Hello, my dearest Hannifans!

Yes, it's been a while since I last published anything but I think most of you will know I haven't been absent.

I'd like to thank Duffie83 for her involvement: you're the best! Thank you for your work as a beta and beyond.

I think I'll manage an update per two weeks, but don't hold this against me if I don't make it...

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: This is a fanfic. I own none of the characters, etc., am not making any money with it, yada, yada, yada...

Chapter 1

Hannibal sat on the bolted straight chair, motionless, as far as his body was concerned. His mind was at work - as always. He sometimes mused his mind had a mind of its own, so to say, and an elated mindset would follow that thought as he dismissed it as faulty. His thoughts never strayed off without his knowing. They were free to roam but were always under strict surveillance.

In the distance Hannibal heard something - movement in the surveillance booth at the end of the corridor. Then came an intrusive red light and noise indicating the double glass doors were about to open, alerting the guards and waking sleeping inmates. Hannibal quickly checked upon the others, listening to their shouts and movements. Perhaps one expected a visitor. Any deviation from the daily routine inevitably disturbed the wretched souls that held domicile in this block and created opportunities for Hannibal. Unfortunately, his survey rendered nothing useful. Nobody was expecting any visitors. And as the unknown person entered the block, Hannibal heard the squealing of the janitor's cart's wheels. The man was one and a half hours early today.

Hannibal had finished all the books on the shelf six days ago. Ten books in three days, and he'd read slowly. He was now mulling over their contents, brooding upon the few points of interest they'd contained. It appeared science was experiencing either a lack of inspiration or great minds these days. The books had hardly interested him, let alone fascinated, but he'd had to make do. The number of books he was allowed to have in his cell had been reduced severely since his failed escape four years ago in Memphis. Wagner, the new administrator of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, had slowly increased that number over the years as he saw no threat in Lecter reading a book or two more if that kept him satisfied and calm.

Five more days before his new books would arrive.

The smell of cleaning chemicals slowly permeated Hannibal's cell, even though the janitor was still three cells away. The man's regular visits allowed Hannibal to test his senses. He could hear the man, smell him and his cart, see him. While he focused on everything that happened, he sharpened his skills and probed for anomalies that could benefit him. He mused about taste, but not how the janitor might thus please him. Hannibal had spoken with him a few times in the past, when he'd still been one of the prisoners. He chuckled, thinking how he'd managed to have the man released and had suggested to him to apply for the job as janitor. Who knew, the man might be of service one day.

With his uncanny patience, Hannibal could play possum for a long, long time indeed. He'd been in here eight years before Memphis, four since. He admitted to himself he tired of waiting, of idling. His attempt at escape had been based upon the Tennessee State Police being accustomed to handling criminals. After the incident the Hospital's security measures had been examined and declared adequate, the only addition being the prohibition of ever moving Hannibal beyond the corridor of his cell. As a result the closet facing his cell had been modified into a shower. Chilton, who in his malignant narcissism had allowed Hannibal to be moved elsewhere, had been transferred to another, less sensitive facility where he now held his little fiefdom. It had returned Hannibal to the arduous position of waiting for a change in protocol as promising as Chilton's singularity, knowing chances were slimmer than before.

His patience was wearing thin, true. Yet, it was not the languid waiting that slowly nibbled it away. It was the lack of stimulation. Indeed, Hannibal would be the last to say his memories weren't up to the task of entertaining him and even the meager number of books he was allowed provided him enough mental exercise. But none of this was a challenge. His memories were well trodden paths, the books hardly an effort. Hannibal's life was becoming boring.

Again, the light and sound announced the arrival of a visitor. Hannibal heard the glass doors open again and soon recognized the voice of Dr. Wagner, probably asking the guards how they were doing. The man unfortunately had a number of recurring themes in his conversations that could drive anybody insane after a year or so. His collection of opening lines and farewells were limited to respectively five and four. Hannibal knew them by heart now. He listened to the man perform his trick, asking about their families and acting surprised to hear how old the kids already were. Hannibal knew Dr. Wagner would be coming down the corridor in about thirty seconds.

After years of study both at institutions and at home in several fields of science - medicine, law, psychology, physics and a few more - Hannibal Lecter, M.D., S.J.D., Ph.D. and so forth, was bored and the sensation went beyond knowledge or its acquirement. Nothing he read could captivate him anymore. He experienced a vanity of sciences and often did he ponder upon the words, "And here, poor fool! with all my lore / I stand, no wiser than before." Hannibal's knowledge and experience was unprecedented, yet it served him nothing at this moment.

It was with an aching heart that he recounted a line from one of his conversations with Clarice.

"What I want is a view. I want a window where I can see a tree, or even water."

Of course he hadn't meant it back then. All he'd tried to achieve was a change of surroundings, since that would offer him a chance of escape. Now, he'd even settle for what he'd said he wanted. He wanted to see life and, if possible, with that liveagain himself.

To Hannibal's surprise – though it never showed – Dr. Wagner did not stop at any of the other people down the corridor, but came to his cell at once. He heard the man stop in front of his cell and could tell today was not a very humid day from the administrator's lack of serious respiratory problems. The man's breathing did not go beyond the regular strained sound for such a walk. Hannibal turned towards the man.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal nodded.

"Dr. Wagner."

"I received a request by Dr. Vermittler. He'd like to make his acquaintance and discuss..."

"His article in the Philosophical Gourmet?"

A slight hesitation preceded Dr. Wagner's reply.

"Yes. The Philosophical Gourmet."

Another slight hesitation followed.

"Doctor, what may I tell him?"

"You may tell him I will see him."

"I will. Thank you, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal waited a moment or two before he nodded. Dr. Wagner nodded in reply, released the breath he was holding, then left.

It was only a small step to Hannibal's memory of his first encounter with Clarice. He relived the little scene rarely since it contained a momentary lapse of reason. Such moments were both rare and among his most precious. He admitted he couldn't quite handle to recount such moments too often. Today felt like a good time, though.

After that, he reviewed his most recent information on Clarice. Media coverage of FBI Special Agent Clarice Margarete Starling had been abundant the first year after the rescue of Catherine Martin, after that it had slowly dwindled. He learned she got her precious position at Behavioral Science two years ago, nothing much since. Curiosity was a luxury he could hardly afford since his incarceration, he indulged himself this one - how was Clarice faring?