to the man across from him.
"I need to be able to trust you, too," Will tells him, fighting the wave of emotion rising within him. "Our betrayals weren't exactly one-sided."
"No," Hannibal concedes, "though I never rejected you. But very well, you have a point. You've made your offering, after all, it's only fair that I requite the gesture. What would you suggest, as an act of contrition?"
Will lets the wave crash against him, a deluge of stunning awareness of the consequences his next words will have. He smiles through the rising dread.
"You did not require a sacrifice," he says, "but maybe I do."
The sensation of the floor swaying gently underfoot at all times, that motion that is not quite rocking but is not the stillness of earth, is not one that Hannibal has experienced often in recent years. He is grateful, but not surprised, to find that his constitution is still not given to sea-sickness. On the contrary, he finds the groundless feeling a pleasant one, and useful. He is able to concentrate on the minute motions beneath his shoes to center himself, as Will explains what it is he wants.
Hannibal has difficulty keeping his face neutral as Will describes the oblation he has chosen. It isn't that he disapproves. In fact, he approves with such singular delight and excitement that he finds he must make a conscious effort not to show the exact extent of his willingness to oblige Will's desire. Concentrating on the tiny liquidity of the wood floor helps, though he can feel his nostrils flaring as his body suddenly craves air, and he knows the effect Will's words are having must be apparent to the other man.
"I think I should be surprised to find you are a jealous God after all," Hannibal says at last.
"You say you should be, does that mean you aren't?"
Hannibal allows himself a small smile. "We'll need to relocate," he says, sidestepping the question because it hardly bares answering. Will knows what he meant. "While an admirable get away vehicle, our little ship cannot accommodate your needs in this matter." Will frowns in concern over this, which just makes Hannibal want to smile more. "Fortunately, I retain an apartment in the city, under an assumed name, of course."
Will looks startled for a fraction of a second. Then he laughs. "Of course you do," he says, fondly, Hannibal thinks, "you've been in a hospital for the criminally insane for the past three years, and in Florence for the year previous to that, but of course you still have a secret apartment in Maryland. I'll bet it's suitably ostentatious."
"When we have completed your sacrifice, Will, please remind me to thoroughly explain aesthetics for you."
Will snorts. "In other words, yes it is. Is this your only secret apartment?"
"It's my only secret apartment in Maryland," Hannibal answers, unable to keep the amusement from his voice. "You might find yourself grateful for my foresight, someday."
"I suppose I'm grateful you had the foresight to arrange for a boat."
"It was fortunate I was able to predict you in that instance," he says. "I can't always. I couldn't have predicted this request, for example."
Ever the pessimist, Will is frowning again. "Is that a 'no,' in that case?"
Hannibal wonders what Will would do if he refused his request. He'd like to find out, to watch Will negotiate his limits and worth while trying to maintain an expressionless demeanor. He wonders if Will would try to convince him, or bargain, or if he would act on his own. Would he perhaps even try to leave? Hannibal doesn't think so. Sadly, he's far too amenable to Will's idea to play any games with him. It's something he's wanted for a long time, and the fact that Will is the one asking him for it now is almost too much to process.
"It's not a no," he says after a pause. "I'm surprised, but not disappointed." He smiles again, showing crooked teeth this time. "Never disappointed."
"Not never," Will corrects him.
"Never again," Hannibal amends. Will is silent. "We should move tonight."
"Packing should be a breeze," Will jokes. "Do I have a wardrobe there, too?"
"You'll have to wait and see," Hannibal tells him. "You can't expect me to spill all my secrets at once."
"Well, I'll need something to wear to dinner," Will says. "I think this warrants formal wear, don't you?"
Frederick is having the most amazing dream about Freddie. Or, more specifically, he is having the most fantastic dream about her skin. Her body is miles wide, supple and pristine and practically pore-less, and he crosses the white expanse of her hips in a worshipful daze, like a pilgrim crossing the desert.
Since his accident, Frederick finds he notices other people's skin with far more interest than he used to, and Miss Lounds' is especially lovely. He wishes he could lay one of his withered hands upon it, or be embraced by her, wrapped in that glowing softness. In his dream, he walks across her barefooted, so he can feel her with every step.
Sadly, his dream is cut short in an alarming and unpleasant manner when someone slams a heavy fist down on the table by his hospital bed. Frederick splutters awake, coughing. It takes him a few moments to remember how to breathe, and then a couple more to remember how to speak.
At last he says, "Hello, Agent Crawford."
"Chilton," Jack's voice is icy. He raises a fist, and for a second Frederick thinks Jack is about to punch him - which would be insane - but then he sees the crumpled, glossy paper in his grip, and he can infer fairly easily what's going on. "What on earth were you thinking?"
