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.”

He’s already walking towards the scene, nostrils flaring as they take in the metallic scent of blood.

One of the officers peels away from the blood bath, eyes lighting when he recognises Hannibal.

“Just the man,” he says in French. “We’ve got a couple left alive.”

Hannibal gazes past the officer, and then back at Mason.

For a fraction of a second Mason’s tempted to blow the cops off, shrug at the bodies lying in the street and say not today, man, it’s date night. Swan off knowing that there’s someone suffering because he didn’t feel like lifting a finger.

But. He knows Hannibal likes to get his hands on something bloody and pulsing, and there’s not often an opportunity to do so with such an appreciative audience.

My muse is asleep. Go into my ask box and wake them up however you'd like.

The light from the window gilds the backs of his eyelids. Mason takes a deep breath and sighs, he curls his hands against the bed covers and stretches his toes. “Feels good,” he mumbles, still hoarse with sleep. He pries an eye open and looks at Hannibal standing at the end of the bed, and smiles.

“Not far now.” He says. He doesn’t know exactly how far it is, but he doesn’t feel like he could stand waiting much longer.

Hannibal had spotted the man first, they’d been in an open market and before the raised voices Hannibal had been staring at one of his favourite storekeepers struggling to keep his cool while being berated by a customer. They both recognised him in a moment -- as they’d pulled into the field that was used as a parking lot for the market, this asshole had nearly sideswiped their Bentley to get to one of the dozen free spaces.

It was little more than an exchanged glance and they knew what their plans for the day would be -- Mason slipped back to the car park and made sure that the man’s vehicle would be useless, while Hannibal had gone to comfort the stall holder, and pick up a few things.

And of course, when the car had failed to start they had very helpfully offered the irate man a ride.

“This isn’t the right direction.” The man huffs. “I was better off stranded back in that fucking field--”

Send ♣ for a drunk message