The girl doesn't fear him, he can't smell anything like that on her. Yet, standing so close he can smell something else. It's familiar, often sensed in a session with a patient discussing troubles with a loved one. Love, he's identified this sent in the past. Humans are acutely unaware of just how powerful their emotions are. Especially this one, love is potent. It intrigues him the slightly different tang he picks up on from relationship to relationship. Parents discussing their children is one that doesn't intrigue him as deeply, he can almost bring his mind to comprehend that affection. It's the love that transfers between two people who don't have any real reason to feel such a strong emotion for one another. He knows how to make people trust him, even like him. It comes naturally to his territory, but he's never allowed himself to charm anyone further. He settles for their trust and at times friendship, but is careful not to give any indication that they should pry into him any further. Simply a thoughtful, quiet, intelligent man that doesn't run much deeper; that's the character he's chosen for himself.

This girl though, he can't understand the scent she's admitting now. She's looking at him, right in the eye, no fear. She doesn't feel the danger, but she does feel something else. She moves a little closer and he looks down at her hand that is mere inches from his leg, then back to her eyes again.

"Dr. Lector," her voice is quiet. This wasn't part of his plan, not in the slightest. He underestimated himself, and he wasn't careful to control the level of attraction she might have to him. If he were capable, he'd feel guilty. "Why aren't you married?"

He smiles slightly, for good measure. She smiles too, mirroring him. "My life is complete as it is, I've never had the desire to start a family."

She looks away from him, looking around his den. "You would have made a great father." Her statement throws him off balance. A child, sitting here on his couch in his den, is making him feel things. See, they're wrong. His type isn't incapable of feeling, they are incapable of expressing them, or experiencing them as others do. He doesn't know what love feels like, but he has had the image painted for him time and time again. It's hopeful, optimistic, dangerous. He only knows what danger feels like. He's asked before what makes someone love someone else, and the answers are all the same. There isn't one, the person just has a rush of chemicals and hormones around another person and they call it love. He can practically feel her hormones flooding her body, all in response to him. He didn't know he was capable of doing that to someone. The power makes his fingers twitch.

She turns to face him, repositioning herself on the couch so their knees are touching. For the sake of being human, he knows the proper way to handle this situation is to move back and put distance between them. He knows, logically, her feelings are a reaction to her trauma; a form of transference. He knows, logically, that their age gap makes this even worse in societies eyes. He even knows, and surprisingly understands, that she is capable of feeling things for him since she is blissfully unaware that he isn't capable of ever returning the feelings. Yet, he keeps eye contact, his head cocked a bit to the side in curiosity. He's too interested to move away. His nature tells him this is a girl no one is looking for, no one would really miss. He could make it look like a suicide, or a homicide committed by one of the many that hate her for her father's actions. Hate, he never grasped that either. Yet, he feels no desire to harm her, though it would be his easiest one yet.

Her hand finds his knee, "You're so incredibly interesting, I don't understand how you don't have women all over you." He knows her words should make him feel something, since she is trying to seduce him. But she has no idea just how interesting he is.

"You're responding to your traumatic experiences, Abigail." Her face falls and she retracts her hands as if he hit her. He watches her closely, sensing the anger that has joined her feelings of admiration.

"Who are you to tell me what I'm feeling is or isn't real?"

He remains calm, "I didn't say they weren't real feelings, I'm telling you you're feeling them because of what happened."

She gets up, pacing in frustration. "How do you even know what I'm feeling?"

He can sense it, "I spent my entire life learning to understand human emotions and behavior, what you're feeling is a rather easy one." He can't bring himself to name the feeling she is having.

Suddenly, she's back to sitting down, closer than before. Her hand is back on his leg, "Hannibal, do you think I'm crazy?"

She leans closer, but he doesn't move, "You aren't crazy."

She shakes her head, "I asked if you think I'm crazy."

He smiles slightly, "I don't believe you are crazy in the slightest, though it doesn't matter what I think. It only matters what you think."

She hesitates only for a second before forcefully pushing her lips into his. He's still for a second, not surprised but not sure how to react. Torn between being human, being moral, and being the monster he is, he gently moves his lips in synch with hers. He isn't sure if he's being gentle, but her hands grasp his face and she sure isn't being gentle with him. He keeps his hands folded in his lap until she leans more heavily on him, trying to get him to lay back. He doesn't know if he feels nothing or if he feels something he can't register. But he does feel different. Uncomfortable, would be the word someone would use. Ego-dystonic is the sensation, and he isn't used to feeling so...out of control. Yet his face doesn't register anything, and he realizes his eyes were closed. He opens them to see hers are closed, and one of her hands settles on his chest and he allows himself to be pushed back a bit. Her tongue finds his and she tastes almost good enough to eat. He lets his hands come up to touch her hair, and he reminds himself to be gentle. He tries to connect himself to what this is and what it means and wonders if he's feeling arousal or attraction. He can't identify anything, and when her hand brushes the front of his pants, he comes back to his senses.

Mindful of what they would call, compassion, he gently eases her back a few inches. Their lips break and he calmly pulls himself from her reach. She looks devastated, embarrassed. "Abigail, I'm an adult, a mentor. You're troubled and vulnerable right now. That is highly inappropriate, and this certainly isn't the time."

She disregards half his statement and gets up to stand in front of him, "If this isn't the time, will there ever be one?"

He looks at her closely, intrigued by her inability to sense what he really is. He wonders if the attraction to him is overruling her natural fight or flight from danger. Yet, he doesn't think she's in any danger, so perhaps she has no reason to activate her fight or flight. Although, humans reactions can't be activated, their body does it for them. He reminds himself that he too, is human. Different, but human. And right now, the girl standing mere inches away from him isn't in any danger from him. In fact, she's safer with him than anywhere else right now. He'll protect her. He can't help but wonder if that's what love is to him, not wanting to harm them as he wants to harm the others. Typically, he resists his urges, but they just aren't there.

His hand comes up to brush her cheek, "I'm a psychologist, not a fortuneteller."