"I was thinking that Will Graham is a dangerous sociopath who has doubtlessly aided Hannibal Lecter's escape, if not outright orchestrated it," Frederick answers. It's not like there's anything Jack can do to him. That anyone can do to him. Fear the man with nothing to lose, he thinks, a touch hysterically.
"You're interfering with an ongoing investigation," Jack growls at him. "This libelous garbage - "
"Just because you're unwilling to believe it doesn't make it untrue, Jack," Frederick interrupts. "I've always said that you underestimate Will Graham's capacity for violence. That doe-eyed empathy disorder routine gets you every time. But that's not the face he shows everyone, Jack, it's not the face he showed me."
Jack's eyes dart to his peeled, fleshless remains. Frederick knows what a sight he is. The freshly grafted skin looks too pale and pink against the rest of his roasted soul case, he knows. He swallows painfully. "You would have made him out to be a victim in all this if we'd let you."
"He is a victim," Jack grits past his clenched teeth.
"What was done to Will Graham," Frederick says, "does not excuse what he has done in turn."
"You can't give anymore interviews."
"You can't do anything to stop me," Frederick tells him, simultaneously experience the first real moment of joy he's had since he last saw Freddie. Smooth and white like a snake's love, Frederick sighs inwardly to himself. "Thanks for stopping by, Jack. It's always nice to see a well-wisher."
The hospital door is fixed open with a heavy magnet, and watching Jack try (unsuccessfully) to slam it behind him gives Frederick a second, even more exhilarating, spark of happiness.
She's not stupid enough to think she could ever kill them in a fair fight. She wouldn't even be able to defend herself, if she was unarmed. Graham is a lunatic; she's seen that frantic energy dancing in the black of his eyes every time she's spoken to him. It was a distant thing, at first, a shimmer somewhere far below the surface when she'd visited him in the BSHCI. She'd known she'd seen something, though, had snuck closer to his bars to see exactly what, and there it was, just the faintest shadow of madness in those persistent blue eyes.
Now, she knows, that shadow must burn with vital fire, no longer restrained but blazing like twin flames out of his skull. And as for Hannibal... Hannibal is far more controlled. Every time he touches it's intended to convey his strength to the touched, Bedelia thinks.
Every embrace, every time he held her against him in a waltz or cradled her skull and neck in his palm to wash her hair, even the light pressure of his hand when he'd unzip her gown upon returning home after an evening out - all of it just a little bit threatening, as if he wanted her to know, as gentle as he was being, that he could snap her in half without trying if it ever suited him to do so. He could reach into her back and pull her spin taut like a bow. Those gentle hands could crush her skull. If she waits long enough, they'll come for her.
Bedelia knows her only chance for survival lies in taking them unaware. Or in hiding, probably forever, and she's not willing to do that. She's had her fill of hiding. She has an advantage, in that she knows where they are and they do not know that she knows. She had considered telling Agent Crawford, but she no longer possesses any faith in the FBI as an organization, or Jack Crawford as an individual. If she had told him, it would only have resulted in more deaths. And worse, they would have gotten away, and her one advantage would be lost.
She's never been especially brave. She's relied on her cunning more than her courage, but now bravery is required, and Bedelia tries desperately to find it at the bottom of her second glass of scotch. She has to be careful; it wouldn't do getting too brave. She needs a clear head every bit as much as a bold heart.
She takes a cab most of the way, but walks the last block and a half to the marina, keeping to the shadows. She flips the collars of her coat, her head down and hands in pockets, like a spy in a black and white movie. The thought is indulgent, but it gives her some comfort. Her right hand brushes against the handgun in her pocket. That gives her comfort, too.
She would never win in a fair fight, but she doesn't have to, because being cunning and sly is better than being strong or brave. Better to be all at once, Bedelia thinks to herself, and frowns within her upturned collars. Hannibal is stronger, braver, and smarter than she or anyone else can ever hope to be. Her only chance lies with surprise; he doesn't know she knows, and he wouldn't expect her to walk towards him either way. She wouldn't expect it herself, and that's the thought that gives her the most comfort of all, because if she's surprised by her own actions, surely Hannibal will be surprised as well. Surprised, she hopes, and unprepared.
The marina is silent when she arrives. It's nearly midnight. The reflection of the waning moon floats peacefully upon the surface of the calm black waters, the only sound the soft slap of water on the breaker. She takes stock of the scene, from where she stands in the shadows above the dock. Their boat is right where she remembered it, lightless and silent. And inside...she closes her eyes, attempting to prepare herself for what she'll find. She's hardly walking into a charnel house. She knows what it's like to live with Hannibal; whatever idiosyncrasies he might indulge in, his aesthetic is pretty distant from Ed Gein's.
