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[Spam for Bruce]
[Hannibal has kept his nose clean. He's pushed, here and there, but ultimately he's avoided confrontation, even in the event of his own deaths. He has been, all things considered, very well behaved. But there is a certain boredom to the rote, to living amongst those he does not care for and cannot use. The Barge has become a dull place to him, in some ways, and that is unacceptable.
It's clear enough that things are about to become interesting again, but reprising his role as the inmate on the other Barge is not useful to him. The most recently past flood, however, was: he's been waiting for the right moment, and he's found it.
Taking plate and cutlery from his own room, Hannibal piles the former high with a neat meal from the dining hall, and descends one level to the infirmary. He's stayed out of here almost entirely, except for brief instances of his death toll: even then, he's retreated before he strictly should have, knowing Dr. Banner's opinion of him. It's only polite, not to stay where you are not wanted.
He isn't driven by politesse this time, though his mien remains so. Unerringly, he seeks Bruce out.]
Doctor Banner.
[The meal is carefully covered with a clean cloth, to help keep it warm in lieu of an actual covering. He holds it carefully in front of him, not proffering it just yet.] I hope you have a moment to spare.
[Spam for Mal]
[Later, much later, after life has seeped back into his body, Hannibal lays in his room, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the tell tale sound of Mal entering his cabin. She will have to walk through the office first, but despite the pounding in his temples, he expects to hear it. He lies half curled on his side, staring at the open entrance to his bedroom where a set of armor is supposed to rest. His mind paints it in when he closes his eyes, and he waits, focusing on his breathing rather than the pain that breathing causes.]
[Hannibal has kept his nose clean. He's pushed, here and there, but ultimately he's avoided confrontation, even in the event of his own deaths. He has been, all things considered, very well behaved. But there is a certain boredom to the rote, to living amongst those he does not care for and cannot use. The Barge has become a dull place to him, in some ways, and that is unacceptable.
It's clear enough that things are about to become interesting again, but reprising his role as the inmate on the other Barge is not useful to him. The most recently past flood, however, was: he's been waiting for the right moment, and he's found it.
Taking plate and cutlery from his own room, Hannibal piles the former high with a neat meal from the dining hall, and descends one level to the infirmary. He's stayed out of here almost entirely, except for brief instances of his death toll: even then, he's retreated before he strictly should have, knowing Dr. Banner's opinion of him. It's only polite, not to stay where you are not wanted.
He isn't driven by politesse this time, though his mien remains so. Unerringly, he seeks Bruce out.]
Doctor Banner.
[The meal is carefully covered with a clean cloth, to help keep it warm in lieu of an actual covering. He holds it carefully in front of him, not proffering it just yet.] I hope you have a moment to spare.
[Spam for Mal]
[Later, much later, after life has seeped back into his body, Hannibal lays in his room, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the tell tale sound of Mal entering his cabin. She will have to walk through the office first, but despite the pounding in his temples, he expects to hear it. He lies half curled on his side, staring at the open entrance to his bedroom where a set of armor is supposed to rest. His mind paints it in when he closes his eyes, and he waits, focusing on his breathing rather than the pain that breathing causes.]
no subject
[ If the night terrors eating at his mind aren't keeping him up nights, the timeloss is leaving him bewildered and lost. Thankfully, he was better prepared for it than most -- the rumpus room Tony requested for him for Christmas, years ago, serves to help keep his howling beast contained, and the dog named for the man is doing double time. ]
[ The dog in question is at Bruce's feet, just behind him, acting as look out. His bark sounds before Hannibal actually speaks, and Bruce responds to the dog more than the man. He glances down as he turn from his inventory work; glancing at the dog, then Hannibal's (expensive, stylish) shoes. Then he looks up. ]
[ His brow lifts. ]
...Is this some sort of joke?
no subject
He saw what Bruce had to say to Maladicta, his body claims - and he didn't like it. It's a carefully measured display.]
I rarely joke about food. [
except for his repertoire of cannibal punsHe pulls the cloth from the plate. It's not as fine as his usual fare, but he did not cook this. He did manage to make it presentable and fully balanced, with a not-immediately identifiable meat as the center point. A fork and knife lay carefully balanced on the plate; there is another fork hidden carefully up his sleeve, should that become necessary.]
I notice you rarely take the time for sleep and nourishment. As a fellow doctor, [he adds the barest hint of emphasis, furthering his charade delicately so as not to appear out of character,] I am compelled to make certain you are at least eating.
[The fork and knife don't so much as clack when Hannibal offers the plate to him.]
You will enjoy this, I think. I found the aftertaste to be quite magical.
