Chapter 4
Doctor Hannibal Lecter's Office,
687 Bayshore Ave, Suite 200, Baltimore, MD
Monday – 8:33 AM
About half an hour before his office would be open for the day, Hannibal was having a casual sit-and-think in his car, parked in the lot in his usual space. The past weekend had been eventful, to say the least. Under Jack Crawford's rather dubious insistence, he and Alana and Will had taken Abigail Hobbs back home, to Minnesota.
'And you be the man on the phone...'
He smirked to himself at the memory. At the time, however, if he was being perfectly honest with himself, he thought he may well be sick. It had been too perfect a coincidence, and for a moment he'd thought himself caught – right in front of two FBI darlings, no less. The moment had passed blessedly swiftly, though.
When Abigail had later killed Nicholas Boyle, Hannibal had been pleased to note the child had done a decent job of it. There was something to be said for successfully passing your talents on to your offspring – at least the late Garrett Jacob Hobbs had managed to do something right by his daughter. Convincing the girl that no one would believe it had been in self-defense had been as easy as he'd expected. The poor thing was nothing more than a lump of clay for him to sculpt as he saw fit.
In the end, his vow to keep her murderous little secret had always been a given. The very moment he'd made the choice to save her from death at her father's hands, weeks ago, he had resolved that she would amount to something more than a mere stain on a kitchen floor – or just another body in a mental institution. What more, precisely, he wasn't yet entirely sure. What he did know was that Abigail did not deserve to pay for her father's crimes, as Jack Crawford so insisted, no matter how much of a hand she'd truly had in them.
So many little secrets.
As Hannibal glanced over to his wrist to check the time, he caught a flurry of blonde locks fleeing across the street and into the parking lot, with a silver car whipping into the lot close behind. His eyes followed what he recognized at once as Alana's hybrid, and watched curiously as she haphazardly parked partially on the walkway and threw herself out of the vehicle. Hannibal sighed and tapped his hands on the steering wheel, deliberating as Alana scrambled up to the glass doors just as they slammed shut behind Delilah. She very nearly ran straight into them, stopping herself just in time and wrenching one open just as Hannibal exited his vehicle and quickly strode along the sidewalk after her.
"Damn it, Delilah!" he heard Alana shriek, and he paused at the entrance before switching his gait to follow them up the stairs in silence.
"I don't want to talk to you," Delilah hissed back, and he was pleased that she was making a point to keep her voice down. His office wasn't the only one in the building, and others were already conducting business at this hour.
"You're being really childish right now, you know that?"
"I'm a goddamn adult, Alana, and I want to speak to my psychiatrist."
"Then you make an appointment like an adult! Don't think you can just come running here to bother Dr. Lecter whenever I do something you don't like."
Hannibal leaned against the railing just before the entrance to the waiting area and massaged his forehead. All the bickering around him was starting to grate on his nerves.
"Well, maybe he wouldn't mind seeing me," Delilah replied softly.
Biting back a smirk, Hannibal let his footfalls be heard as he took the last few steps up and set foot on the landing. Both women were turned to face him already, and his eyes fell to Delilah first. She was clearly pleased to see him, and he could admit to himself that it had been three days too long since he'd last seen her face, as well.
Striding wordlessly to the center of the room, he quirked a brow and gave them both a brief, but thorough, once-over. Alana was an unmitigated disaster, with her usually well-maintained brunette waves carelessly lumped in a mass on top of her head; her poor excuse for an outfit, a pair of disturbingly tacky, flower-print leggings, with an oversize sweater that had clearly seen better days; on her feet were a pair of cheap running shoes, the laces completely untied.
Delilah Bloom was looking quite polished, in comparison. Simple black pumps adorned her feet, with her legs painted in a satin sheen from her stockings; a modest black skirt hugged her hips; and a crisp, white, boat-neck blouse flowed over her upper half, exposing her clavicle and the crests of her shoulders. He eyed the pale yellow apron slung over her arm beside her purse with mild curiosity. Evidently she had chosen to pay him a visit before work.
"I am going to ask for an explanation," he finally said, giving Alana a pointed look. "But first I must insist that you refrain from shouting."
As anticipated, Alana's face crumpled with embarrassment and she crossed her arms over her chest. "Sorry," she mumbled.
