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Ryslig IC Inbox
WELCOME TO YOUR PRIVATE CHANNEL, PasUnPolicier. FOR SECURE COMMUNICATION, USE 246.01.094.30 *** PasUnPolicier has joined 246.01.094.30 <PasUnPolicier> This mail centre belongs to Javert. <PasUnPolicier> Be accurate and brief. <PasUnPolicier> I suggest you not test my patience with practical jokes and clowning around. <PasUnPolicier> I will return your notice shortly. | ||||
<lecter>
I will be here.
[ For the foreseeable forever, slumped lifelessly—figuratively and literally—in this chair. ]
You can come in.
<PasUnPolicier>
[Javert quickly shuts down his machinery and bounds to action, gathering his spring coat, his cane, and his hat to go. He never stored Lecter's drawings anywhere else but his breast pocket, over where his heart used to beat. They are safe, if wrinkled from repeated use.
It is about fifteen minutes later that a sharp rap sounds at Lecter's door, the sort a man of authority would use to summon a man with a court order. If Hannibal is at all paying close attention, he would have heard two sets of heavy footfalls, not one... and one strong, steady heartbeat.]
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One heart. Two sets of footsteps.
Hunger twists through Hannibal's body, nearly making his teeth ache, but he only leans his head back against the chair and stares vaguely in the direction of the ceiling. Does it matter if he eats? He cannot truly die?
The knock makes him glance over. He's dressed casually today: trousers, a button-up shirt, and loose, unstyled hair. Not quite guest appropriate, but he can't be bothered. ]
Come in, Javert. You are welcome here.
[ Is it necessary to make the invitation formal when he's dead too? He just doesn't know. ]
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The vampire swings the door shut behind them. He raises his head to Hannibal, and makes a curt assessment of his déshabille with a pinched, exhausted frown. Javert is hardly more composed than Lecter: His whiskers are in utter disarray, a patchy forest coating both of his cheeks and his entire neck. His assistant has been gone for well over a week and his personal grooming has fallen off a precipice because of it.
Javert gives the human a firm push in Hannibal's direction.]
Drink, [he instructs roughly.] I will wait until you are finished.
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Oh, yes. He will devour this man. Javert shoves him forward and Hannibal snaps his fingers at him, an imperious command that he continue over to the chair. The man comes, eyes blank. When he reaches the chair, Hannibal starts to gesture him to lean down and then pauses.
It isn't polite to drink alone and the best gifts are shared.
Taking the man's wrist, Hannibal slices across his forearm, deep enough to bleed freely, and offers it to Javert. ]
Drink with me, Javert. [ His hand is at the man's neck, ready to haul him down to be bitten, but still Hannibal waits. ] To days gone by and the lives that used to be.
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On your mark. You must take the brunt of it, [he drawls. He palms the offered wrist, pausing to watch the crimson blood flow and drip from the exposed veins.] Death has a way of draining our vigor. I know the feeling well. You could use the refreshment more than I.
[His eyes glimmer, and he poises with the bleeding wrist near his mouth. Bite first, Hannibal. You must eat.]
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[ Hannibal yanks the man down none too gently, hunger and this man's bad luck to be the doppelganger for someone so despised making it impossible to care about his comfort. He'll be dead anyway. Yet for all of that, Hannibal is still neat. He bites into the man's neck carefully, without tearing or making a bloody mess of it. And he doesn't suck the blood down in great, impolite gulps.
He drinks with measured calm, slaking his thirst as if it were not as bad as it is. As the edge of it dulls, so does at least some of his ennui. Whether it's proximity or happenstance or something else, he watches Javert throughout the process. Not with malice or aggression, but a mixture of curiosity, acceptance, and interest.
It seems that the time he's been dead has not been particularly kind to Javert. Has something happened? Has Javert lost someone for whom he cares? Hannibal doesn't know. But in thanks for the meal, he thinks perhaps he can do a little to improve matters. ]
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He does not return Lecter's stare until their man is good and dead. When the blood stills and the heart stops, Javert drops the wrist and daubs at his mouth and mussed beard with a pocket-kerchief. Some of the intensity of his eyes returns to him the longer he looks, and he raises his heavy head and squares his shoulders with as much smugness as he can muster. His mouth settles into an inelegant, tired line, somewhere between a grimace and a smirk.]
Y'Doethe is dead.
[No preamble. No pomp and circumstance. Just a tart, dry fact.]
