He's not surprised when a journalist ends up on his doorstep - he's not even surprised that it's not Freddie Lounds (whom he expects to make her move in a far more calculated way). It is a potential variable that he's planned for, and the stage-set for it is waiting in the wings, ready.
"Please come in," Doctor Lecter says to his visitor graciously. "I'm afraid between patient confidentiality and the FBI, there is little I can say to you. But if you're going to be writing about mental illness, perhaps I can point you in a few helpful directions."
Hannibal is pleasant, but his hospitality is clouded by a bone-tiredness that's settled just behind his eyes. Understandable, for someone who's been through.. what he's been through in the past week. A friend and patient turned serial killer beneath his very nose, taking his last victim in the form of their shared ward. It's a wonder he even has the fortitude to see anyone - but Doctor Lecter's composure is practically famous, and this isn't the first time that something in his professional life has spun tragically out of control just past the reach of his fingertips.
"Can I get you a drink?" In the kitchen - the doctor's rolled-up shirt sleeves and tidy apron now make sense; halfway through the construction of home-made pasta and accompanying filling. Therapeutic work for the therapist, laid out on the island countertop (which is helpfully surrounded by bar stools at this time). "You've come in the midst of my idle experimenting, I hope you don't mind I continue as we talk."
"No, of course not." She's blonde and leggy with an indeterminable yet interchangeable sort of prettiness to her; like she could pass as easily for a seventeen-year-old as her native late-twenty-something, with a change of skirts and shoes. Right now, she's in twill, stylishly cut, tall heels she seems to be able to walk (run) in rather adroitly. She's tanned; the beach kind. The damage of sunlight on her hair has been minimal, thanks to dedicated use of product. There is a bruise healing under the sheer skein of her hosiery; the lip of a surfboard. "I'd really appreciate a drink, thank you.
"My name is Rebecca Dwyer." Her name isn't Rebecca Dwyer. Something about the gather of her skin around her eyes as she flashes her smile at him. "I completely understand HIPAA and your other confidentiality concerns, and I appreciate you speaking to me." She sets her purse down on the granite edge of the island. It squats there, ungainly, leather, the shape of a pen protruding visibly from the edge. "Mrs. Froideveaux appreciates it too."
A drink is pale pinkish-red wine in a crystal glass; he fills it and hands it over. His own is set to one side of his cooking.
"You've been speaking to Franklyn's mother, Ms Dwyer?" He sounds genuinely interested in that, though it doesn't shake off that tired shadow. His hands smooth thin sheets of unbaked pasta, preparing it to be sectioned. "I hope that she is carrying on well enough."
Not that, personally, Hannibal thinks anyone in Franklyn's family cared too much. They found him particularly insufferable - he's sure he could have slowly killed him while recording their session, released the audio files to his family, and still never have been found out by simple virtue of apathy. Poor, lonely Franklyn. He should have left when he was told.
ugh i am sorry, i was up another 20 minutes but this never showed in my inbox til this morning.
"It's hard to lose a son so young." That doesn't seem to ring quite true either, true to Hannibal's understanding of the small tragedies in Franklyn's life. 'Ms. Dwyer' is trying to be clever, clearly. The woman sets her fingers around the stem of the glass, lifts, leaves a dewy circle on the stone. She probably won't be here long enough for the water to set into a dark stain, though ironically, she plans to be.
She takes a sip. Her face changes. "This is wonderful," she says, twisting the glass around in her fingers, admiringly. Her gaze slips past to his cookware, and then she glances out toward the office space again. Then, "And I love your establishment, too; the wood-panelling in this room alone must have cost a hundred thousand dollars. High-risk clients seem to be quite lucrative for you, Dr. Lecter.
"Perhaps you could tell me about that." She looks at him sidelong, a quirk in her brow, a smile beginning to curl the corner of her mouth and everything. It may border on rude.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tw: ... uh well, hannibal lecter.
"Please come in," Doctor Lecter says to his visitor graciously. "I'm afraid between patient confidentiality and the FBI, there is little I can say to you. But if you're going to be writing about mental illness, perhaps I can point you in a few helpful directions."
Hannibal is pleasant, but his hospitality is clouded by a bone-tiredness that's settled just behind his eyes. Understandable, for someone who's been through.. what he's been through in the past week. A friend and patient turned serial killer beneath his very nose, taking his last victim in the form of their shared ward. It's a wonder he even has the fortitude to see anyone - but Doctor Lecter's composure is practically famous, and this isn't the first time that something in his professional life has spun tragically out of control just past the reach of his fingertips.
"Can I get you a drink?" In the kitchen - the doctor's rolled-up shirt sleeves and tidy apron now make sense; halfway through the construction of home-made pasta and accompanying filling. Therapeutic work for the therapist, laid out on the island countertop (which is helpfully surrounded by bar stools at this time). "You've come in the midst of my idle experimenting, I hope you don't mind I continue as we talk."
Re: tw: ... uh well, hannibal lecter.
"My name is Rebecca Dwyer." Her name isn't Rebecca Dwyer. Something about the gather of her skin around her eyes as she flashes her smile at him. "I completely understand HIPAA and your other confidentiality concerns, and I appreciate you speaking to me." She sets her purse down on the granite edge of the island. It squats there, ungainly, leather, the shape of a pen protruding visibly from the edge. "Mrs. Froideveaux appreciates it too."
no subject
"You've been speaking to Franklyn's mother, Ms Dwyer?" He sounds genuinely interested in that, though it doesn't shake off that tired shadow. His hands smooth thin sheets of unbaked pasta, preparing it to be sectioned. "I hope that she is carrying on well enough."
Not that, personally, Hannibal thinks anyone in Franklyn's family cared too much. They found him particularly insufferable - he's sure he could have slowly killed him while recording their session, released the audio files to his family, and still never have been found out by simple virtue of apathy. Poor, lonely Franklyn. He should have left when he was told.
ugh i am sorry, i was up another 20 minutes but this never showed in my inbox til this morning.
She takes a sip. Her face changes. "This is wonderful," she says, twisting the glass around in her fingers, admiringly. Her gaze slips past to his cookware, and then she glances out toward the office space again. Then, "And I love your establishment, too; the wood-panelling in this room alone must have cost a hundred thousand dollars. High-risk clients seem to be quite lucrative for you, Dr. Lecter.
"Perhaps you could tell me about that." She looks at him sidelong, a quirk in her brow, a smile beginning to curl the corner of her mouth and everything. It may border on rude.