Delilah's upper lip curled in distaste, and she rolled her eyes before looking to Hannibal. "I apologize for being intrusive, Dr. Lecter, but I-... I just needed to talk to someone I –"
"Trust?" He offered quietly.
"You can trust me!" Alana exploded, throwing her arms in the air. "Jesus, Delilah, why are you always so dramatic?"
"She hired a nanny!" The younger sister finally explained, her voice creeping up an octave before she forced herself to lower it again. "Oh, I can't believe this. I am twenty-seven years old."
"She's not a nanny, she is a nurse! I'm just trying to help you, damn it!"
"Well, I didn't ask for your mollycoddling!"
"Don't you remember your little adventure in the woods?" She snapped, grabbing Delilah's arm to shake her bandaged hand in her face.
"Ow, let go you bi–"
"Or what about your hospital stay, huh? Do you at least remember that?"
"Alana, that's quite enough," Hannibal interjected, giving her a stern glare. When she simply continued to glower at her little sister, he took two wide steps forward and forced himself between them, laying a firm hand on her shoulder. "Let her go. Now."
Alana released her sister's arm and staggered back a few steps, out of his own grip. "Hannibal, she's being ridiculous!"
"You're bordering on hysterics, Alana, and it's very unbecoming."
Her eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to retort, but evidently thought better of it and her lips snapped shut.
Taking a deep breath, he brushed past Delilah and swiftly unlocked his office. "Miss Bloom, if you would kindly give us a moment," he said quietly, gesturing her inside. She nodded once and shot her sister a glare before slipping past him, and he gently shut the door.
Sliding his keys back into his coat pocket, he slowly turned back to his colleague. "A nurse? Really?"
Alana groaned and rubbed at her face. "I just – You were right. I'm trying to be too much for her. I-I can't juggle everything. She's my sister and I love her but I can't be everything she needs –"
"Everything you think she needs," he corrected firmly. "Alana, your love and concern for your sister is truly commendable, but I think it would be best if you took a step back and reevaluated your approach.
"You have an entire china cabinet's worth of plates in the air. If you continue like this, one of them is bound to slip between your fingers and I think we both know you absolutely cannot afford a single one to break."
She stared at him for a long moment before her eyes narrowed. "Are you seriously kicking me out again?"
Hannibal sighed exasperatedly and stuffed his twitching hands into his pockets. "That's all you've taken from what I've said to you?"
"No, I – I just –" She floundered, before letting out a huff and crossing her arms over her chest. "Look, I understand what you're saying," she replied levelly. "I do. And I will... take it into consideration. "
"Then consider this as well, Alana – this is the second time your temper has forced me to ask you to leave," he chastised quietly. "Perhaps it would be prudent for you to look into therapy yourself."
A wounded look flashed across her face, but it was quickly replaced with a glare. "Fine, Dr. Lecter," she muttered, sniffing lightly as she shook her head and paced away from him, turning to make her way back down the stairs. "Just... fine."
Hannibal stared after her for several long moments, taking deep, meditative breaths to quell his own rising temper. The woman was teetering precariously close to his last nerve.
When he had finally collected himself, he gently pushed the door open to find Delilah sitting in the center of the antique teal settee directly across from him, her chin resting on her shoulder as she studied the Japanese artwork on display behind her.
"Would you like some tea?" he inquired, leaving the door open as he crossed the room to meet her.
"Yes, please," she replied, polite as ever, but still she didn't turn to face him and he frowned.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," she assured him, lifting her bandaged hand and wiggling her fingers. "She didn't pop any stitches."
"Good," he murmured, pausing before her and glancing up to admire the pictures as well.
After another moment of silent observation, she finally turned and smiled up at him. "I think I've fallen in love with this couch," she announced, running her hand along the lush velvet cushion as if she were stroking a cat.
Hannibal smirked and leaned forward, as if he were about to divulge some important secret. "You have exceptional taste, Miss Bloom."
Heat coloured her cheeks as she scooted over to give him room, and he took her unspoken offer to sit at her side. She folded her sunny yellow apron across her lap and he peered down at the café name embroidered on the cotton. "Paradise Café," he read aloud, glancing up at her questioningly.
"Mhm," she hummed, absently tracing the black stitching. "It's over on Olive street. I've worked there for the past... what, three years? Give or take."
"That's quite a while. You must enjoy it, then."
