Dr. Lecter was not what Abigail would have considered her type. Truth be told, she didn't have enough romantic experience to confidently claim to have a specific type, but she was sure that if she'd ever bothered to think about it a Lithuanian psychiatrist who was slightly older than her father would not have been the mental picture that she would have drawn. She wouldn't have imagined that she was his type ether. Dr. Lecter was worldly and sophisticated and mature in ways that she was sure she never would be. Nothing ever really seemed to phase him and nothing was beyond his understanding. She imagined that people like her must seem bland and unremarkable to him.

It was because of this that she initially interpreted his interest in her as being a side effect of the circumstances under which they'd met. He had saved her life so now he felt responsible for her, that was all. She had thought nothing of him repeatedly visiting her hospital room, first with Will Graham and then later on his own, or of him giving her his business card with his home number written in pen on the back, "if you ever need someone to talk to" he had said. He was a psychiatrist after all, so of course his natural inclination was to be concerned for her emotional well-being.

After helping her hide the body, his attentions seemed to grow slightly more intimate. There were constant little touches that seemed to go unnoticed by anyone else to such a degree that she wondered if she imagined them. He would touch the small of her back while leading her out of a room, tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear...there was that one time when she was at one of his dinners when he walked behind her chair and briefly petted the soft downy hair on the back of her exposed neck. She was ashamed to find herself replaying that incident in her mind later on when she was alone and couldn't sleep. When they would talk he would stand a little too close, look into her eyes a little too long.

Abigail shook it off, told herself to stop being "gross." He was just being nice, it was unfair of her to assume he had ulterior motives. She convinced herself that she was just imagining the hungry edge in his gaze and the lower, softer cadence that he seemed to only speak in when they were alone. Still, she finds herself nervous around him in a way that she hadn't been before. She starts wearing makeup again and doesn't even bother to justify the decision to herself.

Their conversations change subtly, everything about him is subtle, from inquiries about her mental health and her plans for the future to more...tender subjects. He asks her in a furtive, almost concerned tone as they sit in the hospitals garden one afternoon when her first sexual experience was. He says it so gently, so clinically, that she doesn't balk at it the way she would had nearly anyone else asked. She blushes and proceeds to tell him about the time in fifth grade when an older boy (she doesn't even remember his name now) lured her under the bleachers during recess and did something with his hand between her legs that made her feel very good at the time but sick and sullied afterwards. He asks her, in his cool, measured voice, how she feels looking back on the encounter. She says she feels nothing.

He asks her, his expression passive, if she ever "gratifies" herself. She giggles and ask if he means "does she mastrubate", he makes a little noise in his throat that might have been the beginning of a laugh, nearly smiles and says "yes."She tries to verbalise a reply but winds up just shaking her head. He quirks an eyebrow.

"No?"

"Uh-uh."

He says nothing but the slight tilt of his head makes her feel like she should say something.

"I did, but then I... stopped."

" Was there a reason or did you simply lose the inclination?" It should sound dirty, this whole conversation should feel wrong, but it doesn't and so she keeps going. She figures that, since she's already in the water, she may as well swim.

"I did...when I was really young...I don't even remember how young, but then..." She makes a choking noise (it's not a sob) takes a deep breath and then continues. "Then my dad walked in on me. I had my hand under the covers so he couldn't really...see, but he'd have to have been pretty naive not to know. I couldn't say anything, I started crying. He just turned and walked out of the room, then I heard him talking to my mom. He said, 'you need to go talk to your daughter.'"

"Did he often delegate to your mother in those sorts of situations?" It's a gentle prod, just enough to push her forward.

"Yeah," she laughs nervously, " me and my dad were always...(an image of a dead girl flashes in her mind) close, but not about that kind of thing."

"How did your mother handle the matter?"

"She pretended not to know what I was doing, she was always like that, you know..."

"Willfully ignorant?"

"Yeah, that's it, that's exactly it. So, I told her that it... itched down there." It suddenly hits her exactly what she's talking about and who she's talking to and her throat seizes up, she feels her ears get hot but then she swallows and presses on without looking at him.

"She got me a doctors appointment and when I went in he asked me a bunch of questions, worded things in that clumsy way adults do when they're talking to kids about things they think kids should know. I was really anxious that he was going to ask to look at me...down there but he didn't. In the end he prescribed me something for a yeast infection. After that I just couldn't do that anymore. I would start to, but I'd get so anxious that it wouldn't even feel good."

"Did you feel as though you had lost something?"

She nods, how is it that he always seems to know just what question to ask to keep her talking.