[His smile widens.]
no subject
[ Hannibal shames everything Bruce does, everything Bruce has ever wanted to do with his hands and his intellect. He smears with his cannibal filth and calls it art. ]
[ His eyes blaze green, even if his face remains placid and calm. ]
You need to leave.
[ His heartrate spikes, pupils constrict. He takes a breath, working for mastery again. Don't let him goad you. Don't let him. Tony whines, and rubs against Bruce's legs. ]
Now.
[ His voice doesn't lift, but the stress in containing the shout he wants to give is there in a single syllable. ]
no subject
He feels the silver in his sleeve, and takes a step closer under the guise of passing off the plate.]
You would not want it [her] to go to waste, would you?
[This is a gift, he lets his eyes say. This is the only way to have her.]
no subject
[ The Hulk exists in two ways; the physical expansion of Bruce's flesh and the sheer presence in which he fills a room. Bruce Banner is not a particularly large man, when he's angry, he takes up a space much more obviously that he used to. No longer the craven, enduring heaps of abuse -- Bruce emanates rage. ]
[ Tony barks frantically now, trying to gain Bruce's attention, as he rubs against his legs. Bruce steps away from him-- into the dish, one hand up in a smooth motion -- as if he'll brush it at the lip, push it and the offered meat into Hannibal's beautifully appointed clothing. ]
Get out.
no subject
This will hurt. He is ready.]
cw; gore and blood
[ That's a painful (and expert) jugular hit. And it's enough to kick him into overdrive. Cloth begins to give, as muscle twists and warps-- one hand flails back to catch himself, meaty fingers already splintering the doors of the infirmary cabinets. ]
[ He howls -- and it rattles the fixtures as the head on the rapidly thickening neck sharps, bright green blood leaking down his neck even as the Hulk's might kicks in to begin sealing the wound. Hannibal has tried to kill him. He dares to test the Hulk's strength! Hulk will show him! ]
[ This is a true incident -- the counter reset to zero. This is not the practiced and controlled transformations. This is not Always Angry. This is control interrupted and destroyed. The beast is loose and he is irate. ]
[ Bellowing like a bull -- he begins to plow forward. The infirmary goes dark as fixtures are destroyed, and he takes out the majority the door. ]
[ Hopefully Hannibal has the good sense to run, or he'll shoulder checked through the door with the Hulk behind him. ]
no subject
But a sane man would run. So Hannibal keeps stumbling backward, wears an expression that says this has gone awry, that Bruce was supposed to die before he could change. He nearly trips, keeps his feet only just barely, and turns to run through the door, barely clearing it into the hall before the Hulk rams through behind him. He turns at that point, several feet away. After all, there's no reason not to minimize damage to the rest of the ship.
It's not an expression of bravery or of nobility. Hannibal lets fear into his face, head craned up to stare at the giant green rage monster he cannot hope to combat. He lets it look like fear has turned his legs to ice, to jelly. The rest of him will follow suit soon.]
no subject
[ He does not really see that the man stops, that he play acts. He bowls him over like he's nothing, reaches out to rattle him like a rag doll. God knows what it is that kills him; the brute impact of the much larger impact, the fact that the Hulk grabbed him and shook him like a rag doll, or the smash into a bulkhead. Any number of those things could have done it. ]
[ But once he's a limp toy, this would be killer, the Hulk tosses him aside like so much trash, and then bangs down the hallway, angry but triumphant. As he runs out of steam, he sits in the common room on the third floor, and mutters to himself: ]
Hulk smash bad doctor.
Bad doctor hurt Hulk!
Bad doctor hurt M'gana.
[ Violence self-justified, he releases his hold on Bruce's body a few minutes later. Green recedes, muscle shrinks, and Bruce is left in a heap in his ruined clothing. ]
[ He won't be moving for a while... but when he does? His long streak without actual violent incident will be lost. ]
spam
[In fact, she slams the door on her way in. She hopes his head hurts a lot.]
Hannibal. Are you awake?
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They are not. They are not.
He draws a slow breath.]
Yes.
[He doesn't bother raising his voice loud. She will hear.]
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[She sits down at his side. Close enough that he could attack her, were he so inclined. At this point, frankly, she'd welcome it. But she doubts he will.]
I have to admit being baffled as to your goal here.
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I'm afraid I'm not feeling well.
[His tongue is heavy in his mouth, and he tries to speak past it. But the usual crispness of his tone is absent.]
Perhaps you could come again tomorrow.
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[But she will absolutely rub his unfit state in his face, like a puppy who's pissed on the carpet, and she will absolutely bother him as punishment.]
spam
[He closes his eyes as he talks, speaks half against his pillow. He could make a stronger effort, set his bones to shaking with it. He chooses not to, and makes it look as if he is struggling to make that effort anyway. He puts on a good show.]
