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Thinking back to it, the day her phone rang could not have been more ordinary. See the end of the work for more notes. Bedelia had spent all morning meeting with her publisher in her home office, working out a deal for the book tour of her tell-all novel about her life with the Chesapeake Ripper and was preparing a guest lecture for the John Hopkins University the following week when the buzzing noise in the pocket of her blazer interrupted her.
Should you wish to accept this call, please stay on the line. The line opened at the other end and every nerve in her body was set ablaze at the sound of his voice. Hearing the familiar baritone say her name made her realize that she had missed him, missed them.
They had not been in any form of contact for over a year and a half now. The sharp intake of breath at her end seemed to be enough indication that she was listening, so he continued. Why would I ever want to talk to you again? Save that performance for your fans. He suspected that she was going to change tactics, now that she would not have to play the poor, abused victim anymore. He hoped however, that would simply drop the act and be herself.
The self he had admired and cherished for so many years. The self he had fallen for. I know everything there is to know about you, Hannibal. My professional interest in you is no longer prevailing. There was a chuckle at his end of the line. He had always called her that in Florence, when they were still living their fairytale. Spending whole days in bed together, tangled between the sheets, blurring the lines of their previous life beyond recognition.
However unconvincing, she had to lie. Giving up her upper hand with him had burned her once before and she would not make the same mistake twice. Frederick thought it would be… educational for their lecture on psychological trauma and I agreed under the condition that it would be your class. Instead he had shattered every bit of her carefully constructed guard in three simple sentences. The line had gone quiet for quite a while before she could muster up the composure to speak, praying to whatever god would listen that her voice remained steady.
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Raising her hands to her face, Bedelia sunk lower into her chair, trying to calm her breathing and the beating of her heart. She felt like she had just run a marathon. Shaking her head, she reached for the papers on her desk, trying to finish the preparations for her lecture. Frederick Chilton, offering her larger and larger sums of money, the Dean of John Hopkins, threatening to cancel her lecture entirely, students who had signed up to listen to her story, pleading to not deny them this incredible experience.
She turned them all down. Nothing and no one could change her mind. She had forgotten, however that Hannibal Lecter was not simply no one. Upon seeing the BSHCI stamp and familiar handwriting, addressing the envelope to her, her first instinct was to simply burn it. But her hands were acting on their own accord.
Still standing in the hallway, she almost ripped at the seam of the crisp white paper it must have been hand delivered by someone and her eyes were pouring over the words in his flawless handwriting, before she could do anything about it. Bedelia, You ended our conversation before I could explain myself. I requested for your lecture to be moved here, because I know how much you would have loved an opportunity like this when we were students.
I can picture how your eyes would have lit up at the chance to observe something like this, feel how you would have gripped my hand in excitement. And I know how much these students would admire you and your incomparable strength.
Maybe almost as much as me. I have to admit that I am also asking you to reconsider for utterly selfish reasons. I have not seen you outside of my mind palace, in almost two years and I cannot help but miss you.
I hope you change your mind. Per sempre tua e solo tua, Hannibal. Bedelia read the letter over and over again, memorizing every word and gripping it so tightly, the edges were crumpled beyond repair when she finally lowered it. Only then did she notice the feeling of hot tears on her cheeks, streaming down to her chin and staining the paper. Moving further into her home, which, tastefully decorated and pristine as it was, felt emptier than ever.
She walked aimlessly through every room, the letter still in her hand as if it was glued to her. As if the mere presence of his words upon it forbade her to release it. Her feet had carried her into her office and in front of her laptop, her body telling her mind in no uncertain terms that a choice had to be made. Bedelia took a deep breath, hoping the added oxygen in her blood would clear her mind enough to make her realize that what she about to do was idiotic.
Opening her laptop, she typed in two recipients: The next two days were spent typing and deleting a second e-mail, cancelling the class after all. But she never finished it. The next two nights were spent dreaming of him, twirling her around Florentine dance floors and kissing her under the moon on the balcony of their apartment. But she never dared to linger on it. When her calendar reminded her that it was time to leave on the day of her lecture, she triple checked her papers and her appearance, wondering how much her choice in attire would come back to bite her.
She had chosen a crimson red dress for the occasion, one of his favorites on her. Or rather, one of his favorites to peel off of her. Parking in front of the hospital, Bedelia could already see the crowd of students waiting in front of the building, listening to Dr. Behind her, a few students laughed, whispering their approval. They were lead through the large main doors, along several corridors and staircases, walking deeper and deeper into the maze of the criminally insane.
If only they knew.
Bedelia thought it utterly ridiculous, describing Hannibal as though he was an untamed animal. She let the students and Frederick file in before her, needing a moment to breathe. Pulling herself together as much as she could, squaring her shoulders and putting on her best facade, she stepped over the threshold.
Hannibal stood behind a large glass wall, perfect posture and unreadable complexion in place, as if nothing had changed since he had last sat in her living room. He had been given one of his old suits for the occasion, the three piece, light grey ensemble fitting him flawlessly, just like the proverbial person suit she had spent months and years taking apart. His dark brown eyes scanned the crowd of twenty somethings, searching either for anything to catch his interest or… her.
The second their glances met was palpable, the entire room suddenly filled with electricity. Every pair of eyes was trained on them but neither Bedelia nor Hannibal noticed. Memories of their life together, of another life entirely, so it seemed, flooded the space between them. Both of them could almost feel the touch of the other, taste their lips after a few glasses of wine shared in their kitchen.
She tried not to let her eyes linger there. The sound of him through the phone was little compared to the real thing. Some where still left standing, the turnout having been much larger than anyone expected. A podium had been put up in front of the glass, facing the audience. She would have to turn her back on him. Walking up to it and putting her papers down, heels clicking on the floor of the now silent room, Bedelia took one last look at the man that had been on her mind ever since they had shared their last kiss in Florence.
It had been too short, she thought and then turned to look at the young adults before her. But should he feel the… need to add something, he is invited to do so.
If she tried, she could feel his lips moving against her neck, his breath dancing on her skin as he whispered how much he adored her, how all of Italy paled in comparison to her. She maneuvered through her lecture, recounting the gruesome details of what Hannibal had supposedly done to her, answering questions and referring to Dante, a fact that made him chuckle, raising several eyebrows across the room.
His eyes were on her the entire time, taking her in, updating his memory palace. He had devoted entire rooms to her, to the way her eyes changed color when the sun was just right, or when he had told her he loved her for the first time, to the way her hair felt when she rested her head on his chest every night and to the sound of her laugh, a sound so rare and rich he could have written innumerable poems about it.
It had been his favorite ever since.
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As she concluded the tales of her living nightmare, a student raised his hand. It was the boy from the hallway. That would have been easier. Why did you go through all that trouble?
The prospect of knowing as much about her as she knew about me, having been my therapist and …colleague for many years was just irresistible.
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Lecter has always been terrible at controlling his impulses. A few students sniggered, before they remembered who they were laughing about. The magnetic pull between the two doctors had been apparent even to the slowest amongst them at this point.
Neither of them had moved further than two feet away from the other, sometimes only separated by solid glass and air. The boy raised his hand again. You almost look… cozy.
All the students and Chilton saw was challenging remarks of someone who had been dragged to the deepest pits of hell and come out on top. The room applauded their speaker, coming towards the front to express their gratitude and admiration for her bravery.
She routinely thanked them, shook hands and smiled, all the while aware of him standing behind her.