bach gold variation aria pt 1. (closed)

[relished]

WHO: Hannibal + Sam
WHEN: gestures vaguely at the entirety of september.
WHERE: Hannibal's house
WHAT: dinner.
NOTES\WARNINGS: BLANKET SEVERE TW/CW FOR THE ENTIRE LOG, aka Hannibal being Hannibal. acts/mentions of mutilation, cannibalism, torture, blood, potential (likely) murder will be in here.

[not unlike how he found Beverly Katz in his home, it starts with a scent. a new, unknown trail. he's quiet in general, but he's next to silent in how he enters his home when finding the door barely ajar. after he slips off his shoes, rugs and tile hide his footfalls as he makes his way around his home. his things have been tampered with, some drawers left open. this isn't the work of someone he knows. he thinks of Carver briefly - but the man was smart, however hound-like, and there isn't the intrusive smell of cigarettes.

it's fresh, off, new and everywhere. male, and he's still here.

whoever it is took their time snooping. he takes a large knife from his kitchen before he cases his upstairs first, then works his way down. he hasn't felt this in a while; the intensity of someone encroaching on his space, the hunt. he'd been planning a feast, he thinks this is where it will start. he stalks down the stairs to the basement, slow and predatory. the lights are on, revealing freezer curtains and a surgical table. his instruments. who he finds isn't what he expects, and he marvels, the way someone looks at a statue in a museum. history does repeat itself. he lingers by the light switch as his eyes pierce into Sam's back.

his basement is what gives him away. it isn't the basement of someone normal - it's a direct view of what's behind the veil. how no one else has decided to poke around his home is somewhat of a miracle and he'd like to think it's because they know better. he thinks briefly of two options: letting this stranger know that he's been found, or remaining an unknown force.

no, he wants him to know that he knows. he'd been right to take the knife; a regular attack wouldn't work here. Sam has the upper hand on height.

he takes the last step down purposefully, heavier, to make sure he's heard.]

Comments

[rowd]

( part of growing up where sam had was - no one had personal space. expecting things to remain yours, or expecting a specific area to remain untouched, was relatively unheard of. it's different now; he hasn't been in the rings since he was a lot younger, he's had a few years of living with sylas, of experiencing having four walls to himself and not having his room invaded the moment he needs to leave it to handle something. things don't go missing, whatever's his generally remains his. but it's not the standard, and it's something sam finds strange.

which brings him here. in etraya, or moorecroft, where you're assigned space and it's yours - or you're dropped into some weird fucking space full of islands and just expected to claim land of your own. sam has a room in the apartment building, but he's never locked the door, never expects things to stay where they are - which is why he leaves nothing important in there, and why he doesn't think twice before going exploring through the area. he goes over bridges, through forested areas, exploring the small, snow-covered island in the south and creepy manor to the northeast, and everything in between.

which brings him here: a "house" in the northwest, that didn't seem to be currently occupied. there's no dust anywhere, and it's clear it's been well-cared for, but - finders keepers, right?

he sifts through room to room - steals a few snacks from the kitchen while his boots leave a trail of dirt through the foyer, checking out the living area, the dining room - until he ends up where the wine's stored, pops open a bottle or two to take a swig out of it before his nose scrunches up, and sam sets the opened bottle down on the ground before trying another one.

at the very least, he's not intentionally making a mess. he's just - nosy. and when the other man approaches him, he hears it long before he intentionally makes his steps heavier.

sam's slouched over, obviously off-guard, fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle and back turned towards hannibal. he doesn't seem like he's noticed him, and instead tips his head down, free hand moving to sift through his jacket. )

[relished]

[the lack of reaction from Sam tells Hannibal one of two things: he knew he'd been coming just as Hannibal knew someone was skulking around, or he's oblivious. he half expected him to turn around. he clenches his jaw, watches as Sam reaches for something in his jacket. he's young, but not stupidly so. he's old enough to know what he's doing isn't good. yet he can't underestimate the people in Etraya, likely the same way the people don't underestimate him. he may not even be human; he doesn't smell like one.

it's unforgivable. unspeakably so, to strut through his home, what he's coveted, and sloppily making a mark. not messy to most, but messy to him. he shifts his weight, knife pressed and hidden close to his thigh. he considers throwing it. a palpable, dangerous tension rises between them, the smell of wine, copper and steel in the air.

out of his peripheral he notes the distance between Sam and a few cabinets, which hold more knives and surgical equipment he'd taken from the hospital. death isn't permanent, but he can draw it out - it doesn't need to be immediate.

fingers shift along the knife's blade and he flings it as easily as one would throw a dart at a bullseye. given Sam's posture, he's aiming for the base of his neck, give or take. the second the blade leaves his grip, the lights are shut off and he's advancing once more, this time without worry of making sound. unlike Sam, he knows every inch of his home, everything is in their precise location for a reason.]

[rowd]

( there's a knife in his jacket, because of course there is. unfortunately for sam, before he manages to pull it out of his pocket so he can wave it threateningly, or - throw it, or whatever, something gets tossed his way.

he doesn't know what it is. there's movement caught out of the corner of his eye, and it's enough for him to figure something's coming at him. the glint of silver says it's likely something sharp and it's enough that his first instinct when he knows it's coming for him is to duck. sam's used to headshots, not neckshots.

unfortunately for him, it's the wrong move to make this time. what would have been an effective way to avoid getting stabbed in the head leaves him with a knife sticking out of his skull, and while sam's not fucked yet, his body's dropping, taking his own knife and the bottle of wine in his hands down along with him for the ride. his shoulder slams uncomfortably against a corner of the table on its way to the ground, and for the moment, he's completely silent. given the knife sticking out of his head though - it's likely not all that surprising. )

[relished]

[ah. that was easy. some would call it too easy, but no time is wasted.

in the blink of an eye, Hannibal is over him. kneeling beside this stranger to examine him, a predator observing prey. his eyes have adjusted enough and he's patting Sam down, removing the knife from his jacket but not the one from his head, not yet. just by examining him in the dark he knows, technically, that he can survive the injury.

he checks for a pulse, hand hovers over his nose and mouth to check his breathing. everything seems a bit too stable, so much so that in an act of what could be considered mercy, a knee is pressed into Sam's chest while one hand grips at the handle and pulls. a quick and satisfying squelch being released from tissue and hair as blood rushes and spills from the wound, dripping down skin and soaking clothing.

he pulls himself into a standing position, watching as his floor becomes a welcome mat for splattered blood.]

