#alkti

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        Hannibal’s young eyes drift to Mycroft, distant with thought and    recollection. He’d been present for this meeting between political    minds, although rendered silent by his adoptive father’s insistence.    There had been a tension between the two adults, although they    spoke with clarity and politeness.

        Hannibal hadn’t liked it. Their words held the same sharpness as    a threat did– and nobody threatened Mycroft.

        But the boy simply nods, although his eyes drift away beforehand,    taking with them the exploration of punishment for the man that had    just dared to overstep his bounds.

“Good boy,” praised Mycroft. The sooner than Hannibal learnt that trust was foolish, the sooner he could succeed in life.

“People are going to smile to your face and then stab you in the back the second you turn around. Do not let them have the satisfaction of doing such a thing. Predict their moves, and block them before they can be carried out.” Essentially, stay alert. Don’t trust, don’t relax - don’t feel safe. Somebody that you classed as a friend could betray you at any time.

        Where normally he might turn an eye of annoyance upon his adoptive    father, for now, he can manage something only a fraction of its power.    There is nothing untrue about those words: ever since he’d stepped back    within the safe confines of his home, sluggish motions and careful steps    have ruled every action.

        It’s this, or spill over; humiliate himself, as though an infant. Reluctant,    almost, Hannibal exhales a long, tired breath, and murmurs, “Are you pre-    pared to babysit?”

“Considering that I would not be here if I were not willing to care for you, I think we both already know the answer to that.” Honestly now, children could be so silly sometimes. Why wouldn’t Mycroft be willing to babysit, hm? If he was visiting Hannibal then he obviously had spare time, and it was hardly like he was going to abandon his son.

Sways in the passenger’s seat, listening to the deep hum of the gas tank being filled. His lower back aches from hours of sitting upright, his posture secured with kinetic tape and surgical wrap. Francis is reminded of a bonsai tree: reshaping branches and roots to enhance appearances, a forceful reimagining of natural growth.

                    Hannibal is as good in the garden as he is in the kitchen.

                    The gas tank cap is screwed into place, the tank’s door shut with a click. Francis is so used to being responsible for their automotive duties, for a moment he isn’t sure whether he is sitting in the car, or paying the gas bill.   --   Credit card is ejected, the receipt torn from the machine.   --   He keeps his eyes closed when the driver’s door opens. He can smell Hannibal, and he feels the car tilt under his weight. He is here, and Hannibal is there, and the Dragon is still nowhere to be seen or heard.

Still her body aches, even nearly two weeks since her near death experience. Hannibal had saved her life with quick thinking and a background in surgery. Still, her head remained limp against his shoulder as their foundling rested between them, stretched out safe and warm between two people he would consider his mother and father. His harsh words, while finding her, only brought a soft sigh from her.