Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Hannibal cannot help but smile. Bedelia is more at ease in Florence than she was in Paris. Her arm is looped under his, her fingers lightly holding his biceps. It doesn’t feel like she is playing at being married anymore; she has settled into the role she agreed to play when he asked her to run with him. She smiles softly at him. She enjoyed her meal, enjoyed not being on show. Enjoyed being them, not the Fells, two strangers in the world, as the world moved on without them. He knew he had chosen correctly when he chose her. She is the only person who has ever understood him. He is not playing either. If he is to be bonded to someone, he wants it to be her.
As they cross the square towards their apartment, she looks to her left. A crowd has gathered around a busker. A violinist playing an exquisite but joyful piece of music there is a child dancing to the music, the crowd is as delighted by her as much as the music. Bedelia’s smile widens, her eyes dancing as she watches the girl spin and then reach for her father, pulling him into her joy. Hannibal watches Bedelia’s face, she looks lighter. An image flashes into his mind. A fantasy. Their own little girl dancing. He feels joy of his own. He pauses, lets Bedelia decide when to move on. She only does when the girl’s father scoops her up into his arms. The pair kiss each other. Hannibal kisses Bedelia softly on the cheek, her smile stays on her face. They are perfect together, he knows this and maybe they could be better still.
Hannibal’s fantasy persists. He cannot get the image from his mind: a daughter. He has had pretend children but never one of his own. He has no flesh and blood kin. It calls him as much as the taste of blood does. He has always had a way of getting whatever he needs. It is easy to get the drugs he needs, to repackage them. When he hands her her birth control prescription for the next month, she looks at him in confusion because of the change of packaging. She accepts his answer of generic medicine, goes back to her reading without a second thought. Within a week, he knows he has made a mistake. She is complaining of feeling itchy, her skin is dry. He tries his best to soothe her, helping her lotion her skin in a sensual apology. He doesn’t know where she put her medication. She is discreet in this manner. When she is out one morning, he comes home and searches for it. How could he do this to her? She has given him complete trust, and he has stepped too far. He comes up empty. He will just have to abstain for the rest of this cycle until he can replace it with her regular prescription. He has many other ways he can pleasure her until then.
But a week is all it takes. He can taste the difference. She is changed. Has he made his fantasy a reality? He watches her, when he stands close to her, he can detect the subtle change in her scent. It thrills him, terrifies him. What if she doesn’t want the fantasy he saw? She hasn’t noticed, too preoccupied with Dimmond and then his death. But Hannibal can see it. See that she is more tired, that she looks paler, that she seems more solid than usual. It shouldn’t manifest this quickly. Perhaps, he wonders it is just the change in the medication. But when he comes home after depositing the Englishman in the river, he can smell it through her uncertain fear. She is bringing life. He should talk with her, he knows he should. She’s the only person he has ever been able to speak honestly with. She is the only person who ever understood him. But what if she does not want this? He cannot take that risk. He panics, and the primal part of his brain kicks in. She is so tired she doesn’t notice as he removes anything she may harm herself with from the room. He creates her a sanctuary, a place she can be safe. A place he can keep her safe from the world and from herself.
The sickness hits earlier than he anticipates. It worries him but it can be a good sign. He tells her it is common and she sobs. He tends to her; tells her a doctor is coming. When he leaves her in the bed to sleep, he locks her door. He has to keep her safe, her and the life within her. He finds a doctor pays him triple to visit, but he worries about Bedelia as sickness claims her and she does little else but sleep and vomit. She is drawn, unable to keep anything down. She is so exhausted she doesn’t even wake up when he inserts a canula in the back of her hand to give her essential fluids. When the doctor comes Bedelia refuses to look at either of them. She is polite. She complies. She is uncomfortable with the procedure to check on her progress. He mentions wondering if it might be twins. Mentions the drugs. She understands this. Glares at him in horror and hate, angry that he would do this to her and then the drop. Four. Four children. He is in awe, Bedelia is sick. When the doctor leaves, he tries to speak to her, but she screams at him. He closes the door. Locks it behind him, and sits on the floor beside the door, taking in every word she throws at him. He absorbs her anger and anguish. His head hangs in shame at his actions. He should respect her right to choose but he can’t. The urge to have these children is too strong, and if anyone can do this, it is Bedelia. She is the best he has ever known.
