thirteen ☼ spam & voice

[deshabille]

spam } hannibal, backdated

[She does not sit by his bed until he wakes up. Instead, she watches him until she hears his breathing begin again and then leaves the infirmary. She knows he won't stay for long.]

[It's only later that she goes to find him in his room. This time, she knocks. Of course, if he doesn't respond, she'll just go in. But she can pretend at respect for bare moments.]

[It's the little things.]

private } dean, polly, arya, shortly after the above

I need to start it now. Right now.

[Theoretically this is all very dramatic but she's mostly anticipating a lot of boredom, which shows in her voice. Snore. This again.]

[She's fine it's fine.]

private } aeryn

Timetable has obviously been pushed back, but you should know I'll be out of commission for, mm. A while.

private } spock

Something you might be interested in.

private } ben

I have information of relevance to your inmate, and you by extension. No detail, but you should know anyway.

Comments

[spam]

[deshabille]

[She listens to his list. It might, she considers, be a test, him listing what the top of his list is - a test to see if she'll grant it - but it doesn't matter either way. While she doesn't particularly care what the other wardens think of her, the fact remains that she must follow certain protocols to receive a certain amount of obedience from them, a certain degree of hands remaining off. An inmate who has committed Hannibal's crimes on board is to be allowed no sharp objects.]

[With a tip of her head, she hums the first bar of the Borogravian national anthem just to be annoying, then nods.]

Bedroom, yes. Nontoxic, blunt art supplies, yes. At this point, a kitchen would be inadvisable, given that I don't trust you. But you're welcome to your cappuccino machine.

[He is welcome to do his worst to her if he likes. He does have a lovely imagination.]

[spam]

[youwill]

[It's more than he expected, less than he wanted. It is not enough, nothing on this ship will ever be enough, but it will be a salve for a time, while his body convinces itself of its lack of injury. And then....and then. That is the question to consider, isn't it.]

To be delivered tonight.

[He wonders, though - wonders why she should place herself in harms way, why she would allow him the opportunity, why a thousand things. He would prick his fingers and bleed into her cup. He could deny her coffee in his presence. He could make her the finest cup she has ever had, bloodless and perfect, and see to her annoyance at having to return here in order to get it.

He could lift his wrist to his mouth and tear away skin, force her to watch, smell, as he bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. What is one more death, so long as it's of his own making?

Ignoring the drawings he's made again, Hannibal steps away from the table, clasping his hands in front of her.]

Tell me how your blood lust works. [Perhaps I'll tell you mind goes unsaid. It would mostly be a lie.]

[spam]

[deshabille]

To be delivered tonight.

[He's bossy and rude, but she doesn't mind. It's one of the things she liked best about Pietro: they both know their own mind. It's just that there are parts of them that are all wrong, things about them that must be adapted.]

[Now her smile is genuine, and the query makes her laugh - or would it be better described as a command?]

Do you think it's very complicated? You might be thinking.

When I am around free-flowing blood, I want to consume it. It's usually some degree of incapacitating.

[So simplistic that she has no issue sharing. The implication here, of course, is that either she has suffered greatly whenever he's died and she's had to come find him, or she had someone else clean up the mess. The true answer being somewhere in between.]

[spam]

[youwill]

[The implication is the clearest thing in her explanation, and a smile cracks his lips, real and honest and as cruel as it is entertained. Some degree of incapacitating. He wonders how difficult it was for her to manage, after Sylvanas' attack, after Slevin's. The smile stretches, and with his post death pallor, he looks briefly like a grinning corpse.]

And the same is true for coffee? You never came across a cup you could say no to?

[She is ridiculous in his mind: utterly ridiculous, utterly easy, but not dull. Now he wonders how many more people will pursue his death, how ugly he could possibly make the next, how much blood he could spread around a room before she arrives. He'll have to carry one of the butter knives or forks he liberated from Below with him: it will certainly help in the experiment.]

[spam]

[deshabille]

[This is more complicated to explain. More difficult. More absurd, she supposes, to him. Not that his opinion of her sense or absurdity makes much difference to her. Part of her just enjoys talking to him.]

[Much of her enjoys his cruelty, more for its realness than for what others might term its evil. He could be evil, she supposes. She doesn't really believe in things as simplistically as that.]

Not recently, no.

[Let him draw his own conclusions from that. Let him determine what recently means for her, in days or months or years. Let him paint his picture of her in his mind and figure out, through trial and error, what's right and what's not.]

[spam]

[youwill]

[He paints several pictures in his thoughts, wandering closer.] And yet blood is still a temptation? Why add a second addiction, if it cannot remove the former. [He phrases but does not speak it as a question. He doesn't try to hide the limp, now, lets it stand as pronounced as it is.[

That would seem pointless.

[So would telling him her weaknesses. Her friends. The people she cares about, the way to attack her. Is she constantly ready for it, he wonders, always on guard and ever tense? No. Now, with him, there must be some caution.

That does not keep him from wondering how hard he would have to fight her, how many cuts he'd have to place on his own skin, before he could tempt her.]

[spam]

[deshabille]

Would it?

[She smiles at him, ethereally, neutrally pleased at nothing in particular. In fact he is half wrong, half right: she is never not on guard. Sometimes alert is higher. But there's always a risk.]

[She is always ready to die.]

It seems you have a lot left to learn about me. Or. [She shrugs.] At least a little something.