Quick Author's Note: I would like to give a MAJOR shout out to the Mystery Guest Reviewer, aka Vany. You're super fantastic, and your reviews are what keep me writing! Thank you so very, very much. Also, thank you very much to everyone else who has given me such wonderful feedback. All of it puts an enormous smile on my face.
"Dammit!" Ophelia's voice woke Hannibal early. He rolled over and glanced at the clock. It was just past six. There was a pop and a clang and more cursing from downstairs.
"You're awake?" Hannibal muttered, slipping out of bed, his voice gravelly and his usually combed hair scruffy and wild. He flipped on the light, quickly slipping on a shirt and straightening his pajama bottoms. Normally, Hannibal would never allow anyone to see him so disheveled, but his curiosity had gotten the better of his sensibilities.
Careful not to make too much noise, Hannibal slipped out of his bedroom and down the stairs. Fast paced music with a pounding beat blared through the speakers of the radio as Ophelia darted from the countertop to the stove, and back to the countertop again. The fingers on her left hand were red and splotchy, as if she had been burned.
She was already fully awake, dressed in a pair of torn old jeans and a shirt that slouched off of her shoulders. Her golden hair was pulled up into a messy knot at the top of her head, a red bow holding it in place.
Hannibal watched from the doorway as Ophelia sunk into a deep plié in front of the stove while she flipped a pancake over in the skillet and prodded the sizzling pan full of bacon next to them. She lifted herself up into third position then, as she leaned over to spoon scrambled eggs onto two identical plates. And, ever dancing, she divvied up an enormous stack of pancakes and equally large slices of bacon.
"Breakfast?" Hannibal fought the grin that was fighting to show itself on his steely face.
Ophelia jumped, nearly dropping the spatula that she had been using to stack pancakes, "Oh! Good morning! Yeah, I hope you like pancakes, because they're huge. The eggs and bacon are normal, though."
"You burned yourself," he gestured to the fingers on her left hand, leaning against the counter.
"Bacon grease," Ophelia slid a plate stacked with food toward him, "Well, it's not really bacon. I sliced up some of the meat in your fridge and used that. So, technically, it's bacon. But this tastes better, I think, whatever it is. Elk, maybe? I had that once."
"You have good taste," Hannibal poked his fork into the pancakes and took a bite. They were fluffy and tasted a bit like cinnamon. The eggs were cheesy and soft, mixed in with chunks of the same meat that the bacon was made of.
"And it is indeed elk," Hannibal continued, taking a sip of the orange juice that Ophelia slid toward him, "Killed him myself. It was an exhilarating hunt that I took during an extended stay in Wyoming."
Ophelia snorted, "Okay, what can't you do?" She took a hearty bite of the pancakes, and it was obvious that she was pleased with herself.
"I admit," Hannibal allowed himself to smile through a bite of bacon, "I had tried fishing once. It ended with an overturned boat and an empty stomach for everyone who was involved."
Ophelia laughed heartily into her glass of orange juice, "You'll have to tell me more about that, for sure."
Hannibal glanced at the clock above the stove, still smiling, "But for now you must go. Alana should be here soon. I'll clean this all up; don't worry," he rose, taking his breakfast with him, "I will be going directly from my evening appointments to the theatre, so Alana has agreed to drive you there. She knows where to go," he turned away from her, but caught himself before he left, "And thank you for the meal."
The Lyric Opera House was full to bursting for the first run of Don Carlo. It was one of Hannibal's favorite operas; politics, kingship, heresy, adultery, and romance combined with incomparable pomp and solemnity made for quite a show. The opera house never failed to put on an excellent show, and this one was sure to be their best.
Hannibal strode aloofly through the golden doors of the opera house and was immediately greeted by numerous men and women who dripped jewels and finery. He was handed a champagne flute by a young, strapping man in a tuxedo who bobbed and weaved through the crowd, a silver tray of drinks balanced on his palm. Hannibal took a sip, casting a casual glance around the room.
