"Twelve Weeks Sober" - (Hannibal S2 Drabbles)

[Hawkeye]

I don't know if you've written anything for last night's episode yet, but given how that one murder victim was displayed (with all the tree branches and flowers and stuff) and how they brought the whole thing into the lab, I couldn't help but see the perfect set up for a fic there...

[Garnet]

@Bruyere - Aww, thank you very much! I do love me some Alana, especially after this week's episode HNNGHGH. And I might have a tiny fetish for Hannibal taking care of her in a very understated, casual fashion. Mnuh.

@Skye - !!! You know, I was going to do another Hannibal and Alana thing because... BECAUSE.

But since they'll probably be an item for at least a little while, you're right. I should take advantage of that perfect set-up.

Do you have any preference for the sneezer?

[Hawkeye]

Even though I know at least SOME of the reasoning for Hannibal to sleep with Alana was in order to give himself an alibi, but they just look SO GOOD together and I hope they continue to be an item for at least a little longer.

I would personally love to see Zeller as the sneezer! He strikes me as the type to have allergies for some reason.

[AngelEyes]

But he doesn't feel betrayed. Hannibal feels proud of the caged animal that has learned to bite.

Mmmmm. Very insightful.

[Garnet]

Skye - Right? I mean I'm not expecting it to be fluffy kittens and rainbows by any means, it is Hannibal after all. I'm probably a terrible person for thinking, "Oooh this is gonna hurt SO much more when the big reveal finally comes. But I can't WAIT." But ohwell. They are very good looking people.

Also, this week's drabble is for you. It's not too explicit but I hope it serves its purpose!

AngelEyes - Thank you! I imagine that Hannibal is both indignant about the attempt on his life, but also secretly thrilled because it means that Will is starting to give in to his inner beast, as it were, and become a little more like him.

And now, the drabble!

06. Futamono

It's been weeks since the lab has felt normal to Zeller. Normal, subjectively. He's not sure he even remembers what qualifies.

He'll be the last to admit it, but the morgue feels strange in Will Graham's absence, and stranger still when the psychiatrist begins filling that space. Maybe Brian Zeller wasn't Will's biggest fan, but he actively hates Dr. Lecter. He tells himself that it's because he's arrogant, because he doesn't respond to their morgue humor, or pop culture references, or have donuts and coffee with them in break room like a normal fucking person.

He's also three hundred percent done with Price being seemingly oblivious to how infuriating his presence is, and making cheerful, poorly disguised passes every chance he gets.

“I think you're barking up the wrong tree, there,” Zeller told him archly, the third time he had to watch his coworker “accidentally” bump elbows with the man, or find some excuse to squeeze past him and retrieve some absolutely unnecessary equipment from the other side of the lab.

“Please,” Price had grinned. “My gaydar has never missed a mark. He's just playing hard to get.”

“Maybe he's into younger bucks.”

“Ouch,” Price groaned, clutching his hands to his side with impressive theatrics. “Oh, call an ambulance. I think you hit bone.”

Zeller knows he's full of shit, that there's no bigger and less serious flirt than Jimmy Price, but he's still glad when the doctor stops coming around.

He barely gets a few days to enjoy it, because in the next breath, Beverly is gone.

He feels her absence not like a strange irregularity, but like an awful, gaping chasm, like a missing limb. In a few months, maybe, scar tissue will grow over the wound, and they'll function well enough, just him and Price and whatever new intern is brave enough to wade into the fray in the wake of Beverly Katz. But it's never going to be the same.

When they roll in the next installation in the Ripper's extensive body of work, he groans aloud in both relief and disgust. Relief, because they need a distraction, something to keep them busy. Disgust, because it's still the Ripper, and his previous act left them both haunted and sleepless.

Zeller is four hundred percent done with him.

He could be happier, too, about the chosen medium. Zeller snaps on his gloves with the grim resolve of a soldier, and already feels the back of his throat itching.

“That is some seriously fucked up ikebana,” he grouses, sizing up where the tree has pierced the corpse, drawing up battle plans for where to separate the two.

“Ikebana favors minimalism. This is too complex, almost purposefully ostentatious,” Price chirps, spreading his hands and raising his brows for effect. Broadway was missing out on him.

“I'm guessing it doesn't favor dead body incorporation, either, so there you go. I won't tell the Ripper you called his work gaudy. Give me that chainsaw,” Zeller grunts, annoyed.

“Yes, sir.”

It's slow going for a while. The body and the tree are so tightly entwined that it's hard to get them apart without damaging the tissue. They've been at it for thirty minutes by the time they're making any progress, but this is also when the pollen is really starting to hit him, and he has to take a break. Zeller barely gets the chainsaw shut off and the faceguard lifted before he turns into his shoulder with an ugly gasp.