She made a decadent bonfire.
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Javert's declaration provokes a raised eyebrow and the ghost of a smile. ]
I don't suppose you could hear her screams when you burned her alive?
[ He gives Javert credit for the god's death without hesitation. ]
I do regret that I was not able to poison her as I'd hoped but a bonfire seems a fitting end for the false promises. [ A brief pause. ] I am pleased you did not have to experience it.
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He considers the tree's death. His mouth curves.]
Ah, it was a spectacle, [he snorts, a reflection of roaring flame and snapped branches in his irises. He grows distant, losing himself in plumes of black smoke and crackling wood.] The lot of us self-fashioned grenadiers for the occasion. Nothing but rotted black sap in her guts--conveniently combustible, with the aid of gunpowder, oil, and... [His smile twists, and his eyes hollow and retreat opaquely. Godly matters, he can be heard to murmur absently through his teeth. He raises his eyes.]
It is done. I am sorry your toll has climbed to three.
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The sympathy he waves away with a flick of his fingers. ]
It's difficult to care when it does not last. The discomfort is temporary and pain has never affected me the way that it does others.
[ He looks briefly over Javert's face, takes in the state of his beard again. ]
May I ask how you've fared in the days that followed Y'Doethe's demise?
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This belongs to you.
[His jaw twitches and tenses.]
Don't concern yourself about me. You see plainly that I live. [A rueful smile slides onto his lips.] In a manner of speaking.
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I'm afraid I've never been particularly adept at thoroughly minding my business.
[ Setting the envelope aside, Hannibal rises from the chair, kicks the body further out of the way, and gestures toward it. ]
Please. Sit. You've done me a favor. [ A slight tip of his head toward the body. ] I can only return it. Make yourself comfortable while I collect a few things.
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He had not meant to say, and his face seems to say plainly that he does not wish to intrude for long, that he does not want to make a concession. Yet he glides forward and assumes the seat anyway, looking quite rigid and still. He does not recline against the back of the chair, but he does spread the skirt of his coat and arranges himself as neatly as he can manage in his haggardness.]
You owe me nothing, [he grumbles, discontent. It is he who ought to make amends.] I forced your mark on myself when it was unwanted. Among other beastly actions.
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In the five years prior to my arrival here, I've been stabbed, shot, beaten, tortured, hanged, and on one rather memorable occasion, branded by a man who wished to eat me alive and looked remarkably like the fellow we just killed. [ He smiles then, friendly and not the least bit disturbed by anything that he's saying. ] I assure you, taking a pin from my jacket was a nice change of pace. Now please, relax. I'll only be a moment.
[ He steps away and it truly only does take a minute to gather the necessary supplies. When he returns, he's carrying a bowl of warm water, a small jar of shaving cream, a brush to apply it, and a straight razor. A towel hangs over his forearm. ]
Unless you've a reasonable objection, I'm going to do something about that beard that's trying to conquer your face.
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Send my beard out to sea, Monsieur. Lord in Heaven above knows I am overdue for a shave.
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Neither the positioning nor the shape of the chair is conducive to this. Hannibal has to lean into Javert's personable space extensively to get his beard sufficiently lathered and once, has to nudge his legs out of the way so that he can step in and lean close enough to brush the cream thoroughly over the underside of his chin and his throat. ]
How close a shave do you usually prefer?
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He drops his lids at last with a contemplative little frown.]
Take it all off, [he says curtly.] Make it neat.
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At the decision, he tips his head in acknowledgement. ]
I am always neat.
[ Replacing the brush with the razor, he gets to work. His movements are sure and swift, his comfort with the blade clear in how steady his hand is and how quickly he slices away the hair. Brief touches to Javert's face—a nudge with a knuckle here, faint pressure there—serve as direction so that Hannibal can keep the blade at a perfect 30 degree angle to his skin.
When the left side of his face is smooth, Hannibal moves around to the other side of the chair and starts on the right. He doesn't speak. To do so might invite Javert to talk as well and for the closest, most precise shave, he must be still. When all that is left is his throat, Hannibal moves back to the front of the chair, steps in between his legs, and leans in, one hand braced on the arm of the chair. It isn't quite the same position as when Javert drained him of his blood, but it's as close to it as can be without getting onto the chair with him.
