[OOM] pack hunters

[collects_strays]

Now, he's starting to delay.

It might be the dissipating effects of the norepinephrine release, his body becoming aware that the threat has passed, his heartbeat slowing, each act he follows grinding through his mind. The splash of water against the basin seems louder, lamplight reflections and shadows in the hallway blotting his vision again.

He hasn't slept, and it's beginning to slow him down. But Graham knows this isn't the only reason he's dragging his feet.

The coppery scent is gone, the sink's basin is pristine. It's still nearly a minute before he makes himself reach out, and turn the tap off.

Comments

[collects_strays]

"Is it?" he asks softly.

[cook_the_rude]

"Yes," Lecter says, starting the coffee-maker. "Most people don't have anything near your gift of insight, but they can often see those needs in each other without conscious consideration."

He walks over to his refrigerator and opens the door, peering inside for something to feed Graham at this late hour which defies the convenient conventions of any named meal -- far too late for supper, far too early for breakfast.

[collects_strays]

Graham watches him cross the room.

"My gift usually - hinders interaction."

[cook_the_rude]

"Your gift seems uncanny to people, and you need distance so you won't be overwhelmed," he says, looking at the shelves of his fridge.

Then, he takes out a few containers.

[collects_strays]

"I didn't feel distant tonight."

[cook_the_rude]

"No, you did not," Dr. Lecter says. "You came into your own, acting instead of observing."

[collects_strays]

At his sides, his fingers curl and then ease again.

"You knew him," he says. Now, his voice is distant.

"Is this the outcome you wanted?"

[cook_the_rude]

"It is an outcome that I cannot help but approve of," Lecter says, taking eggs from the fridge.

[collects_strays]

"Could've been a win-win," he points out.

[cook_the_rude]

"Believe me, Will," Lecter says, closing the refrigerator door, "Randall Tier was no match for you, for no possible meaning of the word 'match'."

[collects_strays]

"I believe you."

He blinks away, to the eggs Hannibal has set out. It's something he hears first, a sizzling hum and soft crackling, faded at the edges like background static. Before a warm spread of sunlight, cutting though the dark motel room, catching on bits of dust, and then the smell, the kitchen's last meal still heavy in it.



The silence stretches longer than Graham may have meant it to.

[cook_the_rude]

Lecter surveys the food he has brought out.

"Care to sous-chef?" he says. "Would you like to cut up the bell peppers, or the onions?"

[collects_strays]

"Um." One question after another, the second seems to override him answering the first. He blinks the sunlight out of his eyes.

"Onions."

[cook_the_rude]

Lecter pushes a small cutting board and two small onions towards Will on the kitchen island's worktop, and offers him a knife. "They need to be cut up quite finely," he says.

[collects_strays]

His eyes flicker from the cutting board up to the knife. He doesn't reach out to take it yet.

"What are you making?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Shakshouka," Dr. Lecter says. "A North African and Middle Eastern breakfast food which can be eaten, at a crunch, at any time of day. It seems fitting."

[collects_strays]

Graham doesn't look away from the knife during this. But after, he reaches out to accept it.

"We're not really -"

His left hand curls around one of the onions. "- adhering strictly to convention, anyway"

[cook_the_rude]

"No, we are not," Dr. Lecter says, cutting up the red pepper. "Conventional people probably sleep at this time of the night."

He shrugs, as if to indicate that would be a dreadful waste of time.

[collects_strays]

He's not feeling that sleep would be such a waste of time. The smell from the coffee maker is quickly beginning to distract him; to be precise, his movements with the knife are slow.



"I want to ask you something."

He doesn't look up. "I don't know that you'll answer, so I'm going to - state it."

[cook_the_rude]

"Yes, Will?" Dr. Lecter says, cheerfully chopping away.

[collects_strays]

"Abigail Hobbs killed Nick Boyle."

It's exactly as he'd said it before. The knife's movement pauses for a moment, but then resumes along with his voice.

"You knew Nick Boyle would come to her. You wanted to see what she'd do."

[cook_the_rude]

Dr. Lecter moves his face up and down once, by about an inch.

"Go on."

[collects_strays]

But he stays quiet, until the first onion is sliced through.

"Just like you wanted to see what I'd do."

[cook_the_rude]

Dr. Lecter puts a cast iron skillet on the hob, and turns on the heat.

"Your reactions are interesting," he states, adding some olive oil.

[collects_strays]

"Was that meant to help her?"

It's quiet, not accusative. But the moment he says it, it still feels foolish.