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bi-bard · 1 year

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First Impressions - Hannibal Lecter Imagine [NBC's Hannibal]

Title: First Impressions

Pairing: Hannibal Lecter X Reader

Word Count: 937 words

Warning(s): none

Summary: Many knew the story of Hannibal's crime and arrest. However, the story of (Y/n) and Hannibal starts long before that. And the first to hear it was Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier.

Author's Note: I thought this would be more interesting than creating a simple story.

MORE OF THIS OC HERE!

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Hannibal and Bedelia's therapy sessions were far from the normal that Bedelia had known in her experience.

She would have loved to shrug such an observation off as simply her mind's immediate reaction to treating a colleague. However, she had to eventually dismiss such an idea.

This strangeness was something very different. Something about Hannibal was very different.

But she felt like she had few options other than continuing the man's therapy.

That day had been strange for an entirely different reason.

She had been sitting across from him for a while. Hannibal had fallen into some distracted silence.

"Something has captured your attention," she noted. "What is it?"

Hannibal let out a quiet chuckle before sitting up a bit straighter in his seat. "I'm afraid that 'it' is not an it, but a 'they'."

"A person," she replied. He nodded. "You meet new people almost every day. What makes this person so different?"

"For the first time, I cannot find the words to explain it," he continued. "They simply... are."

"I don't believe I have ever seen you speechless before."

Hannibal's grin grew just slightly.

It was a moment of pure honesty on his part.

It may have sounded harsh, but (Y/n) was nothing extraordinary. They seemed like every other person that had been around them at the time. Hannibal found trying to explain why they had so easily caught his eye similar to explaining to a toddler why one would need to go to bed at a reasonable time. So simple on the surface, yet seemingly more complicated when someone begins to question it further.

Maybe it had been (Y/n)'s kindness. They looked at everything around them with such genuine interest that it could've knocked the wind out of someone who looked in their eyes. They seemed so eager to help anyone. Hannibal could see that in the admittedly short amount of time that they spent together.

Maybe it was simply carried themselves. Their smile never seemed to dip. Hannibal felt childish for believing it, but he could've sworn that their eyes sparkled. There was something about their excitement that brought a sense of comfort. Hannibal thought it was affecting the whole room, but it could have just been him and he would've never been able to tell.

"How did you meet?"

His attention was suddenly turned back to Bedelia when she spoke. She tried to fight the knowing smile that so desperately wanted to show. She had never seen Hannibal in such a... distracted state, but she felt safe assuming the cause of it.

"At an art gallery," Hannibal replied.

"A guest?"

"An employee," he corrected.

"I see," she nodded. "Tell me about your... chance interaction."

"I had asked about a painting," he explained. He felt a need to avoid the specific details. He wanted those to be only his. "They told me about some small details. They seemed to cut themself off when they realized how many details they were sharing. They tried to apologize, but I was... intrigued."

"Was that the entire conversation?"

"No."

An amused smile formed.

"It feels strange to admit this, but I did continue pestering them while I was there," he continued. "I was curious about how much they knew."

"And?"

"The knowledge came from much more than simple education. It came from an interest that would have started a long time ago. Decades."

"Did you ask?"

"Yes," he nodded. "They told me that their mother was the reason that they knew so much."

"Many of us can unknowingly carry the habits and hobbies of our parents," Bedelia said. "The ones that we are aware of are arguably the most important."

"It would seem so," he replied.

"Please, continue your story."

"I watched them go around to help everyone else whenever needed. And then, they would come back and continue our conversation. As if there had never been an interruption in the first place.

"I promised to come back another day and continue our conversation."

"They seemed happy about the idea?"

"Yes."

Again, Bedelia had to fight that knowing smile.

Hannibal was smitten.

Intrigued and smitten could become mixed in the mind. Many could be misguided by mere intrigue. Hence why they would lose interest when the object of their affection had nothing left for them to learn about.

However, Hannibal never seemed to mix those thoughts together. He seemed entirely aware of the source of his thoughts. But this time, Bedelia could see the mix occurring in his mind. The question was whether or not he could also see the mix.

He could.

And he didn't mind it.

"What's their name," Bedelia asked.

"(Y/n)."

Hannibal almost said the name like it was made of glass. If he said it too harshly, it would shatter, and he would lose the right to speak it. That knowing smile was beginning to win the battle on Bedelia's face.

"What are you going to do when you see (Y/n) again?" she continued.

"Ask them more questions," he explained simply.

"Invite them to dinner?"

There was a small pause before Hannibal answered, "Perhaps."

She nodded.

Something about seeing Hannibal in such a state brought a sense of comfort. Like it provided evidence against a theory that Bedelia feared would be true.

"I'd like to hear about how your next interaction goes," she said. "To ensure that this becomes a healthy, fulfilling relationship in your life and theirs."

Hannibal nodded.

Bedelia decided then that she may be able to become comfortable with seeing Hannibal in such a state for a while.

This was a kind of strange that she could make sense of.

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#hannibal imagine #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter imagine #hannibal lecter fanfiction #imagine #fanfiction #x reader #mads mikkelsen imagine #mads mikkelsen x reader #mads mikkelsen fanfiction #bedelia du maurier imagine #bedelia du maurier fanfiction #bedelia du maurier x reader

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ihavemanyhusbands · 1 year

Note

Bedelia-The mouse, Please.

with love,

Your biggest fan <3

Kissies for you my beloved <3

(Not nsfw but cw for threats, obsessive behavior, lmk if anything else!)

——

“Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Du Maurier,” you said as you sat across from the tall, slightly imposing woman. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

She had piercing blue eyes with which you believed she could see through you. Though outwardly composed, her body language showed some discomfort, and perhaps apprehension.

For your part, you wrung your hands together anxiously, which she did not fail to notice.

She arched one perfectly penciled eyebrow slightly. “Yes, you were quite… insistent if I recall correctly.”

You let out an awkward chuckle. “I guess you could say I was desperate. I haven’t been doing so well, you see.”

“What troubles you so?”

You took a long breath, looking around you as you gathered your thoughts. It was then you clocked two glasses of wine, empty, but recently used.

Your eyes widened some, and you felt your heart rate pick up.

“He was just here, wasn’t he?” You breathed. “Oh, to think I just missed him…”

Bedelia tensed in her seat. “Pardon me?”

“Hannibal Lecter,” you clarified, looking back at her. “Your star patient, correct?”

“I don’t discuss patients with other patients…” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Who did you say referred you to me?”

“No one did, I found you all on my own,” you shrugged nonchalantly. “Wasn’t too difficult, I’m very good at doing research.”

She tilted her head to one side, curious. “You’re here just following his trail… Now I see why there was a great sense of urgency.”

