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[ One glimpse of the person with Javert draws Hannibal out of his morose stupor. He sits up, eyes momentarily wide in surprise. It's not Mason. It can't be. He doesn't reek of swine. But the resemblance is uncanny and it's enough to briefly draw Hannibal's upper lip back in a silent snarl.

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.

[Javert grins doggishly, both his lips and teeth parted broadly. He shudders with his unsettling, silent laugh. Neither the grin nor the laughter abolishes the weariness from his eyes. He looks like he has not slept in a month.]

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.]

Very well.

[ 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. ]

[Javert is not greedy. He does not feel that aching hunger when he veers dangerously close to losing his wits. For all the things he has neglected during the mourning period (and not for lack of want, but for lack of someone to tend to him), he did remember to feed, taking no pleasure in it, simply picking whomever happened to wander too near to him when he felt the urge. And he did it with all the passion and artistry of a lump of coal. He takes a modest draw from the victim, a small lapping of his tongue, and lets the bulk of it go to his progeny.

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.

[ Once the man's heart has stopped and the blood no longer flows from the vein, Hannibal sits back, licking his lips clean of blood, and pushes the body onto the floor. It isn't proper to leave the remains of one's meal lying around, but he doesn't feel like dealing with it at the moment. Later.

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.

I am not pleased, [Javert grunts, his lids dropping proudly to the body on the floor. He plucks off his hat almost reverently and folds his arms in his habitual, forbidding Napoleonic stance.

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.

[ It's a pity he missed the death of the creature. Having never killed anything that styled itself a god, he would have liked to have participated. Still, he appreciates hearing of her demise.

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?

[Javert visibly clams up, his face carefully bland and blank. He flicks the prized envelope out of his pocket, and surely Hannibal can see at a glance that it has been referenced, and referenced, and referenced again.]

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.

Edited 2020-04-03 18:24 (UTC)

[ He accepts the envelope without comment about its well-worn state, though of course he notices. Sparing a moment to consider how that makes him feel, he decides that he approves. It means that neither Will nor Mischa has been forgotten. He is not alone in remembering what they look like. ]

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.

[Javert stares.

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.

[ Beastly actions? Hannibal's eyebrows rise. ]

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.

[Javert is struck silent, humbled, his pupils darting over an invisible manuscript. What manner of dreadful place did Hannibal come from? All he does is slowly lean against the backrest and tilt his chin up, his lids lowering again to the body on the floor in contemplation. He smiles thinly.]

Send my beard out to sea, Monsieur. Lord in Heaven above knows I am overdue for a shave.

[ Usually, he does this for himself in the bathroom, fresh out of the bath when the heat of the water has opened his pores. With someone else, it's a bit more of a process. He wets the towel and applies it carefully to Javert's face with a quiet murmur to leave it there for a moment. Then he goes to get another towel for later, more water, and a cup to mix the shaving cream. Once it's mixed into an appropriately fluffy lather, he takes the towel off of Javert's face and starts applying the cream.

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?

[Any ordinary man might have politely closed their eyes and allowed Hannibal Lecter to work. Javert is far from typical. He watches Lecter unblinkingly in total silence, eyes following him as he leans in and moves about the room to prepare the necessary tools. He curls his hands in the armrests and remains perfectly still, tilting and shifting this way and that only upon explicit instruction.

He drops his lids at last with a contemplative little frown.]

Take it all off, [he says curtly.] Make it neat.

Edited 2020-04-05 22:44 (UTC)

[ It doesn't discomfort him to be watched as he works. Death may not be permanent here, but the habits of a lifetime do not fade so easily. Were their positions reversed, Hannibal would watch every move Javert made.

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.

[Javert watches. He watches every movement, lather, and stroke. He assists only as much as he needs to, loosening his collar to keep it out of the way. It strikes him, quite odd and uncomfortably out-of-place, that compared to Peace's work, this is an almost intimate engagement. It is downright sensous, with Hannibal's dignified murmurs and precise touches. There is nothing for him to do but marvel in repose and bask in the elegance in spite of his dark, traitorous thoughts.

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.

[ Lust? The name is familiar. Hannibal's spoken with her once over the network and during that conversation, she told him of her establishment: a theater wherein she performs burlesque. Which is not to say that he is necessarily surprised that Javert frequents such a place. There's certainly nothing wrong with watching provocative dancing. It's only that he did not expect that giving him a shave would lead Javert's mind in such a direction.

