[SEMI-HIATUS] Kaiju bone powder; 500 bucks a pound

                 She sets the glasses on the nearest counter,                   letting the now free hand slide up his chest.                   Red nails gently trace the intricate designs                   of his suit, while the other cupped the side                   of his face. There’s a chuckle at his comment.

                                “I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?                                  I would assume I’m not as delicate                                  as most would believe…”

                  His lips met her’s, the hand on his chest took                   hold of the lapel gently. She only pulled away                   after a good while.

                                          “They weren’t much of a problem,                                             but I had to come back, Hannibal.”

                Her body pushes forward and rests itself against him.

      to keep himself from cutting the interior of his       nose more than he would like. Which was not       to get cut at all. Period. And so far he felt like       he was gonna leave with a scratch or two.       Or in a body bag. Neither sounded pleasant.

                                 It was fervent, that kiss, but her arms seem to automatically                                  respond to him by slipping around his neck. Though,                                  they would slide back down to the lapels of his suit                                  as he pulled away just slightly. Her dark tinted                                   glasses had slid down the bridge of her nose, wide                                  gold eyes staring at him.

    This was a poor decision. This was a terrible, no good, very bad decision that rang sharp in his lungs and tore apart at the fabric of his conscience, fraying it and burning the fibers into something akin to his ashen countenance. He hadn’t slept in days. He’d been evasive. He’d kept Herc at arm’s length and he’d kept the resignation papers he took from the man’s desk well-hidden, waiting until the right moment to turn them in. Today had felt like a good moment. Today had felt like he would just leave it like a suicide note and disappear, and he damn well almost did it. He got as far as the door to the Marshal’s office before he chickened out and shoved the papers into his bag, instead favoring a hasty retreat to the door and out into the muggy Hong Kong air.

    He was wearing nice clothes. He wanted to make a good impression when he set this awful idea into motion, and so he pulled his bag close to his side and tugged at the fabric of his maroon herringbone blazer, eyes downcast and lips pressed into a thin line. The farther he went from the Shatterdome, the heavier his heart felt; he knew he would be coming back that evening, but after that, he was unsure. It all depended on how this meeting went.

    Once upon a time, he would have lost his mind if he’d had to leave the Shatterdome. He’d have done anything to stay in his lab, in his safe little ecosystem that he had built around himself, and he would never have dreamed of abandoning it. The lab was his safe place. It was the only home he had. And that dependency was what got him in this mess in the first place—he’d been so attached to it that he’d killed an innocent woman over it. Or rather, he’d let his psychopathic companion do it, and then went over to his house and willingly ate part of her in some fancy-ass French dish he couldn’t remember the name of.

    He’d thought, at the time, that eating her would confirm her death and that would erase his guilt. But he was wrong. Now the Shatterdome was haunted, and his lab was especially tormenting. Once his haven, it was now something akin to hell that tore at the very fiber of his being and made him sick to his stomach. He’d had six episodes this week. Six. Twice, he had two in one day, and all of them were because of the stress his lab caused him. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate, or drank, or slept more than an hour. He’d nearly forgotten to take his medication that morning, he was so out of it.

    He sort of wished he had forgotten. He deserved the agony of rejected organs for what he’d done.

    The ecologist did not take long to get to the Bone Slums. His fingers trembled as they twisted into the strap of his bag, pulling it closer, ever-conscious of pickpockets. The bones of the Reckoner loomed over him, illuminated by the lambs suspended in its hollows and casting him in its enormous shadow. He suddenly felt terribly, terribly small.

    “I fucking hate this place.” He pressed his eyes shut and took a deep, shaky breath. Being near the Reckoner, when he was so unstable, made it nearly impossible to keep himself from breaking down. But he had to. He had business to attend to, and he had to stay strong. A weak mind on the path he journeyed would spell complete and utter disaster, and he knew it. So today he had to be stronger. Today he had to straighten his back and rub the fog of sleeplessness from his eyes, tighten his tie against his throat, and keep walking until he reached the one place in Hong Kong he swore he’d never visit again.

.    Quietly, he stepped in to the building, and his eyes traveled across the golden logo on the floor. His fingers trembled harder. Blue eyes trailed slowly across the room, until they settled on the red-coated back of the man he’d come to see. He felt like he was going to be sick. "Do you remember that offer you made to me ages ago?" The phrase broke through the din of work, and suddenly all was silence. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. “I think I’ve… I’ve finally got an answer for you.” He spoke loud enough to be heard, but was careful to keep the tremor from his voice. His eyes flitted down to the floor. To his nice, polished leather shoes. A gift from Dr. Lecter.

    On this particular day, Hannibal was bent low over one of the ammonia scented workstations, observing. Fang stood at attention nearby, her heavily-lidded eyes sharp, despite being in the relative safety of the shop. Engrossed in conversation with one of his scientists and the man working on the skin louse, Hannibal didn't immediately notice that they had a visitor. 

     Straightening, Hannibal turned on the spot, eyes hidden behind dark lenses as he took in the newcomer. Fang shifted into the ready position and a sudden silence fell around Eldon's words. Pale eyebrows rose and Hannibal lifted a hand to smooth his goatee, the other sliding into the pocket of expensive scarlet pants. Jerking his chin at Eldon, several men moved towards him, making to pat the young man down. After several recent attempts on his life, Hannibal wasn't willing to underestimate anyone. 

   That scarred gaze never left Eldon as Hannibal ambled towards him, gold shoes clinking softly and glinting with each step. "Looking a bit rough there, kiddo." He rumbled, examining the younger man with an idle sort of interest. Stopping directly in front of Eldon, Hannibal raised his hands to smooth the lapels of the scientist's jacket. "Lookin' real rough. Got yourself all fancied up for little ol' me, but you couldn't bother to get a good night's sleep? The prospect of makin' a deal with the devil keepin' you up at night?" A pale eyebrow lifted and Hannibal flashed a glinting smile at the smaller man.