Hannibal settled into his desk chair, a slight smile on his face. Upon his organized desk was a tray which held a variety of coffees for Miss Shaw to choose from upon her arrival. He did have Will's appointment tonight, but he had canceled his other appointments under false pretenses and half hearted apologies. He took the time to reflect upon what he would do now. As he had previously thought, he wanted to see how far he could push her. Mold her into something beautiful. He had already seen cracks in her mask when she had spoken of killing, the hesitation. If he could push on that further… He would have to do it slowly and carefully. She was less easily manipulated than what Will and the FBI were. She had his blood, after all. Clearly she had no idea who her mother was… He couldn't recall a woman that long ago. He wished he could, if he did remember he would find her and kill her for abandoning his child. The idea that she was working for Chilton bothered him but he could hardly suggest she work as his secretary. She had already mentioned the conflict of interest with her continuing as his patient. He should be careful, avoid taking too personal an interest at this point. But it was quickly becoming an obsession, even more so than Will. At a soft knock on his door, he stood and opened it, Eliana turning to face him. She had cleaned up well, choosing to wear a black dress and a shawl in the same color.

"Miss Shaw. Please, come in." He smiled, stepping aside.

She limped inside, giving a quick glance around before her eyes settled on the variety of coffee. "What is this?"

"Well," He shut the door, locking it. "You mourned the fact that you did not have coffee available for breakfast. So I thought I might provide you with a variety to choose from during our session." He explained.

"It does smell rather good…" She frowned before glancing at him. "But I want to get something out of the way first."

"And what is that, Miss Shaw?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm going to ask a question and you're going to answer it honestly. Naturally, once I've finished, you can ask whatever you like." She replied.

"As you wish." He sat in his chair, watching her. She seemed surprised, she hadn't expected him to agree so easily.

"Did you know I existed?"

"No."

"Do you know who my mother is?"

"I pride myself on my memory and yet I find myself unable to recall a woman who would be your mother."

She lightly tapped her cane against the floor in thought. "Did you want to be a father?"

"I was a father to my younger sister once. The idea that it may happen again had not occurred to me."

"Was?"

"She died." His voice shifted, a look in his eyes warning her to not press on the subject.

"Do you want me to turn all squishy and cry, calling you father?"

"You've already had your crying, unless that is a typical response to alcohol. You seem to show emotional control when sober so an event of 'Squishy' as you put it would lead me to believe you had been drinking again. I do not expect you to call me father, but it is a situation I would like to think about and believe it may happen."

She moved to his desk, lifting each of the containers of coffee up to take a sniff of each. She chose the one with the strongest scent, hesitating. She had no idea how to use a french press. Hannibal stifled a chuckle of amusement, getting up and approaching his desk to make it for her. "Caffe Lavazza. An Italian roast that creates a delicate yet strong flavor." He glanced to her. "Is it my turn for questions?"

"Yeah, I guess." She avoided looking at him.

"Why did you have such an emotional response to discovering you had a living relative?"

"The idea hadn't occurred to me. I hadn't thought my father would be someone I knew already, let alone my fucking therapist."

"Language, please." He expected an argument, surprised yet pleased at a muttered apology.

"It was just a lot on top of the fact that I had killed someone. The drinking was reckless and stupid."

"It is a common human response to stress, be it psychological or emotional. Do you drink often?"

"If you're asking me if I'm an alcoholic, the answer is no. I can't afford it that often."

"Your leg." He changed the topic suddenly. "How did it happen?"

"I was in an orphanage, got hurt while playing. They didn't want to pay medical bills for some brat so they wrapped it up and hoped it would heal the best it could. And it did, it only left me with a permanent limp the rest of my life." Her tone was bitter. "I did get them shut down, though. Came back as an adult. It felt good."

"It's good you came back for justice." He would have killed them. Perhaps he would if any employees were alive. "The name?"

"Happy Home or… Something like that. Is that ready yet?"

"Patience is a virtue." He gave a soft chuckle as he pressed down on the plunger, a delicious scent filling his office as he poured the coffee for her. "Do you take cream or sugar?"

"I prefer it black." She gave a slight shrug at his look.

"Perhaps your taste is something we can work on." He remarked. "Do you want a father?"

