Work Text:
prologue.
Alana stands outside Hannibal’s door, trying to summon the courage to walk inside. Even from the porch, she can hear grunts of pain and the dull thud of fists. If Hannibal really is the Chesapeake Ripper, she could be walking into a nightmare of carnage. She squeezes her phone so hard the edges cut into her fingers, 911 ready to dial as soon as she knows for sure what’s happening.
Only her worry for Will, and for Jack, moves her feet closer to the door.
A low voice floats out of the darkness, carrying over the worrying sounds inside. “Do not go into the house, Dr. Bloom.”
Alana gasps and jumps, free hand diving into her purse, where her gun is hidden. Adrenaline spikes her blood at the surprise of finding someone else here. Someone who knows her.
Once the woman steps out of the shadows, the blonde hair is a dead giveaway.
“Dr. Du Maurier?” Alana wonders if she’s in a dream, if today never happened and she’s about to wake up. If so, then Will is safe, and so is Jack, and her illusions about Hannibal aren’t illusions at all, but the truth. Why would Bedelia Du Maurier be here, if this isn’t a dream?
“If you value your life, you will listen to me.” Bedelia doesn’t quite insert herself between Alana and the door, but she does intrude into her personal space, forcing Alana to look at her. “Hannibal Lecter is performing his swan song, and I would not wish for you to be caught in his final performance here.”
Hand still in her purse, Alana clutches her gun, the rounded grip easier on her fingers than her phone. “But Will, he’s—Hannibal—can’t you hear them?” The scuffle is louder, as if the men are closer to the front door. A map of Hannibal’s house flashes in her mind; they could be in the dining room, or the foyer.
“Will Graham’s connection with Hannibal will be his downfall. You cannot rescue him from himself.” Bedelia’s hand lands on Alana’s arm, gentle as the rain falling around them. “After what they have done in the name of friendship, they deserve one another.”
A scream cuts into the air. It must be Jack. Alana can’t ever remember Hannibal raising his voice. She leans forward before she realizes it, body telegraphing her intent to go inside and do what she can, but Bedelia tugs her back.
“Hannibal is calling you all to him. He is in control of tonight. Not you. Not the police. Not Jack Crawford and not even Will Graham.” Ignoring the pounding feet and pained cries, Bedelia leans in closer to Alana. “I have survived him more than once.” She pauses, and in the dimness of the porch lights, Alana thinks she sees hesitation, but the flash of something is gone too quickly to be sure. “If you would like, I can help you survive as well.”
I.
Guilt and elation fill Alana in equal measures. Guilt for leaving Will and Jack behind to a nightmare. The elation is the giddiness of survival, the type felt after realizing the extreme danger of a situation.
And guilt for surviving. Because when there’s no news, she knows the night turned out very, very badly. She spends hours on her phone, reading every major and local news site, but even Tattle-Crime is quiet. With the proof at her fingertips, Alana can’t deny the truth of what happened and what she narrowly escaped.
If she had gone into Hannibal’s house last night, she too would have disappeared into the silence of the FBI’s cover-up.
When she can’t hide outside any longer, Alana goes into the house on the cliff. Bedelia is waiting for her in the too-open main room. The floor-to-ceiling windows make Alana wary and jumpy, as if Hannibal is going to crash through one at any moment. She wonders if he’s watching them now. Bedelia had brought her here last night, saying it was the safest place they could run, that he wouldn’t need it any longer.
“Are you convinced, Dr. Bloom?”
“Alana.” She paces next to the table, stopping every few steps to face the wall of windows and look for movement outside. “How did you know what he intended?”
Bedelia waits until she turns around again. “I have known Hannibal as long as you have, Alana. Longer, if I am not mistaken. I know his tastes, his proclivities, and what use he had for you.”
Mindful that she’s in the presence of Hannibal Lecter’s psychiatrist, and a woman she once looked up to—a woman she still admires—Alana forces herself to sit. “What use was that?” she asks, relieved her voice is steady.
“An alibi.”
Alana’s eyes slam shut. Nausea floods her as she remembers those mornings when she woke up a little too rested for having slept in a strange bed. Retching at the memory of what preceded those nights, she slaps a hand over her mouth before she throws up. Forgetting any pretense of keeping secrets about how she’s feeling, she bends over, head between her knees. “How did you know?”