“He is like a song I can’t get out of my head,” you said wistfully, gripping the armrests of your seat. “If anyone knows him better than most, it would be you, Dr. Du Maurier.”

“Hannibal values his privacy much more than the average person,” she said. “Surely, you’re aware of that. And the consequences of invading it.”

“Oh, I am,” you nodded, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your knees. “But see… Once I have all the components, I can orchestrate it perfectly. A chance meeting, riveting conversation over mutual interests… it could all go so perfectly.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

Now it was your turn to narrow your eyes at her. Slowly, you brought out a hunter knife from its hiding place in your boot and calmly set it on your lap.

“Well, those are chances I’m not willing to take,” you said calmly, smiling at her. “I can keep a secret, and I know you can, too. If not, well… I have other ways of ensuring it’s kept, but I don’t think we’ll have to get to that point, will we, Bedelia?”

She thought about it for a moment, weighing her options.

“No, we won’t.”

——

#hannibal fanfiction #bedelia du maurier fanfiction #bedelia du maurier x reader #minors dni

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honeygrahambitch · 3 months

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"Hannibal." Bedelia's voice comes from the phone.

"I am here as well." Will says as he taps the "speaker" button on the screen of Hannibal's phone.

"Such a blessing." She says after a deep sigh.

"How are you doing?" Hannibal asks and Will audibly whispers "Do we have to make small talk?"

"I have to agree with his remark. Get straight to the point." Bedelia replies.

"Lizzie has been asking for a hair straightener for a few weeks now and we bought her one."

"...Who is Lizzie?"

"Our daughter?" Will answers feeling insulted.

"I feel like I should ask how that happened but I am happier when I am not involved in your... homoerotic saga."

Hannibal tries his hardest not to laugh while Will wants to grab the phone to hang up.

"Anyway, as I was saying, we got her a hair straightener."

"Sorry, how old is she?"

"Seven."

"Did you get a seven year old a hair straightener?"

"Please forgive us for not asking for your advice first." Will says sarcastically and is pleased only when he hears another sigh from Bedelia.

"Neither of you had a fulfilling childhood. It is logical that you ended up being this type of parents."

"What type of parents?" Hannibal asks curious about Bedelia's opinion while Will was silently counting in order to compose himself.

"Am I right if I assume you can't say "no" to your kid?"

Silence.

"That's what I believed as well." Bedelia goes on satisfied with her guess.

"Wait. When did I talk to you about my childhood?" Will asks.

"You didn't. You ended up being a serial killer married to a man who is ten years older than you. That tells me everything."

"Why did we have to call her?"

"Because this is important. We are not sure how to use the hair straightener."

"No, Hannibal had a shock when he noticed that the oven and the straightener have the same temperature levels." Will explained.

"Wouldn't that ruin her hair?"

"And that brings us to my previous question. Why did you get a seven year old something like that?"

"Because if she wants straight hair then she should get straight hair." Hannibal replies confidently.

Bedelia's reply comes quickly. "If she couldn't have straight parents then she should at least have straight hair, right?"

"Bedelia." Will started. "We know where you live. And last time I checked one of your legs was still in perfect condition."

"Don't mind Will, now, say, will it burn her hair?"

"I imagine the amount that you spent on it has at least 4 digits."

"Absolutely."

"It will be alright. Don't use the highest settings but other than that, that's how all straighteners work. I will assume yours is very high quality."

"It is. Cause we are good parents." Will added as he grabbed himself a beer from the fridge.

"Sure."

"Thank you for... picking up the phone." Hannibal said politely. "Would you like to come over for dinner?"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

She hanged up.

"What a bitch." Will commented as he left the kitchen.

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #bedelia du maurier #hannibal nbc #hannibal series #hannibal fanfiction

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ms-masago · 1 year

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I love season two of Hannibal because you can see the exact moment Will stops being prey and starts being the predator

#hannibal nbc #hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannigram #hannigraham #will graham #hannibal au #hannibal fanfiction #bedelia du maurier #jack crawford #alana bloom

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rose-lunaire · 4 months

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winter with nbc hannibal characters would include…

pairings: hannibal lecter x gn!reader, will graham x gn!reader, bedelia du maurier x gn!reader

warnings: none!

hannibal lecter

attending the annual new years concert in vienna

getting each other books for christmas and reading them together

smell of mulled wine filling the study

trying out sleigh riding on a quiet night, covered by animal furs and drinking warm cocoa

laughing through the ride, trying not to spill the beverage onto your clothes

will graham

stealing his sweaters!

cuddling in front of the fireplace, because the insulation is so bad

sleeping under several blankets (dogs) just to keep warm at night

cooking meaty stews, because none of you has the energy to make something new every day

you would inspect his clothing each time he goes out, making sure his scarf is tight enough (and almost strangling him in the process!)

bedelia du maurier

wine tasting in the comfort of an elegant hotel suite

long evenings slipping away into sleepy mornings

ice skating, or more precisely, learning to ice skate

holding hands and trying to keep your balance, ending up on the icy surface, arms draped around your waists

escaping the cold in a spa, trying new massages and red wine

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phantomstatistician · 1 year

Photo

Fandom: Hannibal

Sample Size: 31,867 stories

Source: AO3

#will graham #hannibal lecter #alana bloom #margot verger #bedelia du maurier #matthew brown #molly graham #nigel #adam raki #frederick chilton #hannibal #fanfiction #ao3 #statistics #phantom statistician #hannigram

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camusscigarette · 6 months

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Violets for Roses:

Chapter I: Bleed yourself out for your sins to leak through

(There's a Prologue before the chapter!!!)

TW: Mentions of Child death, mentions of past Torture, mentions of Cannibalism, mentions of religious guilt and trauma, mentions of blood.

❦

As the sunlight streamed through the navy blue curtains, he awoke with a groan. His hand coming to rub the back of his neck, as if a knot was tied in his muscles. He couldn't recall the events of yesterday. He couldn't recall how he ended up in Bedelia's bed. In his boxers to say the least but he knew that the two of them hadn't shared the bed in a way he'd much more prefer to have done so.

Dragging himself out of bed, he only now noticed how cold his side was. Bedelia wasn't here. Normally she wasn't a morning person, that he knew because she never took any early morning sessions with anyone. Everything must be past 11 or 12 PM. It was to be exact 8:02. Where could she be?

He picked up his neatly folded suit and went to Bedelia's bathroom, where he stripped himself of his boxers and stepped into the shower. Letting the cold water hit his body like little needles, pricking his skin ever so gently. His thoughts went back to the letter and the picture he stumbled upon yesterday..maybe if he shuffled through more books he'd be lucky enough to find something.

