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Hannibal isn't in a good mood when he hears the knock coming. Someone had a gall to try hit-and-run with him, resulting 15 years of his memory disappearing from his mind. He had to fight dreadfully clingy doctors and insensitive taxi drivers just to arrive at the psychiatric office which was supposedly his. He was on the verge of re-discovering himself. He absolutely does not want to be distubed.
Hannibal considers ignoring it, but it's highly likely that a patient has come to visit him. He weighs the pros and cons of turning his visitor away, and decides that having an one-hour session would be less complicated than trying to explain why he can't accept patients despite already being in his office.
He goes to open the door, pleasantly surprised to find a handsome, well-groomed man behind it. He briefly wonders if this is one of his affairs, but the man's face is too carefully blank for that. Hannibal licks his lips, sensing danger.
"May I come in?" The man asks.
"How may I help you?" Hannibal asks with a friendly grin, appropriate for all acquaintances with varying degree of familiarity. If the man was a patient or someone who had a prior appointment with him, his comment could be taken as a joke.
The man blinks, tilting his head. "I didn't expect you to be smiling at the sight of me, Dr. Lecter."
There's a certain intimate familiarity in the man's tone even though the man is calling him by his professional title. Hannibal considers the affair option again and dims his smile to match the man's flippant tone. "I'm trying to be courteous."
"Wouldn't want to be rude," the man murmurs, as if reading Hannibal's mind. Inclinding his head to the door, the man asks, "May I?"
Hannibal steps back, despite knowing better than to flirt with danger when he is less than 100% certain of himself. The man is simply too alluring to let go without having a taste.
Hannibal has his back against the man to close the door when the man says, "You act as if you don't know me."
Hannibal deliberately holds himself loose. "What gave you the impression?"
"Several things," the man says airily. "For one, you haven't once called me by my name."
Hannibal knows when feigning ignorance is no longer an option. He slowly turns, leaning against the door.
"Do I do that often?"
"Often enough," the man smiles with an edge. "How much do you remember?"
"You have me at a disadvantage," Hannibal says. "I don't even know your name."
"Do you remember Miriam Lass?"
"Is she important to you?"
"What about Alana Bloom?"
"Are we going to go through every single person who has brushed my life?"
The man stops, looks at him. "How old are you, Hannibal?"
The hair at the back of his neck stands. He feels the sensation of being peeled open, fingers carding through his seem.
It feels a bit like falling.
"You seems to already have an answer in your mind," Hannnibal says.
The man smiles, dark and wondering. "I can't imagine you being younger than me."