“You were far from the only one fooled by him. When I returned, the FBI had questions for me, about my attack.” Bedelia’s voice comes from further away, the sound of her heels clicking against the tile in the kitchen.
Alana remembers that attack. The cautionary tale of Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier and her dangerous patient made the rounds in a gossipy way. Most of the fellow psychiatrists who spread the story told it in a superior sort of way, as if they would never fall into that situation. Working with serial killers as she had, Alana knew it was all a load of garbage, because you never knew what would happen when faced with danger. That was part of the fun for some of them, but never for her.
She only wanted to help people, and so far, she’s done a horrible job of it.
Something cold and wet touches the back of her neck. “Wiser men and women have been fooled by Hannibal before you, Alana. All things considered, you did quite well. You are alive.” Bedelia puts a hand on top of the washcloth on her neck, as gentle as last night. The pressure feels good, easing some of Alana’s nausea at having the blindfold ripped away.
“As I said last night, I knew Hannibal was drawing the FBI and Will Graham to him. He is fond of whimsy and spectacle, of creating vignettes for his memory palace. From what I know,” Bedelia’s voice lowers, as if confiding that she actually knows a great deal, “Hannibal wanted to change Will. You cannot remove his hooks from Will anymore than you can free a caught fish from the pan.”
“But why? Why Will? ” Alana cries, and this time her voice cracks. She’s responsible for this—this mess. For introducing Will to Hannibal in the first place. If only she hadn’t tried to protect their friendship. If Will is dead because of her choices, she will never forgive herself.
“In Will Graham, Hannibal found himself. A version of himself, I should say.” Holding the damp washcloth in place, Alana sits up to find Bedelia staring into space. It’s so unexpected that she just looks at her profile, at the certainty conveyed in the straight line of her neck, the blonde curls artfully arranged over her shoulder. “He wanted to see what would happen if he … pushed Will.”
Alana doesn’t understand, can’t understand; the notion is so outside of her thinking. “Why did you come back?” she asks, changing the subject to something she might understand. Jack had told her of Bedelia’s mysterious visit, wondering if she could shed any light on why Hannibal’s psychiatrist would leave Baltimore seemingly without any provocation instead of say, directly after her attack. “Why are you helping me?” she adds, which is perhaps an even more important question.
“After my attack, many colleagues and acquaintances distanced themselves from me. As if they feared they would have a similar incident of their own from simple association.” The corner of Bedelia’s mouth twitches. “I came back because I knew Hannibal was nearing the end of his time here, and I had no wish for his influence to further control my life.”
“What do you mean?”
“Suffice to say, Hannibal orchestrated the incident between Neal Frank and myself.” Incident. What a clean way to describe watching her patient choke on his tongue in her home.
“Did you know what he planned to do to Will?”
“Some of it. Not enough.”
Alana feels sick again at the confession, and Bedelia’s calmness through the whole conversation. “Why didn’t you tell the FBI?”
“Do you think the FBI would have listened? Would Will have listened? He did more than you know in becoming Jack’s killer.”
The questions hit Alana hard, because she knows Bedelia’s suspicions wouldn’t have changed Jack’s mind, and especially not Will’s. To distract herself, she asks again, “Why are you helping me?”
Bedelia looks her in the eyes, calm as she has been, and says, “Hannibal would have killed you, Alana. He ruined enough lives. I decided he would not ruin yours as well.” As if anticipating the follow-up questions on the tip of Alana’s tongue, Bedelia shakes her head. “Before you ask about Will Graham, ask yourself—would he have listened to me? Every person has an intrinsic responsibility for their own life. No one else can take on that responsibility. You are not responsible for Will’s choices, Alana.”
They never talk about Will or Hannibal again.
II.
Applesauce loves Bedelia.
That’s not a surprise. The staff at the shelter told her he loved everyone he met and tried to impress every potential new set of parents.
The real surprise is Bedelia liking Applesauce right back.
They picked up Applesauce on the way out of Maryland. Alana was unwilling to leave him behind; the poor dog had already been abandoned once. And if, by taking him, Alana was also taking a piece of Will with her—the best part of him left, maybe—Bedelia didn’t say anything, though she surely guessed it. She did give Alana an incredulous look when the subject first came up, as if there was no way they would leave without him.