His thoughts wandered back to the picture. The woman who resembled Bedelia with the child in hand. ‘1928’. It didn't make sense. But then again.. nothing did. The mere thought of Bedelia being alive at that time, pregnant as well..was something out of a world of delusions.

But he couldn't help but think about it. Bedelia. Pregnant? Odd yet.. beautiful. Her belly rounded with the purpose of creating a life. Her already ample breasts fuller with milk to feed the child that she grows inside of her womb, her sacred temple. Her hair healthier. A pregnancy glow that she would bathe in for the next 9 months. She'd be soft to the touch. Sensitive and moody. And her taste, oh her divine taste would change as well. A taste he sought to taste again. The thought of her falling pregnant with his child, his seed that fertilized her ova. It excited him more than he'd like to admit, that even his body reacted to his thoughts.

Switching the water back onto the hot setting he lets those thoughts go with a heavy groan as he leaned his forehead against the marble emerald green walls of the shower. Reaching a pinnacle of ecstacy, a release but no answers and no dreams fulfilled...

°•୨☽♡☾୧•°

Holy Trinity Church was a Russian Orthodox church in Baltimore.

A church Bedelia preferred to attend when it is mainly empty, and the only sounds were the sound of her heels. Click clacking against the marble floor as she walked towards the altar and kneeled on the steps that lead to it.

Her knees pressing against the hard edge of the little steps, her pants making it easier to kneel on the ground though her heals were a different story. But then again, bit of discomfort was nothing to her. She was used to the long and exhausting hours of ballet, where her point shoes would leak red from the overtime spent on her tippy toes while the classical music plays in the background and Madame Boleslava told them to repeat the number over and over again till she felt. satisfied enough with it.

She found herself staring at the golden crucifix, taking in the details of the Orthodox design. A sense of familiarity filling her aching soul as she took in everything. It's been eight years since she last payed the church a visit. Yet her eyes never left the crucifix, a look of anger and betrayal always evident in her eyes as she came to the church and knelt at the altar, preparing herself for confession. Exactly eight years ago she came to confess. Drunk and heartbroken when she found out that one of her daughters killed her other daughter. Her poor Antonia..her poor Natalya..But she was the one to blame. She abandoned Antonia. Just like she Abandoned Yelena. Only Natalya escaped..but a Widow can only be pushed to a certain limit. Can't she? She has lived for far too long to fight off the cruelty she faced. Dreykov was getting bored of her and he was no longer interested in a body to use. He needed weapons and far to many weapons he had..Far too many weapons he had on hand that it became easier to slip out .And she did. But at what cost?

She remembers crying out her prayer, her confession to that very same golden crucifix like it was yesterday..

“My Dearest Father in Heaven,” She began her prayer, her tone wobbly and unsure.

“In this world, a tapestry of shadows, I stand before you, my heart heavy with the lament of my existence. I, Bedelia Du Maurier, confess my sins to you, the keeper of all our souls. I have served a wicked purpose, to seduce and to kill, to feast upon the very essence of those I ensnare. In this tragedy of life, I beg for your mercy, a baptism to cleanse my ledger, to wash away the crimson stain from my hands.” She could feel her joined hands trembled as well as her lowerlip, the familiar burning sensation in her eyes.

“Oh, Lord, grant salvation to sinners like me, who have walked the path of darkness. I yearn for a reprieve from the temptations that whisper in my ear, urging me to end it all. But now, Father, my soul is adrift, and I can no longer muster the strength to care. Your abandonment weighs upon me like a leaden shroud, your punishment, the life you've chosen for me, has been cruel and relentless.” She hated begging, yet here she was. She hated confessing to such weak emotions for she has let herself fall for the only thing she was taught to avoid. Love.

“I weep for my lost daughter, taken from me by the hand of death, and for the two others, not by the Reaper's scythe but by the cruel, twisted existence I lead. The anger and rage inside me now overpower any semblance of repentance, and my confession turns to accusation. You, God, have forsaken me, and my soul screams in torment.” It came out more like a sob, in her drunken state, mind in a haze of despair and desolation, she could no longer keep any of her growing rage in. She has kept it in for far too long.

“In this hour of darkness, Father, I beseech you, show me a glimmer of your grace. Spare me from the abyss that threatens to consume me, and grant me the strength to endure the relentless storm that rages within and around me. May your mercy shine upon me once more, and may I find solace in your divine embrace.”

The memory itself sent a chill down her spine as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her index, middle and thumb fingers joined, she drew the cross. Forehead, chest, right , left, right and joined her hands once again where a small rosary made out of crimson red beads was held in and she began..

"Notre père qui est aux cieux.."

#bedelia du maurier #hannibal lecter #hannibal #hannibal the cannibal #bedannibal #live love toxic marrieds #natasha romanoff #yelena belova #red room #black widow #canon? what is that #fanfiction #violets for roses

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tina-mairin-goldstein · 7 days

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Rating: Mature

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category: F/M

Fandom: Hannibal (TV)

Relationship: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter

Characters: Hannibal Lecter, Bedelia Du Maurier, Original Child Character(s)

Additional Tags: Bedelia's POV, Her and Hannibal's time in France and Florence together, They've been married since they were young. a/b/o dynamics, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Verse, Pregnancy, Mpreg, Discussion of Abortion, Sexual Content, Omega Hannibal Lecter, Alpha Bedelia Du Maurier, Hannibal has both sets of reproductive organs, Canonical Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Cannibalism, No beta we die like Bedelia doesn't

Language: English

Summary:

Alpha. Psychiatrist. Victim. Liar. Few people knew what Bedelia Du Maurier actually was. Few knew why she had left with Hannibal Lecter after the red dinner. It was beyond professional curiosity. Beyond desire. Beyond wishing to understand the darkness within herself. It was because she owed him. Not only for telling her version of events, but for allowing her to live the life she had enjoyed until she found him in the aftermath of his own creation. She was La Sposa del Mostro. The bride of the monster. And this was her story. *Fic is complete, and updates are scheduled for Friday, Saturday, or Sunday each week.

#nbc hannibal #hannibal #hannibal lecter #bedelia du maurier #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #my fic #my writing

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remediesremedy · 1 year

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hannibal helping his husband with a panic attack

(this is a hannibal x reader)

Hannibal

he’s used to patients having traumatic responses, and will having break downs, but he’s never had to deal with a partner having bad mental health or intense emotions. partly because he’s never had a long lasting partner who he was responsible (partially) for their care.

he’s unsure how to handle it, he’s unsure how to feel, it’s out of many of his comfort zones, but it stirs something in him, and he finds himself cupping his husband’s face. “i’m not experienced in this, in caring, but i know that i care about you darling.” he starts off with, swiping his thumb to catch a river of tears from your face. your breaths are heavy, and things are too much, a whirlwind of insecurities and doubts and what ifs. Hannibal has never felt his heart tug, but he feels it now, he feels the drag of it getting harder as he takes in your leaky face. “tell me, tell me what is troubling you if you can.”