There's unlikely to be anything visually horrific down there, though she imagines seeing Hannibal free again will frighten her more than any amount of molding dismembered bodies possibly could. Nothing he does is more terrifying than he is himself, she thinks, than the knowledge of what he could do - would very much like to do - to you. And she's afraid, oh, so afraid, to go inside.
She remembers a long, long time ago, back when Will Graham was only a pair of words, only a vague concept of a person discussed before sharing an amicable glass of wine in her living room. She remembers herself when she had the privilege of being gentler. She remembers Hannibal, the way he used to seem to her, and she's astounded that there was ever a time when she didn't realize he was dangerous.
Her steps are light; she's opted against heels, for once. In her right jacket pocket, her hand clasps firmly over the firearm. She rehearses. She will enter the cabin and scan the room. She'll shoot whomever she sees first through her coat, then throw herself down and to the side and take aim on the other one. Then she'll shoot them each in the head, just to be certain. She plays it in her mind, trying different slight variations, preparing herself so that she will not hesitate. There won't be time for hesitation. The slightest pause could mean her death. It's important she not be more surprised than they are, after all. But she is surprised.
She is extravagantly, horribly surprised, because the cabin is empty, and bedroom and bathroom are empty as well. She knows she hasn't made a mistake. They were here, even if there is nothing here now to indicate their presence.
She tries to determine if she is more disappointed or relieved. And then she hears footsteps, descending towards her.
Forgotten isn't something Molly thought she would be.
He'd told her he would be different when he got back, but he hadn't said anything to imply he wouldn't come back at all. After that horrible night she and Wally spent running for their lives, Molly hasn't known for certain whether she'd be able to let Will back into both their lives, but she'd certainly expected to get the chance to consider or deny him.
She can't bring herself to accept that he's - what? - run off with Hannibal Lecter? He's just a name to her, just blurry photos over garish headlines, just Will's raspy half-confessions when she'd wake up to an empty bed and track him down to the living room or kitchen or front porch and extract the details of his dreams. Maybe not all the details, she thinks now. But she also can't accept that Will is really dead. So what does that leave her?
Apparently, it leaves her nine dogs to feed, and even though she knows it wasn't the Chinese dog food that poisoned her pack before, she's still too stung by guilt to do anything other than mix it fresh herself, like she's seen him do a hundred times.
The dogs will appreciate it, but she supposes they shouldn't count on it for much longer. If she's really about to be a single mother - again - then preparing dog food out of fresh ingredients for nine dogs doesn't seem like it will be a practical use of her time.
She's thinking that maybe she can get Wally to do it, as one of his chores, and spooning the last of the food into one of the stainless steel bowls on the porch - where one of the dogs gobbles it almost before it can hit the bowl - when the sound of a car startles her into looking up.
"Hello, Bedelia," Will says, pacing down the last shallow steps into the cabin, apparently unconcerned by the gun Bedelia has trained on him. He is wearing a suit that might be navy or might be black; it's too dim inside the boat to tell. Blue, she thinks, Hannibal would want it to match his eyes. He looks damned good for a man who survived both the Red Dragon and Hannibal Lecter, but there's a dark red line twisting across one cheek. "What a fortunate surprise. Would you believe it, I was just about to pay you a visit myself. And here you are." There's an edge in his voice that she hasn't heard often. In fact, she thinks the only time he's sounded like this was during his final appointment with her, when he'd told her she should leave town.
In retrospect, she probably should have listened to him.
Her mind is a blank white luster of fear. Only by whispering can she keep her voice steady. "Where is Hannibal?"
"Why don't you shoot me and see if he shows up?" Will asks, and she realizes immediately that he's right.
She lowers the gun, but keeps it in hand. "Hiding behind his reputation?" she smirks. "How...dangerous of you."
"Just trying to save you some trouble," Will takes a step forward. "As much as you would enjoy killing me right now, you're smart enough to know I'm right. Being smart spoils a lot of things, doesn't it, Bedelia?"
"It certainly spoiled being the bride of Frankenstein," she rejoins, "at least, it did for me." She steps backwards, further into the cabin. He's in between her and the only exit.
