The Kitchen is Always Open

“The woods decide what to keep; so far... it doesn't seem to want me”

Perhaps that was a lie. There were many woods the younger man had lingered in long enough to feel the pull they had on him, as if whispering and dragging him by his feet to keep him there. Faust felt most at home under the leaves, branches and roots that extends and crawls under the land, most times the walls of buildings and the sounds of speech made him flinch in annoyance, steering him away from civilization and often times ending up amidst the trees.

“I'm simply sparing you of boredom about my journey. I've never been the best with words”

Hannibal gives a faint smile, hands folded on his lap, watching the small adjustments Faust makes; the angle of his shoulders, the way his fingers move. It is the concealed details that are always the most rewarding. “The woods have yet to swallow you up. What makes you so special?” There is a pause in his questioning before he continues. “You won’t bore me, I guarantee it.”

He had endured his share of boring conversations. Patients whose words arrived like sediment, slow and gray: the way their mornings blurred together, the particular grievance of a coffee order altered without warning, a waitress at some diner who had never once learned their name despite years of the same stool, the same cup.

The people here were fickle; they didn’t appreciate the woods that held a new imagery each day to those who desired to seek it. Faust did. There was something in the way he held the forest’s presence that Hannibal recognized as genuine, a respect that could not be performed.

           his  words  made  her  frown,  and  her  heart  broke  a  little  for  him.  that  must  have  been  a  terrible  experience,  and  the  scars  he  was  showcasing  clearly  demonstrated  that.  she  had  known  a  lot  of  people  out  there  these  days  were  worse  than  ever,  given  they  now  had  the  freedom  to  be  without  worry  of  punishment.  but  that  was  also  why  she  travelled  alone  these  days.  the  real  monsters  of  this  apocalypse  were  no  doubt  mankind.  it  was  safer  for  so  many  reasons  to  not  fall  into  some  random  group.  to  not  bump  into  people  in  general.

“  i-i'm  sorry  that  happened  to  you,”  she  murmured,  just  loud  enough  for  him  to  hear,  her  can  now  forgotten  for  the  time  being.

“  …  ”  she  was  quiet  for  a  moment,  lips  parting  to  say  something  else  before  she  pressed  them  together,  thinking  before  she  spoke.

“  i  hope  they  g-got  what  was  coming  to  them,”  she  finally  replied  firmly,  sighing  out  of  her  nose  as  she  picked  up  her  can  again  and  started  poking  at  it  once  more.

she  wasn't  a  violent  person.  but  some  people  deserved  to  pay  for  the  things  they  did.  and  though  he  mentioned  he  was  careful  who  he  spoke  of  his  profession  to…  he  seemed  to  have  no  problem  telling  grace,  which  did  raise  her  hackles  a  little.  clearly  she  wasn't  viewed  as  a  very  scary  threat  if  he  was  sharing  so  easily. 

or  he  didn't  think  she'd  be  one  for  long.

she  swallowed  loudly,  trying  not  to  get  more  anxious.  the  rain  would  let  up  soon  and  she  could  be  on  her  way.  but  the  topic  had  come  and  gone  and  apparently  he  wasn't  one  to  linger  on  bad  memories,  so  she  allowed  it  to  shift  as  she  pretended  she  was  eating  anything  but  whatever  stew  was  left  in  that  ominous  can.

He wasn’t seeking pity, but her body had offered it freely: the slight forward cant of her shoulders, the way her eyes had lingered on his wound a half-second too long, the almost imperceptible softening around her mouth. Small things. This alone allowed some information to be relayed to him. Hannibal was a psychiatrist, after all. He observed the body language of hundreds in his practice. How subtle movements and even the softening of the facial muscles exposed their inner thoughts. She had a heart. In his experience, hearts were liabilities.

Her being a lone wolf also spoke volumes, just like him.

Some never lost the desire to help others when it was their role in the other life. He eyes her as she fixates on the canned goods, his head tilting slightly. “Do you not help people now?” He might know the answer to this. Helping comes at a risk, even here as he keeps his conversation friendly. He wonders how many she had killed with purpose, not just the living dead. “You helped me, wanted to help me.” There is a slight smile that follows those words. The bottles, the offering of the canned goods location. She could have hoarded both and left him to the storm. Something from before still lived in her, some old reflex not yet extinguished.

Hannibal knows he’s dangerous. He didn’t feel such a threat coming from her. There had been cases where he was wrong, smaller children in particular. The world had changed everyone now. They’ve become feral, like the articles he used to read in his psychology journals and conventions.

Will rarely extend himself into scenarios that would ever lead to dancing. His time was mostly solitary, and even when he was dragged to silly office parties, he was always the first to leave as well. There was no irresponsible young adult rebellion to be had. On occasion, he had found himself at a bar after a long shift, but mostly it was confined to the privacy of his home. He can imagine their lives looked very different. Even now, if their taste in music were to be taken into consideration. Night and day.

