It was difficult to grow bored of the beauty of sharp things. Knives, saws, cleavers, shears…they all gleamed under the lights that reflected off the hanging plastic. They were so perfect and precise. It was almost a shame to dirty them, but there was mild joy in that too…the clash of colours.

But this was just foreplay. Everything was ready. The photographs covered an entire wall, but they were only the known victims. A complete list would likely plaster a warehouse. The man on his table was a walking genocide, and it was time to wake him up-

"Hello. Dexter Morgan."

He lifted his head, and slowly turned in a fluid swivel. "Hello, Dr Lecter."

Dr Hannibal Lecter, bound doubly in Dexter's usual plastic wrapping, took a lengthy inhale before releasing with a satisfied sigh. "My first office. A good choice, Mr Morgan."

"We've been through so much. Please, Dexter."

Hannibal smiled pleasantly, his eyes still focused straight ahead into the light. He didn't squint in reaction to the bare glow. "Tell me then, Dexter. Just why is it you do what you do? I know all about your mother, of course, and it provides conception-" said Hannibal.

"We're not talking about me today, Doctor," said Dexter, walking about the table and yanking one of the photographs down. "We're talking about them. Benjamin Raspail. James Pembry. Rinaldo Pazzi. Frederick Chilton. Paul Krendler." He reattached the photograph to the wall. "And those are only a few. Not to mention the various mutilations and-"

"I'm aware of my own history, Dexter. And I'm aware of yours. Your mother, killed by Harry Morgan-"

"Harry never killed my mother."

"Didn't he? He fucked her in more ways than one, dear boy," continued Lecter with that infuriating little smile curving over his teeth. "He wanted her to hold on a little longer, didn't he? That didn't work out very well. And he abandoned poor Brian, who was left without that precious 'code' of yours. And then there's poor Rita. How long until Debra meets a similar fate? She's come close many times now. Or maybe Astor? Cody? Or little Harrison?"

As Lecter spoke, Dexter moved around to the head of the table. On the word 'Harrison' he sliced his scalpel along Hannibal's cheek. The doctor barely reacted. "I feel like I ought to thank you. I so rarely get to add a celebrity to my collection," said Dexter, delicately tapping the scalpel above a blood slide. "A big celebrity, I mean. Not like the Ice Truck Killer or Miguel Prado."

"You're trying to take control, Dexter. Changing the subject, being flippant…but it makes no difference. Your white-bread 50s stereotype of a human being won't always mask that darkness inside you."

Dexter paused for a second in consideration. "You do like talking, don't you? I can relate; I like talking to my victims. It lets me be honest…because the rest of the time, I have to lie. But with you…" Dexter smiled. "The truth is everything. The truth about other people…but never about yourself. Because if you looked inward, just for a moment…your fear would overwhelm you. And you'll fall into that darkness behind your mask."

Lecter didn't stop smiling. "That's very first-year psychology, Dexter."

He laughed. "Sorry, Doctor. I'm not exactly Jung," said Dexter, reaching for his collection of gleaming little friends and selecting the 6.5" cleaver. It seemed…right. A good fit.

"Killing me won't stop anything, Dexter. I'll still be here."

Dexter held the cleaver over the doctor's neck. "One more thing. I almost forgot," said Dexter, taking a slight sidestep and tipping the needle of the record player down. "I got it right, didn't I? Bach? Goldberg Variations?"

"Yes…yes…" whispered Hannibal. "That's very kind. Thank you."

"You're welcome. A mark of respect…to a fellow traveller and his Dark Passenger," said Dexter, walking over slowly and raising the cleaver again. "I'm sorry, Dr Lecter. But it appears our time is up."

The cleaver fell.