She can't kill him - not without being able to immediately dispatch Hannibal as well. He won't come for her right away; if he's near by - which, she thinks, he almost certainly is - he won't come rushing now. He'll take her at some later date, and they'll find her, a piece of breathtaking artwork, her flesh spread out like a halo around her ribs and hips, her face serene atop a skeleton shrugging out of its skin, preserved in perfect precision in a block of clear ice, like the treacherous sinners of Judecca, the innermost ring of Dante's Hell. He'll scrawl, "Vexilla Regis prodeunt inferni," in her blood over the ice, and after they find her he'll kill them all, one by one, till he's the only human left alive.
The banners of the King of Hell draw closer. Just like Lucifer, Hannibal will devour and excrete them. No, she can't kill him and reasonably expect to live, but maybe she can wound him, and escape. If she can make it to the main street she can take shelter in a crowded bar, call Jack Crawford, call the police, call a cab and ask the driver to take her to the airport, buy a ticket to anywhere else in the world.
"So," she says, stepping backwards again, even as Will takes another step towards her. "Hannibal finally convinced you to rid yourself of temptation by yielding to it."
"So it would certainly seem," Will says, stepping closer to her again.
Bedelia decides not to give ground this time, and Will smirks in sick amusement at her determination. "I wonder," she smirks back, her finger stroking the trigger as she shifts her weight, preparing to run, "what else you've yielded to recently."
He moves before she can raise her arm, like a blur, advancing passed her and wrapping one arm around to pin both her arms against her sides. His other hand darts up and she feels the prick of a syringe in her neck. The room spins, edges whitening. For all her cleverness, for all her bravery, Bedelia is falling, into a blank void, the last thing she's aware of the sound of heavy footsteps descending towards her.
The kettle whistles, and Molly pours the steaming water into Alana's mug and then her own. She sits opposite her guest, holding her cup under her chin and closing her eyes. She inhales the scent of lavender and chamomile, and smiles softly. At her heart, Molly is a happy person. Circumstances in her life have often tested that core, but she's remained optimistic nonetheless. She thinks it comes from being practical; she knows how to focus on what needs to be done, and that gets her through the worst of things. It's one of the many things Will had told her he loved about her. Her smile falters, and she opens her eyes.
"I'm sorry for coming by unannounced like this," Alana Bloom says. "I wasn't sure how to contact you, and to be honest, I prefer not to telegraph my movement. It's unsafe for me, at the moment."
"I'm sorry," Molly tells her sincerely, and Alana smiles a little sadly.
"Thank you," she says. "How are you?"
Molly breathes out heavily. "Confused, mostly," she says, telling the truth. Something about Alana compels her to be honest, though she's always been given to frankness. Maybe she feels an affinity for the woman, knowing that she had also once loved Will and been unable to pull him back to stability and safety. Will had told her before that Alana used to be a very different person, before Dr. Lecter finished rearranging her. Molly wonders how similar they might once have been.
"I imagine you have a lot of questions," Alana says. "That's part of why I'm here. I doubt Jack will have thought of giving you time to ask."
"Not as such," Molly agrees, "though to his credit I think he's lost more sleep over this than I have. Resiliency runs pretty deep in my blood."
"In Will's, too." Molly's face darkens. She's resilient, and optimistic, and practical, but this is hard. It's been hard and getting harder. She sent Wally to visit his grandparents (her late husband's parents) in Oregon before she even left the hospital. An FBI agent in shades and a dark jacket drove her son and walked him to the boarding gate; Will was unaccounted for.
"So I can just ask you anything and you'll answer?"
"If I can."
"Okay," Molly frowns, blows on her tea. "Is my husband alive? In your opinion," she hastens to add, at Alana's raised eyebrow.
"In my opinion," Alana says, "almost without a doubt, yes."
"And...Dr. Lecter?"
"I'm certain Hannibal is alive," Alana says, "and I'm equally certain he would not let Will die."
"But why?" Molly blurts. "Will always told me they were enemies, that Dr. Lecter was an obsessive maniac who repeatedly tried to kill him."
"He told you the truth. Or part of it."
"But they aren't enemies?"
"There's not a word for what they are to one another, for what they have been or for what, I think, they are becoming." Alana sips her tea. "Nemeses came close once, maybe. But for most of their association they've each had their own conceptions about what they are to one another. What's different now, and what makes this a particularly dangerous time for Will, and for all of us, is that their images of what they are to one another have begun to correspond."
"No offense," Molly says, "but this is all actually just making me more confused."
"Why don't you tell me what Will told you?" So Molly does. It's a simple story, although as she repeats it now she realizes there are holes she never noticed before, incongruities she should have noticed - why didn't she notice?
