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Once, there were three fisherman. Friends and sometimes rivals, all. At the end of a long day, they came together with their catch to judge who had done the best, and found that all three of them had only caught fugu. They jested some halfhearted arguments as to the sizes, but all three knew that to make a proper meal of their catches could be deadly. None of the fishermen were willing to confess to their fear, so they went home to prepare their stew. As knowledgeable fishermen, they knew which parts were most poisonous. They removed the liver and the ovaries, and when the stew was done it smelled delicious.
But when it came time to taste, no one stepped forward. "Let us find someone else to test it," said the wisest of them. "We will bring some to the beggar in town. We will be seen doing a kindness, and in turn, he will do us one." the fishermen all nodded their agreement, and packed a bowl for the beggar. All together, they went to find the beggar. The old man was surprised but grateful, and seemed to enjoy the stew immensely. When nothing had happened to him, the fishermen delightedly returned home to partake of their meal.
The next day, the beggar saw them on their way to the water to begin their day again. He was delighted to see that they were in good health - for he had hidden the stew, and only pretended to eat when the fisherman asked how it was. He knew better than to trust a stranger.
[Hannibal pauses and gives the ghost of a smile.]
Some men are wise, and some men only believe they are so.
Fugu is the Japanese word for pufferfish. They are considered delicacies there, and rightfully so. Fugu sashimi and milt are quite excquisite. A good fugu chef will not serve the liver, as that is where the potent neurotoxin is at its most powerful: but the flesh surrounding the liver is tender, and much less poisonous. It will likely not kill a man, but good fugu will leave the lips and tongue tingling.
[The smile fills out.]
A reminder, of how close one has brushed death.
[Private to Mal]
I suppose you fared well during the latest odyssey?
[Private to Damon]
Forgive me for not saying it sooner, but your actions with Maladicta upon your arrival were inspired.
[Spam for Abigail]
[He does not bother knocking, when he reaches her door. Instead he stands outside it, carefully taping three things to her door. It is, as is his wont, artful. The first page, trimmed to have rounded edges, has German lyrics, beautifully written out. It looks calligraphic. It is taped at an angle, and, overlapping at the corner, is another page, similarly trimmed, similarly written. It is the English translation of the song.
Between the pages, he very carefully tapes a rosehip, with its many shades, red and purple and black.
When he finishes, he admires the lay out for a moment before turning to go.]
[Spam for Alana]
[He carries a manilla folder gently, so as not to smudge any of the lines within. He walks with a little smile on his face, though he doesn't offer it to anyone he passes. This smile is not for them, and neither is what he holds. When he reaches Alana's cabin door, he pauses to make certain the trip did not blur any of his carefully drawn lines, and knocks.]
But when it came time to taste, no one stepped forward. "Let us find someone else to test it," said the wisest of them. "We will bring some to the beggar in town. We will be seen doing a kindness, and in turn, he will do us one." the fishermen all nodded their agreement, and packed a bowl for the beggar. All together, they went to find the beggar. The old man was surprised but grateful, and seemed to enjoy the stew immensely. When nothing had happened to him, the fishermen delightedly returned home to partake of their meal.
The next day, the beggar saw them on their way to the water to begin their day again. He was delighted to see that they were in good health - for he had hidden the stew, and only pretended to eat when the fisherman asked how it was. He knew better than to trust a stranger.
[Hannibal pauses and gives the ghost of a smile.]
Some men are wise, and some men only believe they are so.
Fugu is the Japanese word for pufferfish. They are considered delicacies there, and rightfully so. Fugu sashimi and milt are quite excquisite. A good fugu chef will not serve the liver, as that is where the potent neurotoxin is at its most powerful: but the flesh surrounding the liver is tender, and much less poisonous. It will likely not kill a man, but good fugu will leave the lips and tongue tingling.
[The smile fills out.]
A reminder, of how close one has brushed death.
[Private to Mal]
I suppose you fared well during the latest odyssey?
[Private to Damon]
Forgive me for not saying it sooner, but your actions with Maladicta upon your arrival were inspired.
[Spam for Abigail]
[He does not bother knocking, when he reaches her door. Instead he stands outside it, carefully taping three things to her door. It is, as is his wont, artful. The first page, trimmed to have rounded edges, has German lyrics, beautifully written out. It looks calligraphic. It is taped at an angle, and, overlapping at the corner, is another page, similarly trimmed, similarly written. It is the English translation of the song.
Between the pages, he very carefully tapes a rosehip, with its many shades, red and purple and black.
When he finishes, he admires the lay out for a moment before turning to go.]
