A/N: Thanks to my friend and beta, LovelyWeather, for editing the sorry and giving me the first comments. It means a lot, darlin' :')

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, beside the idea, and I don't make any profit out of it. All the characters and places are part of the great minds that invented the books and the show.

Warning: Sex scene; light mentions of violence.

Abigail stared at the wall in front of her and felt a twitch of hate, right under her breasts, hidden in her rib cage. There she hid her longing for freedom, which the fences did not let her have. Everybody asked her why she climbed over them and, to her, it was such a stupid question. Wouldn't they run away as well? Wouldn't they, if they were stuck in a place like this while on the outside life was going on? She would gladly climb all the walls, as they were the only thing keeping her separated from nature and liberty.

Asylum.

Port Haven

Psychiatric

Facility.

Hospital for the insane.

That was her home now. It would be plain silly to say 'she never thought she would be here', because who does imagine himself ending up in an asylum? She feared many things, she imagined herself getting thrown in jail many times, but not in an asylum. Never in asylum. She wasn't crazy; she knew exactly what she was doing. And that was, probably, the worst thing.

The meds were not of much help anymore. The nightmares were getting worse as her body and mind got used to the drug. It was tiring - the dreams, this place, her life. Whenever the drugs gradually stopped having effect on her, Abigail would imagine her own drug. A haven, a kind of a safe place where things would not hurt her. It was an old trick of a tired mind, but she was ready to deceive if that meant the dreams would stop.

At first, it was Minnesota - she imagined her home, the forests, the animals, long winters and cold autumns. But her father would sneak into that utopia and she would quickly open her eyes, sit up, breathing heavily.

Home, she would remind herself, was long gone.

Minnesota, forests, father, they were all gone and they were gone for good. She missed her father less and less. He brought her no good anyway. Everything she had done was not for him, but to save herself from him. He was the monster that dragged her into this never-ending nightmare, that meddled with her dreams and thoughts. Why would he be her safe haven if the worst nightmares were the ones in which he was repeatedly killing her?

Then, there were the beaches. Long and empty tropical beaches, only sand and the sea around her. It was funny in a way: she never had visited faraway places. Maybe that was the perk of it? She could so easily imagine herself being at peace somewhere where she'd never been before, somewhere where she hadn't been with her family. As much as she missed them, she also wanted to break away from every part of her previous life.

Maybe that is why she took to those new people so well? Will, the one who killed her father, Alana, who was so protective that it could get annoying yet was sweet in a way, and Dr Hannibal Lecter, the mysterious and mesmerizing one. She could not explain to herself why he had such gripping effect on her, but she could not help but feel good around him. She felt sincere and safe.

He was the one whose strong hands held her bleeding neck, who was driving beside her in the ambulance car as they took her off to this new life. He saved her life, he slowly led her into a new one and he was there. When she killed Nicolas Boyle - when she stabbed him in self-defence - he was there to help her, to aid her, to keep her secret as silent as a grave.

And, for some strange reason, she trusted him.

Abigail put her life in his firm hands, and it felt good. It felt like she didn't have to worry about it when he was there. She let him hide the body, she let him give her the drugs, she let him tell her that he was the one who made the call and ask him no questions. All because he seemed so stable, so trustworthy, so sober and solemn. Like the man who knew what he was doing, who held his own life in his hands, to whom nothing was a surprise. And she herself was sick of surprises.

As Abigail Hobbs stared at the wall in front of her and thought of Dr Lecter, she knew what she wanted and where she wanted to be. Determined as ever (even more so now that she had the cause) she climbed up the wall and jumped steadily down to the cold earth.

She would go where she felt safe, where she felt good.

Where she even dared to say that she felt loved.

As soon as Hannibal opened the door, he realized the smell was different. It wasn't the usual smell of the Persian carpet and freshly cleaned windows - there was a light note of human presence in the air.

Living human flesh.

He could smell the leaves, the ground, the cheap washing powder used in hospitals and the soft smell characteristic of sweat; sweat which implied fear. With a smirk, he entered the room, looking around, wondering where the person was hiding. The person – and he had a good guess about who it was – was certainly still here; once he got into the room, the personal smell of skin, the smell that hid around the rib cage, became stronger. It was tickling his sharp nose.

