Though the snow reached just past her knees, Ophelia did not feel cold. In fact, she felt quite hot, for fire and brimstone filled her chest and steam seemed to be trickling from her ears. She stared intently at the door to Hannibal's office as she plowed along the sidewalk, Will's words playing like a broken record in her mind.
She had not planned out exactly what she would say to Hannibal once they were face to face, but she knew that something had to be said. Because of this, she had not been able to find sleep the night before, and had found herself watching Will pace from the shadows of the living room. He did not sleep much either. Ophelia had not wanted to disturb him; the silence of nighttime was the only company he seemed to need.
Watching him and piecing together his revelation had lit a fire in the pit of Ophelia's stomach. While she desired to be fair and truthful, she also longed to give Hannibal a good smack across the face. If Will's words the day before had been truthful, the good doctor surely deserved it.
The warmth of the waiting room was a much needed relief; Ophelia was sure she would suffocate if she had to stay wrapped in a scarf much longer. Will had insisted on bundling her up, wrapping her in a coat, scarf, mittens, and hat, as if she would turn to ice if the cold air bit at her for too long. So upon finding reprieve within the warmth of the building, Ophelia immediately took to disrobing.
But a curt cough stopped her short, "I was under the impression my appointment would not be encroached upon, but I see that Doctor Lecter has double-booked himself. I have to say I am displeased with his time management skills."
Ophelia studied the source of the voice as she pulled her scarf from over her nose and mouth. The woman who sat in the armchair opposite her was a small, mousy-looking creature, and yet the presence with which she held herself was that of a much more imposing personage. She sat, cross legged and straight backed, looking Ophelia up and down as if she were offended by the snow that Ophelia had tracked inside.
"Oh, I don't mean to..." Ophelia glanced at the door to Hannibal's office, then back at the woman, "I'm not... I'm just here for-" Before she could formulate a desperate excuse, the door swung open and a harried man shuffled between the two women, leaving Hannibal standing in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.
"Mrs. Huntington," Hannibal acknowledged the woman without taking his eyes off of Ophelia's bundled figure, "I see you have met my intern. She will be sitting in on all of my appointments today. Or she would, if she had been on time."
Ophelia immediately bowed her head, playing along, "I'm so sorry, Doctor Lecter. You see, the bus-"
"No excuses," he snapped, a twinkle in his eye, gleaming just for her, "Please come in, both of you." The woman stood in a huff, and stalked past Hannibal, into the office, her coat coming off in a flurry of fur. Ophelia stayed opposite Hannibal for a moment, refusing to let a smile cross her features as Hannibal evidently expected of her.
As she began to follow Mrs. Huntington into the room, Hannibal placed a light hand on her shoulder. She braced herself against his touch, but he merely raised a single finger and quickly brushed a snowflake from the tip of her nose.
"Come," he shut the door behind him, gesturing to the balcony overlooking the room. Hannibal did not wait for her to respond, but took his seat across from Mrs. Huntingdon, who waited impatiently in one of the armchairs adjacent to the ornately curtained window. Ophelia hurried up to the balcony, where she quietly began peeling layer after layer of winter wear off of her warm frame. She began by unwinding the heavily knit scarf, draping it across the arm of a chair between two bookshelves. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of Hannibal out of the corner of her eye. Though he appeared to be listening intently to Mrs. Huntingdon's tale about her "little heathen" grandchildren, his eyes darted every so often to Ophelia. They lingered a bit longer each time, as if he were afraid she might disintegrate.
Finally she was able to sit, her coat, scarf, mittens, and sweater in a neat pile underneath the chair. She watched Hannibal for a while, still desperately digging for what she would say when she was alone with him. If Will had not exaggerated, Hannibal would not take lightly to harsh accusations; perhaps the best course of action would be to prompt him coyly, fishing answers from him indirectly.
"Hey, Hannibal, so I hear you're a big fan of psychological torture and emotional manipulation? Let's do lunch," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. She cast a glance around the room. Something would have to breech the subject gently. Something would have to bring their conversation around to Will naturally.
As her eyes wandered, they fell on Hannibal's desk, which was barely visible from her seat at the back of the balcony. Without making any noise, she tiptoed to the railing, leaning over in order to get a better view. Perhaps a newspaper, an article, a picture would spark the conversation.
