Cherry Wine

VI

"When are we supposed to be there, again ?

- We were supposed to be there thirty minutes ago, dear," Hannibal politely replied. "And we would have been there on time if you hadn't changed your dress three times.

- The first time, you expressly told it wasn't formal enough. The second time, I realised it was stained and the third time, you said I looked ten years older than I really am." She rolled her eyes and checked her gloves. "And you said we were not supposed to stand out of the crowd. I just obliged.

- You are quibbling, Andrea."

She sighed and turned her head to her window. They were heading to some kind of fancy party they had, somehow, been invited to. When she had tried to understand how they could possibly be invited to a party three days after landing in Moscow, he just smiled and told her he had plenty of connections. The best way to be hidden is to known, he repeated. She'd given up – of course, she had.

The taxi driver changed the radio station from a musical one to a news station. She wasn't incredibly skilled in Russian ; she had lost most of it in prison and she never troubled to practice it. But her basic understanding of the language was enough for her to get the most important information. She repressed a smile. John Mitchells, State Attorney of Maryland, had been found dead in a cottage around Québec after days of research. Would you please turn up the volume of the radio ? Hannibal asked in the most perfect Russian. According to the Canadian police and to the FBI, she translated again, silently. This murder may be the latest of Hannibal Lecter, also known as Hannibal the Cannibal. The FBI is still searching for his partner, professor Andrea Rochard. Some details followed, not the most interesting. No mention of the scenery, no mention of the missing limbs. You prude.

"This world's crazy," the driver commentated. "And those Yanks aren't even capable of catching them. They wouldn't have been able to escape twice here, that's for sure.

- Needless to say. They would be dead by now.

- An effective way to ensure creeps like them would never have the chance to reoffend." He nodded, apparently deeply convinced of his reasoning.

And fire burns. Partly amused and partly annoyed, she frowned and turned her head to Hannibal. He was smiling as if the man had just said his exact thought. He's so much better than I am, she thought. The only thing she could think of was that they were a bit more efficient than they both thought they would be – they'd banked on a week or so of investigation and it only took them four days to find Mitchells. Of course, they were gone since as much time and they were out of the radar. Still. They're too fast. Someone's helping them.

Maybe it was Will, all things considered. Maybe they authorized him to work on this case. Unlikely. The only case on which he was authorized to work had been hers, and only because Jack Crawford heavily insisted. And since she, well, escaped, she seriously doubted that the agency would let him work on her ever again. Anonymously, then ? The FBI wouldn't listen to anonymous sources. Maybe the Canadian are particularly smart.

"Is the radio disturbing your lady, sir ?" The driver was staring at her in rear-view mirror, looking concerned. "I'm sorry if…

- She is perfectly fine, don't worry. Aren't you ?

- Of course I am." For the first time since years, she gave up on her American accent and forced on her French one. "I'm concerned about our lateness.

- You're almost there, ma'am. It's just around the corner."

She nodded and sighed. When they finally arrived, some groom opened her door and tried to help her to get out of the car. She didn't take the hand supposed to help her and, instead, took Hannibal's arm. It was inside the Puchkin Museum of Fine Arts. I shouldn't be surprised. He wouldn't have accepted an invitation to go to some petty pub. She took a deep breath and they entered. Some men instantly came and started to talk to him, while she started to wander in the alley. Of course, everything was beautiful – that too didn't surprise her. Women were covered with jewels. Typical Russian women, I guess. She, on the other hand, only wore a necklace Hannibal had bought her for the occasion and a simple pair of gold earrings. She hated this whole trend of tackiness. Typical French woman ?

She stopped in front of a painting. Hannibal did try to teach her some basics about art. Sadly enough, she was pretty much as skilled as a six-year old. But she knew enough of art to know that what she was looking at was beautiful. Rembrandt, she guessed. She sighed and sipped her champagne. She didn't even like those parties. She always felt out of place, alien to everyone. She wasn't from this world and as much as she wanted to fit in as well as Lecter, she simply couldn't. She always felt like she was doing something wrong.

"Tu es pensive, très chère," he told her when he came back. He put a hand on her waist and looked at the painting. "Is Rembrandt guilty of throwing such wariness on your face ?

- Why are we here, Hannibal ?

- We must…

- Blend in." She frowned. "I know. But it's not just about blending in. We've only been there for two days. You usually wait for us to be settled before trying to get us invited to a posh party. We still live in the hotel. What is going on ?

- You can pretend, sweetheart, but they did left a trace on you."

They. The FBI. Who else ? She gritted her teeth and turned to face him. He was smiling. Or sort of. It was just a way not to catch anybody's attention, to look relaxed. But she knew better and she only needed to look his shoulders, to feel his hand on her waist to know he was absolutely not. How could have I been so blind ? He probably was like this ever since they left the hotel. And concerned as she was by her dress, she'd seen nothing. Something was going on. He gestured her to let him lead her somewhere a bit less crowded and stopped in a room that was probably going to be used for dinner. The table was fanciful, complicated and a bit ludicrous, with all the gold-ish stuff that covered it. He looked around and searched for a camera. He turned so that it wouldn't be able to see his lips moving.