"Come out," he finally said in a low, civil voice to the imposter. There was a moment of soft silence and then, with a fright of a hunted rabbit, she stepped from under the bookcase, out of the shadow – right where he expected her to come out from. "Hello Abigail. Why am I not surprised?"

And, indeed, he wasn't. He guessed it could be her, even though the smell of fresh dirt and the grass she fell on after climbing over the wall interrupted the fresh note of her body. After all, he was waiting for her to come back. He waited for her, even dared her a bit, to climb the wall, to come to him, to escape and look for shelter, running right into his claws. Hannibal could not help but feel very proud of himself. Once again, he played the part fantastically, marvellously; it was almost a pity he had to enjoy it on his own.

Abigail was evidently exhausted and confused. It probably took her some time to find his place; she had only been there once. But obviously she did not give up. She did not give up even after she found the door locked and him absent. The key was dug in shallowly into the plant soil beside the door, visible enough for those who searched for it (and placed there especially for her), encouraging her. Yes, he had definitely expected her, knowing she was a smart girl and that she would find a way to him if he only lured her into looking for it.

Nonetheless, he could not help but play with her shattered emotions a little more. "I must point out it is very rude to break into someone's house when they are not at home. This is not a habit of yours, Abigail, I certainly hope."

She shivered at the unwelcoming words, biting her lip. "I am sorry. I just didn't know where to go… I was exhausted, and I saw the key and… I…"

"You were not supposed to run away in the first place," he scolded her in a cold voice, deaf for her excuses.

"I had to. I couldn't stand it anymore," she looked as if she was about to cry any minute now. Hannibal, the person she thought would support her, the one who took her out of the hospital himself the last time, the person who gave her drugs to feel better, should understand this.

Underneath the cruel act, he did; he understood it very well, but what fun would it be to show that to her? What delight would it be for him if she didn't not apologize, if she didn't fear him, if she didn't take him seriously? What he liked best about her was that she both feared him and longed to be close to him at the same time. He was not a fatherly figure for her. He was above that. He was more like a mentor, someone who she could reach for when she felt broken and unstable. He gave her shelter she had never found in her own father. It was something that came with power.

Estimating it was enough of messing with her, he briefly nodded and gestured with his hand for her to step over. She approached him fearfully. Finally, he smiled supportively, leaning over to hug her, "It's okay. You are not alone here, you have a shelter."

She finally did, in his warm embrace of strong hands, with claws that, unnoticeable to her, pulled her into the darkness.

If he tells Alana, Abigail will have to be returned to the hospital and he may lose her trust. If he doesn't, he will lose Alana's trust. They were equally valuable to him as he knew he might need both strong, determinate women at his side. As he slowly chopped the medicine student's thigh into neatly prepared "chicken breasts" with blackberry sauce, he weighted his pro's and con's.

"We will have to tell Alana," he finally spoke up, slowly and considerately, as if there was nothing he dreaded doing more.

Abigail just nodded. "I know. She was so mad the last time," she recalled.

"Yes," Hannibal confirmed, "I will explain to her how you were shattered and tormented by the nightmares and the hospital atmosphere and that I, as a psychiatrist, could not let you go back there before you felt better. Which is not far from the truth."

This managed to bring out a little smile on her face. She obviously enjoyed the secrets they made together, stacking them one over the other, building a tower. "Thank you," she muttered gratefully and there was, for the first time that day, a smile in her eyes as well.

There was something sweet and fragile about her; the reason why he had had the urge to save her when she bled on the floor of her kitchen; the reason why he wanted her to live; the reason why he wanted to see exactly how breakable she was. Because, at the same time, there was more to her than people could see. He knew - and he knew he was not wrong - that she had done more than what she told FBI, and that made him excited. The lovely, sweet, victimized girl that had blood on her hands was a delightful sight to him. She was brittle enough to earn his interest and protection, but sharp and cunning enough to keep it for so long. And that was the exact reason why he enjoyed having her as a guest. It was the perfect chance to see exactly how tough her bones were and how easily they could be broken. Her hands were soft, but they could stab. Her rib cage seemed slim, but there were many heavy secrets hidden in it.