Alana had never imagined Bedelia as a dog person or even a pet person. But right now she’s walking behind both of them, watching as the waves slowly roll in, the water daring to touch Bedelia’s bare feet. Applesauce frolics at her heels, darting ahead every time he finds a bigger piece of driftwood to carry in his mouth.
It’s an unexpected image, and Alana is even more confused that she has been in the past few days. The continued silence of the news and Tattle-Crime assures her more than anything else that Bedelia was right on the proclamation that Hannibal would have killed her. Surprisingly, she hasn’t thought too much about it, trying to learn from her mistake of spending too much time assessing her feelings. And what is there to assess? She was fooled and nearly lost her life because she trusted the wrong person.
It’s sobering, to know that she, Dr. Alana Bloom, with all her knowledge and experience interviewing serial killers and diagnosing them—that she was fooled. It hurts, too, but she shies away from the emotional pain.
She doesn’t want to be fooled again, but now she’s wise enough to know it’s always a possibility.
For the moment, what’s more important is why Bedelia is sticking with her.
Catching up to woman and dog, Alana finally voices the question that’s been on her mind for the last several days. The question Bedelia didn’t fully answer in that maddening way of hers. Training herself out of the habit of too much self-assessment will take time, but at least this is a more pleasant subject than others. “Why did you decide to save me?”
They walk in silence for a few minutes, Applesauce nosing at Alana’s hand every time he finds another stick, before Bedelia responds. “You remembered me when most others wrote me off as a victim of my own making.”
“The cards I sent?”
“Yes.”
Water laps against her ankles, far colder than she expected it would be. The weather is so nice for April, as sunny and clear as if it’s June, that Alana’s forgotten how cold the water is year round here. Bedelia doesn’t even wince, in contrast to her surprising appreciation of Alana’s funny cards. Given how silent the last few days have been, she could almost assume Bedelia is composed of icy ocean water.
Alana throws Applesauce’s latest hunk of driftwood. “I remembered how kind you were, at my first conference. Everyone else was scared of you, and probably rightfully so, but …” she shrugs. “Anyway, I’ll have you know, it was difficult to find something funny that I thought would appeal to you.”
Applesauce brings the stick back to Bedelia, hopefully dancing in front of her. “Sometimes when one is lonely, the smallest gesture helps.” She nudges the dog towards Alana. “Very few people understand what we have been through, Alana.”
“Is that what I am? A convenient confidante?” Alana throws the driftwood again, harder this time.
“No.” Bedelia snags her wrist to keep Alana from stepping away. “I had my eye on you since you dropped your lecture notes at that first conference and had to present without them.” Her gaze drops to Alana’s neck, to the starfish necklace she always wears. “How do you think I chose our destination?”
III.
Pet friendly, Bedelia-approved hotels are a rarity.
Alana spends a lot of nights sleeping on a rollaway and glaring at her dog, who seems to have found someone he likes much better. Tired of waking up with an achy back every day, she searches for something better, and strikes gold when she finds a cottage for rent by the month.
Bedelia likes the pictures online too, but there’s a mix-up in the description. Alana can’t hide her groan when it turns out there’s only one bedroom. Not even a full bedroom—the bed is tucked away in a corner of the cottage’s open floor plan. It’s a cute place, similar to the first studio apartment she had in grad school. She’s already booked the first month, so she resigns herself to sleeping in one of the chairs.
The first night in the cottage, Applesauce jumps right in bed with his new favorite person. He looks at Alana and barks, as if asking why she isn’t cuddled up on his other side.
And hell—why isn’t she? Bedelia’s declaration on the beach was as good as a proposal from anyone else. What does she have left to lose?
“Do you think—do you mind if I—can we share?” Alana stumbles over her words as if she’s asking someone out for the first time. There. That’s what she has left to lose: her dignity.
Moving closer to the wall, Bedelia makes room for her. “I was waiting for you to ask,” she says as Alana gingerly sits on the edge of the bed. “I saw you thinking it before you knew it.”
Alana snorts and rubs Applesauce’s belly. The dog snuffles quietly, even happier now that both of his people are in the same spot. “Trying to psychoanalyze me, Dr. Du Maurier?”
“Maybe,” Bedelia admits so casually that Alana wonders if she heard her correctly. “But I would rather speak with you than make assumptions about you.”
“I spend a lot of time in my head.”