“Huh-uhssh!”

“Augh, contamination!” Price frets, flaps his hands, and takes the power tools away as Zeller hops down from the step ladder.

“Heh-uhssshoo! UHSSH-oo!” His everything itches, and sneezing feels like scratching a poison ivy rash – it gives only temporary relief at best, and in the long run just makes it worse. He can't help himself, and retreats to one of the empty exam tables, crumpling a sleeve to his face.

“--ufssch! … heh-uhfsshh!”

He gets stuck in that cycle for another half dozen sneezes, just a mess of hitching breaths and watering eyes. He forgets about the body, and the tree, and everything else until Price puts a hand on his arm and forces it away from his face.

“Whadt—UHSSH! --uhsszzschoo!”

“You're covered in pollen. Rubbing your sleeve on your face is just going to make it worse, dummy,” Price tells him with affectionate exasperation. Zeller feels a packet of tissues being pressed into his hands, and with bleary eyes manages to get the crinkle of plastic off, grateful that Price doesn't try to help.

His head ducks with another few hiccuping mini-sneezes, but the fit is winding down by the time he gets a few Kleenex to his face to blow miserably. Ugh. He was expecting it to bother him, but he clearly underestimated what half an hour buried face-first into a flowering tree would do. He's such an idiot, sometimes.

“Why didn't you take an antihistamine?” Price wonders, peering at him with his puppydog eyes. Zeller sniffles, feeling both self-conscious and defensive. He's positive that he looks like a fucking mess, and tries not to imagine Price making even playful eyes at Dr. Lecter, with his tailored suits and neatly slicked hair.

“You're not supposed to operate machinery while hopped up on those,” Zeller roughs a bitter laugh. “Says right on the bottle.”

Price grins. “Wait here,” he says, making a patting motion at the air before he all but skitters out of the lab. Zeller uses the break to soak through another three or four tissues before he feels his breath start to even out.

Price returns five minutes later with a pill bottle and a bottled water from the vending machine. He shakes out a tablet from the former into his palm. “Ta-dah,” he says. “Loratadine. All of the histamine blocking powers and none of the dopiness.”

“Too bad.”

“You're hilarious.”

Zeller makes to hold out a hand for the pill, but when Price says, “ah-ah, open”, he complies before he can think about it. Price pops the pill into his mouth and cracks open the water, handing it across. Zeller's face feels hot, but he chalks it up to the sneezing fit as he slugs down several swallows of water.

He leans back against the table afterwards, and sizes up their workload with a sigh.

“Still feels weird, doesn't it?”

Zeller looks down at himself, puzzled. “A little? It hasn't kicked in yet.”

Price makes a noise and gestures around them. “No, this. Us.”

“Oh.” Zeller starts to rub a hand over his face, but pauses to carefully peel his gloves off, lest he set off another hysterical sneezing loop. He still feels hovering just on the verge of it, but the threat is subsiding slowly as the drugs work through his system. “I don't think it's going to stop feeling weird any time soon. Especially if we keep Ripper cases.”

“Yeah,” Price sighs distractedly, looking around. He knows what he means, it's in their downtime, these moments of quiet that he misses Beverly the most. Her sniping remarks or idle humming of Led Zeppelin as she loads up the centrifuge.

“Hey,” Price says suddenly. “Come over tonight, after work.”

“What?” Zeller regards him with mingled suspicion and alarm. A weak, irritated “--usscht!” sneaks out while he's distracted, but a crooked finger crammed against his nose holds the rest back until the urge fades.

It's not that weird, they – he and Beverly – have been over to Price's apartment a few times after doing the bar crawl down town, or to crowd around a new episode of The Walking Dead and loudly criticize the make-up effects. But it's still incongruous enough that it gives him pause.

“We'll get a little shitfaced, it'll be fun. You need it, I need it. We need it.”

They can't afford to be unavailable while the Ripper is a-ripping, but after a long, grim look at the man with wood in his veins and a belly full of poisonous flowers before them, Zeller is inclined to agree. No Will, no Beverly, and no Hannibal to help sniff out their murderers now. This cycle is going to be a rough one, he suspects, and they'll need to get through it however they can.

He wonders how Jimmy Price feels about funeral sex.

“Yeah,” Zeller sighs in agreement. “Alright.”

[VoOs]

I was going to quote the parts that made me gurgle the loudest with happiness, but in the end there were simply too many to list, so I'll just tell you that you are brilliant and go back to cooing over these dorks. <3 <3 <3

...

Well, alright. While the whole thing made me happy, this part made me go " :twisted: " the most, so...

