Hannibal Lecter's Residence

7:15AM - Monday

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Delilah…"

Groaning, she rolled away from the noise, toward the much more pleasant sound of Hannibal's voice, and wedged herself between two pillows. "Mmh, need more sleep," she grumbled, her voice muffled in the linens.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"It seems someone is determined to speak with you."

Ring. Ring. —

As he spoke, the ringing stopped and she peeked out to find Hannibal sitting on the edge of the bed, already showered and fully dressed, with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Not so determined, apparently," she said around a yawn. "Is that for me?"

"Naturally," he replied with a small smile. "Why don't you sit up—"

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Son of a bitch." Delilah groaned, rolling out from under the pillow to hang over the edge of the bed and dig around in her purse. "Mm-'ello?"

"Good morning, this is Detective Lindley," a stranger's voice announced. "Am I speaking with Delilah Bloom?"

"Yea-uh, yes, this is she," Delilah replied, sitting up quickly and pulling at the sheet to cover her bare chest. "I- what?" In a daze, she took the cup of coffee Hannibal proffered and watched him as he moved back across the room. She noticed what she'd originally taken for a painting above the fireplace was actually a television, currently on mute and tuned to the local news. There was something familiar about the locale presently being shown on the screen, but the detective was talking again and she willed herself to focus. "I-I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Your name and number were listed as her emergency contact," he repeated calmly, "and I need to know if you are aware of anyone we can get in touch with that would be considered her next of kin."

"Her-… Who?"

"You are familiar with a Mrs. Margaret Cartwright, isn't that correct? As I said, you were listed as—"

"H-Her name is Maggie," she cut in sharply. Hannibal swam into her suddenly murky field of vision and took the cup of coffee from her shaking hand. It was in his concerned gaze that she registered she was crying.

"So… you knew her, then?"

"Yes, I know Maggie," she corrected angrily, trying to blink away the tears.

A short pause.

"Ma'am, I'm very sorry…"

A strange buzzing invaded her ears, sometimes rising to a pitch that threatened to deafen her, but she caught snippets in between:

'Next of kin.'

'Hate that you had to find out this way.'

'So sorry.'

"Sh-She doesn't have a-anyone," Delilah stammered, feeling suddenly, overwhelmingly cold. "No children. Her h-husband… died y-years ago. I-… I'm all she has."

"Okay, then. Well, I'm so sorry to have to ask but would you be willing to come down and ID the body?"

As her eyes drifted, they spontaneously hyper-focused on an overhead shot of Paradise Café on the television screen and great, heaving sobs overtook her. She was only partially aware of Hannibal saying something as he came near again; she could feel his warmth as his hand closed around her own, and then he was gone. And so was her phone. She clutched the sheet tight to herself and doubled over as she succumbed to an inexplicable, bone-deep ache.

While she allowed herself to weep, the buzzing subsided and she was aware of Hannibal speaking.

"Yes," she heard him say. "Please, give us some time— …Of course. Thank you."

Silence, punctuated only by her own sobs, filled the room. Hannibal was beside her again and, without a word, he pulled her to his lap and held her as she wept. She cried until there were no tears left; her eyes throbbed with the force of it and, though she was quite warm within Hannibal's arms, her body convulsed with violent shivers.

Maggie was…

"Dead." Delilah tried the word on her tongue but it tasted chalky and wrong. No one deserved to die less than Maggie Cartwright. "How?" She croaked, pulling her face from the crook of Hannibal's neck to stare incredulously up at him. "Wh-who would—"

"I don't know, darling," he replied solemnly.

"She, of a-all people—"

"I know." He shushed her tenderly and pulled her close again. "I liked Maggie a great deal," he murmured, gently rocking her as he stroked her hair.

"I-I think I'm okay," Delilah muttered, reaching up to swipe at her face. She needed to pull herself together.

Hannibal smiled somberly as he pushed a bit of hair away from her tearstained face. "Grief is like an earthquake — it hits hard, at first, and just when you think it's over, the aftershocks may surprise you. But I am here."

…

Once Delilah's pulse had calmed and her breathing had steadied, Hannibal carefully disentangled the sheet from her body to slide her off of his lap. "Let's get you cleaned up," he said softly, guiding her to the bathroom.

Given that he had already showered, he opted to push up his sleeves and draw her a bath. He knew they should perhaps make an attempt to be swift, but the police were likely to be at the scene for several more hours, at least. They could wait.

As he began drawing her a bath hot as he knew she liked it, he scrubbed a hand over his mouth and watched Delilah closely. She looked utterly helpless and lost, standing there completely naked with her arms loosely wrapped around her middle, her eyes unfocused and glossy. Though he wasn't so attached to Maggie as Delilah clearly was, her death still upset him, and he could in some way understand how she must feel. He was no stranger to loss, himself.

"Come here, love," he called, pulling her out of whatever memory in which she was wallowing. She jerked back to life and obeyed, taking his hand and allowing him to help her into the bath.