“As do I. It is a side effect of our profession.” Applesauce lets out an excited yip when Bedelia starts petting him. “Let me help you along. I want what I want, Alana, and that is you. It is selfish, but I have never claimed to be altruistic. I would not force you to stay, of course.” Her hand edges up the dog’s belly to overlap Alana’s. “But you have stayed.”
And so she has—Alana could have struck out on her own at any time. Or remained in Maryland, if she chose. By now they’ve figured out where Hannibal and Will have gone, and Bella’s obituary mentioned Jack predeceased her. Alana could have gone back to the life she made for herself, but she chose to stay with Bedelia. Flitting about New England and thinking too much about what she’s doing instead of just doing it. She’s still working on that habit.
Staying with Bedelia has been easy, far easier than she ever expected. They just sort of … fit. Bedelia doesn’t question when Alana spends the entire day outside, sitting cross-legged on the beach’s rocky outcrop, watching the waves, and thinking. In turn, Alana doesn’t poke when Bedelia’s moods turn dark and she drinks a little too much at dinner.
It’s … comfortable to spend time with Bedelia.
That probably says something about her.
“Down, Applesauce,” she says, pushing his butt until he slinks out of the bed. Bedelia’s eyes, blue as the ocean outside, glitter with amusement as Alana scoots closer to her. She hovers momentarily, not sure how close is too close, and settles on leaving a foot of space between them. “Proximity bias, doctor, or something more?” she asks jokingly, but there’s some seriousness behind her question. Is her decision to stay influenced by all the time they’ve spent together since Bedelia saved her life?
Bedelia hooks a leg over Alana’s waist and pulls her closer. Suddenly they’re nose to nose, and Alana’s worries about being too close fly out the window. “Considering you sent our chaperone to the floor, I would say something more, Dr. Bloom.” Fingers skimming over Alana’s cheek, she tucks wayward strands of hair behind her ear. It’s the first time they’ve really touched. Bedelia is slow and deliberate; Alana immediately wants more. “I could sprout poetic lines about darkness within each of us—and there certainly is darkness within each of us. But we are also survivors. When I saw you in that moment, terrified and courageous, wanting to do the right thing even if it meant your death, I wanted to see more of you. To know all of you.”
“There’s not much to know.”
Bedelia presses her thumb against Alana’s lower lip, silencing her disagreement. “You sell yourself short, Alana. You are at least as fascinating as I am, and as I spent months with only my own company and was not bored, I am confident there is a lot to learn about you.”
The comment is so uniquely Bedelia that Alana scoffs. “You have a high opinion of yourself.”
“You like it, don’t you?” Bedelia asks, mouth suddenly so near hers that Alana feels the question as well as hears it.
She does.
So she does the sensible thing and kisses Bedelia Du Maurier for the first time.
IV.
“See? I knew there was a lot to learn about you.”
Alana resists throwing the hammer at Bedelia, but only with great effort. “Can you get me a beer?” She adds “Please” when Bedelia doesn’t budge from her station against the stall door.
“This is all your fault, Alana, because you just had to fall in love with an old farmhouse and didn’t care it was at least a hundred years old and hadn’t been kept up since the Carter administration.” She’s still muttering to herself when Bedelia comes back, can of beer in one hand and glass of wine in the other. Because that’s who she is: a woman who drinks wine from ridiculously fancy stemware, even in the barn.
Bedelia cuts into her ranting. “You said you could fix everything. I doubted you, but I have to say, I am impressed.” She sets down her glass long enough to open Alana’s beer for her. “I was right, when I said there was a lot to learn about you. Who would imagine sweet city girl Dr. Bloom could fix a hole in the barn wall?” She shakes her head. “And who would imagine I would be saying those words?”
“No thanks to you,” Alana grumbles at Applesauce, who doesn’t have the doggish sense to look guilty for chasing a mouse through the wall. To Bedelia, she says, “You liked this place, too. Don’t pin it all on me.”
“I would never.”
Nodding her thanks for the beer, Alana turns back to hammering the last board in place. It’s supposed to be a temporary fix, but she didn’t do a bad job. After repairing this or that—they discover a new problem nearly every week—her formerly rusty handyman skills are getting quite the brush up. “How were your classes today?”
When Bedelia doesn’t answer, Alana glances over her shoulder. “What are you staring at?”
“Your ass.” Bedelia salutes Alana with her glass. “It’s very nice when you’re crouched like that.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
“Mmhmm.”