The goal does not matter.
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[She narrows her eyes at him, unsure whether to doubt or to believe. Unsure about many things, at the moment. But it is a very convincing show.]
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[His voice rasps as he tries to raise it, like sandpaper dragging up his throat, over his tongue. He lifts his head slightly to look at her, and his expression suggests that he would like very much to kick her off his bed, out of his rooms.
But he can't. Because an hour ago, he was trampled and shaken and crushed, and he feels as if he still is.]
spam
To understand you. Among other things.
[To punish him, too. Secondarily.]
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I'm afraid I'm not in the habit of explaining [my failures] myself.
[He plays quietly defensive and evades, evades, evades.]
spam
[An mm that indicates she knows what he didn't say. She thinks she's getting the shape of it, anyway.]
[She smooths down his bedsheets.]
The point of this place is new habits. I know you're allergic to the prospect. But that doesn't mean I'm going to go away.
spam
On the contrary. Change and innovation should be praised.
[He has to pause, struggling to fill his lungs. It aches, as if they were being scratched from the inside out and crushed beneath a great weight.]
Tyranny, less so.
[She is a tyrant disturbing his rest. He won't stand for it, or at least, that is the tone he is meant to convey.]
spam
[She laughs softly.]
You who never lets anyone truly choose anything for themselves if he can help it, you call me tyrannical? Master of irony, aren't you.
Call me names as long as you like. I still won't go.
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[He only manipulate the options, after all. It comes out hotter and sharper than he intended, and the next few breathes are like flechettes inside his lungs. He closes his eyes tightly, sweat sprouting across his brow.]
Please, [it comes as a croak, and the expression that filters across his face, despite his best efforts, is anger and something else, something very near embarrassment,] call on me another day.
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[The possibility flashes across her mind like a very brief and powerful hallucination. It's unlikely, terrifically unlikely, but not impossible, after all. He could be genuine. He could.]
[He's saying please.]
[It's enough to make her hesitate.]
Do you honestly think I'm merciful enough to listen to your request? Do you think I'm that polite?
spam
It would hurt too much, in the end, so he does not move.]
I think you have the capacity for both. Moreso than-- [He lets only a slight pause, in which he would have said I, lets it be only just noticeable before he finishes,] --most.
Perhaps I was wrong. [It is rough, bones grating, and that is the real confession, hiding in the cough that shakes his body, bones whittling against bones. He covers it with a hand that trembles to spare her.
spam
[She does not believe him she does not believe him she does not.]
[But he knows just where to tug to get the same effect. She does not believe him, but she is conditioned to respond mercifully. It irritates her, like a tickle at the back of her throat, like a toothache. She scowls, almost snarls.]
[And then she stands up, dusting off her pants.]
You're not as clever as you think you are.
I'll give you two hours, but I'm not giving you more than that. I know you heal quickly.
spam
Not from this, I think.
[He is more clever than she thinks he is. He knows this, and closes his eyes.]
A modicum of mercy often seems better than none. You must feel-- [He gasps silently to fill his lungs, muscles turning taught with the pain that shudders through him.] --much less the monster for your show of compassion.
spam
Are you so interested in having the last word, or do you keep talking because you want me to stay? Make a decision, Hannibal. My advice would be to conserve your energy.
[She knows she is a monster. The issue is, of course, that she knows he's one too, and so compassion is not an adaptive trait.]
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[He lets his body tremble, lets himself feel the pain. He does not convince himself his body is whole: he lets the pain dictate the reaction in muscle and bones. His lungs feel full of liquid instead of air, and he imagines blood on his lips, even though there is none.
His patience has ebbed, and his gaze is almost as hard as it is pained.]
Two hours, and no more. I am not you, Mal. I do not have the ability to heal in a matter of minutes.
[Bitterness tinges his words, unintended: something flickers in his eyes as he realizes it. He is simply not as capable here as he is used to being.]
spam
[She does not look at his mouth, which lies, nor the muscles along the side of his skull, which lie, too, in the shapes they make. His shoulders and his arms and his fingers lie, and his spine lies, and his tongue lies most of all. But his eyes, they lie less than the rest of him.]
[His eyes are hard, and his eyes are angry. His eyes will be what betrays him in the end.]
[She smiles, and her eyes are hard, too, though not quite as angry. She opens the door and lets herself out.]
Goodbye, Hannibal.
spam
He feels the spasms of pain settle on his bones, he feels the sting in his eyes of physical reaction, and under it all, he is satisfied.]