She shrugged. "It's close to my apartment – or, was, rather," she corrected, a hint of irritation in her tone. "Just a quick, five minute walk from there. I miss my little apartment..."
Delilah sighed, setting her apron on the cushion and dropping her purse on top of it. She rose from the settee and his gaze followed as she wandered past him, toward the ladder that led up to the stacks.
"And now?"
"Now, it's about... oh, twenty minutes from Alana's place. But it's alright; I enjoy walks. And the owner is remarkably understanding of my... issues."
He watched Delilah take a wide step up onto the second rung, and he was on his feet at once, sensing a potential catastrophe. Sure enough, muscle memory had led her to grab hold of he ladder with her wounded right hand, and she instinctively jerked backward – but Hannibal was already waiting behind her, his large hands deftly catching her around the waist and stopping her from tumbling to the floor.
"I would consider it a personal favor if you would take some effort to be more mindful of your surroundings," he whispered into her ear, feeling her shudder as her head tilted slightly.
Wetting his bottom lip, his fingers flexed against her sides as he stared down at the dip between her neck and shoulder for far longer than was really necessary – convincing himself that he was only making absolutely certain she was steady – before reluctantly removing his hands from her and taking a half-step back.
"I'll be more careful," she muttered, slowly turning around to lean back against the ladder. "I promise."
"Promises are weighty things, Miss Bloom; don't offer them so easily."
"I mean what I say," Delilah replied firmly, and he lifted his palms in playful surrender as she added, much more quietly, "to you."
Hannibal sucked in a breath and exhaled with a soft huff as he dropped his arms to his sides, and began to backtrack literally toward the settee. "I don't have an appointment until ten-thirty," he announced as he retrieved her things. "Would you do me the honor of driving you to work?"
"How do you do that?" She asked, pushing away from the ladder and striding over to take her purse and apron from him.
He blinked and canted his head, honestly puzzled. "Do what, Miss Bloom?"
"Even when you phrase things as a question, I feel as though I have no option but to oblige... or rather, accommodate you."
Hannibal smirked at her use of his own terminology from their first meeting, pleased she had such a vivid memory even after a recent episode. Though he couldn't say what pleased him more: his ego being so blatantly stroked, or the fact that an intact memory confirmed his working theory that these Dissociative events of hers were quite extremely localized. Deducing her triggers would be the key to solving her puzzle...
He made a mental note to actually have that conversation with Will Graham, as Alana had requested.
"As I've told you before," he replied, resting his hand on her lower back and guiding her to the door, "you always have a choice."
"Then I find myself choosing to accommodate you," she said simply, offering a brilliant smile that he couldn't help but return in kind.
Once they were settled in the car, Hannibal kept a steady sidelong eye on her as he proceeded into traffic. She was viciously gnawing on her bottom lip, a torrent of words obviously begging to be spilt from her tongue.
"If you chew through your lip, I'll be forced to forward you the cleaning bill," he teased, pausing at a red light and peering down at her. That flush he so enjoyed blossomed across her cheeks as she immediately released her lip, and he impulsively reached out to brush his knuckle against the now swollen flesh.
Delilah let out a puff of laughter and touched her fingertips to where his knuckle had been. "I- I just wanted to apologize again, for being a nuisance," she finally explained in a rush, "I've been dealing with that horrid woman all weekend and Alana won't listen to me."
"Horrid woman? The nurse?"
"Yes, the nurse," she spat with venom on her tongue. "Alana only has a two bedroom apartment with a 'den' that's more like a glorified closet, and she seems to think it's enough room for all three of us – newsflash, it's not. This woman creeps into my bedroom at all hours of the night, shining her damned little penlight in my face; she even follows me to the bathroom, for goodness' sake; and, just yesterday, I went to slice an apple and she ripped the knife from my hands to cut the damn thing up for me, like-... like I'm an incompetent toddler! She thinks I'm going to suddenly snap and take a blade to my wrists –"
"Will you?"
"– or to her."
Her forehead scrunched in umbrage. "Of course not."
"To which one?"
"What?"
Hannibal cleared his throat and pointedly focused on the road as he asked quietly, "To which option are you so indignant at the prospect? Slitting your wrists, or stabbing the nanny?"
The question hung in the air between them for another several kilometers before Delilah finally replied, her voice hardly above a whisper. "Slitting my wrists," she said, and Hannibal turned away, under the guise of checking his blind spot, to hide his amusement.
