An idea that's been knocking around my head for a few days. I'm not sure how well I executed it.

This is set just before the events of the show Hannibal. The timeline with the Labyrinth movie has been slightly adjusted, the movie was released in 1986, and if Sarah is assumed to be 16 in the movie, she would be around 43 now, but for the purposes of this story she's going to be mid-30s.

...

She has been seeing him for a little over a month now, and has yet to tell him anything beyond what lays on the surface of her mask.

She wears her façade beautifully; he is more than willing to admit this (privately, to himself, of course, for he doesn't desire to let out her secret). He suspects, in fact, that if he didn't wear one himself, and carry such familiarity with them, he might almost have been fooled.

This amuses, and interests, him.

She says everything correctly, though. Speaks highly, and lovingly, of her family; admits to the appropriate amount of chagrin for her actions when her father remarried, speaking self-deprecatingly of it, but not to such a degree for it to be anything but acceptable regret for teenage actions.

He knows, as she talks, that she is getting a feel for him. She is waiting, and learning, before she says anything but what is to be expected. It is a careful, but enjoyable, dance.

She has friends, both at work and outside it. He knows they aren't close, however, even if those friends may believe otherwise. She is going through the motions, as he does, of having a social life to avoid suspicion.

When asked about love, she remarks that she is unlucky in it. He suspects, however, that this is a deliberate choice on her part. She explains, briefly, some of her past relationships, and it is clear none of her partners were suited to her. She chose them, he thinks, for that reason: so that she may use the bad relationships as a reason to focus on work and 'wait for the one' rather then actively pursue such a thing.

It is artful, in a way.

There is something she wants to talk about, though, and it sits just beneath that careful façade.

This session, which is on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, she greets him with a little less of her manufactured cheerfulness. She is tired, almost bored, and it shows.

He suspects she intended it to.

Nonetheless she is, as always, polite. She shakes his hand, asks after his health. Her interest in the answer is genuine, but it has been since the first time she asked. Still, he feels appropriately flattered.

She is dressed in slightly more expensive clothes than usual, the dress a touch too formal for their meeting. It's black, the skirt swirling just below her knees. She has always walked subtly like a queen, but today it is pronounced, and the dress suits it.

She stands by the window in his office with her hands clasped behind her back. He takes his usual seat, crossing his legs as he watches her.

It is only a few moments before she speaks, "I've been learning French." She turns to face him, her face carefully guarded, though not, specifically, against him. She is still thinking, he understands, and using this topic for idle conversation until she has finished.

"A beautiful language," he says, "what do you think of it?"

"It's strange." She replies, finally taking her seat. "Different from English in many ways, it seems a very illogical language. Though," she laughs delicately, "English is far from logical."

He nods his head, inviting her to continue.

"I think the hardest part, right now, is remembering the genders, and the different forms of words." She smiles ruefully, and it almost touches her green eyes. "But I can say 'Je voudrais du thé, s'il vous plaît'. That will be useful when I'm next in France, at a café."

Her pronunciation, while slow and careful, is flawless. He tells her as much. She accepts the compliment graciously.

"If you need someone to converse in French with," he says, "I am more than willing to be of service." Her eyes twinkle, a little of the boredom melting away.

"Thank you," she says, "I would love a chance to do so. It will be useful to talk with someone unafraid to correct me."

He nods his head slightly in agreement.

For a moment, they are quiet. She settles back in her chair, clasping her hands in her lap. There is a certain kind of dangerous grace about her, almost like that of a predatory cat. Or a warring queen, he supposes. She does remind one strongly of royalty.

"What do you think of fairytales?" She asks, and something in her voice has changed. Her accent, normally, is as American as anyone else in this country, but the question that leaves her lips carries exotic notes to it, like some long-forgotten spice.

This is interesting, he thinks. This is the first question that might lead beneath that façade. He suspects it won't go far, though. She is bored, but not so bored to give the game up this soon.

"I think they're a necessary part of society and growing up." He says, carefully, "They teach children about monsters, and they give us a glimpse into our own history."

She considers his answer, tilting her head so that if her hair weren't in its careful bun it might have fallen across her face. Her green eyes are thoughtful.

"I agree," she says, "they are quite necessary. Though I do prefer the less sanitized ones," she gives an almost wicked smile (almost, because she will not entirely remove her mask, but the smile sits on the edge of her eyes and he notes it, filing it away for later consideration), "not the Disney versions full of dancing princesses and forgiveness."

"You prefer that Cinderella's step-sisters have their eyes pecked out?" He asks.

She studies him, still smiling, though the smile has lost the wicked glint. "I prefer the fairytales were we are not taught to forgive unconditionally. Punishment is – or should be - a necessary part of life if you are cruel, or rude." She says the last part with a careful amount of ruthful frustration.

"But perhaps that's my own distaste for impoliteness speaking."

He does not comment, waiting for her to continue with the topic or pick a different one. She studies her hands for a moment, her dark brows knitted together. Once, she opens her mouth as if to speak, but thinks better of it.

Eventually he gathers that she does not know how to go on, and while the silence is not uncomfortable, he thinks to break it all the same.

"How is work?" He asks, a typical question. It is an expected one, though.

She shifts her gaze from her hands to him. "Work is going well." It bores her still, he sees. She works in some high-up position at a publishing house; she has never specified which, or what her position entails. It is not a topic she finds much interest in. "I'm considering taking a vacation, though. We're expected to, one mustn't overwork oneself."

He notices the shift in how she normally speaks; the admittance of doing something because it is expected. He notes her questioning gaze, her silent question of whether or not he picked up on it. He quirks a brow, but says nothing.

It is a careful dance, after all.

"Where do you think you will go, for your vacation?" He asks.

"France, perhaps. Paris may be a cliché, but I would enjoy seeing it. The artwork in the museums alone would warrant such a trip, I'm sure."

They continue the rest of the meeting in this fashion. The conversation is careful, but she displays holes in her façade purposefully. Not enough for him to glimpse beneath it, of course, but enough to reveal that it is not cemented, irremovably, in place. He acknowledges each of these displays silently, and watches her equally silent pleasure in his noticing.

At the end of their hour her boredom has mostly slipped away. She is still tired, though, just slightly.

As he walks her to the door he makes a decision, because he enjoys their dance and wants to see it continued.

"Would you like to come to dinner?" He asks, politely. "We can practice your French at the table; I will make a suitable dish." He smiles.

She regards him for a moment, eyes sparkling. She makes no awkward fumble to ask if it's a date, she's smart enough know it isn't. Nor does she remark on what may or may not be proper: they are above such things.

"I would enjoy that very much." She says.

"Is 9 o'clock Friday acceptable?" He asks.

"Yes, that'll be perfect. Shall I bring wine?" Her eyes sparkle again, playfully, and her rosy lips quirk in a smile.

He returns the smile with a careful, though warm, one of his own. "Certainly. I think a white will best suit the dish I have in mind."

She nods her head in understanding before stepping out into the chilly air, "White wine it will be." she says, "Thank you very much for the invitation, Dr. Lecter. I'll see you Friday."

"You're welcome, Miss Williams. Have a safe drive."

She smiles one last time before walking to her car and leaving.

...

'Je voudrais du thé, s'il vous plaît.' should translate to 'I would like some tea, please.' unless I have dreadfully misunderstood my French grammar.

I hope I portrayed Hannibal believably. I struggled a bit with the end, I wasn't sure the best way to have him invite her to dinner was. I'm dreading trying to find the right French recipe to go with white wine, so if anyone has any suggestions, please give them. I'll be very grateful.