doctor hannibal lecter

    “Not a layman, no. You’re right, he knows the inner workings of the mind he just…forgets sometimes when he’s too focused on other things.” Like catching murderers. And what was one man’s mind to apprehending the scum of the Earth anyway?

    What was that saying again? The needs of the many outway the needs of the few or the one. Okay, so that was from Star Trek as spoken by Spock but it described what Jack Crawford’s mindset was like so it would do.

    Of course Will wanted to help people. Wanted to save them and yes, he could leave at any time and wouldn’t but he was afraid. His entire life he had been afraid that maybe he’d snap at some point. That he’d end up turning into a murderer too or simply just losing his mind and spending the rest of his life in a psych ward. Neither option was very pleasing to him.

     Nut brown, behind those glasses his eyes are nut brown and comforting. The white of his eyes aren't quite right, but few notice whites. The color of earth is far more soothing than brilliance of wine behind lens. He shifts in his chair, the shirt not quite tailored, the material high quality despite casual air.

    The camouflaged eyes regard the stress on the lines of the other man.

    "Pressing upon corporate culture is apart of what we've become, even within the business of catching burnt souls. It's become interesting, hasn't it? The automation of the factory has finally arrived upon the white collar world; but it doesn't work. Numbers and personality, minds and concepts. They simply cannot be dictated or plotted for."

    The doctor suddenly wants a pen, something to fidget with. A quiet realization how unorganized his desk is, strikes him. A breath and focus.

    "Death is ... difficult. And it was a troubling event with area gray and shadowed." 

    The mouth curves slightly.

That’s what I was yelling at the tv.

      “And if I were to say that I appreciated it?”  

The doctor’s head is bowed, almost in submission, hiding the trick quirk of lips as knife and fork cut his meal. There’s a taste of citrus to his meat; a flavor that he can’t quite truly be rid of. The nature of the beast as it were. Fear makes the tang he must work with. Fear makes Will Graham rude. 

What he fears at this moment between them is the simple question. 

Calmness is luxury, what the majority of humanity wishes and often times Hannibal does to. It is harder to enjoy the edge of decay at break neck speed. Perhaps the fleeting is more beautiful in mind’s eye that way.

Hannibal cannot be sure. In the long run he remembers the rush of speed and death and the march of decay as vividly as he wishes. Slow bite into the food, the European style of tines facing down. 

      “You fear your own eye and judgement, then? Is that       why you escape? Or the world’s? The secondary       shows far more mercy than you realize; apathy softens       the blows.“ 

During the course of the meal, the doctor has not met his gaze to Will’s by his own attempt. Eyes are windows, even the most powerful of training does not keep Hannibal completely safe. For most he’ll direct maroon gaze clear and head on. Not to Will. Will sees too much, and Hannibal sees far too much in Will. 

      "The touch of dread, I see.”

Another morsel cut, 

      “I speak not of Heaven or Hell at one’s end, but the rush of       adrenaline. At this moment I’m not entirely sure if we ought       to speak much of the judgement of the life after or if oblivion       awaits us. Hardly the conversation to have a first dinner." 

That does catch him off guard, and Will is left blinking at the other man from across the table with the start of a frown on his face. Nothing is said, not for a long moment. He doesn’t know what he’s meant to say, the bite within him dulling into nothing now that he’s aware of what Hannibal had actually meant.

      “Well… good. You should.”

His head nods once, as if to confirm his words and he diverts his gaze elsewhere. The thought of contact alone makes him uncomfortable, resist the urge to all but squirm in his seat. As though he’s a child that has been scolded, rather than praised.

Hannibal analyses him more than Will likes, and yet he never leaves. He continues to come back, again and again. There’s a part of him that doesn’t know why, but he knows that he needs to, more than anything else. It won’t hurt him, to sit there and listen to the doctor’s thoughts than just his own. A sigh escapes him.

      “I fear… I guess so. It’s not just my judgement though,        is it? I can go into the mind of anyone… It’s their        thoughts that are in my head, almost more than mine        on some days.”

He doesn’t like to think about that though; the fact he can feel like he’s being overwhelmed, consumed by the killers that he steps into the minds of. It makes him feel on edge, and he takes another sip of the wine to the point he feels like he’ll soon need to refill, but the thought is dismissed as he instead focuses on his food again.

There’s another pause and he watches the other man again. Will isn’t subtle, nor does he intend to be. Hannibal never tries to be, and a part of him feels like he should take a page from the other man’s book. Jack would probably prefer it.

The face, once upon a time lovingly chiseled, stares at Will for a heartbeat, the scent in the air becoming one of caution. Caution is far different from fear, despite its birth from raw emotion. Caution is akin to hope. The doctor's lips lift into brief ghost of a smile.

Knife and fork return to plate, the silent cut of meat, the gentle scrape of knife touching dish. The harmony of life appealing, he serene in the moment of Will's discomfort. There is some unfairness to it all, there's very little to relish. There's some cheating involved.

Will can't study him yet; three and a half decades of ought have shaped the agent. Morality painted stark white and black that earned wounds upon Will's body. That isn't the way to live; but the correction of this life will be a process. They are no longer alone in this world.

And there are places that Hannibal must protect; there are events that Will cannot and will not understand. The doctor has made his peace with that, buried under the obilette of his mind palace.