"Did you really have to think on it for so long?"
"Yes... and no."
"Though this is not a session, I promise you anything said will be kept between us."
"Promises are weighty things," she recited cheekily.
"And make no mistake, I bear them quite selectively," he informed her seriously, pulling up to the café and killing the ignition.
She suddenly laughed, catching him by surprise, and he turned in his seat to face her; pressing his nearest hand upon the back of her seat, he rested his other forearm on the steering wheel and lifted his brow in interest. "Something amusing, Miss Bloom?"
"That poem popped into my head just now..." she murmured distractedly. "Oh, I can only ever remember the second half, but..." She chewed her inner lip a moment before drawing a leg under herself to twist her body to face his, then shut her eyes and recalled softly:
"He gives his harness bells a shake, and asks if there is some mistake –"
"The only other sound's the sweep, " he cut in, recognizing the oft-quoted poem at once and watching her with rapt attention. "Of easy wind and downy flake."
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep –"
"But I have promises to keep..."
"And miles to go before I sleep."
"And miles to go before I sleep," he repeated, as he watched her eyelids flutter open.
"You know, some claim that poem was about Frost contemplating suicide."
"Some may be right," he nodded thoughtfully, tracing the edge of the steering wheel with his fingertips. "Decades of poverty and familial tragedy may well push anyone to their breaking point."
Delilah hummed in agreement and looked out the window pensively. "I think it's beautiful, in a somber sort of way; he ends on a high note, at least. If it really is about suicide, then the woods were obviously his end. Yet, he knew he still had responsibilities and chose not to take the easy way out."
"I am inclined to agree with you, but we must remember that literature is always open to interpretation. It could be utterly meaningless, and we'd have no idea. Only Mr. Frost knows the true meaning."
"Mr. Frost is probably cackling in his grave, then, listening to thousands of silly people like us ponder its supposed deep significance."
They shared a chuckle before both fell silent to stare out at the café.
"That's Maggie, the owner," Delilah explained, thrusting her chin toward the cheery-looking older woman clearly visible through the windowfront. "She's very kind."
"She seems it," he murmured, a small smile playing on his lips.
"She... she's offered for me to live upstairs, in the space above the café, to get away from Alana and her Mary Poppins from Hell." Delilah heaved a sigh as she looked back to him dejectedly. "All of my things are already being stored up there. Things that didn't fit in Alana's place... which is most of my things, really. I wish I could take her up on her offer."
"And why can't you?"
"Alana would never allow –"
"Delilah, you must have signed the paper placing her as your keeper."
"I did," she affirmed, her brow twisting with confusion. "So?"
"So... you have a steady psychiatrist now, do you not?" The question was rhetorical and he didn't give her a chance to respond. "Your medication has been altered and will likely be more effective – at the very least, not so damaging to your physical health... All I need do is draw up a bit of my own paperwork, have the pair of us sign it, then tackle the admittedly dodgy task of having your sister sign as well, and – "
"Wait, what?" She interrupted, mouth agape.
"And," he continued, mildly tersely, "you will be your own woman again. No more... Mary Poppins."
"You would do that?"
"Alana has made it quite clear she is not acting with your best interest in mind, and her own mental stability leaves something to be desired," he explained carefully. "I would go so far as to say she is entirely to blame for what happened last week."
Tears welled in her eyes as he watched with fascination. She was practically vibrating with a sudden, unspoken need, her arms twitching upward and falling back down abruptly. Reaching out, he gently pushed a curl behind her ear and pointedly held his arms open when she moved again, and this time she crashed herself into his chest.
"Thank you," she whispered ardently into his neck, her good hand grasping a fistful of his jacket to pull herself nearer, while her bandaged hand rested palm up against his hip.
Hannibal folded his arms around her and smoothed her wild curls down, away from his mouth and nose. "Understand that this will not happen immediately," he apprised gently, "and I cannot guarantee Alana will sign, but I will do my best to persuade her."