"He said that he met Dr. Lecter while working with the FBI on the Minnesota Shrike case, and for several months they worked together. Then, Will realized there was something off about Lecter, and Lecter retaliated by attempting to frame him for murder. Will said you didn't believe him, at first," she watches Alana's face, but there's no change in the doctor's expression. "He said you and Lecter were friends," more than friends, "and old colleagues, and Lecter had a natural charisma that Will noticeably lacks, so it was easy for him to convince everyone Will was an unstable murderer. After he was cleared of the charges, Will told me, he managed to expose Dr. Lecter for what he was."
Alana sips her tea. "So in this version of the events," she says, "Will and Hannibal have a strictly professional relationship that becomes animosity after Will discovers the truth?"
Molly nods. There's a sinking feeling beginning in her chest. How did Will convince everyone? And how did he realize the truth? And why would Dr. Lecter target Will so specifically and relentlessly, as Will had told her he had? And why hadn't she thought to question any of these things before? She's not a stupid person. She doesn't generally accept without question. Why had she allowed herself to in this case?
"How would you describe their relationship," Molly hears herself asking, but she isn't sure she wants an answer.
Alana regards her calmly, seeming to sense her fears. Finally she answers. "Intimate," she says. "No one has ever known Hannibal as well as Will Graham does. And Will..."
"No one has ever known Will," Molly swallows, "except Hannibal." Her guest says nothing, but the look she gives Molly through the steam rising from their mugs is all the confirmation Molly needs. There's pity in her eyes, which stings almost as bad as knowing how wrong she was, how blind. "He told me what he wanted me to believe," she says, "and I believed him without question."
"People like Will and Hannibal," Alana says, and Molly flinches at the easy way the other woman assigns them to the same category, "are good at getting people to believe them." There's a pause, and then she adds, "You can't blame yourself. Even when you're very smart, they know how to make you overlook things."
"I don't blame myself," Molly says, "I blame Will."
"That's appropriate, but you might also consider his motives," Alana says. "I doubt he meant to hurt you."
"No," Molly agrees, "it was probably just easier not to tell me the truth. But it was unfair. He put me and my son in danger. And now where is he? Maybe I should just trust the Tattler; it seems I should've been putting more faith in the tabloids all along."
"What he did to you was unforgivable," Alana says, "but it's understandable, too. He thought he could free himself from that life with you, and the truth wouldn't matter anymore. It would just be a distractor. It would have hurt him to tell and confused you to hear, and what difference did it make if he was determined to lead a good, sane life? He almost did it, too. If Jack hadn't come for him, I think he would have been happy here for the rest of his life."
Molly is silent. "Am I in danger?" she finally asks.
Alana's expression is appreciative, as if she's happy that Molly is finally asking the right questions. "I don't think so," she answers, tilting her head slightly. "With them it's best to be a little over-cautious, but Will isn't a bad person," Molly scoffs at that, "for all he hid the truth from you, he really is the man you married. Or at least, a part of him is."
"Hannibal sent the Red Dragon to my house," Molly says, rather than commenting on what Alana has just said. "Shouldn't I worry about his attention, more than Will's?"
Alana shakes her head, brown bob glistening in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows. "He's not interested in you," Alana says, "now that he has Will."
Molly tries, and fails, to hide her flinch. Alana graciously continues without commenting; Molly doesn't think she can bear comfort or kindness from this woman right now. "He won't want to risk losing Will by targeting someone close to him needlessly. And there's no need, any longer, to target you."
That's hardly a comforting thought. It only helps Molly remember how much she's lost. She gazes out the window at the snowy yard, where the dogs have finished their lunch and are sniffing about, digging holes in the snow.
"I don't think I need to know any more," she says.
"You can still help him," Alana says, abruptly, and Molly's eyes shoot back to her. "Will still loves you, he just has never been very good at controlling himself as far as Hannibal is concerned. But his relationship with you helped him keep himself together for years. When I saw him for the first time last month I was struck by how good he looks, and that's your doing. If we can remind him, he'll come back to us. Come back to you, Molly."
She frowns, and considers the doctor's words. This is so messed up. Molly's lived through losing the man she loves to cancer, and starting her life over with a baby and a fear of the dark at twenty-eight. She had lived through a lot, more suffering than a lifetime needs, before she even met Will Graham. Now, what's happening to her now, what Alana Bloom is asking of her, is the most messed up thing of all.
"I don't want him back," Molly says, after a long silence. "Maybe if it was just me I would, but I have to think about Wally, too. Still," she says, and Alana's disappointed expression shifts, "I love Will. I want him...I want him to be well."
She gazes out the window, at the trees, and the snow, and the dogs. Buster is flopped on his back, wiggling happily in the powdery snow, as if he is making a snow angel. His tail wags a semi-circle clearing beneath him. Behind him, three of the other dogs race back and forth, struggling over a large, forked branch. When she closes her eyes, she can see Will out there, part of the pack, smiling back at her.