"Hannibal!" a small group convened at the bottom of the grand staircase leading from the entrance hall into the opulently decorated lobby burst to life as Hannibal strode through the crowd. A man stepped out of the group to greet him. His name was Wyatt Harp, and he was one of Hannibal's most infamous colleagues.
"Good evening," Hannibal smiled, joining the group and smoothing the front of his tuxedo, "I must say I'm surprised. Seems to me you all have indulged in less champagne than usual."
"Oh, don't worry," the black haired woman, Eleanor DeCassé, laughed theatrically, "We will surely reach our usual quota by the end of the first act."
"And surpass it by dinner!" Eleanor's sister, Penelope, who was also part of the small group, flashed Hannibal a cheeky smile. He ignored it.
"You alone again, Hannibal?" Wyatt asked, taking a swig of his champagne, "Or have you finally lured someone into our folds?"
Hannibal laughed shortly, "I do have someone coming. She's not-"
"Hannibal Lecter!" Eleanor swatted at his arm, "It's about time! Do tell. Where is she?"
"She's not a... a romantic pursuit, Eleanor, so I must stop you there," Hannibal rolled his eyes, "But she is supposed to be here. I fear she may be lost in such a large, sea-like crowd."
"Tell us," Wyatt glanced back at Eleanor, Penelope, and the rest of the group, who were deep in their own commentary of Hannibal's mysterious companion, "What does she look like? I'll keep a look out."
"Ophelia is not a conquest, Wyatt," Hannibal frowned down at him, "She is here to enjoy the performance, not your attempts at romance."
Wyatt patted Hannibal on the shoulder, "Ophelia, huh? Wasn't thinking that at all, comrade. Is she joining us for dinner?"
"Yes, she is," Hannibal's face smoothed over again, "In fact, she offered to aid me in preparing our dinner tonight. But I see she may be trapped with you instead of in the kitchen with me."
"Tell us about her while we wait," Penelope begged, "We have time."
Hannibal fought the urge to roll his eyes. Anything new in the group was instantly the most exciting thing in the world. This was why he only took their company in doses.
"Ophelia is a classically trained dancer," Hannibal began, "And quite talented. She enjoys reading the books in my office, which tells you quite a lot right away."
Wyatt snorted, the champagne obviously beginning to go to his head, "No one enjoys reading those books, Hannibal."
"She shares my distaste for the banal," Hannibal continued, ignoring the jab.
"But what does she look like?" Eleanor traced the rim of her champagne glass with her finger, "If we're going to find her in this crowd, we're going to need to know what we're looking for!" She adjusted the bodice of her dress, hoisting it upward as she spun around, craning her neck.
"Well," Hannibal scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, "She's blonde. Green eyes, tall, slender. Freckles across the bridge of her nose. If you spot a girl who resembles the sun, Eleanor, you have found her."
"So," Wyatt rubbed his chin with his forefingers, "That would be her then?" He gestured to the stairs, his lip curled into a hungry grin.
Hannibal turned to where Wyatt's thick fingers were pointed and he felt something that he could not recall experiencing in his lifetime. His stomach flipped and his chest pounded as he stared her down.
Ophelia stood at the top of the stairs, her head held aloft and her hands poised at her sides. Her slim, tanned frame was draped in deep blue satin that was slashed almost to her navel, with only modest drapes of material keeping her decent. Her hair fell in loose, luxurious curls down her back. Ophelia's ever so slightly parted lips were tinted a warm shade of pink, the color of dragon fruit. Her delicate hands clutched a small silver purse, dotted with diamond-like rhinestones.
Her eyes locked onto his, and she gave him a rueful smile and a wave. Hannibal felt as if he could not move; he could only watch as she glided down the staircase. It took every ounce of his power to keep his face impassive as she approached.
"Ophelia," Hannibal nodded curtly, "You look lovely."
"You, too," Ophelia smiled, her face alight. Her eyes shone like emerald beacons as they gazed up at Hannibal; even in heels she was a head smaller than him.