"Jack Crawford is here.

- What ?" She was going to ask for more details when she realised that the camera was recording her lips. "What do you mean ?

- This party is hosted by the Russian police, Andrea. He is invited.

- Why ? He's barely… He's left it, or almost.

- His team has arrested dozen of psychopaths," he explained with a wry smile. "And, well, as you know, he is the only remaining sane member of the said team."

She shook her head. The joke didn't amuse her. The bare idea that Crawford was here didn't amuse her. And the reason why Hannibal had taken her here without telling her the true reason amused her even less. She ran a hand across her face and turned her eyes away. It didn't make any sense. Why would he do something like that ?

Because he knew I wouldn't have come if I knew, she thought. She gulped and slowly turned her eyes back on him. He hadn't moved. He was still staring at her. His gaze had changed, though ; he was not looking at her. He was watching her just like he would watch a child, as if he feared she was going to do something stupid. Or reckless. Or both. It wasn't the first time she was offered this gaze. And every time she saw it she wanted to slap him. She let out a bitter laugh.

"Then by all means, go ahead, tell me your plan. I'm dying to know it.

- You don't need to participate," he only said. "I actually would prefer you not to participate.

- Participate… Participate to what ?" She raised her voice. And came closer to him. "Say it. At least have the honesty to say it.

- It is time we get rid of him. And you know that.

- I didn't know, until now. We lived perfectly well with him around."

She had no idea why she reacted that way. She never minded what happened to the rest of her FBI team – accidents, or what looked like accidents, for the most part. Hannibal didn't like it but it was her life. Her work. Not his. Mitchells was a sort of common work and she let him take the lead. She didn't mind. She didn't care about their deaths. They all deserved it.

And Jack deserved it as well, she knew that. And she knew it was going to happen at some point. But she wasn't ready and most likely would never be. Erasing Jack from her life had been easy enough, after what he'd done to her. Choosing not to care about him anymore had been fairly easy as well. It's not about not caring anymore, a voice whispered in her mind. It wasn't about acting like Jack had not been one of the most important persons in her life. It was about putting an end to all this. Definitively turning the page. I already turned the page. Or so she thought.

"I know what he used to be," Hannibal calmly added. "And I know what he still is. You just need to go back to the party.

- And stay blind ? I think we already covered this a while ago. This is not something I can do.

- We cannot let him investigate us, Andrea. We will never be safe until we can be sure he won't ever find us." He stretched out a hand to caress her cheek. She turned her head to avoid his touch. "We leave the country tomorrow. And it'll be over. All over.

- You wanted to hide this from me ? You thought I wouldn't understand that you…

- You were not supposed to understand so soon, I admit. But you were always smarter than that."

Shut up. She didn't say it, but it burned her lips. She shook her head again and closed her eyes. I already turned this page, it shouldn't matter, she tried to convince herself. Jack Crawfrod was nothing to her. Whatever he used to be, he wasn't anymore. She didn't feel a thing for him. Just like Will, he was a ruin of something that used to be, someone she used to love. And just like any dangerous ruin, it had to be destroyed.

It is not true. It was useless to lie. It was obvious enough. He wasn't no one. He wasn't a memory. Not yet, anyway. And he would never be until she finally faced the truth, faced him. To obliterate who he was, she had to obliterate him, just like she saw Will being obliterated by Dolarhyde. He had betrayed her and he never paid for that. She had accepted it because she loved him. She chose to be blind to protect him from her. I can't be blind. I never could. She took a deep breath. This page had to be turned and no other than her could do it.

"You're not doing it.

- Dear, I am not going to negotiate this.

- Me neither," she retorted. "You are not doing this. I am.

- No." He frowned. Surprised, doctor ? "I'm not letting you.

- And I'm not asking for your permission. If he has to be put… Aside, then I am the one to do it. And I don't care about whatever grudge you hold against him. I am doing it. My way. Without you. You go back to the party and speak with whatever rich Russian you want." Her voice was ice-cold, harsh. "You're not turning this page for me."

It took an eternity for him to nod. The ghost of a smile floated on his lips and, without giving her time to avoid him, he bended to kiss her forehead. She didn't reject him. She didn't care. She didn't care why he thought it was a good idea to steal her vengeance, to slam Jack Crawford's room's door in her own memory place for her. She didn't want to know if it was some stupid and sappy reason, she didn't want to know if it was a selfish and egotistical reason. She didn't care if he wanted to protect her or if he wanted to protect himself. She didn't care if he didn't trust her with this or didn't trust her at all.

She had to do it. Whatever the FBI had turned her into, whatever she was now, she would never be truly free from them, from him if she didn't have the strength to end everything. Herself. On her own. Just like it began. Jack and her. Special Agent Jack Crawford and professor Andrea Rochard. Former Special Agent Jack Crawford, now mere ruins of a golden age turned to ashes, and former rising star Andrea Rochard, now monster and wife of the devil. She didn't even see that Hannibal had disappeared. She only heard the heavy footsteps of a former friend, mentor, father.

"Hello, Jack. I almost thought you would never find me.

- I'd rather not have found you here.

- You're vexing me."

She smiled. He didn't.