Despite the intimacy of the meal, there is little to no talking.
The pale woman, still adorned in her black attire, finds that he appears more concerned over her mannerisms – not once does she look up from her plate to find his gaze set anywhere far from her own line of sight. Scarlett attempts to be inconspicuous as she takes the tablet and capsule in unison, washing it down with the contents of the glass before her. Hannibal's leer is hardly evident as he continues to eat, allowing her to believe she's effectively cloaked the action.
For some reason she felt inclined to extend him a favor. He had, of course, so graciously accepted her into his home and filled her empty stomach to its content just as any congenial host would surely do.
She bit her lip when he pushed himself out of his chair and on cue Scarlett volunteered to assist him in cleaning. Instead the man had insisted that she do nothing of the sort and swept away the dishes that cluttered the table with ease. He disappeared behind a swinging door; he made the trip three times over in succession and the woman looked at the hands in her lap while waiting in patience.
The polished redwood she sits before has a cherry-glow, reflecting the light from dim candles. In no time at all, the table is clear and all traces of their shared meal are gone, stowed away into a kitchen.
"Come," he beckons her from her seat and she stands, "We shall speak in the den."
She follows a mere footstep behind him; even for a house as grand as his own she believes the hallways are too narrow for her to walk comfortably by his side. He doesn't speak a word of it as they enter the new room. It is just as expansive as all of the other rooms, but this one rages with the warmth of a fireplace. There is a sofa along the wall that the psychiatrist strides over to. She doesn't realize she's remained fixed in the doorway until his accent catches her once again.
"Sit with me, Scarlett."
As the words leave his lips he pats the empty place by his side. She nods, walking over to him before settling down, guardedly, and her legs cross over one another at her set of thin ankles.
Hannibal Lecter notes that her tension is present but has unquestionably subsided. She is not the same as she was the day before. Scarlett's form was now bathed in light – alabaster skin turned a health gold. The fire only illuminated the crimson hue of her hair; orange tinged the whites of her eyes.
His own back was to the fire; he imagined to the woman before him his features were heavily shadowed – the glow of the fire serving only to outline a cold form devoid of light and warmth.
He appreciated the imagery of their contrast.
"How do you feel?"
"How do you think I feel?"
She hadn't snapped at him; her words were relatively calm aside from the slightest trace of a shake deep within them. He paused, having shifted his form only slightly in order to face her – to gauge her reactions and read the solemn expressions etched across her features.
"Surely, you feel relieved. Whether it be through burying a daughter, or a secret."
Her look narrowed slightly and eyes rose to the challenge of staring down his own. Suitably, in an attempt to smooth over his words, he added, "I do not intend to press you on the matter. I simply assumed given your arrival in my home…"
A tongue traced painted lips as he spoke and her voice cut him off, "No. It's alright."
She looked away from him, showing off only her profile, "I didn't have anywhere else to go, you know. I'm sorry."
"Don't ever apologize for coming to me."
She swallowed, diverting her eyes and still looking straight ahead, away from him, "It still wasn't appropriate for me to come here. If all of your patients did this sort of thing…"
"You may consider yourself the exception, Scarlett."
Sighing, her expression turned to meet his. "I'm a horrible mother."
He tilted his head slightly, lips pursed, "I doubt that."
"But you don't know."
Hannibal pursued the topic with practiced patience, "Enlighten me."
Scarlett sat alone for nine days; a million worries kept running through her mind. Every afternoon she had gone to visit her mother, a woman who seemed unperturbed by the entire incident.
When the redhead finally broke down in tears on the seventh afternoon, her mother appraised the weakness as justification for her husband leaving.
"Such a sad display, Scarlett. Are you like this when he is around? It's no wonder he hasn't returned, dear."
That line had continued to run through her wearied mind over and over again; an unavoidable, endless loop.
She was scrubbing the baseboards in their bedroom when she heard the scrape of a screen door opening. The redhead rushed into the living room, curled crimson locks bounced off of her shoulders.
"What the hell, Todd!"
He snapped the door shut behind him; his eyes rolled, "Just what I love to hear when I walk through the door – your bitching."
She crossed her arms, frowning, "Where have you been?"
He shrugged his shoulders at her; she felt her voice tighten.
"Where's Julie?"
The silence that rested between them forced her to swallow as a sudden drying knot rested in her throat, "Where the hell is Julie, Todd!"
It came out as a rasp. He pushed past her, knocking her to the side as he took to walking into the kitchen. He opened up the refrigerator, exposing his bent back to her. She was shaking. He scoffed to himself.
"What, she's not here?"
"No!"
That came out as a screech. Todd turned to her, taking in her shuddering displays of fury. He'd never truly seen her this upset before.
"Calm the fuck down. I got someone to watch her – I figured they might've dropped off Julie by now, was all."
But Scarlett didn't calm down. She was even pushed to the point of smacking him right across the face later that evening when she went to gather her coat and shoes in a panic - she had to try and find out where her daughter was. He'd twisted her arm behind her back and she was pressed against the wall an instant later.
"What's wrong with you, huh? You think I'd let something happen to the kid?"
"I want to see her."
"You know, she's my daughter, too, Scar."
"Please! You can't even watch her for a week without pawning her off on someone – who knows who the hell you left her with!"
She felt a sickening pop – her already raw throat could hardly manage the scream she'd needed to release. The sound she could utter, however, was muffled by the arm of the taller, brown haired man.
