Bitch

Michael flopped back onto the sofa, musing. “Or why Wayne even called for us to cross the ffff-“ another pause and his voice came out softer like a teen cursing in front of their mom for the first time, “fucking country. Something to do with our missing- wait, wait, wait!”

Ramon let his eyes close at the soft touch Michael gave him and melted into it. Michael could probably feel him shaking. His hand gently grabbed a hold of Michael’s hand, letting Michael touch him but also needed his hand. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t. He just never knew that they would ever find him, try to d r a g him and now the crew. Geoff was upset but he knew it wasn’t because of Ramon. It was the fact that the Agency had the balls to even try to bring them out into the open. Ruin everything that Geoff had tried to build up and their security. Ramon opened his eyes, looking up at Michael, his eyes glossy. 

He rubbed his nose and inhaled slowly. His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest. This was a moment that he had no idea of how to take the lead. He didn’t want to rely heavily on them but this.. 

The Agency was something that still made him turn and run. 

The anger bleed into his words. “Please let us take care of you.” And softer because he wasn’t mad at Ramon. “Please let me take care of you.” He hadn’t been able to last time but he for fucking sure wasn’t going to fail this time. Ramon drawing away made it obvious the Michael was shaking in this rage the agency had the idiotic notion to spark.

Michael flopped back onto the sofa, musing. “Or why Wayne even called for us to cross the ffff-“ another pause and his voice came out softer like a teen cursing in front of their mom for the first time, “fucking country. Something to do with our missing- wait, wait, wait!”

By: Albert Watson

Model: Debbie Dickinson

The dodge left Michael with the freedom to press on, consume. Start it all over again because Michael wasn’t satisficed. After everything his wasn’t satisficed. Back to where he had started. He could do it again, all again. Ramon was the one who was punished for his deeds. Ramon was the one they blamed. It would be easy to pull strings again and… do what? Nothing would come from it. Michael had done enough. 

He didn’t push the attack and fear had everything to do with it. “What do you want then if revenge is not on the mind of the Dark God? Forgiveness? Proof that I controlled your every move like pieces on a chest board? That you are innocent?” Each statement delivered sharp like daggers and even if the Warling didn’t advance in stance, his aura felt heavier then any boulder. A dragging weight of warning. 

“What do you want, broken one?” 

That stung more than he thought possible. Ramon relaxed his stance but the glowing of the stars along his arms still moved along his skin. He clenched his hands into fists, the stars rapidly formed around his knuckles like a protective shield but they remained idle afterwards. 

“ I don’t deserve forgiveness, ” Ramon said carefully. “ You fed off my anger and grief but it was I that fed into it. I allowed it to consume me when I knew what I was doing was wrong. ” He knew he should blame Michael. He was still at fault and he was sure Geoff knew this. However, it never came out of Ramon’s mouth because he still believed it was truly his own doing. His head wasn’t in the right place in being with. 

“ I only ask why you did it? What would you gain from controlling my mind? Did you even seek redemption from Geoff after I was the one who was punished? ” Ramon wanted to ask if he even felt ashamed because of it? He could feel some of Michael’s rage, his aura bled of anger .. but was he masking something deep within? Or was Ramon foolishly putting emotions in Michael that his brother didn’t even have?

Ramon unclenched his hands and held them out. 

Ramon was so wrong. So wrong. He deserved so much forgiveness. He was confused. Michael hadn’t feed off Ramon, the Thoughtstriker had feed off of Michael and his aura. True, those thoughts and feelings had been Ramon’s own but they weren’t actions until Michael had added the fuel. Ramon was just a tool only a object like Jeremy in all of this. At least Ramon had a use unlike the doll! Michael…Michael needed to stop thinking like that. They were brothers, family. He…He was still angry but nothing could be done.

The Warling sighed, stance relaxing but he did retreat to give distance. Like how they had started. “Why? Because you were easy, dear brother. You hide yourself away and leave yourself open to be used. You feel so many dark thoughts, that is your nature, and all they needed was to grow. To come to light. It was simple to do for me.” Michael tried to fight the smirk from his face, glancing away. And when that didn’t seem to cover it, he summoned his helm and placed the armor over his head. The guards at his cheeks blocking the dagger sharp smirk until he felt he had it under control and turned back to Ramon. Blue eyes glowing under the shadow of the helm.

