SUBLIME, Hannibal Lecter

xiv. Until you

"The victim scratched her killer deep enough to pile tissue under the fingernails," Beverly was examining the corpse's hand. "but never drew blood."

"Why didn't he bleed?"

"After he cut up the victim's face, it looks like he was trying to pull her skin back," Zeller observed.

"Like he was removing a mask?" Sloane asked, frowning.

"Maybe."

. . .

Beverly kicked open the rooftop hatch, dragging up a checkered blanket and a thermal bag full of beers. "If you tell me you're afraid of heights, I'll push you off," she declared, spreading the blanket over the cold floor.

Sloane followed, carrying a tray of last-minute vegan sushi. "Why couldn't we just stay in the living room like normal people?"

"My cat's watching a reality show and cries when contestants get eliminated," she teased, popping a beer open with her teeth. "Besides, it's more romantic up here." She winked. "Now sit down and start talking before I fall asleep."

The two women settled back-to-back, the Baltimore sky turning violet above them. For a while, they stayed silent, the sound of traffic humming below.

"So?" Beverly broke the silence, turning toward her. "What's going on?"

"What do you mean?"

"With Will and Jack. We heard you arguing this morning," she said, taking a swig. "We were all shocked. Jack's always had a soft spot for you."

Sloane scoffed. "He doesn't. And he's an asshole." She took a sip before confessing. "Will's... losing himself. He's confused. Doesn't know what's happening. I asked Jack to pull him from the cases—he's not reliable anymore, and it's hurting him. Jack refused."

Beverly stayed quiet for a moment, processing. She'd noticed Will's distress too but hadn't dared confront Jack. "We can't do anything. We just have to hope Will steps away on his own."

Sloane sighed heavily, nodding. She was right—there was nothing they could do. After another beat of silence, Beverly changed the subject. "What happened with Lecter? I want details."

Sloane stiffened, her beer halfway to her lips. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't bullshit me. I know Zeller saw you leaving a house he didn't recognize after Tobias Budge attack. I'm guessing it was Hannibal's."

Sloane closed her eyes, the memory flooding back—Hannibal wounded, her helping him undress, her hands on his hips, and that kiss—slow, desperate, inevitable.

"We kissed once," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "That night. It just... happened."

Beverly sat up, eyes gleaming in the dark. "Once? With him looks like it's either all or nothing. Spill."

And Sloane did.

Everything.

Going to him after the fight with Jack, how he'd calmed her. The night they spent together, the nightmare, how he'd held her until she fell asleep again.

Beverly listened without interrupting, her eyebrows rising gradually. When Sloane finished, she let out a low whistle. "Damn, Winterstorm. You've had more action than the FBI this year."

"It's not funny, Bev," Sloane hissed, gripping the bottle. "It's... complicated."

"Why? Because he's a mysterious man with more layers than an onion?" They both snorted at the Shrek reference, then Beverly turned serious. "Or because you're scared you're falling for him?"