#stagborne

@stagborne // here we go again

Tasers will always be the bane of Hannibal’s existence. Not bullets, nor fire, nor the unyielding teeth of the dead, but the indignity of an electrical current, bright and vulgar, cracking through his nerves. At least, this was his thought as he was bound in some semi-truck freight cargo. It was supposed to be a simple run to the neighboring store that Will and Hannibal had located. All undead were dealt with, and everything was considered safe.

Hannibal’s kneecaps were still bruised from how hard he fell onto the floor. He was quickly bound and gagged, carted off like some beast (he found this ironic). To break his spirit, they inflicted rounds of beatings. Sometimes with steel-toed boots, other times with pipes and bats. In order for him to have any sort of reprieve, he would meet with a few people who had taken ill or had some other serious injury inflicted on them. A broken arm, a festering wound, a child with seizures. He is not allowed instruments. He improvises: needle and thread scavenged from upholstery, pliers sterilized in vodka, splints made from snapped broom handles. He does not speak, merely gestures with his chin and eyes. His hands remain bound, even as he sutures or bandages or compresses. Necessity is a kind of grace, and he relishes these moments, however humiliating the context.

His wounds were always below his neck, though a few punches were dealt with at his face when a snide remark would slip through.

It had been weeks now, or so it felt. The food granted to him was just enough to keep energy through him energized, though he never required much in the first place. He wondered how Will was faring. If they caught him. He dared not speak his name just in case they were unaware. Words are currency, and secrets are the only wealth he has left. He dreams of Will at night, visions sharp and wounding as broken bone.

At some point the red and blue lights are turned off. The house that might've been nice and cared for once upon a time long, long ago fades away into the overgrowth and the horizon. The faceless people in uniforms or suits going this way and that behind yellow caution tape and the flashing of cameras and more faceless people with buzzing questions that remind Ethan of Margarite's hives after they've been agitated all grow smaller and smaller until they fade into the horizon with everything else. Ethan watches it all through the tinted windows of a black van.

Eventually, the van stops in front of what looks like some kind of lovely little B&B. Scenic. Or maybe it just looks nicer than the Baker's residence. Anything that isn't filled with so much rot is better than that place.

Ethan files out of the van with his backpack, mostly empty save for a few sets of clothes. It's missing any guns or knives or anything else he's spent the recent past clinging to like a safety blanket. For his safety, he's been told. A glance over at his housemate has Ethan thinking it's not his safety anyone is worried about. He wonders if Will is allowed some kind of weapon.

A familiar voice with a thick accent whispers that Will probably has weapons. That he's not family; not like Ethan could've been. Family is safety. Security. Everyone and everything is a threat. William is a threat. To the family. Threats need to be-

continued . . . || @stagborne

"No, the fuck you're not," Howard insisted. "Even now I can just tell you're bloody wired and agitated. It's been that long it's doing my head in. What is it?" the vampire demanded. "What is it that you can handle, exactly? Because from what I can see, you're barely there in your own head, you're knackered from no sleep, all over the shop and it hurts me seeing you like this!"

Howard took a deep breath and sighed sharply. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Look, I promise. I'll leave you to whatever it is, alright? I won't interfere. I'm not trying to infantilise you or think you incapable of sorting your own troubles. You know this. I just need to know what's haunting you, for my own peace of mind. If you let me know, I won't ask again. Please?"

The thing about the upper echelons of European nobility was that everybody knew - or at least knew of - everybody else, creating an environment in which gossip was rife. If there was a secret to be kept, one had to be extremely careful when it came to who was made aware of it, lest that information spread like wildfire through an extended chain of relatives, old school chums, and everybody else surrounding them. Considering that, it was not particularly surprising that Mycroft had heard on the grapevine that there was more reason to the upcoming visit of Prince William than mere politics.

This made sense, of course. The man had a reputation for a lack of manners, and combined with the extended nature of his visit, well, it spoke of an exasperated monarchy trying to pawn their wayward son off on some other poor sod for a while, didn't it? Or, perhaps it was supposed to be a punishment. Whatever the case, Mycroft was of the opinion that his own father (adoptive father - yet another matter that had been the subject of much gossip over the years) had been far too kind in allowing the man to stay.

Of course, this opinion was only exacerbated by that fact that it wasn't his father who was due to entertain him. Oh no, the King was far too busy for that! Mycroft understood this, but that didn't stop him from privately grumbling about that meant the 'privilege' fell to him. That had been a given, what with how it would hardly be appropriate for either of his sisters to be given to task instead.

He'd met the other prince before. They'd been children, and the whole thing had been rather awkward. Neither of them had seemed keen to make friends, which turned out to be good as it had become clear that neither of them were going to be friends. They had both been too aloof - too at odds with the rest of their peers.

There was no reason to think that anything would be different now. Mycroft had changed - or rather, he'd successfully learnt to put on the correct persona in public and pretend that he was enjoying whatever conversation he had been forced into. Will, on the other hand... Well, if the rumours were true, then he wasn't so different.

