Chapter 8

As Hannibal stepped up to the sidewalk to join Will and Maggie, he glanced back over his shoulder to observe Delilah fast asleep in the passenger seat of his car. He smirked at how positively angelic she seemed, with her halo of pale curls framing her cheeks of milk and rose – she looked as though she could hardly hurt a fly, but he knew otherwise.

When he turned to face the nervous pair, Will opened his mouth at once and he held up a hand to stifle him. "First, I must ask you, Mrs. Cartwright," he leaned slightly nearer to Maggie, affecting a concerned gaze. "Are you alright?"

Maggie's eyes were glued to Delilah as she jerkily nodded her head, clutching onto Delilah's purse in her arms. "Y-Yes, but is she...?"

"Trust that Miss Bloom will be fine. Dissociative episodes, in any capacity, are an incredibly difficult burden for the mind to bear; as she seems to have such extreme hallucinations, it's a testament to her personal strength that she didn't collapse in the middle of your café."

"...He means don't worry," Will muttered, and Hannibal shot him a look before smiling back at Maggie.

"Yes. Though, I would venture a guess you will worry about her no matter what I say."

Maggie let out a small, sniffling laugh and nodded as she finally pried her eyes away from the sleeping woman. "That's the worst one I've seen," she whispered thickly. "She's gotten lost a time or two... but I've never, ever heard her scream like that before." She shuddered and Hannibal put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"She will sleep, she will wake refreshed, and she will be back to work tomorrow morning."

The woman shook her head at once. "No, I want her to take a few days off – hell, a week." She handed him Delilah's bag, which he took without hesitation. "You tell her that, alright? She's stubborn, but I think she'll listen to you."

"I will be sure to insist."

Maggie gave him a halfhearted smile and patted his hand. "Thank you, Dr. Lecter. And thank you, too," she added, turning to Will, "for getting everyone out and all that."

"No problem," he replied, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck.

Hannibal watched the woman take her time walking back to the café, and waited until she was inside to turn his attention to Will. "You don't need to tell me you didn't do anything," he said before Will could even open his mouth. "I know you didn't. Tell me what did happen."

The younger male took a deep breath and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he shrugged exaggeratedly, abruptly dropping his shoulders in time with a heavy exhale. "Where do I start?"

"You may begin by telling me why you were here in the first place," he said, keeping his voice steady and his expression stoic; though he felt a deep twinge of resentment that Will had, yet again, been the one to witness the majority of one of her fits.

"Uh, well, she called me this morning; said she got my number from Alana's phone... She wanted to treat me to coffee, as an apology for what happened at the house."

"I see."

"I told her it wasn't necessary, but apparently she's pretty persuasive when she wants to be."

Hannibal smirked and nodded, but said nothing as he waited for him to continue.

"Everything was fine until she started talking to herself again and, well... knowing how bad it could get, I called you right away; got everyone out... She just muttered a lot. Wandered around. She was obviously somewhere else."

"What did she say?"

Will squinted up at the sky as he thought for a moment. "Uh... Well, a lot of no, and 'not mine, it's okay' – which I remember specifically from the last time, too. When she had the episode at my place... 'Not mine, makes it okay.'"

"I see."

"When you got here, I mean, you saw... the wandering around. I had to move a bunch of tables out of her way so she wouldn't hurt herself..." Will sighed heavily and dug his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them violently. "I-I can't figure her out – what happened to her?"

"Will, don't take this – not this one," he said sternly. "Her cross is not yours to bear."

"I can't just turn this off and on at the drop of a goddamn hat, Hannibal," Will snapped, his raised voice gathering the attention of a few passersby. He glared after them for a moment before looking back to Hannibal and lowering his voice again. "I-I don't exactly do it on purpose."

Hannibal took a wide step forward, leaning in to look him dead in the eye. "Where Delilah Bloom is concerned, I suggest you find a switch."

They stared each other down for several seconds, before Will took a small step back and nodded. "Sure... I'll try."

"Good," he clipped, standing up straight again. "I trust you will inform Alana."

"I-... Well, I mean... Why, uh –" He floundered a bit before falling silent.