He was good. Didn’t flinch at the drawn weapon meaning Hannibal had either a death wish or this was the norm for the Doctor. Michael felt it was more likely that Hannibal just didn’t give a shit and that made shooting him pretty pointless besides it keeping the man quiet and Michael didn’t want that. No, wait, he wanted that.

He should had shot him. Should had put a bullet in his mouth before Hannibal started digging. Poking. The praise, that this was all normal, he was normal, human, had been nice. Sweet even to Michael. The rest? This angel bullshit? Yeah, no, Michael should had shot him before he let this cocky bastard finished the first word. Now it would be taking the easy way out even if Hannibal was asking for it. Michael knew he was getting played, had felt this coming and even if he had the power to stop it, he wanted to keep going, see how the game ends. He should had shot him, though. The confidence was attractive but it was also so damn irritating. 

Rubbing a hand over his mouth, like it would help erase his expression from cold fury to neutral indifference he wanted to go for, the redhead reached for his glass and took another sip. Didn’t even give it the energy to show how untasteful he found it this time and stood. Gun falling with a loud, heavy thud from his lap to the floor where he left it to make his way over to Hannibal. 

“I want to hurt you. Want to poke and probe you.” Michael admitted, walking around the chair and leaning down over it, the table, and Hannibal, himself. “Wanted to toss your text into the fire or light your desk up like a teen camp bonfire. Where they make it to second base and a killer comes around to give the cabins a new paint job.” Michael poured what was left of his wine into Hannibal’s own glass. “You might not be my dragon but you aren’t a fucking princess either.” He stood up straight, sneering at the back of Hannibal’s head. “I would say a Lich or maybe ask you what you thought of yourself but I doubt you’ll answer that either.” A sigh, annoyed, Michael crossing his arms. “But it doesn’t matter, you have me figured all out. So what do I owe you, Doctor, for this quickie?” 

The careless way that the man dropped the gun was…interesting. It was careless, to begin with. It could have resulted in a misfire. But it was also an indication that it was ultimately unimportant. As concealed as the weapon had been, it was as easily cast off as a molted feather. In all likelihood, Michael would remember it before he left but that was a small timer that Hannibal set in his head. How long would the gun remain a cast off?

Hannibal stayed put while Michael moved over him and poured the wine in his glass. That was a waste, to be sure. Spit mingled with already cheap wine (by his standards) made the contents of the glass little more than swill. However, he didn’t nudge the wine away from himself. To do such a thing would be to demonstrate that any of what Michael had said or was doing had an impact on him. Denying that impact was a small and petty power move. It took less than a moment of consideration for Hannibal to lift the overfilled wine glass and take a sip of it as if nothing had happened. Nothing had changed. 

“I am not here to be your princess, Michael,” the psychiatrist spoke evenly and tilted his head to look at the redhead over his shoulder, “anymore than I am here to be your dragon, or lich. The dragon, the lich, they are little more than representations of opposition and the struggle against the opposition. This opposition can be confusing — frustrating and even angering – when it is something beyond our control or understanding. When we find ourselves opposing something because we are told to, or because it is strange to us.”

He set the wine glass back down and gestured at the seat across from him, “Please, Michael. Sit. I am here to help you talk about these things, to work on that opposition in a way that does not involve you unsheathing a sword… or pointing a gun at the problem. We’re not finished.”

It quickly dropped into a an unimpressed frown. Another lecture! Michael had enjoyed the debate when the subject has been a vague notion, when it had been Hannibal Lector himself the subject. Not when it was aimed at Michael. It felt like every turn in this verbal maze ended with Michael under a microscope to be probed and split open, guts bare. Labs made his skin itch.

Was…was the doctor telling Michael that he was scared? That had the red head’s fists clenching. Hands falling to his side, foot lifting to take a closer step. Needed to prove he wasn’t fucking scared! Only for the command to surprise him into losing balance, ankle rolling as he caught his footing, hands out for balance. And wow, he looked stupid. Michael was quick to straighten himself out. Guy was treating him like a… not quite a dog nor a kid. Between those. Where he was viewed as stupid but expected to have responsibilities. A student, maybe. A fucking fifth grader.