A/N: Hello, here is the final chapter of Savor! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing! Thanks for all of the support! :D

Savor: Chapter 10

She goes along willingly, her heels clicking on the cobblestone path to the unmarked car. He will escape. This is the end. She told him this would happen, though she didn't foresee this particular instance.

She has no regrets. But as she catches Will Graham's eyes, now contorted in malice and staring into her, she thinks that maybe she should.

She's been sitting in her for nearly 3 hours. She knows they can hold her for 21 more without cause. They only have a video. A simple video that makes her want to slit her wrists but a video nonetheless. She sighs inwardly when Jack Crawford tells her they have a warrant to search her home- she's long since moved her plants to their secluded cabin. They will only find case files from her old patients, files they legally can't open.

She wonders what Jack Crawford will do when he realizes that Hannibal Lecter has never officially been her patient. That he can't get a subpoena for his records because they are not in existence. She smiles inwardly.

They're trying to break her. Make her confess to a crime so they can avoid finding more evidence. She knows they're watching her behind the paned glass, observing with a keen eye, waiting for her to write a confession in her own blood. Her head was spinning and she was nauseous. She should have eaten something at the party before drinking. Her head was pounding.

She's been giving them tight lipped answers to questions. What she truly needed was Angela, her attorney. But she couldn't call her. Not yet. If she asked for her lawyer, then they couldn't continue their attempts to break her down through questioning. And when that happened they would concentrate on Hannibal again.

She had to distract them; give Hannibal time to get to the cabin. To escape. She could take their battering.

She didn't shiver even though she felt Will Graham's gaze through the glass.

She easily held Jack Crawford's gaze and simple conversation when he asked her what she was doing on the tape and told her a grand jury would convict.

She resisted the temptation to leap across the table to sink her nails into the flesh of Will Graham's neck when he proposed that she lied about her miscarriage. She soon sees the unuttered apology in Jack Crawford's eyes when he enters minutes later, clearing his throat before he begins his circus act of removing the mystery of Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier. She can see how his shoulders tense when he leaves the room, knowing he's learned nothing. One didn't become an enigma by disclosing their secrets to the first person who asked, now did they?

When another hour has passed, she finds that it's really getting difficult for her to concentrate through her headache and nausea.

Bedelia gets up cautiously, attempting to still the spinning room and walks to the glass, knowing that someone, Will Graham at the very least, is standing there.

"I need to use the restroom," she says softly. She feels as if she's going to be sick. She should have had more to eat before she had several glasses of wine. There's no answer. She knows she's being ignores and reaches to tap on the glass, to inform them that their behavior is inhumane; that she will prosecute when she suddenly has to use the back of her hand to cover her mouth. Her eyes widen and she spins, stumbling to the small metal trashcan and dropping to her knees.

Her back heaves as she expels the contents of her stomach. Wretch after wretch she feels the acidic bile rise as she holds her own hair- her eyes watering. Her gown is pooled around her body as she continues to vomit, finally sitting back on her heels and breathing heavily when she's finished. Her body burns, but she feels better.

When Jack Crawford comes in with a plastic cup of water she uses the chair and then the table to pull herself to the chair.

She can see it in his eyes. He thinks he's broken her; that she's realized that she's going to prison and it's getting to her. Despite the pride she sees in his aged eyes, she also sees something else. Compassion, something that Will Graham lacked. He pushes the button of the remote and plays the video again. It's a tactic she's seen many times before. Now he's going to grill her on the events, hoping that since his first showing of the tape it's stewed inside her. That she's already been convinced that they had her. As he talks after the grainy video he's suddenly aware that she isn't paying any attention. She is oblivious to him.

Her eyes are shifting left and right and she's sitting stock-still. He'd wonder if she were still alive if it weren't for her eye movements. Suddenly she begins to wring her hands together. Ha! He had her. A slight smile forms on his lips.

"I-I want to speak with my attorney," she breathes out, her hands trembling slightly on the table top.

