Work Text:
"Please don't argue. I saw it as clearly as I see you standing there now."
Your eyebrows shot up, not expecting him to cut off your humble display this early. Lips moving, you couldn't find the words quick enough before he spoke again.
"I do not have one-on-one dinners with people whose company I do not plan to enjoy. Especially not so long after hours." He stepped to the side, gesturing with his arm. "Please, come in."
You gave him a small smirk as you passed, "Was that a compliment from the famous doctor?" you poked, stepping into the foyer. He said nothing, but there was a knowing look in his eye, his mouth close to a smile. You felt the immediate warmth of his home, contrasting with the chilly Baltimore air, making you shiver with your hair rising under your coat. Stealing a once-over at the various paintings in brass frames that lined the ambiently lit hallway, you weren't surprised that you didn't recognize any of them. Turning your gaze back to him, his broad back was facing you as he clicked the lock on the door. The deadbolt thudded somewhat loudly, like it held weight, and it made your stomach flutter with nerves. Like you being here in his house was now decided and set in stone. He turned, his brows quirked up a bit after his gaze fell to the object in your arms.
"Ah, you brought something?"
You'd nearly forgotten about the bottle of red with you, something quick from the local winery that was relatively easy on the wallet, but still might make some sort of impression. Although knowing the good doctor and his extremely refined collection, the most that might be said about your choice was that there was an attempt. But you were sure he could sympathize, given that a private practice like his paid much better than the government, and it was likely he didn't have student debt anymore.
"Yeah," you said, shifting awkwardly to hand it to him, "it didn't feel right for me to only bring myself, so I brought this." Taking it from you, he held the bottle up to the light, his eyes moving over the print. The silence as he read started to stretch for what felt like too long, and it began to feel like watching a teacher read your work to see if it was right. That small fear of the quiet storm brewing before its violent wind hits you. So you dared to break the silence before he did, so maybe you might stop hearing your heartbeat in your ears.
"It's kind of a sweet plum wine," you say, fidgeting with the button on your jacket. It felt painfully obvious to say when he clearly just read the label. "I've never seen what you drink, but no one seems to dislike sweet flavors, so I thought something sweet yet mild for this occasion."
A beat.
"It will do."
He didn't seem outwardly judgmental or displeased, but you could tell he likely made a mental note of its cheapness compared to his tastes. Although you knew he would never speak of it out of politeness, thank god. That was one of the more admirable traits about him. After taking another moment, he said, "So," lifting his gaze and the bottle to you, "would you like this shared between the two of us tonight, or would you like me to bring out something of mine as well to taste? Dealer's choice, as they say."
Stealing a brief glance at your shoe, you thought it over, your lips pursing. You didn’t want to seem greedy, but at the same time, he offered. And who are you to not get a free taste of a wine worth a good portion of a paycheck?
“I wasn’t aware your answer might be on your shoe,” you heard him speak lightly. You grinned.
Best of both worlds. Why not?
Smiling, you give a shrug, your skin sliding against the inner lining of your coat with a soft rustle. "Why can't it be both? you tested the waters, eyes glittering, "We can get to know each other's taste."
He gave a small smile, finally a bit of personality showing through that perfectly refined demeanor that put you a bit more at ease. "And so we shall." He held his free arm out to you. "I'll take that from you now."
It felt more like a command than a suggestion, but for a split second, you didn't know what he meant, standing there until you remembered the weight of your jacket being apparent in his buzzingly warm house, the outdoor chill wearing off. "Oh. Yeah," you muttered, attempting a smooth recovery with a quick shrug, your jacket sliding off your shoulder with a whisper. Quickly following suit with the other one, you fold the jacket in half and put it in his hand. Now seemingly pleased, he says, "right this way," leading you out towards the dining room while you follow behind, trying your best to keep up with the pace of such a tall man.
He opened a door off to the right, gesturing for you to go inside while he hung your coat on a wooden rack just inside the doorway. It seemed like he had guests here quite frequently, you saw, as there were eight chairs and placemats total, but only two were being occupied for tonight, which made it feel much emptier. A massive mural, walls painted indigo, wooden furniture with gold accents around the room that the-
Is that a wall of herbs?
You try not to think about it.
Walking past you towards the head of the table, he set the bottle down between your two sets of dinnerware, fluently moving again to the side to pull out your chair for you. Avoiding any loud scrape against the floor, he pulled it out, straightening his stance. You noticed his navy suit never seemed to crease or wrinkle. Maybe it knew not to. His eyes flicked to yours as a patient smile crossed his face, making you realize you were still standing in the doorway.