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.

Edited 2020-04-06 20:33 (UTC)

[The haze parts sluggishly, and Javert is left confused.

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?

[ Bathhouse has two distinctly different meanings and Javert's use of the term here does not make it easy to choose which version he means. Discreet establishments for men of a certain inclination existed in his time, as did the less lascivious variety. ]

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.

[Javert makes a sound halfway between a hooooo? and a snort. This is a different sort of game, and rather than bristle and shrink, his eyes shimmer with niggling interest. He grins wolfishly, all of his pointed teeth and his gums glinting in the light.]

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.]

Edited 2020-04-07 01:51 (UTC)

[ Judging from the way Javert's expression changes, this assistant means something to him. How important, precisely, he cannot tell, but at least he knows to tread carefully around whatever wounds the absence has left. ]

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.

[Javert has never been touched this way before. Never let anyone, never had any intimate relations, close friends, or back-alley trysts.

At first his taut muscles push back, tensing under the hard and sure touch. His crimson eyes dart across the room like a cornered animal taking stock of the hastiest exists. The turning point comes when Lecter's thumbs plunge into a hollow between his shoulders, a grunt slipping free from his clenched jaw. Each knead and rub coaxes a further slide and bend into the touch, a subtle sloping of of shoulders, a small slump in his back.

It's nice. Nicer than he would dare admit, with the curl of his lower lip and the rhythmic clenching of his jaw. His nostrils flare. The only thing that would make this nicer would be that damn cigarette.]

What other therapies do you mean? [Javert murmurs sedately at last, his eyelids half-shut. The corner of his mouth twitches.] --There, firmer at that spot. I will not break.

[ Standing behind him as he is, Hannibal can allow himself the tiny smile that comes when Javert not only relaxes into the massage, but takes an interest in directing it in a way that feels better. If there's one thing he's coming to learn about him, it's that Javert doesn't indulge much in things that might bring him pleasure. Because he isn't accustomed to seeing to his own needs? Or because he doesn't believe he deserves to have them met?

From some of the comments he's made, Hannibal suspects the latter. ]

Medicine is often used for those who have difficulty relaxing, though I doubt its efficacy on our kind. [ He digs his thumbs harder into the stubborn muscle, forcing it to give instead of coaxing. ] Plus, medicine only treats physical symptoms. Sometimes it is mental or emotional trauma that pains us and those injuries require other treatment. Conversations that target a particular area can be useful. Light therapy. Sometimes hypnosis. It all depends on the person and the injury.

[ Perhaps he can demonstrate. Neither the pressure nor the movement of his hands falter as he continues. ]

Do you experience physical discomfort? Tight muscles? Restless limbs? Pain anywhere in your body? Regularly or when you lay down to sleep.

Sleep! [Again the rictus of a grin flicks onto Javert's face, stifling the brief chuckle that bubbled forth with that strange term, light therapy.] I do not sleep much, but it is not my body which bothers me. What physical pains should a dead man care about? You know how it is.

[A knot in his back loosens with a palpable crack, and his sedate slur chokes into a throaty grunt.

He fights against melting further into the touch, his head held erect and a sigh slipping out of his lungs by virtue of habit before he can stop the breath. Damn! He's lost enough dignity today. But it's clear that Javert is satisfied with this experience.]

I will tell you drugs work on our sort to an extent, [he murmurs, shifting slightly to subtly move the focus of the touch.] I don't much care for most of them. Laudanum leaves me in a ridiculous, over-chatty fog. Too much drink is sloppy.

[ Although he's paying attention to the conversation, Hannibal is focused on Javert's body. The tension in his muscles, the way he movies—all useful in helping him determine which muscles need work and how much pressure to use. The subtle shift is a clear enough signal and he adjusts his hands accordingly. ]

That is good to know. I'd wondered how much impact, if anything, drugs and intoxicating substances would have on us.

[ It is certainly more expedient than experimentation, whether on himself or on some other unsuspecting monster. ]

What would you say keeps you from sleep more often? Memories or an inability to stop your thoughts from racing? [ Careful to keep this sounding purely like a casual conversation, Hannibal offers his own perspective. ] I find memories more troublesome than anything else.

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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.