Ophelia had endured her fair share of near death experiences; it wasn't something she would ever really get used to. But for her it seemed inevitable, like the reaper was around every corner, enjoying watching her become a living disaster. She could try and escape, time and time again, but still the reaper still dangled her from the edge of life and death.

Thankfully, she had always been pulled away.

Ophelia's eyes opened slowly, adjusting painfully to the blinding fluorescents above her.

Beep beep beep beep beep.

Monitors flashed and whirred by her bedside. Wires and tubes strung like webs from her arms, attaching to the beeps, flashes, and whirrs. Ophelia's hand fluttered over the stitches that pulled at the side of her head, flinching. An oxygen tube rested beneath her nose; she reached for it, disoriented and confused.

"Hey, hey, stop that," a hand shot into her line of vision, swatting her fingers away from the tube, "You're awake!" Freddie Lounds's face appeared, the glow of the fluorescent lights setting her hair aflame.

"What's going on?" Ophelia shied away from her fast movements, trying to turn her head to look past Freddie, but failing.

"You're in the hospital," Freddie put her hands on her hips, "obviously."

"Where's Hannibal?" her voice cracked as she spoke his name. The drawings flooded back into her memory, making her shudder and the heart rate monitor spike. She flinched as pain shot through her abdomen.

Ripper.

Freddie shrugged, "He was here a minute ago. Probably went home to eat, or get your things, or something."

"What about-"

"Thomas? Your dear daddy? His body is under Jack Crawford's microscope. Don't you remember?"

Ophelia thought hard. The time between discovering the drawings and being in the hospital was fuzzy.

"Oh yeah," Freddie grimaced, as if reading her mind, "Massive head wound. Memory loss and all that."

"I need to talk to Hannibal," Ophelia began to sit up and the monitors around her went berserk, "Right now. Please." A sharp pain shot from her stomach again, and she fell back onto the bed, her hands fumbling protectively at her hospital gown. Fear mingled with pain at the thought of Hannibal being there with her.

"You really don't," Freddie lowered her voice, throwing a furtive glance over her shoulder, "But my friend will be here soon, and you should talk to him instead. You remember my friend, right? I told you about him when we first met. You were burying a bird."

"Yeah, I remember. But who is it?"

Before Freddie had a chance to answer, a small caravan of nurses appeared in the doorway and ushered her out of the room. With a flash of red, she disappeared around the corner. Ignoring Ophelia's protests, the nurses began to buzz about her, running diagnostics and changing bandages. Once Ophelia realized that the nurses were a hassle to be begrudgingly endured, she just lay back, closed her eyes, and let it happen.

"A minute alone, please?" Hannibal's voice from the doorway interrupted the business of the nurses. They all turned in unison to glare at him, as if he had just called them particularly nasty names. But once they realized who he was, they quickly vacated the room.

Hannibal stood in the doorway for an eternity of a moment. They stared at each other in silence; Ophelia could not tear her eyes away from his face. As usual, it was a mask of glassy impassiveness, but behind his eyes was a plethora of emotion. It was clear that he was having trouble holding onto his steely resolve. For a moment, Ophelia felt sad for him, because this was all her fault. All of his trouble was because of her. Because of her father.

"Hi," she muttered, her voice no bigger than a whisper.

"Hello," Hannibal remained in the doorway.

"Fancy meeting you here." The air between them was tense and rife with electricity.

"How do you feel?"

Ophelia shrugged, ignoring the tugging pain in her abdomen, "I have a bit of a stomach ache, but other than that it's a good day."

"Don't joke," Hannibal strode forward, his movements mechanical, "What happened, Ophelia? How did he get to you?" Pulling up a chair, he sat beside her bed, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

She chose her words carefully, "I was upstairs. Just... hanging out. I heard something downstairs and thought it was you. So I went downstairs and... bang."

"Bang," Hannibal echoed, "Your father was an awful man, with no reflection on you. You must understand that. You are innocent."

Ophelia snorted, "That man hasn't been my father for years. He stared those experiments when I was little. Fatherhood never suited him."

"It's a good thing he's gone then."

"So it's for real? He's dead? I didn't just... dream that? You... you did it?"

Hannibal nodded, "If I hadn't, we both would be dead."

"I know," Ophelia cleared her throat, "Thanks."

They sat in silence for a moment, simply studying each other's faces. Neither of them knew what to say next, which was something quite new for them both. So much hung in the air over their heads. Obviously, an impasse had been reached. While Ophelia felt her fight or flight instincts warring inside of her at Hannibal's presence, he felt a rather different set of emotions. He felt powerful. Masterful. Proud. Not only for saving Ophelia's life, but for squelching whatever knowledge Thomas had brought along with him.

The word "Ripper" hung in the air, but only Hannibal watched as it dissolved from his vision. He was safe. Ophelia was alive. And she was none the wiser.