“i can’t breathe” you sob, sending flurries of tears down the skin of his palm, the cracks in his hand become fertilised with the pools of sorrow dripping down your disheartened face. “i just want it all to stop.” Hannibal leans closer, resting his forehead against yours, he does not care that his suit is getting damp, or that the bed is getting ruffled from the uncontrolled writhing of your limbs. he reaches for your hand, encompassing it with his own and guiding it over his chest. his heart beat thumps against your palm, his rib cage bounces as your chest thuds from the intake of oxygen.

“i want you to count.” he says almost nonchalantly, “count how many beats a minute.” but you seem hysterical, still unstable and at a loss for breath. “count.” he encourages further, and so you start, 40 beats a minute, his heartbeat is so steady, he’s so alive against your skin. Hannibal is warm, he is alive, he is yours. unknowingly, your frame begins to settle, and all you can see, sense, feel is the clean cut man in front of you who was a borderline mess, exactly like you.

“you must be exhausted after that my love, you went through so much.” hannibal murmured softly, and you find that your eyes are in fact drooping, hannibal finds it uncomfortable that he doesn’t have time to change into more comfortable clothes, but he is content to see you more calm. So he opens his arms and his lips quirk up as you start to drift off into a deep sleep

he loves you, in an amount that can never be measured

#hannibal #hannibal lector #imagines #lgbtq #will graham #x reader #alana bloom #fluff #queer representation #trans #trans reader #bedelia du maurier #margot verger #hannibal nbc #fanfic #fiction #fanfiction

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lesbianvampiresposts · 1 year

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i never actually posted that other emily prentiss thing i was writing oops..ANYWAY!

I think i’m like flat out of ideas and motivation so any ideas or like requests i’ll take!!!

What i’ll write:

i’ll write mostly female x female or female x gender neutral seeing as i’m not overly the best at male x male or female x male (as the name of my blog states, kind of only have experience dating women BUT i’ll try if its something people really want)

i probably wont write smut (for now) or anything involving pregnancies and i will definitely not write anything involving triggering topics.

i’ll write fics, oneshots, headcannons, anything!! i’ll even give my opinions on ships if thats what people really want 😭

i’ll write for fandoms such as:

Criminal Minds

Greys Anatomy

Station 19

SWAT

9-1-1/9–1-1 Lonestar

Orange is the new black

NBC Hannibal

Supernatural

Brooklyn 99

Will Trent

X-Files

Suicide Squad

#criminal minds #emily prentiss x reader #9 1 1 fanfiction #nbc hannibal #greys antony #station 19 #i’m begging here someone give me ideas #brooklyn nine nine x reader #bedelia du maurier x reader #beverly katz #swat x reader #chris alonso x reader #orange is the new black

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the-girl-who-didnt-make-anysense · 2 years

Video

and I never knew I could feel that much

Thank you to @plain-as-pandemonium for letting me borrow her words from her works Held like hope and Complicity

#Hannibal #Bedelia du maurier #bedannibal #hannibal au #hannidelia #hannibal video #hannibal edit #fanfiction #edit #video

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vixnovacoda · 4 months

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Doctor's Medicine || Chapter 8

Hannibal Lecter x Original Character

Word Count: ~4.4k

CW/TW: NSFW 18+, graphic, disturbing content, dissociation, canon-typical violence.

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3][Chapter 4][Chapter 5][Chapter 6][Chapter 7]

[ao3 version here]

He didn’t want to save them the way they wanted. After all, it’s not what the good doctor prescribed. No. Hannibal had something else in mind entirely, and soon they too would understand.

———

“This new interest you have acquired begs questioning, Hannibal,” insinuated a starch-stiff blonde woman, the doctor’s very own psychiatrist, Bedelia Du Maurier. She was a temple of collected calmness, exuding a brand of cunning calculations that wasn’t too dissimilar to that of Hannibal Lecter’s, as she sat up straight within the confines of her home, the glowing dawn light filtering through the tall windows just out of reach to paint over her coldness in a warm palette.

While the other doctor kept to the shadows, placed across from Bedelia inside the otherwise plain and dull room. “I am only doing what is in the purview of my job as her psychiatrist,” dismissed Hannibal without batting a second glance at the accusation, legs crossed, leant back. Relaxed; far too relaxed.

“There are others who would disagree.”

His eyes narrowed, whetting knives. “And what is it that you believe?”

“I,” she said with a pause to mull over her answer, “believe you are indulging Emma Darcy’s sudden mania. Whether it is for her sake or your curiosity, that remains to be seen.”

“You make it seem as if she is some sort of experiment and not my patient.”

“If she’s not, then how do you see her?”

He drifted his glance elsewhere, to the outside world. “A fox running from its home and hanging onto the tails of a wayward bird,” became his response.

“Foxes are cunning beasts, both predator and prey, able to recognise a trap when they see it and entirely impossible to tame without having bred them to be against their nature. To do the impossible, you would have to be god.”

“It is not my intention to tame her.”

The calculatedness of their conversation was like a game of tennis, hitting back and forth until one rulents, except they used blades instead of rackets and their strikes were prods at each other’s brains. A game which both excelled at for the little undiscerning reactions on their faces. Until right then, when, ever a master at the game, Hannibal’s body language sharpened on all edges, muscles tightening and snapping his attention Bedelia’s way.

She had struck true and hit a nerve. “Tell me, Hannibal, is she the predator or the prey caught in your snare?” Bedelia questioned. She dared to go further, though knew whatever glimpse she witnessed would subside itself back into the shadows and under designer flesh to never be seen unless necessary. In the mind of Dr Bedelia Du Maurier, Hannibal Lecter was an endangered species, rarely seen but always there. He might do anything to survive.

Silence filled the room as a bitter aftertaste. Hannibal took his time to answer, for there wasn’t an acceptable one that sprang to mind, other than this: “I want to help her thrive .”

———

When the FBI’s curious consultant exited the newest site for information on the Ghost Writer case, there was very little left to do on an evening so quickly devoured by night’s starry teeth. Most subsided into their humble abodes, away from terror and horror.

