"I made her see. I truly made her see. She saw him kill. How can she not remember that? How can she not feel it? How can she not feel the vicious cycle that she's in? That we're all in?" Will sat on the end of Alana's bed, his head in his hands. She leaned against her armoire, her mind in a ping-pong match with itself. The only sound in the room for quite some time was Will's labored breathing.
Ophelia had come home in a whirlwind of spirit, humming to herself and prancing about the house with an unnatural smile plastered on her face. While Will and Alana had not wanted to test this sudden ray of sunshine that had seemed to possess her, they were still suspicious. And when they had learned the reason for her turnaround, they had both nearly blown a fuse. They felt quite like parents nursing an obstinate child. Only the stakes were far higher.
"I could go for a good scream right now," Will hissed, rubbing his hands over his face.
"Or a beer," Alana shook her head, her brows furrowed with frustration. She crossed her arms over her chest, "Or a few."
"That, too."
"What do we do?" for the first time in a while, Alana had no clue as to which direction they should turn. She was the only living human being that knew explicitly of Will's condition, and of his false persecution. And her word paled against the evidence that had been stacked against him. Therefore, she could not turn to Jack. She could not turn to Beverly, her dear friend. They had believed progress had been made with Ophelia, but their hopes of Will escaping with her forever had been dashed all too quickly. Now, Alana and Will were adrift in a dangerous sea, with Ophelia dangling behind them, entirely unawares.
"She has to stay away from him," Will stood, striding to the doorway to watch Ophelia, who sat in the living room, trying desperately to tie a bow onto Winston's collar, to no avail.
"How?" Alana joined him, "In her mind, Hannibal is harmless. A friend, even. We can't just lock her up and throw away the key. Holding her against her will is not an option, if that's what you're thinking."
Will's head bowed, his hair falling lazily in his face. He leaned against the doorframe, his mind racing. Could they make her remember? And if they did, how would she react to Hannibal? To them?
"If she doesn't remember all the horrible things he's done," Will shook his head, "all the secrets I told her in confidence, then we have to convince her to stay away from Hannibal. I can't imagine him going much longer without needing to pull at her strings. Hannibal may think that he has the upper hand on us, but his nature will be his downfall if anything. Dining with the devil." He spit the doctor's name as if it had bitten his tongue.
"She's smart. Maybe... maybe if we let her have one night with him, she'll see. She'll see that he's no one to be trifled with. Maybe something will come back to her. And I doubt Hannibal could be so domestic for any period of time. This whole situation is a much lower stoop than I ever suspected he would reach. He'll get fed up with it and do something drastic, and we'll be there to pull her away from the wreckage if need be." Alana knew that she may have to pull Will from the wreckage as well. The glue that held him together was slowly beginning to disappear. She had seen a number of people thoroughly broken by the world, but never like Will. He was in danger of falling apart again. And yet, he only lost sleep over Ophelia nowadays. It was evident that he would fall to pieces to save her.
"I just hope we won't need to."
Ophelia sat amongst the dogs, her toes tapping on the carpet and her fingers whirring in her lap. Winston nudged her leg with his nose and she scratched him behind the ears, thankful for the temporary distraction.
She had been on plenty of dates in her time. Everything from bar hops to five star dinners, Ophelia had conquered it all with one college boy or another. But never before had she endured such trials and such gripping nerves in order to prepare for one. From the moment she had awoken, her stomach had been set aflutter, and her fingers had not stopped shaking.
Alana had been called in by Jack Crawford quite early, so Ophelia had been left to consult Will, who had been wholly useless in the selection of clothes. Every once in a while, she would run downstairs to parade herself back and forth in front of Will, who was busy in his own world of dogs and fishing lures. Each time, he nodded, gave her a noncommittal, somewhat uncomfortable "yeah" or a nod, and had retreated back into his own mind. It was times like these that Ophelia longed for her sorority sisters.
She didn't think of them much; they had never truly been sisterly toward her. Ophelia had never been one for the sorority lifestyle anyhow. She had always been content to spend nights in. Occasionally, she had indulged her sisters, and they had tinkered on her face and hair like a doll, spending the majority of a day sitting in the room she shared with two other girls. Oddly, nowadays, acting like a normal girl felt false, as if she were putting on a show.
