#ofunethics

hunting isn't really roman's thing. the rifle feels too big and unwieldy in his hands; he imagines slipping, accidentally shooting a person. in the nights leading up to these trips, he dreams that he shoots ken or gerri and, when he comes down to dinner, they're the main course. his already pathetic appetite takes a hit, of course, but there's always plenty of alcohol at these things, and sometimes he gets to sneak out to smoke with ken and shiv just like when they were teenagers. it's not all bad.

though hannibal's fucking mythology spiel doesn't help. roman looks past him over to dad, taking court in an enormous wingbacked armchair by the roaring fire. he looks like a king, a god, someone certainly capable of sacrificing a kid. who will it be? roman wonders, gaze flicking around the assembled minions. it won't be shiv, he knows that. ken's tipped to take over these days, so it won't be him, and connor doesn't even factor into the equation. he swallows and drains the last of his whiskey in one gulp. ( later, he dreams the same dream, except he's the one that ends up atop the dinner table. he feels every tine of every fork where they pierce his flesh. )

"what?" admittedly, roman isn't the warmest he's ever been, thin shirt and open collar doing little to ward off the chilly evening breeze. then again, he never really bothers to carry a coat. no need for one when the sum total of one's time outdoors is usually just the few minutes going from doorway to car to helicopter and back again.

and hannibal's jacket is nice, a heavier, more textured fabric than roman would typically choose for himself. the shoulders are a bit broad but it's warm where it drapes over him, and smells of masculinity in a way that he can only aspire to. it makes him feel small.

he opens his mouth but is, for once in his life, rendered speechless. what the fuck is he supposed to do with that? had hannibal noticed the goosebumps prickling his bare forearms, or is this some sort of posturing that roman hasn't discovered yet? fuck, that would've shut ken up at the board meeting, wouldn't it, if roman had slung his blazer across his shoulders in front of everyone. at least there's no one here to see this.

he needs to say something. it's getting weird. "uh." yeah, good one, romulus, that's told him. real fuckin' eloquent. his throat's dry when he swallows, tongue big and useless in his mouth. fumbling, he shoves his arms into the too-long sleeves and mimics the way hannibal's sitting. back on track.

PRE-ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP MEME 0.2 bold for things i could definitely see or want, italics for things i could see or am unsure of and striked out for things i don’t want or cannot see.

it's impossible for daniel to ignore the similarities between the nurse's fate and what his might have been, all those years ago. the difference between his fate and hers was... divine intervention? dumb luck? he doesn't believe in the former, and has never had much of the latter. when daniel tries to remember that night, it slips through his fingers like fine sand. infuriating. impossible to capture. it's his own damn fault, of course. '73 was just one in a long line of drug fuelled summers... falls, winters, springs. it's not until '85 that his memories begin to clarify again: the year after he'd met alice, and she'd pushed him into rehab.

the point is, daniel doesn't know why he survived the same attack that had killed the nurse. he's old enough now to know that these things don't always happen for a reason. sometimes, that's just how it goes. still, he can't help but feel at least partly responsible for her fate. maybe if he'd kept his big mouth shut, the good doctor may not have been compelled to act.

the rational part of him knows lecter may have acted anyway, out of... what, appreciation for their conversations? that part, daniel's unclear on. he cannot tell if it was meant as a threat, or a fucked up attempt at bonding, or something that he could not hope to comprehend without years of psychiatric education.

the less rational part of him wonders if he's supposed to be flattered by the gesture, that lecter'd been so inspired by daniel's vague recollections that he'd been compelled to try to re-enact it. maybe he'd been disappointed by the lack of details, wanted to see the scene for himself.

it fascinates daniel, in a sick sort of way.

he'd come back, hadn't he? he'd read lounds' shoddy article this morning, alerted to it by a google alert set to lecter's name, and still he'd come back. from a journalist's point of view, it's a gift hamper, a five course michelin-starred meal served on golden plates.