Jack Crawford gets up from his seat. He had hoped she wouldn't ask but knew it was coming. He's suddenly reminded of Beverly Katz and hears her whisper "Gotcha" in his head. He had her. And there was nothing a lawyer could do about it. He smiles

Angela walks into the room like a tornado in less than an hour. Jack Crawford follows behind her, disgruntled. She knows what her attorney must have said, and confirms it later when she's walking down the long halls with the tall black woman in her statuesque heels.

Bedelia pushes the image of Will Graham from her mind. The intense eyes focused on her throat. Hands clenching and unclenching at his sides as if they were already around her neck. He wanted to kill her.

"Of course we'll have to formally compose a case, create an alibi" the woman begins, breaking Bedelia out of her reverie. She pushes the door of the building open and holds it for her client. "it was lucky you emailed me weeks ago about Jack Crawford purposefully triggering your PTSD" she pauses "Well, lucky as it could have been. It got you out of their custody the second I threatened to bring it to the courts."

Bedelia's mind is moving quickly, hoping he had escaped, that he'd gone to the cabin- that she'd given them enough time.

She can't concentrate on her attorney, who's recounting exactly what she said to ruffle Crawford's feathers. Bedelia's doing counting of her own. It can't be. Last month when she skipped her period she amounted that it was due to stress-from malnutrition. But this month. She was late, late by almost two weeks. She was exaggerating, jumping to conclusions without proper evidence. Still, she can't help herself. Can't help the anxiety that's attempting to rip its way out of her chest. Had he fled already? She couldn't-no she wouldn't call him back for a simple hunch. She wouldn't put him in danger. Give them another chance to put him behind bars- take away his freedom.

Angela beams at her in the frigid cold, telling her that the taxi at the end of the steps is hers and reminding her that she plans to see her tomorrow at 5pm. She shakes the smiling woman's hand, knowing half of Angela's excitement is from this minor win over Federal Agents. The other half is due to the thousands of dollars she knows will enter her bank account shortly- the thousands more she expects to gain from representing her client in this high-profile case.

Bedelia smiles softly, thanking the woman and getting into the taxi.

"Ma'm, where we going?" The taxi driver questions with a smile and native Baltimorean accent.

"I have to go to a drugstore. Please take me to any open location."

When she finally gets to her house, a draft circulating in the high ceilings and old floors, the first thing she does is step from her 4 inch heels, her feet sore and aching. She climbs the stairs, needing to get out of the long expensive dress. When she's removed her clothes except lace bodice and panties she walks into her master bathroom, holding the box in her hands, removing the instrument carefully.

And she waits. She leaves the bathroom, hoping that sliding into her favorite silk camisole will help calm her nerves.

It doesn't.

When she's sure enough minutes have passed she attempts to walk into the bathroom, turning on her heels twice. She runs her hand through her long curled hair. Her head aches from all this thinking.

Finally she walks into the bathroom, the tiles cold against her feet. She bites her lip as she brings the item to her eyelevel.

A sob escapes her chest and she drops to her knees, holding the test tightly between her fingers.

The letters blink back at her 'Pregnant.'

He knew she would kill him when she found out he didn't run. That she would yell and scream and tell him he ruined everything. And he had if he was being honest. At this very moment, when he should be using his French passport labeled Ancil Dubois and escaping to her unlisted home in France, he couldn't. Not when the booklet labeled Olivie Dubois sat next to it, and started back with her azure eyes. Olivie, he practiced on his tongue. He couldn't leave her behind, as much as she insisted.

He hoped Bedelia wouldn't do anything rash; that Mason, definitely encouraged by Will Graham, hadn't made her do anything rash. He hoped that she wouldn't wait too long, in anticipation of their escape- that she would call Angela; that she wasn't still achy as she had been earlier (not that she would ever tell him). She didn't deserve to be rotting there. She shouldn't be behind bars, especially not in his place. She had tried to save him from himself. He couldn't abandon her. He just had some things to finish up here at their cabin.

Taking out Mason's phone he dialed from his cabin. "I'm hungry," the man announced to the 911 operator like a petulant child.

As the man removed his nose, as instructed, he snapped his neck. He wouldn't touch anyone ever again, especially not his Bedelia.