"She would appreciate knowing, Will."

"Sure, but –"

"I imagine you can catch her in Jack's office at this hour," he muttered, checking his watch to find it was three-thirty. "Would you still like to keep your appointment for today?"

Will shifted awkwardly and Hannibal took that as a 'no,' which he was quite fine with, given the circumstances. "Then I'll see you Sunday."

"...Right, dinner, yeah. See you then."

Hannibal watched as Will trudged over to his beat up little Volvo, fully aware that he probably shouldn't be driving in his state. Though the sleepwalking appeared to be a one-off, he had confided in him during their last meeting that he still hadn't been sleeping well; he was having vivid nightmares, waking up in cold sweats, and imagining things out the corners of his eyes – 'dark figures,' he'd said. The man would likely need to see a neurologist soon, but there was still time for that yet.

As the Volvo puttered off and away, Hannibal finally returned to his car and tucked himself behind the wheel, taking care to quietly shut the door so as not to wake Delilah, before setting her purse down at her feet. With his only remaining patient for the day out of the way, he pulled out into the street and proceeded to take a long, roundabout way of getting her home. Something about her delicate snores filling the cabin of the Bentley soothed him, and he was in no hurry to be rid of her.

Driving aimlessly, he kept a casual watch on Delilah in his peripheral as he pondered. The murders he'd committed this week had been predominantly for her benefit, and they seemed to have done their job remarkably well – perhaps a bit sooner than he had anticipated, but he didn't much care for waiting around, if it could be helped.

After about twenty minutes, Delilah soon began to make little noises in her sleep – mostly soft sighs and humming sounds that made the corners of his mouth twitch upward – when, suddenly, she muttered something that sounded very much like his name. He peeked over to find her shifting around in the seat, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she let out a soft moan.

Rolling smoothly toward a red light, he was well within the limits for being behind the car in front of him, but he allowed the vehicle to coast forward just a foot or two more and abruptly slammed his foot on the brake; Delilah awoke with a yelp and jerked forward, and he shot an arm out to prevent her from cracking her head on the dash. Her hands flew up to cling to him, pressing his forearm into her chest with a vice-like grip as she struggled to catch her breath.

"What the –?!"

"Shh, it's alright," he assured her calmly. "I wasn't paying complete attention to the road, I apologize. Are you okay?"

"Y-Yes, I'm fine," Delilah muttered shakily, digging her nails into his jacket sleeve as she struggled to calm the flood of adrenaline undoubtedly coursing through her system. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze as the light turned green and he eased the car through the intersection.

Once she pried her hands away from his arm, he kept it there a moment longer, twisting upward to caress her cheek with his fingertips before his hand returned to the steering wheel. Digging her palms into her thighs, she proceeded to yawn noisily and stretched, arching her back in such a way that reminded him of a cat. "Where are we?" She inquired groggily, peeking out her window at the passing trees as she carefully ran her fingers through her curls.

"Near a park about fifteen minutes from Alana's," he said casually, taking a sharp right that caused her to slide his direction. She clutched to the center console and twisted herself in her seat to stare up at him. "I wasn't in a rush to wake you, so I thought a drive would be nice," he added, peering back down at her.

Delilah hummed in acknowledgment and he turned away to focus on the road; slender fingers suddenly curled around the crook of his elbow, and he glanced down to find her adjusting herself to lean nearer, before she wrapped both her arms around his and laid her cheek upon his shoulder.

"Still tired?" he asked, and she nodded as she let out another squeaky little yawn, and he chuckled softly. "Sleep, bellissima."

"Mmh... so that's what you said," she mumbled. "That day at the hospital..."

Hannibal merely smirked and took a left, heading back in the proper direction to take her home as her light snoring filled the cabin once more.

When they arrived at the apartment complex, he parked and awkwardly killed the ignition with his free hand, before carefully disentangling his right arm from her grasp. After situating her back against the seat, he deliberated for only a moment before exiting the car and swiftly stalking around the front of the vehicle to open her door. Fishing her keys from her purse and hooking them around his index finger, he unbuckled her seat belt and set her purse on her lap, then gingerly scooped her out of the seat. She let out a soft groan and buried her face in his neck, inhaling deeply and sighing in a way that made his scalp tingle. He couldn't stop himself from grinning as he nudged the door shut with his hip and carefully carted her up to apartment #44.