"I don't know," she can't look at him, tears of embarrassment start to sting at the backs of her eyes.

"It was just nice to have something that was just mine, to be able to do something for myself that made me feel that good without having to ask for permission." She chokes, she can't talk.

She jumps when Dr. Lecter touches her shoulder, it's a barely detectable touch but under the circumstances it feels very intimate.

"Did you resent them for taking that release from you?" he rubs a slow circle just over her collarbone with his thumb.

"Yeah." she does sob now, but just once. "Yeah, when I got older I sometimes wanted to ask them why they thought it was better to have me believe there was something wrong with me then to have just one awkward conversation. It felt like...like it didn't matter to them if I was happy, all that mattered was that they got to keep seeing me as an innocent little girl."

"They didn't care about your well-being, they only cared that you were filling the role they needed you to fill?"

She nods, feels long latent anger simmering in her chest.

"Do you feel that set a precedent for your...future interactions with your father?"

She nods, he reaches down a takes her right hand between his two hands, strokes her palm with his thumb, up and down, up and down.

After a few moments in silence he reaches up and places his index finger under her chin, tilting her head back until her eyes meet his. She suddenly feels naked, fully present in reality again.

"You know Abigail," his and returns to her's and resumes it's soothing motion, "you're a grown woman, it is entirely natural that you should have a grown woman's needs and you've certainly no cause to be ashamed, least of all of anything that you do in private."

She flushes and suddenly becomes hyper aware of how close to her he is.

"I find it odd," he went on "that you said permission."

"Huh?" She hadn't realized that she'd been lulled into a trance by his touch, his voice, and the upward inflection in his voice gave her a start.

"Do you feel that you need permission to...attend to yourself, Abigail?"

"I...uh, I guess" she was really blushing now, "I know that's stupid, I know it's not wrong...I just need someone to tell me it's not wrong." A few tears slide down her face but she doesn't look away from him.

He looks gentle when he smiles. He reaches up to wipe her tears away and then moves his hand to the back of her neck where his thumb resumes it's soothing motion, up and down, up and down.

"For what it is worth" his tone is conspiratorial "you have my permission."

He leans in then and kisses her on the cheek. There's a long silence after that wherein he looks at her and she looks at his hand holding her's and she is sorely tempted to reach up and put her arms around his neck, to crush their mouths together and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, but she doesn't. Instead she reminds herself of how much older and how much smarter and how much more experienced he is than her and she looks up at him and laughs an embarrassed, girlish laugh as if to remind him just how not worth his time she is.

He smiles again and then brings her hand to his mouth and kisses it and then looks briefly back into her eyes and for a second she swears she sees that hunger again.

"I think you'd better go back inside Abigail."

She nods and laughs breathily again.

"I...I'm sorry about..."

"Not at all," he stands smoothly and offers her his hand, she takes it and stands. Ss he leads her back to the hospital his hand finds hers again.

"Abigail, do you feel safe with me?" He doesn't turn to look at her, just squeezes a little harder at the end of the question.

"Yes." She says it without hesitation and feels an alien lightness in her chest.

That night, alone in her bed, Abigail takes full advantage of the doctors permission while she remembers the dry warmth of his hand on hers and imagines how his touch would feel on other parts of her body.

Things only change a little after that, but the ways in which they change are important, she thinks. She thinks he seems more relaxed around her and (she thinks) he smiles more. There's a little niggling voice in the back of her head that tells her that she must be imagining it but for once she forces herself not to listen. She doesn't have much in her arsenal when it comes to flirting. With the few boys her own age that she's pursued it had helped to be as overt as possible but she had a feeling that Hannibal wouldn't appreciate that. She tries though, during conversations when he leans in, she leans in, she smiles almost too much, she's always sure to make eye contact and acknowledge him by name when they they see each other.

This goes on for a long time and he doesn't seem anywhere near "taking the bait" so to speak. Just as she's about to give up and start trying to forget the whole thing the "breakthrough" happens. They're in the kitchen and she's drying dishes, being very careful not to drop any of the expensive wine glasses. Then they have that fateful conversation and she winds up confessing everything. When she cries she doesn't know if it's from guilt or fear or pure relief at having finally confided in someone.

She doesn't have long to dwell on it because soon he's holding her and his arms are surprisingly strong and he smells so good, sweet and clean yet masculine. She's surprised at her own boldness when she reaches up and grabs his lapels, pulls him down until their mouths are touching and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. As he pulls her closer, squeezing almost too hard, and growls his satisfaction into her mouth she starts to think that maybe she is his type after all.