"Sit, please."
A breathy laugh escaped you, even though you knew nothing was funny. "God, you thought of everything, didn't you?"
"How do you mean?"
"It's just --" crossing the distance, you vaguely gesture to the chair with a wave of your hand, "you know-- I don't get this kind of treatment day to day, it just feels so odd. I mean, just look at this house. I could only dream of something like this," you breathe. When you finally do sit down, he feels infinitely more like a looming spectator intent on studying you. You're not sure how this night is going to go.
You turn to face him. "But not to say that I don't appreciate it." You make sure to deliberately meet his blue eyes when you say this. "Thanks for inviting me, Dr. Lecter," you smile, although it comes off a bit weaker than you intended. You're sure he knows that you mean well.
"You consider an act so simple as 'treatment,'" he scolded, clicking his tongue in disapproval with a knowing look. "I may now be personally inclined to show you the finer things." What things he planned to show you had your mind flooding with possibilities as he pushed your chair into the table.
And fantasies. Fantasies of sweat-damp skin, flushed faces, hands roaming over bodies and tongue and teeth and pain and pleasure and-
A quick brush of the back of his fingers against your neck when his arms dropped back to his sides cuts those fantasies short. At first it startles you, but it's quickly replaced with chills down your spine, and you can't help but bite back a smile, hearing, "don't move, I'll be right back." You weren’t doing a very good job at hiding your crush on the doctor.
You twist in your chair, about to watch his steadily retreating back, when something comes to your mind, and you take your brief chance to be somewhat bold.
"Why only me tonight?"
He pauses, stopping for a moment before he turns to face you, and he's quiet for a bit, thinking. It makes a part of your brain sit up with anticipation for his response. He walks a few deliberately slow steps back across the floor, maybe to seem less far off or hold your attention better, you're not sure. When he stops a few steps away, he folds his hands behind his back.
"I have a desire to discover your palate," he simply says.
And with a straight face at that, as if his gesture didn't come completely out of the blue to you. Your brows furrow a bit, and you try to save face before he starts 'dissecting' your demeanor so early into the evening.
"And what brought on this desire, exactly?" you ask, trying not to let your mind wander with that word.
His answer comes quickly. Apparently, he didn't have to think about it.
"I assumed it would be easier for you to express yourself if you had a smaller audience. You are the only one in Crawford's division I seem to have overlooked. Forgive me for not seeking you out sooner."
A beat.
You blink at him, unsure of what to say, and he must know, because he speaks again.
"Perhaps you have been eluding me," he suggests, "but no need for concern." He winks at you, which immediately makes you crack an involuntary smile, "I was certain I would catch you eventually."
This time, a giggle bubbles up out of you, and regrettably, you feel your face getting hot. It was true, he always came into the FBI seeming so sure of himself, and it wasn’t difficult to be attracted to someone who was so good at their job. So naturally, you avoided him, pretending to be busy. "Oh, don't you dare," you lowly say, pointing a teasing accusatory finger at him. "I will not have a red face when I'm not even drunk yet." You dreaded what could slip off of your tongue if you were to get drunk with him tonight.
The doctor smiles with a bit of teeth this time, which you mirror. "Oh," he drawls, "you should know by now that I enjoy the squirming. But for now, as I said, don't move," he warns, although with no malice. "I'll be right back with dinner."
And with that, he pivots, leaving the dining room.
You're in it now.
-----
"Something troubling you?"
Gaze darting up from the full glass, you froze, feeling a bit like a pet startled by being caught in the act of doing something naughty. You hadn't realized you'd been absentmindedly tracing the rim of your glass of deep red. This wasn’t the greatest first impression. Slowly, with an awkward smile, your hand drew away, disappearing under the table where you made a point to keep it as a fist so it wouldn’t be tempted to wander again. Being lost in thought and the scent of earthy cherries and spice, you hadn't realized you'd made yourself oblivious to the company of your attentive host, along with the skillfully prepared meal they had prepared just for you. A small breathy laugh flew past your lips.
"Sorry," you said, your free hand moving towards your fork to get another wedge of your lamb, "I hadn't realized I zoned out."
