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[mirrortouch]

( OPEN SPAM )

[ It was a bit hard to miss the effects of this flood; as soon as she'd awoken, well. Drenched in sweat and a t-shirt that didn't fit quite right anymore, she'd showered and perhaps taken a bit longer than usual to find some sort of way to adjust to this newfound - body. Afterwards, she'd thrown on a flannel that was too large for her, rolled at the sleeves, tucked into a pair of slacks that are belted firmly about her hips.

It wouldn't do to make a fuss over the network about it like everyone else was. She steals her way into the kitchen, glasses pressed firmly up her nose as she gets a banana, some coffee, and she tries to slip out relatively unnoticed.

But it's mostly the library she flocks to today, large and open and easily avoidable for the likes of most of anyone she could end up coming across. It's not that she's embarrassed. It's just that - Well, yes, she's got some degree of embarrassment. Being a female is a strange new world with which he obviously has no experience, and so Wilona does what Will does - she finds somewhere secluded, and she escapes.

Specifically, she sits cross-legged in one of the aisles with a textbook in her lap, sipping irritably at a coffee, because fuck you and your rules about food and drink in the library. ]


( feel free to come across wil in the kitchen, the library, her cellroom, or anywhere in between where she might be wandering throughout the day! replies will be coming from mirrortouched. )

Comments

[youwill]

[He sees her first in the mess hall, a new - ? - face in familiar decor. It gives him pause, and he doesn't follow her in any conventional sense of the act. He follows her eventuality, follows her pattern. Follows so long as she is who he believes she is.

Hannibal doesn't carry in his own cup of coffee - he happens to like that particular set of rules. He comes empty handed, wandering with purpose until he finds the occupied aisle.

At first, he doesn't intrude, watching only froom the corner of his eye. But there is honesty and openness to consider, so he steps away from the books he wasn't really examining, out into the center between the bookends. His hands are clasped in front of him, fingers laced, and he cocks his head as he studies her, curiosity lanced in every inch of his gaze.]

Good morning.

[mirrortouched]

[ She doesn't know for sure, but she does kind of know already.

The presence is what she realizes before she actually hears the greeting, but she doesn't look up from her book straight away, glasses sliding down the end of her nose. With a finger tapped against the page of her book, she shuts it with the digit as a makeshift bookmark - 'Reasoning About Uncertainty', apparently. Carefully, she removes the glasses, folds them up and tucks them into the pocket of her over-sized shirt.

There's not much point in trying to hide it. If he doesn't know already, he's going to find out anyway. There's too many similarities, too much of herself - himself - herself that she can't hide, and so she looks up to him with a bland (maybe self-deprecating) smile. ]

Doctor Lecter.

[youwill]

[He could ask a hundred questions. The majority of them are very rude, though, so he opts not to. Instead, Hannibal smiles faintly: he can see Will in the way she slides the glasses from her nose, the way she tucks them away. And she recognizes, which more than anything tells him that she is less appropriate.

He walks forward, catches sight of the book's title. He's careful not to let his smile widen.]

Dare I ask, what uncertainty are you concerned with today?

[mirrortouched]

[ Other than his brand new vagina?

Wil's fingers tick in debate against her book, studying the title for a few long seconds before she speaks again. Uncertainty's always clung to her like a foul stench, like a skunk smell doesn't leave a dog's fur until you scrub it down to nothing. ]

It's estimated that one out of six of serial killers - active serial killers, in the States - are female.

[ She words carefully, lifting her mug up and sipping as she moves to stand. She doesn't like being so far downward from him, without her usual edge on the situation. The height difference even when she's standing is significant; Hannibal is at least a head taller.

He feels smaller, though no less important. He feels well appreciated, if a tinge underestimated. ]

Of all the questions you dare ask, Doctor Lecter, I shouldn't be surprised it's the coy one. [ She eyes him flatly, book tucked under one arm, mug safely clutched in the other. ] You shouldn't play coy.