Fredricka Lounds has left, tight lipped and paler than usual – with ill hidden anger, yes, but also with fear. Dr Lecter, after all, is an influential figure with rich patients and useful connections. When it comes down to it she's a tabloid blogger who's not nearly as untouchable as she makes herself out to be, for all the satisfied fronts she puts on. Lecter could make things very difficult for her.
There's also the fear of what Lecter could have done to her right then and there, the animal sense of the narrow reprieve she's had from a predator. Fredricka is aware of it simmering beneath her outrage and apprehension; she is highly relieved that Dr Lecter did not touch her throughout the appointment that became an interrogation.
In some dark corner of the meat of her brain, there's a panicked awareness of just how close she came to utter oblivion and dissolution. It's so deep a throb that Freddie can't recognise what it truly is. She puts down her heart beating so hard (it feels as if it's about to burst out of her back) to anger at what she's lost, and the hold Dr Lecter might now have over her.
But she is a being who has always listened to her instincts. She will be wary of Dr Lecter from now on.
Dr Lecter sits at his desk and thinks about the woman he has let leave, terribly rude though she was. A small part of this decision was wariness – Dr Lecter is a practical monster, and there is no telling who Miss Lounds had informed of her visit, or who she was scheduled to meet afterwards that would have missed her. He could claim that she simply never arrived, but he doesn't feel like making such efforts for a kill that interests him so little.
(This does not mean he cannot visit her later to take his cut, should the need arise.)
Partly it is because his larder is full at the moment, and he already has a particular cut that he will serve to Crawford later tonight. He has eaten the lights of Cassie Boyle and left the rest of her to shed light on Will's darkness. He has no further appetite for pigs at present.
Partly it is because Fredricka Lounds, though terribly rude, has not yet shown herself to be an animal. She is savage in her pursuit of her goals, conniving, exploitative, manipulative and self-interested; these are not traits that Dr Lecter admires, as such, but they are not traits that particularly offend him either at this point. He is interested in seeing how far she might go, knowing that she does not dare to turn her spotlight on him. He has seen her outward apprehension – the power he wields, the favours he might call in – and caught the scent of her deeper fear.
Partly it is because she amuses him, as much as a monster such as Dr Lecter can be amused, which is more often than the privileged observer might think. The thought of the present he left for Will amuses him. The thought of the dish he will make for Crawford, and how Crawford would react if he truly knew what he was eating, greatly amuses him. The thought of Miss Lounds inconveniencing Will with her tattling blog, pushing even further on his already fragile mind, is both entertaining to Dr Lecter and…offensive. He is both anticipating what might happen at Will's expense, and yet is repelled by it.
Perhaps, though he knows Fredricka Lounds will not visit him again, he might yet visit her; he considers getting inside Will's head and whatever might happen there his prerogative, not hers, never hers.
One more - very small - part of the whole decision to let Fredricka Lounds live, for now (and Dr Lecter admits this to himself freely) is because Hannibal Lecter has an enormous appetite and appreciation for beauty. Aesthetic preferences vary, but many would agree that the woman is beautiful, and Dr Lecter is one of that number. There are also those who would argue that the woman's character is far from lovely, and her appearance is the only thing that makes up for it; others would argue that her outer and inner selves only enhance each other. Dr Lecter is one of the latter, although at present he has no interest in Miss Lounds's mind and personality.
He thinks of the colour and consistency of her hair, of the different shades it might be described as depending on what light caught it. He finds himself almost longing to see her in bright sunlight as opposed to the dimmer, bottled light of his office; in the direct sun her hair might be a true glory, like bright fire. He imagines touching it and how it might feel against fingertips and palms, the scent of it close to the scalp. There is nothing sexual about these imaginings: at this stage in his thoughts Miss Lounds need not be attached to her hair – or scalp - at all.
He thinks of the contrast her red hair makes with her eyes – such an extraordinary colour – and her pale, pale skin, a type that suggests Miss Lounds stays out of the sun as much as possible, lest she burn. It is a face that artists past would rave to sculpt or paint, to capture that perfect combination of red and white and blue, with a dash of pink thrown in. It is a face with high cheekbones and generally good structure, driven by a forceful, perhaps repellent personality that flares from within.
He thinks of T.S. Elliot: 'Webster was much possessed by death/ And saw the skull beneath the skin'.
Hannibal Lecter installs the image of Fredricka Lounds in one of the many rooms in his vast memory palace – not one of the most visited ones, but still a prestigious honour, though the original will never know it – and begins to plan for the evening.
'Lights' are a rarely used culinary term for lungs/offal.
The lines from T.S. Elliot are found in one of his poems, 'Whispers of Immortality.'
I'm not for a moment suggesting that Lecter is attracted to Lounds - he might be, he might not be, that's up to Fuller and the team. But Hannibal in the show and in canon clearly has a liking for beautiful things, and he could find Lounds aesthetically appealing while having no regard or sexual desire for her whatsoever. Or maybe he does? Dear reader, it is up to you.