But instead, the only thing out of the ordinary she could find was a small swatch of yellow fabric folded in the desk chair. From where she stood, she could not quite make out the writing on the front, but it almost appeared to be Greek letters. She wondered what they were.
"Miss Ford?" Hannibal's voice startled her, "Would you mind bringing me Mrs. Huntingdon's file. You'll find it in the bottom drawer of my desk."
"Sure, sure," Ophelia nodded, hurrying down to the first level of the room, the sound of her boots echoing around the room. As Hannibal watched and Mrs. Huntingdon stared down at her fingernails, nose wrinkled, Ophelia rifled through the drawer, thumbing over file after file until finally she found the right one.
"Thank you," Hannibal nodded to her politely as she approached, file held out before her. As he took it, his fingers brushed against hers. Her heart lurched, and she willed it to stop beating entirely.
"You sure do have a lot of patients to keep track of," Ophelia sighed, "Or at least a lot of paperwork."
"I do my best to be thorough," Hannibal remained curt, professional, as he turned back to his patient with a twitch of his upper lip and a nod of his head. Ophelia could immediately tell that he did not enjoy the woman's presence. She resisted the urge to imitate her huffing as she returned to the desk.
As she bent to close the heavy drawer, she blanched, her eyebrows furrowing and her mouth dropping open, ever so slightly.
"Hang on..." she muttered, "this is mine. This is my shirt." She picked it up from its neat resting place in the chair, her thumb skimming over the bold pink letters that spelled "Chi Omega". It had been her favorite shirt; she hadn't even realized it was missing. But what was it doing in Hannibal Lecter's possession?
Her snooping undetected, she hurried back to her post, shirt bundled against her stomach as she went. Once she was somewhat out of sight, she stuffed it beneath the chair with her other clothes. Perhaps she would show it to Will later; he would surely have some sort of explanation.
Ophelia took to reading after a second and a third patient came and went. She had found an enormous anthology of Greek Myths and had buried herself deep in it, nearly forgetting why she had come to Hannibal's office in the first place. He did not call for her again, but every so often, he glanced up at her, his eyes lingering on her face, scrunched with concentration. He watched as she dog-eared page after page, sometimes lingering on one page for a long while. It was the same book he had seen her lost in before, and it was a comforting sight to behold.
As Hannibal's final patient began to gather his coat and hat, Ophelia sat up in her chair, realizing that the light of the day had begun to fade and she was squinting at the words on the page. She reached up to switch on the sconce that hung on the wall above her, simultaneously tugging down at the hem of her sweater as it threatened to expose her scarred stomach.
When she turned back to face the room, a dark figure outside the window caught her attention. Across the street stood a man, his face oddly familiar. His eyes remained trained on the window, as if he were straining to see inside. Ophelia leaned forward, over the edge of the balcony, her eyes straining against the gloom. She could just barely make out his features: hard, cold, covered in ornate ink. This was the man that she had met on the bus, what seemed like eons ago. A tremor shook her spine as she watched him. If he had not blinked, she would think him a statue; he remained in the same place for a long while as snow settled atop his head and shoulders.
Hannibal turned to peer up at her, his hands in his pockets. But before he could inquire about the source of her deep concentration, there was a sharp rapping at the door.
"Hm," Hannibal furrowed his brows, "I was hoping to be alone with you for a moment, but I suppose my work is never done." He stalked to opposite end of the room and Ophelia watched, his hulking shoulders blocking the door from her view.
A moment of silence followed the opening of the door, then a sharp female voice spoke, "Well aren't you going to let me in?"
"I am reluctant to," Hannibal stepped aside and a head of fiery curls burst into the room, "Miss Lounds."
"Why?" she laughed, shrugging her bag off of her shoulder and tossing it onto the chaise lounge by the window, "I'm not here to be antagonistic," she sighed glancing around the room. Then her eyes landed on Ophelia. A sickly sweet grin spread across her face.
"Hi," Ophelia cleared her throat.
"Hello up there," Freddie stood below her, hands on her hips, her head craned to maintain eye contact, "Why don't you come down here?" She nonchalantly pulled her jacket from her shoulders and tossed it over the arm of the chair closest to her, then came to meet Ophelia at the bottom of the stairs.
"If she wishes to remain where she is, she may," Hannibal snapped, his composure riddled with wrinkles.
"I- it's fine," Ophelia furrowed her brows, "I can... I can come down there, I guess."
