"He didn't try to find his ideal mate; he created one in her - a Victor Frankenstein building his monster, adamant in his pursuit to create distorted perfection."


"Not keen on deflection, Doctor Lecter?"

Her voice is a bit insistent.

She only says these words to prompt him when the silence following her first inquisition goes on too long, especially so when it is paired with the passive demeanor of the collected doctor.

Only a moment's hesitation lingers between them before thin lips curl upwards at the accusation; he is placid on the surface, the inner mechanisms of his mind remain as serene and composed as the façade he displays.

"It is admirable when executed properly," the accented tone clarifies, and he takes to crossing a leg over the other.

Scarlett's green orbs absentmindedly follow the action.

From across the room, she dictates the tartan designs that pattern against the color of the richly dark suit. There are perfectly accented creases etched into the trousers and she admires his eye for detail and patience. Having pressed an iron to countless blazers and suits by her own hand, she recalls cursing at inanimate attire on more than one occasion.

"What is it that you are curious to know?"

Thin shoulders take to shrugging, but the cherry-lipped woman holds her own. Hands are folded in a graceful manner upon her knee and a smirk shines in her eyes.

She is half-way content because for once, she will be the one prodding.

"What would you share?"

Time suspends as he silently contemplates his response – he is able to fix his passive, faint smirk across his features as expertly as always; the expression doesn't reveal a single thought or tangible emotion.

She sinks back into the chair; the broad sides of it shield most of her form; a repetitive noise meets her ears before she realizes she is tapping the tip of her heel in impatience. Abruptly, she stops the action.

"I wonder, Scarlett…" his words are spoken in a low tone, pristinely selected, "Have you ever managed to come across the Latin phrasing of Quid Pro Quo during your studies?"

She presses her lips together and Hannibal Lecter catches the hint of uncertainty marring the tinge of her cheeks.

"It rings a bell."

"… By definition, it refers to an exchange of goods or services, where one transfer is contingent upon the other."

"Mhmm," she nods, and he tilts his head.

"Perhaps we can exercise it here?"

She arches a fine brow, inwardly distinguishing the benefits from the risks of his suggestion, "You answer my question and I answer yours?"

"Essentially," he nods, "It is an effective concept of barter. It also helps for the two individuals to establish further trust – something we are to aim for, wouldn't you agree?"

There is something insistent edged into the deep Lithuanian vibrato that makes her feel inclined to agree; nevertheless, she cannot shield the waver of disappointment held within her.

It was as if he'd swiped a potent card from her perfect hand; though still left with options, her power remains diminished.

"Honesty is valued."

Hannibal points this out, and she nods wordlessly once again. "I intend to answer truthfully – I am sure you'll reciprocate the gesture."

"That's fine," she agrees, eyeing the space on the wall behind him, "So…"

"- and so we begin," he insists, pursing his lips as he adds, "I believe a lady would go first, yes?"

Scarlett finds herself dipping her head, smirking at his punctual instruction, "Alright, then. Tell me why you decided to become a psychiatrist."

He clicks his tongue at her, "Surgery is a complicated business. Mistakes are made – eventually, I killed someone."


There was something satisfying about setting bones, organ restoration and the mending of wounded tissue; he assumed it had everything to do with resistance.

In all honesty, Hannibal Lecter learned to control the inner confliction of self restraint in the emergency room far better than he could have done anywhere else.

There's an underlying scent there that he enjoys. It has an almost calming attribute to it.

His collogues seem to avoid it – they mask it with antiseptic and wash it away until everything is sterile once again. When that sterility is lost and another nameless body clings to a metallic table once more, he hides all internal satisfaction from whoever ends up assisting him.

When life is lost, it is unintentional.

Hannibal truthfully does just as any other doctor would do. He saves lives.

The anatomy of the human body is malleable, and it is with great care that the flaws presented against torn flesh are fixed and stitched in the compulsory, meticulous manner that he carries. He prides himself on it. It's another form of art to him. He is good at it, too.

Sometimes, there isn't much that can be done. Forearms coated with latex still shine with blood, but no breath of life is restored as a result of the trial.

When a teenager dies from the injuries sustained from a car wreck, it is the surgeon's responsibility to deliver the news.

Several beads of sweat align his brow before a lean forearm wipes them all away. The man begins pulling off the surgical mask and blood-splattered gloves. Soap is embedded into his fingernails – he scrubs harshly, removing all traces of the deceased teen from his body. They cannot be there, given the fact that he'll be facing the family.

Sincerity is exercised when he talks.

"I am genuinely sorry."

Foreign tears blemish the scrubs that he wears and a face leans against his chest. He is able to exude sympathy, and so his own arm wraps around the convulsing shoulders of the crying individual – an aunt, or something – it doesn't matter.

