Ghosts Made Flesh
Title: Ghosts Made Flesh
Author: monicawoe
Prompt: Bucky Barnes goes into a bar and meets... Hannibal Lecter (Hannibal)!
Fandoms:Marvel Cinematic Universe / Hannibal
Word count:~1,400
Rating/Contents: R, implied violence, implied cannibalism
notes: thanks to my beta manzanita_crow
Kidney pie perhaps. Or Cervella Fritte. Yes, the latter was definitely the right choice. Doctor Forsythe had a habit of tearing the minds of his patients apart, so the brain seemed most appropriate.
A barely audible sound on the periphery of his senses made Hannibal pause his musings. There was someone else in the house.
From his position on the second floor balcony, he could see the front entrance, the foyer, the dining room and the arched entryway to the living room. Forsythe's home was ostentatious in a way that made Hannibal cringe. That, his arrogance, and his extreme discourtesy during their last encounter had put him at the top of Hannibal's list.
Slowing his breathing and his heartbeat, he watched silently. He sensed movement again, but could see and hear none. Then, the cold metal of a gun pressed against his temple. He moved quickly, attempting to disarm the man who'd -somehow-snuck up on him, but found himself inconveniently pinned to the floor, held down by an iron grip.
He readied himself to fight back-to use what little leverage he had in his legs to change their position, but his attacker was far too strong. Hannibal found he couldn't move an inch.
"He's mine," the man with the gun said, voice quiet and low.
Hannibal nodded, as much as he could, given the tight, unbreakable hold he was in. Metal, he realized, as he caught a glimpse of the man's fingers. The man who was holding him had either armor or a truly remarkable prosthetic. Either way, he was outmatched-an unusual, but not entirely unprecedented experience.
Another moment passed, and the man released his grip, satisfied with Hannibal's acquiescence. "This won't take long," he said. "Go to the bar on Hull Street."
#
Later that night
The darts flew from Bucky's fingers with ease-one, two, three; they all hit their mark, dead center. He downed the rest of his whiskey, set his empty glass on the bar and slid it over to the bartender for another refill, then walked back to the target and pulled the darts out.
Bucky's glass reappeared at his spot by the corner of the bar. The bartender here was nice and quiet, unlike so many of the others who all seemed to think he wanted to talk. He didn't. He'd chosen this bar at this particular time of night precisely because there were so few others.
He had about another two days in this town to get what he needed before he'd have to move on. The key to staying off the radar-of both SHIELD and Hydra was to keep moving. But if tonight went as planned, he'd be out with time to spare.
He grabbed the darts again, and, with his back still facing the target, threw them-one, two, three.
"Impressive. You have the aim of a sharpshooter," said a man from the bar-the one Bucky had been expecting. He smelled of expensive cologne and lye, and something about his austere expression made Bucky think of butcher blades.
Bucky picked up his beer bottle and took a drink before answering, "Wasn't sure you'd show."
Doctor Lecter smiled-a carefully controlled, artificial motion, convincingly human to the casual observer. "To decline your invitation would have been rude."
Politeness, or even general human decency wasn't something Hydra had ever practiced. Bucky looked the man over again, and concluded there wasn't a chance he'd ever been with Hydra. He had been acting alone. And that was something he could relate to.
The bartender set a glass down in front of the doctor-cognac, from the look of it. He held the glass, considering, the barely perceptible wrinkling in his nose indicating he'd already judged the quality of the drink to be beneath his expectations, but then squared his shoulders and took a sip, eyes mildly pained. He set the glass down, and gave Bucky a hard look. "Last night...you took me by surprise. This is not easily done."
Bucky nodded. Lecter had arrived at Doctor Forsythe's house before him. He'd been discreet while entering, but Bucky heard his heartbeat through the kitchen wall. "Don't feel too bad. I spent decades being a ghost."
"A ghost with an agenda." Lecter was watching Bucky with narrowed eyes, studying him, in a way that would've made Bucky uncomfortable if he hadn't had decades of worse. "Judging by the accuracy and speed with which you took out our mutual acquaintance's kneecaps, I can only assume you wanted him alive. Presumably for questioning."
"He took something from me."
"I see." Lecter swirled his drink in its glass. "And did you reclaim it?"
"It's gone."
Lecter nodded. "I am aware of the work Doctor Forsythe did, and what kind of people he fraternized with."
The fingers of Bucky's left hand tightened, metal shifting on metal. "I want their names."
"I thought you might." Hannibal reached into the pocket of his finely tailored suit jacket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper, then slid it across the bar-top to Bucky.
Bucky unfolded the paper; it was thick, almost like card stock, and written on it, in fine calligraphy, was a list of five names.