After a brief fight with the doorknob, he entered the apartment to find the wall behind the couch completely bare. He quirked a brow as he pressed his foot against the door, and dropped her belongings on the side table before turning and locking it. Delilah mumbled something in her sleep, and he shushed her gently as he moved through the apartment in search of her bedroom.

He paused briefly in the hallway, noting that the door beside what he plainly saw to be the bathroom must be the master bedroom – he guessed that would be Alana's, so he nudged the remaining door open and peered about for any indication he was correct; a pair of ballet flats hanging from the mirror of a large vanity proved he had assumed accurately. Crossing the room, he laid Delilah down in the center of her bed and quickly slipped off her shoes, placing them on the floor before tugging the sheet and duvet up over her.

"Mmmh-feh," she grumbled, sounding annoyed as she immediately turned on her side and nuzzled her face into the pillow.

Hannibal watched her with amusement for a brief moment before closing the hefty curtains that adorned her window, and bringing the cushioned bench over from her vanity to settle in at her bedside. The blackout curtains did their duty and it was nearly black as pitch in the room, so he moved to switch on the lamp resting on her nightstand, mildly surprised when the antique-looking, brass fixture switched on at his touch alone.

As he listened to her hum and shift about in her sleep, he took the time to study her room. The lamp wasn't the only antique she kept, as he noted that the elegant rosewood vanity directly across from her bed – though likely a reproduction – must be modeled after the late 18th century; Rococo style, if he was not mistaken. And he very seldom was.

The colour palette she had chosen for any fabric embellishments were muted sages and creams, both inviting and soothing, while the pieces of furniture were all rich, dark wood – stark contrasts that married well. She had a good eye, which was something he could certainly appreciate.

"Doctor Lecter?" He suddenly heard Delilah whisper, and he turned to find her squinting up at him in confusion. "Am I... awake?"

Fighting against a grin, Hannibal tilted his head and teasingly quirked a brow at her. "Do you dream of me often enough not to trust your eyes?"

"Increasingly, lately."

Hannibal paused to chew on his lip as he regarded her; he hadn't expected her to admit it. "...Would you like to tell me about them?"

"No," she replied hastily, sitting up on the bed and digging her nails into the duvet to keep it cemented around her waist. "What time is it?"

"Nearly four-thirty," he said, pushing up his sleeve to peek at his watch. "You've had a decent nap; shall we discuss today's events?"

"...Is this a session?"

"No." He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, wishing for a proper chair. "This would just be two people having a conversation." He watched her run her fingers through her hair as she deliberated, when she suddenly scooted clear over to the opposite side of the bed.

"Come sit by me, then."

When he simply stared at her, she flipped the covers back and patted the space with a wry smile. "I'll be good, Doctor Lecter," she assured him, entirely unconvincingly.

Hannibal leaned forward to remove his shoes, then paused a moment to watch uncertainty creep onto her face. "We're a bit past such formalities, don't you agree?" He said with brows raised, sliding off his black oxfords and setting them neatly on the floor beside her pumps. She let out a relieved-sounding titter, watching as he climbed onto the bed and settled the covers over his slacks.

Slipping an arm around her shoulders, he quickly pulled her near and leaned back against the headboard to stare at the ceiling. "Is it easier to speak when I'm not looking at you directly?" He asked, glancing down to watch her fiddle with the duvet.

"...Yes," came her soft reply. "I... I honestly don't remember what caused it today. I'm getting so sick of this."

"You're concerned you're wasting my time," he inferred, and she nodded. He toyed with the sleeve of her shirt as he looked around, realizing that if he were to scoot up just a bit he would be able to see their reflection in the vanity mirror across from them. Under the guise of getting more comfortable, he leaned her forward slightly and readjusted the pillows behind them, shuffling back to sit up more and dragging her back into his side. "Well, you needn't worry about that," he assured her, gently brushing his knuckles and thumb along her upper arm. She shivered slightly and he studied her in the mirror; she had ceased fussing with the covers and her eyes were fixed on his hand. "Perhaps we can try an exercise to jog your memory?"

