Sweet Ophelia (Hannibal Fanfiction)

Reba

Reba's therapist suggested that she find others who had gone through similar traumas. (Reba's therapist suggested a lot of things, most of which were inanely unhelpful.) But for whatever reason, this particular piece of advice stuck in her head far after her appointment.

The first person she thought of was Will Graham's wife. Maybe it was because of the kindness Will had shown her in the hospital (or maybe it's because he was a serial killer, just like D, her mind screamed), but she figured that his wife fit the bill — at least, as close as she was going to be able to find. How common could it possibly be to fall in love with a serial killer and escape enlightened but ultimately unharmed?

Define unharmed, her mind said. Reba ignored it.

Once she set her mind to something, it was nearly impossible to shake her of it. She found, after a little bit of digging, where Will had settled with his wife; she hoped that she hadn't moved to a different location yet. Reba took a taxi there the next day. She had to pay the driver extra money, both for the cabin's remote location and for him to wait for her. She shook off the driver's worried questions about whether or not she would be fine walking up the long gravel road by herself and got out of the car, unfolding her cane.

The walk up to the cabin wasn't anywhere near as bad as her taxi driver made it out to be; it was the cabin's weirdly high porch and impossible-to-find stairs that were the problem. Finally, she found them and made her way onto the porch. Must be an entire story off the ground, she thought, holding slightly tighter to her cane. She rang the doorbell. Somewhere inside the cabin, dogs barked.

After what felt like an eternity, Reba heard the lock turn and the door open, except it sounded as if the occupant hadn't opened the door more than an inch or two.

"Can I help you?" The woman's voice was wary and tired, rough from disuse or crying or both.

Reba cleared her throat and turned her head in the direction of the voice. "Molly Foster Graham?"

A beat of silence. "I'm not taking interviews."

The door hinge creaked as the woman began to close the door.

"I'm not a reporter," Reba said quickly. The creaking stopped, and the air around them moved as the door opened slightly more than before. Reba folded up the cane and held out her hand. "Reba McClane. I'm... Maybe you've heard of me."

"Can't say that I have."

"I..." Reba trailed off; she hadn't planned this far. How was she supposed to introduce herself? 'Hi, you remember the psycho who tried to kill your family and was sent to do so by the serial killer your husband jumped off a cliff with? I was sort of dating him.'? "I suppose you've been avoiding the news," Reba said carefully, hand still extended. "I don't blame you. I, uh. I knew D — the Red Dragon, I guess they're calling him. I was the unfortunate sort-of girlfriend."

A warm, firm hand gripped hers and shook it. "It's just Molly Foster now," the woman said. "Or it will be, once the paperwork goes through." Her voice was dry and sardonic, but not unfriendly. "Can I help you with something?"

Reba figured it was best to be honest; they both had dealt with a lifetime's worth of dishonesty.

"My therapist says that it might be helpful to connect with others with similar traumas."

To her surprise, Molly laughed, a loud, full-body laugh that brought an involuntary smile to Reba's face.

"I'm a bit wary of psychiatrist types myself nowadays," Molly said, and Reba could hear the wry smile in her voice. There was a pause. Their hands were still intertwined from the handshake, but neither woman moved to untangle herself. "Do you want to come in? My mother is out grocery shopping, and my son is at school, so I have some time."

"You know, if I'm another serial killer, you just told me that you're home alone," Reba said.

Molly laughed again, and Reba felt it like warmth through her veins.

"Oh, don't worry. I have dogs."