When the door to the bunker opened again, hours later, Ophelia came to attention immediately. She rolled over on the cot, wiping a dirty strand of hair from her face, and sat up, her legs curled beneath her. Hannibal stood in the doorway, another tray piled with food in his hands.

"Hello, Ophelia," he said, his voice rough, as if it were trapped deep in his throat, afraid to come out. Even from across the room, it was clear that every muscle in his body was clenched with apprehension. His eyes fell on the bruise that covered the side of her face in the vague shape of a hand. He had done that to her. His teeth clenched and his stomach fell. Hannibal hadn't intended to leave a permanent mark on her fragile skin.

"Hi," Ophelia smiled genuinely for the first time in quite a while. She tore at her fingernails absentmindedly, letting the smile linger as Hannibal froze, surprised for a moment by her change of tune.

He broke eye contact, striding to the desk and setting the tray down before the chair, replacing the last plate. It was picked clean, much to his pleasure.

"I hope you're hungry," he said.

"I am," Ophelia tried her very best to sound grateful, answering him immediately and with an overtly sugar-coated tone. She swung her feet over the edge of her cot, the chains clanking loudly. Hannibal backed away cautiously as Ophelia meandered over to the desk, her bound foot dragging clunkily along behind her.

"You had a visitor today," Hannibal leaned against the wall as Ophelia tore into the steak that he had so meticulously prepared. It was not a question; Bedelia had recounted their meeting word-for-word. Hannibal was simply anxious to find out where Ophelia's head truly was.

"Bedelia du Maurier," Ophelia nodded through a mouthful of food, "Name's kind of a mouthful."

Hannibal crossed his arms over his chest, for lack of a better use for them, "How did it go? No problems, so I've heard."

"She made me realize how nasty I look, that's for sure," Ophelia snorted and looked up at Hannibal, whose face was a mask of forced tranquility, "But, really, it was fine. She was fine. She was nice. We... talked things out."

"And?"

"And... it was... enlightening, I guess. It made me think. And re-think."

"I made you hungry, clearly," Hannibal flinched and shifted his weight back and forth as Ophelia let out a genuine laugh. It was not a sound he had heard in some time. The sensation it brought upon Hannibal was similar to the feeling one would experience in the midst of an electrical storm. Like there was something in the air, charging the space around every piece of matter.

"Yeah, I guess it did," Ophelia took a swig of the glass of water that had come with the enormous slab of meat.

In the following period of heavy silence, Ophelia scarfed down her food, barely pausing to breathe. Hannibal watched. He was tempted to let himself feel relief, and even hope, but still he was prepared for another outburst. She was, after all, a recovering addict. And she was scared. The two elements should never have mixed.

Once Ophelia had thoroughly cleaned her plate, she stretched back in her chair. With a contented sigh, she let her head fall back, closing her eyes. Hannibal took this opportunity to swoop in and collect her dinnerware. She looked so normal, so content, there in the greenish light of the bunker. Aside from her skeletal lack of substance and filthy appearance, she quite resembled his Ophelia.

But her head snapped up and her hand latched onto his wrist before he had a chance to retreat to the other side of the room. She held fast, staring up at him for a long moment. Her fingers dug feebly into his skin.

Ophelia's gaze was not full of malice, as it had been the day before. Instead, her eyes, sunken and tired, glinted softly up at him and her chapped lips pulled into a tight smile.

"Thank you," she muttered, for lack of better words. She decided, then and there, that if Hannibal was so screwed up, then she would just have to be screwed up right alongside him. With no room to judge, she would fit into his puzzle quite well. She felt no fear; there was no murderous intention in his chocolate eyes as they stared down at her then.

The task now at hand would be earning his trust. Getting back in his good graces. She knew she would have to dig around in her gut and in the back of her mind and extract what was left of the old Ophelia.

"Y-yes," Hannibal cleared his throat, not making any moves to escape her grasp.

