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After keeping you waiting for several weeks, here I finally have the completed product; wasn't as hard to get into his character as I anticipated, and I don't know how I feel about that. Hah!

I didn't know where to start these cats off at, so I sort of just threw 'em all in a bag together and shook it really hard. Excuse the bit of powerplay at the end, but I did sort of initiate dialogue with everyone's character in this scene. Woops.

In the rich, golden lighting of a fine and meticulously decorated classic European office, Hannibal Lecter sat poised as a coiled snake upon his seat with a fountain pen delicately bobbing between forefinger and thumb. He was in the midst of a stream of consciousness; words flying onto the paper from the tip of a metal point that barely touched the gorgeously textured parchment beneath; his well-educated words and affinity for esoteric allusions were suddenly coming to light as he found himself touched with a sense of camaraderie; an unknown friendliness. This was a letter for Will; a letter only his dark, knowing eyes would be able to interpret as he read it behind the iron walls of his cell. With the final touch of a signature, scrawling like vines across a pristine wall, Hannibal found his lips twisted into a smile.

Three forty-five PM: Against the gray slate walls and metallic barriers of Washington State's Correctional Facility, Lecter stands out like an expensively sore thumb. His silk paisley tie, so rich in cerulean and lush indigo color, is perfectly chosen to pattern-match the subtle blue Glen Plaid design of his Japanese-tailored three-piece; lights reflects from the deep tan of his polished arch-tipped shoes -- so dark mahogany they almost seem dipped with blood.

In one loosely grasped hand he carries his briefcase, in the other he is equipped with a rain coat that has preserved his pristine look from the Spring rains that set in just a few weeks before; rains that refused to let up well into the weak Summer. He offers quiet smiles and the occasional tilt of his head to acknowledge the guards who now know him by name due to his frequency in visits, but when the guards fall back and he walks along the cement path to the end of the cell block, he is suddenly impervious to the loud nature of inmates that he passes en route. They are of no importance when compared to the fascinating man who sits like an intricately blotted ink spot on the center of a lumpy prison mattress. Hannibal even finds himself gleaming with a newfound interest and curiosity as he attempts to discover the meaning in the markings that lay before him. Will is looking at him boldly, and the doctor smiles.

"You look well," he comments casually, though his tone holds more meaning than just that. It's a matter of time before this look diminishes and the pinpoints of his eyes focus deeply on the other's face, watching him as he watches back. Hannibal swiftly takes a seat in the wooden chair that was placed there when he called ahead of time to secure such a personal visit, and on his lap he places his briefcase and snaps it open slowly. It lifts, his hands disappear into the leather and present themselves again, though this time with the folded letter in it's square creme-colored envelope.

"I take it you've heard from one of your other visitors that there is a new serial killer in our midst," he pauses, the curve of his lips catching the shadow and turning him into something else for a moment; something else that disappears seconds later. "You have had other visitors, yes? Dr. Bloom, perhaps? Your lawyer? Someone must have told you that Detective Crawford has enlisted the help of a man with similar talents as yourself. Similar, but..." his eyebrows rise and fall as he closes his briefcase, places it to the side and sits relaxed on his seat; the perch of a free man. "I'll see if that's the case or not."

"I believe he'll be by to see you, Will, and to uncover the certain truth about you, but I worry that your memories will come back to haunt you with redoubled persistence." In his pocket there is a buzzing, and instinct speaks to him: when you speak of the devil, the devil shall appear.

He fishes it from the depth of his pocket and reads Crawford's name on the screen; it is seconds later that the door down the way clanks and shifts open. Without a flinch, he tucks the envelope into the pocket of his coat and rises in a mannerly fashion to greet the man who moves swiftly toward the end of the cell block; the look on his face as he closes in draws attention from the doctor, but he remains reserved. Hannibal doesn't reach out a hand in greeting, not yet, but his distinguished features are congenial enough to seem inviting.
((Jesus, take the wheel- my writing will PALE in juxtaposition to yours.))
((Amber and I have switched characters, but he would still like me to post next, only as Will. Post forthcoming))
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