[Spam for Alana]
[He carries a manilla folder gently, so as not to smudge any of the lines within. He walks with a little smile on his face, though he doesn't offer it to anyone he passes. This smile is not for them, and neither is what he holds. When he reaches Alana's cabin door, he pauses to make certain the trip did not blur any of his carefully drawn lines, and knocks.]
spam
You don't think that's highly dependent on the situation?
[Because she does. She really, really does. She does not think she would plan it out much in advance, because she would want it to be something important, organic to both of them. She also does not want the act of her premeditated murder to be the last thing Will thinks about. It would hurt him. She just wants to kill him, not hurt him.]
[It's all dependent on the circumstances.]
[She is pretty certain that she would use a knife. The value of that particular instrument isn't lost on her even now.]
spam
[But he concedes with a small inclination of his head. Her murder, her set up, her story. She can take the lead in this.
At least, he will make every effort to make her think she can.]
When you consider it late at night, in the dark of your room. How do you see the scene unfold?
spam
[She shakes her head, but it's not a no.]
There are only so many ways to kill a man as smart as Will.
[This is not an answer. She wants him to answer for her. She knows he knows. She would use a knife. She would always use a knife against Will. With him, she's no fisher.]
spam
His thumb strokes over her knuckles instead, and he never breaks eye contact, barely blinks.]
We both know you would use a knife. You are a hunter.
[She would gut him like she gut Nick Boyle. The unwashed ginger was practice. Will is the goal.]
spam
[She pauses before she speaks, but only infinitesimally. Yes. She would. There's no point trying to deceive him. Why did she think there ever was? He knows everything about her, and he always has.]
[Hopelessness threatens to choke her at the same time she feels she has come home.]
I am a hunter.
[She echoes his words with a dull passivity that later she will rail against herself for. She feels very small, and not nearly alone enough.]
spam
It is easiest, when she follows unquestioning. It would make her eventual betrayal all the more beautiful. But with Ben's interference, that path would twist and turn in ugly before that time comes.
He wants her to embrace the darkest corners of her thoughts, to cease being disgusted by the shadowy remnants of what she's done or the guilt that has been haunting her. His hand tightens under hers, catching her attention rather than bruising.]
You are not this small, Abigail.
spam
[Her eyes slide up, catch his; she sighs, and tips her head to one side, like she's thinking. But there's nothing to think about. He's right. She hates his rightness like she hates the concept of evil, like she hates pain, like she hates fear. Like she hates Will. Like she loves him.]
Define 'this'. I'm not a mindless hunter. I'm not a beast. I'm more than I look, not less. But you have to define it.
spam
[He holds her gaze and offers nothing else. Sympathetic overtures would be unwelcome and uncharacteristic. He would not bother with, and she would not accept that. He would not want her to.
Instead, he holds her hand, keeps her looking right at him, and waits to see if she will define herself instead.]
spam
[What she can do is dive into it head-on, figure it out while she feels it. And isn't that the epitome of being a feeling monster? Facing your fears and devouring them as they attempt to devour you.]
[If she were a beast, she would be ourobouros.]
If you can.
[If he wants to; if he believes his gaze that sharp; if he can point his high-powered perception at her and see into her heart, what it is, what it was, what it can become.]
[Maybe he can. Maybe he's not as clever as he thinks he is.]
spam
He lets a smile pull at his mouth, and releases her hand.]
What I am capable of is not in question, Abigail. [He settles his hands in front of him again, one folded over the other.]
It never was.
[Her heart thrums and grows, with the capacity for compassion and lack thereof. He loves her heart just as he loves watching her gears shift, hurtling headlong into the fire instead of fleeing it.]
spam
[She folds her hands, too, in perfect mimic of his.]
It never was.
[Her eyes narrow to contented slits. She entered this conversation afraid. Now - well, she doesn't know what she is. But she is free, for once, of fear. That's the real gift he gave her. Even if doesn't make sense.]
[She should fear him. But she feels so alive, so aware, she can't manage it and doesn't want to try.]
I am not small at all.
spam
No.
[He wanted to see what she would do. He wanted to see her do this.]
Tell me how.
[How big she is. How she would kill Will. How she would kill Hannibal.]
spam
No, [she tells him. No, she won't.] That would take all the fun out of it.
[When it happens. If it happens.]
[She wants it to be a surprise.]
spam
Taking joy in the unnecessary is what makes us human.
[And monsters.]
spam
[Or very much a monster. Or both.]
[She tosses her hair and still smiles. It's okay. She's safe now.]
[She'll pick the rosehips up and put them back together when she gets back to her room.]
spam
I would never deny that.
[A moment passes, a moment in which he feels like a father with his daughter, and then he gathers up his dishes, with his only partially eaten meal, and stands.]
I will see you later, Abigail.