When he drove away in his car, his minor bag accompanied by a small duffle packed in the back he noticed a blinking from his private phone- the number only she had. She must have been released. They had to hurry.

As he sped down the road, he listened to her message and his heard dropped.

"Ha-Hannibal" she whispered over the line, her voice sounding strained. "I know, I know I told you to run but" he heard her sharp intake of breath as she attempted to compose herself "things have changed."

Her voice alarmed him, sounding both terrified and blissfully happy.

"We need to hurry," were her last words

He looked to his right at the person now sitting in his passenger seat. The main reason he needed to go to the cabin. She'd kill him if he hadn't.

"We have to get Bedelia," he said plainly to the passenger, immediately seeing their eyes light up at the mention of her name, happy that they weren't abandoning her. His foot pressed down on the accelerator and he took the corners of deserted country roads sharply, determined to reach her house.

He had her passport and she only hoped he hadn't already boarded a plane. She needed to leave tonight. Her camisole hung loosely around her thighs and she'd finally realized how much weight she'd lost over the last few months, now returning to her body. She didn't look emaciated any longer and she closed her eyes, small tears slipping from her.

Pregnant. She- they were pregnant.

There was too much at stake to stay. She would risk everything for him; to ensure his safety. But she couldn't risk their child- not again. As she opened a carry-on sized suitcase atop her bed, she filled it with simple items.

If she was lucky he was at the airport. She would meet him there.

If she wasn't, she would risk flying as Bedelia Du Maurier. She would catch a flight to Croatia, Lithuania- the list went on. Anywhere but here. She only needed to get through the terminals. She briefly thought of killing another woman for their boarding pass but discarded the idea. She couldn't. She didn't know her history. It was too high risk.

Just as she was about to pull the light pink silk camisole from her body in favor for suitable clothes she heard a sound at her front door.

Hannibal. He had come for her. She smiled softly, hoping he was happy with her news.

She toed the steps carefully, carpet warm against her naked feet. Reaching the third down she immediately freezes. The house didn't smell like Hannibal.

It smelt like dog.

Like Will Graham.

Quickly, she screens her options. She wonders if she could simply return upstairs-lock herself in one of the closets. But he would come for her; that much she knew. He was here to kill her. Calling the police was not an option, especially when one was attempting to flee the country illegally.

She slinks carefully back to her room, opening her bedside stand carefully, the metal of the gun cold in her small hand. It's been long since she's fired it. She would tonight. She had to escape. Needed to get on a plane and get away from this. She warned him this would happen. "He will seek vengeance," she had said.

She just didn't think he would come after her.

She's holding the gun the way she was trained so many years ago, hands bracing the metal. As she enters the kitchen, scanning the dark room before reaching out for the light-switch, he pounces. Bedelia lets out a startled gasp as he grabs her by the neck with one hand, his other holding forcing her arm to 12 o'clock. He has her against the door frame, her arm high above her head, still holding the gun. Her breathing is erratic as he bangs her hand against the jamb, making her let go of the weapon, which falls gracelessly to the floor with a clatter. Her head is jostled when it collides with the door frame, the hard wood in her back.

"Did you kill Beverly with him? Abigail?" he seethes, tightening his hand around her neck

She is silent, her eyes searching his in the dark room.

"No," she says with strength, despite the hand threatening to end her life. "I did not."

"You believed me," he laughs sharply moving the hair from her neck with his free hand and scrubbing at her tender skin until the make-up is removed. "Funny thing is, I don't believe you." Her flesh is red but he can clearly see the angry lines, feel them under his fingers, like brand marks. "Did he hold you like this, your patient?" He questions, cocking his head to the side, and smiling when he hears her sharp intake of breath. He lifts her from the ground and she kicks her bare feet, red painted toenails arching and flailing. She claws at his hand, her eyes bulging in their sockets. It's too much like before. She can't. She can't. Not again. He's squeezing with all his might and she reaches her hands out and grabs his face, which moves from side-to-side in an attempt to avoid her.

"Stop," she rasps "please," she croaks.

"You killed them together," he runs his hands through his hair, obviously contemplating his choices momentarily. "My friends."