"Do you have appointments today?" Ophelia broke the silence.

Hannibal nodded, "A few. But I could stay here if need be."

"No, no, no, go ahead," Ophelia brandished a tube-covered hand in the air between them, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Alright," Hannibal allowed himself a small smile, "I'll be back as soon as I can. Cooperate with the doctors and the nurses and you should be allowed to return home with me for rehabilitation in no time."

"Ok," Ophelia bit her lip, a confrontation concerning the drawings and the "Ripper" accusation on the tip of her tongue.

"See you for dinner then." Hannibal stood and hovered beside her for a moment. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and ducked down quickly, planting a kiss on her forehead, before hurrying out of the room. Relief flooded Ophelia's body; he didn't know that she had been in his room. She could only imagine his reaction if he were to find out that she had been snooping.

For quite a while, Ophelia simply lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. She could do nothing more, really, for she was attached to so many wires and her abdomen was nearly preventing her from breathing. Nurses came in and out ever half hour or so, and Alana Bloom came to visit with a vase of Pansies in hand. A nod to Shakespeare's Ophelia and her reference to Pansies as a flower of some merit, perhaps.

Hannibal returned later on as well, and with him came a veritable buffet of good foods that she would surely not find anywhere in the hospital. While she ate, he disappeared again, this time to discuss her discharge with a doctor.

Ophelia sat in silence, sipping the soup that Hannibal had prepared for her. It was chock full of vegetables and herbs, something that the nurses could not argue with.

Just before she had finished her meal of soup and roast chicken, there was a knock at the door to her room. Before waiting for Ophelia to answer, the door opened and a man slipped through, shutting the door and locking it behind him. Ophelia gripped her fork tightly in her hands as the man stood in the doorway, his face only partially illuminated.

He was an unassuming man, quite attractive, but the kind that could easily blend into any setting. Dressed in a large grey sweater and faded jeans, the man peered at Ophelia from behind rectangular glasses and through a curtain of unruly dark hair.

"Hello?" Ophelia's finger hovered over the nurse call button and her knuckled turned white as her grip tightened.

"Hi," the man stepped forward, holding his hands out in a sign of surrender, "I'm not here to hurt you, so you can put down your, erm, weapon."

Ophelia said nothing, but loosened her grip on the silverware.

"My name is Will Graham. I'm here to help-"

"Oh!" Ophelia pointed her fork at him, "I've heard your name before. Hannibal Lecter and Alana Bloom mentioned you."

"I'm sure they did," Will shuffled nervously, still a safe distance from her bed, "They're why I'm here, actually. Well, Doctor Lecter is the reason. There are things you need to be made aware of."

"Sit," Ophelia gestured to the chair by her bed, "please." She dropped the fork amongst the remnants of her food.

"Thanks," Will shuffled around the end of her bed, his hands held clenched at his sides.

"Are you okay?" she could see a sheen of sweat on his forehead and on the bridge of his nose, sliding his glasses askew.

"I'm fine," Will adjusted the bridge of his glasses as he sat, "I just don't have much time. Hannibal doesn't know I'm here, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Alright," Ophelia nodded, her brows pulled together with worry.

"I would tell you that I'm not here to scare you, but that would be a lie. I'm just going to get right to it," Will clasped his hands in his lap, "You may think you're safe with Hannibal Lecter, but you would be wrong. I was a professor at one point in my life, and I enjoyed my job. I had dogs and a nice place. But then I started helping out Jack Crawford and the FBI as a criminal profiler for his team. I... empathize with killers, I guess you could say. I hate that about myself. It's a disgusting 'talent' to be able to see what killers see, to understand their design. I started working with Hannibal when I was assigned to my first case. He acted like he was helping, but in reality he was just winding me up."

"How?"

"I was framed for something that he did. Have you heard of the Chesapeake Ripper?"

"Yeah, I read about it once," Thomas's words panged loudly in her ears. Ripper.

"He had a copycat."

"You mean-"

"Until very recently my address was Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. And then Maryland Penitentiary until just yesterday. But thanks to some people who understand the way Doctor Lecter works, I was let go. But he does not know that. Because he is still under the impression that his crimes have fallen on my shoulders. He just doesn't stop. And the thing is, he looks normal and he acts normal, but nobody can tell what he really is."

She said nothing when Will paused. Back in Arizona, she had read about the mass killings happening in the Baltimore area. Abigail Hobbs, Cassie Boyle, Georgia Madchen, Donald Stucliffe, and Marissa Schurr had all been just a few victims of this unnamed killer. But she had never been able to put a face to the killer, or even a name. The last person she would have suspected was Hannibal, but suddenly it seemed rather feasible.

"I believe you," Ophelia began, "But for one reason, and one reason only." She then proceeded to tell Will about her findings in Hannibal's room, from the drawings to the sparrow skeleton, and finally Thomas's confrontation. Will listened intently, nodding as if many details were falling into place in his mind.