"My interactions with these individuals were limited, but I'm certain they all reported to the same organization."
The names burned themselves into Bucky's memory, some of them familiar, like a long-forgotten scream. He remembered a face, then another, the smell of iodine and ozone.
"I can also tell you that once every three months they meet for dinner, always at the same restaurant."
Bucky watched him for a beat, then another.
"In four days-Baltimore, at the Charleston."
It was more information than he'd hoped for. Doctor Lecter was doing him a favor, intentionally so, and Bucky wasn't sure how that made him feel. He finished off the last of his own drink, and stuck a bill under the empty glass. "Thanks."
"There is nothing more important than reclaiming one's identity. Without it, we're all ghosts."
The words wormed their way into Bucky's thoughts, uncomfortably personal. Lecter wasn't Hydra, but he was something. Something dangerous. There was a part of Bucky, an older, truer part- unfamiliar but sincere-shouting at him that he should take him down, that Lecter was a threat - maybe more so than the Hydra goons he was hunting. But the other part of him, the part honed to a sharp point by Hydra's grinding wheel, recognized something in Hannibal. Their paths wouldn't cross again, but for tonight, he was glad they had.
#
Four days later
The Charleston was well-visited as always. Evan Hollis studied the menu again, still undecided-the foie gras or the quail? He'd had quail not too long ago, but-
"Not the same without Forsythe," said Martin, draining his wine. He seemed morose tonight. Unusual for him.
"Tragic, what happened, simply tragic," Stevens said, with not a trace of emotion to back up the sentiment.
"Yes. Did the detectives ever come up with a suspect?" Evan asked, only half-interested. Forsythe was-had been-a self-entitled ass all his life. He wouldn't be missed.
"No," Martin said, "But if you ask me, it was probably a break-in that got out of hand."
"Nothing was taken, so-" The lights went out, and Evan forgot what point he'd been making. It was disappointing that a place as well-renowned as the Charleston wouldn't be better prepared for a power-outage. They hadn't even placed candles on the tables yet.
A collective murmuring ran through the gathered patrons.
"Anyone have a lighter?" Stevens asked, giving rise to some chuckles.
There was a strange sound-a muted, whistling pop, followed immediately by a heavy thump on the table. "Stevens?" Evan asked. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he caught a glimpse of silver just before a strong metal hand closed over his mouth.
Author: monicawoe
Prompt: Bucky Barnes goes into a bar and meets... Hannibal Lecter (Hannibal)!
Fandoms:Marvel Cinematic Universe / Hannibal
Word count:~1,400
Rating/Contents: R, implied violence, implied cannibalism
notes: thanks to my beta manzanita_crow
Kidney pie perhaps. Or Cervella Fritte. Yes, the latter was definitely the right choice. Doctor Forsythe had a habit of tearing the minds of his patients apart, so the brain seemed most appropriate.
A barely audible sound on the periphery of his senses made Hannibal pause his musings. There was someone else in the house.
From his position on the second floor balcony, he could see the front entrance, the foyer, the dining room and the arched entryway to the living room. Forsythe's home was ostentatious in a way that made Hannibal cringe. That, his arrogance, and his extreme discourtesy during their last encounter had put him at the top of Hannibal's list.
Slowing his breathing and his heartbeat, he watched silently. He sensed movement again, but could see and hear none. Then, the cold metal of a gun pressed against his temple. He moved quickly, attempting to disarm the man who'd -somehow-snuck up on him, but found himself inconveniently pinned to the floor, held down by an iron grip.
He readied himself to fight back-to use what little leverage he had in his legs to change their position, but his attacker was far too strong. Hannibal found he couldn't move an inch.
"He's mine," the man with the gun said, voice quiet and low.
Hannibal nodded, as much as he could, given the tight, unbreakable hold he was in. Metal, he realized, as he caught a glimpse of the man's fingers. The man who was holding him had either armor or a truly remarkable prosthetic. Either way, he was outmatched-an unusual, but not entirely unprecedented experience.
Another moment passed, and the man released his grip, satisfied with Hannibal's acquiescence. "This won't take long," he said. "Go to the bar on Hull Street."
#
Later that night
The darts flew from Bucky's fingers with ease-one, two, three; they all hit their mark, dead center. He downed the rest of his whiskey, set his empty glass on the bar and slid it over to the bartender for another refill, then walked back to the target and pulled the darts out.
Bucky's glass reappeared at his spot by the corner of the bar. The bartender here was nice and quiet, unlike so many of the others who all seemed to think he wanted to talk. He didn't. He'd chosen this bar at this particular time of night precisely because there were so few others.