"You're Ophelia," Freddie stated, her eyes remaining trained on her face as she descended the stairs.
"Guilty as charged," Ophelia shrugged, forcing a small laugh.
"Well, I'm a friend of Hannibal's and-"
"You use the term 'friend' quite liberally, Miss Lounds," Hannibal stalked to his desk, positioning himself between Ophelia and Freddie. His face was steely, his body a marble statue; unmoved.
"Lounds..." Ophelia frowned, "Where have I heard that name before?"
Freddie smirked, tossing a stray curl over her shoulder, "You're well-read, then, if you know of me."
"What do you-"
Hannibal shifted his weight, his fingers clenching, "What is it you need?"
Freddie smoothed out the hem of her leopard print dress, her head cocked to the side, "I need a lot of things, Doctor Lecter. Information is one of them."
"Lounds!" Ophelia barked, her eyes opening wide and her finger flying upward to point at Freddie's face, "Freddie Lounds. Tattle Crime. You're that woman who wrote all those awful things about Will," Ophelia bristled, taking one step closer to her, "How dare you? Who the hell do you think you are, making up stories like that?" Hannibal did nothing to stop her as her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. The realization cast a brooding shadow across Ophelia's features; Hannibal relished the glimpse of familiarity it gave him.
"It's all in my job description, darling," Freddie cooed, her full lips curling into a poisonously sweet smile, "Someone has to do it."
"No, no one has to do anything," Ophelia spat, "Especially not to someone innocent. Someone like Will."
"Will is not entirely innocent, though," Freddie shrugged. She crossed her arms over her chest and cocked her head, as if enjoying watching Ophelia's face redden with anger.
"None of us are truly innocent," Ophelia turned her head, staring pointedly at Hannibal, "are we? We all do things we shouldn't. But that doesn't give you an excuse to drag his name through the mud. Is that what you're here for? To get another 'story' to please the bottom feeders that read your drivel?" A shiver ran up Hannibal's straight spine, but he did not let it show.
Freddie laughed, "Well we're jumping to conclusions pretty quickly, aren't we? No, Ophelia, my interest is not in Will Graham. Not for the moment, anyway. He doesn't pose a threat to my media."
"Then why are you here, exactly?" Hannibal interjected, coming to stand just beside Ophelia, ready to jump to her defense. She shifted away from him ever so slightly.
"Well, if you must insist on spoilers, Doctor Lecter, I'll give them to you. You see, I've been collaborating with an outside source lately," she meandered over to the chair over which her jacket was draped and sat, "An old friend of yours is in town and he's been helping me. Well... the term 'friend' is one I use loosely. Former business partner, maybe? Oh, I would just hate to ruin this story for you two, but I'm sure we'll pop in again sometime soon. A reunion story!" she threw her hands in the air, her face alight, like a child at a birthday party, "Everyone loves a good reunion story."
"Are you planning on doing to Doctor Lecter what you've done to Will Graham?" Ophelia took a few steps toward her, "Because if so, you need to leave. No one deserves that kind of treatment." Hannibal mirrored her movements as if magnets were attached to his feet. He imagined throwing Ophelia over his shoulder and making a mad dash for the door, but of course he could not.
Freddie stared at her for a moment, her eyes hard. She stood, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes darting back to Hannibal for the slightest moment. She sighed and shook her head, brow furrowing and lips curling into a piteous frown.
"What?" Ophelia snapped, feeling the scrutiny of her gaze.
"Just..." Freddie shrugged, "You remind me of another girl I saw here once."
"Here?"
"Yes, just a few months ago, actually. I was doing a bit of writing in the little hole-in-the-wall cafe across the street and I saw her from through the window. She was burying a bird. A sparrow, I think it was. She seemed so... distressed. Distraught, over the loss of something so significant as a sparrow." Ophelia's head began to swirl ever so slightly; she thought it nothing more than a wave of heat washing over her.
Hannibal bristled, "It's time for you to leave, Miss Lounds." He took a step toward her and she mirrored him, stepping back.
"Oh, so soon?" Freddie pouted, her eyes never leaving Ophelia's face. She relished in the deep lines that riddled her concentrated stare. She could almost hear the dominos falling.
"I hate to be rude, but I really must insist," Hannibal snapped, his voice beginning to crack with effort.