the scar on his neck itches as he studies the muzzle intently. though he doesn't remember much about that night in '73, he remembers the searing pain of teeth tearing into his flesh. he can only hope that the nurse died quickly but, if it was anything like his own encounter, he knows it wasn't.

he shrugs in answer to lecter, watching him impassively. "not sure inmates usually care about professionalism," he replies at length, clicking his back-up pen. "though, yeah, go ahead and worry about what constitutes as professional. i'm sure your career will thank you... oh, wait." daniel makes a point of looking around them, then at the straightjacket and, finally, the muzzle. "on second thought, not sure that's something you need to worry about any more. i don't see a queue of patients waiting to sign up to doctor lecter's patient roster." mind you, there's probably a fair few people out there who'd get a kick out of it. he decides not to mention that; would knowing his effect on the true crime community inspire lecter to further violence? it seems tawdry, beneath him... but daniel reminds himself that this is a man who killed and ate people -- someone who tore out a nurse's throat with his teeth.

daniel has exposed enough corrupt politicians-businessmen-unspecified employee of celebrity to trust his gut when something doesn't feel right. so when he thinks he hears another set of footsteps echoing just out of time with his own, he knows not to discount the feeling, or put it down to mere paranoia.

so he bypasses his car - he's not getting caught between the cars, fuck no - and circles back to the ticket machines. might be cctv cameras there. they might be working. if he's really fucking lucky, they might even be monitored.

there, he stops, digging in his pocket for the crumpled ticket, even though he's already paid.

"death can't be measured, only witnessed," daniel parrots back flatly. with a heavy sigh, he takes off his glasses, folds them, sets them on his notepad. the place - the company - makes him itchy. reminds him too much of... something. his memory's not what it used to be, but doctor lecter reminds him of something unsettling, some sort of apex predator. is that what he considers himself, above all this? no, daniel doesn't think so. he honoured his meat; there is a certain attachment in the way he speaks of his victims that suggests he isn't removed from his crimes at all.

"you never fucked them though, right?" he ignores lecter's question for now as he unfolds his glasses and puts them back on to skim his notes. maybe he's getting too old for this. no, fuck that, that's quitting talk. "your victims, your meals. the people you killed, you never honoured them that way."

he's glad, at least, of that: lecter may be a special sort of messed up, but at least he'd never crossed that particular line. having seen the line up of smiling, dark-haired college girls that made up lecter's first(?) victims, it was impossible not to draw comparisons between them and his own daughters. he wonders where it stems from; hannibal doesn't have a family of his own, and his later victims seemed to deviated from that stereotype. was it only that college-aged girls were an easy target, something on which to cut his teeth?

hannibal's blood is rich and refined. more delicate than he usually goes for, but full-bodied and delicious. even on the run, daniel suspects that he eats well -- maybe not to his usual specifications, daniel's palate isn't rounded enough to tell, but well nonetheless. it's a far cry from his own usual diet of the unfortunate homeless, lone drunks, or high stage hands.

he bites harder, grinding his teeth together. he thinks he can feel the resistance of bone. half-crazed, he crowds up against hannibal, pinning him in place with his own body. he won't kill this one. he's been practicing the little drink, as armand calls it, just for this occasion, and he's mastered it. more or less. these days, he can, usually, pry his jaws apart, heal the wound, wipe their memory and send them on their way.

it's a real effort, though. he slurps down another mouthful, then another, tonguing at the wound as if he needs just one last little drop.

with a heaving breath, he finally lets go, mouth open, head tipped back, blood staining his teeth and chin. he sucks the taste from his teeth, licks his lips, and finally looks at hannibal.

"yeah," he drawls, retracting his fangs. "yeah, i wanted to return the favour. well -" he grins. "i mean, you never got your teeth in me, right? beat you to it." he's pleased with himself, both for sparing hannibal's life and for managing to get his teeth in him in the first place. the humans daniel eats don't usually fight back. it's exhilarating. why has he ever hunted otherwise?

PRE-ESTABLISHED RELATIONSHIP MEME 0.2 bold for things i could definitely see or want, italics for things i could see or am unsure of and striked out for things i don’t want or cannot see.