      "You can. You've proven it with Hobbs and how many so far?       Eldon Stammets is ... the one I find the most baffling. You       chose to slip into him, and slip right back out, silent as shadow.       But then, Stammets is not as personal to you. How about the       minds of those who would praise you, Will?"

It's the empathy that Hannibal plays with gamely, compared to the sympathy of understanding. He understands most people, the questions he often asks are games, the concepts beautiful puzzles to be admired like gems. And the rarity of not understanding someone? Well ...

      "As I understand it, the Ravens are playing tonight."

He comments lightly, letting the food past his teeth and upon his tongue. A few motions of chewing, swallow,

    “And listen to me,” He watches motion of her arms, arm lifting to give more comfort to his guest, “As if I speak of America having one culture. I’ve been here far too long to know it’s not fully true. Just a few hours South, and I see something entirely new.” And that statement is true, he often treads outside his territory to hunt, but has taken little time to appreciate the new surroundings beyond the practical. 

    His eyes are intent behind the sunglasses, watching the young woman’s hand and expression as she admires the trees. Part of the side effects, he suspects, even as her fingers brush over the smooth skin of his veined hand. That, too, was apart of the side effects in keeping her content. The enthrallment of touch, the awareness of the senses, the agreement to anything. Hannibal will only ask Clarice so much to keep them (when did it becomes them?) safe and she by his side. “I never felt I’d be obliged to say this, but there’s very little else to do with my money other than taking good care of those I appreciate. It hasn’t always been the case and the light of your voice makes it all worthwhile.”

It hasn’t escaped her notice that her moods lift during certain hours and sink into weariness at others. She guesses it to be the lingering effects of her illness; her strength is slow to return. It has been a long while since she can recall full days of activity, strenuous activity at that, but this doesn’t bother her. Such thoughts do not last long in her wandering mind. There are too many other things to focus on: the touch of his hand, the smell of the sea, the orchestra of wind and surf and branch and leaf.  

She loves the sound of his voice most of all. “Yes, there is so much variety. I always liked the idea of roadtrips, going all across America. I’d like to see the world someday.” 

A soft laugh slips between her lips and the faintest splashes of color to her cheeks. “I certainly feel appreciated.” His hand is released. She lifts hers to brush the tips of her fingers along his jaw. “It’ll be a shame when things go back to normal…” When she must return to the rather mundane song and dance of class rooms. 

He will have to find other means in the future to keep her comfortable in the near future. MDMA works only for so long and Hannibal craves more than the few hours when she is alive, when her mind is attuned to the world and she readily seeks affection that he returns with restraint. Hannibal images this affection will plateau between them as is, but Clarice has become dear. Far too dear.

"I would imagine such things would be in your future, how long have you been planted in one place for so long? I couldn't imagine you in Montana, you know." Very little has been said about Montana between them, other than she lived there, words about sky and school exchanged.

The doctor shaves and quite often, though there's faint stubble by midday to keep his skin from being soft, but the structure is hard, and he's fought his age quite well. Perhaps he's more akin to a man in his late 30s, than late 40s. "It would be a grand shame."

Hannibal hasn't felt home since that winter in 1974...

           “And I thought we were simply having conversations in your office?”

Lopsided smile as he laces his fingers together and then cracks them, pushing his arms out as he stretches and clears his throat. There is a moment he slow plays it, thinking when he already wants to say yes. But the calm stoic man in front of him, he does not want to appear to eager and give the wrong impression. He knows what most people think of him, that Hannibal does not but he does not want him to start either. 

           “Would probably be more relaxing, nicer to come back to than the office.             No doubt you would cook as well.”

It would be an advantage, he has sampled the man’s food, knows his skill in the kitchen. Alana speaks ever so highly of him and it would be more comfortable, maybe a few glasses of wine and loosening his tongue could give him the courage he needs.

         "My office places an unique scope to any and          all conversations that I have. Old habits have          a long lifespan, Will."

Stoicism lends itself to patience; eagerness is not attributed to  Will and Hannibal can testify to this. So when it play in features,  in action, it's bright compared to the fear and resentment upon  the younger man's shoulders. How to consider this, how to arrange it is ... difficult. Companionship can be long starved for and the entire scope that he sees with Will cannot be downplayed. There are ... aspects he can do without.

Emotion, he cannot.

         "I cannot promise I'll be an entirely different man, but I suppose I          can promise a looser tongue. Perhaps less upon the nature of          man and more on the balance of flavors."

A vegetarian meal, perhaps? Something normal on the tongue? Persephone's bite has occurred between them, whether Will Graham knows it or not. Like so many Hannibal nourishes, Will Graham is bonded to him. The horrors are under the house, arranged and prepared, the horrors will be silent.

                          ❛ ᴍᴇʀᴅᴇ!! ❜  

   Though his presence was not unwelcome, it did come as quite a shock as Mischa turned around, gripping her chest at the sight of the man.

Patient sigh, not so much towards darling sister's vulgarity but of it's tongue. Italian is the one he slips to, when caught off guard.

But that is so very rare for stoic big brother.

        "Old habits," Ones that last far longer than         time spent in orphanage so long ago. A         handful of years dictate the decades.

[though he may have reason to keep them SUCH skill sets]

cont. from here

She tilted her head to the side for a moment. Abigail had to think of what to say. How could she possibly reply to that.