As the moon rolled up on the horizon, Emma envied those working hard in the labs; stuck in the middle of multiple messed-up murders – in turn, she was disgusted by her envy. The case was just as much hers to work on, given the quite personal circumstances, yet instead of helping find a murderer (and Alex), Marcus had her stuck at a charity gala inside a museum, where forced interactions were a necessity – public image and all that. Emma didn’t just represent her sane self but the Darcy Estate, the family name, her father’s legacy. The pressure hung around her neck in the shape of a noose, where all it took was one wrong move and everything would be gone per the clause in her father’s will, back to the original state it was in before his passing. Sometimes she wanted to kick the stool herself and no longer have anything to do with the whole lot. Sometimes, she saw Marcus, who had been entrusted with the Estate’s funds – he who had been the closest thing to an uncle she knew from her father – and thought the better of it. That’s the thing with family, you have obligations beside the physical bodies. All Emma had left were those obligations and, despite everything, she felt a responsibility to see it through. Perhaps it was spite or some weird form of love.

People that didn’t know better would say money.

Imported jewels dangled from ears and an ample neck, and a red pooling fabric shifted snugly over Emma’s form as she took Marcus’ hand out of the car. The long satin dress gathered as a puddle around her feet whenever she remained still. Blood-like. Starting, wrapping from one shoulder and ending on the wet ground with a single slice on the leg to allow movement. Much more extravagant than she was used to; perfect for the occasion; suiting the location of the colossal pillared white stone building, carvings of ancient beings hid on the walls, and a gilded, former observatory roof glistened in the centre.

She fidgeted with her hair, piling it over her shoulder before following her overly-dressed agent up the steps, passing marbled, nude figures that held up the front of the museum in twisting positions. Every step forward brought the building higher and higher to the point of blocking out the moon. Intimidating with an open wooden maw, pouring out golden light and laughter and swarms of human bodies making their way to and fro. She stared down the entrance, stopping mere feet away while others – elite, chin-up, socialites – swerved around her as her mind briefly went to the case, carrying on with their chosen lives and ignoring how close hers was to ending.

It should have been easier to walk through that vintage glamour, through marble-encased hallways, past grand hung paintings and champagne flute-carrying servers, but it was too much like her old life, pretentious and fake and overwhelming. Here she felt like a prized beast meant for harvesting till every last drop, made to be worth every last cent. Some people stared from paintings and statues, behind silver trays, luxurious clothed tables, centrepieces and drapery, because they heard of the value the Darcy Estate had accumulated and how its sole fortune heir came out of her reclusive burrow as she so occasionally did. To them, she was a rare sight.

To Emma, she hated it. Hated the way her revealing flesh shivered and her stomach sunk under their eyes. A reaction she shared with her late mother was that these people cared for one thing and one thing only; wealth and who had the most. They couldn't care less about getting to know the person behind it or anyone unless money was at stake, which practically made this gala a hunting ground for the rich. Add that along to the real danger of a serial killer possibly vying for her attention, that Alex, for all intents and purposes, was still missing, and it could not be any worse timing. If Emma intended to survive the night, then she’d have to move through the underbrush of people with care. Tonight was open season, after all.

“Do I have to do this?” questioned Emma, her head already on a swivel.

Marcus sighed. “You know better than I do about your requirements, Emma.” Which meant she had to, and that was a lie. He was there when they were read, she wasn’t. “Tell you what, let’s just stick it out until the first piece is sold, then we can head off, okay?” he offered in a move to please her, and she nodded. But it did not ease the crosshairs aimed at her head.

What unease she felt did not spill over to Marcus, however, he seemed comfortable, soaking in the light with a ravenous hunger that had been left untouched and rewarding his complexion by way of making him glow. It was safe to say he loved it, greedily. He would take whatever he could get, staying by her side through every held conversation, laughing along and grabbing passing refreshments when required, smoothing back his slicked hair to blend in, and adjusting the ivory cufflinks gifted to him by her father, so he remained pristine. Though he never went far from her. One would say that the agent was more her handler as he showed her off to all those who mattered.

A tight leash. That’s what the painting beside them read, A Tight Leash . Such an exposing piece – Emma found it odd yet very right to her predicament. A fake, surely. Not that the ogling hundreds cared, and not the living skeletons, trophy pairs or wannabes. As each man and woman had their turn, Emma became more and more stifled. The room shrunk, slowly dragging the ceiling down upon her head while Marcus, ever the artist, played oblivious. He tightened his grab of her arm in what he must have thought was encouraging, but it did the opposite. She wanted out. The noises drowned her head, and she wanted out. She was gasping for air, so she pulled back quite hard and stormed towards the nearest balcony, window or door. She tumbled and twisted. At various points, she lost her footing, and then quickly recovered without care. Half a mad woman amongst the sane; she had no clue where she was going, blurred walls and objects tend to look the same after a while.

Eventually, a cold breeze brushed her paled parchment cheeks as doors swung close and there was nothing else but the darkness of night and a stone balcony atop the cliff-edge, where she swore she could hear waves lapping even though there was no water in sight. Safe to say, it was peaceful. Just what the doctor would have ordered; away from bodies, dead and alive.

Emma leaned against the ledge, soaking in the gentle night with closed eyes, and she could almost imagine she was safe. “That was quite… the scene,” spoke another who entered after her. At first, the recognition didn’t register, but she had heard that man’s voice a thousand times in her mind, and immediately, her body tensed in trepidation. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I just.” Muscles tensed turned clenched, fingers burning bright red. “Actually, I don’t care any more, Marcus. I cannot do—”

Then everything stopped when she turned around. Her quick-found, righteous anger rolled over her as fast as the confidence originally came to her as she realised her mistake. “Dr. Lecter?” she asked like the clear-cut figure dressed in fine black in front of her was not enough to believe his sudden appearance outside work or their sessions. How could she have ever mistaken that rich, velvet accent?

“We keep doing this,” said Hannibal, the same as ever. Normal.

“One of us ought to stop it,” responded Emma.

“Probably.”

And neither budged under the quiet dark. Constellations witnesses to their reluctance.

“Marcus?” he quirked his head, confounded.

New lines contorted around her nose, eyes, brow and mouth while she ran a hand through her hair and she fumbled her words, “Yeah. My agent. A scene?”

“Quite a few people noticed. It was hard not to. This would be the same man whose house you borrowed that became a crime scene, the ‘close family friend’, correct?”

“The very one. Who you obviously aren’t because you’re not going to try and kill me. God, this is a mess. I’m so sorry.”

The smallest of smiles crested Hannibal’s face, so small yet discernable nonetheless, then it stopped. He smiled ? At what? Her embarrassment, an inside joke or her insanity? A man like him could be thinking a million things, and it wasn’t fair that he knew her thoughts while she knew nothing of what rattled inside him. Then again, she shouldn’t care. She didn’t want to know (but, oh, how she needed to). “What brings you here?” enquired Emma ever so casually without realising she had spoken before the question left her sober(?) lips, and he slowly took up the space on her right.

