She had been in the bathroom for nearly three hours. Occasionally he would hear the water drain, and prepared to receive the fragile girl, but then the taps would be turned on, and in the tub she would stay.

So naturally, he was concerned. His parental instincts (though new, fledgling, and somewhat different to that of a regular parent's) were instructing him to check on her. The boundary appeared to be the bathroom door, but he'd never been one to follow boundaries that weren't of his own design.

"Abigail?" he knocked sharply, and she made a low noise. He couldn't justify it as a hum or a whimper - it was an answer, but not any good one. "Are you... well?"

This time, she didn't answer, and that was answer enough.

"May I come in?" there was no answer, again. "Make yourself decent." he told her, and put his hand on the handle. He gave himself maybe three lengthy seconds, and opened the door, only to be assaulted by a faceful of steam.

She had clearly moved to obey - the water lapped about, not quite spilling over the rim of the tub but threatening to. She was absolutely still, with bony shoulders and knobbly spine facing him. Her hair had been let loose, and was only half wet, the long strands sticking to her angry red skin. She didn't so much as turn to acknowledge him, but her breathing was irregular.

Her bloodied clothes lay in a neat pool on the mat.

"Abigail." he approached slowly, leaving the door open for ventilation. The steam rose from the water, but from her own skin too. The products he'd left for her remained dry, uncapped, neglected. "You'll turn into a prune if you stay in there much longer."

One shoulder lifted in a half hearted shrug - he thought to reprimand her, when the other came up and she curled, knees up, bowing her head. She wrapped red arms around herself and was still, though it was clear she was wrestling with herself, internally.

He sighed. It had gone so well. She was an excellent student, an excellent daughter. She killed efficiently and followed his instructions promptly, to the letter. Her only negatives were due to her tiny height - which counted as a plus; the unassuming murderer she'd be if she only weighed half a bag of rice - and this... regret.

It stained the air a bitter reflection, and he did not like it.

"Will..." she started to say, and became much smaller. "Will is going to be mad."

Oh, so it was his fault.

"Leave him to me." he said gently, and toed her clothes out of the way. "He knew it might happen. I've already informed him."

He had, by way of a text, artfully written to imply only something that Will would understand. Something pertaining to going to butcher's for their next week's meal, and taking Abigail with him.

He had received a flurry of nervous calls, and a series of pleading texts, but he did not respond. He did not pick up. But he certainly did read them.

"He won't be mad at you." he told her, and dropped into a crouch. "I'm certain I will be to blame."

"But you aren't." her voice was very small, very sad. "You didn't even suggest it. I did."

His hand hovered over her reddened shoulder - then settled on the top of her head. He sighed, and ran his hand over her skull, hoping the action would soothe her. It did, to some physical extent, because he could see her visibly loosening. She didn't quite clutch at herself any more, she eased against the tub, releasing a long held breath.

"Abigail." he said warmly. "I am proud of you."

"I'm not proud of me."

"You will be. What you did today was magnificent. You did a service to the world. When the case is deemed closed, and when all is said and done, you will look back on this. And you will be proud. Yours was a mind that outsmarted Will, and the," he chuckled, pronounced each letter like a poison. "F.B.I."

"You helped."

"I did." he took his hand from her hair, and applied it to her shoulder. "But you steered the boat. I was merely a-...seasoned passenger."

He would've liked to have seen the smile he knew the jibe would draw to her face, but she didn't face him, still. She leaned into his hand and settled into a more comfortable cross-legged position, sniffing slightly, though no tears fell.

He ran his nails over her hair again, collecting thickened blood on his fingertips. It wasn't hers, but that of her victim's. She had yet to submerge herself, yet to wash away the evidence. She still smelt like death, like blood.

"I felt ugly." she informed him quietly, causing his gentle finger combing to still. "When I killed him. I could feel my face. It felt ugly."

"Different." he corrected. "Powerful. Never ugly."

"Different..." she appeared to agree with the sentiment. "Powerful...?"

"How did you feel," he said quietly. "When he stopped twitching?"

She didn't answer right away. She shifted, adjusted, and he lifted his hand so that she could turn. She had a long scratch on her eyebrow and a cut on the bridge of her nose - her knuckles were bruising and there was a large purple hand print on her upper bicep. His hand print, from swinging her out of harm's way.