Ophelia sighed, "I have to ask you for a favor." She smiled ruefully, trying her very best to seem as unassuming as possible. It was quite a stretch, asking anything of him now, after all that they had put each other through.

"What might that be?" Hannibal raised one eyebrow, pursing his lips.

She loosened her grip on his wrist, "What's a girl gotta do to get a shower around here? If my memory is correct, there's some rose-scented shampoo back home that's got my name written all over it."

Hannibal's face flooded with relief, a bright shade of pink tinging his skin. He drew away from her feeble grasp, different scenarios running through his mind, each ending in Ophelia attempting an escape. Did she deserve the benefit of the doubt?

Ophelia could obviously sense his apprehension, for in one swift motion she ripped at the bottom of her shirt until she held a thick strip of cloth in her hands.

"Here," she held it out to Hannibal, "Tie my hands or something. I'm not going anywhere. I just want a shower."

He took the strip of dirty white fabric from her and held it for a moment, his eyes never leaving her face, "You are quite adept at running, Ophelia. And climbing, I'm sure. And I have no desire to lead you out of here by the length of a rope, like livestock."

Ophelia flushed, "Please, Hannibal. Trust me. You can stand in the bathroom with me if you want. Just... trust me. Please. I want to at least smell like Ophelia Ford again."

Hannibal let a small smile play on his lips for a moment, "Fine. I suppose a shower wouldn't hurt anyone."

"Great!" Ophelia threw her hands into the air and grinned, standing tall as Hannibal moved to unlock the chain around her ankle. For the briefest of moments, escape crossed her mind. Outside, she could easily make a break for the woods surrounding the bunker. She could disappear.

But those thoughts were erased from her mind when Hannibal's fingers wound around her wrist. She shivered at the slight touch. It was gentle, as if she were made of porcelain.

Ophelia looked down and grabbed Hannibal's hand with both of hers. With a great, purposeful thump, she pressed their palms together and locked her fingers with his. He stared down at their intertwined hands for a moment as Ophelia straightened her back again, waiting patiently for Hannibal to lead the way.

His grip tightened on her hand as he pushed through the heavy metal doors and out into the freezing night air. It was a small gesture, but he found it quite wonderful nonetheless. Something his Ophelia would have done, surely. Perhaps Bedelia had broken through the barrier, and she was coming back to him.

"Jesus Christ," Ophelia immediately began to shiver.

Hannibal smirked, "It's winter, Ophelia. I'm not sure what you expected." The ground was icy beneath their feet, and their breath puffed out before them like small wisps of smoke. The inside of Hannibal's car, though, was still quite warm, and the seat warmers kicked into action soon enough.

"The drive," Hannibal spun the car out onto the road, ignoring Ophelia's small flinch as they nearly skidded out of control on the ice, "is not a long one. You will be home in no time."

"And clean," Ophelia sighed, staring out of the window into the dark night.

"And clean."

They drove in silence, the tension thick between them. Ophelia appeared to have imploded, with her arms and legs pulled as close to her torso as she could manage. Hannibal wanted nothing more than to reach across the space between them and take her hand in his again. But he knew that he could not push it; she would come around on her own.

"Small steps," Bedelia had instructed, after assuring Hannibal that his Ophelia had returned, "You can't frighten her. Or smother her. If you do, this will all begin anew."

Hannibal glanced down at Ophelia again. In her he saw a second chance. Redemption. He began to reach slowly across the gap between them, his fingers just inches away from her elbow.

Suddenly, before he could touch her again, a great black stag darted out from the darkness flanking the road and sprung directly in their path. It tossed its enormous head, the too-familiar prongs of its antlers seeming to shine in the glare of the headlights. Ophelia let out a blood-curdling scream as Hannibal jerked the wheel to the side as hard as he could, sending the car skidding across a patch of ice and off the road. The car flew past the stag and into the darkness, crashing headlong into the woods. The last thing Hannibal saw was the trunk of an enormous Beech, ripping between them.