A few passes of the razor and Javert's throat too is bare. Hannibal turns his chin this way and that, double-checking for any errant hairs, before judging the work complete. Stepping back, he sets the razor aside, wets the fresh towel and passes it to Javert. ]
Here you are. To remove the rest of the shaving cream.
imagine that, i have an icon for this
None of that, none of that. He locks those inclinations up nice and tight, returning to himself as sharp as the strike of flint to steel.
After the last decisive stroke, when the last of his whiskers are floating downstream down the washbasin, he wordlessly accepts the towel. He presses it to his face and neck, scrupulously rubbing off the last vestiges of lather from himself, and allows his gaze to drop.
It's been decades since Javert last went clean-shaven. Even with the lack of proper barber's chair, Hannibal did an exceptional job. He runs his fingers along his clean, cool, itchy throat and cheeks, and it is strange to feel nothing but a bare fleshy smoothness and the wrinkles of his skin. It's new. It emphasizes how tired he looks and feels, an even greater pallor glued to his skin where his beard once grew.
No time like the present to start afresh, when he has lost and lost and lost so much.
Javert crisply folds the towel in thirds.]
Thank you, [he says reservedly, the beginnings of a frown on his face. He despises that he can no longer groom himself on his own, and there's a faint note of irritation at himself in his tone.] Your offer was unexpected. I ought to keep appointments with Madame Lust's establishment next time.
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The thought brings with it intriguing possibilities and certainly not anything to which Hannibal is averse. Javert's a handsome man. More importantly, Hannibal actually likes him, which isn't something he can say about the majority of people.
Leaning over to take the towel, Hannibal dips his head, bringing his lips to Javert's ear. ]
If there's something the experience lacks, Javert, you've only to tell me. I'm certain I can perform at least as well as Madame Lust.
[ Straightening, he drops the towel onto the little table where the razor rests and moves across the room to retrieve the ottoman. He pushes it over to the chair, leaving enough space to move around it. The signs of exhaustion have not gone unnoticed, especially now that Javert no longer has a beard to hide behind. Hannibal can't do anything about that, only sleep and rest can erase Javert's weariness, but perhaps he can help him relax. That ought to be a start. ]
In any case, we aren't done. [ He points to the ottoman. ] Unless you'd rather I sit in your lap for this, please relocate here.
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He does not recognize himself, feeling something akin to shame sparking within his lifeless viscera. Outwardly he has fixed Hannibal Lecter with rapt, unreadable attention, his frown lopsided, brows knitted into a deep trench. Inwardly he churns. Javert is a man who knows his tastes, who realized long ago that his bent was toward men; he only lacked the inclination to pursue one for himself.
This is something else, an open-ended question. One he would not dare to pose to himself just yet.
His eyes contract and narrow, and he tilts his head.]
Your services could rival the best attendants in her bath-house, I think. What do you mean to do now? [he asks with a self-deprecating, dry lilt. He hasn't yet moved from the chair.] Oil-and-cologne me?
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If that's what you'd like me to do, of course I will. You'll need to take off your shirt, though.
[ And the rest of it, if Javert's bathhouse attendants are particularly thorough. ]
What I mean to do is help you relax. You look to be carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders and I know how difficult it can be to rest while your body is beset with such tension. I thought a massage might do you some good.
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You assume a massage would do better for me than a pinch of snuff, a cigarette, and a draught of brandy. [Which is to say, judging by his gloomy air, that none of these things do much for him. Still, with a daring, proud glance, he assumes a seat on the ottoman instead, just as stiff and challenging as his nature commands.] I always declined those services from Madame Lust's menu after a decent grooming, but it has been a spell. There was no need for the indulgence after retaining my... late assistant.
[Javert's face thins and drops. Unlike Hannibal Lecter revival, Peace has not returned, has not answered any calls or knocks. He swung by the Graveyard on the way to Lecter's flat, and there is not even a courtesy memorial dedicated to her.
He stews into a silent reverie.]
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There are a number of therapies we can try if this fails. Some find it helpful. Others do not. Like with anything else, it's a matter of finding what works for you.
[ In regular practice, Hannibal made referrals to massage therapists but his familiarity with the muscle groups involved and the techniques of the practice mean that he can perform the task. Flexing his fingers, he steps behind Javert once he's settled, sets his hands on his shoulders, and curves his fingers down, digging his thumbs into his trapezius, and gets started working the knots out. It's tight, but Hannibal is strong even without his augmented strength. ]
You'll need to tell me if I'm using enough pressure. Or conversely, not enough.
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