He had about another two days in this town to get what he needed before he'd have to move on. The key to staying off the radar-of both SHIELD and Hydra was to keep moving. But if tonight went as planned, he'd be out with time to spare.
He grabbed the darts again, and, with his back still facing the target, threw them-one, two, three.
"Impressive. You have the aim of a sharpshooter," said a man from the bar-the one Bucky had been expecting. He smelled of expensive cologne and lye, and something about his austere expression made Bucky think of butcher blades.
Bucky picked up his beer bottle and took a drink before answering, "Wasn't sure you'd show."
Doctor Lecter smiled-a carefully controlled, artificial motion, convincingly human to the casual observer. "To decline your invitation would have been rude."
Politeness, or even general human decency wasn't something Hydra had ever practiced. Bucky looked the man over again, and concluded there wasn't a chance he'd ever been with Hydra. He had been acting alone. And that was something he could relate to.
The bartender set a glass down in front of the doctor-cognac, from the look of it. He held the glass, considering, the barely perceptible wrinkling in his nose indicating he'd already judged the quality of the drink to be beneath his expectations, but then squared his shoulders and took a sip, eyes mildly pained. He set the glass down, and gave Bucky a hard look. "Last night...you took me by surprise. This is not easily done."
Bucky nodded. Lecter had arrived at Doctor Forsythe's house before him. He'd been discreet while entering, but Bucky heard his heartbeat through the kitchen wall. "Don't feel too bad. I spent decades being a ghost."
"A ghost with an agenda." Lecter was watching Bucky with narrowed eyes, studying him, in a way that would've made Bucky uncomfortable if he hadn't had decades of worse. "Judging by the accuracy and speed with which you took out our mutual acquaintance's kneecaps, I can only assume you wanted him alive. Presumably for questioning."
"He took something from me."
"I see." Lecter swirled his drink in its glass. "And did you reclaim it?"
"It's gone."
Lecter nodded. "I am aware of the work Doctor Forsythe did, and what kind of people he fraternized with."
The fingers of Bucky's left hand tightened, metal shifting on metal. "I want their names."
"I thought you might." Hannibal reached into the pocket of his finely tailored suit jacket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper, then slid it across the bar-top to Bucky.
Bucky unfolded the paper; it was thick, almost like card stock, and written on it, in fine calligraphy, was a list of five names.
"My interactions with these individuals were limited, but I'm certain they all reported to the same organization."
The names burned themselves into Bucky's memory, some of them familiar, like a long-forgotten scream. He remembered a face, then another, the smell of iodine and ozone.
"I can also tell you that once every three months they meet for dinner, always at the same restaurant."
Bucky watched him for a beat, then another.
"In four days-Baltimore, at the Charleston."
It was more information than he'd hoped for. Doctor Lecter was doing him a favor, intentionally so, and Bucky wasn't sure how that made him feel. He finished off the last of his own drink, and stuck a bill under the empty glass. "Thanks."
"There is nothing more important than reclaiming one's identity. Without it, we're all ghosts."
The words wormed their way into Bucky's thoughts, uncomfortably personal. Lecter wasn't Hydra, but he was something. Something dangerous. There was a part of Bucky, an older, truer part- unfamiliar but sincere-shouting at him that he should take him down, that Lecter was a threat - maybe more so than the Hydra goons he was hunting. But the other part of him, the part honed to a sharp point by Hydra's grinding wheel, recognized something in Hannibal. Their paths wouldn't cross again, but for tonight, he was glad they had.
#
Four days later
The Charleston was well-visited as always. Evan Hollis studied the menu again, still undecided-the foie gras or the quail? He'd had quail not too long ago, but-
"Not the same without Forsythe," said Martin, draining his wine. He seemed morose tonight. Unusual for him.
"Tragic, what happened, simply tragic," Stevens said, with not a trace of emotion to back up the sentiment.
"Yes. Did the detectives ever come up with a suspect?" Evan asked, only half-interested. Forsythe was-had been-a self-entitled ass all his life. He wouldn't be missed.
"No," Martin said, "But if you ask me, it was probably a break-in that got out of hand."
"Nothing was taken, so-" The lights went out, and Evan forgot what point he'd been making. It was disappointing that a place as well-renowned as the Charleston wouldn't be better prepared for a power-outage. They hadn't even placed candles on the tables yet.
A collective murmuring ran through the gathered patrons.
"Anyone have a lighter?" Stevens asked, giving rise to some chuckles.
There was a strange sound-a muted, whistling pop, followed immediately by a heavy thump on the table. "Stevens?" Evan asked. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he caught a glimpse of silver just before a strong metal hand closed over his mouth.