They were both silent as Hannibal meticulously scrubbed her body; he then carefully manoeuvred her about so he could wet her hair. After sitting her back up, he worked a dollop of shampoo into a lather between his palms and began massaging her scalp. Eventually, a hum of pleasure escaped her and he smiled. "There," he murmured, repositioning his fingertips and localizing his efforts at the base of her scalp; she melted and, for just a moment, everything was as it should be. He thought of how he was meant to be teaching her to make crepes this morning, as they'd decided during dinner last night, and momentarily forgot about their unpleasant new reality — but a sudden inhale and half-hiccup-half-sob from Delilah wrenched him back to Earth.

"I know nothing can truly help right now, but perhaps telling me what in particular is on your mind will be a push in the right direction," he offered quietly, easing her to the side again so he could rinse out the shampoo.

Delilah abruptly dunked herself underwater and he pulled back, watching in mild alarm as bubbles rose to the surface. She sat back up at once, though, and roughly scrubbed her hands over her face.

"Let's see, what's on my mind," she repeated musingly, her body language still quite twitchy as she twisted to face him and rested her forearms on the edge of the tub.

She seemed hesitant to speak, so he goaded her gently. "Whatever it is you're thinking or feeling, I won't judge you."

Delilah leaned forward to rest her cheek upon her arm and stared up at him. "I'm feeling angry, Hannibal."

"That's to be—"

"Expected?" She cut across him, nodding absently. "Yes. And I'm thinking… I'm thinking I'm an absolute moron." He opened his mouth to ask why, when she erupted into a fit of mirthless laughter. "I should have listened to my instincts. I knew-… I knew something was wrong with that man. I felt it in my gut all fucking afternoon, but I just left! I left her all alone. And now she's dead. And it's my fault."

Oh, he certainly wasn't going to allow this train wreck of thought to go any further. "Did you take her life with your own hands?"

"Obviously not—"

"Then it is obviously not your fault," he snapped, giving her a stern look as he reached for the conditioner. "Now, turn around and we can finish up whilst you explain — what man?"

Delilah inhaled deeply, exhaled with a petulant little huff, then swiveled around to face the wall. "There was this weirdo hanging around the café all day. Everything about him just screamed neon, crimson, red-fucking-flags. I mean, he never even touched his coffee; just sat there, hour after hour, reading Catcher in the Rye. And he had to be in his mid-twenties, at least. I mean, what self-respecting, grown-ass man keeps grade school required reading in his pocket to pull out at coffee shops?" She let out a little growl of frustration, that he might have found precious under different circumstances, and pressed on, "I thought he'd finally gone before we left the café, but I just… Oh, I'll bet you anything it was him."

As he raked the conditioner through the ends of her hair, Hannibal thought back to the man he'd noticed walking toward the back of the building whilst Delilah and Maggie were talking. At the time, he merely seemed to have gone to use the restroom, or perhaps leave out the back door, and Hannibal hadn't paid him much mind. But now, he had a feeling Delilah might be correct.

"Did you happen to catch his name?"

"No," she replied moodily. "I did pester him at one point to see if he'd get the hint and leave, but I was so creeped out I didn't even think to ask."

Hannibal sighed and sat back as she took over, squeezing the ends of her hair as she rinsed them in the bathwater. "All I can recommend is that you tell all of this to the police officers, with as much detail as you can manage."

She mumbled her assent as she made to stand and he quickly rose to assist, taking her arm and guiding her out of the tub. "Thank you," she whispered, very pointedly avoiding his gaze as he wrapped her in an oversized towel.

"Of course," he replied, watching her clutch at the towel to keep it in place; he had a feeling she would break down if he pressed her to look him in the eye, so instead he moved past and pulled the plug to drain the tub. He watched the swirling, soapy water for a moment as he dried his hands and forearms on another towel, then cleared his throat.

"I'll gather your clothes," he announced, neatly refolding and rehanging the towel before leaving and closing the door behind him to give her some space.

…

Sniffling back the sobs that threatened to overtake her again, Delilah scrubbed angrily at her nose with the back of her hand and sat down on the edge of the tub. Her mind was a swarm of furious wasps, full of all the should'a-would'a-could'a's she knew she needed to release. Maggie was dead and nothing was going to change that. Now she had to be a big girl, look at the human body that didn't house a being anymore, and get on with her life.

The thought of just going on, while Maggie simply could not, made her insides clench and she buried her face in the excess fabric of the overlarge towel. She screamed into the plush cotton as hard and as loud and as long as her lungs would allow. The force of it ripped at her throat, tearing like razors coated in flames. Somehow, the hurt helped. If only for a moment.

It felt deserved for what she had done… or not done, rather.

She wanted to scream and scream until she was coughing up blood. That, too, would be warranted, in her mind. But she was exhausted and her head was starting to pound, so she coughed a bit to clear her throat, then forced herself to get up and brush her teeth.

