Fics like of poppies and pomegranate seeds

She’s nervous. That’s new. She never gets nervous, at least not about things like this. The behavioral profiler in her wants to examine this feeling, run her fingers over it like running one’s tongue over a toothache. No time for that now. The boy in the bed has her full attention at the moment, frail-looking in his hospital nightgown. He shouldn’t seem so frightening. “Will, I’m Special Agent Abigail Hobbs,” she introduces herself. “And this is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Do you remember us?” “I remember you.” Graham shifts, lifting his gaze higher to meet hers full-on. She gets the impression he doesn’t do this often. Abigail’s mother always warned her the most important moments in her life would come wrapped up in simple ones such as these, their potency drawn from the smallest of actions, and she believes it now, pinned in place by a teenager’s eyes like needles through a butterfly’s wings. “You’re the woman who killed my dad.”

Fics like of poppies and pomegranate seeds

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