“Yeah, by using children’s tactics. Go dammit.” Eventually he started button-smashing at her just the same, though trying to slip in some combos when he could. Most of them were again interrupted by her character’s fast kicking, which she did over and over again, knocking him down each time. “This isn’t fair. You have smaller and skinnier fingers than I do. This is an UNFAIR advantage.” He was such a sore loser, he had to justify to her and himself why he was losing at the game he had been playing for ten years to someone who’s barely a gamer.

Just as he was nearing death, he finally managed to gain the upper hand as he button-smashed as fast as possible, pressing the same key to strike her character over and over like she did with his. “Yes… yes, YES!” At last, her character wavered in place as the deep voice commanded “FINISH HER!” and so he did with an intricate combination of presses to various buttons and triggers. He gave a triumphant guffaw as he pressed the last key. Sub-Zero plunged his hand into the other character’s chest, tearing out her spinal cord and skull, then he froze the rest of the body with ice from his hand and smashed it to chunks with the skull.

          “HA! Take that. About fucking time I win.” He grabbed the beer on the coffee table and knocked it back for a gulp, sighing as the cool liquid soothed his parched throat. “At least I can do my fatalities right. That’s the best part of the game, and you always mess them up. So even your WINS are lame.”

    𝚉𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙴𝚁’𝚂 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚂 𝚁𝙾𝙻𝙻 𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙼𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙻𝚈 𝙾𝙵𝙵 𝙷𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙺𝙸𝙽.  if anything, they pull her smirk wider, igniting amusement in her stomach and kindling fondness beneath her ribs.  there’s not vitriol behind them, no real resentment—just petty jealousy and damaged pride.  the same ceaseless competitiveness she’s grown used to from her younger siblings.  it feels comfortable, familiar—makes her feel accepted, not criticized.

    “i don’t think size is the issue,”    she shoots back easily, jabbing at the buttons on the controller with indiscriminate enthusiasm.  she probably could stand to use a couple combos, and definitely has the speed and dexterity to utilize them brutally, but there’s something so satisfying about working zeller up like this.  “had a friend back in college with huge fingers, and he still beat me every time.”

    abruptly, zeller finds his footing.  adrenaline jumps in beverly’s stomach, and she sits up straighter, mashing the buttons more insistently.    “oh—shit!”    but she can’t come back from it, and zeller’s character brutally crushes her own.  she flops back against the couch, letting the controller drop into her lap as she huffs with short-lived disappointment.

    she follows zeller’s lead and sips again at her own beer, eyes rolling at his teasing.    “yeah, gotta hand it to you,”    she says, setting the beer back with a soft knock against the coffee table,    “your one win sure had a lot more showmanship than any of mine.”    beverly smirks, and sets the controller aside.  she extends her arms out in front of her, fingers laced, and stretches her neck out, head tilting from side to side.  when she’s satisfied, she makes a small noise of contentment.

@thmyis· said:  🌨️

          will graham is institutionalized, hannibal is soaked to the bone, and beverly finds him with his nose hovering two inches above a corpse. the situation is less than ideal, but he’s not about to let a little bit of schadenfreude ruin his grand turn as an fbi agent. ever since jack asked him to consult as their acting profiler, it’s felt as if he was walking around wearing will’s skin. the feeling is heady, a crackling pall of electricity draped around his shoulders like one of his many tailored suit coats. suffocating–stimulating.

         offering what he hopes passes as a smile, hannibal pushes with his elbows off of his knees and straightens his spine, unfolding to his full height. an attempt at casual intimidation, though he’s well-aware such pedestrian psychological tactics are unlikely to have much effect on beverly katz. but, one must try.

         no one could ever accuse him of a lack of effort.

