A snort. "Well, naturally. But rather, what field? I can hardly see you as gynaecologist. And you don't seem the type to treat people out of a love for humanity."
Not exactly a judgment. Just a statement of fact.
Of course, he already knows the answer. But he'd like to see what a young Hannibal has to say.
Here, a spoonful of strawberry for your troubles, Hannibal.
"Because," he says simply, licking at the traces of juice, "you're Hannibal Lecter. You're a serial killer."
People who have the capacity to kill thoughtlessly, or even to enjoy the act, tend to lose that compassion for humanity. Humans may be unique, they may be special, but they lose that spark, gaining the ability to become mere objects. He's seen it in agents and administrators alike.
It hasn't happened to him. It's why he still has a heart.
He can't help but remember films. The Silence of the Lambs. What Hannibal became, in the end. Perhaps in some other universe.
"Sorry," he says, and means it. Holds him close. "I just...think about what I've heard of your future. Your possible future."
Valiantly, he hopes this one's different. Because dating a man who kills and eats people is one thing, but one who needs a steel mask to keep from eating people's faces spontaneously is just plain disturbing.
"Forget what you've heard," he says simply. "You know the man I am, not the man I will be. And not the man I was, before..." Almost reflexively, he shakes his head. "Before."
With a sigh, Hannibal snuggles down into Villiers, pillowing his head on one warm shoulder.
"A beautiful young man," he murmurs, holding Hannibal in the tight, warm hold that was always comforting to him when he was younger, "an aspiring doctor, with sardonic wit and elegant tastes."
Villiers smiles a small smile, lifts a hand to press a kiss to the back. "I can try not to remember.
For a time, he's just sweetly sugar-coated sappy. Because it's nice. And because it's Hannibal, his Hannibal, and he's at least a little in love with him.
And then, a carefully aimed and experimental poke to the side. Just to see if he's ticklish.
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Not exactly a judgment. Just a statement of fact.
Of course, he already knows the answer. But he'd like to see what a young Hannibal has to say.
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He twists around, sits up, favours Villiers with a wryly inquisitive smile.
"Why not?"
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"Because," he says simply, licking at the traces of juice, "you're Hannibal Lecter. You're a serial killer."
People who have the capacity to kill thoughtlessly, or even to enjoy the act, tend to lose that compassion for humanity. Humans may be unique, they may be special, but they lose that spark, gaining the ability to become mere objects. He's seen it in agents and administrators alike.
It hasn't happened to him. It's why he still has a heart.
"Your eyes are different, that's all."
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A brief strawberry-flavoured kiss.
"I'm finished with that now, understand? The men who killed Mischa are dead, except for Kolnas. No more revenge. No more reason to kill."
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"Except," he says quietly, "when the world chooses to disgrace itself in your presence."
He may not know about the marketplace insult, Hannibal, but he knows about a certain comedic Nazi.
"And revenge like that doesn't quite leave you. Not even after."
Eyes, now, tracing the curve of the brow and how soft the skin is.
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It comes out sharper than he means it, and Hannibal relents almost instantly, pressing sugar-dusted lips to Villiers' temple.
"Don't tell me who I am," he murmurs. "Please."
It almost doesn't matter how accurate the description.
Almost.
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"Sorry," he says, and means it. Holds him close. "I just...think about what I've heard of your future. Your possible future."
Valiantly, he hopes this one's different. Because dating a man who kills and eats people is one thing, but one who needs a steel mask to keep from eating people's faces spontaneously is just plain disturbing.
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With a sigh, Hannibal snuggles down into Villiers, pillowing his head on one warm shoulder.
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Villiers smiles a small smile, lifts a hand to press a kiss to the back. "I can try not to remember.
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And then, a carefully aimed and experimental poke to the side. Just to see if he's ticklish.
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Well, what else would you do in that situation?
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And ngh. Ear. Weak spot. On most people, really, but also him.
He shall persevere!
"Damn, not ticklish either. How on Earth am I to keep you in line?" he teases.
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A swat to the arse, just because.
"Exactly how you like it?"
Amusement. It is rife.
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