His everything itches, and sneezing feels like scratching a poison ivy rash – it gives only temporary relief at best, and in the long run just makes it worse

Rrrrrh. <3

[AngelEyes]

Wow. This is just wonderfully brilliant! I love it!

[Hawkeye]

*takes deep breath* EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

I'm so happy with this omg I don't even know where to stART. The characterization was so on point - I loved Zeller being jealous of Price vaguely flirting with Hannibal! - and you totally got their voices and their DYNAMIC down. I'm not doing justice to how much I loved this, but I LOVE IT SO MUCH. I love Price fussing over Zeller and getting on his case about contaminating the body. And this:

He wonders how Jimmy Price feels about funeral sex.

“Yeah,” Zeller sighs in agreement. “Alright.”

It was a wonderful nod to that part of the episode and it just fits so well!

:wub:

[March Hare]

I don't care about possible spoilers, I just want all of your writing.

"She sneezes her concession into the fabric"... Poetry. A little gem.

[Garnet]

Ahhh I owe a bunch of people replies, but I wanted to toss these drabbles up real quick before class, so I will get to individual comments before the weekend!

Two for one deal this week, one for the current episode aaaand an extra drabble for Futamono, because I really can't resist more Hannibal and Alana, apparently. It's going to hurt so good, and I can't wait.

06.5 - Futamono

Alana is relieved that kissing Hannibal feels like the most natural thing in the world. She's not sure what she was expecting. Things have always been pleasantly uncomplicated in the broad spectrum of their relationship, personal and professional. Even when she has to square her shoulders and bare her teeth at him, there's no awkwardness or animosity between them afterwards. She might have guessed the same from a more intimate exchange.

It's hard to keep herself from overthinking everything, lately, even when she purposefully distances herself from the source of her ire. But there's no anxiety in this, no insidious tremors of oh, God, what did I do. Her mind feels warm and calm.

Granted, that could be the champagne.

“I might have fantasized about doing that as a graduate student. Once or twice.”

Yeah, definitely the champagne.

Hannibal chuckles beside her, their knees still angled together, although his hands have settled to a more neutral position at her hip, and on the bench. That's just as well, she has no intention of making out with him like a drunken teenager until after the staff has fully vacated for the night. He sniffles softly, a sound she doesn't initially give much thought to.

“How scandalous, Dr. Bloom.”

Alana smiles, rests a hand at the nape of his neck and brushes a thumb at the line of skin just above his collar. It's been a good party, a good night. She's finally shaken the last of her cold. She only thinks about Will every hour or so instead of every five minutes. It could still stand to get a little better.

“Only if I'd acted on it.”

The corners of his mouth upturn slyly enough that she moves to kiss the smug right off of it. Hannibal tilts in to meet her, but their lips barely touch before he withdraws with a wrinkled sneer.

Alana is offended for the entirety of a second, right up until he takes a breath and sneezes vigorously to one side.

“--hrrissh'shoo!”

It's a damp, irritated sound, chased by a catch of breath that suggests it wasn't half so relieving as he'd hoped. It may have even made the itch worse, given the desperation with which he pats himself down for a handkerchief.

Alana sits up a little straighter, feeling a strange bloom of warmth in her chest. “Bless you!”

Hannibal nods, eyes watering. “Thank--...”

The vibration of speech on his palate makes him lose it again. He just gets a square of fabric uncovered before sneezing into it with tenuous control over his own strength.

“--hh'RFSSH! – hh'RHFSSH!”

Alana's hand has swept from the back of his neck to the spot between the broad yoke of his shoulders. From here she can feel it erupt in his chest like a depth charge, sobering her to a prickle of worry. Or something.

Hannibal gets out a final “Heh'ISSHOO!” that sounds like it cleans him out. She feels a little exhilarated, like maybe she'd need a cigarette, if she smoked.

“Gesundheit,” she says, and lets her hand pass in a single, sympathetic circle on his back before she lets it fall away. Hannibal doesn't seem the kind of man who enjoys being coddled. “That sounded like it really tickled.”

“I'd been fighting that half the night, excuse me,” Hannibal offers, with a rough laugh that encourages her spirits.

“Please, please tell me you're not catching what everyone else had.”

He blows his nose quietly, averted from her line of sight, then tucks the handkerchief away again with a sigh and a sleepy smile.

“I feel all right. Too much perfume in the air, I think.”

Alana likes the flirting game, but she's too old for too much pretense, and telegraphs a very clear look when she reaches out to brush his bangs back into place. “Maybe I'd better put you to bed anyway.”

So she doesn't have to drive home, so she doesn't have to fall asleep alone, mired in her mental bog of loss and regret.

Hannibal clears his throat agreeably. “That may be for the best.”