She took the cup, quickly taking a sip and ignoring the fact that it was scalding hot. Anything to avoid the question. "It's good coffee."

"It is also at least one-hundred and ninety-five degrees fahrenheit. Please do not harm yourself simply to avoid a question, Miss Shaw. I would still very much like an answer."

"Fuck. I don't know!" She snapped. "Like I said, it's a weird ass concept and it exists now. You're my therapist, can we talk about something else besides personal shit? It's a conflict of fucking interest. And I'm not apologizing for my language."

"Do you often have outbursts or is it simply a response to me?" He raised an eyebrow, returning to his chair.

"I- Probably you, if I'm being honest. Which is kind of the point of therapy, isn't it?" She took a moody sip as she sat across from him, setting her cane beside her.

"Your sketchpad was out, I noticed the pictures were all scratched out. Why is that?"

"You poked around my home, you mean." She snorted. "And I can't draw and it frustrates me. I can cook, I like cats and occasionally watching TV and reading. Those are the extent of my hobbies."

"Would you be interested in my books here?"

She hesitated at that, her face turning slightly red. She had to admit that his collection was stunning and she was incredibly curious. "I… Yes, please."

He nodded at that, seeming almost pleased. "I've no appointments until tonight, you are free to look as long as you want. Provided our conversation can continue as both of us see fit."

She lightly furrowed her brow. "Are you suggesting that I spend the day with you?"

"You can hardly go into work." He pointed out, seeing the look of irritation that flickered across her face.

"Yeah, that…" She sighed, taking another sip. "Were you involved in the Minnesota Shrike case? You mentioned going and your return was around the same time that it ended."

"Yes."

"Why were you involved? Do you work for the FBI?"

"One of my unofficial patients, Will Graham, works for the FBI. I was assisting him and it was by pure chance and circumstance that we located Mister Garret Jacob Hobbs. Do you follow such cases?"

"It's been all over the news, it was a bit hard to avoid. He killed girls that looked like his daughter. Why didn't he just kill her?"

Hannibal pondered the question. "It is difficult to ask him as he is dead. However, I would imagine that the love he had for his only child was stronger than his desire to kill her."

"Would you kill me if you had to?" She asked suddenly, meeting his eyes.

He paused and met hers. "As it stands at this very moment, yes. I would."

"How would you do it?" She couldn't stop the question, her eyes intent on his.

Perhaps there was a spark that he could work with… "Physically, I am stronger than you. I would use a direct approach, pull your cane away, and snap your neck. Clean and simple."

"How would you dispose of the body?" She asked.

"Are you often interested in methods of death, Miss Shaw?" He inquired. He wanted to avoid the question for now.

"In this present moment, yeah, I'm interested." She lightly shrugged as she took another sip of her coffee. "I did just recently kill someone. Familiar patterns of thought and all that." She set her cup aside, getting up and limping towards the ladder up to the second floor loft.

Hannibal was up in an instant, following her and offering her a hand to assist. Eliana eyed it before lightly taking it and climbing up the ladder. "It can be beautiful in a way, giving voice to the unmentionable. Color, air, light. Some artists find the grim nature of death to be the focus of their artworks."

"Yeah, and the rest of the world calls them crazy or depressed for it." She replied, lightly running a hand along his collection of books. The feeling comforted her. "But I suppose that's how people respond to things they don't understand. Insult it and attack it."

"Have you been attacked before, Miss Shaw? Before the attack inside your home, of course." Hannibal corrected himself before she could make a snarky or sarcastic comment.

"Not physically." Eliana eyed some of the books on the shelf in front of her. Some were medical books, psychology related, naturally. Some appeared to be journals. Journals implied that they were written in. She stared at them for a long moment. It would be easy to open one and read what was contained within. She turned her head away, turning her attention to a book on psychology, opening it and idly flipping through it.

"Why did you not open one?" Hannibal had been watching her, curious what she would do.

"It would be a violation of privacy. A violation of your patient-confidentiality agreements. It would be rude. Were you testing me, Doctor Lecter?" Eliana glanced down at him over the railing.

"I must admit, in a way I was. My apologies." Hannibal gave a slight nod of his head.

"Why?"

"Because I am trying to understand what kind of young woman you are." He replied.

"Why?"