         “ my sense of smell is a blessing as much as it is a curse. ”  hannibal tucks his blue gloved hands into his pockets, the texture of the powdery cornstarch against his skin bringing him back to his days as a surgeon. the nitrile was stifling, sweat mixing with the powder and turning into a sticky paste. carefully coiffed hair is plastered to his forehead, and his italian leather perf toe balmoral’s slide in the gathering mud ( regrettably, he hasn’t dressed for the occasion ). it’s difficult to maintain any amount of dignity when he can barely keep his footing.  “ i believe our victim was moved to this location–the sulfuric odor clinging to the body is that of the pulp from a paper mill, where they likely met their end. ”

    𝚂𝙷𝙴’𝙳 𝙶𝙾𝚃𝚃𝙴𝙽 𝚄𝚂𝙴𝙳 𝚃𝙾 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻’𝚂 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙴𝙽𝙲𝙴 𝙰𝚃 𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝙴𝚂 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂.  not that he’d been working with them that long, all things considered, but for as much as he’d stood out, he’d become a fixture on these kinds of cases.  a given.  will had woven himself into the fabric of their team, his thread a stark contrast to the others’, but part of it all the same.  it’s strange to see dr. lecter in his place.  beverly has worked with other consultants before, and is used to the revolving door of new faces, but none of them have ever landed quite so heavy in her stomach.  she’s angry at will, and at jack, and at herself, but that doesn’t help anybody, especially when she’s on the clock, so she forces the overwhelming emotion down into the bottom of her stomach and saves it for sometime else.

    the weather, unfortunately, seems to agree with the overall mood.  the sky is a puffy expanse of grey that opened up early this morning and has yet to close again, turning everything cold and wet and sloppy.  it’s hell for the evidence, much of which is undoubtedly lost in the tiny ribbons of runoff, or washed away by the relentless rain.  beverly folds her arms over her chest, hunching her back against the chill.  her windbreaker has kept her torso pretty dry, but her hair is wet enough to tug heavily at her scalp in its elastic, and the thighs of her pants are sticking to her legs.  dr. lecter doesn’t seem to be faring any better—when he’d shown up in his usual three-piece suit, she’d only barely restrained the urge to cock an incredulous eyebrow.  it’s an admirable commitment, but she’s willing to bet he’s regretting it right about now.

    even more startling than the mud-slopped dress shoes (although to be fair, her own aren’t faring much better) and the flattened grey-brown hair is the fact that he’s nearly got his face pressed against their corpse.  the image takes a moment to develop in her mind, and by the time she’s fully processed it, lecter has straightened and started to smile.  it doesn’t fully reach his eyes—that’s something else beverly’s familiar with, from will—but she feels her own lips tugging up in a natural response, equal parts amusement and disbelief.

    “you got all that from your sense of smell?”    she shakes her head, huffing out a laugh that is, in part, augmented by the fact that this is probably the least dignified she’s ever seen dr. lecter—through no fault of his own, of course.  doesn’t mean she’s not going to savor it.  her grin widens.    “impressive.  better be careful, though; keep pulling tricks like that, jack’s gonna want to keep you.”

“A Scrabble girl?” Will asked, finally allowing a ghost of a smile to touch his lips. “I would’ve pegged you as more of a Clue fan…maybe even Trivial Pursuit.” There were certainly plenty of “trivial pursuits” on their plate these days. Some more so than others.

Following her in through the worn, weathered door, Will tried not to make a face as he took in the (questionable) shag carpet. He had somewhat of a phobia when it came to hotel carpets and bedding, in particular, but he chose not to comment. Sometimes, it was better not to think about what horrors a blue light would reveal.

When Beverly tossed her coat and key onto the bed, Will couldn’t resist a soft, “You know, it’s probably sagging because of all the dead skin cells. With one person alone, there can be pounds of dead skin inside a mattress after only twenty years.”

Nice. Way to play it cool, Graham. People already thought he was a freak, and his fascination with the grotesque was undoubtedly why.

Beverly, fortunately, didn’t seem ready to throw him out on his ass, and he had to smile at her warm welcome.