07. Yakimono

An old wound stings when Alana leaves with her token stray, some small laceration on Will's heart that he thought had scabbed over. It's not jealousy, not exactly, but frustration bubbling just under the surface. How do you stop someone from signing their own death warrant, when they can't see the knife pressed right against their jugular?

It will hurt for a while, but maybe it's better like this. The less Alana knows, the less she believes, the safer she'll be. He hopes Hannibal has her well snowed. He hopes he loves her even a fraction as much as he loves Will, even if it's not the way that people ought to be loved. He hopes he saves her for last.

That should give him enough time.

For now, he lets his heart shut to Alana Bloom, and opens it to his family.

The dogs are a tidal force swarming around his legs, panting and whining and colliding as the door shuts behind him. He should probably take a moment to savor the feeling of being home – his creaky farmhouse at the edge of the field, who somebody has been taking good care of. There's not too much dust accumulated on the surfaces, not much more than if he'd been living here all along. Who's been cleaning it? Alana?

He folds to his knees again, so he doesn't have to think about it. Half a dozen tongues slap eagerly towards his face. Dog breath is hot on his arms and neck, and laughingly he gives himself over to the pleasure of just being missed with no extenuating circumstances.

“Okay, okay! Here, I'm all yours. Riley, be nice. Beau, shhh.”

He doesn't even mind the dog hair, most of which ends up in his nose and mouth. He forgot what this was like, locked up in the basement of the hospital, and his system initially rebels.

“--huh-KSSSH!”

Winston doesn't seem to mind the unexpected shower dappling across his back, but Will still feels bad, and tries to get the rest buried into the crook of his arm.

“--kfsssh! --gkfssh! Huh—... KSHOO!”

The last one is pure, wet satisfaction. He sighs in the aftermath.

Some of the excitement settles down and turns into waving tails and cocked heads of concern. Will squirms his features a few times, feeling something still fluttering deep inside that will probably take a few minutes of enthusiastic noseblowing to dislodge. But for now he coughs, and ruffs Winston and Tuesday behind the ears.

“I'm good, it's okay. C'mere.”

He'd gladly sneeze himself unconscious if it meant never having to abandon these eager faces again.

[VoOs]

*deep, happy sigh*

Such a delicious treat, every time.

[Dusty15]

D'awww….WILL AND THE DOGS! <3 So cute.

[Bruyere]

I am always so happy to see this thread updated! And I have some catching up to do! So, firstly:

05. Mukozuke

I lovelovelove this drabble pretty much for exactly the reasons you stated, Hannibal taking care of Alana in that casual understated fashion. Argh. <3 Also sick!Alana is one of my favourite things.

like a woman adrift on a sea of her own thoughts. He can smell the distress pouring off of her in waves

I love the sea/water imagery thrgoughout this (her 'weakened moorings' as well) and Hannibal being able to smell her moods, yes, I really like that.

How does he feel? Radiant. Gratified. Warm to his core. Annoyance and indignation transgress into his thoughts now and again, mostly when he's frustrated at some new limitation of his healing wounds. But he doesn't feel betrayed. Hannibal feels proud of the caged animal that has learned to bite. Atta boy.

He's such a proud parent to his creation.

“--tsssch! … hpt-tsssch! … hep-TSSCH'oo!” Her head picks back up, a strand of hair stuck to the trembling corner of her mouth. Hannibal is a little smitten. “--hehpt-TSCCHT!”

I am one with Hannibal here.

“Excuse me,” she croaks, slower this time and bogged down by a sense of dread. She gives him an uncertain look, hoping for confirmation that she's healthy.

I love that sudden realisation that a character has a cold. Bulletproof.

Hannibal shifts his weight and recovers a clean handkerchief from his pocket, still warm from his own body heat. Alana accepts it hesitantly, cheeks hot. “It's not something you can control,” he reminds her.

She sneezes her concession into the fabric, and blows afterwards until her eyes have stopped watering.

I love Alana's embarrassment here and gah, the warm handkerchief, yeah, I find that ridiculously attractive. And 'sneezes her concession' is such a wonderful turn of phrase.

06. Futamono

This was about as adorable as Hannibal fic can get.

“You're covered in pollen. Rubbing your sleeve on your face is just going to make it worse, dummy,” Price tells him with affectionate exasperation.

Awww.

Zeller makes to hold out a hand for the pill, but when Price says, “ah-ah, open”, he complies before he can think about it. Price pops the pill into his mouth and cracks open the water, handing it across. Zeller's face feels hot, but he chalks it up to the sneezing fit as he slugs down several swallows of water.

Awww.

06.5 - Futamono

It's a damp, irritated sound, chased by a catch of breath that suggests it wasn't half so relieving as he'd hoped. It may have even made the itch worse, given the desperation with which he pats himself down for a handkerchief.