She was his sweetest, prettiest game. He had waited to have her under his wing for some time now - he couldn't hand over the pleasure to Alana so fast.

"It is my professional duty to keep you safe," he smiled back to her, thinking how differently they perceived the word safe. He stirred the sauce, "I do hope you are hungry."

"Famished." Abigail looked like she was in awe of his culinary ability. Their eyes met for a moment and she smiled, "I bet it will be as tasty as the last time."

"Even better," Hannibal promised her.

As she lay in bed, Abigail wondered if they noticed she was gone? Were they looking for her? Had Hannibal already called Alana?

She turned once again in her bed, thinking how wrong it was to think she would get any sleep that night. Hannibal's guest room was warm and cosy, yet she just had too much on her mind at the moment. What would happen to her? Would Hannibal get in trouble for hiding her? Would they - Will, Alana, Jack - suspect that the two of them were hiding something?

It was all back to point one – would they find out about Nicholas Boyle? The sudden itching in her chest where she stored the guilt started to press on her. She sat up in her bed, angry at her own mind. In fact, she did not feel sleepy at all. For the first time in months, she had had a good evening - a lovely dinner, prepared just for her, an amazing conversation with Hannibal and the feeling of freedom. She would not let that go to waste by bad dreams and the face of Nicholas Boyle on the back of her eyelids.

Lightly and carefully, Abigail stepped out of the room, wearing the simple nightgown that Hannibal borrowed her. (As soon as he did, she wondered whose gown was it. Was there someone else who wore it before? Did he keep it just in case? Who was the lady who slept in her bed before or, perhaps, in his bed?) It surprised her to see that the lights were on in the hallways and that there was music coming from Hannibal's room. They supposedly went to sleep an hour ago, but it seemed neither of them were actually sleeping.

Still, she did not dare to fasten her pace and make noise. There was something about his place and about him that made her want to be light, still and moderate. Perhaps it was because he was like that, and there was also something that made her want him to like her.

The door of his room was open and he smiled to her when she showed up, as if he was expecting her. Perhaps, Abigail thought, he was; it seemed as if he was expecting her to show up at his house today as well. Did that mean he wanted her there, she wondered? The thought made her oddly giddy.

Hannibal put down the pencil he was drawing with and stood up, approaching her. "Please don't tell me there is something bothering you. Did you have any bad dreams again?" he worryingly asked.

She shook her head, "No, I simply couldn't sleep. I guess the breaking of monotony got me a bit too excited."

His mouth curled into smile. "Then we need something to exhaust you or calm you down. Tea perhaps?"

"Without any drugs this time, please," she mentioned their inner joke.

He nodded with a grin and walked over to the cupboard, taking a cup that matched the tea pot on his table. Now that Abigail got to look around, everything around them was matching - curtains with the rug, cups with the notebook, even his shoes were the colour of mahogany table. He had so much style, that his every movement seemed carefully planned, even when doing simple things like pouring tea or handing her the cup. She obediently took it, not forgetting to say thanks, and turned to take a walk around the room.

"Your drawings are so wonderful," she noticed in admiration, looking at the picture of a carefully studied skeleton that had a raven in its rib cage. The image seemed very beautiful in its grotesque way; Abigail could not move her eyes away from it. "How do you do it?" she finally asked, still not raising her look.

"Drawing?"

"No, I mean everything. You work as a top-psychiatrist, cook deliciously, play the piano, draw perfectly... When did you learn it all?" she asked, trying not to sound too smitten.

A shadow of pride flew over Hannibal's face, but he did not comment in that manner. "Man can do many things if he organizes himself well. After all, you can see I have no family, nor many friends. I am unbound of social duties, therefore I have more time to focus on arts and skills. Do you like that picture?" he could not help but ask.

"Like?" Abigail looked up, astonished, "I love it. It is so beautiful, effective... Meaningful."

"And what does it mean for you?" he wondered, looking not at the drawing, but at her as she analyzed the soft lines again.