"Of course," Freddie sighed, slipping her jacket back over her shoulders, "I'm sure I'll be more warmly received when we next meet."
"Doubtful," Hannibal muttered.
"Wait a minute," Ophelia held her hand out to Freddie as she turned toward the door, "Who was the girl? Who I remind you of. Who was she?"
Freddie shook her head, her hand on the doorknob now. She looked over her shoulder at Ophelia and Hannibal and smirked, "From what I hear, she's a killer. Maybe it's best if you don't remember her." And with that, Freddie spirited away into the cold, leaving Hannibal and Ophelia standing in silence. She watched Freddie cross the street through the window, watched as she came to a stop in the same spot in which the tattooed man had stood just moments before.
"Insufferable vulture of a woman," Hannibal contemplated locking the door behind Freddie. He moved to the door, stiff and mechanical. It took a great amount of restraint to not follow her out into the snow and snap her neck then and there.
Behind him, Ophelia began to pace back and forth between the leather chairs, thumb and forefinger pressed to her temples.
"She just..." Ophelia shook her head, "God, I swear I've spoken to her before. I don't understand how I could forget a character like that."
"Don't put too much weight on her words," Hannibal watched her pace, "Lies, more like. Freddie Lounds revels in filth and the production of it. She would say anything to get a rise out of-"
"And what the hell was that story about the girl and the bird? Why does that put chills in my back and a pounding in my head?" she fell into the chair opposite Hannibal, "Maybe I'm just annoyed. Mad. Hateful, even. How could she write those things about Will? She..." Ophelia looked up at Hannibal, her brows furrowed as the puzzle pieces began to fall into place, "What if someone put her up to it?"
"What do you mean?" Hannibal gingerly sank into the seat opposite her, struggling to remain unfazed.
"Oh, I don't know," heat, angry heat, prickled up Ophelia's spine as she lost control of her tongue, "Maybe someone was covering their tracks. Rubbing dirt over a wound. People believe the media, right? Even if it's lies, people would believe anything."
Hannibal remained silent. He remained stony, even as Ophelia's eyes bore into his. It was suddenly what the cogs in her head were churning over.
"You may speak frankly, Ophelia," Hannibal prodded, "I will not deny you the truth if you do me the courtesy of ceasing your riddles." He was sure he knew what would come next. It was only a matter of time before she told Will's side of the story, however warped it may be. It it were anyone other than Ophelia making these accusations, they would not be allowed to do more than open their mouths. But Hannibal knew that he must give her a chance to purge the venom that she held within her fragile body. So he waited for the dam to break. And break it did.
"Fine," Ophelia threw up her hands, "Fine! Why did you frame Will for the Ripper's murders? Was it fun for you? Is it something you do with all of your patients? Pick a stigma at random and nail it to them, no matter how uncharacteristic? Pull at their strings? What about Mrs. Huntingdon, huh? Are you planning on pulling at her wires too, or was that just for Will? He is a good man, and you know it. He didn't deserve the shit you put them through. He still doesn't."
"Ophelia, I-"
"No, no, let me finish my thought, okay? I don't know what you would want to gain by framing Will. It doesn't make a ton of sense. But I do know that you haven't gained shit, Hannibal, because the real killer is still out there. And Will? Will is wise to you now. He told me. But I... didn't want to believe it. You... you're so... I want to... I wanted to know you, and now that I know what Will went through, I don't know what I want."
Hannibal was silent for a moment, then he slid from his chair, coming to kneel before Ophelia. She stiffened, leaning against the back of the chair, willing the gap between them to remain. She watched as he shrugged off his jacket, folding it neatly over the arm of the chair.
"Will tried to have me killed once," Hannibal stated simply, "It was a messy affair. And entirely unwarranted." He rolled his sleeves to his elbows and held his arms out to her, palms up. Two long scars ran in perfect symmetry up his wrists in long vertical lines.
Ophelia found herself reaching to touch them, her fingers trembling, "What happened?" Her voice was no more than a whisper.
"I admit my fascination with Will's unique mentality may have been perceived as antagonistic. Clearly my professional curiosity should have been reigned in; he must have felt quite like a science project. Will was incarcerated because he was losing himself, and in the context of the cases on which he was working, his instability proved to be a liability. Naturally, in his eyes, the blame fell to me. The easy out is always to blame the therapist; well who else could have made him so unstable? One night, I was given what he felt I deserved: a crucifixion."