Bedelia awakens at the dinner table, alone. The table is set for three, and already burdened with an elaborate and aromatic roast. The smell of the meal steaming before her fills her with the strong urge to vomit, or begin shrieking anew. She takes a steading breath, and moves quickly, concealing her snail fork beneath the napkin in her depleted lap.
She keeps one hand clutched around the two-pronged snail fork hidden in her lap, and rests the other on what remains of her abbreviated leg. She forces herself to take stock of the situation, to analyze her surroundings. The room is dark, lit dimly by the white taper candles that flicker within the alcoves along the wall. Thick tussore-silk curtains block out a pair of windows, but Bedelia suspects the sky beyond them is as dark as the room. She must have been out for an entire day, then, or just about that long.
She feels the itch of lace on her skin, and notices for the first time what she's wearing - some gaudy cobalt gown she can perfectly imagine Hannibal selecting for her. Her skin crawls when she imagines his hands on her body, gentle and efficient, pulling garments off and on. How he loves to dress his toys. The gown is scant, cut so low the neckline practically reaches her navel, but the fragrant air is hot on her exposed skin.
There's heat coming from the table, in fact, from the steaming roast center piece - a piece of meat too long to be beef or pork or lamb. The smell of roses and smoked meat drifts through the air, at once appetizing and revolting. The table is set for three, and piled with fruits and flowers in addition to the roast, which is wrapped in a banded row of leafs. Near her seat sits a platter of garlic roasted snails, still in their shells. She assumes this is the closest Hannibal comes to mercy, allowing her an option other than eating her own limb. She can just eat something else while she watches them eat her.
Think, she commands herself, when she feels panic beginning to stir in her again. They've rendered her immobile, more or less. She won't be able to make it from the room - from the table - much less from the house, or apartment, or wherever it is they have her. Escaping on her own is out of the question, which leaves only calling for help. It's an equally unlikely plan, though. There's little possibility of Hannibal having something as convenient as a landline, even if she could make it to the phone unaided. She could possibly try to steal one of theirs - if they even have phones to steal.
If she can't run, and she can't call for help, the only option left is to fight. She'd never win in a fair fight, and they aren't offering her one. The odds are stacked so far in their favor that attempting to fight at all seems a little like suicide. Asking for death might be better than waiting to see what they'll do next, she considers. How long will it take them to finish consuming me? Will they keep me awake, every time, make me watch as they carve me and cleave me in twain? She'd rather take her chances fighting than live that slow death. She might at least be able to drag one of them into death with her.
It's not ideal, but as far as revenges go it's a good one, separating them permanently now that they've finally achieved unity. Her lip curls slightly at the thought of what anguish the survivor would feel. Then again, they might have taken all they want from her. They might intend to release her, after the meal is finished and the plates are cleared.
If she attacks, she risks her life. If she does not, she risks being dismembered and devoured alive. It's not a great set of options.
She hears his voice echoing in the dark chamber of her skull: What have you gotten yourself into, Bedelia? She's weighing her odds of survival when the dining room door opens, and Will enters, with Hannibal close behind.
Hannibal is as impeccably dressed as ever. His suit is a shade of blue that compliments her gown, and his folded pocket square is typically outrageous. She remembers, when they were in Florence, watching his slender hands as they dexterously folded the fabric, in movements too quick for her eye to follow.
Will is dressed in black, like the grim reaper. His face looks like it's trying to smile and frown simultaneously. Bedelia exhales heavily, feeling her heart begin to race.
Hannibal moves to stand by the head of the table, and Will trails to take his own seat to the right. Their expressions could not be more dissimilar; Hannibal wears a look of benign amusement, with more than a trace of pride, no doubt over the sumptuous feast he's prepared. He might as well be preparing to host a dinner party, so coiffed and calm she can scarce believe he is the same man who knelt above her and ripped off her leg.
Will, on the other hand, looks even more deranged than usual, in Bedelia's opinion. He's better groomed and better dressed than she's seen him before, but his eyes are wide and wild. He sits, darting a hateful glance at her before turning his gaze resolutely to the simmering center piece. And for a moment, no one speaks.
Finally, Hannibal addresses her. "How do you feel, Bedelia?" It's a clinical question, but she knows it's said with curiosity. She breathes deep, tracing the prongs of her hidden fork with one finger.
"Numb," she answers, "except for dreading the loss of numbness."
"Any pain?" he enquires, ever the diligent physician. When she fails to answer, he merely adds, "I took the liberty of administering something for the pain. You will let me know if it is not enough?"