He's used to this. He does it a number of times. He counts over ten instances, to be exact; a small faring number for that of a surgeon dedicated to the monstrosities that sweep through the ER.

"You're good with people, Hannibal."

Another surgeon, a younger raven-haired woman decides that it is necessary to point this out to him one afternoon, and she tacks on:

"I just can't bring myself to do it. I can't tell people that they'll never see the person they love again. It's horrible."

She is relatively new. Fresh out of her residency, he believes. Unused to such things.

He can tell she's affected by something else. Perhaps someone in her family has died. He stiffens minutely when she presses him on.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

He doesn't have to feign a look of displeasure; it's already there.

"How could it not?"

Hannibal Lecter thinks about the inquisition posed by his troubled colleuge a week later while he stands admiring a full pantry. At the same time, he is conscious of the dwindling state of his freezer.

He thinks about it on a second instance when he is drawing blood from a crude businessman. Firm hands are delicate and precise when dealing with veins, but the businessman still fidgets, yells, and even shouts an obscenity at Hannibal afterwards - accusing him of being incompetent.

Her words are with him a third time - when the crude man is on the chopping block and Hannibal anticipates with satisfaction that his freezer will remain full for quite some time.

No. It doesn't bother him.

When he has his colleagues over for dinner a month later and announces his plan to shift into psychiatry, there is a genuine, lingering sadness – but still, everyone praises his decision.

They praise his meal. They praise everything about him, because he has eluded them.

The black haired woman nods to him in particular, lifting her glass with nearly a half-dozen others.

"You will be superb. You're good with people."

She reiterates this, her sincerity ever-present. He smiles, and sips the sweet liquor.


"One death too many. The teen was the last straw, so to speak – that is why I resigned."

"What was his name?"

He wonders why it matters. Hannibal doesn't believe he actually ever cared to find out, but he says "Michael" with affirmation, and it convinces the redhead.

"That's terrible."

"Yes."

She is quiet and turns her gaze to the floor. He assumes she feels bad for drawing such a memory out from him, and clears his throat.

"Fortunately, I believe I found my true calling in psychiatric medicine. I am very passionate about the field."

Scarlett looks up, exhaling, "That's good, then."

"Yes," he says again, shifting slightly in his seat before adding, "Do you mind - ?"

She sighs, waving a tired hand at him, "Go ahead."

A light smile and thoughtful look grace his sharp features. It comes off as puzzling to Scarlett, who believes to already fully anticipate his question.

Hannibal speaks clearly, narrowing his thoughtful look into one of genuine immersion as he makes his inquiry.

"How did you kill your husband?"

Her chest visibly constricts from shock, and she sputters.

"What?"

Of course, he expects her to be caught off guard, naturally – such a question usually carries with it bleak and personal details so intricately hidden within oneself that the mere mentioning of them provokes stunning reactions to their unexpected resurface.

"How," he reiterates, calmly, "did you kill your husband?"

The psychiatrist pauses, correcting himself as he watches her features both drain of color and darken simultaneously.

"Ex-husband."

She stands, abruptly, and turns away from him.

"I'm done."

"Scarlett – "

Ignoring the utterance of her name through his accented tone, she remains fixed on the door and walks with a hurried pace.

The sudden light grasp that encircles her wrist stops her mid stride; it is not rough, but it strong enough to hold her in place as she is turned around towards him. When her initial reaction compels her to try and jerk her hand away; he quirks a brow and keeps the frail arm entrapped.

"I assume it was in self-defense?"

She tries once more to tug her arm from his grasp; uncertain if it is out of fear or simply the desire to piss him off.

He'd certainly struck a chord.

The man before her appears entirely unfazed by her action. If anything, her actions subtly pique his interest, but nothing more. Hands are holding her wrist firmly at her side; and soon the adjoining one that she'd flung up at him as well is captured as well.

"How do you even..."

"The thought crossed my mind. I take your reaction as confirmation."

She senses his eyes darting all around her face, taking in each individual feature as if to further gain insight into the truth. His over-obvious analyzation made her want to hit him.

She grates her teeth, attempting to steady her breathing.

"Let go."

The demand was spoken with all the roughness she could conjure, and she is able to detangle a hand from his grasp but he snatches it back again, quickly. It comes as a surprise to her, the swift and agile reflex.

Her mouth falls open a bit and her words are quietly spoken.

"What do you want me to say?"

He tilts his head, frowning slightly; as if it is obvious.

"I want you to answer the question. I answered yours, did I not?"

There might be a hint of sarcasm in his voice; not overt, but it's there.

It's suitable. There was an obvious difference between her question and his own.

"Let go of me… and I'll answer the question."

Hannibal feels daggers being glared into him; he is fond of the sensation.

At her request, his fingers uncoil from around her wrists; the delicate appendages cross over once another in front of her chest.

Scarlett admits he hadn't strained her. The surface of her skin went relatively unaffected – nevertheless, a burning sensation lingered there.