"No." Her fingers firmly get his cheeks with intent to force her thumbs into his eye sockets. It will not be like before. "Abigail," she gasps. She would not lose everything. Not again. She's surprised when his hands unclench before she reaches the sockets and he tosses her to the floor. She tumbles and struggles for breath, coughing as she gets on her hands and knees

He believed her, at first. She betrayed him. She killed his friends. And if she hadn't, it didn't matter. She was the sacrifice. Hannibal would pay. He would feel his pain.

"Where is Hannibal?" He nearly screams, and her voice is rough, but barely above a whisper.

"Gone."

She's crawling across the slick tiles of her kitchen floor. It's so dark, she can barely see anything. But she needs to find something. Anything. But his feet are now clicking on the tiles as he walks toward her. His footsteps are getting closer and closer and suddenly she feels like she's in a game. ' ,' she could say, but once he got to 'hot' and 'burning up' she would be long dead.

"Guess we need to do something to bring him back." Will Graham says, grabbing a knife from the set on her counter.

He hears a clanging sound but doesn't see her fingers grasp the top of the marble kitchen countertop in the darkness. He hears her footsteps fast but isn't sure where she's gone. She was quick, even injured.

Hannibal's companion would make a marvelous display. He licked his lips in anticipation. The chandelier in the foyer would be an excellent mantle.

He walks into the house and the first thing he sees is a bloody handprint, slid across the wall like a trail leading to his demise. His footsteps are feather-light. Someone had come for her. He knew that someone had to be Will Graham and dread filled his whole body. He was too late. He couldn't save her this time. He'd ruined everything.

Turning into the living room, he finds her. Her back is turned to him and she's sitting straddled, moving back and forth. There's a knife, seemingly discarded staining the carpet. No matter. The blood stains from the body would be impossible to get out anyway.

"Bedelia?" He questions, as he moves closer he hears the soft sounds of exertion she's making. He lays a hand on her shoulder but she stares blankly, and unseeing at Graham. Her hands clench and unclench repeatedly as he wheezes out breaths.

God, she was trying to strangle him.

He saw her forearms shake as she tried to keep a grasp around his neck, a neck that her tiny hands couldn't even fully wrap around.

"Delia, stop." He states, noting that she hadn't cut any major arteries. She'd tried to save Will for him. When her hands didn't stop, he lifts her, pulling her hands from his neck gently as stares at them. She hisses in pain and he looks down to see a slash on her ribs, the fabric of her camisole torn beyond repair.

Her eyes are wide and she's covered in smeared blood. The top of her head his cut, her lip is bleeding.

But beneath her, Will Graham is struggling to remain conscious. She's punctured a lung it seems to immobilize him.

Or to make the strangulation easier, he admits sadly.

"He came to display you," Hannibal whispers softly. "For vengeance." Her words echo in his head; words of warning that he carelessly ignored. He's been so foolish. He put her at risk. He put everything at risk over a patient. Someone he had wished to call a friend. He stills her shaking hands and tips her chin so she can look at him. "I should have listened."

He suddenly hears Will Graham gasp for air. The man is struggling to pull himself up against the wall, his breath ragged but glare intense. Bedelia disappears up the stairs and he's thankful that she's giving him this. Thankful that she can see through the person-suit he's begun to remove piece by piece. She's giving him time.

His time to cope. To let go of his patient. His once upon a time friend.

"I. Will. Kill. You." Will breathes out harshly and Hannibal crouches next to the man. She had been right. He thought- He thought- It didn't matter any longer. He takes his hand and presses it to Graham's face, moving his fingers over the man's bloody stubble.

"I wanted to surprise you, Will"

The man stares at him in confusion.

"But you wanted to surprise me"

He runs the knife deep into his stomach, and the blood begins to ooze from his body. He sputters and gasps, attempting to hold his body together.

"Abigail," he calls and the girl emerges from doorjamb. His eyes widen. She was alive. Abigail. His Abigail. "come here," Hannibal whispers, holding his hand for the young woman. Hannibal stands, the knife hidden in his other hand, as Will shakes his head, eyes wide and desperately urging her to go. He can't bring the words to his lips.

