The room is black. Impenetrably so.

But it is not the darkness which he has known since the release provided by his first kill. That darkness was his and his alone. A darkness in which to revel, a peaceful solitude from which not even light could escape, devoured by a greedy, insatiable need. The price of a universe perpetually striving for balance, respite from the chaos it has brought upon itself.

This room is black. But the darkness harbours warmth. Not at all to what Hannibal is accustomed. It is unsettling but fear is absent. Something familiar lingers there, just out of reach. The sensory deprivation of his sight, heightens all others to razor sharp.

This darkness belongs to someone else.

"Hannibal…"

His name is whispered cool breath at the back of his neck. He closes his eyes and steps forward. Beneath bare feet, the warmth of a deer pelt gently undulates, alive, but not. The darkness presses on his shoulders, gently forcing him, face down, into the pelt's sensual caress.

Why does he feel so safe?

Tapered fingers find the small of his back, travel gently up his spine and back down either side of his warming body. The pelt ripples beneath him, its dip and rise manoeuvering him onto his back.

The hands that caressed his back, now hovering just above his chest, move down to his stomach and across his hips. Hannibal feels the natural, electric heat emanating from their palms. He resists the urge to rise up to meet them, warring with himself for control. He knows this darkness is not his. He cannot let it consume him. Yet.

"Hannibal…"

Cool breath coasts the word across his belly. He is no longer predator, nor is he prey. He lies open, at his most vulnerable, basking in the feel of such worship. He lifts his hands from the pelt and reaches tentatively into the darkness, not wishing to startle.

His fingers brush velvet skin, trailing a path down to the head from which the young fawn's antlers spring forth.

"Hannibal…"

A familiar oval-shaped face, leaned into the touch, before retreating to stand above the prone body of Hannibal. The velvet antlers ignite into blood-coloured flames, barely penetrating the smothering dark that envelopes them, but enough to reveal the walls are liquid red. Blue-grey eyes meet the fire reflected in Hannibal's own.

"This is my darkness," Will Graham said softly, "You, will become my design…"

Hannibal's eyes flew open, his breath catching momentarily, while he centred himself. He was greeted by the familiar sight of his moonlit bedroom. He rose and walked to the full length mirror by his window and stood in his nakedness, looking himself over appraisingly, as though checking himself for any signs of violation.

Hannibal had not dreamed the likes of such he had just experienced, still vivid and seared in his mind, in countless years. Dreams were unnecessary to the mind of Hannibal Lecter. His fantasies and release well grounded in his daily life.

This was something new.

He returned to his bed. Hannibal picked up the recorder resting on his nightstand and inserted a tape. "Session 4 - Will Graham." He pressed play and once again, drifted off to the soft sound of his latest patient's voice.