Alana deliberately takes her time with the last two nails, giving Bedelia plenty of time to enjoy the view. She’s learned teasing like this always results in a good night, and even better when there’s several hours yet to go before bed.
Every day, she’s grateful Bedelia stepped in that night. Alana likes the person she’s become with her. Alana is warier, yes, but happier, and she’s dropped the shield of thinking instead of doing.
While Alana puts her tools away, Bedelia saddles Aristophanes. Left behind after the previous owner’s death, the horse was part of the reason she agreed to buy the quaint little farm. It was the first they looked at, and sometimes, when there’s problem after problem, Alana thinks they should have kept looking. But when they have an afternoon like this, lost in their own woods, she knows they made the right decision. Here, they can hide away from the world when they want, or go to the well-stocked town that’s a short drive away. Even the beach where they had their first real moment is nearby.
Bedelia watches as Alana tacks up Luna, the horse they picked out for her. There’s no moon under her forelock like the dream pony of Alana’s childhood, but the name made Bedelia wrinkle her nose, so it was the clear winner.
Drinks left on the table Alana put in the barn specifically for that purpose, they lead the horses outside. “Check the girth,” Bedelia reminds her.
Alana does, and notches the strap one hole tighter before mounting. Bedelia casts a critical eye over her, checking for corrections, as Alana walks Luna in front of her. She’s been taking their lessons seriously and is sitting square and straight, shoulders back, heels down, and hands relaxed on the reins. Feeling confident at the lack of anything to fix, she says, “I put up the small jump before I started on the wall.”
“I noticed.”
After they warm up, Alana watches Bedelia show her once more how to jump. Bedelia looks like she belongs on Aristo’s back, moving fluidly into a crouch as he starts to leave the ground, hands soft and up on his neck, then smoothly back into the saddle once they’re over. It’s a tiny jump, but of course she takes it like it’s a high fence, because as she drilled into Alana’s head, proper form always matters.
When they looked at the farm and Bedelia saw Aristo in the paddock, she told Alana how she’d competed as a teenager and at school. Alana had at first imagined a younger Bedelia in the show ring doing fancy and precise dressage until Bedelia had corrected that assumption, saying her favorite part of eventing was actually the cross-country portion.
One more plus for the farm and the surrounding woods.
Bedelia demonstrates the jump a second time, and Alana manages to pay attention to what to do instead of marveling at how good she looks. Because as attractive as Bedelia is in her unexpected comfort zone, falling off in front of her would be embarrassing. Alana’s already done that enough times. “Are you ready to try?” she asks, stopping her horse near Alana and Luna.
Alana’s answer is to nudge Luna into a trot around the ring. Months ago she wouldn’t have been comfortable trying this, but of course Bedelia is a competent teacher. Alana spares one last moment of appreciation that she gets to see Bedelia this way, comfortable enough to share a favorite passion, before concentrating solely on the jump in front of her.
The brightly painted red pole isn’t even two feet off the ground, and before she knows it, Alana’s on the other side of the jump. Her knees wobble and she lands back in the saddle with a huff, but she doesn’t fall and Luna doesn’t seem upset at the lack of grace.
“Again,” Bedelia says in that exacting tone Alana’s come to expect during her lessons. But she’s pretty sure that if Bedelia were the type of person who applauded, she’d get a short round of applause right now. “Watch your leg position, and remember, look ahead, not down.”
The second time, Alana feels more confident now that she knows she can jump. She’s able to enjoy this attempt, the exciting rush of knowing she’s on her way to learning something new. She forgets Bedelia’s corrections, but there’s time for that, because no way will her demanding instructor let her develop sloppy habits.
Alana’s putting their saddles away when Bedelia sneaks up behind her, arms wrapping around her waist. “You will be jumping fallen trees in the woods with me soon,” she says into her ear.
“If by soon you mean next year, sure.”
“Sooner than that. You have a very good instructor.”
Laughing at Bedelia’s supreme confidence in herself, Alana turns in her embrace. Without the heels Bedelia prefers everywhere else, they’re closer in height than usual. Her eyes land on Bedelia’s face, on the satisfied smile trying to peek out from her stern expression, when Bedelia leans in and kisses her. Alana’s not expecting it—Bedelia looks at her, and certainly teases her in public, but affection is almost always reserved for their bedroom. As private as their farm is, Bedelia stays businesslike, quickly correcting Alana’s knees or heels during a lesson, or lending a hand when she needs three.
