Examining Dr Lecter
Dr Lecter sat behind his office desk, staring at patterns in the mahogany.
The delicate tick of the wall clock provided an unpleasant sort of blow with each passing second. They faded into the background, only to be replaced by another fragile 'tick.'
Mindfully, he inclined his head to the left and shifted the position of his telephone pad so that it sat at a slight diagonal- on line with the grain.
It was seven forty-five, and Will Graham was late again.
It displeased him to think of Will now. Will who had seemed so promising –Will who had proved himself worthy. But the boy was also something else: something Lecter had long ago decided he would not indulge upon his existence. Hannibal turned and stood from his chair, pressed a loosely fisted hand to his thin lips. He could not abide this. To have such a forbidden promise tarnished by the very characteristics he found most… disreputable. To be late and not inform was a discourtesy.
It was rude.
Hannibal had seen him as a challenge, a dismissive yet approachable creature with a most peculiar brain, A rare specimen. Ripe for dissection and examination. But not a fine one. Dr Lecter's experiment was having issues. It drove him to no end, his distraught inner turmoil over this man of empathy. He wondered how such a man could dare be forgetful, inconsiderate.
He felt the tension in his shoulders go and let his arm drop gently to his side.
Will Graham could have been his friend. Will Graham would not be. The desire for justice, the inexplicable obsession possessed by the subject he could forgive- but this? He felt his pale, expressionless eyes yield to the slightest blur of salt.
No, Graham could never be his friend. And he would not dignify his with tears, never him.
Hannibal collected his papers from his desk and crossed the room to the filing cabinet where she slotted them into their place. He stopped to check himself together, then rolled the drawer closed. Will Graham was his enemy, and he would unravel him. Each thread of sinew, laced with inconsistence. Each ounce of under appreciation.
He wanted a friend. True; yes. He had never desired to admit it. Emotional attachment was a weakness. The doctor could not afford a chink in his armour. But yet in the lonely world of corpses he had been fool enough to look upon a living man's face. Now it was just he, and him.
And that bitter disappointment.
Lecter placed his notebook in his briefcase, reassured by the familiar touch of the skin. He slung his jacket over his form, felt the barrier between him and the air thicken.
Tomorrow he would execute the experiment.
Lecter opened the door to leave, and Hannibal blinked.
"Dr Lecter I need your help."
Tick.