When posed with such a frank inquisition, there are a number of things that can falter. A numbing sensation might sweep over any of the five senses – possibly even the entirety of them all.

At his words, this seemed to be Scarlett's case.

It was as if all possible elements of response had decided to wane simultaneously. She knew the swirling in her mind had increased – it somehow managed to mask the suave accent of the man who lingered before her, his hand still resting against the base of her neck. She thought she could feel the shift of his fingers against her, perhaps in an attempt to shake her from her thoughts. She blinked. Blinked away the sensations induced by him.

"Wh – what?"

The breathless stumble on words seemed to amuse the man; his lips quirked up just a bit more and the smirk he held was reflected by his eyes as they poured over her expression. Hannibal chose his next words carefully, speaking them in a slow, precise manner.

"What would you think if we pursued your course of treatment in an alternative… and perhaps, unconventional manner?"

She could not hide it; despite the attempt. The creeping flush was furious – its livid red color swept entirely through her, painting her features explicitly.

"I… You can't be serious."

"I can assure you, dear Scarlett," he insisted succinctly, adding an inclination of his head towards her own, "I am."

Scarlett was irate at how easily she allowed herself to fluster while the man sitting opposite her remained serene. Pressing her lips firmly together, she held a frail hand up to his shoulder, creating a make-shift barrier as she swallowed.

"After what happened today – I... I can't."

A hint of genuine surprised laced over the good doctor – the halt of a pursuit.

There was short pause, a flicker of his maroon-glinted eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly as he enunciated his response.

"Naturally."

Fingers grazed the line of her jaw before pulling away; the woman turned her head to the side, suddenly overcome with the settling awkwardness in the room.

"I apologize. I admit the suggestion wasn't particularly sensitive to your current state."

The redhead's gaze followed the suited man as he stood up from her the next instant, brushing down the lapels of his coat; removing their creases with steadied movement. His features were highlighted from her perspective as she remained perched upon the couch – jutting cheekbones were only emphasized by the flames of the fireplace. She could not help but stare, to which he ended up arching an eyebrow in response.

The red tinge of her complexion intensified. He smirked.

"You must remind me, Scarlett, as my own remembrance has lapsed – when is it that you and I are to meet again under the circumstance of an appointment?"

"I think tomorrow."

"Well then," he extended a hand to her which was timidly taken before the woman was helped up from the sofa, "That is not so long. We can continue our conversation at that time."

"Our conversation?" she repeated flatly - bluntly.

He didn't reply, his taut smirk simply remained in place. Scarlett bit the inside of her lower lip.

"Alright," she agreed with a nod, feeling her hand slip away from his grasp and fall to her side.

He cocked his head at her movement, placing a hand at the small of her back to prompt her forward, "It is late. I'll escort you to your car."

Playing the part of a gentleman came easily to Hannibal Lecter; suavity and charm were two things that did not elude him. As such, it never proved difficult to instigate the swooning effect he had on most women. Not to imply that he did it often; he actually preferred women who were harder to catch. It seemed almost too easy to entice the sort of girl who'd stop whatever she was doing when he passed by. There was no challenge in that - and in all honestly, attracting a woman who seemed bent on only his physical attraction bothered him.

Physical attraction was indeed an important factor to him, but the mind itself was what sparked true intrigue.

Despite hints of hesitance from the crimson woman before him, he doubted those feelings would linger; she was obviously flattered by his advancement, he noted to himself – her lack of composure made that quite clear.

Given the situation, he admitted he'd acted a bit on impulse. He also admitted that he would likely do so again.

It was the manipulation of something timid – he found it a rewarding exercise.

"I appreciate what you told me today, about your daughter. It was very trusting of you. I wish for you to continue to confide in me."

They were outside of her car by now, the chill night nipped at her. She invited the coolness though; it settled her nerves and she felt she could breathe easier in open air.

"I will," she managed, steadily.

Another short pause passed between them; both obviously evaluating the sincerity of her response.

"Doctor Lecter?"