“Do I? You’re always so confident, Dr. Du Maurier.” Alana slips her hands up Bedelia’s shirt, palms flush against her back. “Rescuing damsels from certain death and teaching them to jump fences on horseback—those aren’t words I expected to say about Maryland’s finest psychiatrist.”
“We all have hidden depths.” Bedelia kisses her again and lingers, gently promising more later. “I find your willingness to learn and try new things so very attractive, Dr. Bloom.” She moves to Alana’s neck, tongue barely touching the spot by her left ear that always makes her knees go weak. Bedelia found it the very first time they slept together and has never forgotten it. “What else will I learn about you?”
Alana taps her nails on either side of Bedelia’s spine, thumbs hooking under her bra. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
“I am very patient.”
V.
Alana kicks off spring with twice daily walks along the beach, at sunrise and sunset. Applesauce whines when she doesn’t let him come. The dog loves playing in the too cold water and hates towels and the hair dryer with a passion, so she takes him out of the truck every time he sneaks in. She doesn’t want to lose one of the few remnants of her old life.
They’ve both adapted well to their new one. She’s not even jealous anymore that Applesauce still goes to Bedelia first, even if Bedelia never, ever sneaks him table food like she does.
It takes Alana nineteen walks, or nine and a half days to figure out why she’s retreated to the beach. Taking walks alone instead of asking if Bedelia wants to join her. The icy water doesn’t bother her; the ocean would sooner freeze than Bedelia come down with the common cold.
Bedelia has become someone she loves, and more importantly, given what led to them, someone she trusts. When the truth was revealed to her, Alana resolved to never trust anyone fully again. But Bedelia overcame her new walls without even trying. Unbefitting of two psychiatrists, they never talked about any of it. Their relationship simply happened. And maybe that makes sense, because she was never Bedelia’s patient, nor was Bedelia hers. They didn’t have that particular relationship to transcend. They were free to build something else without past baggage or boundaries.
Alana is only surprised at how easy it all was.
Logically speaking, Bedelia Du Maurier is the last person “easy” and “relationship” should be applied to, but here they are, sharing a life.
And there—there is the problem. Alana has moved on too well from her lifelong habit of over-assessing her feelings. She struggled with training herself out of it, but now she simply acts. Acts, and lives, and shuts her brain off when it’s too loud with the never-ending list of chores and an audiobook.
On the beach where they had their first steps towards sharing that life, Alana throws a rock into the ocean and wonders if it’s been too easy. Has she been too consumed by the fantasy and the comfort to overlook possible dangers? Like she overlooked the truth before?
Alana skips rocks until the sun sets fully, then returns home. Applesauce barks a greeting when she plops down next to him to take her boots off. In the kitchen, she hears Bedelia opening a bottle of wine, and by the time she joins her, two glasses sit on the table. Takeout containers are on the table too, evidence that Bedelia worked late.
Except for a few questions about Bedelia’s students and Applesauce’s whimpers, dinner is quiet. Alana’s on her second glass and bolder for it when she blurts out, “I can’t believe it’s been a year.” A year since she nearly lost her life, a year since Bedelia rescued her and turned that life into something different. The time has passed quickly and slowly, almost as if she’s watching rather than participating. But she is participating; every day she makes the choice to stay, and loves Bedelia and their life here a little more.
Bedelia leans back in her chair. Casual in a way she wasn’t in Maryland, in a thick fisherman’s sweater and slim trousers, she says, “It has.”
“What are we doing here, Bedelia?”
She deliberately looks around the room, encompassing the rest of the house and the acres outside, before making eye contact with Alana. “I would have thought that was obvious.”
Drumming her fingers on the table, Alana shrugs. “Really, what are we doing? Are you really happy hiding away in Maine? Pretending to be … I don’t know what.”
“Are you?”
Unlike that night a year ago, Alana doesn’t have to think about her answer. “Yes.”
Bedelia’s left eyebrow arches, Alana can almost anticipate what she’s going to say. The left is for truth, the right for teasing.“If I did not want this, don’t you think I would have said so? I do not pretend, Alana. You know that.”
Alana presses her lips together and shakes her head at herself, because there’s the flaw in her thinking—Bedelia isn’t one to endure silently. If she weren’t happy, Alana would have heard about it.