"Then you understand what a serious position you're in," Will placed a tentative hand on the edge of her bed, "Freddie Lounds has been keeping an eye on you. She was there at the opera, and at Hannibal's office more than once. She knows how attached he has grown to you. The last time he grew this attached to another person, one of them ended up in a mental hospital and all they found of the other was an ear."

"He wrote about killing me," Ophelia added, "On the bottom of the picture. Do you think... do you think he wants to do the same thing to me that he did to you?" She thought back to the kiss. On his lips, she had tasted no murderous intention. Only desperation and the depth of a thousand well-kept secrets.

"I'm sure this is why he took you in to begin with. To use you as a cover," Will nodded, "I've been following your case as much as I can."

"It's over now," Ophelia muttered, "Hannibal killed the man who was after me. And after him, as well. He saved me and brought me here."

"Then he doesn't want you gone just yet. He has a use for you. Some divine plan of his own."

"What should I do? I'm not exactly in any condition to make a speedy getaway," she gestured to her stomach and to the stitches on her head, "What are you planning on doing?"

"What I'm going to do is help you," Will stated resolutely, "I have a colleague at Cambridge who's offered to secure a teaching job for me. When I heard about you from Alana, I knew that I had to get to you before he had a chance to do something drastic. When I was in your position, at first I felt empty. Helpless. But then when I realized I could control my own fate, and not let him rule it, then I felt powerful."

Ophelia pressed her face into her hands, "You want me to just... run from him?"

"The way I see it, neither of us have a choice. You'll end up like me, Ophelia. I don't think you want that to happen."

She looked into his kind, puppy-dog face. It didn't seem capable of harm or malicious intent. As much as her better judgement told her otherwise, she trusted him. If Alana Bloom trusted him, after all, he must be a kind soul.

Ophelia hoisted herself into a sitting position, flinching at the tug in her abdomen, and leaned in closer to Will, "Okay. I believe you, and I agree with you. Something's going to happen to me if I stay here. Who knows? An ear could be all that's left of me if I stay. Ya' know, I knew something was weird. Something was off the minute I stepped into his house. I could tell."

"We don't have much more time," Will looked at the nurses outside the window to her dark room, "Meet me at the coffee shop across the street from Hannibal's office tomorrow evening at ten. Alana could take you there. We can continue this discussion then."

"Tomorrow?"

"They're discharging you," Will smiled ruefully, "Doctor Lecter knows how to pull strings."

"Okay. Tomorrow at ten. I'll hobble my way there."

"Good," Will placed his hand on her arm, "I'm glad you have such an open mind. And I'm glad that you're not blind to Hannibal Lecter's meticulous disguise. He's a monster, Ophelia. You, on the other hand, are trusting, gentle, kind. And not a monster. Don't forget that between now and our next meeting." And with that, Will Graham slipped from the room and disappeared down the hall. As if Ophelia hadn't been disturbed to begin with, she lay down again, adjusting the wires around her arms so that they appeared undisturbed as well. She shut her eyes tight and willed her head to cease its pounding and for the universe to flip itself right-side-up once more.

Hannibal came into the room, then, accompanied by a large group of nurses. He leaned down to her, assuming she was asleep, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. Her eyes snapped open, and she fought the urge to shy away from his hand.

"Glad you're awake," he smiled, "I've just gotten the word that you can come home tomorrow. I'll be sleeping here tonight, right beside you. Not to worry, Ophelia, I'm going to take care of you."

She nodded wordlessly and closed her eyes again, listening as Hannibal settled himself into the chair that Will had just vacated. After the nurses left, the only sounds in the room were the beeping and whirring of the monitors and the soft rush of Hannibal's steady breath. Ophelia inhaled deeply, flexing and releasing her abdomen over and over again, simulating exercise in any way she could. Strength was what she needed, not a crippling disability.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, Ophelia thought, I'll be safe tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Ophelia opened her eyes and looked over at Hannibal one last time. He slept with a permanent frown on his face. It was quite different from his usually placid expression. As she watched him sleep, she wondered if he had many dreams. She could not imagine that his dormant mind could produce happy thoughts on its own. Surely he dreamt of dark things. And of her.

It was then that she knew, truly. She would die. She would die at Hannibal's hand if she did not escape.

Outside the window was a large oak tree. In it was a nest that housed a single bird: a sparrow. Sparrows were gentle creatures, perhaps the gentlest of all bird-kind. They were quite trusting of all other birds; a sparrow would often fly free with foreign flocks, only to return to its nest after feeling satisfied. An owl had alighted on the branch below this particular sparrow, its wide orange eyes watching as the petite brown bird settled in for a night of rest. On the branch above the sparrow, a nightingale began building its own nest, happy to have the sparrow for a neighbor, but wary of the owl that preyed on them both from the lowest depths of the tree.