"Is that wise?"

"I think I'll be able to handle it if you lash out."

"...Alright then." She sat up a bit straighter and smoothed her hands over her thighs to rest them on her knees. "Do your worst."

Hannibal bit back a laugh at the underlying implications of such a statement, then gave her arm a squeeze. "I want you to close your eyes, and envision yourself standing at the last place you can recall being before your episode occurred. Tell me when you're there." He watched in the mirror as she shut her eyes at once, and listened to her take a few long, deep breaths.

After several moments, she cleared her throat and whispered, "O-Okay. I'm there."

"Describe it to me."

"I... I've just told Will which options we have for cake; he's made a face at the mention of carrot, so... I turn to fetch him a slice of chocolate."

"You turn away from Will, and what do you see?"

"I just see the café, as I've always seen it. But there's so many people... too many. Why is it always so crowded lately?"

"Pick a table and tell me who you see."

"Um..." He saw her brow furrow in concentration. "Directly across from me and to the right a bit, there's some college students... One with red hair, and another in a baseball cap."

"There's a reason you've chosen them specifically, Delilah, what are they doing?"

"... They're watching s-something on a computer."

Hannibal watched closely as her lips twitched into a minuscule frown. "What are they watching? A film, or a program? … Perhaps the –"

"News," she whispered, "they're watching the news. I move closer to hear them better. I... I listen in on their conversation and they're talking about the m-murders."

"What about the murders," he goaded her softly.

"One of them... the redhead, he-... He's the son of an officer; his father told him details that hadn't been released yet."

She began to breathe rapidly, in and out through her nose, her breaths as shaky and stilted as if she were standing out in the cold. "What details, Delilah?"

"Th-That the-... the k-killer, he took their– No. No, no, no..."

Delilah began shaking her head furiously and, thinking quickly, he pulled her up onto his lap and wrapped his arms tight around her. "Delilah, stay with me," he said firmly, bringing a hand up to smooth her curls away from her face.

When she finally stopped trembling and he peered down to find her blue eyes wide open, though lucid, he grasped her face and tilted her head up to look at him. "What did he take, Delilah?" he whispered, leaning close enough to allow the tip of his nose to brush against hers.

She swallowed a lump in her throat and inhaled sharply before replying. "H-He took their he-hearts."

"And why does that affect you so?"

"Because I..." She suddenly shut her eyes tight and wrenched her head from his grasp, throwing her arms around him to grip fistfuls of his suit jacket and burying her face in his neck. "P-Please... Please don't make me say it," she begged, her trembling voice muffled against his throat.

Warm tears dampened his skin and slid down to soak into his collar, and he rested his cheek against her head as he rocked her gently. "There, there. Shh, that's all for today," he murmured, sliding his palms up and down the curve of her back.

After several long moments, her quavering ceased and she tucked her chin to her chest, pulling away slightly to sniffle. He leaned back a bit to peer down at her, then searched their immediate vicinity for something she could use to wipe her nose. Finding nothing, he brushed his lips against her temple before lifting her off his lap and depositing her on the mattress. "I'll get you some tissues," he explained, before stalking off to the bathroom.

As he plucked a box of tissues from the counter, he paused at the mirrored cabinet on the wall and flipped it open to search for her medication. Quickly finding the Zoloft, he pushed the cabinet shut and returned to the bedroom to find Delilah staring wide-eyed at her hands. "Not mine. It's okay," she hissed to herself. "Not mine, makes it okay... That's what he said. That's what it means. It's okay, it's okay, it's okay – if you take what isn't yours."

Hannibal cleared his throat and slammed the door shut behind him, but she didn't so much as twitch in response. "Delilah," he called, his stern voice several octaves louder than usual, and her head snapped up after only a moment's hesitation.

"The river. I was there, but I didn't put it there. I didn't," she breathed urgently, words tumbling from her lips so fast he had to strain to catch them all, as he crossed briskly to sit by her side. "I didn't put it there, in the water, I-... I put it in the ground. But not too deep – didn't want it to be too deep. No. I wanted the animals to find it, you know? I wanted... them... to eat it."