"I'm not going to listen to this anymore, OK? Do you hear me? Just shut-up and enjoy the fucking vacation away from the screaming. I'm doing you a favor."
Scarlett didn't talk to him when he popped her arm back into place – only a sharp scream was emitted from her. He wrapped the appendage up half-heartedly.
She threatened to file a police report three days later. He'd grabbed her so roughly that her arm fell out of place for a second time; her shriek shredded his eardrums.
He didn't allow her to leave. He promised she'd never see Julie again if she went to the police.
A week went by, and he told her she was overreacting.
She'd tried to call her mother; she'd sided with Todd.
Another week went by. Her eyes had gone cloudy and red.
She woke up with the incessant compulsion to run a blade across the wooden table top. He'd called her crazy when he took in the marred dinner table, and she'd stared at him with a lethal glint in her eye.
Scarlett had always been small, frail, and slender. An easy target.
Her husband was surprised; for the first time in his life he had felt fear.
The innocent doe had been the one to evoke it.
Scarlett Sage hardly flinched when she felt the psychiatrist take her arm in his gentle, yet surprisingly rough grasp; he observed the scar that embellished her ivory flesh with an expert eye. Although difficult to see in the dimly lit room, he could observe the sullen, thin line that marked her.
"You obviously know she was adopted. It's just a secret that my… biological daughter... I just… never found her."
Strong hands had let go of her arm, having fully appraised it. Satisfied.
"Your biological daughter, Julie – she didn't know she was adopted?"
The redhead dipped her head, "I hid it from her. I didn't get a chance to tell her. I was planning to."
"But only after you'd fully mothered her, of course; after some sort of psychological, inner-reflection over what you would define to be an achievement. After the initial failure of losing your infant."
She nodded, after a moment – surprised by his quick analysis. Hannibal placed his hand on her arm once more; the smallest jolt coursed through her. But she was beginning to appreciate the warmth.
"And your husband?"
The heat of the man's hand fell upon her own and she ushered a weak response from a pair of parted lips, "Clearly we are no longer together."
On that note, Hannibal wanted to hiss his accusation at her. He could sense the resistance of her answer. Despite her openness, the trace of a lie was obvious to him. But on the same note, she appealed to him.
He licked his lips in the most subtle of ways as she stared past his face and towards the flames of the raging fire; her expression was vacant.
The colors on her were sublime; she appeared to burn and glow all at once. Hannibal was a man of control and containment, but the urge to taste the fire-lit flesh before him still lingered beneath his restraint.
He was curious how such a thing would affect her; what sort of response she would give to him even from the most simple of sensations.
Certainly she'd grow with unease and it would complicate her emotions and inner turmoil even further. The good doctor wondered internally; was that not the sort of thing he wished to invoke in her?
"Scarlett," his tone low.
Catching her attention, green eyes left the fire.
"Yes?"
"You haven't pulled away from me."
You won't run from your manipulator – until it is too late.
She pressed her lips together, "No…" allowing herself to pause.
"I guess you are helping me, after all."
That is far from my intention, deliciously distant, afflicted Scarlett.
"That is my intention."
He smiled lightly at her, carrying his calm tone – the quiet one he adopted when speaking to his most agitated of patients. The warmth of his hand withdrew from hers and lingered up her arm; he stopped to trace her scar before moving up towards the base of her neck.
The man watched with curiosity as her eyes widened slightly – her shakes running timid; even if she were somehow still frightened by the touch, she found it soothing all the same.
"You're recovering well," he comments, softly.
She swallows; he can feel the movement of her muscles underneath his light grasp. The sensation is one of simple anatomy, but he thrives on such things – how the workings of her frail throat differ from his own and all of the other throats he's laid passionate, agitated hands upon.
"Doctor Lecter – "
"... Hmmm?"
Hesitance is written all over her features – fear lingers there – mostly because of all the things she had expected when coming to her psychiatrist's home tonight, this situation hadn't even seemed plausible to her.
She wonders if it's because of her condition.
Something must be wrong with her – to not pick up on such advances. To not enjoy them. To not revel among them.
Her bottom lip trembles; he traces the plump redness of it with his thumb. He seems precise and observant – exercising caution by evaluation before needlessly diving in after what he admires. She believes he will wait.
But by that time he has kissed her, silencing the thoughts that threatened to escape her lips.
Hannibal finds her delicious, even when her lips refrain from parting at first. He resists the urge to bite down, harshly – the subtle hint of lung and vinaigrette still lingers there. The combination is one of perfection and he cannot help but smirk against her.
She pulls away and he represses a growl – he is trained and calm as he watches her, head titled and dark gaze fixed.
"I-I'm," she forms the word, despite her shaking; "I'm your patient."
He remains still; the corners of his mouth are turned upwards and form the quirk of a smile.
"Is this not to your liking?"
She lets out a shaky breath, "I… I didn't mean it like that. I don't know. I just don't think it's…suitable."
He pauses, his smirk ever present as he continues.
"I'm not suggesting a relationship, dear Scarlett. Indeed, you simply may not be ready for one, judging from what you have told me."
She stares blankly at him, waiting for continuation. A warm, calloused hand is at her neck once more, brushing back a fiery mane of crimson tresses. The sensation incites shivers – they are foreign, long forgotten responses. Some are indefinitely eerie, haunting; but she must admit that they are not all so terrible.
"But do you not ever yearn for release?"
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