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Bedelia is used to living alone.
For years, she played the role of reclusive ex-psychiatrist, holed up in her extravagant Baltimore home with only her plants, her journals, and Hannibal's persistent Tuesday afternoon appointments for company. In the wake of her patient's death -- the murder that she so impulsively and savagely committed -- the solitude was a soothing balm for her racing and ravaged mind, and a small distraction from the knowledge that her safety and security exist at the whim of a man who endlessly fascinates her but whom she cannot entirely trust.
Now, however, that familiar privacy has been shattered. In holding a gun to Hannibal's nude body and firmly demanding that she be allowed to become a fugitive at his side, her life entered a new paradigm. She and Hannibal share not only an apartment, but a kitchen, a bathroom, and the very bed itself, and though Bedelia pretends to be unmoved by the arrangement, she carries an enormous amount of tension within the fine lines of her body.
She is wary of Hannibal, and incredibly conscious of his piercing gaze as he observed her every move, picking it apart, seeking out the secrets that she has kept from him. Bedelia knows that he long wished for their professional positions to be swapped, pined for her to be the patient forced to reveal the truth of her mind and heart and soul through literary references and clever riddles and thinly veiled double entendres. Bedelia, however, was comfortable in their former arrangement, and grateful for the shield that her role as his therapist provided her. She sincerely doubts that she would still be alive if she had not been able to control and foster and atmosphere of mystery and sharp-edged intrigue.
But despite that concerted effort, there have always moments when the sharp edges between them soften, moments when nights are late and weariness hangs heavy upon them both and pain erodes their prolonged attempts at maintaining carefully kept charades of invulnerable perfection.
They cannot hide every part of themselves.
Eventually, the truth slips out from behind the veil.
On a night so late that it begins to bleed into the early hours of the morning, Bedelia sits alone in the apartment. Hannibal has been out for some time, and he had not shared where he was going, nor had he deigned to invite her. Bedelia can only assume that he is hunting, in which case she is grateful to be excluded. In case Hannibal ever becomes compromised and it becomes necessary to extricate herself from her own complicity, Bedelia must keep her hands as clear as possible. She cannot afford to commit another murder. She must be an observer and an observer only. To participate is to potentially sacrifice her freedom and her reputation, both of which she is too proud to lose.
When Hannibal finally returns, Bedelia is half asleep, draped across the sofa in a silk robe, her fingers floating above an empty bottle of expensive wine that sits on the floor beside her.
The front door opens slowly and with an unusual degree of stilted awkwardness. Hannibal has always cut a graceful and elegant figure -- if secretly a violent one -- and the noise is enough of a deviation from the norm to draw Bedelia from her doze.
In the dim light of the apartment, Bedelia can see little more than the shadowy outline of her faux husband's silhouette as he moves through the room. However, that is more than enough for her to catch the limp in his gate and the hunch of his shoulders and the hand pressed tightly against his side as he steps towards the bedroom.
"Hannibal?" Bedelia says hesitantly, casting the name turned question into the tense air.
Almost immediately, Hannibal's entire bearing shifts. In the blink of an eye, his spine straightens, his hand falls to his side, his chin lifts. When he speaks, his voice is eerily calm, uncannily steady, but undercut by a struggling lung. "You need not wake on my account, Bedelia."
Even if she wanted to, it is far too late to bend to his deflection. She is awake and alert, and her eyes are locked on him with near predatory alacrity. Her reply is so sharply honed that the words, though simply, are very nearly cutting. "Are you hurt?"
His shadow seems to stiffen with surprise. Hannibal, she knows is used to being unobserved which makes even the most surface level truths unbearably intimate. She also knows, however, that he longs for recognition. Not only to be seen, but to be known and loved, and she believes that he sometimes forgets that that means more than allowing others to bask in his glory. It means that weaknesses must also be noticed and remarked upon.
To be known is to be vulnerable. Perhaps Hannibal is not truly ready for that. Perhaps it throws him out of step in the dangerous waltz that consumes and defines their life in Florence. Perhaps testing his limits puts her own head on the butcher's block. Bedelia is empathetic towards his struggle. She shares it, in a way, but that does not stop her from gently pressuring him into letting go. Pushing Hannibal offers her leverage and influence over him, and it also draws their orbits closer and closer together, which is the best chance that she has at satiating the hunger for insight that claws at her insides and constantly threatens to tear her apart.
When he finally speaks, Hannibal's reply artfully sidesteps the question. "Our professions possess certain occupational hazards."
Bedelia stands. Cool silk clings to her curves and whispers against her skin and highlights her best assets. Even when dressing with the intention of sleeping, she makes deliberate aesthetic choices. Proper seduction requires attention to detail in every aspect of life, especially when one is engaged in a high stakes game with potentially lethal consequences.
"May I offer my assistance?"