The girl sniffed quietly and nodded against his lapel, slowly releasing her grip on his clothing. She stayed pressed against him, however, and Hannibal couldn't be troubled to find any particular reason to let her go. Still stroking her hair, he wrapped his other arm tighter around her, and began rubbing small circles against her lower back. Delilah let out a gentle, humming sigh of contentment, a delicious sound that was as indulgent to his ears as Chopin's Nocturnes - Op. 9: No. 2 in E-Flat Major, to be precise. It was comforting, easy to listen to and, admittedly, a bit saccharine. He thought he should like to hear a symphony's worth of sounds such as these spilling from her pillowy lips.
"We never did have tea," she muttered suddenly, unwittingly tugging him from his reverie.
"So we didn't," Hannibal agreed. "What's to be done about that?"
Delilah hummed thoughtfully as she tilted her head back to look up at him, their faces mere inches apart. "I suppose you'll have to have some ready for me on Friday. It's only fair."
A puff of laughter escaped his nose and he leaned back slightly to create more space between them. "So it is. I'll be sure a wide variety of teas await you at my office, then, come the end of this week."
It was Delilah's turn to laugh as she reluctantly disentangled herself from his arms and held out her good hand for him to shake. "Until Friday, then, Dr. Lecter."
Taking her slender hand in his, he gave her fingers a squeeze and held her gaze as he murmured, "Until Friday."
Deliciously crimson cheeks and a nod were all she could offer before she exited the car and carefully shut the door. She tossed him one last smile of gratitude over her shoulder before bustling up to the café, and he stayed put a minute longer to make sure she arrived safely inside. Only when the door shut behind her and she was busy tying on her apron, did he finally turn the key in the ignition and drive away.
Doctor Hannibal Lecter's Office,
Thursday – 6:33 PM
William Graham was meant to be Hannibal's six o'clock that afternoon, his last appointment of the day, and after a good half hour of waiting not-so-patiently in his dimly lit office, it was quite clear the man would not be showing up. He tapped his fountain pen against his schedule, nearly piercing through the paper in his annoyance, then scratched a harsh line through 'W. Graham' and snapped the journal shut before sliding it across the desk and out of his immediate line of sight. Annoyed didn't begin to describe his mood in that moment, displeased as he was at his time being so carelessly wasted.
Dragging his teeth over his bottom lip, he tugged open the bottom desk drawer and retrieved a leather-bound journal. He quickly began to flip through it, past countless pages of completed sketches – most of various architecture he had admired, or well-known pieces of art he'd thought to recreate himself – and landed on his most recent entry. Intensely expressive eyes and the beginnings of a soft, heart-shaped face greeted him, and he took up the scalpel at once to meticulously sharpen his pencil before setting to work.
The end result of another twenty minutes' worth of time left him with a remarkably detailed and arguably sultry portrait of Delilah Bloom in the passenger seat of his Bentley, with a halo of loose, lightly-sketched curls framing her face and the meat of her lower lip sandwiched firmly between her teeth. The tip of his pencil hovered over his creation a moment as he deliberated, before he began deepening shadows in certain places around her mouth, and lightening them in others; he finished off by adding a small pool of blood spilling from the freshly drawn, self-inflicted bite wound she now had, which cascaded over her plump bottom lip and trickled down her chin.
Quite pleased with himself, Hannibal smirked as he slowly added his signature to the bottom right corner, then flipped the journal shut. Placing it back in its proper place in the drawer, he pushed all the pencil shavings into the wastebasket and checked the time. It was nearly seven now and he let out an irritated sigh before switching off the desk light and stalking across the room to gather his coat.
Will Graham's Residence,
346 Leigh Mill Rd, Wolf Trap, VA
– 7:45 PM
Traffic had been pleasantly light, and it took less time than anticipated for Hannibal to arrive at the steps of Will Graham's quaint little farmhouse. A flurry of scuffles and barking greeted his rap at the door, and he listened to the man grouchily silencing his brood before the door creaked open. He looked utterly exhausted, with heavy bags under his eyes and a slightly sallow complexion, and Hannibal's eyebrows raised in interest.
"I generally require twenty-four hours' notice for cancellations," Hannibal informed him pointedly, watching as all but one of the dogs shuffled back to their resting places in the living room.
Will leaned heavily against the door and blinked in confusion. "I – oh, shit," he grumbled, digging his fingers into his eyes and rubbing them harshly. "Sorry, I completely forgot."
Pursing his lips, Hannibal shrugged and folded his hands in front of himself. "I suppose it's fortuitous you aren't technically a patient – my cancellation fee is admittedly steep."