He watched her harried gaze diminish as she slowly came to her senses. "I... I'm sorry, I –" She shut her eyes tight and shook her head, and he sighed as he gently placed the tissues on her lap.

"Never apologize to me for this," he said firmly.

"Okay," she muttered, sounding entirely unconvinced, as she clutched the box to her chest before pulling out a couple tissues and turning away from him to blow her nose. Wadding them up, she grabbed another to dab at her eyes, then faced him and offered a pitiful attempt at a smile.

"I think you can do better than that," he muttered, reaching up to graze his knuckles against her cheek; he watched her smile widen a fraction, as she leaned in to his touch. "You were in the middle of a Dissociative event and you came back to me – twice," he informed her, dropping his hand from her face. "This is outstanding progress, Delilah – be proud of yourself."

"... It's only because you're here," she muttered, chucking her used tissues into a small bin beside the nightstand. Before he could respond, she reached out to take the pill bottle from him, but he swiftly pulled it back and shook his head.

"Ah-ah. When was the last time you took these?"

"Uh, well..." She slumped a bit and avoided his eyes, as she muttered shamefully, "I think it was nearly a week ago. I-I've just been so busy –"

"Perfect," he said simply, his lips twisting in amusement at the thoroughly befuddled look on her face. "That means we can try something a bit more unorthodox, tomorrow."

Her gaze immediately snapped to his and she perked up considerably, her curiosity evidently piqued. "Alright..."

"You should get some more rest now. Mrs. Cartwright has suggested that you take the next week off, and I adamantly agree."

Delilah's face fell and she pouted slightly. "But... She needs me."

"She needs you well-rested," he corrected, stuffing the bottle of Zoloft into his jacket pocket. "As do I. I also need you well-fed, so I suggest you eat a hearty breakfast and lunch before our appointment tomorrow. I'll know if you don't," he warned before rising from the bed and slipping his shoes on.

"Yes, Sir," she replied cheekily, and he exhaled a short puff of laughter through his nose before turning and crossing the room.

Pausing at the door, he unlocked it and glanced back at her. "What happened to all the photographs in the living room?"

"I stuffed them under the couch," she replied simply, as if it were a logical thing to do.

"...See you tomorrow, Delilah."

"Goodnight, Hannibal."

Behavioral Sciences Unit, FBI

Quantico, VA

Friday – 11:32 AM

Three bodies lay on cold steel tables, two male and one female, all covered only to their waists with crisp white sheets. Of the three, the least recognizable as once resembling a human being was the one in the center, Matthew Nelson. When his pregnant ex-wife had discovered his body, the massive dog found on the scene had opted to gnaw on his face, rather than bother with his exposed insides.

"How did she know it was him?" Alana asked, her upper lip curling in disgust as she studied the mangled remains of the man's face.

Jack cleared his throat and pointed to the remaining half of a scar on the man's forehead, which was so large that it stretched upward onto his scalp. "He was in an altercation several weeks ago," he said, turning to point his finger at her as he added in an accusatory manner, "with your sister, if I'm not mistaken."

Alana blinked and looked to Will, who stared back at her with confusion in his eyes. "I..." She swallowed thickly and looked back at the mutilated pulp and bone fragments. "This is that Matt?"

"Matthew Nelson, yes," Jack replied, ripping off his glove with a resounding snap and tossing them in the hazardous waste bin. "There's a police report with both of their names on it. The PD seems to think they were in some sort of domestic dispute."

"Domestic –? No. No, they weren't together. She never told me what happened, exactly, but..." She thought for a moment, her stomach twisting uncomfortably as she realized just where Jack's train of thought was heading, then added quickly, "But she said she's told Hannibal."

"...She's seeing Hannibal Lecter for therapy?"

"Yes, she has di– Uh..."

Jack's eyebrows shot to the ceiling as his eyes narrowed in suspicion. "She has di-what? Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"She just has some issues; he's helping her a lot, though. Jack, my sister is not a –... She didn't do this."

