It was night time in Baltimore, Maryland, and Dr Hannibal Lecter's office was drowned in an inky, suffocating blackness. The only illumination in the ornate room came from the flame flickering in the fireplace, casting dancing shadows across the matte- black chairs and the cream-white curtains. In the half-light, the colours were hard to make out; the darkness brought white and black together and swirled them into unity. The only ambiguity in light comes in darkness, and Dr Lecter liked it that way. It was in his nature to bring ambiguity in light, and darkness too. He found the final result so much clearer.

In the corner of the room, the door creaked open and two figures stepped inside. The differences in silhouette were strikingly defined against the firelight, the first masculine and sophisticated, stood tall and courteously, and the second feminine and helpless, her hands twisting and her breaths shaking.

Without speaking, the first figure strode across the room, his footsteps echoing lightly on the wooden floor. When he reached the chairs he turned and sat, one leg swung over the other, his face blank. He sat like a professional, straight backed but comfortable, fitting seamlessly into his surroundings, a predator in his chosen environment, at ease and in control. Politely, he extended his hand and gestured to the chair opposite him.

"Abigail. Sit."

The girl, still in the corner of the room, did not move. She set her jaw defiantly, but her shaking hands betrayed her screaming nerves. Not that Hannibal Lecter had any ambivalence in his mind over her feelings. He knew of her vulnerability. He could taste it in the very air she breathed. It exhilarated him.

"W-Will sat there." It came abruptly, as though she could not help the words as they manifested themselves on her tongue and spilled off like water over a cliff, spiralling rapidly out of control. She had to say it, to acknowledge it. She had to.

"Lots of people sat there." Hannibal's expression did not change; he regarded her with mild interest and an unwavering gaze. The formality with which he exhibited himself made him cold, inhuman, and incapable of emotion or sentiment, and Abigail drew in a shaky breath. Of course she knew who Dr Lecter was. She had known that when she had agreed to flee here. But she could not say that she had truly seen that side of him yet; except, of course, when it came to masking her own butchery, but she had used that to her advantage. Yet here it was, plainly laid before her defenceless eyes. How stupid of her to think that she might still be in control. It was Hannibal who had wished for her to kill Nicholas Boyle, and kill him she had. Now he wished for her to flee to his house, and she had run straight to him like a puppet on a string. Well, she thought. He has killed too. Has he no feelings on that? Boldly, she clenched her fists and opened her mouth.

"And how many still do?" The words shot like daggers off her tongue, but if she had been hoping to pierce the cool, thick skin ahead she was to be disappointed. Hannibal's silence resonated dully in the room around her. He said only one word in reply.

"Abigail."

His voice carried a hint of warning and, this time, she obeyed him. The chair creaked beneath her as she lowered her weight down, perching on the edge, her knees together and her hands clasped.

"Do you know why you are here, Abigail?"

She looked up. Of course I know why I'm here. But he needed her to say it, to speak it aloud. He needed control and she was in no position to argue with such a man. Painfully, she drew in a breath and drew apart her clenched teeth. "You're hiding me." Her voice was little more than a whisper, the sentence a conspiratorial crime that she loathed to speak aloud. She was ashamed and she was vulnerable. Hannibal Lecter had a habit of picking the pregnable in life. They suited his purposes well.

He tilted his head slightly, his view of her now solely in his right eye. Slowly, he spoke.

"You are under my protection now. You will do what I tell you, do you understand? Whatever the situation, you do as I say. For the sake of both of us. Don't break this bond, Abigail. " His voice was not threatening but forceful, his words lilting and soft. He was a compelling man; no, not a man. She didn't not know yet quite what he was, but he was not a man. He was nothing the barest remnant of human. She had first seen that in his blank, emotionless face as he wrapped his hands around her neck to quell the scarlet flow from her father's final attack, and now she could see it again. He was not a man.

"The FBI, they could find you. Jack, Alana. Will, even. I need your word that you trust me above them. All of them. Do you promise?"

His words echoed in her mind. Will could find you.

Will.

Will, who had saved her life. Will, who had killed her father. Will, whose nightmare-ridden nights had assured her that she was not alone. Will, who knew what none could admit, not even herself. He knew. Her thoughts raged, a fierce, fear-driven battle with no conclusion. There was no knowing the lengths that Hannibal might have her go to to protect him. And there was no knowing the lengths that she would go to to protect herself. Abgail knew this too well; her own instability made her dangerous, and in the eyes of Hannibal Lecter it made her useful. But, in her own eyes, it gave her something. It gave her the barest hint of control.

Will. She had to trust Will. But she didn't have to tell the truth.

"I promise."