"Dr. Hannibal Lecter lay on his cot with the cell lights down after Graham left him. Several hours passed.
For a while he had textures; the weave of the pillowcase against his hands clasped behind his head, the smooth membrane that lined his cheek.
Then he had odors and let his mind play over them. Some were real, some were not. They had put Clorox in the drains; semen. They were serving chili down the hall; sweat-stiffened khaki. Graham would not give him his home telephone number; the bitter green smell of cut cocklebur and teaweed."
A friendly reminder that Book!Hannibal spent hours pouting while desperately trying not to, over the fact that Will Graham didn’t give him his phone number. (via zara2148)