Bedelia makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like “Uh huh.”
Alana lets it go until later that night, when they’re in bed. Their bedroom is her favorite room in the house. It was the first they renovated, and maybe they should have waited, because Alana got better as they went along. But the bedroom is still much nicer than hers was in Baltimore. The sheets have a sinfully high thread count, decorative pillows are piled everywhere, and the curtains complement the wall color—influence of Bedelia’s tastes that are becoming hers. Even if Alana has stubbornly clung to her worn-out, oversize tees for sleeping.
The surroundings couldn’t be more different from a year ago: comfortable, safe bedroom in comparison to that wet, dangerous porch. But now that she’s realized why she’s moping, everything reminds Alana of the night Bedelia rescued her. And of the nights that followed, when surviving turned to thriving together.
Bedelia spoons Alana from behind, chin on her shoulder and arms on her waist; it’s one of Bedelia’s favorite moves. “Do you want to talk about why you’re upset?” Moving Alana’s brad out of the way, she kisses the back of her neck. “You know why I have not asked before.”
In the way of psychiatrists who don’t want to talk about something, they’ve deftly stepped around the subject for the past year. They’ve over-discussed everything else, from preferences in bed to the proper way to plant a garden. But in unspoken agreement, they’ve never talked about what they are. Not that the specific label matters—Alana just wants to hear Bedelia acknowledge it.
Squirming out of Bedelia’s arms, Alana sits up and turns to face her. “I … I wonder, sometimes. Did I make the right choice? Did I trust you too easily? You were my light out of the darkness—did I keep following you because it was the easy thing to do? Am I being naïve?”
“It is natural to reflect on anniversaries. They are important dates, signaling milestones in life and relationships.” Bedelia reclines into the pillows still stacked on the bed. Despite the informality, this has the feel of a therapy session. “What does your heart tell you?”
Scratch that. “Somehow I don’t believe that’s the sort of question you’d ask a patient.”
“You are not a patient. You are the woman I love.”
Oh. Oh. Alana searches Bedelia’s face for doubt or deception and finds only truth. That same knowing certainty she remembers from their very first day together. Even so, she can’t help but ask, “Really?”
“I would not lie to you.” In the taut lines of Bedelia’s face, Alana reads the rest of that sentence: I only lie to others. “I wanted you to believe me through intent and actions. To feel and know the truth without fear you were being persuaded or influenced.” Bedelia breathes in deeply, an unusual sign of nerves. “Do you feel that, Alana?”
Alana throws herself against Bedelia with the desperation she normally only feels after a day of verbal teasing and heated gazes. “Yes,” she whispers against her cheek, tracing the freckles Bedelia hides with makeup during the day. “I do.” She props herself up on her hands, so she can look down at Bedelia. “I feel it, I do, but—I just—sometimes I need to hear it.”
“Then I have been remiss in learning all of you.” Winding Alana’s braid around her fist, Bedelia reels her back down, so there’s barely any space between them. She’s reminded of the moment before their first ever kiss, which is probably Bedelia’s intent. “I love how you had the intelligence to follow me a year ago, to know I was right about what you would see inside. I love how you had the courage to take a chance, to stay with me and see what might grow. I love how you show me, every single day, that you choose to stay. I love how open you are.”
Alana did know how Bedelia felt, believed it because of Bedelia’s intent and actions, but every time Bedelia says it, her doubts creep away, until she knows, for sure, that she made the right choice a year ago.
“I’m—” Bedelia swiftly cuts off her apology with a demanding kiss, mouths melding together until Alana’s doesn’t know where she ends and Bedelia begins. One of Bedelia’s thighs slips between her own, furthering the illusion. Alana moans at the spark of electricity the contact sends through her.
When they part, they’re both breathless, but Bedelia smirks up at her as she flexes her thigh again, making Alana buck against her. “Never apologize for what you need, Alana. I am not always a mind reader.”
Bedelia’s supreme confidence in herself has turned into something of a joke between them. Alana laughs and asks, “Do you know what I’m thinking right now, Dr. Du Maurier?” Reversing their positions, she rolls onto her back, pulling Bedelia along with her.
Alana catches a flash of smugness as Bedelia proves that yes, she does know what Alana is thinking right now.
This isn’t surviving, this is thriving.