She stays silent. It's not exactly that she's at a loss for words, more that she's hoping to see what effect her silence will have. Information is her only currency, her only weapon. If she can survive long enough she can make it out alive; it worked before. Then again, she thinks, how much will I have lost this time, before I can escape? There won't be an escape this time. Some part of her recognizes it, but the fighting spirit is still strong. There's a way to turn this situation, if not to her advantage, then at least to the degree of disadvantage she chooses.
Hannibal steps towards the roast, preparing to carve. "I suppose that nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change," he says, and for just a second she sees him cut his eyes to meet Will's. Then his attention returns to the epicurean delights once more. "Nothing like a good meal to chase those blues away."
"What have you made of me, Hannibal?" she arches a challenging eyebrow.
He smirks. "Traditional Kalua style pit-roast," he says. "Surrounded by tropical fruits and wrapped in ti leaves, simmered on a bed of coals. I've added something special to the presentation as an homage to you. See, here," he indicates what appears to be a long pile of hand-chipped ice. She can see now that the roast and this snaking mound of sweating ice lie atop a bed of low embers, slowly roasting the meat right on the table. "Lake Cocytus, Dante's frozen lake, created here for you among the fire."
"Here at the center of hell," she sighs. "How extremely appropriate."
Will gives what might be a snort of laughter. Hannibal ignores her, begins carving the roast. "It was a delight to have access to a full kitchen again," he tells her. "One of the hardest parts of my incarceration was definitely no longer having the freedom to cook and feed myself. You know better than almost anyone, how particular I am about what I put into my body. Did you get my cards?"
She shivers, remembering the last one, for seared foie gras, which arrived on her birthday. "Yes," she breathes.
"Did you ever consider trying one of the recipes?" He takes her plate, drawing close for a moment.
Her thoughts flounder. Should I - is this a good moment to - her hand clutches the fork, under the napkin. She'll only get one chance. Hannibal moves away from her, back up the table so he can prepare her plate. When he comes back, should I - dare I - do I take this chance or wait? She watches him, arranging her on her plate, easily selecting which fruits and flowers look best to aid in the presentation.
"I'm afraid my culinary abilities are not on par with yours," Bedelia answers him, a touch shy of hysterical, "and of course, it would be difficult to enjoy a meal knowing it was one you intended to make out of me."
Hannibal smiles, clearly pleased with her answer. She has always been good at pleasing him. It's not something she tried to do, at least not at first. She has to admit, however, that when she'd first noticed it she'd found his pleasure - his fascination - profoundly gratifying. She still finds it so. What is it about him that inspires such devotion, she wonders, not for the first time. Even facing death at his hands, I am happy to elicit that smile, even as my heart pitches, my stomach turns. She knows it is more than a survival tactic.
Maybe, she thinks, as he finishes preparing her plate and begins to walk back towards her, it is because his approval is not easy to obtain. He is interested in everyone - in dissecting them, in discovering their secrets, in removing their hearts and replacing them with something tainted and foul- but he reserves his approval. If approval is the right word - his affection, perhaps. That light in his eye when he looks at something he owns and is happy to own.
He sets the plate in front of her, looming down as she looks up, both hands in her lap. She's breathing heavily, working hard not to pant, but smiles thinly at the blank intensity of his expression. The prongs of the little fork dig into her palm. She can't. She'd never manage it. He might even know what she's thinking. Then he's moving away, back down the table, to prepare Will's plate, and then his own, and the moment is lost.
She exhales in a long sigh. Before her, fragrant steam is rising from her plate. Her stomach pitches, bilious at the scent of her own cooked flesh. She resolutely refuses to look at the portion of her body sitting on the plate before her.
"It's a pleasure to be able to cook in a proper kitchen again," Hannibal reiterates. He raises his wine glass, still standing at the head of the table. "To Bedelia, for making my first proper meal in three years a truly significant one."
Will raises his glass, shooting a sardonic look at Bedelia. She finds she only has water. As if circumstances weren't bad enough.
"I'd like a glass of wine," she says. "Please."
"I'm afraid that wouldn't be wise," Hannibal replies.
"Alcohol doesn't interact well with your pain medications," Will adds, voice mocking. He sounds strangled, bitter. She watches as he spears a piece of her leg with his fork and lifts her to his mouth. Her heart rate rockets. She watches, horrified, as her body slips passed his lips, into the dark cavern of his mouth, watches him chew and swallow her, smiling. "Delicious."
Hannibal smiles, looking outrageously pleased with himself, lost in self-congratulation for a second. She watches him eat her, eyes closed, savoring. "I'm inclined to agree. It is as if all the longing for sensual stimulation I experienced over the past three years has been translated into the dish."