Vague incoherent noises were made at this line and I'm not quite sure how best to translate them. Probably asdfghjkl;.

Alana's hand has swept from the back of his neck to the spot between the broad yoke of his shoulders. From here she can feel it erupt in his chest like a depth charge, sobering her to a prickle of worry. Or something.

Oh good lord.

Hannibal gets out a final “Heh'ISSHOO!” that sounds like it cleans him out. She feels a little exhilarated, like maybe she'd need a cigarette, if she smoked.

Aaand now I am one with Alana. Seriously, this whole drabble was ridiculously hot.

07. Yakimono

He hopes Hannibal has her well snowed. He hopes he loves her even a fraction as much as he loves Will, even if it's not the way that people ought to be loved. He hopes he saves her for last.

I love Alana and Hannibal but augh, it's going to be so awful when it all comes out.

Winston doesn't seem to mind the unexpected shower dappling across his back, but Will still feels bad, and tries to get the rest buried into the crook of his arm.

“--kfsssh! --gkfssh! Huh—... KSHOO!”

The last one is pure, wet satisfaction. He sighs in the aftermath.

Will trying not to sneeze on his dogs is ridiculously cute.

He'd gladly sneeze himself unconscious if it meant never having to abandon these eager faces again.

Oh Will. <3

[Garnet]

VoOS - Nooo, your comments are a treat every time!

Dusty15 - Buuhhh thank you! Will and the dogs are my secret weakness, and not just for fetish reasons!

Bruyere - Aww, and I'm happy to see you comment! And yesss, sick!Alana, I went from being like, "Aww, Caroline is so pretty and sweet," to, "UGH YOUR PERFECT FACE I CAN'T!" so there may be more of her in store. But in the meantime, glad you enjoyed! I too am one with Hannibal and just want to casually take care of her in the most casual but secretly super affectionate way possible.

And I agree, it IS going to be awful when it all comes out. And that makes me love it all the more. Hannibloom was a wonderful and satisfying ride but now it is time for torture and I can't wait ( I just hope she makes it out of it alive ;_; ).

And with all that said, I've been slacking on keeping up with this thread so here's some updates. Male, female, male for those keeping track. And I actually am picking away at last week's episode as we speak.

08. Su-zakana

The stables are problematic for quite a few of them, as it turns out. Will didn't grow up on a farm, but it was a rural enough existence that he likes the smell of hay and manure and feed grain. It grounds him. He was a little bewildered to find Hannibal expressing similar sentiments. He'd barely checked his surprise upon discovering him fondly stroking the nose of one of the other horses, murmuring something in a Baltic language Will couldn't place. They comprise the minority, however.

The rest of them are a sniveling, sneezing mess, either from the cold, a mild case of hayfever exacerbated by dust, or from the half ton, walking allergens of the horses themselves.

The poster boy victim -- and possibly most amusing -- is Jack Crawford.

"Hh-RDSSSCHHHH!"

One of the interns almost falls over, Will is pretty sure. Jack buries himself in a handkerchief and blows furiously for several seconds, averted from the scene. As if it affords him any privacy.

His voice has gone stuffy and flat. Lacking, they assume, the biting edge that makes even the most seasoned field agent shit their pants. Not so, it's discovered, the first time Jimmy Price tries to bless him. He's a mess of wide, twitching nostrils and furrowed brow, retreated into a corner of the stall, while all of them pretend not to notice. Even Will and Hannibal exchange a glance that shows the white of their scleras.

"HuhRASSHHHoo!"

Like a thunderclap, so immense that it disturbs some of the still-living horses into whickers of nervous discontent.

"God ble--..." Jimmy starts.

"Shut your mouth," Jack snarls, like a wounded tiger. With a cold. Or an allergy.

09. Shiizakana

"It's cold, do you have any whiskey?"

She moves with a comfortable, easy familiarity about his home. Touches things, lifts lids, peeks into drawers. Shamelessly, but without the burden of an ulterior motive. It's refreshing to interact with someone who spills their guts in front of him, no questions asked, and then watches his eyes impassively for a reaction. Will decides that he likes Margot Verger.

He liked Peter Bernadone and Matthew Brown, too. He really needs to stop forming attachments to people. At least in this field.

"What is the heir to the Verger meat-packing industry doing at my door?"

"My brother's the heir," Margot confesses airily as she strokes Buster between the ears. "Not me. I have the wrong parts, and the wrong proclivity for parts."

So, a lesbian, Will muses. It doesn't clear up any of his confused inquisitiveness. His bemusement peaks when she draws a breath and turns into the sleeve of her coat with brow folded.