But Ophelia had done her sisters justice that day, so she thought. After forcing Will to watch her parade around the living room, she had settled for what she wore now. Now she sat awaiting Hannibal's arrival, with the dogs milling about her, and Will pacing at the window.
"Are you sure you don't want to just... stay in?" he tried his best to sound casual, "It's supposed to snow tonight. Makes me nervous."
Ophelia shook her head, "I'll be back before bedtime. I promise." She smiled at Will's back; he had stopped directly in front of the window and now stared out into the darkness. She appreciated his concern. She did not quite understand its ferocity, but it was touching. It was obvious that Will had endured more than she could ever understand. Her heart burst for him.
"Hannibal," Will turned to her, "is... strange. Like an owl. He observes. He sees things that it takes ages for others to even sense. He knows the inner workings of a mind like the owl knows its prey. Be careful."
Ophelia stood, disturbing the dogs that had begun to settle around her lap, "You're scaring me!" She forced a laugh as she approached him, her eyes scanning up and down his tense, barely quivering figure, expecting him to dart away from her. But as she drew closer, he reached out and pulled her close, his hands on her shoulders and his eyes boring into hers.
"I feel protective of you." The simple statement was harsh on his tongue, as if it was something he had recited over and over, but still could not assign meaning to. Each syllable was a harsh cymbal through his tight lips.
"Am I one of your strays?" Ophelia could feel the sheer energy radiating from Will's body. Heat. Winston nudged the back of her leg. She had meant her words as a joke, but they had sounded much less in jest, and much more sincere.
"We're both strays, Ophelia," his fingers squeezed her shoulders and her breath hitched in her throat. A great rumbling began deep in her chest, as if something had begun pounding against her ribs. It was barely noticeable, but Ophelia could sense it. Something was tearing.
But the doorbell rang then, and Will's hands shot to his sides, deep, gasping breaths shaking his chest. It startled Ophelia for a moment; why was Hannibal's presence such a terrible, frightening thing?
Ophelia, never taking her eyes from Will's clenched face, retreated into the hall. She opened the door, only then looking away. Hannibal stood in the doorway, looking immaculately tailored in his usual fare: a suit and tie. His eyebrows raised ever so slightly as his eyes scanned her from head to toe. From her softly curled hair, to the pink and white dress in which her small frame was draped, and down to her simple black shoes, his eyes seemed to drink her in with an insatiable hunger, but also with a giddy sort of glint. It made Ophelia's stomach flutter.
He looked past her then, and his eyes fell on Will, who had appeared behind her. A smirk spread across his lips, but only for the slightest moment. Only Will caught it.
"You look lovely," Hannibal looked down to Ophelia again, "I would stay and chat," his eyes darted upward again, "But I'm afraid we haven't the time for casual conversation at the moment. Our reservation awaits us."
"Of course," Ophelia tugged at the strap of her purse, "Bye, Will. See you." She shot him a warm smile, then followed Hannibal out into the cold, not noticing the hatred that smoldered in Will's expression as the door swung closed behind them.
Hannibal placed a hand on the small of Ophelia's back guiding her around patches of ice that had begun to form in the driveway. She shivered, thankful that Hannibal had left his car running. It was wonderfully warm inside, and smelled crisp and clean, much like fresh linen.
Ophelia looked down at her knobby knees as they sped off down the dimply lit road. A few scars peeked out from beneath the hem of her skirt. She hastened to cover them, their small, ruddy appearance a glaring reminder of what she did not know.
Small talk, underscored by classic Bach, was what filled the long drive to the other side of town. Hannibal prompted Ophelia with questions pertaining to trivial things, such as Will's dogs, animals of her own, and her hobbies before the accident. She told him all that she could remember, completely unaware of the subtle smile that settled on his face each time she spoke. He often skirted around her questions, finding every way he could to turn it back around on her. Ophelia did not mind much. She was just thankful for something to pass the time.
When they arrived at the restaurant, Hannibal immediately appeared outside her door, helping her out of the car and leading her inside as if she could fall and break at any moment. He addressed the men in tuxedoes at the front of the establishment in Italian, and Ophelia could not help but raise her eyebrows at him. A smug look on his face as they went, a slick man led them to a private space at the back of the dark dining room. It was lit with string lights on the ceiling, strung up to resemble a courtyard at night. There was a single table in the room, lit with a single flickering candle. Soft violin music floated in through the open door.
