The padding of polished shoes brings an onslaught of stag-inhabited memories. The feeling of sickness is so thick in the air that it is tangible. Will Graham doesn't lift his throbbing head from his thin prison-issued pillow. The throes of encephalitis have made his skin sallow and the usually handsome man took on a shockingly skeletal appearance.
"Good evening, Will," says the good doctor, courteous as always.
"Is it?" mutters Will. He turns his sunken eyes to Hannibal. They are still piercing through the illness, "Why didn't you tell Alana that you had visited me before. She seems to be under the impression that I have been absolutely alone."
"You can never be absolutely alone. Not you, Will. Not even if you desperately wanted to be."
"No, because only death brings that kind of luxury."
"Is that what you have been thinking about. Has death preoccupied your mind of late?"
"You've been preoccupying my mind. I think about you. I think about you all the time, Dr. Lecter."
"And what are your thoughts," Hannibal's head tilts minutely."
"You know," the doctor sighs.
"I should have realized," disappointment colors the velvety voice," I'm sorry, Will. I understand now that this was very inappropriate of me. You need time to recover, to heal."
"thanks to you," Will growls.
"Will your delusions have seeped into every corner of your mind. The longer you nurture these fantasies, the longer it will take to rid yourself of them."
"THEY AREN'T FANTASIES!" Will is screaming now. His hands are white on the iron bars, "YOU CAUSED THIS! EVERYTHING!"
"Very well, I shall alert Dr. Chilton that you are in need of sedation," a crestfallen expression falls into place,"Again Will, I am so sorry." Heart pounding in his ears, Will watches as the tall figure in the immaculate suit recedes down the hallway as quickly as he had come. The darkness blooms.