Will takes another bite, popping a raspberry into his mouth as well. "You really must try yourself, Bedelia," he says, sipping his wine.
She decides. "I would very much like a glass of wine," she says, voice higher. She doesn't have to force it to break; she just doesn't try to stop it. Let them hear the hysteria, the fear.
Hannibal sighs, and locks eyes with Will. Finally, his face adopts an indulgent look. "Oh alright," he concedes. "But only a little."
It's Will who stands, and walks the bottle down to her to pour. Good. She can hear her heart pounding, loud and suddenly slow enough to breathe between. Wait, she thinks, be sure. When he's close enough to reach, leaning down slightly to pour, she makes her move.
Her hand lashes out, suddenly, aiming for the jugular, the fork sinking into flesh with a burst of hot blood.
Will sees her hand flashing towards him and twists, dropping the wine bottle to shatter on the floor with a crash of glass and a spray of red. He feels the thin prongs sink into his trapezius, a white burst of pain. It focuses him, pulls him from the dream place into which he had briefly been sinking. He pulls the fork from his shoulder with a grimace, pressing his hand against the wound. It isn't deep; she hit nothing vital.
"That's really special, Bedelia," he starts to say, turning back to face her, but stops when he sees Hannibal advancing down the side of the table with menacingly purposeful steps. His approach is unhurried but inevitable.
Will sees Bedelia's sky blue eyes widen in fear, and then he sees Hannibal's thumbs sinking into those skies, tearing the lenses and pushing in till blood and vitreous humor run down her cheeks like tears.
She's wailing, high and horrified, but Hannibal cups her skull with his hands, hooks his thumbs into her orbital cavities, and pivots her head almost an entire 180 degrees. It's all over very quickly.
Will can feel his heart thudding. It happens so fast, he hardly has time to register what he's seeing before it's over, and Hannibal withdraws his fingers from the blank black sockets with a sick squelching noise, releasing Bedelia's head to hit her plate with a smack.
Will watches, eyes widening, as he lifts one gory thumb to his mouth and sucks it. He's gazing back at Will, eyes smoldering, and Will feels the air catch in his lungs, finds himself stuck again between disgust and desire, physically incapable of averting his gaze. Hannibal retrieves Bedelia's napkin from where it's fallen on the floor, and uses it to clean the thumb he isn't fellating clean.
Will swallows, with some difficulty, around the discomfort and excitement unwinding within him. He can feel the heat coming from the table more potently than he could a minute before. Hannibal's eyes close in that reptilian way he has, and his tongue collects the last traces of blood and jelly from his skin, his thumb resting briefly on the sharp point of a crooked canine.
"Damn, Hannibal," Will finally breathes, voice shaky. "I don't think that was totally necessary."
"She made an attempt on your life," Hannibal answers, returning to his seat and rinsing his mouth with wine.
"Hardly a very serious one," Will scoffs. "We could have restrained her easily."
"Perhaps," Hannibal replies, "perhaps I overreacted." He sighs in exaggerated, mock regret, then picks up his fork and knife. He's acting so casually about it, Will isn't sure what to make of the response.
"I'm sorry," he says, sincerely, "I hadn't intended for you to have to kill her."
"I was always going to kill her," Hannibal says, lifting a bite to his mouth, "eventually."
"Right, but, you liked her, I guess," Will fumbles for words to make sense of his feelings of shock and remorse. "I wasn't asking you to kill her for me."
Hannibal swallows, eyes boring into Will, who stares at Hannibal's throat instead, watching the muscles there work, pulse tapping lightly. "You didn't need to," he says at last. "Sit down, Will. Finish your dinner."
Will shuffles back to his seat, casting a glance at Bedelia's body, slumped over her plate, face down in her own cooked flesh. He didn't kill her, but watching Hannibal do it was thrilling in a way both similar to and different from killing someone himself. His heart is racing, veins abounding. The flames flickering in the alcoves and upon the table seem brighter, the shadows around them darker.
Will licks his lips, tasting Bedelia's carcass. Already, he feels the horror of the situation becoming mild, the darkness light. He yearns, momentarily, for the yank of Hannibal's fingers nestling in his hair, for his closeness and the way he overwhelms. Will wants to go to pieces, wants to be allowed to sink into brief catatonia as he did after murdering Clark Ingram, but Hannibal isn't allowing it. Will gets the sense he's being told, subtly, to pull himself together. He takes a long drink of wine to steady himself before picking up his fork and resuming the meal. When he does, he finds that the meat is even more delicious than before.
The End of Episode Two