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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.]
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.]
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[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?
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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.
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[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.
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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.]
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[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.
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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.]