Letting out a puff of halfhearted laughter, Will nudged the remaining shepherd mix mutt out of the way and made space for him to enter the house.
"I don't... really have much to offer in the way of beverages... or anything," he informed him as they wandered to the kitchen. "Haven't really had a chance to go shopping."
Hannibal stood in the entrance as he watched Will rest his elbows on the counter and vigorously rub his face. "Forgive me for being blunt, but you look like death warmed over."
"Yeah, well, when you spend every day looking at death you're bound to adopt a few traits."
"You have a singularly perilous habit of borrowing trouble, Will."
The man shrugged heavily and scratched at his head. "It's been a rough couple of weeks."
He peered down at the mess still scattered about the kitchen floor from what he assumed was Delilah's outburst and nodded. "So I see."
Will followed his gaze and shook his head adamantly. "No, this has nothing to do with that."
"Then I think these things should be picked up, don't you? A messy home will only exacerbate your stress." With that he rounded the counter and set to work plucking various kitchen utensils from the floor and placing them in the sink.
"I cleaned up all the broken stuff," he mumbled defensively, yawning loudly as he moved to assist.
"You seem awfully tired," Hannibal observed, setting an offensively dull knife onto the counter and making a mental note to show him how to sharpen it sometime. "It's barely eight."
"When your sleeping hours are spent doing actual rather than imagined cardio, it's kind of difficult to get much rest."
He paused at that and turned to watch Will start on washing the dishes. "You've been sleepwalking?" He inquired curiously, and the younger male simply nodded. "For how long?"
"Just the once, as far as I know, last night," he replied, chucking a handful of still partially soapy forks into the draining rack. "Cops found me taking a midnight stroll in the middle of the road about three miles north, with Winston. Guess he followed to make sure I was okay."
They both turned to the canine in question, who was sitting at attention in the corner and keeping a watchful eye on his owner. "Good dog," Hannibal muttered, mildly impressed.
When the kitchen no longer looked like a tornado had ravaged it, the pair ventured to the living room and Winston followed on Will's heel, curling up beside his feet as he flopped down into the armchair. "Did you really come all the way out here to ask why I missed therapy today?"
Hannibal rested his chin on his palm and shook his head slowly. "Not entirely."
With a knowing grimace, Will fidgeted in his seat and sighed heavily. "Yeah, I figured. You want to know what happened with Delilah – I didn't... do anything to her, if that's what you think."
"No one thinks you harmed her, Will. Be serious."
"Alana does."
The doctor rolled his eyes and adjusted his cuff links. "Alana doesn't think you physically assaulted her sister. I'm fairly certain she would have ripped your throat out, had the idea so much as crossed her mind. She's proven herself to be incredibly impulsive, where her sister is concerned."
Will groaned dejectedly and leaned his head back against his seat, staring up at the ceiling. "Before she took off, we were just talking. That's it," he explained, frustration colouring his tone. "I really didn't think it would be such a big deal, but I just... I just wasn't thinking... She looks nothing like Alana, and I guess it just didn't occur to me in the moment –"
"What is it that slipped your mind?"
"I-... I mean, we'd talked about the Hobbs case earlier and- and I just wasn't thinking – "
"Will," Hannibal spoke his name firmly, attempting to pull him from his self-induced fit of anxiety.
"I stupidly brought up Travis Bloom's murder," he finally mumbled shamefully, crumpling forward to bury his face in his hands.
Hannibal chewed on the inside of his lip as he stared at Will for a long moment. "Do you often make a habit of discussing FBI cases with people you hardly know?"
"No!" He snapped, sitting up straight and rubbing his palms on the arms of the chair. "No, it just... She'd asked about Abigail, and the conversation about Hobbs didn't seem to bother her. I just got uncomfortable and spouted the first thing that came to mind... Everything I said was part of public record, so it's not like I did anything wrong. I still don't think the Chesapeake Ripper killed him," he added as an aside, as if Hannibal actually needed to be convinced.
Smoothing his fingers over his lips, he twisted his wrist to check the time and rose from the couch. "It's getting late," he announced, straightening out his coat. "I suggest you try to get some sleep. If the somnambulism persists I expect to hear about it."
"Y-yeah, of course," Will muttered, standing as well and scratching at his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around himself. "I... I feel like an ass for putting everything on Alana. She's not the only one who screwed up here."
