The Kitchen is Always Open

             so  distracted  by  him  saying  he  was  a  chef  that  she  was,  she  almost  missed  the  next  parts.  but  she  couldn't  help  it  -  she  had  always  loved  to  eat.  especially  when  she  didn't  have  to  make  the  food.  she  missed  going  to  restaurants  and  ordering  take  out.  she  missed  eating  food  that  wasn't  stale,  or  expired  -  or  was  fresh  but  she  had  to  carefully  cook  with  limited  materials  and  spices.  she  was  rather  lazy  when  it  came  to  food,  but  survival  demanded  it.

her  stomach  growled  at  the  thought  and  she  took  the  chance  to  take  a  can  out  of  her  pocket  and  popped  it  open  to  ease  the  embarrassing  noise  of  her  belly.  she  was  sure  if  the  undead  hadn't  heard  her  knock  over  the  shelf,  they  would  have  definitely  heard  that  -  at  least,  had  it  not  been  raining  so  hard.  even  dying  down  it  was  still  rather  loud.

she  dug  a  fork  out  of  her  bag  and  stabbed  into  what  was  supposedly  a  stew  and  took  a  bite,  trying  not  to  grimace  too  hard  as  pale  eyes  followed  his  figure.  her  brain  finally  caught  up  with  her  stomach  and  she  logged  that  into  the  back  of  her  mind.  he  was  good  with  knives.  he  was  probably  carrying  knives.  he  was  definitely  already  carrying  a  machete,  that  she  had  seen.  but  just  because  it  was  holstered,  didn't  mean  he  didn't  have  any  other  easily  accessible  weapons  on  him.  smaller  ones  that  were  easier  to  hide.

it  seemed  they  were  both  silently  threatening  the  other  in  case  one  of  them  tried  something.  she  could  respect  that  -  even  if  it  did  make  her  pale  a  little.

“  s-so  being  a  chef  was  like…  your  job  on  the  side?  hobby?  your  p-passion?”  she  asked  curiously,  tilting  her  head  as  she  ate,  pondering  this  information.

“  a  useful  h-hobby  for  the  apocalypse,”  she  admitted  with  a  small  nod  of  approval.

a  lot  of  people  probably  had  died  from  not  preparing  food  properly.  or  not  knowing  what  parts  of  animals  could  be  eaten,  or  how  to  store  things  and  cook  them.

“  m-mine  was  just…  uh,  g-gaming…  not  really  a  skill  that  translates  to  this…  m-mess,"  she  admitted  with  a  small  chuckle,  shrugging  her  shoulders.

“  s'pose  surgeon  and  p-psychatrist  are  also  useful  occupations  in  all  this  b-bullshit,”  she  added  genuinely. 

reading  people  was  an  incredibly  important  skill.  knowing  how  people  coped.  how  they  reacted.  she  was  sure  that  had  been  put  to  use  for  him.  and  a  surgeon…  well  -  any  career  in  the  medical  field  was  a  stellar  thing  to  have  in  a  persons  pocket  in  survival  situations.  she  took  another  bite  of  food,  putting  the  can  down  when  it  was  half  empty.

Hannibal repositions the bottles into his backpack as it slings down to the floor. He shuffles a few things around in his bag while he listens to her, stuttering and all. “There are many pros and cons to telling your old world title.” The bag is zipped up again, backpack shifted onto his back with a small grunt. “Having useful skills makes a target on your back. I was once taken against my will and forced to tend to the wounded for mere scraps.”

He lifted his wrists, turning them slightly so the light caught the damage there; scabs in varying stages of healing, some deep and dark, one wrist wrapped in a strip of white bandage gone grey at the edges. “They cuffed me most of the time, my ankles got the worst of it.” Those were where his shackles were tightly monitored. He could not run with him being bound to a small area only.

“I pick and choose who is allowed to know my old professional past.” There was a small sigh before a slight nod was given. “Cooking was a passion, a hobby that brought me great joy to myself and my palate.” There was a glance at her can as it was set aside. He didn’t blame her.

Admittedly, what he uses now is a result of Hannibal.

