The house was silent when Hannibal returned. He stood in the entry hall, waiting to hear movement or to be greeted, but the only sounds audible were the steady rush of rain and the occasional rumble of thunder. Hannibal shrugged off his coat and folded it over his shoulder, stepping lightly into the sitting room. So soon he had grown used to the sounds of another soul in the house; it was almost eery to be met with silence.
But there Ophelia lay, curled underneath a blanket on the sofa, her body still draped in his oldest dress shirt. Her long mess of golden hair fell like a waterfall down her back and over the edge of the cushion. Her fingers, barely visible beneath long sleeves, lay relaxed, one hand limp on the floor and the other curled beneath her chest. The credits of The Shining rolled quietly on the television, casting a glow across Ophelia's face.
Hannibal relished this opportunity to truly see her, to truly study her. Ophelia's face was naturally cheerful; even in sleep she had a smile on her plump, pink lips. He counted the freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose and out onto her cheekbones. Her eyelashes fluttered as she dreamed. They were peaceful dreams, Hannibal hoped.
For a moment, Hannibal did know know what to do with her, or himself for that matter. Ophelia was so vulnerable, so innocent in her sleep. She quite resembled a baby bird or a newborn deer. Fragile, vulnerable. He had read in a book once that mammals only slept soundly in the presence of one in which they had placed complete trust.
I doubt you have the capacity to feel such companionship.
Bedelia's accusation floated through Hannibal's mind as he watched Ophelia, her chest rising and falling with steady, deep breaths. He frowned, sighing. A voice in his head told him to prove Bedelia wrong, but he had never sought to defy her outright before. She had been the closest thing he had to a friend, though she would deny it. Perhaps Bedelia could be wrong. Perhaps Ophelia would be the companion Hannibal needed.
But did he want a companion? He had been perfectly content functioning on his own. His agendas proved more successful when he was alone; Will Graham had been proof of that.
Still, Hannibal could not deny his urge to protect Ophelia. Keeping her close would do so while he, Alana, and Jack Crawford straightened out her case. The drugging incident in the woods had given them all hope that perhaps Ophelia was not in her right mind while committing the murders of her sorority sisters. But proving it would be a challenge, and Ophelia would not leave Hannibal's care until then.
Quite frankly, he was alright with that, though he daren't admit it aloud. He was safe within his own head. It had always been so.
Hannibal leaned down so that his face, ever expressionless, was level with Ophelia's. He inhaled deeply through his nose. Her hair still smelled of roses and her skin had a floral sweetness to it as well. It was overwhelmingly pleasant, like the finest of perfumes. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored its pull.
After basking in the smell for a moment, he carefully shimmied his arms underneath her and scooped her up against his chest. She sighed contentedly in her sleep as he stood, carefully making his way toward the stairs.
Ophelia's head lolled to the side so that her forehead rested against his chest. Her slender fingers grabbed onto the front of his shirt and held fast. Hannibal stopped for a moment, fearful that he had woken her. But she stayed still, her head resting against him and her hands holding on tight. He stared down at her, his eyes wide and wondering. For the second time, she rendered him unable to think, unable to move.
He shook his head. What had come over him? He was Doctor Hannibal Lecter. Immovable, impassive, strong. Solitary. Cold. Calculating. Bedelia had been perfectly correct. Hannibal Lecter cared for no one. There was no way he could allow anyone to penetrate that mask.
Hannibal took long strides to reach Ophelia's bedroom, setting her down and covering her bare legs with a blanket in one swift motion, as if all he desired was to be free of her feeble, trusting grasp. He willed himself not to look back at her as he retreated, closing the door with a click that was full of finality.
Outside an owl hooted in the darkness.