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[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.

[Javert is silent for a time, brows knitted into deep trenches. Even in relative relaxation, he cannot smooth the permanent frown lines in his face. An appreciative rumble resembling a growl or a purr slips out of him with another troublesome knot eased, and he finds his tongue to answer around glinting teeth.]

Thinking does not rest, [he admits bitterly.] Memories are tossed in with the mix, whether they are accurate to reality or twisted to suit the thread of thought. What difference does it make if it is one or the other? They are the same to me.

[His thoughts, his nightmares, his memories... are they not all at war with each other? Sleep rarely gives him reprieve from that, when it does come for him. His thoughts drift briefly to Hannibal's lovingly-rendered sketches of his family. Is it those faces that lurk in Hannibal Lecter's memories every morning, when the sun rises? Is it them he longs for in his mind? Javert can say with certainty that he does not have an equivalent issue to that.

Or is it the memory of his deaths? Javert can understand that a little better.

Javert bends his head back.]

Why do you pamper me? You endured the latest ordeal. Not I.

I disagree. You fought for those of us who were to be sacrificed and were left behind when we were taken. It's often an easy thing to die. It is not always an easy thing to live after everyone else is dead.

[ The weight of experience briefly shades his tone. Outliving his sister. Outliving Will. Though it cost him nothing emotionally, life had certainly been made difficult with the death of his parents. His voice quickly clears. ]

We both endured the ordeal. There is nothing shameful in finding some measure of peace afterward.

[ There's a knot of muscle under his thumb. Hannibal concentrates on it, digs into it with force to work it out. ]

And as for your earlier question, the distinction between thought and memory is important. The answer determines the best course of treatment to solve the problem.

[The smile freezes on Javert's face. It is not an easy thing to live. He cannot catch Hannibal's face, but he could swear he detects a rough detachment in tone, an intimate understanding with such matters. One realization leads to another, and Javert all but presses his palms into his eyes.

What a fool he's been. A pang of guilt plucks at Javert's soul. It was selfish of him to grasp at a chance at permanent death, to steal it away when Hannibal Lecter evidently longs to join his dead family. Terribly selfish. It dawns on him now.

What in hell is he doing, lounging here like this? What right has he to enjoy this comforting, tender touch from a man who ought to be furious with him? His chest heaves as if he were releasing a long, frustrated sigh, but no air comes out.]

It is perfectly shameful to grant myself leisure when there is work to be done.

[Javert's tone has hardened, resolved itself. He snatches Hannibal by the wrist, eyes gazing up at him intently.]

I have overstayed my welcome. You are returned, and there are others I must take account of before the night is done.

[The other names on the sacrifice list, namely. Who is come back? Who is not? His glance flicks briefly to the pale wrist, and a bizarre compulsion springs to mind with his glance; he chooses not to give in to it, dropping it and sharply rising to his feet. He busies himself with reassembling his cravat and collar, gathering himself together and buttoning back up.]

[ It isn't often that he is caught off-guard, but he is now. The hardness of Javert's tone surprises him. Has he insulted him? Given offense? He runs what he's just said through his mind, examining it for clues, but he can find none.

When Javert catches his wrist, he immediately goes still with a mixture of confusion and curiosity. There's been nothing untoward in his touch that he's aware of. But he doesn't ask and he doesn't press. He lets him remove his hand and once Javert releases him, he goes so far as to take a respectful step back to give him a bit more space.

He hasn't overstayed his welcome at all, but Hannibal isn't rude enough to argue when it's clear he wants to leave. ]

Of course. I wish you well on your night's work.

[Javert slams his hat back on his head, disguising his fluster with brusqueness. He bows to Hannibal, not one of his shallow and perfunctory bows but a deeper, proper one, with the respect and silent apology he ought to have shown him earlier.]

Thank you for the shave.

[And the massage. His back aches and hums from the residual pleasure. He sets his jaw, scooping up the bloodless body on the floor. He pauses at the door before he and the corpse dissolve into the night.]

Should you need anything else, you know where you will find me. Rebuild your strength and take care, Monsieur Lecter. À la prochaine fois.

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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.