"Yes?"

The back of her teeth took to gritting against each other; she would have to force out the inquisition – the factor of uncertainty that lingered in her mind.

"I have to ask. And believe me I'm not trying to put you on the spot."

Ironic. He'd certainly put her on the spot, he mused sarcastically to himself.

Heels shifted against the pavement, parallel with forced eye contact.

"Are you attracted to me?"

The smile that played on his lips was tugged up a bit further, "I do recall pointing out your intrigue. More than once, if I'm correct."

"So. I'm taking that as a yes."

He paused for only a moment, "Believe me, Scarlett. Even cloaked in darkness, you appear remarkable."

Scarlett had surprised herself; more than his answer has surprised her, in fact.

Leaning up, she succeeding in planting a chaste, swift kiss on his cheek.

She averted her eyes and turned towards the car almost immediately afterwards, but not so fast that the hint of a returning, fervent blush went unperceived by the good doctor.

Remarkable girl.

Psychopathic Deception:

1. Glibness and charm

2. Analogies and metaphors

3. Evasion

4. Fabrication

5. Playing upon emotions

"Childish," an ivory hand held up a pouted chin, "He thinks you acted childish."

She was tutting angrily to no one in particular other than herself. It took awhile for her to fall asleep the night before; the five hours of rest she did manage to claim were far from efficient as she went about grading piles of tests – paperwork spilled from the corner of her desk, expectedly after having allowed the mess to pile up for a few day's time.

She'd been jittery, thanks to the lack of sleep. When the cup of coffee she sought out in order to wake spilled over, she cursed audibly.

"For God's sake."

"Do you need help?"

Catching a breath in her throat, she looked up; a tall, middle-aged man sporting a dark five o'clock shadow had stepped into the office. His name was Mark, and the redhead worked for him.

"Oh," she opened one of the desk's drawers, rifling through the contents before retrieving a handful of napkins with a grimace still plastered on her face, "I've got it. Some of these papers are just watermarked now, I guess."

He'd grinned slightly at her glumness, approaching casually as she went about blotting the mess. The woman was wearing a pair of black, squared reading glasses; she looked up over the frames as he neared.

"You alright, Professor?"

"I'm fine."

The man pocketed his hands, coming to standstill, "Not anxious, or anything?"

She gave him a puzzled look; his glance was an obvious gesture towards the spilled mess. Huffing, she turned her attention back down towards the wet table.

"Accidents happen."

"They do."

The tension tore into her.

"Please," the voice began, "Take a voluntary leave of absence."

A pink tongue licked lips that rolled in; fingers dropped the matted napkins as she stood up straight, her jaw set firm.

"Why would I do that?"

"Your daughter's funeral. The article in the paper –"

"I've been dealing with this just fine for months. It hasn't interfered with my work."

"I'm not saying it has. I'm thinking about your personal life."

She turned her head, closing her eyes in disbelief. "I appreciate your concern, but I need a legitimate reason."

The man tried to ease into his explanation, "… I received a personal call."

"What? A complaint?"

Scarlett practically spat the words in distaste; her boss spoke up over her.

"You're not being fired, Doctor Sage."

"Right… Just on leave…" she spoke, bitterly, "For how long?"

"I'm prepared to have a visiting professor take over your courses for the rest of the semester."

Jade orbs widened, "The rest of the semester? That's over three months!"

"You can come back next term."

"That's too long," she hissed frankly, shaking her head, "What am I supposed to do?"

The dark haired man shrugged his shoulders, "Whatever you want to do – you'll be paid while you're out."

She sat down, leaning back in her chair; analyzing her fingernails before taking to drum them against the wooden desk as she leaned forward. "So, who complained?"

Hesitance made itself known; she eyed him as he shifted, crossing his arms, "It wasn't a complaint. It was a recommendation."

The taps against the wood grew louder with new-found, added pressure. "Whose recommendation?"

"Hannibal Lecter's."