"Hannibal Lecter: the king of understatement," Wyatt pushed past him and took Ophelia's hand, planting on it a sloppy kiss, "'Radiant' would be a more appropriate word, I believe. Wyatt Harp, author extraordinaire, at your service."
"Enchanté," Ophelia mock-curtsied, "Ophelia Ford, dance student extraordinaire." She giggled nervously as Wyatt leaned down to pepper her hand with more kisses.
Hannibal watched as she went through the motions flawlessly, introducing herself to each of his associates. He couldn't help but swell with pride. Ophelia laughed and smiled and schmoozed, her voice a tinkling bell in the sea of all the usual opera patrons.
"Well done, Hannibal!" Eleanor raised her eyebrows as she looked Ophelia up and down. Usually Eleanor was quite catty regarding the appearances of other women. But to Hannibal's immense pleasure, she bestowed upon Ophelia her seal of approval.
The lights in the lobby flashed, indicating that the show was to start soon. Hannibal held his arm out to Ophelia, a satisfied twinkle on his face. She stared at him for a moment, then placed her hand daintily on his elbow and allowed herself to be led into the theatre. It was a grand room, with red velvet seats gilded in gold. The stage was dark, the curtain just waiting to be raised. Hannibal led Ophelia to the fourth row from the stage. Wyatt, Eleanor, Penelope, and the others led the way, gliding silently to the center of the row; they had prime seats and Ophelia was filled with giddy excitement.
Hannibal caught a glimpse of a group of burly men out of the corner of his eye. They stood, champagne in hand, staring Ophelia down, animalistic hunger in their eyes. The men looked her up and down, then muttered to each other, surely making lewd comments. Familiar electricity began to hiss and pop in Hannibal's chest as he watched them crudely drink her in.
He put a protective hand on the small of her back as they slid down the row of seats. She jumped at his touch, but did not protest. Hannibal looked back at the men, making a point of keeping close to Ophelia. They grimaced, realizing they had been seen, and stalked off toward the stairs to the balcony. Hannibal was sure to watch them until they were out of sight.
"You truly do look radiant," he muttered in her ear as they sat. The others around him seemed to agree as well, for she had grabbed the attention of numerous male members of the audience. A fresh face in the group was sure to cause a stir, but a face such as Ophelia's was like to cause an uprising.
In that moment, Hannibal's perception of Ophelia changed dramatically. Whereas before, she had simply been a damaged young girl with nothing more than a solid head on her shoulders, she was now blossoming into something much more. All of her actions, from reading Plato to burying the sparrow, suddenly had new, endearing, and beautiful meaning. Hannibal could not believe he had ever thought of anything but being near her. It was an entirely foreign sensation, but it was not unwelcome. All recollection of Bedelia's accusations were forgotten.
"Thank you," Ophelia leaned in to whisper, for the lights were beginning to dim and the overture was striking up. Their faces were rather close, and for a moment, all Hannibal could feel was her warm breath.
And then the curtain rose, and the theatre was transported to an entirely different world. The music built and soared, and Ophelia leaned back in her seat, immediately engrossed in the action onstage. She watched the dancers particularly closely, holding her breath every time they leapt high into the air and grinning broadly every time a particularly difficult trick was executed. Every once in a while, Hannibal would catch her swaying ever so slightly to the music, and when the short intermission came along, she was eager to have it start right back up again.
"Would you like a drink?" Hannibal placed a hand gently on her bare shoulder, "I could use a second one myself."
"Sure," she nodded, smiling, "I'll walk with you. This is just fantastic! I mean, the music, the dancing, the...everything. I've never seen anything like it before."
Hannibal beamed, taking her hand and leading her through the crowd to the lobby where drinks were being served, "I am thrilled that you're enjoying it. Giuseppe Verdi has always been a favorite of mine. You seem to be quite enthralled with the ballet chorus."
"Oh, of course!" Ophelia flustered, "The dance in the third act was just fantastic."