"Jack, I've met Delilah," Will chimed in, prying his concerned gaze away from her to face Jack. "There's no way she could have done all this. I-I mean, stringing up the bodies? She's a-... Well, I mean, I wouldn't call her a weakling but-... Sh-She's a tiny person, Jack."

"She's a midget?"

"She is not," Alana snapped indignantly.

Will laughed in spite of the situation and removed his own gloves to scrub a hand over his face. "No, no. She's just, uh– Short? And not exactly muscular? You know, small."

The man's still narrowed eyes shifted back and forth between them, clearly unconvinced. "Right... We'll see," was all he said, before turning and exiting the lab.

Doctor Hannibal Lecter's Office

– 3:01 PM

As Hannibal was gathering the finishing touches for his, likely illegal, addition to therapy for Delilah, a knock suddenly sounded at the main door and he glanced up from the silver platter with annoyed interest; the knock was much too heavy to be her. Quickly lifting the platter from his desk, he marched to the back room and stowed it away, carefully shutting the door before striding over to see who could be bothering him.

Wholly expecting it to be Franklyn there to irritate him as only the neurotic little man could, he was surprised when he pulled the door open to find none other than Jack Crawford impatiently awaiting him. "Ah, hello Jack," he said, giving the room a quick once-over to be sure Delilah hadn't arrived yet.

"Are you expecting someone?" Jack inquired, removing his hat as he brushed past him to enter the office.

"...By all means, come in," he mumbled, biting back a scowl as he pushed the door shut and turned to face him. "As a matter of fact, I happen to have a patient due to arrive any moment. Is this an urgent matter, or can it wait?"

"I just have a few quick questions about one of your patients... Delilah Bloom?"

Hannibal affected a properly perturbed scowl. "You know I take doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously, Jack."

"As you should. But this is a matter of FBI importance – I think it trumps your code of ethics... I can pursue a court order, if necessary?"

Inhaling deeply, Hannibal folded his hands in front of himself and shook his head. "That is entirely unnecessary. Ask away."

"How long has Ms. Bloom been seeing you for therapy?"

"Approximately two and a half weeks."

"What's her diagnosis?"

"It's too early to tell."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment, before Jack pressed on. "Alana said Ms. Bloom told you about an incident that took place around early September – something to do with a man at a dance studio?"

'Ah, so that's why,' he thought, easily keeping his expression passive. "She did, yes," was all he offered in reply.

Jack studied him closely, running the brim of his utterly ridiculous hat between his fingers. "...What exactly happened that day? The report states it was a domestic dispute, but Alana claims they were never involved."

"They weren't. The man had made a pass at her and she reacted."

"Overreacted."

"With all due respect, Jack, I would have to disagree."

"The scar on his head was massive, Hannibal. I'd call that an extreme overreaction."

Hannibal pursed his lips and thought for a moment. "What if it had been Bella being manhandled – would you find any reaction on her part an overreaction?" Jack's nostrils flared and he knew he'd struck the right chord. "I'd expect your wife could kill a man who'd thought to touch her inappropriately, and you would find her well within her rights."

"...Fair enough," he muttered reluctantly. He tapped his palm against the brim of his hat as he looked around the room, likely searching for a new tactic, but the doctor was having none of it.

"If that's all...?" He inquired dismissively, gesturing toward the door. Just as his hand reached to turn the knob, a soft knocking sounded and he glanced at the clock to find it was only twelve past the hour. Eager little thing.

Jack scowled and shoved his hat back onto his head. "I'll just get out of your hair, then."

Jaw clenched in annoyance, Hannibal pulled the door open to find Delilah smiling coquettishly up at him, and he inhaled sharply. She was an absolute vision, in a chic, deep crimson dress that hugged her curves in ways that should be deemed illegal; it was a long-sleeved, off-the-shoulder number, the wide collar of which cut a stark line across her alabaster chest, just below her clavicle; her hair was done-up for the first time he'd seen, in a purposefully messy twist that left wisps of gold free to caress the sides of her face and neck.

He opened his mouth to speak but no words would find him, and he turned to find Jack ogling her as well – though he looked entirely taken aback and, if Hannibal was reading him correctly, more than a little disappointed.