"I cannot say I disagree," he replied honestly. "But you can't keep yourself wrapped up in guilt. It won't do anybody any good."
Hannibal turned to leave just as Will asked tentatively, "D-Do you think she'll forgive me?"
He glanced back over his shoulder and shrugged. "I suppose only time will tell," he offered lightly. "Good night, William."
"Yeah. Good night..."
Alana and Delilah Bloom's Residence,
103 W. Cross St, #44, Baltimore, MD
Friday – 7:13 AM
When Alana heard a knock at the door, the last person she expected to find standing there was Hannibal Lecter. Yet there he was, asking to be permitted entrance. She stepped aside, hastily stuffing the hem of her shirt into her waistband; she'd been in the middle of getting ready to leave for work. "Delilah isn't here," she heard herself mutter bitterly, and heat rushed to her cheeks as she snapped the door shut.
"I know," he replied simply, turning to quirk a brow at her.
"She had to go to the café early today. Something about someone calling in sick."
Hannibal pursed his lips, evidently irritated. "I thought I've made it clear I'm not here to see your sister."
"Then what –"
"I spoke with Will Graham last night. I don't often make a habit of discussing my patients, even with their relatives, but I thought you would like to know."
"Oh... Is that so?" She muttered airily, trying not to seem too interested as she pulled on her blazer and moved to step into her sensible pumps. "What... What did he say?"
Hannibal paced across the room, observing her modest apartment with polite interest. "Not much. He is not doing well, Alana," he replied quietly, leaning forward to take a closer look at the various family photos on the wall behind the couch. "Whatever happened between he and your sister seems to have taken quite a toll on his mental faculties – which, as we both know, were already questionable at best."
Stomach twisting uncomfortably, Alana crossed her arms and sighed. "I feel terrible for blaming him."
"As well you should," came his no-nonsense reply, and she stifled a whimper.
"I deserve that," she whispered, swallowing thickly. "But... did he mention anything about... A conversation maybe? Did he bring anything up that would have –"
He sniffed lightly and pointed at a picture of her and her father. "This is Travis Bloom?"
"Y-yes," Alana muttered, immediately uncomfortable, as she still found it difficult to hear his name spoken aloud.
"His death was attributed to the Chesapeake Ripper, wasn't it?"
Her stomach fell to her feet and a rush of nausea swept over her. "Yes... He, uh-"
The nurse she'd hired for Delilah suddenly came shuffling out of the kitchen, and Alana watched as she eyed Hannibal with deep distrust. Hannibal, however, simply turned to her and offered a warm smile. "Ah, good morning," he said cheerily, evidently oblivious to the rail-thin woman's scowl.
She merely grunted in response and turned her eyes toward Alana. "Everything alright in here?"
"Yes, Rebecca, everything is f-fine," Alana tried to assure her, shakily running her fingers through her hair as she took a few measured breaths. The nurse eyed her warily, then shot Hannibal another suspicious glare before bustling back into the kitchen as Alana began to pace. Discussing her father's murder was absolutely the last thing she wanted to do this early in the morning... Or ever, for that matter.
Travis Bloom's death had been more than just a murder; he hadn't simply been killed and discarded. The Ripper, as it was assumed, had bled him out slowly, extending his suffering and presumably watching him die, before following with a calculated mutilation of his body. Posthumously, Travis had been severed into at least fifteen pieces, by way of his own power tools, and put back together on the wall of his own garage in a horrific re-imagining of The Crucifixion of Jesus.
Alana's stomach did another somersault at the thought and she suddenly had to excuse herself to the restroom, making it just in time to spill the remains of the half a muffin she'd eaten not fifteen minutes prior. After brushing the stomach acid from her teeth and tending to the smudges of mascara beneath her lower lash line, she held a cool hand to her clammy forehead and carefully walked back to the living room.
"Sorry," she muttered, moving slowly to sit on the couch as she struggled for words. "I-I know it's been over a year now, but it still..."
"Hurts," he supplied somberly, and she gave a jerky nod. "Death has a habit of touching us in ways we can't imagine until we've experienced it. Were you present when he was found?"
"No," Alana shook her head rapidly, her eyes focused on the coffee table.
"A small mercy," he replied, clearing his throat before adding quietly, "and what of Delilah?"