"H-mphsshh!" Quiet, controlled, polite. He doesn't let himself be too easily swayed anymore, but it adds a checkmark to the tally of Things He Likes About Margot Verger. Cute sneeze.

"-mmphsssh!"

"God bless you."

"Thank you," Margot sighs, and sounds genuine. Her eyes reflect the firelight brightly as she chucks Buster under the chin and moves on to Winston. All fluff, all guarded but genuine love. It lasts for about thirty seconds of affection before she leans to the side of her armchair and sneezes, this time with less restraint.

"ESSHH-uu!"

"Bless. Are you okay?"

Margot smiles at him faintly. "I'm allergic to dogs."

Will arches his brows. "Oh. I... can't do much about that, I think I live in three inches of perpetual dander. I might have an antihistamine, but not the non-drowsy kind."

"It's fine, I have to drive."

"And the whiskey...?"

She looks at him as if she has a secret.

"I came for a character reference, patient to patient. What do you think of Dr. Lecter's therapy?"

10. Naka-Choko

"What is this, again?" Will asks, as he pares down, slices and divides herbs into neat piles, spices into another. The scent of ginger root is fiery and sweet on the air.

"Lomo Saltado. Invented by Chinese slaves on Peruvian sugar plantations. Fried with rice, onions, peppers, and potatoes. Traditionally made with beef but..." Hannibal's eyes raise, fixing on him thoughtfully. "This will do."

Hannibal pretends to be pleasantly confused about the origin of the meat laid out before them, but Will could see recognition at first sniff. Recognition, and pride. Effusive, glowing pride, as much for Will's good graces as he is for Will's fantasies of murdering him. That's good, even if it makes Will sick in his stomach. He pretends that he isn't, that he is reserved but warming slowly to his own sins. After all, the deed is done.

Create a reality where only you and the fish exists, his own words echo in his mind. The fish has seen the bait now, pursues it with predatory instinct. He just needs to set the hook before higher reasoning sets in. He is a good fisherman.

"Sounds like a lot of carbs," Will teases, wry. Hannibal chuckles.

"It's something of an indulgence."

"I think we call that 'comfort food'."

He keeps slicing, as Hannibal tosses the onions into a pan of sizzling oil. His stomach has just barely adjusted from the bland prison diet to his own marginally improved cooking. Hannibal's creations are as succulent and horrific as ever, however. The first meal he consented to taking at his house had him up sick half the night, and not because of the meat. It was just too rich, even in small portions. He has no idea how he's going to get through this dinner.

He's had this meat before, his mind reasons bitterly. Just pretend it's pork. Long pig.

He's encountering a different problem now. Will is more mentally and emotionally sensitive than he is physically, but at some point the miasma of scents in the air drive him to turn into the crook of an arm, breath hitching. Pepper and ginger and aji and...

"--KSSH!" He vents it with an irritated cringe, catches another breath. "Huhk--KSSH!"

"Gesundheit," Hannibal murmurs. "Are you catching another cold?"

He says it with such quiet concern that Will actually believes him. And that is the eternal paradox of Hannibal Lecter -- he believes that he truly does care if he's sick or not. He loves Will, as much as he knows how to love. He wants to be close to him, to take care of him, to cook for him and talk with him and maybe suck the humors from his eyes, for all that Will knows.

When he was imprisoned, and even afterwards, that was a train of thought that Will ran into often. He missed that feeling of confusing familiarity, the sound of Hannibal's thoughtful, nasal inhale or his wet-eyed consideration of him from across a dim room. As much as he tries to deny or muscle past it, there is a soft spot for Hannibal in his psyche as well. More than once, after their visits, he's caught himself dully wishing that his taste in friends wasn't laced with such bitter irony.

I wish you weren't what you are, he's thought, after watching Hannibal retreat from the hospital, or from a crime scene. You would have been so good for me, for everyone. Wasted potential.

"I hope not. I'm think I'm just not used to cooking with so many fresh ingredients. They're potent," Will confesses with a dry laugh. He purposefully lets the odor of caramelizing onion and ginger invade his senses, irritating the soft membranes until he can lid his eyes and manifest another punctuating, "--huh-KSSH-ue!" into his elbow. The corners of Hannibal's eyes crease.

"Salud. I'll open a window."

He does so, but Will has long since realized that the good parts of Hannibal -- the genius and the lover -- they can't exist without the bad. There's no excising the ones that he wants to keep. Once the meat has gone rotten, the whole thing is tainted. It's been spoiled long before Will was a part of his life.

"Thanks."

There's no room to mourn Hannibal Lecter. He just has to catch the fish.

[VoOs]

Awwwww, poor Jack. My grin is so wide right now. I love the idea of the stable being something of a health hazard.