She was quiet for a moment before she softly explained, "It represents the strength trapped in us. The strength that doesn't always have to be gracious or benign. It can be ugly and dark, but it will be in us nonetheless, hidden underneath our heart, protected by our bones." For a moment it seemed as if she was surprised by the explanation herself. Shyly, she raised her head to look into the man's brown eyes. "Did I pass?" she joked.

Hannibal did not move his eyes off her for the whole time, and now they seemed more piercing than ever. He seemed as if he was slowly dissecting her, part by part, as his lip lightly curved up in a smirk she could not quite interpret. Finally, he seemed rather satisfied, "It's not about passing anything, it's about what you see. There are no bad interpretations, Abigail. Only personal ones."

She smiled at him, turning again to walk over to the couch. "But is that what you meant when you drew it?" she was curious as she put the cup on the coffee table.

Immediately, he adjusted his papers neatly, "I was only curious of your answer."

"But I am curious of yours."

He raised his head to look at her, seated on the couch, and said nothing. Under his gaze she started to feel uncomfortable, but the attention flattered her at the same time. Passing his hand over the papers he made sure they were as orderly arranged as they should be and he walked over to the couch, sitting beside her. "Yes, that is what I meant. I wanted to show the force that lies within us, but the raven is not necessary the sight of the glum. It is also an artistic symbol and it can, as any bird, represent freedom." He made a pause and then said in a voice she could barely hear now, "It was a picture inspired by you, Abigail."

"Me?" she asked, sounding much more surprised than she wanted to.

He nodded. "Your hidden urge for survival, your boldness to come over to me and your determination to cope with things. Those are very valuable, yet rare, qualities in a girl as young as you are."

Abigail wanted to thank him for such amazing compliments, but she felt it wouldn't be enough. She stayed wordless, looking at him, startled and delighted. The words such as those coming from a man such as he was! "I... I don't deserve such a praise!"

He simpered and put his warm hand on her cheek; a simple sign of affection that sent her shivers down the spine. "It's not a simple praise; these are the facts."

"And why the rib cage?" she craved for the meaning, encouraged by his flattery and interest.

As soon as she asked, his eyes glanced to her rib cage, barely noticeable. "Because it is such a delicate part of the body that does not get respected nearly enough as it should. Things are hidden there: urges, emotions, secrets. It is our own personal cage we carry around with all the parts of the body people value - heart, lungs, kidneys. It protects the very core of humans and it still manages to have such stylish structure and harmonious, elegant design. The nature rounded us with such sublime architecture, yet I feel as it is not properly appreciated."

And then, he smoothly put his other hand on her own rib cage - something she would never dream of him doing, though it seemed unusually natural. It seemed as if she had long wanted it, craved for it, but did not even notice she did. Like an old itch she had felt has just been washed away with relief.

Her docile blue eyes were looking in his mellow brown ones, trying to read them. She couldn't; as always, there was too much in them and still they said so little... only now it made her anxious. She wished to know what he knows, what he thinks, what he wants. The situation was highly unusual, so a guide on how she should act would be more than welcome. Yet he did not offer any guidance to her. He only daringly looked back at her, ever so slightly raising his eyebrows. The only thing she could read from the motion were simple, cunning words:

What will you do now?

Not expecting it from herself, she leaned forward. She supported herself on his two hands, one beside her lips, the other beneath her breast, and she rushed forward, kissing him quickly like she never kissed before. It was only a matter of moment, a moment she did not want to lose. There was no place for thoughts, doubts or feelings of guilt. She was sure it was the right thing to do, and his lips that slowly parted as she touched them with her own confirmed it.

She finally understood what his enigmatic look meant. He was daring her.

And she was the game.

The kiss grew more tense with every second, and she was barely breathing. Not that she minded it; if she started choking that very moment, she wouldn't have minded as well. It felt good and right to be in his tight grip as his warm lips played with her own.

She longed to feel his skin under her hands now. She wanted to make sure it was real, as it did not feel like that. Here she was, kissing tenderly a sophisticated man she knew nothing about except that he was the one that called her house the morning her father tried to kill her. But the best, sweetest thing was that it did not matter. The only thing that mattered was that she could trust herself, that this was real, her in his embrace, on his soft couch and not on the rough, smelly sheets of the hospital. Raising her hands, she put her palms on his cheeks, lightly pressing them against his sharp cheekbones. Yes, it was indeed him, his freshly shaved skin.