He will answer his questions, remnants of the ‘game’ that had just dwindled into drunken honesty, Will finds himself shrugging a little. “It is something I would have listened to– my first introduction to music was through my family. Rock, usually. Melodic and slow, generally a little depressing, on long rides back home from fishing trips. It’s one of the many things that stuck.” His interest in music had mostly remained as background noise. On the homeward treks, evenings spent twindling over motors, or hauling firewood in. Whereas he enjoyed the quiet too, he found it was nice to be reminded of the world around him here and there, lulled back to a level he could tolerate.

Will takes his offered hand and doesn’t offer him any more truth. He doesn’t even allow himself that train of thought, and where it might lead. What other reason might he have for choosing this song? Even if terribly transparent. He can offer Hannibal his partial truths.

He’s used to Will’s remarks, how they sometimes circle around what the main subject is. This time, though, the words land squarely. Hannibal says nothing in response, only takes Will’s hand and draws him forward onto the stage, his grip carrying a pressure that says what neither of them has said aloud. There is a bit more grip to it, an affirmation that doesn’t need explaining. That Will doesn’t need to explain more than he already had. Hannibal would go through hell to get to him now; he knows it. Hannibal had known it somewhere in that basement, in the cold and the dark, maybe even before that, in some unexamined corner of himself he hadn’t yet bothered to name. There is no one else whose safety has ever felt like this, like something worth bleeding for.

The mirrors give back their reflection in pieces: two men moving slowly through a song that surprises him. It is not what he would have chosen, but it suits Will in a way that makes it suit him too. The years between them had filled with different music, different rooms, different versions of the same hungers. “This is a nice song,” he says, and means it. He enjoyed the differences Will had and he also knew of the similarities they shared. He can smell the liquor on him; perhaps that’s why his tongue had been looser tonight than before, at least when it came to broadening feelings. He has no interest in becoming his therapist again.

He’s simply a man tonight. Digging no deeper than what was currently on the surface. He’ll allow Will to cross the bridge when he wants. His hand settles at Will’s waist, fingers curving against the fabric, a curling smile producing on his face. There was one thing that Hannibal could say at this moment that didn’t press any borders.

“I’m glad you’re here, Will.”

He is particularly undecided on what he thinks of the other if his gaze is anything to go by. But it remained a fact that William did not have his choice of friends and allies amongst the court. Even if his trust did not fully extend, there was also no distrust, which might be equally as important. “Whether you go to him or he comes to you, the logistics of it don’t really matter.” It was a toss-up between the two, he thought.

Will casts a glance over, eyes narrow as he trots behind the other, curls light and buoyant in the wind as he shakes his head, eyes rolling. Kiss his ass, maybe. No one talked to him like that. Annoying as it was, or just pompous. There was plenty to be said behind his back, though. “I’m sure my appreciation will grow daily.” He says airy and dry, tugging the reins when the forest begins to get thick, branches and shrubbery swallowing them, the chirps of birds sang overhead, and the sun is forgiving against the back of his neck.

Will has hunted as long as he could walk, knowing the habits of the game that resided on his family’s land. It was one of the few skills he had that could be readily appreciated. He rarely made it this far out. Perhaps if his father had another son, it would not be so pertinent to William's safety.

As dry and sarcastic as Will’s response might have been, Hannibal knows it will be good for him and in the end, he will prefer such candor instead of the saccharine words that everyone tends to give him. He wonders if it would have been different with siblings. Whether the competition for a father’s approval would have dulled that edge, made Will more careful with his words, more practiced at flattery. Would the competition for being the best son set a different tone? Most likely. Caesar stills beneath him as he waits, one arm draped across the pommel, the forest holding its breath.

The Stag.

Caesar’s tail cuts a slow arc as Hannibal rolls his shoulders back and turns him into the denser wood, where the canopy closes overhead and the light comes down in cold columns through the oak. “Good choice,” Hannibal says in a whisper as he nears the flank of Will’s horse, his body leaning towards him. “I always knew you were a stag-man.” A smile again as he starts his way on a trail that many animals take. The hooves are still present in the moss covered land. It was going to be formidable in size based on the length of the hoof print itself. A mature male, heavy antlered and wise with evasion.

He didn’t have to give Will any advice; this man knew how to hunt. He fell back without a word. Will knew what he was doing. Hannibal watched him move ahead and then glanced back through the trees to where the two knights had pulled up short. He raised a fist and they stilled. They were far enough. Hannibal was more than sufficient cover; he could open both of them from throat to sternum before either cleared his scabbard, and they knew it.

Will blinks, and his gaze is back on Hannibal, the stagnant presence before him, finding it easier to navigate through the maze of his mind when an anchor is present. He doesn’t know how to explain it. He can only feel it all, and it’s very confusing. There is a steady pulse of sentiment that comes from Hannibal, but it’s tangled in something else entirely. It reads as one thing but tastes as another. How can he begin to even explain that? Perhaps a bad batch of sedatives, indeed.

He grows more conscious of himself and what was inside of him. He can feel it pricking at the edges of his mind. The people that exist outside this room, their far-off roller coasters of emotions, expanding somewhere until it all becomes quiet, much too far to be reached by Will’s mind. Like background noise from a TV. He knows they’re there, but he cannot fully access them. Not like what he could when he reached out for Hannibal’s mind, plucking at the red string and beginning to untangle the deception from the truth. There is a sharp pang immediately, and his eyes squeeze shut, opening as he lets up on the pressure.