He gave a small hum in response, his face neutral. That was starting to bother you, how you never could tell what he was thinking. Even if he expressed something as simple as amusement or frustration, it would be fine by you. At least it would feel like he was somewhat human. It felt oddly intimate to be in his home. Any other time he graced you with his presence was when you, him, and the few from the Behavioral Science Unit were huddled around an autopsy table, watching Will Graham cultivate his "design" that he so expertly wielded. All while you hung around in the background, buried underneath everyone else’s recognition. It seemed like both blessing and curse, though. To be lent the perspective of such dangerous psychotic people and still having the strength to use that ability for good. He always looked tired, that Will Graham.
Dr. Lecter's head tilts just a tad. "Something that interests you?"
A small involuntary smile pulled at the corner of your mouth, and you could feel the crinkle forming around your eyes. There was that fantasy pushing to the surface again. Pursing your lips, your eyes drifted down to your glass, trying to focus on the way the wooden table seemed warped through it, and the fact that your mind answered yes.
"Hard to say." Taking a slow sip, you did your best to put on an efficient poker face as the deep taste of wine slid along your tongue.
A small flicker of... something hints in his voice. "I wouldn't say that." Calm as ever. As if you could fool Dr. Lecter of all people.
"Why not?" you ask, indulging in a forkful of meat to try and hide the nervous look that was daring to cross your face. You weren’t used to being on your own like this and you were trying not to show it, instead trying to counter it by looking him dead on as you took a bite.
“Because, my dear,” he said as casually as reading the paper, “you are not saying what you’re thinking, you are hiding it. And I believe I have had just about enough of it.”
Oh.
He puts his glass down, folding his hands on the table and looking at you the way a principal expects a confession out of a student. “So,” his eyes briefly flick down, “what are you thinking about?”
The question pins you down almost immediately. A dreadful silence fills the room and it makes you wish he’d played some kind of soft music to set a better mood for the evening. All the while, your mind is racing through things you could say to answer, but the words die before they can even reach your tongue. Taking a breath, you plan to say something, but even that dies off as quickly as it comes. You’re not even sure what you’re thinking about, your mind just feels like it’s overloading with thoughts like some sped-up slideshow where nothing makes sense.
“Um,” you pause again, mouth slightly open, feeling stuck under his gaze. Feeling like you can’t look away.
“You were always the quiet one, but I am a patient man,” he states plainly, waiting again.
Both of your hands emerge from under the table in a gesture of confusion, your shoulders moving in a weak shrug. “I don’t know,” you finally say just as weakly. “You don’t know,” he repeats blandly, and it makes your heart drop at his tone.
“I don’t,” you breathe, shaking your head. “My brain just feels like it’s,” you let out a small sharp laugh, your hand reverting to tracing your glass again, your other coming to rest under your chin, “like it’s buzzing with nonsense and I can’t make sense of it. It’s just,” your hands come up to the sides of your head, fingers moving like spiders, ”unwanted activity in there.”
He looks away for a second, thinking before he looks at you again. “Unwanted activity?” You sigh, “You’re sounding like a psychiatrist now. I’d rather you not work when you don’t have to. I’ll figure it out myself.” He completely brushes past your remark, catching you off guard by asking, “Would you like to see if I can help? That is, if you allow me.”
That stops you. You hold wide eyes with him, the air feeling electric as it waits for your response to fill it. “Tonight? Right now?” The fact that he was willing to help you (hopefully for free) shocked you, and he only nods once. The only part now is whether you say yes or no to his offer. But that’s not what you say quite yet.
“Why?”
He clicks his tongue, chiding, and stands, making you jump from how quickly he moves to your side. Holding his hand out to you, he says, “Do not ask why. Yes or no?”
His words ring around in your head and you gape at his open hand like it’s a dead animal, your heart pounding. You look at him again, and this time he gives you a softer look, playfully wiggling his fingers at you, signaling you to take it. Huffing out a laugh at the oddly lighthearted gesture, you nod and gently take his hand. It looks huge against yours, and it feels solid and warm when his fingers briefly close around it to squeeze with a gentle pull for you to rise out of your chair. Coming to stand by his side, when his hand eventually releases yours, it feels like a tragic loss when that warmth disappears. That is until that hand comes to rest ever so lightly on your lower back, which anchors you in an instant, and so he starts to lead you out of the room while you try to hide the way your skin prickles at the touch.
—
The couch underneath you was soft. Navy blue leather with elegant wooden legs that curved underneath your restless legs. Your knee has been bouncing feverishly all the while Dr. Lecter’s back was turned, adjusting a glass coffee table in front of you to bring it a hair closer with one hand, and the other grasping two empty glasses. When he seemed satisfied, he finally turned to sit, and paused when his eyes instantly flitted to your wired state, which you stopped just as quickly with wide eyes. He stayed still for another moment, watching before moving again. He finally sat when he appeared content with you, getting comfortable and crossing a leg over the other with a sigh. Another silence that made your ears ring made itself present yet again. This was the tedious, painful part. This was the part where he waited for you to start the conversation while you wrung your hands together, trying to come up with something to say.