"Tell me," Hannibal removed his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, "What is life like under the strict rule of Alana Bloom and Will Graham?"
For a moment Ophelia did not respond; all she had the capacity to focus on for a short time was the rippling muscles of Hannibal's chest, arms, and shoulders. They seemed much more prominent in the shadow-cast light of the candles. She had to force herself to look away.
She answered, smirking, "Not as horrible as you might think." Hannibal slid her chair closer to the table once she sat, then slid into the chair before her. His sharply angular face was partially cast in shadow, the flickering flame sharpening his cheekbones and defining his jaw. Suddenly Ophelia felt quite warm.
A waitress appeared, and Hannibal spoke to her in refined Italian as well. The woman seemed charmed, her cheeks aflame and a ringlet ever twirling around her finger. Ophelia watched her closely, feeling a twinge of territorial jealousy deep in her stomach.
"Italiano?" Ophelia straightened her back and rolled her shoulders as the waitress left with their orders. Hannibal had ordered entirely in Italian, and his request had not been a simple one. The waitress had seemed happy to comply with his complex request, but had seemed positively bored when Ophelia had struggled through the pronunciation of a certain type of ravioli.
"When your passion for the culinary arts is as... far-reaching as mine, you tend to learn the language of the medium," Hannibal leaned forward, his eyes languidly searching Ophelia's face as he spoke, "And I intend to integrate a bit of Italian into my everyday cookbook. After all, I am quite selective about what I put in my body."
"Brava, then," Ophelia gestured to him with her glass, then took a dainty sip, "How did you get so into food? Psychiatry and fine dining... doesn't really mesh. Not that I'm complaining."
Hannibal laughed, "One must remain well-rounded. My mind is fed when I am with my patients, and the rest of me is satiated in the kitchen."
"Your patients," Ophelia was intrigued, "are an intellectual challenge, then? Or do you deal with a lot of daddy issues?"
He could not help but laugh again, "Clever, but true. While I do find the inner machinations of the human mind to be fascinating, it can be a bit dull. Once..." he hesitated for a moment, but quickly cleared his throat and continued, "once a man recounted the entire plot of The Shining and tried to pass it off as personal experience."
Ophelia guffawed into her drink, "No way! I love that movie and all, but why would anyone want to even pretend to live it out? Have you seen it?"
Hannibal shook his head, "I've been meaning to for quite some time."
"It's really psychological," Ophelia grinned, "I'd like to hear your take on it sometime."
"I suppose you'll have to be there to watch me analyze it. From what my patient told me, it's a rather twisted affair."
She nodded, grinning, "Twisted is an understatement."
"But aren't the best stories always a little bit twisted? There's no fun in anything less. It enriches everything."
"Like... like Greek mythology. It wouldn't be nearly as studied if Hades had just let Persephone go. Or if someone didn't turn into an animal every few days."
Hannibal laughed, leaning back in his chair and taking a sip of his fragrant wine, "A mythology fan, are you? Greek?" He already knew the answer. He knew everything there was to know about Ophelia. There was nothing more to this than his desire to hear her voice, to watch her lips move as she talked, to feel the warmth of her skin near him again. He relished the sound of her voice, her smoother-than-honey laugh, and the twinkle in her eyes when she smiled. Hannibal had fully embraced his descent into madness over this girl. He only wished that she would remember her madness for him.
Bedelia's commands seemed to fade ever so slightly in Hannibal's mind. He itched for action, for progress. Patience had run its course; he had done enough waiting.
As they ate, chatting of trivial things, Hannibal thought back to her outburst the day before. Her calm normality had been breached by a sudden flood of emotion, which could be nothing other than her old memories pounding against the inside of her skull. Even sitting there, in the dim room with nothing more than a few candles and the reflected light of the snow through the window, Hannibal could see the past weighing heavily on her. Ophelia's eyes were heavy with dark rings, though she tried to cover them with makeup. Her hair lacked luster and just barely smelled of roses, where it once had the ability to fill an entire room with the scent. While she had put on muscle weight, recovering from her drug-fueled stint in London, the bones in her hands and shoulders still pressed harshly against her skin. At least the bell tinkling of her laugh had remained the same.