When he tumbled out the door of his office, he knew there would be a different world waiting for him. He wishes the receptionist were still here to test it out, but it was probably best that she had long since gone home. He doesn’t know what would happen, and part of him knows there is something that demands caution. As if his mental pressure was too much, it might swell like a melon and burst. He lets go of his ironclad grip on Hannibal, hand aching as he stretches out the fingers. He’s wrinkled his clothes.

Whatever was knitting itself with his DNA, merging like a parasite, creating something new but familiar, stirred like sentience in him. Mockingly and uncomfortably, he pushed it all to the side of his mind for another time when he wasn’t under a heavy dose of whatever the fuck Hannibal had given him. His head was clearing only slightly. His nose wrinkles.

‘Sleep it off’ could mean many things at this point. Will risked to sleep and never wake up, the percentage of adults not able to sustain the changes was high. Hannibal shifts his hand to smooth out the wrinkles in his clothes that Will made with no avail. He wonders if Will would possess superhuman strength before long. Who will he unintentionally hurt? He can’t keep him here, as much as he would prefer it. “I had a cancel call in for tomorrow. I wish for you to return so I can ensure everything has gone well with your vitals." He stood, crossing to the cabinet for a bottle of water. “7:30.”

He held it out. “Drink.” Will was sweating buckets, he knew this man ran nearly dehydrated at all times. The world that brutally invaded him at times held no mercy for his nerves. His eyes focused on the curls that were now plastered to his face, the way his skin paled, the peppering of perspiration on his forehead.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay just a little longer?” He already knew. Will had a talent for retreating precisely when proximity became possible, pulling back to arm’s length the moment something real threatened to close the distance. Hannibal was curious about what newfound powers would emerge once the DNA had finished its reconstruction. How he wanted to strap him to a table and watch the phenomenon that he had undergone. He will visit him if the newly placed time slot was missed.

            being  watched  so  closely while  eating  was  unnerving  at  first.  but  she  had  come  to  find  she  didn't  really  care  once  she  got  into  it  -  the  food  was  delicious  and  who  cared  if  he  watched  her  as  she  ate?  he  probably  just  wanted  to  make  sure  he  had  done  a  good  job  and  she  was  actually  enjoying  herself.  which  she  was,  immensely.  so  much  so  in  fact  she  hadn't  even  realized  she  had  been  making  a  bit  of  a  mess  until  she  felt  his  hand  against  her  face,  the  pad  of  his  thumb  swiping  away  at  some  stray  juice  from  the  meat  skewers.

she  froze,  pale  eyes  wide  as  she  watched  him  place  the  thumb  that  had  just  wiped  the  corner  of  her  lips  into  his  mouth  and  pull  it  back  out  with  a  popping  noise.

something  about  the  scene  was  terribly  exciting,  and  very  much  indecent  and  she  was  pretty  sure  it  fried  her  brain  from  how  much  she  was  staring,  lips  parted  in  the  midst  of  taking  another  bite  of  food  before  that  act  of  debauchery.  or  maybe  it  was  totally  innocent  -  he  had  no  napkins,  so  that  was  logical,  right?  …  yeah  there  was  no  way  to  convince  herself  that  that  was  true.  she  was  occasionally  naive  but  she  wasn't  completely  stupid  and  he  totally  had  to  have  done  that  on  purpose.

the  only  problem  was,  she  didn't  know  why.  was  it  to  tease  her  for  her  earlier  jealousy  over  his  curiosity  about  the  other  people  they  had  run  into  previously?  was  he  doing  it  to  provoke  a  reaction?  he  did  seem  to  like  studying  her  as  she  ate,  and  at  other  times  -  perhaps  he  thought  her  odd.  or  was  making  fun  of  her  for  her  feelings.

whatever  the  case,  grace  could  feel  her  face  burning  from  the  action  and  she  finally  forced  herself  to  breathe  again,  huffing  a  little  as  she  bit  back  into  the  food,  pouting  just  a  bit  as  she  turned  away  to  hide  her  blushing  face.

There it was, her stammering. The one thing Hannibal could predict about her whenever he allowed himself to become that man again, the one with the dinner parties and the pressed linen, the one who had existed before all of this. He’d had suitors in that life. They tended to leave on mutual grounds, there was no grief involved. As if they had sensed that there was no bottom to him worth reaching.

Hannibal leaned in as she shifted, the firelight catching the color rising in her cheeks. The flush wasn’t due to the fire’s heat. It surfaced from another source. “Are you stammering again?” The smile came easily, the way it always had. “And we were doing so well…” He consumes the last chunk of meat seasoned with dried herbs he kept in a small cloth pouch in his coat, before agreeing with a nod of a head. “You’re right though, I’m the worst.” The stick he was using was tossed into the fire, small orange embers floated up from the wood pile they had gathered.

The worst.