Ryslig IC Inbox

[inseine]

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.

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[inseine]

[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.]

[baisunas]

[ 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.

[inseine]

[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.