RP: With Hannibal

[mrmoneypenny]

Villiers at a bar.

With tea.

He has an entire teapot to himself, and it's filled with Earl Grey, and he's on his second cup because it's comforting, and he needs it.

Sip.

Especially now.

Comments

[reactstonothing]

Hannibal is angry.

So very fucking angry.

He's audible coming in from the outside, which is unusual.

There's a genuine expression on his face, which is also fairly unusual, even if that expression is rage.

When he spots Villiers he changes directions to head for the man and his tea instead of for the stairs.

There's a sword in one hand, sheathed for the sake of politeness.

[mrmoneypenny]

Villiers turns at the noise, carrying across the noise of the bar, and his eyes settle on the source.

A Hannibal, unhinged. It's a unique sight -- where is that cold demeanor, that emotionless grace?

It almost has him smiling.

Almost.

Except that this does not bode well for him.

[reactstonothing]

"You."

A single word, a voice like frozen silk.

Hannibal leans down to put his lips by Villiers' ear and says: "Come with me."

They haven't touched yet. He sweeps off in the direction of the stairs without waiting for a reply, every line of his movements touched by that cold anger, keeping the sword in his left hand close by his side and pointed at the floor. (Even like this, he is still polite.)

[mrmoneypenny]

The last time this happened, Villiers followed; he was left with the taste of come in his mouth and an aching erection, alone on the floor of his room.

And yet.

And yet, he still follows obediently, that voice tugging at something tangled in his mind. Maybe it's curiosity; more likely, it's the start of addiction.

The tea is forgotten once more.

[reactstonothing]

[mrmoneypenny]

It takes quite a lot to wake a Villiers from sleep.

But after his fresh injury is hit by a flailing hand, it seems to be enough, at least. Instinct kicks in -- he sits up, reaching for where his gun would be in his own home, and finding none.

...

Right. Hannibal Lecter. Bloodstained sheets and a plaster at his neck, and the feeling of contented release.

But Hannibal Lecter doesn't seem to be sleeping well.

It's almost ironic. And for a few moments, Villiers just watches in fascination. Guilt, maybe, over his own murders? The trauma of his early life that made him into who he is, and eventually will be?

[reactstonothing]

Here, then, Villiers. Welcome to the only time Hannibal Lecter truly loses control.

He hurts. And he can't get away from it, the tangle of dream and memory parading through his mind; there's nowhere to go, no way to leave himself. No escape.

Of all the things Hannibal Lecter has ever done, he regrets only one. All the murder, the lies, leaving bullies in bear-traps and stabbing them with forks... ash on the wind. Nothing. It doesn't matter.

He regrets one thing, and it's there with him every night in his dreams: he could not save her.

[mrmoneypenny]

There's sympathy, there, in those sleep-muddled eyes, and Villiers carefully moves closer, fending off the thrashes and giving him a firm shake.

"Hannibal," he says. "Wake up."