“Still? As in, half-eaten?” Will called back, chuckling in spite of himself. “I might have to pass…though my intestines surely can’t suffer much worse.” Shoving his hands into his pockets, he pretended to admire the (horrendous) wallpaper while Beverly flitted around in the bathroom. “The Bureau really pulls out all the stops to ensure our comfort, don’t they? I feel like I’m in a ritzy suite.”

    𝙱𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝙻𝚈 𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴𝚂 𝙰 𝙵𝙰𝙲𝙴,  considering the bed with that in mind.  it’s hardly the most unpleasant thing she’s faced—to do her sort of job, a person has to have a pretty high tolerance for what the general public would consider gross and disturbing—but there’s something to be said for leaving those sorts of things in the lab.  she does her best not to take her work home with her, but sometimes it can’t be avoided.

     “ugh.  y’know, now that i think about it, skin cells are probably the least offensive substance weighing that mattress down.”    she wrinkles her nose.    “well, it’s got character, at least.  not that i really wanna know what kind.”

     the glasses are sitting on a small clear glass shelf above the sink, and she pulls them both down, re-emerging into the main room and passing one to will.  as she heads for the tequila, she shoots an amused look back at him.    “well it was a family-size bag. if you change your mind, i promise i didn’t lick my fingers.”    she grins, and screws the cap off the bottle, pouring herself a few fingers’ worth.

@mudwoven​​ said:    'I'M TOO BUSY TO DIE.' from jack crawford.

     𝙸𝙵 𝙰𝙽𝚈𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙲𝙰𝙽 𝙲𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚃𝙾 𝙻𝙸𝙵𝙴 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷 𝚂𝚃𝚄𝙱𝙱𝙾𝚁𝙽𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝙰𝙻𝙾𝙽𝙴,  it’s jack crawford.  beverly has always admired his power of will, ironclad and unwavering; even now, when the part of her that cares for jack not only as a boss but as a person wishes he’d give a little, she remains impressed by his sheer conviction.  not that they don’t all have steel-plated backbones—there’s a certain kind of confidence required for this sort of job, and each member of the team wears it in their own way.  but jack is different; the rest of them, beverly thinks, have weak spots.  places where influence, or doubt, or some other disruptive force can seep in, or even just leave a subtle indentation.  beverly’s fortitude is the flexible kind—abrasive, substantial, but bendable, too.  changeable.  jack’s not like that.  he’s thick, immovable, unyielding—a pillar.  admirable, but there’s something to be missed in such a particular sort of rigidity.

     “ don’t think that’s stopped anyone yet, ”    she drawls, brows raising in amusement.  her mouth tugs up in a playful smile, but there’s a line here that beverly is careful not to cross.  for however amicable they may be—however easily they gel—jack crawford is the head of the behavioral analysis unit.  personal advice isn’t exactly appropriate, nor would she presume to think she knows better than he does, about this or anything else.  but weariness has become a fixture here, nearly as present and tangible as a person; it’s begun to drag all of them down, saturating their clothes like water.  makes it that much harder to stay afloat.

thmyis: “i had a dream about you.”

      “See, I knew I’d end up plaguing your dreams,” she says it like a joke but there’s a slight apprehension to her smile, the furtive gaze she throws her way before looking back at the beer bottle and her delicate task of peeling the label off it. 

      Dreams are troubling, though perhaps only her dreams. Most people don’t have to revisit childhood traumas, current traumas, gruesome murders and victims all under the violent pressure of the subconscious. Most can just have regular nightmares of showing up naked at work, or good wild dreams. She has to remind herself that her name associated with dream doesn’t necessarily mean nightmare. 