"What?" Ophelia's fingers ghosted over the scars, her voice quavering. The foundation on which her her argument, and Will's, stood, was crumbling.
"It was gruesome. I wouldn't want to disturb you with the details."
"Tell me," she murmured, shame, confusion, and anger battling in her chest.
"Well, he sent a man to accost me late at night. I was swimming. The man rendered me unconscious using a kind of paralytic poison. I awoke with a noose around my neck, my slit wrists tied aloft at my sides, and no support beneath me but an overturned bucket. I could barely breathe, and I could barely see. A river of my blood soaked the man's shoes. That I remember quite clearly."
"Jesus," Ophelia breathed, her fingers clasping around his wrists.
Hannibal laughed stiffly, "Perhaps that was the idea."
She shook her head, "I had no idea."
"Of course you didn't. You'd only been told one side of the story. Will's truth is quite different from mine."
"Why would he do that?" she could feel the space inside her ribcage tearing in half.
"Madness has no explanation."
They sat in silence for a moment, their eyes searching each other. The position in which they had become statues was all too familiar; Hannibal could almost hear Jack's voice echoed by Ophelia's screams. Hannibal longed to stroke the flush of heat that washed across her cheeks. He ached to run his fingers through her hair, to lock his hands with hers.
But before he could, there was a pounding at the door. Ophelia, startled by the sound, pulled back from Hannibal even farther. The pounding continued until Hannibal flung open the door, ready to reprimand whoever had so rudely interrupted them.
Will burst past him, eyes searching the room for Ophelia. "It's time for you to come home," he hissed.
Ophelia shot to her feet as Hannibal shut the door behind Will. Her eyes snapped between the two men, wide and whining.
"What are you doing here?" she muttered.
"What do you think?" he made to grab her arm, "I'm here to take you home."
"Don't touch me," Ophelia snapped, jerking her hand out of his reach.
Will froze, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging partially open. His head jerked to the left, to where Hannibal had come to stand, then back to Ophelia, who clutched her torso as if it would fall to pieces if she let it go.
Then, together, Will and Hannibal hissed, "Ophelia." They glanced again at each other; Hannibal's calm pretense made Will flare.
Glasses askew, he took a step toward her, his hands outstretched, "Ophelia, please. Come home. We didn't know where you had run off to, and... Please, Ophelia. I was worried. Alana was worried. You need to come with me."
"She doesn't need to do anything," Hannibal stepped forward as well, his languid voice in harsh contrast with Will's, "She knows her own mind."
"No!" Will snapped, "No she doesn't! That's the trouble here. You, Doctor Lecter, you-"
"Shut up!" Ophelia wailed, her hands on her head, "shut up, shut up, shut up! I don't know who any of you are! I don't even know for sure who I am!"
"Ophelia-" Hannibal started.
"No," she snapped, "I feel like I've got holes in my head and you're all trying to fill them. And that's not for you to do! I feel like I'm crazy!"
Will took a step toward her and she shied away, holding her hands out, shielding her face.
"Let me take you home," Will pleaded gently, "We don't... we don't have to talk. You don't even have to look at me. Just come home. Please."
Without a word, Ophelia hurried up the stairs, snatched up her coat, scarf, and gloves, and hurried between Will and Hannibal toward the door. For a moment, she paused, her hand over the knob. She shook her head, shrugging on her coat, as she threw one last glance over her shoulder at Hannibal. He made no moves toward her; he knew better.
Once Will and Ophelia had gone, Hannibal turned to face the empty room. The air still barely smelled of roses. he slowly made his way up the stairs to where she had sat, desperate to surround himself with her essence again.
Beside the chair sat a stack of books. Hannibal sat, picking up each book one at a time, turning them over and over, imagining her hands doing the same. At the bottom of the stack sat Ophelia's notebook, the pages wrinkled and worn from overuse. A woeful smile crossed his lips as he flipped through it, relishing this peek into her soul.
Hannibal paused when a violent dash of scribbles caught his eye. Taking up an entire page, his name was written, crossed out, rewritten, crossed out again. At the very bottom of the page, though, was a small cluster of doodled hearts next to his name. He chuckled as his finger traced the drawing. Taking a pen from his coat pocket, and with one small sweep, he circled his name and shut the notebook.