Gentler, better-fragranced– all the products that align the bathroom counter in neat rows. No names or brands he recognizes, nor would he probably care in any other situation, but he can tell the difference at least. His hair is smoother and shinier, his cologne suits him much better than he had occasionally used previously, and Hannibal doesn’t complain about his aftershave now.

A lot of things are in tandem like that, merged in a way he couldn’t have predicted, and effortlessly smoothed over in a way that shouldn’t be possible. The Red Dragon feels like decades ago, forgotten to the routine as they (mostly Will) still figured it out, but also just like yesterday– the rocky uncertainty still very palpable. What is Will undecided on? Their future, his growing acceptance, what will become of him, so on and so forth. The floodgates opened, Will emerged anew, and now experienced everything in a newly acquired capacity. The world has never been more far away. He cannot say this is a bad thing. It just brings Hannibal into focus more clearly.

Hannibal doesn’t say he is holding on too tightly, never rebukes his unease, and doesn’t discourage Will progressively leaning in his direction. And Will does try to gauge things, rather than outright asking sometimes, reading between all the lines between them. As if waiting for the moment that Will would inevitably tug too much and things would unravel between them. Paranoia or merely insecurity– there was something to be said about his inability to connect with others; therefore, to find this new ground with the other it is shaky, tetchy, and horribly all-consuming. Hannibal doesn’t fight him on it, so Will continues in his world of two.

Will sometimes reads the articles about them. Usually, it’s a sensational hit piece. Other times it’s an FBI-led probe to see if they can get a reaction from either of them, Will curious if his former boss was retired or removed from position for his unending failings when it came to Hannibal’s capture, release, and then escape. It surprises even Will at times that it had been that easy to convince Crawford of Hannibal’s necessity in finding Dolarhyde. But now, the outside world really only existed to Will in the shape of perils and looming dangers, who and what might be out there posing an existential threat to either of them.

Will’s ends are firmly tied and knotted, nothing coming undone by the things he left behind. Questions on figuring it out, but that was continuously reshuffling itself every day into something simpler, something he was beginning to understand.

He was never one to be completely shy on words, but he knew his limitations. Will had been reborn, and with that came growing pains. Hannibal eased these conflicts through small, deliberate gestures. The grooming products arranged on the bathroom shelf were one of them. Each chosen for its particular scent or texture, the kind of details Will would not have thought to choose for himself. A Burgundy waited on the rack, and beside it, a bottle of rye whiskey for harder nights. On certain evenings, the kitchen filled with the smell of whatever dish Will had once mentioned in passing, though he had never once complained about a meal.

It was still undetermined whether Will wanted a life with no leash or a loosely fitted collar. Back then, when he was spiraling out of control, he wished to have an anchor. He sought Hannibal, at a price. The risks of making him an equal had not been without their wreckage: regrets, trauma, a violence that had moved in both directions. Hannibal knew this well. But now there was someone across the table who knew exactly what he was and had not looked away. If Will were to spiral again, it would not be by Hannibal’s design. Not intentionally.

It was Hannibal who brought up the subject of using phones. He had always been an early adopter of whatever tools served his purposes, and this one served the particular purpose of keeping Will’s whereabouts from becoming a source of prolonged uncertainty. He slid it from his pocket now and propped it against one of the vases, tall-stemmed dahlias in deep red, chosen one morning from the market for Will, and waited. The call connected. He lifted his coffee.

“Don’t go in that back alley.” A pause, the sound of the city faintly audible through the line. “ You know it’s dangerous. Even if the strays congregating there are barking for you.” His voice was monotone, though there was no real demand in it. He knew of Will’s habits, how his soft heart had a longing for the dogs that he left behind.

Hannibal (2013 - 2015)

The young man was glad to see Hannibal wasn't one to praise himself. At least not to the point it'd be too excessive and irritating to hear. Now that he had a good look at the doctor, he had to scratch off that idea of associating 'generosity just for the sake of it' with the older man. Neat, charming and efficient. Not a fool.

How did someone like Hannibal Lecter ended up in such a small, nowhere town?

