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🍴 ( 011 ) Spam
[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
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. ]