Running at night is not good for the lungs. The chill bite of frost nips at the organ with each constriction and release. The throat, too, feels the effects of cold; often a throat can turn raw and the rasps released from it serve only to strain the corded muscles further.

Wild and frantic, a heartbeat rushes along with the swift movements of a running stride against grassy terrain. His mind is foggy from injury - pain permanently instilled in it from the growing source of throbbing that tears at his side.

It would be a waste of time, to stop and examine the wound, or even to just glance down. Preservation of life surpasses the need to know whether a bullet or arrow has grazed the flesh above his hip. All that matters is the seeping, draining feeling of blood flow and loss; droplets of it are without doubt leaving behind a spackled, crimson trail - one easy enough to follow.

Rugged breaths and cracking twigs beneath sneakers are the two noises the young man hears outside of the swill of pain and adrenaline surging through his body.

But then, he can hear the distortion of torn flesh before the pain escalates to reciprocators.

The second hit lands; the sharp infliction buries itself within a shoulder blade. His body falls with a gasp and the sting of air against open wounds feels far worse than that of the tripping collision against the earth.

Face down, planted in dirt – only with the assistance of a hunter does the weak appendage rise. The fallen prey cannot feel the painful twist of a hand's grasp at the back of his neck. There are other, more prominent sources of pain. Cold ground meets an agitated back; the catch is flipped with ease.

Hannibal is a sadist, but he does not feel sadistic.

Indeed, the first cut is precise. His attention is focused and the actions of the sharpened knife are executed with patience, accuracy, and a calm demeanor - despite the sputtering movements of the body pinned beneath his own.

He would not call his actions sadistic. He is meticulous. He executes with care.

In his mind, these are extensions of kindness.

Will Graham was ten minutes early for his appointment with the unconventional psychiatrist; while indeed their relationship was lax, Will was well aware of how particular the sharp-featured man could be when it came to his work.

Even if he'd arrived a mere minute early, that door would not open until the clock struck the exact time of his appointment.

Cross a leg over his knee, he'd situated himself in one of the chairs in the waiting room; rolling up his sleeves and pushing the glasses that rested upon his face back up into position against the bridge of his nose. These little actions seemed to help pass the time and he needed to carry them out. He was one to fidget in silent circumstances because they allowed room and time for contemplation and thought.

The young agent didn't like that time; he did not want to have to linger on such grotesque things.

Heavy breathing and shuffling, quick-paced clicks caught him by surprise and saved him from the silence. The anger etched upon the oncoming woman's features worried him, but he noticed her expression weaken just a bit as they made eye contact.

"Scarlett? Are you, uh – are you okay?"

Will stood up; she stopped before him, giving him a confused look.

"No, not really… Will, right?"

The agent nodded while she feigned a half-smile. It looked awkward paired with the creases of anger still marring her forehead.

"I'm sorry. I'm not the greatest with faces and names," she lied, choosing to avoid the subject of her spill at Hannibal's home.

"What's wrong?"

Narrowing green eyes flew over to the door and back to the brown-haired man before her all within a second's time.

He frowned, "Doctor Lecter?"

Ruby lips pressed against one another, matting the color, "That would be the short-handed explanation."

"What'd he do?"

She stopped to think, watching Will blink rapidly a few times over at the sudden thought of his own doctor having instilled anger in another patient. She pursed her lips, feeling a pang of guilt.

"It's… nothing, really," she brushed off, adding only when she caught the quirk of his brow, "I think doctor-patient confidentiality goes both ways, you know."

Will shrugged lightly, "I mean - you looked like you were going to barge in there and – "

"It's fine," she cut in, and he dropped his gaze, "Do you have an appointment, then?"

"Yeah, but if you need to speak with him..." he suggested, prompting himself to hold her gaze. She shook her head before he could finish, looking dismissive.

"I'll come back later. Don't tell him I was here."

"It appears to be too late for that, Scarlett."

Both individuals in the sitting room turned to face the well put-together and tailored presence of Doctor Lecter; he lingered in the doorway with one hand splayed against the ajar hardwood.