But the delight of the touch did not last long. As if he didn't want her to touch him, he took her palms in his, pushing them a bit roughly down. Her arms were now in the line of her waist, turned backward, like he wanted to make sure it him who had control.

Abigail did not question him.

And then, slightly more gently, he pushed her arms more, pushing her with his whole body down. Slowly, she leaned, trusting him that he would make sure there was something supporting her. It was the right word for the feeling she had at the moment. Trust. So simple and so right. How could she not trust him, since whatever he did seemed so perfectly right, so perfectly secure, so perfectly reasonable? And this, right now, seemed more reasonable than anything.

Her back was leaned against the armrests of the couch that lightly pressed into her. Despite this and despite the weight of his body, she did not feel uncomfortable. Those sinewy palms of his let go of her and now they were pressing her rib cage, the part of her he was obviously fascinated with. She wondered if he could feel the bones, count them, sate his hunger, understand them even more. And now finally she could see what he meant by the allurement with the bones that protected the organs; his touch on them felt interesting, new and enthralling. If she could, she would let him slit his fingers through her ribs and dive them into her body.

But he couldn't, so he chose a different way.

Gradually, his fingers flew over her rib cage, measuring it whole, before proceeding to her stomach, thighs and the edges of her nightgown.

Abigail got lost in the touches. She could not tell anymore which one suited her most as they were all so luscious, as were his lips, so pleasing, like his compliments, and yet so tender, like his passions. Just as she thought the sweet delicacy of his soft strokes on her belly could not be topped, he touched her inner thigh and she shuddered, letting out a small moan. Now there was no doubt where this was going; now she was too eager for it.

The soft wandering of his hand over her lower body did not stop, and nor did the kisses, when she felt him slowly thrusting into her, with a great caution and heed. The kiss stopped only for a moment as he raised his head to look into her eyes; he was looking for her approval and, beamingly, she gave it to him. With experienced and slow movements, he pushed again into her in rhythmic moves. His hands were now rolling her nightgown up over her shoulders. Underneath it, she had nothing. The fabric of his suit (which he did not bother to remove) lightly scratched her breasts and rubbed over her nipples with each movement he made to get deeper into her. His eyes were now boldly focused on her own and Abigail saw in them passion mixed with delight, the same spark he had when he drew and when he cooked.

She was his passion now, his piece of art and his dessert. With that thought she arched her back, raising up her thighs to meet his in order to please him more. He glided his palms over her back, supporting her movements, and placed his lips onto her neck. Lightly picking up speed in a more eager manner, his lips travelled from the skin between her breasts, lower and lower. She was getting sweaty now, not entirely aware of the noises of pleasure and pain she let slip out of her mouth.

Those noises were his music. They were showing him tact to which he played her, skilfully and expertly, like a violin. The rhythm was changing slowly, becoming quicker - he was playing the fast allegro now. He was going deeper, not only into her body, but also deeper into her mind, her thoughts, her excitement, as if with every pierce they were getting more and more intimate.

By the strength of his fingers pressing down on her ribs (where his lips were as well now) she could tell he was reaching the point of ecstasy. His drive was certainly more and more determined, focused only on one thing now - the bliss and thrill of his own body. He was tenser and tenser, his grip around her ribs so hard that she was certain that, yes, he would finally rip her skin and dive his fingers in the web of bones. Without a single sound, he reached his climax, and stood back to his full height, making one last push into her body.

Hannibal was on the top for another moment, breathing fast, before he finally moved out of her, leaving her to lie, naked and sweaty. On the contrary, he did not seem to sweat at all - only a few locks of hair were dangling messily over his eyes, giving him the look of a beast that had just finished a meal, satisfied and sated. She smiled at him, but he did not return the smile. Quietly, stoically, as he would at any other moment, he straightened his suit (that had wrinkled in a few places, mostly around the cheats) and pulled up his pants, zipping them.