Perhaps he knew it would be ages before that happened, because for another instance tonight, he spoke before you did. He twists to look at you.
“What’s been bothering you? Is it work-related?”
Sighing through your nose, you shook your head slowly, hands still fidgeting. His eyes flicked down to them, but he didn’t comment on it. He would allow it for the time being. “No,” you said, trying to think, “the work I can handle. I’m not really sure. I don’t think about it. It’s hard when I try to.” He hummed in acknowledgement. You weren't sure when the night had betrayed you, and you'd become such a nervous wreck compared to when you arrived.
“Do you have any extracurriculars to try and regulate those thoughts?”
You laughed dryly at that. “You’re funny. Like anyone in that division has time for extracurriculars. I might as well sleep in the office.” He hummed again. It was true, with the Chesapeake Ripper still out there, Jack Crawford kept everyone very busy down in behavioral and forensics. “You must remember to take care of yourself in those conditions,” he remarked. That sounded so fucking stupid to you, of course, that’s what the person who has the time and money to make their own schedule would say. Words barely out you say, “easier said than done. I just don’t- I don’t have the time. Not right now at least. It’s just always something down in that fucking building and none of us- none of us can catch a fucking break lately.”
His brow raises at that. Used to your quiet demeanor at work, this is probably the most he’s heard you talk so far. His interest is piqued. “Is there a method you resort to in order to unwind?” he questions, his eyes roving over you. He’s sitting next to you, but so far, you haven’t looked at him yet, still a bit on edge and overly aware of him looking at you. Resting your chin in your hand, you slouch a bit, thinking, sighing, shaking your head. “No,” you mumble, “I used to go out with friends during the day or even alone for a night on the town, but not for a few months now. I work late into the night almost every day now. This killer has everyone stretched for personal time. I’m lucky I don’t have anyone waiting for me at home or anything.” It felt odd to admit to the man you had a crush on that you were single, but you figured to get it out in the open because what did he care? He was a doctor and, for sure, had heard worse from his actual clients.
That’s just what Dr. Lecter has been waiting to hear.
“Not even a pet to look after?” he asks ever so casually, and you shake your head again. “Not at the moment. It’s for the best, honestly. I’m never home. If I had one, I would’ve neglected it to death by now,” you sigh, fingertips tapping against your forearms. Although you were still overly aware of the object of your fascination sitting next to you, you could tell you’d definitely relaxed as the night had progressed, not nearly as stiff as when you’d arrived. The silences that Dr. Lecter tended to keep dousing you in were handled a bit better every time on your part. For this silence, your eyes kept flicking toward the empty glass on the table in front of you, and the enticing bottle of amber cognac next to it that looked like it had to be at least $400.
Pursing your lips, you took a chance. “Could you maybe, um,” you uncrossed one of your arms to point, “pour me one of those?” His eyes flicked to the bottle, and he quickly said, “Of course,” moving to uncap the bottle. The seal opened easily with a small crack, and he lightly moved one of the glasses on the table closer to pour for you. You watched with equal parts of light fascination at the golden liquid that poured out of the bottle and the man pouring it for you. It was a relatively small glass, filled about halfway, when he lifted it from the table to present it to you.
Thanking him, you gingerly took it from his hands, suffering his gaze while you took a sip, putting a hand on your chest as you felt the hot, sweet taste glide all the way into your stomach. It was definitely liquor. You smacked your lips once, twice, thinking the taste over for a few seconds before you momentarily met his eyes, giving a small nod, murmuring, “It’s good,” and he seemed pleased with his guest’s opinion, pouring himself a glass. “Do not hesitate to let me know if you want more.” He readjusted, glass in hand, ready to continue the previous conversation now that you were satiated with your drink. “Let’s continue,” he states, “you were saying no pets, no friends, no social outings as of late. No way at all of being able to get out these frustrations of yours?”
You wince, feigning offence. “Ouch. Well, when you put it that way, you make me sound like a hermit. And no, not as of late,” you wipe a small drop of liquor from your mouth with the side of your fingertip, “These days I’m all business.” The doctor noticed that you were still not making eye contact. “Do you wish for an outlet from that?” That got your attention and got you to look at him. “Like what?” you take another small sip, already feeling another buzz coming on, whether from nerves or alcohol, you weren’t sure, it felt like it was blending.