And Margot. Unf. Why she so sexy, hnnngh.

Hannibal blessing Will in several different languages makes me very, very happy. As does your writing, as always. <3

[AngelEyes]

He says it with such quiet concern that Will actually believes him. And that is the eternal paradox of Hannibal Lecter -- he believes that he truly does care if he's sick or not. He loves Will, as much as he knows how to love. He wants to be close to him, to take care of him, to cook for him and talk with him and maybe suck the humors from his eyes, for all that Will knows.

That's so deep and thoughtful, and then, creepy. And true!

You are such a brilliant writer! So much depth and undercurrents.

[Garnet]

VoOs - Haha, right? It was all I could think of during that episode. And clearly Jack would be the surliest, most ungrateful sufferer ever.

I agree about Margot :1 I went from being sort of neutral about her to, "Nnnhhhbaby." Very quickly.

Thank you much <3

AngelEyes - Aw, that is a hell of a compliment, thank you! To be fair, I have a lot of thoughtful, deep, and also creepy fodder to work with, with the show. It just demands to be picked apart and deconstructed.

And with this, I'm caught up!

11. Ko No Mono

Alana wants this conversation to be more reassuring than it is. She can't get a straight answer from anyone -- not Jack, not Will, and certainly not Hannibal, who only ever speaks in beautiful but frustrating metaphors. She doesn't feel shut out of some private conference, that would be alright. What frays her nerves is the feeling that she's standing in the middle of an enormous mechanism, and no one is going to tell her what direction the hammer is going to drop from, or how to get out of the way.

She's loathe to admit it, but Freddie Lounds has given her the most information yet, and she's dead. Maybe less for her crass journalism, and more for knowing too much.

"I feel empty. Like I've given blood." Or swallowed a hornet's nest, some days.

"Alana, you've given more than blood." Hannibal sets his glass down and takes her hand in both of his, pressing a kiss to its back. It's such a thoughtlessly fond gesture that it would have cramped her heart and belly with want, a few weeks or even a few days ago. But now she feels like she's being baited, distracted.

And that's... maybe something she shouldn't reveal to Hannibal. Especially as he stays bent for a moment, nose hovering over her hand. He's done this many times, whenever she's switched hand creams, or has been cooking. It's usually very charming, but right now it puts her hackles up. What is he searching for?

Hannibal blinks once, glances at her. She can't read what's going on behind the eyes for that splitsecond before his expression fractures, and he releases her hand. Alana jumps a little when he twists away from her, nostrils curling open, and buries himself in the crook of an arm.

"--chfsshh!" Just once, brief and flinching. It reminds her, suddenly, of an animal trying to clear a scent or tiny irritant from its nose. "--CHSSH!"

She can't help the little flutter of appreciation in her throat. In fact, she encourages it, so he won't see anything else she doesn't want him to. "Bless you."

He sniffs himself briskly back to order, and dips his head in an accepting nod. And then, "Have you been firing a gun?"

It's a polite inquiry, neutral. She was firing a gun. Yesterday. She's washed her hands since then, enough times that she is genuinely perturbed by his ability and interest in picking out the faintest, ghosted grains of gunshot residue -- particles of primer and propellant that have long since been brushed away.

Don't lie. You don't have anything to hide.

She offers a weak smile. "I told you I was feeling paranoid." She kisses him, both to assuage his bemusement and her own. Hannibal responds, but stiffly, guardedly.

Her mind has yet to make room for the possibility that she might be sleeping with the Chesapeake Ripper. It is a distant consideration for a woman who is not her. But she really, really needs to talk to Jack.

[Hawkeye]

I love, love, love the way you write Hannibal sneezing! And I love that they've given us this canonically beautiful overly-sensitive nose that is ever so easy to play with. I can't believe there's only two more episodes left of the season and I hope you continue with Hannibal stories/drabbles during the hiatus!

[Dusty15]

I'm a bit belated on the earlier ones but I wanted to say I really liked allergic!Margo. I've been a little indifferent about her but this fic may sway me

And, of course, I adore sneezy Will. You write him so well

[AngelEyes]

Lovely indeed.

[Garnet]

Skye - Ahhh thank you! I agree, it's so much fun, isn't it? I still have my main list of one-word drabble prompts I intend to pick away at after this exercise is done. I might need to do some more explicitly indulgent stuff with that particular trope :q Even if some of them do end up on the Adult board.

Dusty15 - Oh man, me too. I liked that more than I expected to, so I might need to do another snippet with her somewhere.

AngelEyes - Thank you much!

And now, the penultimate drabble. One more to go, and then I'm done yaaay!