Unable to look at herself for very long, she washed her face quickly and didn't bother to do much with her hair other than flipping it back so it was out of her face. Still wrapped in the towel, she finally opened the door and found Hannibal sat at the foot of the bed; though he'd been staring at the television, he quickly shut it off and crossed to meet her. Wordlessly, he helped her dress. She had the vague understanding that he had pulled a deliciously soft blue sweater over her head that wasn't hers, but the underthings and black jeans were her own, from her bag, and she didn't feel up to asking questions.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she dropped onto the bed and stared down at her bare feet, suddenly wondering where the towel had gone. She looked up in time to find Hannibal plucking it from the floor and she tried to apologise, but the words wouldn't come. When he returned, he slipped her spare flats onto her feet and told her not to worry about her things from the night before. He would take care of it.

"Thank you," she finally managed to say.

"Of course," he replied. After a moment, he added, "I know eating is the last thing on your mind, but do you think you could stomach some toast, perhaps?"

"I'm not hu—"

"I know," he cut in gently. "But please try, for me."

"Okay," she acquiesced.

Suddenly, they were in the dining room and Delilah was staring at a fresh cup of coffee, several warm slices of whole grain toast, and two ibuprofen capsules. She looked to the butter dish with its ornate little matching knife for a moment, then her hands moved and she watched with the strangest feeling that they were someone else's.

Pick up knife, spread butter, set down knife, bring toast to lips.

Repeat.

She ate two slices of toast without tasting them; washed the painkillers down with a cup of black coffee, which was too hot and left her tongue feeling mildly furry. She hated to admit to herself that she felt perhaps a little better. Her stomach was settled, at least.

Too soon, they were in the car and Hannibal was buckling her seatbelt. She glanced up as the door was shut and turned to watch him slip into the driver's seat.

It felt as if she'd only blinked once and they were pulling into a parking spot on Olive, a bit further down the road than usual. The spots directly in front of the café were already occupied by police.

"I'm scared," she whispered, immediately shocked that she'd said it aloud.

"I cannot lie to you and say that I understand," he replied.

"Can't say I understand, either," Delilah mumbled.

"But I do appreciate that you told me… It's worthwhile to note that an event of this magnitude may very well cause some lapses in your progress. Talking about how you're feeling will h—"

"Help you not have to heavily medicate me and put me in a straitjacket?"

Hannibal clicked his tongue as he gently redirected her gaze away from the police cars and onto his face. "Medication is nothing to be ashamed of," he said sternly. "And I recommend not getting your knowledge of mental healthcare from films. Straitjacket use is quite rare, these days."

Sighing, she dragged her palms over her face and flopped back against the seat. "Sorry, I'm just… I don't understand why this is making me feel so… so…" The words wouldn't come and she shook out her hands before slapping them down onto her legs to stop them shaking so violently. "I just don't know how to do this," she mumbled, disgusted with herself.

"Of course you don't… Look at me, Delilah, please." He cleared his throat, leaning over to catch her eye, and she reluctantly met his gaze. "Maggie obviously cared for you, deeply, as a mother cares for her own flesh and blood. And you clearly cared for her, in turn. It is perfectly understandable that this is difficult for you. I would be concerned if it weren't, to be quite plain."

"You said you didn't—"

"I understand loss and grieving, Delilah. It is the fear of the dead that I struggle to fathom."

She thought on that for a moment, then shifted in her seat and stared hard into his eyes. "What would you tell yourself, then? If someone you cared for — someone you loved — had died and you were now forced to give their corpse a good, long look…

"Not knowing just how awful a situation you were walking into… How would you steel yourself for such a thing?"

Hannibal blinked several times and she could swear she saw his left eye twitch; he dragged his teeth slowly over his bottom lip before responding in measured tones, "I don't know that I have an answer for that."

"…I need coffee or something," she grumbled, clenching her hands tightly, then splaying her fingers and shaking out her arms. "I'm all tense."

"Generally, one avoids caffeine when they wish to alleviate tension."

"Avoid caffeine? I'd rather you just stab me to death."

He opened his mouth, then shut it abruptly. "… I think I've been spending far too much time with you."

Delilah's face crumpled and he let out a soft chuckle. "I felt the urge to make an incredibly inappropriate comment, just then," he clarified. "You're rubbing off on me."

She snorted lightly. "Great, now I'm fighting the same urge."

"Yes, well… It's good to see you smile," he murmured. "If only for a moment."

An officer in front of the shop caught her attention as he was affixing a length of highlighter yellow police tape tightly around a tree. She read and reread the emboldened words, 'POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS,' while the enormity of what she was about to do began to truly settle in on her.

The weight of it threatened to crush her and she had to close her eyes to focus solely on not hyperventilating.

"All right. Take a slow, deep breath in through your nose for a count of five," she heard Hannibal instruct, his tone firm but gentle, and she obeyed. "Hold it for another count of one, two, three, four, five… Good. Now exhale through your mouth, slowly, one… two… three… four… five…"

He talked her through the exercise twice more before she finally felt calm enough to open her eyes; seeing the concern etched between his knitted brows, she was overcome with a rush of affection and leaned over to give him a tender kiss.

"Thank you," she whispered against his lips.

A corner of his mouth lifted in a brief smile. "Any time."

Delilah pulled back and shook herself out a bit before opening the car door. "Okay… okay, okay, okay — let's get this over with."