"I'm sorry, but he said-"she begins before he pulls her to him, sliding the blade across her neck. Her eyes widen in horror as the person she trusted to keep her safe spills her precious lifeblood. She falls, the blood spurting from her carotid and suddenly Will Graham's slick fingers are on her, trying to stop the wound fruitlessly.

Bedelia walks down the steps, fresh from a shower. Her hair is sopping wet but she's clad in heels and a simple black dress. She sets a hand on his shoulder and tells him to wash up before she steps around the growing pools of blood to get to the car.

He pretends he doesn't see the way her face tenses when she sees Abigail writhing on the floor. Pretends he doesn't see her eyes glistening. She had begged him to save the girl initially. But that wasn't possible any longer.

He washes his hands of the blood and walks out into the rain. This life was gone.

They are driving for nearly 2 hours before she says anything. Her hair has long since dried in curly ringlets, so different from her normally coifed style. He loves it like this. The smell of her shampoo and black orchids wafting through the car.

"You called the police," she states plainly, as they drive up the East Coast. United States airports would be looking for their faces, despite their passports. But Canada would be different. The 13 hour drive would get them there mid-day. The wound he'd inflicted on Will Graham would be debilitating for weeks. But he would recover, since he'd called the police.

"I couldn't let go completely." She should be seething at his words, but as he glances over at her, he notices she isn't. There's a line of worry between her brows. "I needed to-"

She glances to the backseat and sees a simple duffle bag. Belongings of a girl who, unlike Will Graham, wouldn't recover.

"I know," she speaks softly. "It's never possible to let go completely." He nods and notices that she's wringing her hands together.

She knows he had to fully separate himself from Will Graham, that he intended on killing Abigail months ago. That he needed to kill her at that moment.

But it still pains her to remember the young girl knocking on the cabin doors when she was inconsolable and asking: 'Dr. Du Maurer, are you okay?' She'd helped her cope.

Abigail's head lying in her lap as she worked on her ear wound and assured her that any man or woman would find her beautiful. Abigail asking what it was like to have a baby inside her.

Teaching the girl about her flowers, which she moved to the cabin specifically for the young woman.

Her favorite candy was Swedish fish, an item Bedelia picked up on her first successful trip out herself. The girl smiled brilliantly when the older woman first started showing up to the cabin alone, able to leave her home without constant anxiety attacks.

The passport with Alexandrie Dubois written in the same print as her own name and her picture on the front, now useless.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I should have listened when you asked to leave."

Abigail would still be alive then, she knew. But there was no sense dwelling in the past.

It doesn't stop her from grabbing the small bag from the back seat and sobbing into the 'Ramones' shirt she pulls from it.

It is near the end of their trip- a mere 3 hours to go, after she's cried herself to sleep and woken that he realizes he never asked her what happened. She takes her neck in her hand and rubs it, her sleeping posture less than desirable. Luckily, they would be flying first class on the plane. She wipes the sleep from her puffy eyes and glances over at him after checking her watch. He had been driving for 8 hours.

"Hannibal, I can drive."

"I'm fine," he responds, following with the question he should have asked hours ago. "Bedelia, when you called me. What happened?"

Bedelia looks down and wrings her hands together, although not like before. He can see a soft smile on her face, although it is lessened by recent events. She reaches out and takes his right hand from the steering wheel. If he's alarmed, he doesn't show it on his face.

Until she drags his hand to rest over her flat abdomen.

His brows reach his hairline and his eyes are questioning.

She lets out a small sob and shakes her head

"I'm pregnant, Hannibal."

He takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips, careful to steer with his other hand. He kisses the back of her hand, feeling the smooth lines of her veins, and then each of her knuckles.

He reaches over on the flight, taking her hand softly in his own before the French attendant offers them Champaign. Glancing over at his companion, who politely refuses, he smiles softly and takes his own glass. Closing his eyes he drinks the smooth liquid and thinks of the future; where they were going and where they had been.

They were starting a new life. And he would be sure to savor it.