[The butter knife sinks in and Hannibal smells fresh blood. It sharpens him, a sword on a whetstone, a beast in a man's shape. He should hate these metaphors. He should abhor him. But the part of his mind that cherishes all the best society has to offer - the class, the wonder, the delicate etiquette that dictates how people must treat one another - that part has been silent for days, and he doesn't remember the sound it should make. The quiet restraint. The calm suggestion. The man reigning in the beast.
Will asked him days ago if he would hunt. But he isn't a hunter. He isn't entirely a man. He holds that shape, plays that part, but sometime the skin must be pulled back to reveal the truth.
His kneecap shatters and Hannibal makes a guttural sound, a low, near bellow, near moan. His arm, too, and there is a prickly in his thoughts, a question, how, how, how.
There is no answer, and instead he sways, the butter knife gone from his hand, left to hang or fall from Dillon's arm. He can only see the boy's face, now, not human either. It's time to peel back the skin.
Hannibal hurls the shiv with his good arm, launches himself with his good knee to reach stiff, digging fingers for Dillon's throat. They are all monsters beneath the surface.]
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Will asked him days ago if he would hunt. But he isn't a hunter. He isn't entirely a man. He holds that shape, plays that part, but sometime the skin must be pulled back to reveal the truth.
His kneecap shatters and Hannibal makes a guttural sound, a low, near bellow, near moan. His arm, too, and there is a prickly in his thoughts, a question, how, how, how.
There is no answer, and instead he sways, the butter knife gone from his hand, left to hang or fall from Dillon's arm. He can only see the boy's face, now, not human either. It's time to peel back the skin.
Hannibal hurls the shiv with his good arm, launches himself with his good knee to reach stiff, digging fingers for Dillon's throat. They are all monsters beneath the surface.]