“Do you wish for pleasure?”
That question made you look like a dumb animal in car headlights, your glass close to slipping from your fingers. “What?” you breathe hoarsely, trying to gauge if he was asking what you thought he was asking, fingertips turning white from how you were suddenly gripping your glass. He looked down at you like you were stupid, in a slightly condescending voice, “Never a friend for a night?” His hand moved, smoothing a piece of stray hair behind your ear, watching how you struggled a bit to control your breathing. “No one to assist with giving you a rush of endorphins? Purging what ails you? ” he asked quietly, his eyes flitting to your brows and shoulders twitching.
He was making jabs at your personal life, and you knew it, and yet all you did was shake your head and move back from him a smidge, trying to push back the odd feeling of shame. There was no reason to feel shame; you knew this good and well, you were busy, any other adult in the workplace could relate, but this time it just had a harsher sting to it. “Well, you know one night stands,” you whisper, “you get what you pay for, I guess,” your eyes flit back and forth between his, and you feel like a specimen under a microscope, quickly looking away. “They’re… well, hit and miss,” you admit quietly.
An almost smug smile graces his lips. “No?” still soft and patronizing, and you shook your head again to confirm, looking up at him with big eyes. He hummed, satisfied with your answer, placing his glass on the table to turn his full attention to you. “Would you if you had a guarantee?” Your mind worked for an answer, knowing damn well where he was going with this, but too scared to ask. “I suppose,” you spoke slowly, heart pounding, “I mean, who wouldn’t?” In a hasty decision, you quickly down the rest of your drink, missing the ever-so-subtle shit-eating smile he flashed your way when you leaned forward to pour yourself another glass, quickly downing that, and pouring a new one with haste.
When you’re about to take down the next glass, he gently pries it from your fingers, making you feel like being cut off for being an embarrassing drunk, and he asks, “Before we do that, do you object if I make you an offer?” You look dumbfounded at the glass in his hand, mouth open like you’re a fish, you say, “yeah,” just as dumbly, feeling dizzy, “I-I mean no.” You point at the glass, “Give me that first.” He huffs a laugh through his nose, holding the glass a bit away. “If you would like,” he starts, “I am more than willing to help you relax tonight. And not with copious amounts of cognac, no matter how good it is.” Gently, he puts his free hand under your chin, your breath trembling when you meet his eyes, he emphasizes, “but only if you allow me,” voice just as gentle. That’s truly the high point of the night so far for you, your favorite doctor offering in a way that feels so vulgar, and your body is screaming with want, yet your brain can’t catch up, and you remain quiet, just looking at him, your thoughts starting to feel so syrupy thick and slow and stupid. Once again, he takes the wheel, his thumb stroking tantalizingly slow along your jawline. “You are allowed to say no, darling, remember that,” he states in a low honeyed voice, his gaze piercing and unwavering. “If you do, it can be left behind. Forgotten. You have my word.”
You inhale, a small high-pitched noise coming out of you due to your restricting throat, and he anticipates the building of your answer from the way you tremble. And ever so slowly, your hand moves up to grasp the wrist he has holding your chin, your small fingers closing around it in a weak grasp, fingers moving feather soft back and forth.
That’s when he knows he has you.
Slowly but surely, you nod, telling him yes. He shakes his head, eyes darting to the way your eyes widen at his response, heart dropping, terrified that he'd toyed with you all night just to tell you no.
“Words, my dear, words,” he breathes, sounding borderline euphoric, leaning forward to gingerly slide his nose against yours, “I need them.”
Squeezing your eyes shut, you let out a sharp breath of relief, immediately sighing, “Yes. God, yes.” Words barely out, your eyes fly open at the feeling of his forehead pressing against yours, and his eyes feel like they cut into you, craving to dissect and see the blood red hiding under the soft of your underbelly. “I want you to know something before we begin,” he says, his voice keeping his low and velvety smooth, yet commanding, “I am not one of those … failures you described earlier. I can and will push you past your limit. I am a man, and I will ensure to fuck you until you come. Do you understand me?”
Words escaped you. They might not make sense if you tried. Dutifully, you nod, and he seems well appeased, pulling his face away to stroke a hand along your cheek, almost possessively. “Oh, and not to worry,” he adds, “there’s a change of clean clothes for you upstairs for when we finish.”
He tilts his head, flashing his perfect teeth in a spine-chilling smile.
“Now, give us a kiss.”