Dr. Hannibal Lecter sat in the cool shade of their simple beachside home, watching his partner through the open glass doors. They lay sprawled on the sun-warmed deck, utterly at ease, eyes half-lidded against the glare of the dying sun.

He had been painting. Not with the fine oils of Florence, nor the careful hand of an artist trained in anatomy, but with something more primitive; charcoal, dragged over thick parchment, smudged by his fingers into the shape of their sleeping form. He had traced the curve of their collarbone, the languid drape of their hand over the armrest, the slight parting of their lips. His sketch was reverent, meticulous.

But art alone had not sufficed today.

A silver tray sat on the counter at his side, set with a crystal glass of something golden, sweating in the heat. A knife, too, its edge honed to cruel precision. He lifted a small fruit from the bowl, a mango, its skin taut and fragrant. With a single, clean stroke, he split it open, its flesh yielding in a quiet gasp. The knife whispered against the seed as he carved careful slivers, arranging them in a perfect fan with fresh honey. A practiced hand, delicate, knowing.

Stepping outside, he placed the tray beside them, settling to his haunches. His eyes, dark and knowing, lingered on their exposed skin. The sun had kissed them warmly, gilding them in soft gold. Without a word, he lifted a piece of mango to their lips, watching with an unreadable expression as they accepted it, the honeyed juice clinging to their mouth.

Then, with the edge of his thumb, he wiped it away.

"You wear the sun beautifully," he murmured, voice smooth as the sea. "Like something out of myth. Helen, perhaps, before Troy was ever a thought." He tilted his head and studied them as one might study a particularly fascinating butterfly caught in a jar. "I wonder, if I were to press my teeth to your skin and bite to burst, would I taste sunlight?"

The sea breathed in.

And Hannibal Lecter, smiling faintly, exhaled.