“I was concerned about the welfare of one of my patients,” he said.

“Ah, I see.” she slumped against the carved grey mass. “So we’re patient and doctor this evening then,” commented her as she returned to facing the night horizon.

“Being colleagues typically requires us to be near a body

“Being doctor-patient typically requires a hefty bill.”

“And you are avoiding my point.”

“You’re avoiding my question. You know what I meant,” said Emma like a stern reminder, because today of all days, she deemed it fair and, plus, if she knew why a man such as himself was here at a charity art gala, then maybe she could avoid running into him at the next one (or maybe not). Hannibal pierced her fair gaze with an ease akin to sharpened metal slicing paper, careful not to let on too much. Never did give much away; everything he did was so subtle you had to really look. Otherwise, everything moved with purpose.

“Tit for tat. You tell first, then I will… open myself up for an unpaid therapy session, god knows I could probably use one right now,” she suggested after the brief stifling silence like he was the one demanding she spill her guts to him.

A slight head tilt; a new perspective. “Fairness for an equal footing. It does seem only right, lest we behave like unmannered beasts,” conceded Hannibal.

“You first.”

“The art. Out of all the things man has created, it is quite beautiful. It will never die.”

Emma stood still, more taken aback by the honest answer than she should have been.

“Not the answer you were expecting?” he asked.

“No. I mean, kind of. I’ve always had you down for a man with fine taste and the luxury of being able to afford it, but you’re not like them , the savages,” she replied with a pointed look aimed at the high society scoffing caviar, oysters and champagne down their wide open mouths and cackling imprudently behind the closed glass-paned door.

Hannibal did neither. If he ever did, Emma imagined he’d be more polite, and as he spoke he seemed to share a similar opinion, following her gaze in every way. “They are a different breed of stock. Though, occasionally, one finds the few worthy of sinking one’s teeth into.”

“That would make you sound superior.” Hannibal gave her pause from the corner of his periphery. “To which I’d have to wholeheartedly agree upon. Being around them suffocates me in mere seconds, they are a rotten lot, and with you, it’s… different, as is a fresh breeze in old lungs. It is how you put it, I am able to sink my teeth into you,” she admitted, and the truth it was. If he allowed, she would take a bite out of him any day to assuage her monstrous brain – which was another truth, since normal people don’t confess such things. Quickly, she picks back up, “which answers your point. I’m okay now, I think I should be. Just needed to get away and…”

“Stop wearing the facade you’ve so tightly adorned?”

“Yes.”

Hazardous winds slash at the joyous moon, dark clouds covering up the pale light in fractured distillation as curled strands of hair whip across Emma’s bared flesh. But she doesn’t feel pain or the cold or anything like she knows she should, except freedom when their sights lined up in each other's view. Dappled moon rays swarmed along his frame, washing the sharp edges of his silhouette in pale holy light and putting him closer to being a piece of art created by the greats and touched by god with the creases on his face the markings of an oil painting’s brush strokes; the kind of art you couldn’t tear away from. Emma watched as those warm maroon eyes of his trailed down her face and neck, her throat bobbing with a hard, silent gulp until he reached the small, discoloured circular burst indented on her shoulder like a star burning a hole through the deep blue cloth of night, a scar. But hers was anything other than a beautiful constellation. It was pain.

It was a reminder.

That is when the sound of waves lapping upon rocky teeth reached her ears. Danger. She was getting too close. But there is no water, only dry land. Dry land surrounded them for miles and miles. Is any of this real? Emma questioned herself, reality and him; if he could just be a figment created by her subconscious to calm her in a moment of stress.

She withdrew back, breaking contact and covering up the age-old scar once again. The line redrawn. Real or not, she couldn’t make the same mistake thrice. This had to remain professional, no matter how good it felt to think there might be someone who spoke the same language as her soul – that was his job, to ‘understand’ . He couldn’t actually understand her. She was messed up. There was no way.

Thunderous applause drew her attention to the inside where people emptied the floor and searched for their seats as the band took their thanks. “We missed the dance,” murmured Emma solemnly, realising the long passage of time that must have passed.

“Must have been an elating experience. Do you dance, Emma?” pondered Hannibal, who, thankfully, maintained the distance she had carved.

“In the sense that I am trained, yes.”

“Then it seems we both missed out on a good thing.”

He tried bringing her back, but her mind was caught elsewhere. Reality came crashing so hard it took her a few seconds to catch up as the professional in her recalled the event’s schedule. Drinks, dancing, then…

Like it was written across her face, Hannibal interfered, “The auction will start soon. Unless you intend on missing that as well?”

“No. No, I mustn’t,” sighed Emma, and she rubbed her forehead before straightening up and composing herself for what would be hell on earth the second a man declared her a mine to be dug for its gold, that or the berating Marcus was going to lay out on her. Smoothing out the creases of her dress, she reached for the door handle when Hannibal held it open and followed her inside where the warmth smothered them both upon entry.

For once here, people ignored the pair as they manoeuvred around and a murmuring silence began to fall into place. What could not so easily be ignored was the slickened Marcus, shoving his way through the crowd with veins and a jaw that looked like it would pop at a moment’s notice. Hannibal regarded the man while the sea of people kept them separated. “That agent of yours doesn’t seem to be too happy,” he said.

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t appreciate being made a fool when my father’s money is at stake. The man enjoys his fake wealth,” said Emma, searching for an escape from both men, but no door, seat or direction would accomplish such a task unless it meant mingling with the unsavoury. No, she had one choice, and she was not in the mood for Marcus’ reminders of duty and inheritance. Plus, time was drawing near when the auction would start and two single seats glistened in the distance, far from Marcus’ reach, close to an audience he wouldn’t dare start anything in front of. “Do me a favour, Dr. Lecter, please. Sit with me,” she implored the doctor, though it was less of an ask and more of a desperate command.

Hannibal had to admit that it was almost appealing. “I do not think that is a good idea,” he told her, but he did not leave her side.

Seats were getting full. Her spot was compromised by a couple walking in its direction. She had to come up with something. “Every second I spend here builds up pressure in the mask I wear. If Marcus speaks to me, I’m not sure how long it will last before I lose myself again. But if you join me instead, I will be okay. Which is what you want, right Dr. Lecter? To ensure I am as you intend me to be, better?” Against her better wishes, she tried to appeal to him. He was her psychiatrist, after all. Emma Darcy’s mental health was his concern.