"N-no. Dad and her didn't... didn't get along very well, when we were growing up, so... She wasn't ever really at the house very much."
"I see. Curious, isn't it?"
Alana glanced up at him and blinked questioningly.
"The timing of events," he clarified, but she was still confused.
"The... timing...?"
"Your father was butchered, and Delilah's mental instability came shortly after."
Wrapping her arms around herself, Alana inhaled deeply through her nose and shook her head. "I've thought about that... That his m-murder caused her to snap, but it doesn't really make sense, does it? They weren't very close."
"Closeness is subjective," Hannibal murmured, his eyes drifting to the happy faces in the photographs once more.
The rather nebulous statement hung in the air as Alana tried to process it. She supposed just the notion of such a gruesome event happening in their childhood home could have pushed someone to madness, someone who was already unstable to begin with, but she'd always thought Delilah a fair bit stronger than that – quite sane, at the very least. As she thought back on their childhood, she couldn't recall any instance of Delilah exhibiting signs or symptoms of mental illness.
"Even when mom told us dad wasn't Delilah's biological father, she took it well," she pondered aloud. "I mean, she's always been as much of a pain in the ass as she is now – just without the cr-"
"If the next word out of your mouth is 'crazy,' I'm going to be sorely disappointed in you."
Alana frowned and stood from the couch. "You haven't even – you haven't witnessed it, Hannibal. She goes completely off the rails."
"Then enlighten me."
She pulled out her phone to check the time and, noting it was only 7:20, sighed as she threw the device down on the couch and pursed her lips in thought. "She acts... She acts like she's somewhere else. Like she can't see anyone or anything around her. Not as if she's blind, or anything, just like she's not seeing what's really there, you know?"
Hannibal's brow raised in interest and he leaned his hip against the arm of couch as he listened in silence.
"Sometimes she's violent, but that's rare. Mostly she just wanders off and talks to herself. If you try to intervene, she usually just clams up and it's a bitch to get her talking again; other times she lashes out, especially if you touch her. I've learned it's easiest just to herd her into the safest nearby room and let her mutter to herself until she falls sleep. She always falls asleep after."
"Exhaustion is unsurprising," he interjected. "Dissociative events can be very taxing."
Alana nodded as she toyed with the leaves of a faux potted plant in the corner of her living room. "When I asked for your help the first time," she continued softly, "it was because of whatever happened at the dance studio. I got a call from the police and had to come pick her up. They told me they'd received a noise complaint and found her sitting in the corner, covered in blood, with her instructor unconscious on the floor. When he came to, neither would explain exactly what had happened, but her instructor said he wouldn't press charges as long as she never came back. And all Delilah said was that she never wanted to see him again, so it wouldn't be an issue and –"
"What was her instructor's name," he interrupted quietly.
"Um, Mark... something? I can't remember now."
Hannibal pursed his lips and nodded stiffly. "Please, continue."
"Right..." Alana exhaled loudly and rubbed her arms as she turned to face him. "After the incident, she spent over a week practically a zombie; she called out from work and spent most of her time sleeping. She was gradually coming out of it, and one day I tried again to get her to talk and she exploded on me. She started breaking things and I had to just hide in the bathroom until she'd calmed down. When I could finally approach her, I gave her an extra half dose of meds hoping it would help her wake up calm, and once she was asleep, that was the night I came to see you –"
She watched as the doctor's eyes grew wide and she blinked in confusion. "What?"
"You can't be serious," he snapped, his tone suddenly furious.
"I don't under–"
"You could have killed your sister, do you realize that? Her dosage was already excessive, and a Quetiapine overdose is not to be trifled with."
"It was only half a pill. I-... I figured it would help keep her calm."
"She was experiencing Tachycardia when you brought her to me," he explained grimly. "Mild though it was..."
Alana's stomach sank to her feet and she swallowed thickly. "Oh god, I didn't – I didn't mean to –"
"I've instructed her to stop taking it, if she hasn't told you."
"She rarely tells me anything."
Hannibal scoffed and crossed to the front door. "Pathetic communication skills seem to run rampant in your family, Alana. I suggest you work on rectifying that."
Alana's mouth fell open, fully intent to argue, but he simply bid her a firm 'good day' and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
To anyone re-reading, I've changed the piece of music mentioned in this chapter, as I've found it fits much better.