His selected, preferred patients both felt affected by the absolute gaze.

"Would you both like to come in?"

The pair outside of the door glanced at one another; simultaneously the two spoke.

"No."

Hannibal tilted his head, Scarlett allowed her gaze to harden against his own, and Will chuckled nervously, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck.

"She'll take my time. I'll just, uh – see you tomorrow. Jack wants you to come in, anyway."

"Will – "

"It's okay," he insisted, glancing up at the ceiling before turning towards the redhead. He forces a light grin, "Dogs are probably hungry."

The woman wasn't set on sitting; her posture was straight and her jaw was set.

"You're lucky."

His brow arched as he walked towards the desk, taking to leaning against it as she spoke in her harder, obviously afflicted tone.

"Why do you say that?"

"If Will hadn't been standing at the door when I came up here, I'd be screaming at you right now."

His fingers slid lightly across the surface of wood and he looked at her with a far from dignified smirk, "Perhaps I'd have welcomed it."

"You'd have welcomed me screaming at you for getting me fired?" she scoffed, icily.

"From a behavioral standpoint," the man clarified, pursing his expression, "Confrontation would unquestionably comprise a sort of personal breakthrough, or advancement, on your part."

She sent her eyes to the side in a half-roll; he added, "And you were not fired, my dear."

"Might as well have been," Scarlett pointed out, crossing frail arms over her chest. "You're going to have to call and fix this. I'm not going three months without something to do."

"I think it would be best for you to take leave. It will bide you time to follow through on lost interests – rekindle severed ties with family and friends…"

"No."

He stopped, "Why dismiss it so quickly?"

"Because you have no right to assume what I do with the personal life."

He inhaled, lightly, tearing his searing gaze off of her form for a moment, "We have been making such progress, Scarlett."

She threw him a sarcastic glare – he caught it.

"You kissed me. That doesn't qualify as progress."

The corners of his mouth quirked upwards in a collective grin, "If I recall correctly, it was you who decided to endow me with such a sentiment upon your departure."

Scarlett licked her chapped lips, glowering at his smug expression. "Well. I won't make that mistake again."

A light chuckle was released between them and an elongated arm gestured to one of the seats in the middle of his office.

"Take a seat, please. We'll converse like adults."

She did so, keeping her arms firmly locked over her torso as he settles himself across form her with a raised brow.

"I would like to hear more about your husband."

"Ex-husband," she interjects, plainly and factually. He nods. She sighs, passively.

"What about him?"

Hannibal locks long fingers together, steepling them under his chin in thought. "What was the breaking point? What caused you to leave him for good? Was it this event – him losing your daughter?"

She shifted, "It wasn't like that."

His posture remained still, "There is no room for a lie here. There was a trigger, Scarlett – what was it?"

Her shoulders tensed before they fell into a shrug.

"You won't tell me?"

A firm shake of her head sent crimson curls bouncing, "After what you did?"

His façade remained relatively unaffected, but his eyes narrowed at her accusation-laced tone. Lips remained held in a pursed-pout until he spoke up, "I would prefer to not call your supervisor. I truly think a break would do you good."

"… Then I'd prefer not to answer your questions," she reflected calmly.

He stared at her intently – as if to burn her. For a moment she thought he actually would, and she worried for a split second over how the man would receive her words.

There was a clearing of a throat that caught her ear, "Fair enough, Miss Sage. Please tell me – is there anything else I could do that would get you to contribute to this session, or should we simply stare aimlessly at one another for the next half an hour?"

Several thoughts splayed across her mind; she was irked and agitated at how badly he'd affected her personal life, but at the same time she felt the need to savor a presented opportunity – especially when it dealt with someone she'd felt a flicker of unjustified attraction towards.

"Tell me about you."

You wanna know why this chapter is inaccurate... it's because if Mad's Mikkelsen kisses you - under no circumstances whatsoever do you EVER even contemplate the thought of rejecting him. I mean, damn; Scarlett is obviously cray.