“Very well, then,” gave in he, and she swore he smiled, but it must have just been a trick of the lights dimming as they made their way to the front table, not a second wasted. They moved past the couple, taking the last seats at the table, each other only an arm’s reach, and Marcus was forced to stay at the back while the first auctioned piece was put into place on the stage with a large red cloth, and the black-suited auctioneer approached the podium, standing front and centre, ready to do the job he was paid so much to do.

“You never did mention why it is that you are attending, Emma,” whispered Hannibal, leaning towards her.

“Oh,” she said unexpectedly, like the thought never occurred to her that someone wouldn’t know because everyone else already did, and she gestured Hannibal’s focus towards the veiled object looming behind the auctioneer. “The painting belongs to my mother. My family’s estate donated it for the auction, so we could help raise money for the gala. We’ve been doing it for years now. Only this time, it just so happened that I was in the area, so Marcus insisted that it would be a good idea,” answered her in a fellow hushed voice, and never removed her eyes from the would-be painting. Silence fell over them all, the spotlight gravitating all focus on that shining stage. Their excitement was so palpable one could taste it in the air, like sweat from the back of a pig fed only on truffles. But none felt as Emma did as she sat on the edge of her seat, not in that same excitement. She sat full of nerves, worms wriggling around her stomach. It had been decades since she last saw this painting, and now she would see it again. It was to be a reunion.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen!” echoed the auctioneer’s voice.

Emma’s fingers tapped, restless.

“Now, we know you’ve been waiting for this moment so let us not keep you waiting any longer and let’s get to donating some money. Tonight we have a very special piece lined up for you, generously provided by long-time supporters of our wonderful cause.”

Unknowingly, the rhythm became a pacing heartbeat. A hand enveloped her wrist, making hers look ridiculously small. Hannibal meant nothing by it, only that she should stop and stop she did. Emma really was unsuited to these environments. One would be better off throwing her at a crime scene or the morgue.

The auctioneer carried on, smiling ever so. “For those with religion on their minds and walls, this is an original, never-before-seen, oil painting done by William-Adolphe Bouguereau that was first discovered by Marie Harker in 1925 and passed down her family for generations until now.” A couple of staff stood ready by the painting. Gloved palms grabbed the red cloth. “The Woman in Red!” cheerily announced the man as off went the covering, blood-like rivers billowing from the motion before pilling into a puddle on the marble below.

It did not get the reaction he hoped.

Glass shattered. The first sound: a crescendo of champagne flutes breaking. A dozen, maybe, maybe more. But no oohs or ahhs . In fact, the first sound physically made by a human after the unveiling was shrieks so loud they could shatter the already broken glass. People had even run from their seats, and all because of the blood that dripped from the real-life heart stitched into place, held by an all too real hand where dark skin stretched in a manner that could never be replicated without the use of actual skin, and a face. The face with shiny eyes, rosy cheeks, lips plump, and pores so visible, changing by the light and not paint strokes. The face that seemed alive. The face Emma would recognise a mile away, especially when she sat right up close to that red-robed woman stretched onto a canvas, holding heart and dagger, a solar eclipse purifying the action as it christened the black halo that was her hair.

A reunion it was indeed, for there solved the mystery of missing Alex Bennet, now deceased.

The pulse in Emma’s throat throbbed.

Her stomach felt empty at the sight.

She did not run like the others. She did not cry. Instead, as Hannibal carefully inspected her reaction, her other hand grabbed his and shock took her in a myriad of ways. But mostly due to the one single thought she disgusted herself to think, yet hungered for nonetheless: it was beautiful.

———

“And have you helped her?” was the question brought up by Bedelia, the psychiatrist’s psychiatrist.

If this had been asked at the beginning of their doctor-patient relationship, Hannibal would merely admit a fleeting fancy to a woman who struggled on the occasion, that she was merely another patient like any other. He had seen a glimpse of who she could be under the facade society forced her to hide under, an endangered species on the verge of extinction. But that did not have to be the case. Not anymore. Not for either of them. And he was interested in seeing what might happen, more than anything, to the woman who dared to be inspired by the Chesapeake Ripper voluntarily and whose mind drank in crimes against human nature like a fine red wine.

A short smile deigned his face. “I am beginning.”

“Then this fox must be careful where she steps.” One wrong move, and she would be better off dead. If Bedelia appeared concerned, then she did not show it.

Hunger struck a cord inside the man, the doctor, the being. He was well and truly intrigued. So much so that inspiration filled a desire.

And what is desire if not hunger?

#fanfiction #fanfic #hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter #bedelia du maurier #hannibal fanfic #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal lecter fanfiction #hannibal x original character #hannibal x oc #original female character #original character

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specklesinthevoid · 1 year

Text

To the Silent Screams and Wildest Dreams (Bedelia x OC) part 1

So I have had the craziest idea and so I have been writing it. So here's a sneak peak to the very first chapter. Hope yall like it.

“I'm on my guard for the rest of the world

But with you I know its no good

And I could wait patiently

But I really wish you would”

~Taylor Swift

Evelynn VanDein never understood why blushing was seen as attractive. The normal light pink that seemed to be painted on by feather-light brushes was never her blush; as far as she was concerned, that kind of blush was a fictitious lie told by Hollywood to the mass public. No, her blushes were an irritant, and her cheeks were not their only victim. No, red splotches outlined continents on her neck, and even beneath her attire, she would never dare to acknowledge the sharp electricity that coursed seemingly from her feet to the tip of her nose.

Indeed blushing for Evelynn was an experience she didn’t enjoy, and she definitely didn’t appreciate it when other people coaxed it out of her with feathered whispers that were meant to be left unsaid.

This time, her blotchy cheeks could be blamed on the woman from across the bar, the woman who was nursing a glass of red wine in one hand and smiling at her for no good reason except that Evelynn existed in her presence. One second of eye contact had turned into an unspoken challenge, the silence between them holding more meaning than words that would be later whispered in each other’s presence while bedsheets tangled beneath their bare bodies full of lust and prickled skin.

Evelynn, however, could deal with the silence. When the woman’s lips curved in acknowledgment and she raised the glass to her lips, the electricity began in Evelynn’s feet. The eye contact might lead to conversation, which might lead to skin, which might lead to emotion, which might lead to love.

Evelynn hadn’t given romance a second thought in years. She would even like to believe that her brain had marked it as incongruent with her lifestyle. Romance, in Evelynn’s experience, was complicated, painful, and you could get most of the same chemicals from eating a bar of chocolate. And after one too many heartbreaks, she found herself pretending to ignore the wishful thinking her helpless romantic heart sometimes sent her way. Like what it was doing right now, with the woman across the bar.