As she draws closer to him -- her footsteps almost silent as her bare feet pad across the hardwood floors -- Hannibal resolves into something greater and more tangible than mere shadows. The yellow lamps that line the street outside their windows skate across the haughty angles of his face, and though he does not draw away at her approach, she can glimpse a guarded wariness in his gaze. So, too, can she see the splotches of blood that mark the slaughter, and the wound that must be buried beneath his clothes.
"Many men have suffered worse injuries and survived." There is a slight pause as feigned, performative amusement flirts with the set of his mouth. "Besides, you may recall that I spent the majority of my youth studying to become a surgeon."
Bedelia has not forgotten that, she simply does not find it to be entirely relevant. Just because a person is used to caring for themselves does not mean that they must be left to their own devices forever. She may fear him, and to a degree he may fear her as well, but that does not mean that she is disinclined to help him.
He need not suffer alone.
"Despite being the son of a god," Bedelia begins as her gentle fingers start to work at the buttons on first Hannibal's waistcoat and then his shirt, "Jesus sought help from the people around him, and it requires more than 30 pieces of silver to buy my betrayal."
Hannibal permits the intervention, even as he continues to question it.
"But would you deny me three times before the cock crows?" The query is finely honed and deftly wielded as it slips into Bedelia's throat and severs her vocal cords. Even if she had a retort at top of mind, she would no longer be able to speak it aloud.
Not immediately, at least.
Biding her time, she focuses on his exposed body as the bloodied clothes fall to the floor. A gash the length of her hand spins the side of his abdomen. It is not a clean cut. Rather, it is more of a tear, hardly the work of a skilled butcher.
"Look upon your hands, your feet, your side..." she muses idly as her tongue slips between her teeth and wets her lips with an unfinished thought.
Hannibal's tone is almost wry as he asks, "Do you believe, Bedelia?"
Instead of playing into his game even further, she answers him with a question of her own. "How did this happen?"
"It would seem that there were two foxes stalking the henhouse."
Bedelia takes Hannibal's arms in her hands as she begins to gently but firmly steer him towards the kitchen. Before anything else, the wound needs to be cleaned. His skin is unusually cold beneath her fingers. His rival fox must have spilled a significant amount of blood.
"Will the fox cry to the authorities?" Bedelia asks as she wets a cloth and begins to dab at the wound. She feels Hannibal tense beneath her touch, a small reminder that despite his distastefully violent proclivities, he is still human.
"Its body is in the river."
Bedelia cannot help but quirk a single eyebrow upward. "Was he not worthy of your table?"
Hannibal reaches out a hand, running his fingers through Bedelia's loose, blonde curls as he remarks, "Not all flesh is a delicacy."
It is, at once, a compliment and a threat, and Bedelia is not strong enough to suppress the icy shiver of fear and arousal that races through her body. She does, however, refuse to allow it to interrupt her ministrations.
If Hannibal notices the momentary lapse through the haze of pain that must currently plague him, he remains courteous enough to refrain from commenting on it directly. Rather, he observes, "For someone who is so preoccupied with keeping your hands free from the red stain of sin, you were surprisingly quick to offer up your care.'"
Bedelia dares to let her walls down long enough to lend her voice to the truth. "At intervals, I have been your colleague, your friend, your psychiatrist, and your lover. I am not particularly interested in seeing you in pain."
Silence reigns for a long moment.
Eventually, Hannibal says, "I am not in pain."
Bedelia tosses the dirtied rag aside and grabs another. "There is no need to lie to me, Hannibal. The man interests me as much as the god."
Once the wound is clean, she regards it with the detailed eye of a doctor and a critic. "Stitching this will not be easy. I will need your guidance."
It is in that moment that Hannibal's guard finally wavers, allowing Bedelia to slip behind the gauzy veil that he wears and glimpse the broken, tattered truth that lies beneath.
He slips a bloodstained hand beneath Bedelia's chin and tilts it upward with a single, artfully curled knuckle. Their eyes meet in the tense, electric space between them, and Bedelia feels her body quiver at the contact. Even if she wanted to deny him, she would be unable to summon the will to lie.
"Thank you, Bedelia."
The statement is uncharacteristically simple for a man who is so often want to wear intricate allegories and lengthy metaphors and punishing parables, yet it is more eloquent and impactful than anything he has ever before spoken.
She rises on her toes to plant a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth, tasting the slightly metallic tinge of someone else's blood.
It almost feels like taking communion.
"You are welcome, Hannibal."
And she thinks that perhaps they can expand their definition of privacy.
Privacy, when shared, is intimate, and intimacy with Hannibal is a precious thing. Bedelia may not be willing to kill either with him or for him, but it he continues to look at her like that and though her like this she will always be there to help hide his bodies and heal his wounds and keep his secrets.