The next few weeks pass with stony silence. Bedelia refuses to speak to him unless she needs something and he does not want to stress her by trying to engage in conversation she does not want. He misses her, although they are together, they have never been more distant. The doctor tells him that meals little and often will help with the nausea and the energy levels she will need for carrying the four lives within her. He brings her whatever he thinks she needs and whatever she asks for, but she asks for little. She has stopped trying to leave the room. The door no longer rattles with her trying to open it. In her eighth week, she starts to grow with a speed he finds fascinating. Within days, she transforms from a slightly thicker version of herself to a woman noticeably carrying a child, and she gets bigger by the day. By 11 weeks, she looks halfway through a normal pregnancy. He has always found her fascinating, but this is something new. He draws her when she sleeps, trying to capture every change their children are making on her body. He likes to watch her move. She used to be so graceful now she wobbles as she crosses the room. She is growing so quickly her skin is tearing within. He does his best to help her. He helps her bathe and brings her lotions and oils. She lets him tend to her. Her face fixed in a permanent pout. He cannot tell what she is thinking and she still refuses to speak to him. He cannot blame her, he has committed the cardinal sin against women, his fantasy overtook his love for her. He was too selfish. He put his own needs above her own, he should have let her decide what was to happen. He knows that he has to make it up to her, although that will never undo the wrong. To take care of her is the only way he can think to do it.
Her nightgowns get tighter, her belly straining the silk. He visits the seamstress who made her ballgowns, describes the situation, and the tiny woman tells him she knows just the thing. When Bedelia asks him for larger clothes, he tells her it is in hand. He tells her how beautiful she is. She looks at him with critical appraisal, trying to understand his meaning. But she still continues to punish him by not speaking with him.
She is too distracted. He can’t blame her. She is burdened by the changes to her body and what he has done to her. But she passes the 90 day mark, he no longer locks the bedroom door. She doesn’t try to leave. He is always thinking of her, and the distraction spills into his play life of Roman. His superiors notice. He plays his hand, his wife is pregnant and she is unwell. It explains her absence from the social events. The men are congratulatory and apologetic, offer him comfort, he takes it with grace. But as he watches Bedelia struggle with the changes she faces every single day, he realises that things must change. He can no longer be Roman Fell, because she needs him to provide properly for her, for them. He starts to make arrangements, finds somewhere that can give her the care she will need, that the babies will need. They will be born early. How early is up to Bedelia’s ability to endure the trial he has inflicted on her. He hands his notice in. Begins to say goodbye to the Fells, plans their final moments with precision. Their meat would not have lasted much longer anyway. He asks the seamstress for a new dress, he shows her his suit, asks her to match it. He tries to guess what Bedelia’s dimensions will be in three weeks time.
When it comes to it, he has underestimated how much she would expand by. She looks like she is already approaching the final month of pregnancy. She is only approaching her twentieth week. The dress squeezes her form, she is uncomfortable. He wants to apologise for his miscalculation, for everything, but she looks at him and she renders him speechless. She is so beautiful. ‘Bellissima,’ he whispers to her.
‘Grazie,’ she responds, her eyes look down as if she cannot comprehend what he is telling her. He helps her to the living room, she struggles to walk. He finds her struggle endearing. She clings to him and pants with the effort of walking from the bedroom. He helps her settle into his chair. Her belly fills her lap, she rests her hand on top of it. Her chest heaves with effort. She looks scared. He leaves her a moment, lets her gather herself. When he returns with shoes, she scowls at him. From his position on the floor as he places the leather shoes on her slightly swollen feet, he can barely see her face. Just her eyes staring over the crest of her belly. He pats it tenderly and then rises to go back to his work in the kitchen.
The party is a success until it isn’t. He has had fun as Roman Fell, being surrounded with art is much more fulfilling than his life back in America but he can tell that Bedelia’s presence has scared the others. She does look pale, he realises, and tired, and so gloriously full of life. She looks ready to give birth at any moment but it is too soon yet. She understands immediately when he serves the stew what is going on. She always was the smartest in the room. Her eyes narrow imperceptibly, her mouth opens in a soft concern, but she catches his eyes, stares at him, gives a barely noticeable shake of her head. He has anticipated that she would not want to partake, she refuses to eat red meat anyway. Her dinner is the same as always, chicken and vegetables. She looks momentarily relieved, but as their guests eat, her face pulls sharp, and then she cries out. Her hands clutch at her belly. He is by her side in moments. Her face is creased in pain. He looks for signs of what to do but she reaches for him. He helps her up. Helps her back to her bedroom. He rips the dress from her. There are imprints on her skin from where he squeezed her into it. He helps her lie down, gets her into a position that will improve blood flow for her and the babies. He cannot smell blood, and that is a good sign even with the pain. He calls the doctor while the idiot people he played Roman with dither about leaving. They finally leave. When he returns to Bedelia, she is pale and clammy but no longer in pain. He helps her into a gown. She cries softly, from stress not pain. The doctor rushes to them. He is kind as ever but insistent that Bedelia should refrain from walking too much. He is concerned she will not reach viability. After everything Hannibal has put her through, he cannot let that happen. He cannot have tortured her to let their future happiness fail.