Hannibal imagined her mind being something like a prison. In it, the true Ophelia lay in wait, every so often rising to bang against the walls. Until Ophelia was released from her mind-cage, she was nothing but a shell. Hannibal knew that it was his duty to release her.
He took a bite of his meticulously prepared dish, only half listening to what Ophelia was telling him about a Greek Philosophy class she once took. He had heard it all before. Instead, he let his mind and his eyes wander. He found himself subtly winding his way from her eyes, to her lips, and further down to her chest. His heart thumped rapidly as they rested on the bit of fabric that covered her breasts. He took another bite. And another. He thought of what was underneath that fabric, what lay past a single pink button. Memory serving him well, Hannibal thought of what her skin felt like. Soft. Warm. He took a larger bite, followed by a swig of wine. The mediocre food was the only thing keeping one foot in reality. It was a harsh slap to his refined palette, but it was necessary. He was also peeved that his other appetite could not be satiated. It had been far too long since it had been satisfied. He felt a warm tug in the pit of his stomach, but chased it with a bite of food.
After they had finished their meals and Hannibal's hungers had left him, he was reluctant to return her to the clutches of Will and Alana. The drive seemed all too quick, for one moment he was helping her on with her cardigan outside the restaurant, and the next the car was parked in front of the house. One light was on in the living room. It could only mean that Will had waited for her.
As Ophelia's fingers clasped together in her lap, eyes focused on the floor of the car, Hannibal quickly and subtly pressed the "CD" button on the console. He was pushing a domino, setting into action a chain of crucial events. Ophelia did not notice.
"I," she looked up at him, twisting her torso in the seat as she unbuckled her seatbelt, "had a really great time. It was really fantastic just to talk to you for a while."
Hannibal smiled, his lips pulled tight, "You are excellent company."
Ophelia flushed. She looked down at her lap, tucking her hair behind her ears. Without hesitation, Hannibal hooked his fingers underneath her chin and pulled her lips to his. Her eyes were wide for a moment and her lips frozen. In her lap, her fingers tensed and in her throat her breath caught. But almost immediately, she melted into the kiss, appreciating its tentative gentleness. Her hands moved upward to rest on his shoulders. She leaned forward and his strong fingers cupped her cheek. As the kiss slowly began to deepen, Ophelia shuffled herself forward in the seat, leaning against the divide between them.
When you're alone and life is making you lonely, you can always go... Downtown.
The music began ever so quietly, barely underscoring the sounds of their deepening breaths. It was hardly audible, but it pecked at Ophelia's ears like birds scavenging for food.
When you've got worries, all the noise and the hurry, seems to help I know... Downtown.
Petula Clark's voice was unusually grating, pounding at Ophelia's head. She had heard the song before and it had never moved her, but suddenly it was as if the song was the most terrible thing her brain had ever processed. Her head began to pound, as if a jackhammer had taken up residence in her skull. She opened her eyes.
Ophelia gasped, jumping back and smacking her head against the window. Before her eyes, Hannibal had disappeared. In fact, her surroundings had entirely changed, though they did not seem real. The edges of each surface blurred and swam, and Ophelia's skull continued to pound beneath the pressure of the beat.
Just listen to the music of the traffic of the city. Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty. How can you lose?
Ophelia's head was suddenly wet and her chest heaved with heavy, labored breaths. She felt a sickly warmth covering her body. Around her, a dance studio undulated and swam, a single light illuminating the monstrous shadow that spread across the floor beside her. Her head snapped to the side and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, its surface rolling like waves.
The lights are much brighter there. You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares, so go Downtown. Things will be great when you're...
A scream clawed its way up Ophelia's throat and blared through her lips, no matter how hard she willed it to stay down. Blood covered her nearly from head to toe, for she was sitting in a dark pool of it. Somehow, though, she could not move from it. She could hardly move at all, save her head and eyes. But her head and eyes could not look away from the carnage that surrounded her. She screamed again, her head pounding and her chest clenching.