     With a sigh she leans back on her chair, feet propped over the railing. The effort of consciously relaxing her shoulders before looking back at Bev is pretty damn obvious, but when her eyes look at her she seems calm, even amused. “Only good things, I hope”

     SHE’S WATCHING JULIE PLAY WITH THE BOTTLE,  gaze sliding from her face to her fingers and back again.  if she realizes the weight of her attention could be considered a little too intense, a little less than considerate, it doesn’t show; her lips are still curled in a close-mouthed smirk, body settled comfortably in her chair.  she inhabits the space unapologetically, as easy here as though she held some claim to the space, instead of just a visitor’s temporary share.

     “ we went to bobby’s after wrapping up a case—some kind of assault; i don’t remember the details.  anyway, ends up being karaoke night. ”    beverly’s grin widens.  she leans toward julie slightly, gesturing vaguely with her beer.    “ only every time we get up to sing, we get another call from the station.  never did get the chance to bring the house down. ”

@empathik said:    there he stands, one step past the doorway of the gas station, hot coffee strewn down the front of him. unlucky eyes rise to glance across the parking lot and lock with beverly’s- of course.

     THERE’S A CERTAIN DISCONNECT BETWEEN CONCEPT AND REALITY.    a notion that violence is meant for the dark shroud of night  —  that daylight means safety,  means peace.    beverly thinks of the stacks of horror movies neatly piled on the bottom shelf of her television stand  —  the warped plastic covers and battered cardboard cases she’s accumulated from various bargain bins and thrift stores,  all blacks and reds and loud,  stylized fonts.    for all the terror they contain  —  the evil and death and immeasurable hatred,  all wrapped up in a few hours’ neatly tied bow  —  there’s a grand sort of law to those worlds that beverly has always envied.

     out here,  in a reality at once both more and less terrible,  it doesn’t work the same.    sunlight only lends atrocity a better spotlight;   day arrives,  and death remains,  coating the grass like dew that refuses to dissolve.    there will always be another field,  another shady patch beneath the trees where moisture still clings.    night may often tempt a man to murder,  but day summons another to stand as witness.

     beverly sticks her hands in the pockets of her jacket;  the leather creaks with her movements,  rubbing up against itself with a soft sound.    she curls her fingers around the phone in her right pocket,  brushing her thumb over the smooth plastic case.    it’s relatively early still  —  on the cusp between late morning and early afternoon  —  and the sun shines at just the right angle to bounce brightly off the gas pump’s painted side.    bev squints against it,  sunglasses doing little to cut the bright sting,  and watches the numbers roll lazily upward in value.    around her suv,  and its twin stationed at the pump just behind,  there’s a thin bubble of quiet  —  a sensation of both dedication and weariness,  as often follows difficult cases.    it’s not somber,  really;  they’ve long since found the line between gravity and levity,  and rest in that small pocket just between  —  it’s a space beverly has grown comfortable in.    has become grateful for.

     the pump thunks,  numbers arresting on the screen,  and beverly turns back to the car,  pulling the nozzle from the tank.    as she does so,  she glances up toward the entrance to the convenience store,  where will graham has stopped,  the entirety of his cardboard cup of coffee dripping down the front of his shirt.    for a moment,  surprise holds her taut  —  she freezes,  still holding the gas pump,  and stares back at him for the span of a blink.    his displeasure is writ clearly on his face,  grimace pronounced as he shakes dark liquid from his hand with jerky,  frustrated movements.    he seems more irritated than anything,  which beverly takes as a good sign.

     she replaces the nozzle,  crossing her arms over her chest and coming around the back of the car toward him,  unable to keep her lips from twitching up in the direction of a grin.    “ man,  you really must’ve pissed off somebody up there, ”    she says,  even as her eyes rove over him in concern.    “ today is just not your day,  huh? ”    a quick look back to the cars shows her jack’s frown,  price’s wide eyes and raised brow.    she sobers,  willing them to stay quiet,  to let her handle this one,  and hopes zee has enough sense to keep his mouth shut.    they’ve still got a long day of work ahead of them,  and the last thing will  —  or any of them  —  needs is unwarranted aggression.