Abigail felt a twitch of disappointment. Was that all? Was he going to turn around, without a smile, a kiss, a word? Suddenly she did not find herself to be of big importance to him. It was too unlike him to just turn around and leave it like that.

But Hannibal quickly proved her fears to be unnecessary. As soon as he groomed his suit back to representable form, he returned his focus to her. Without a word, he bent over her again and put his long fingers between her legs. Abigail gasped in surprise, completely bewildered by this. Quickly she realized what was happening and smiled, biting down her lip. This time Hannibal returned her smile, leaning down to whisper in her ear, "I would hate it if you left my home unsatisfied."

No, this would definitely not be unsatisfying. Only now did she realize that the dance he had performed moments ago was focused on his pleasure alone, but this what he was doing now was all for her. His fingers were quick and trained, they knew exactly what spots to press and where to move. He slowed and quickened the flow, absolutely not letting her rest or get bored for a moment. Lightly petting her on the outside and rapidly pushing into her inside, he made her whole body move in cadence he was dictating. The skillful fingers of magnificent piano player were more than satisfactory; she felt as they were filling her whole, like he knew all the right tricks to tempt her.

The desire she felt now was so much stronger than mild. It was all she could think of: his fingers, her body, his attention. With her eyes closed, breathing heavily, she felt his kisses all around her neck, remedying the scar, as his other arm caressed her cheek in a way he usually did. Mixed with the movements of the other hand inside her, she quivered, crying out slightly louder than intended, "Please… Yes… Yes…"

Hannibal chuckled in her ear as he fastened the thrusts. The fingers of his other hand, now on her cheek, were scratching her, and Abigail was sure she would bleed. Pain and itching like these could only be followed by sweet and sour blood, one that brought relief and delicious taste.

The fingers were not going deeply into her anymore, but were barely on the surface, petting and massaging heavily the parts that made her feel the best. And now she was feeling the best. Her muscles started to tighten, her body was reacting on its own and she let out a long and sharp cry, like a wounded animal, like a prey. Despite the movements of his fingers, his arms were firmly still and they were now the only thing that were securing her body not to tumble down from the couch. She let her head fall back into an unnatural position, her muscles to tighten and relax uncontrollably and, finally, she exploded, driven to the point of culmination by three simple, but very experienced fingers. Her inner muscles went stiff around them, as if they wanted to prevent him from stopping, from removing them, from parting from her. It felt as if the bird he put into her rib cage opened its wings and, with a great, supernatural force, flew right out of her, ripping her apart.

And then, thrills washed over her body and she started to relax.

The hand moved from her, only lightly touching her thigh with its sticky fingers on its way out. Despite of this, his fully-clothed body continued pressing down on her naked one. She tried hard to stabilize her breathing and synchronize it with his own. His hair was tickling her cheek, with the hand again touching around her ribs. Before she knew how or why, she started to cry; full, big and round tears that rolled down her cheeks. It confused her greatly, nearly to the point of fright, but before she could even open mouth to explain how much she enjoyed it, how much she was pleased, without regrets, and that she didn't even know why was she crying, he chuckled again and raised his head. There was amusement in his eyes and a soft smirk on his lips. "Shhhh" Hannibal put the still wet finger against her mouth. "It is a normal reaction after your body suffers great emotions," he answered as if reading her thoughts, "In fact, it flatters me."

Through the tears, Abigail let out a small laugh. He kissed her forehead softly and, as if she wasn't heavier than a bouquet of flowers, he picked her up, wrapping his arms around her fragile, pale body. She wept into his suit as he carried her down the hallway and put her back into her bed.

When he laid her down, his face was only somewhat discernible thanks to the light from the hallway, but that was enough for her to see the raven in his eyes. The strong and stoic raven that fed his hunger through her, living between her heart and spine. "I hope this exhausted you enough so you can sleep," he combed his fingers through her hair, "Don't let the bed bugs bite."

And with those simple, silly words he closed the door, leaving Abigail naked and curled in the soft sheets, her rib cage opened wide and vast.

A/N: Thank you for reading it; reviews are more than welcome. Be a good person and make me happy :') [since HeAteUs is making me sad]