Hannibal was outside and opening the passenger door in seconds, catching Ophelia as her convulsing body dropped toward the frozen ground. Her eyes had rolled back in her head and a sickening gurgling sound was choking its way out from between her clenched teeth. Hannibal's eyes were wide with unmasked panic; this had not gone the way he had intended it to. He clutched her body close to his chest as he broke into a run, willing her small frame to cease its awful jerking. He feared that the convulsions would snap her frail bones in half.
Before he reached the front steps, Will burst through the front door, clad in baggy flannel pants and an old t-shirt. He fumbled toward them, his glasses askew, leaving the door wide open behind him.
"Out of the way," Hannibal barked as Will's hands reached for Ophelia's face. He felt no need to mask his fear in Will's presence. Not when Ophelia was at stake.
"What the hell did you do to her?" Will roared, following Hannibal, who had pushed past him. His eyes trained on Ophelia's face, red and strained, as Hannibal lay her down on the wide, empty island in the center of the kitchen.
"A pillow," he commanded, "and a damp cloth. Now." Will obeyed, tripping over the dogs as he ran from room to room. He fetched a pillow from the couch and a warm cloth from underneath the sink, then, hands shaking, hovered over Ophelia. Hannibal propped her head up on the pillow; it was shaking and slamming back onto the counter. He dabbed at the corners of her mouth, for a small stream of foam had appeared there.
Will looked down at her body, his head spinning and his heart falling into his stomach. Her hands, held together at the wrist by Hannibal's strong grip, were clenched and shaking as if she meant to strike out. Her back was arched and her legs kicked and shook. Her head continued to pound backwards, but luckily it only made contact with the pillow.
"Wait it out, wait it out..." Hannibal hissed under his breath, his forehead beginning to bead with sweat.
His face did not move. It was a steely mask, ever trained on Ophelia's whirring eyes. His other hand rested on her forehead, his fingers gently stroking her skin. Will could see past this sloppy mask. His eyes betrayed him. Hannibal's face read guilt. Guilt, anger, and pain. This was his fault, Will was sure of it.
Suddenly, Ophelia's body froze. Her head barely quivered, but her body remained rigid. Hannibal's thumb made circles on her forehead. Then, with a great exhale, she fell limp onto the table, her breathing labored, but even.
"It's over?" Will gritted his teeth, his hands resting lightly on her arm, which now lay by her side.
"For now," Hannibal nodded, his eyes never leaving her face, "Post-traumatic episodes are not uncommon."
"What triggered it? Something had to have triggered it. From what I... saw she didn't hit her head that hard. She didn't look sick. She didn't fall. It just-"
"Swept over her," Hannibal snapped, "unexpectedly." There was a hint of falsehood in his voice.
"Unexpectedly?" Will glared up at him, "Are you sure it was unexpected?"
Hannibal ground his teeth together, his jaw popping beneath his flushed skin. He could feel the heat of the dogs surrounding them. They all sat, their tails hanging limp, eyes darting from Will, to Ophelia, and then to Hannibal. Their closeness made Hannibal uncomfortable. It was suddenly very hot beneath his tailored suit.
He took a step away from Ophelia, "Take her to the couch. You'll need to watch her. She'll wake up soon. Be careful of what she consumes; no solids until you are entirely sure that she won't have another seizure."
"And where are you going?" Will spat, "To rethink your plan? You were trying to, what, make a point? To who? She won't get it. She won't remember it, most likely. She'll wake up disoriented, and with a headache. You were trying to prove something to me then. Alana's not here, so who else would it be? Unless you're just playing a game with Ophelia. With her innocence. Trying to see how far you can go before you kill her. Well, you can be sure she'll see you before you do. She's suffered enough. I may have failed Abigail, but I will not fail Ophelia!"
Hannibal gazed down at Will's fierce glare. He did not feel intimidated by pitiful Will Graham. Though he hid it well, he remained a time bomb. Alana knew it as well. And yet his words stung, oddly deep in his chest.
"You are not the only one who failed when Abigail was lost," Hannibal took a final look at Ophelia, his upper lip twitching, then turned and strode from the house before guilt and pain could cripple him or knock him from his feet. Her had simply wanted her to remember. But the memory was clearly far too strong to be remembered right away. Perhaps too strong to be remembered at all. After all, it had nearly broken her to begin with.
For the first time in quite a while, Hannibal Lecter was lost.