Everything seemed to burn.


"Mother."

"What is it, dear?"

Scarlett can hear the condescending pitch of the older woman's voice even through the static of the phone line.

"I'm leaving."

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to leave. I don't want you to worry."

"Scarlett," she can hear an exhale of smoke through the receiver, "Don't do anything rash."

"Julie's gone," the redhead speaks with a quiet break in her voice, "she isn't coming back."

"But you don't know that you're saying, sweetheart. Your husband promised she was fine."

"Then where is she?"

The older woman sighs lightly, "Safe, I'm sure."

The pale woman wants to believe it.

"… I hope so."

When Scarlett hangs up the phone sometime later, her mother holds the impression that she has convinced her daughter to forget her mindset to bolt from her husband.

She cooks dinner; she wants to burn it, but refrains from doing so.

It is difficult to mask the look of hatred she feels towards her husband as he eats. As she chews, she notes that her bites are small and lazy in comparison to his.

Scarlett doesn't realize she's been staring at him for minutes on end. The explicitly loud sound of a fist upon the tabletop coupled with the vibration of wood jars her from her zoned-out perspective and she jumps.

"What!"

"What are you staring at?"

A jade gaze falls down from him and rests on table, "Nothing."

The man rolls his eyes, and gruffs, "You bored? You want to do something?"

"No."

"Let's do something."

She shakes her head lightly, bringing a hand up to cradle her cheek – her elbow rests upon the tabletop. "Do what?"

"Hell, I don't care – so long as it gets that look off of your face."

She wants to scream at him, but before she can do so he breaks her train of thought.

"We could go get a drink."

"I'm not – "

"Come on."

At the moment in time, she's not entirely sure what it is about his insistence that sparks her. She finds herself pocketing a butter knife into the coat hugging against the back of her chair just as easily as she would have a wallet.

It's not terribly late. It's still dark, though – and the couple walk close to one another.

She's surprised he's talking so much. It's out of character for him, and she wonders what else has changed about him.

But then again, everything else about him has changed. She shouldn't be surprised.

The knife she thrusts into his abdomen puts an end to his talking – his newest change in character doesn't get the opportunity to blossom.


Scratching her slightly, the rough sensation of carpet grazes her knees before the realization that she is on the floor fully hits her. She is conscious of the man knelt down in front of her, but her hunched-over form shields her eyes from him. Her own hand runs over the lines of her face. With the back of it, she blots away streaming tears.

"That wasn't self-defense, Scarlett."

She felt the gentle nudging beneath her chin, a light, clinical touch. He is able to coax her to look up for his examination; she shuts her eyes in avoidance of his.

"That being said - you were provoked, and I understand the nature of your crime."

Lidded eyes opened. The scorching red color clouding her eyes was expected; she neither pulled away from nor leaned against his touch.

"Why did I tell you that?"

The pad of his thumb brushes away an astray tear as he cocks his head at her; there is no lingering smile, just a passive expression.

"I asked you to confide in me. True, from an outsider's perspective, perhaps it was not so wise of you."

She swallows, she shivers – eventually, she finds in her agitation a furious hand lunging at him and she swipes him harshly across the side of his face.

Upon contact, she realizes the power behind her assault not only makes a resoundingly loud noise amid the silence of the room – but it also breaks his skin. There are several red, perfectly parallel marks that show it. They are in her direct line of sight when his face is turned to the side; the slightest grimace traces his features.

She's shocked by the blood edged into the tips of her nails.

"I – I'm sorry. It's just, this isn't funny."

He stretches his neck out, turning to look at her full on once more, his heavily lidded eyes passive – if there is any anger there, it is well hidden.

"No need to apologize, Scarlett. I did not mean to alarm you."

"You won't say anything?"

He pauses and edges himself up from the floor, offering a hand to help her as well.

"Certainly not. You can trust me with your secret."

She feels a shudder of relief course through her, but she does not smile.

"Thank you."

She pauses, eyes flickering to the red-color clinging to his cheek – only a tinge of guilt passes through her, but it is still there.

"I'm really sorry for hitting you."

"I believe I told you that there was no need to apologize for it."

"I heard you," she ushers, quietly.

He nods at her, choosing to indulge whatever apology she wanted to extend.

"There's a bit of gauze in the top right corner of my desk – will you fetch it for me?"

He's surprised at how quickly she moves. It's as though only seconds pass before she's extending the white padded material out to him with hesitation; which he accepts with a courteous 'thank you' and she a 'you're welcome'.

"Do you feel comfortable leaving, Scarlett?"

It's secondary to him – he does not need a mirror, especially for such a small abrasion. He stares at her intently as he dots the blood off of his skin; he notes her expected swallow.

"No."

He finally offers her a smile, walking across the room to flick the gauze into the trash.

"We'll have tea."