Sitting at a bar alone on one’s 34th birthday is enough to make anyone debate these logical decisions Evelynn soon declared to herself. It was merely a temptation, a body, a woman. A woman with a beautiful face and long fingers that seemed to be delicate yet dangerous simultaneously while she lifted her glass to her lips once again. Evelynn blinked back errant thoughts of what those lips could feel like pressed to skin instead of glass. She had never been one for casual hookups, a self-proclaimed serial monogamous, Evelynn formed attachments quickly and passionately (although if cornered she would never admit to such).

But social anxiety won over and Evelynn remained in her seat, ignoring her Freudian Id. Ignoring the temptation; instead opting to ask for a glass of water from the bartender and she gazed quietly at her phone, responding to birthday messages and breaking her own work-life boundaries by checking her email countless times.

She could still feel the woman’s glimpses though.

The alcohol had probably gotten to her head again. She had averted her gaze while her brain debated every millisecond of eye contact she and the stranger had. It was almost as if this woman were daring her to make the first move. This revelation caused Evelynn to chuckle to herself. Yeah right.

Evelynn’s racing heart only doubled tempo as she saw the woman gesturing for her tab and paying the bartender. Whether their eyes met again was up to the universe, but when Evelynn looked back to her drink she felt her insides twisting with incorrigible anxiety. How pathetic.

When she dared to raise her gaze once again, the woman was indeed gone, the stool left vacant. Evelynn soon after decided to forgo her losses and stood as well, quickly paying her bill and leaving the bar to hail a taxi back to her apartment. Hoping to god the woman wasn’t standing outside, she stepped into the brisk night air and took a breath when her golden waves were not immediately spotted.

Raising a single hand beside the street, Evelynn began to shift through her night’s thoughts, of those she was willing to keep and those she would forgo. A voice brought her out of her thoughts: a stranger. Evelynn quickly turned to see the woman speaking on the phone, eyes focused on the street and not on Evelynn herself.

Her voice was distinct, recognizable, and had an air of vacancy that can only be acquired through years of stress. Evelynn presumed herself to have the same air in her voice, albeit from different sources. The ever listener in her kept an ear open to forthcoming conversation, creepy though it may seem to the average onlooker. She still had time to call a taxi.

The bit of conversation was dull, but the voice still pried at her mind. The longer Evelynn listened, the more recognizable it became. It sounded as if she had heard her before, in one of her classes.

Class.

The voice finally clicked for Evelynn, and she quickly recognized the woman as Doctor Du Maurier, one of the many presenters at the last conference Evelynn and a few of her students had attended with the rest of the psychology department in winter. Dr. Du Maurier had given a presentation over the minds of psychopaths she had gained from research she had completed as an assist to the FBI. It was one of the lectures Evelynn had wanted to hear as a forensic neuropsychologist but only a few of her students could stomach the details the doctor went into. The presentation had held Evelynn’s attention more than she had predicted, but not from interest, but from the doctor's presentation of it. It was too clean, obviously, most of the speakers at conferences were, but something about Du Maurier’s story seemed almost edited. Not made up, no, there were too many facts, but something had been glossed over.

None of her students had mentioned anything, so Evelynn had tucked the presentation into her memory as merely intriguing. But Evelynn had no longing to debate traumatic events on a mere hunch, so it was merely a shock to see the doctor in Cleveland after visiting D.C. months prior.

Interesting indeed.

Evelynn didn’t even notice the woman hanging up her phone, depositing it into her bag, and stepping closer to the street, also hailing a taxi.

The war began again in Evelynn’s brain, no longer was she an attractive and mysterious woman, but now she was a doctor, a fellow intellectual who could keep a conversation. That much had been obvious from her presentation. Along with being deemed as an incomplete story, Dr. Du Maurier had also seemed like a person Evelynn would genuinely get along with even in a setting outside of a classroom or conference.

In the end, it was the weather that caused what happened next. As the sky opened up and began to pelt Cleveland’s streets, a singular taxi arrived in front of Evelynn. Whether it was from curiosity or the alcohol, Evelynn made a split-minute decision by offering to share the taxi with the doctor.

Du Maurier looked startled but quickly rushed into the cab, and Evelynn slid in behind her.

The driver asked for a location and Evelynn quickly looked to Du Maurier to see if she would speak first. She quickly spoke the address of a hotel in the city. The driver nodded and began driving. The two women made eye contact once more.

“Thank you,” the doctor said, “it would have been a painfully wet wait for another cab.”

“Of course,” Evelynn replied, a smile pulling at her lips, “the least I can do.” She willed for the electric feeling in her feet to stay.

“Bedelia.” She offers her hand.

“Evelynn.” Taking the hand, she refrained from mentioning that she had heard her present. Evelynn was not inept at what subjects to bring up during long taxi rides.

Oddly enough, the conversation did not stop there. Bedelia conversed politely for the next few minutes until Evelynn could honestly say that the woman had her forgetting they were in a taxi. The conversation soon developed into similar fascinations shared between them, and Evelynn found herself smiling more than she had in a long time. Their conversation of mundane soon transitioned to one of mystery and murder, and Evelynn soon found herself bringing up one of the case studies she had worked on years prior.

“And so there we were, in an abandoned classroom at like 2AM trying to finish this case study, when Beverly goes right up to the chalkboard in the classroom and does this elaborate web of ideas that eventually states that the Zodiac Killer was actually this really old politician who lived in the UK.” Bedelia’s eyes were bright with laughter as Evelynn explained how both of their young college brains had been muddled with conspiracy theories that made sense if you were tired enough.

“And did you actually turn it in?” Bedelia asked, leaning forward more, eyes gliding briefly to Evelynn’s lips. A smile grazed her face as she raised her eyes to peer back at Evelynn as if to make her feel as if she were the only truly important thing in the whole world.

“Of course we turned it in. Best B+ I ever received. It's why I give credit to the creatives in my classes now, especially if they are in an intro class.” Evelynn shook her head and smiled at the ceiling of the cab. “Everyone on campus knows if you get me to laugh, you’ll pass my class. Granted that's hard shit to do since I teach the forensic psychology courses that tend to lean more on the gruesome side of psychology.”

“You seem like a very interesting individual, Dr. Evelynn VanDein.” Bedelia’s voice on its own was inebriating, but coupled with her mirthful eyes and her right leg that was grazing Evelynn’s own, it was almost as if Evelynn was completely enamored with the doctor.

Eventually, the taxi pulled over and their trip had come to a stop. Stories that were earlier flowing out of each woman now grew dry as Evelynn held her breath of what was to come next. After paying the taxi driver for the trip, Bedelia held out her hand in a question, “join me?”

Evelynn did.

#bedeliaxoc #bedelia du maurier #fanfiction #season 2 hannibal #meet cute #fluff #fanfic #original character #cleveland #nbc hannibal

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