"I agree," Hannibal took two champagne flutes from the tray by the entrance to the theatre, handing one to Ophelia, "I also think you will be quite pleased with the ending. It is intense, to put it mildly." They both took small sips of the champagne, and Ophelia pursed her lips at the taste.
"Your friends seem..." Ophelia searched for the right words as they slipped back through the crowd toward their seats.
"Interesting," Hannibal laughed, "Eclectic. Eccentric."
Ophelia laughed as well, and Hannibal's stomach did a somersault, "Exactly what I was going to say. I like them. But you seem much more normal than them. In a good way, of course!"
Hannibal smiled knowingly, "I will take that as a compliment. Mostly I keep them around because they appreciate my cooking."
"Who wouldn't?" Ophelia scoffed.
"It caters to finer tastes," he let her slide into the aisle before him, "much like the opera."
"There she is!" Wyatt held his hands out to Ophelia as they approached. By the way he was moving, it was all too clear that he was well on his way to being thoroughly intoxicated, "How are you liking it, sweetheart? Debauchary and adultery make for a great show, no?"
Ophelia laughed, holding herself at a respectable distance, "What else is there?" Wyatt guffawed and patted her roughly on the shoulder as the lights began to dim again. The music struck up again, loud and brash, and Ophelia settled into her seat. She leaned on the arm rest closest to Hannibal, immediately entranced once again.
The intrigue of the opera continued, with rampant drama in every scene. There was a particularly energetic fight scene in which the protagonist dueled fierily with the mustachioed villain in the middle of the fourth act that held the entire audience on edge. Without realizing, Ophelia had clamped her hand down on Hannibal's knee in the midst of the action. He could nearly hear her heart pounding in her chest and could smell her perfume mingling with the sweet scent of her skin.
He turned away from the stage to examine her dark profile. Her eyes were locked intently on the action, and her lips hung ever so slightly apart. She watched Don Carlo duel his adversary with rapt attention. Hannibal wondered how she could still be so normal; after everything she had been dragged through, it was a miracle she wasn't holed up in a mental hospital somewhere.
Ophelia was one of the first to stand and clap during curtain call. She and Hannibal shot to their feet, their hands moving wildly as the actor who played the lonely Don Carlo came out onto the stage and blew kisses to the audience. Once the lights in the house had come up and the crowd began to file out of the theatre, Ophelia blew a gust of air out from between her lips and ran her fingers through her hair.
"Fantastic," she breathed, still moved.
Hannibal held his arm out to her again and led her through the crowd, closely followed by the rest of their small group.
"As usual," Hannibal turned to all of them once they had made their way through the crowd, "We will reconvene at my home in half an hour, where I, with the help of Ophelia tonight, will prepare our feast."
Eleanor rubbed her hands together, grinning, "It has been too long, Hannibal."
"I agree," Hannibal smiled, his eyes twinkling, "Half an hour, then." And with that, he led Ophelia off toward where he had parked his car in the front of the lot. He held the door open for her as she slid inside. She adjusted the plunging neckline of her dress carefully as he walked around to the driver's side, then proceeded to drum nervously on her clutch purse with her thumbs. For a moment, before he started the car, Hannibal sat with his hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead into the dark night.
Ophelia looked over at him skeptically, "What?"
He shook his head and turned the key in the ignition. Without looking at her or speaking to her, Hannibal sped home, his knuckles tight on the wheel. To Ophelia, it was obvious that he was thinking rather hard about something. While his face was steely and impassive, his hands clenched and unclenched, constantly mobile. His eyes burned, as if whatever he was contemplating was making him quite angry.
When they arrived back at his home, he nearly leapt from the car and strode around to hold the door open for her.
"Thanks," she smiled timidly, holding the neckline of her dress in place and slipping out of the seat and toward the front door. She waited silently as he undid the locks, staring down at her clutch.