"Uh, hello," she said, her eyes shifting to Jack, who moved to stand at his side. "Sorry, I'm a bit early..."

"Jack Crawford," the man introduced himself loudly, thrusting a hand out to shake hers. "Head of the Behavioral Sciences Unit at Quantico."

Hannibal watched closely as Delilah swallowed a sudden little lump in her throat, though her face gave nothing away that would signal any discomfit as she firmly shook his hand, and he felt a small swell of pride.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Delilah Bloom," she replied evenly. "I think you work with my sister?"

"Yes, Alana and I go way back..." He released her hand and gave them a clearly forced smile. "Well, have a nice day Ms. Bloom; Hannibal."

They both watched him disappear down the stairs, waiting a few moments longer to be sure they heard him make his way down the hall. "Impressive," he finally said, slipping a hand to her lower back and guiding her into his office.

Letting out a breath she'd been holding, she moved to the coat rack to hang up her purse. "H-He works for the FBI?" She asked, wringing her fingers together as she turned to face him.

Hannibal nodded as he gave her another once-over, admiring her outfit as brazenly as he pleased; he watched her hands glide over her hips and downward, to adjust the hem of her dress. Her smooth legs were bare and he couldn't find any trace of a pantyline through the dark red fabric; he found himself exceedingly curious as to what she was wearing under that veritable slip of a dress.

"Excuse you, mister," she said, sounding playfully affronted as she stepped towards him. "My eyes are up here."

Hannibal's eyes rolled briefly to the ceiling, as he chuckled softly and reached out for her; snatching her right wrist, he pulled her near and studied her palm to find her stitches had been removed, and Steri-strips had been applied in their stead. "You've healed well," he noted, tracing a fingertip along the thin, pinkish line that was all that remained of her injury.

"Mm, so the doctor said this morning," she hummed, sliding her free hand up his arm to rest against his bicep. He peered curiously down at her, before shifting her hand in his and pressing his other to the small of her back.

"Do you only know ballet?"

"No... I know some basic ballroom dancing, as well," she replied, obviously puzzled by the abrupt change in topic.

Hannibal jerked his arm to nudge her hand up to his shoulder, then readjusted their arms and created a bit of space between them before sliding the hand on her back up to her shoulder blade. "Let's see, then."

"But I–" Her words were lost as he began to lead without warning, and she struggled to keep her arms in position though she followed quite well.

As he quick-stepped her toward the settee, he shook her hand a little in an effort to make her stiffen her elbow. "Your form could use some work," he stated plainly.

Delilah giggled as he swept her across the office, deftly guiding her around their various obstacles. "I'm having a 'Dirty Dancing' flashback," she explained in response to his bemused expression. "Spaghetti arms, you know."

"Forgive me, Delilah, but I won't be singing any Bill Medley – or at all, for that matter."

She let out an exaggerated gasp. "Have I just discovered something the Great Doctor Lecter can't do?"

His eyes narrowed and he suddenly maneuvered her body to twist her inward, pressing his palm flat against her stomach and pinning her to his chest. "Can't and won't have entirely different meanings," he rumbled in her ear, his tone rife with mock irritation. He then leaned back and abruptly spun her outward again, letting go to watch as she twirled away from him and planted her feet firmly on the floor to readjust the fabric creeping up her thighs.

"Not exactly the dress for this," she muttered, blowing a freshly loosened curl out of her eyes.

Hannibal chuckled lightly as he doubled back to hang up his coat and lock the office door; he then turned back to her and began undoing the buttons at his wrists. "Sit, please," he instructed, holding a hand out toward his own high-backed chair behind his desk. As he began meticulously folding the sleeves of his dress shirt, up to just below his elbows, he watched her slowly make her way across the room; gingerly sitting where she was told, she laid her palms flat on the desk and leaned forward.

"...Will we begin my unorthodox session, now?" Delilah inquired, catching the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she suggestively quirked a brow at him.

Hannibal took his time carefully folding his other sleeve before he nodded once, but he gave her nothing else as he then stalked right past her to enter the room at the far corner of his office – grinning to himself at her thoroughly mystified expression that followed.