#ifyouaskmeto

His face remains entirely impassive, not a hint of empathy or malice in his gaze. He takes a moment, waiting to see if Mason will say anything else, then replies: “She would have a different life, especially if you were unable to sire an heir.”

There’s only the slightest emphasis on the word unable. He wants to see if it’ll stick.

“When I was in school, you know, I loved science class. So many interesting things to learn about.” Mason runs his tongue over his top teeth and pushes his glasses up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, like he’s sharing a real banger of a story.

All he’s waiting on is his latest project, due to be delivered in ... he checks his watch as he takes it off his wrist ... five minutes.

Crick-crack his neck goes, his back. He tucks his watch into his jacket pocket and lays it aside, out of the way. He cracks his knuckles and flexes his wrists and looks up at the sound of voices on the dock.

Right on time.

“Put him in the chair,” he tells them as they drag the man in, “You know where to go for the money.” And if they’re smart they’ll go right off and collect and then get the hell out. There’s no room for curiosity here, and there’s no room for wagging tongues. He makes sure that the restraints are fastened securely and ducks down to look at his guest’s face for a moment.

He takes smelling salts out of his pocket and holds them under the man’s nose.

“Good evening, Mister Lecter,” his voice is smooth, European but so carefully neutral that it’s almost impossible to place him by specific nation, “The pleasure is all mine.”

A polite smile. “There’s no need to apologise, Billy.” In this line of work, Hannibal is used to dealing with his patients’ theatricality, but Billy seems a humble character, incapable of hyperbole.

He watches the slip of paper in the boy’s hand, and thinks they are very different. To apologise for his art seems as ludicrous as apologising for having hands. Hannibal clears his throat politely, and nods softly to the note. “Is that what they’ve said to you?”

He has to swallow a couple of times before he feels like he can speak and even then his voice catches in his throat. “Yeah, last time they emailed me.” Pressing the sheet against his leg he can feel the sweat popping out on his palm and making the paper wrinkle slightly.

“I mean, they were right ... I liked the classes I was doing, but it was dragging down my GPA, and it wasn’t practical, you know?” Even a few marks lower than usual is too much of a risk. Better to drop the drawing classes and stick to history and art theory. It’s not so much of a sacrifice, he can draw on his own time.

After a moment’s thought he tries flattening the paper again and then holds it out to the doctor. It isn’t very long, little more than a few paragraphs, everyone is healthy and well, an update on the latest church fundraiser, and then a diatribe on how he was letting himself and the rest of the family down.

“I should have known better -- I mean they always said if I drop below an A average they’ll pull me from the program. I mean I can manage A+ on most subjects, but the art stuff was too ...” Subjective? Challenging? Billy’s started to think that he’s probably just not that good at it after all, a whole semester and nothing over an A. Nothing below an A- either, but it’s still below the standard he has to stick to.

“The pollen count is high today,” Hannibal observes. “And the windows are open.”

A summer cold is possible, obviously, but Hannibal has always preferred to look on the bright side of life. “Finish the bok choi, there’s plenty of ginger in it.”

Dutifully, Mason reaches out to serve himself another helping of greens.

Hannibal is only half-listening. He’s become fascinated with a fungus growing in the corner of their room, steadily climbing towards the only window.

“There’s no signal.” No way to contact their security, or to even call a taxi. He rises silently to his feet, and turns to look at Mason. “And I’m fairly confident at least one person has died here.”

“Oh no,” Mason moans, he holds his arms close to himself and rises onto his tiptoes for a moment, like he could will himself to levitate out of the filth surrounding them. “Oh no,” he says it again, a note of panic in the rising pitch of his voice.

“Let’s get out of here, before it ... before it ...” Before they catch something? Or before they breathe in black mould and their lungs rot out? Or before Mason breaks out in a rash -- he scratches at his arm and he’s sure he can feel his skin peeling up and blistering.

Mason pulls back from where he’d been about to place his overnight bag on the covers. “Ew, what? Really?” He takes a step back and an unpleasant shiver runs down his spine. “What are we going to do?”