Needless to say, this meant that Mycroft wasn't looking forward to his extended host duties. He would wear a smile and get on with them anyway, though. He had to; considering who he was, he had no choice in the matter.

He did, however, have some choice in the details of the situation. If he was going to have to play nice for a while, then Mycroft wanted to do it out of London. That way, he could at least avoid the crowds. Balmoral, he'd decided, was the ideal place to say he'd meet Will. The Scottish Highlands were wonderfully isolated. The quiet would suit Mycroft, and, if what he'd heard was correct, the wilderness would suit Will. They'd have to go elsewhere eventually - a large part of royalty involved being seen and putting on a show for the public - but, for a while at least, it was a way to keep the journalists and everybody else at bay.

Another benefit of Balmoral was there was currently nobody else there - other than the staff, of course. If what was said about the coarseness of Will's personality was true, then the lack of other people being present would be a godsend when it came to keeping him out of trouble!

Having used the excuse of ensuring everything was prepared to go ahead (in reality, he just wanted to delay the awkwardness of this whole diplomatic undertaking), Mycroft had decided to keep to himself and wait in one of the many rooms for Will to have settled in and find him. Was that a little rude of him? Yes, it certainly was, but he had made the assumption that the other man wouldn't care. Perhaps he would even appreciate it. Greetings - especially after a long time - and the inevitable offer of a tour of the residency were always so tedious. This way, the staff could deal with all that, and if they were lucky, there'd also be an mutual understanding about the benefits of a leaving each other alone as much as could be acceptable.

Accompanying Mycroft was his dog, Orwell. The black labrador was visibly getting on in years. Silver heavily decorated his features, and when a voice broke the silence in the room, announcing Will's arrival, the dog did little more than stiffly raise his head in mild interest before wagging his tail a little and settling back down to sleep. Mycroft, on the other hand, neatly tucked a bookmark in his book, placed it to one side, and promptly stood.

This isn't Dove's first live-in arrangement as an aide, but it's her first in a while, and most notably the first since meeting Hugo. Admittedly she had been hesitant to leave him alone, but he had encouraged her to go, giving every reason from his wonderfully improved health to not wanting to stop her from doing what she loves. And of course he won't be truly alone. He has a good circle of friends who care for him deeply.

Dove knows this well, and soothes the flutter of worry whenever it arises. It's a long, peaceful drive into the heart of farmland, and by the time she's pulling up the dirt road to the lonesome farmhouse she feels ready. Present. Here to help in whatever way she is able.

it has been a game of cat and mouse-- except it's uncertain who is the cat & who is the mouse. sometimes it's one, other days it's the other. michael knows will graham understands him, perhaps not fully, but more than anybody else has. there's many detectives, police officers, fbi agents and a myriad of others on his case, attempting to catch michael ever since he escaped from smith's grove on that rainy night. now, michael and will have caught glimpses of each other from afar, have left crumbs for each other. some even will say michael has been peacocking for will-- showing off, making it easier for his kills to be read and deciphered by the brilliant detective. there is part of him that wishes to be understood ... and if anyone is to understand him, it's going to be will graham, who is so painfully similar to michael. does will think the same? he'd like to know.

A yawning sun webs its way through the cracks in their kitchen blinds and sunlit reflections bounce scattered fractals of light off dirtied breakfast plates onto Will's watered-down hands. “I know, I’m sorry. I wish forgetting was that simple," she says softly. This house is cold, but he feels colder. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have asked.” Always so naive in her search for the best in others, here it’s easy to figure the past is simply hard for him to discuss and nothing more. Who knows what he's been through? After all, Will was in this protection program just the same as her. 

… right? 

Violet shifts on the kitchen countertop she’s seated herself upon, icy creep of earthen marble drawing goosebumps to her skin’s surface. These clothes… this house, this gaudy decor– this husband? It’s all so alien. It’s all so… lonely. 

“Is it really so wrong for me to want to know at least some of you?”

They’re not supposed to talk about these things, she knows that, but they’re also not supposed to seem like strangers in the public eye. Young, newly married, and hopelessly in love was their assigned M.O., but things of that depth aren’t so easy to fake. Not when he’s a stranger holding her at arm's length… like looking through a glass cage. Invisible barriers to keep from getting too close. Would he always divert the attention away from himself? 

Nicholas suffers from an affliction of fantasy. He looks at a human and involuntarily authors a life for them at the whim of his own messy neurology, a victim to the muses. Even now, he’s revving up. He sees this man as a fisherman hunting sirens, burning them down into oil. He runs whole villages on this. He also hates people.

Nicholas stands like a hole in the wall. Beside them is a mosaic: Lot’s wife Kafka’d into salt.

“Let go of desire and a past that is no longer yours.”

He feels sodium prickles in his fingers and doom. This man has hair like charred tumbleweeds, his eyes two shining television screens. Nicholas sees himself in them.