The boy who had so violently attacked her several weeks prior had been a vicious rapist in the making, at the very least, heaven forbid he procreate. He and Will had shown her a series of offensive stratagems (some more legal than others) and they had come in handy. When she had rejected him initially there had been witnesses, so he lead her to believe the slight upon his name was forgiven and forgotten.

He later cornered her and proceeded to try and put his fingers where they were very clearly unwanted, succeeding in scratching the delicate flesh of her lower lips. She had torn a long stripe of red from his cheek in revenge - that hadn't even been Hannibal's suggestion, but Will's - and had kneed him in the balls, shoving him away and running straight to Hannibal's home.

When she got home Will was late, and she had otherwise been perfectly collected, until Hannibal pointed out there was a piece of bloodied meat in her hand.

She hadn't cried, but she'd been upset that she'd been caught out. It had taken a few days of curious prodding until she let him in on the happening, and confessed her embarrassment and rage.

The plan to pull out all his teeth was hers.

"I didn't feel powerful."

"No?" he waited, watched her measure the weight of her words. More than once, her lips parted with an answer on her tongue, but she swallowed it, digested it, searching his face for the correct word to describe her first intentional kill.

"Satisfied." she murmured, though she looked guilty. "I felt... Satisfied."

"And now?"

"Now I feel... bad."

"Why?"

She didn't answer that question directly it was in the question she asked that her worries were truly revealed.

"Do you think Will is going to understand that? Me being... Satisfied?"

"Yes."

She flinched.

"Do you think he'll know it was me?"

"Almost certainly, yes."

Her bottom lip pouted, her eyes went wide.

"Do you think... I'll get caught?"

"We." he corrected, and put his hand to her cheek. "And no. I know that we will not be caught."

"Even if it's Will..." she sounded uncertain.

"Do you doubt me, Abigail?"

"No. Not you."

"You have no reason to doubt yourself." he lifted her face so that her eyes would find his. "I don't."

She smiled, and that was lovely. He couldn't quite stand the morbid teenage angst thing any longer than absolutely necessary.

"Thank you." she said, and it lit up the whole room, the way she adored him in that moment. "For giving me back... For making me come back better, than before I was lost."

"You are most welcome." he said, and lifted a lengthy section of bloodied, matted hair. "Now, what do we do about this?"

"I could use a hand." she agreed, with maybe just a little bashful eye fluttering. "Mine are swollen."

"That would be because...?"

"I lost my temper and hit him too much." she agreed.

"It is understandable. I will be back in just a moment." He lifted to his full height, smearing the blood on his fingertips She watched his ascent with a dreamy smile aimed up at him, hardly curling to hide her modesty, not that he was looking.

He turned and stuck the blood in his mouth, drawing a congealed line of it over his tongue. There was something intense about tasting long dead - yet still warm - blood. He felt he could taste Abigail on it, too, and savoured the small sample.

When he returned it was with a clear pitcher and lack of jacket and vest. He had rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and tucked his shoes and socks neatly away, out of sight. Will was not going to be happy when he got home, so he intended to soften the blow with as much physical kindness as he was capable of in the moment.

Abigail must've sensed it too, because he'd only been gone two minutes at the most, and she had already curled back down into her ball, her eyes open but unseeing. He put the pitcher by his side and folded a towel for under his knees, kneeling beside her. He slid a hand under her face and lifted her head, then applied a very small kiss to her temple.

His tongue flicked out to taste the blood there for just a second. She sighed, but it was neither sexual nor upset - she was just tired.

He guided her to have her back to his front and dipped the pitcher into the scalding hot water. With a hand on her throat, he smoothed upward until she faced the ceiling, then tipped the bathwater onto her head, cupping his hand at her brow so she didn't get any in her eyes.

The process of meticulously combing out the gore from her lengthy tresses - by hand - went on and on for nearly two full hours. They didn't say a word to each other, and by the time he had cleaned her full head of hair, the water was of acceptable temperature. And perhaps, a pale shade of pink.

"Thank you." she said in something like a firm whisper.

"You're welcome." he put his hand on her sternum, over her slow drum roll heart beat. "Don't fall asleep in the water."

"I won't."

He was still concerned for her, managing to drag himself from her shiny clean skin after a momentary pause. He lifted, took the pitcher, and turned to leave.

"Hannibal?"

He turned to see she was looking over her shoulder, a small smile on her face.

"What's for dinner?" Her grin spread like devil's flame, warming the cavity inside his chest.

She would be fine, he was sure.