12. Tome-wan

The Vergers' barn is not so bad as the horse stables, cleaner and more modern, spacious. But it's still freezing, and still dusty with all the natural, wallowing filth of pigs. Animal smells hang heavy on the air, enriched with the metallic tang of blood. Will itches occasionally at the tip of his nose with his wrist to mitigate it, but this is a luxury that Dr. Lecter lacks with arms firmly bound in the straitjacket.

He blinks twice, then sneezes violently enough to set himself to swinging.

"--IDSSSHH!"

Mason barks a laugh as he circles around and steadies him by an arm. "Oh, ooh. I should have cleaned up the place first, right? That was rude."

Hannibal sniffs, and follows Mason's movements with full attention. No anger or hatred, just calculating, like a predator that has been caged and is analyzing the precise moment when it can bolt free and eviscerate its captor. Good. That's what Will is counting on.

"I imagine it would be a moot point, when the pigs are done with me," Hannibal acknowledges.

"Ha!" Mason grins. "You are an odd psychiatrist. We could have had some good, funny times together. It's a damned shame." He crosses back to Will, and puts the Sardinian's knife in his hand, gives him a quick clap on the arm like it's a pep talk before a Little League baseball game. Go get 'em, champ. "I've muzzled the dog, now it's time for you to put him down."

"IDSSZH!" Hannibal sneezes again, sounding raw and painful. He's recovered by the time Will approaches, only sniffling lazily as he considers him with wet eyes. He doesn't look at him like a marked man the way he does Mason, it's all casual curiosity, the same way he looks at him from across a dinner table.

"Is this how you imagined killing me?" He wonders as Will puts the blade to his throat.

"It was one of the options."

He strokes the tip of the knife under the broad line of his jaw, just barely enough to raise a welt of beading blood, and then slowly down the arch of one cheekbone. Hannibal hitches softly, though less from the pain, and more from the little motes of dust drifting freely in the shafts of light.

"You might want to s--... step back a moment. Hh--!"

He's very polite for a man about to be eaten alive by pigs.

Will doesn't take his advice to heart, but he does switch the flat of the blade to pressing just under his nose, flush to the septum. Hannibal looks like he wants to be horribly amused, if he didn't have to sneeze. He grimaces weirdly for a second, breath tic-ing, and then slowly relaxes with a sigh as the urge passes.

"Thank you." A blink, as Will lowers the knife. "You're still hiding. You said you'd kill me with your hands."

"You sound disappointed, doctor," Will says.

"I am, a little."

"Wrap up the pillow talk, the kids are hungry," Mason snaps, from where he's operating the crane. Will smiles at Hannibal, and rests the knife back against his jugular.

"Well, we can't all get what we want."

And then he spins him by the shoulder, jamming the blade up under the straps of the jacket. It takes less than two seconds before suddenly, the tiger is free. He doesn't even get to see Mason get caught up in his jaws. The last thing he hears is a startled shout, and the heavy clump of the Sardinian knocking something heavily against his temple. Then everything is blood and darkness.

[VoOs]

Ko No Mono - that was pretty much all I could think of during that scene, and you've put it into words oh-so-beautifully. <3

Tome-wan - sneezing while bound in a straight-jacket, hmm. It is a very appealing idea. Will stopping Hannibal's sneeze with the blunt edge of a knife goes very well with the darkly humorous tone of this episode.

[AngelEyes]

Mmmm. Intriguing.

[March Hare]

Hmmmmm, yes.

Oh I don't even care about spoilers, I need to watch this show whatever happens.

[Bruyere]

I really enjoyed these!

08. Su-zakana

Poor Jack (And Jimmy!) There really should be more Jack drabbles.

09. Shiizakana

I love Margot and I am with Will here, she has a cute sneeze in this <3

10. Naka-Choko

Aww, Will. This was a gorgeous piece.

Once the meat has gone rotten, the whole thing is tainted. It's been spoiled long before Will was a part of his life.

[Random Q related to this fic. Why is it called lomo saltado if it's made with beef (or 'beef' in Hannibal's case)? Doesn't lomo mean pork? I googled the recipe and it actually looks really good. I feel vaaaguely dirty saying that about a recipe that popped up in a Hannibal fic]

11. Ko No Mono

She can't help the little flutter of appreciation in her throat. In fact, she encourages it, so he won't see anything else she doesn't want him to

Oh, Alana. Please come out of all of this okay?

12. Tome-wan

On the one hand I find the idea of Hannibal sneezing while completely restrained kind of amusing, on the other hand it's also really hot.

but he does switch the flat of the blade to pressing just under his nose, flush to the septum. Hannibal looks like he wants to be horribly amused, if he didn't have to sneeze. He grimaces weirdly for a second, breath tic-ing, and then slowly relaxes with a sigh as the urge passes.

Yeah, no definitely hot.