Perhaps it'd be something he'd get to learn thanks to little tidbits of themselves psychiatrists often shared to make patients spill more of their own guts and open up about their past. Faust was already considering what he was willing to share and what he was more than happy to be buried with.

“It's been lovely so far. I've always adored the woods, and we're basically surrounded by it in this little town,” he replied before sitting down as Hannibal suggested, nodding softly as a thank you for the invitation. Faust wore something different today. It was different, understandably, with what he would have worn to go into the pines— that curious scar now covered by a caramel colored turtleneck, black leather gloves and dark brown, long coat. Those boots looked rather well taken care off as well, same care from someone who knows their leather. All in all— barely any skin showing except for his face.

Hannibal weaves another smile. The fact that Faust switched to speak of the woods meant he was still reeling from visiting them and seeing the folklore figure in the alabaster flesh. “I’m not much of an outdoorsy person, I’m afraid.” It was a half truth in a sense. His other self was native to that darkness; the trees bent for him, the canopy parted or sealed at his discretion, and the animals that lived beneath it knew to keep their distance while drawing near. It was his human half that had developed a taste for other comforts. Soft leather. Silk. Wine with some years behind it. He could still smell the pine sap on Faust’s skin.

“The woods draw many in. Especially if they are new to the town. It has an allure. Some are more sensitive about it than others.” He turned toward the window, where the curtains fell open just enough to frame a treeline, closer to the office than one might expect.

There was a long, sustained silence between the two vampires after the doctor had said his piece. Howard, who up until now kept his eyes firmly away from Hannibal's gnawing own, planted his gaze firmly there with an unreadable expression. Stuck between a mild surprise and a gently rising horror, his lips were pursed taut until he was very sure he had a desperate, iron grip on every single letter that would tumble from his hoarse gullet; dry from anticipation and anxiety.

He drew a sudden, soft breath through his mouth, turned his face away, and buried it into the sharp corner of the room behind Hannibal.

"I'm already owned." No other way to describe it. "Unfortunately. So if you want me, you're going to have to borrow me, or steal me, whichever way you feel appropriate for the disproportionate trouble it would cause you."

Still rather strange to be wanted by someone, whatever Hannibal's goals were. Though from the way the corners of the doctor's lips lifted against an equally unreadable, walled expression, Howard knew there was no chance of it being anything substantially nor remotely pleasant for himself.

His eyes now fell onto the floor. Isn't it exciting, to choose the fire or the pot? This was as close to love a dog like him would be able to experience.

Slowly he descended, first on one knee, then both, ready for his execution. All he had left to do was to put his hands behind his head and pray that the bullet would shred every inch of his skull and brain clean through. He imagined his body falling onto the floor after the shock of it petered off. He'd be smiling then, he thought, when it's all over.

Instead, he sat with his legs folded before him, arms loosely propped over each knee. He held his fingers together, anxiously tracing the edges of his nails.

"We're nothing like each other." Howard swallowed; round wide eyes finding Hannibal's burrowing stare once more. "I meant this respectfully; I'm not like you, or anyone. There's nothing to me the way something is and will always be for you. I do as I'm told. You may have the capacity for that, but this isn't a choice for me, and I didn't mean our eternities when I say this."

This Howard was unlike the others. Most vampires of both younger and older ages had an ego about them. It was this ego that Hannibal had a difficult time getting past. Ego was the enemy of greatness. A measure of it allowed a person to thrive, but too much of it smothered everything else. Howard was not weak but something about him gave Hannibal pause. Whatever framework had been installed in him, whoever had done it, had left its mark.

Hannibal observed him sit on a floor in the same manner a child might. He couldn’t remember if anyone had ever exhibited that type of way of sitting in his office. “Owned?” Hannibal asked after Howard got settled. Some vampires left their signature on their fledglings in all manner of ways. Some nursed jealousies that stretched across decades, keeping those beneath them dependent, unable to exist without the one who made them. Hannibal had never created out of loneliness. He created only when someone proved themselves truly his equal. If they fell short when he drank from them, he drank until there was nothing left. He had no interest in half-measures.