The house was dark when they stepped inside. It smelled of the food that Hannibal had already begun preparing, and the candles that Ophelia had burned in the bathroom while she had dressed for the opera. She had forgotten to leave any lights on; they could barely see a foot in front of their own faces.
Ophelia turned to start into the sitting room, but instead ran directly into Hannibal's chest. He stared down at her, his face twisted into an expression Ophelia did not know what to label.
"I," Hannibal began, his voice tight, "I would like to do something."
"Okay..." Ophelia let her hands fall to her sides.
Hannibal's hands slowly traced her arms, from the tips of her fingers to her shoulders, and then skimmed the skin of her neck. Ophelia's breath hitched in her throat as she froze in place. Her eyes fluttered closed as Hannibal's forefinger traced her lips, then the skin above her collarbones. She could feel her heart pounding madly.
In a moment that felt like an eternity, Hannibal leaned his face down so that it was level with Ophelia's. He took a deep breath in, his eyes examining her frozen face. And then, in a desperate attempt to still the whirring panic inside her, she dropped her clutch, clasped her hands behind his neck, and kissed him.
It wasn't a gentle, tentative kiss. It tasted of desperation, heat, and smoldering need. Hannibal's lips tasted sweet, stronger and with more heat than the champagne that was still on his breath. In the kiss, she tasted the emotion of the past weeks, everything she could not remember, and more.
For a second, she pulled away, the reality of the attack-kiss hanging over her head. Hannibal's eyes were wide, his lips hanging open, and his hands frozen on her back. They didn't move, didn't breathe. Just tried desperately to truly see one another.
And then it didn't matter. He wrapped his arms around her more tightly, pressing her back against the wall, and she knotted her hands in his hair. Hannibal's hands ran up her back and over the nape of her neck and down to her collarbones. She shuddered as he let himself pull her into a deeper kiss, full of everything that he had always been told he would never be able to feel.
They were shocked apart when the doorbell rang.
"Hannibal, open up!" Wyatt called, his voice slightly slurred, "We're starving out here." Hannibal leapt away from Ophelia, his face flushed.
Ophelia flipped on the lights in the entryway as Hannibal hurried toward the kitchen, turning lights on as he went. Before she could even reach for the door, the kitchen had come alive with sounds.
"Come in!" Ophelia opened the door after readjusting her dress and patting her hair into submission. The small entourage bustled in, pushing past her and hurrying toward where wine was surely waiting for them.
She followed, watching Hannibal work and waiting for instruction. He moved like a one-man machine: well oiled and full of purpose. Most of the food had been prepared earlier that day, so the meal did not require much work. He laughed and chatted with his friends, his somewhat askew hair the only evidence of the kiss.
"I'll set the table," Ophelia leaned across the counter to where plates and silverware were stacked. Hannibal glanced down at her as she whisked the small stack away, and she could feel her face flush with red heat.
The dinner rolled on past midnight, with the group lounging around the table eating, drinking, and laughing. Hannibal had served them all thin, tender slices of roast tenderloin with salads made of greens and toasted root chips. A cornucopia of colorful vegetables and flowers made up the edible centerpiece: lotus flowers, beets, yam, sugar snaps, and pea sprouts, only to name a few. At the other end of the table was a nautical themed plate full of toasted slices of fish with nautilus peppers, olives and anchovy rolls. It was quite a thing to behold.
Each time Ophelia looked at Hannibal, who sat at the head of the table, her stomach fluttered and her cheeks flushed. The others simply assumed it was the copious amounts of wine that she had been sipping. Soon after two, they began to stumble out, leaving Hannibal and Ophelia to clean up by themselves. They stood in silence scrubbing dishes, two misfits in evening wear. Neither of them dared break the quietude.
Outside Hannibal's dark office, far from where the pair yearned for sleep, a barn owl alighted on a branch. In the starless darkness, it focused on a tree across the street, in which a sparrow nestled, preparing for a restful night outside the dark windows of the coffee shop. The owl ruffled its feathers and settled in as well, but not to sleep. It was beginning its hunt.