[rowd]

( it was easy, wasn't it.

like it's one thing to shove a knife into a guy's throat, but it's another when the guy ducks down and takes it straight into his fucking skull. what an idiot.

or at least, that's what sam is thinking as he slowly starts coming to. the wound in the back of his head begins to close up, brain matter stitching itself back together faster than his skull starts healing around the wound, but a hole in his bones isn't going to stop him from, you know, being conscious. unfortunately for both of them, sam is a notoriously light sleeper.

meaning, if it weren't for the brain injury, he would have been up the moment hands were laid anywhere near him. worse yet: this isn't even close to the first time he's passed out from major brain injuries, only to wake up moments after in a goddamn panic.

just like this time: because as soon as hannibal's on his feet, sam's lurching up into a sitting position, pulling in a deep breath through his nose as his eyes open. they're more gold than brown when they first open before that gold ring begins to fade back to a smaller ring lining his pupils. and sam's - raising a hand to the back of his head.

leveling eyes on the man in front of him. )

What the hell, man? You could've killed somebody.

[relished]

[all the little details are taken into account. the copper smell lingers in the air but it isn't as heavy as it should be. he's seen healers work their magic in front of him, but nothing as advanced as regeneration. silently he takes in what he's witnessing; the flash of gold against darkness, the quick-witted response that someone with a brain injury shouldn't have, and finally the humor to it all.

a ghost of amusement on his face as Sam pulls himself together. Sam's knife - god knows the quality of it - is tossed aside, out of reach. his voice is close to a whisper, accent thickened by excitement, yet with a playfulness to it. humor returns humor. he's seen something that he shouldn't have and he'd like to take it further; can take it further, since it's already too late to go back on it.]

That was the point.

[he offers nothing else. depending on how one looks at it, Sam is both at an advantage and disadvantage on the floor. whatever his power is, Hannibal has to calculate that into his attacks now. what will heal, and what won't? his brow twitches to indicate a furrow, then satisfaction, as he reaches for Sam's hair for a vice grip and steps into him, for his knee to collide with his nose. it's a harsh, brutal attack with strength behind it that might not be expected.]

[rowd]

( it looks like a shitty knife, something maybe used in ceremonies versus to cause any actual damage - but the material of the blade is something else; harder than titanium but not something one would find on earth; it's the same kind of material as the cuffs around sam's wrist that don't appear to have any clasp to take them off with.

and sam's alert now; his head throbs as skin stitches itself back together, as brain matter repairs itself, as his skull slowly begins the process of patching itself back together, but his eyes remain level, watching the guy even as sam - stays down on the ground. he's fast for his size, and has no doubts he could pull himself up to his feet before the guy shoves the knife back into him, but he's still unarmed while this guy - isn't.

the lack of weaponry is nothing. sam is a weapon, the blood flowing through his veins is enough proof of that. he doesn't need a knife or sharp pointy object to shove over a creepy old guy, but the expressions on hannibal's face cause him to hesitate.

the excitement, the playfulness, the satisfaction that's etched into the curve of his mouth, the tone he speaks in. it throws him off. reminds him of the guys who'd been in charge of the caves, which is not something sam wants to be dwelling on, especially not here. unfortunately for sam, his brain-to-mouth filter is very, very poor, as is his ability to keep his mouth shut when he's got someone acting like a goddamn idiot right in front of him.

so he stays on the ground, for the moment. it gives him a minute to recover from the whole stabbed in the skull thing, too, which - would be fucking great, if his reflexes weren't still slightly off by the time the dude reaches for a fistful of hair and slams sam's face into his knee.

there's an uncomfortable crunch sound as cartilage slides out of place and blood starts pouring down his face as sam curses under his breath, but it's - over quickly, just as the bleeding from his skull had been. his hand raises, digging fingernails into the closest available surface and -

this is embarrassing. ari'd laugh at how easily someone'd broken his head open, but there's not jack shit sam can do about it now. )

[relished]

[uncomfortable for Sam, beautiful for Hannibal. bone against bone, wet warmth seeping into his pants leg. his grip stays firm into curls of hair, fingers digging into scalp. he feels Sam grasping at him, fabric being pulled, bit it only keeps him in place. worse, it encourages him to be closer. he wants to experiment, see how far he can go, but this stranger is far too conscious.

he's taking into account the speed of regeneration and what it might take to actually kill him. not that he'd stay dead here, but he can delay the process. can he regrow a leg, an arm?

he jerks Sam's head backwards to expose his neck. throughout the entire exchange, he's maintained eye contact. looking down at him, in him, through him. as rough as he's being, there's intimacy here. he wants to see everything that this person is, and wants him to know that. his face is nearly an inch from Sam's now as he bends, jaw slack. it's almost like he's hesitating as he inhales, taking in one last breath.

but it's part of the game. swiftly, he plunges the knife straight into Sam's jugular, blade tearing into flesh and muscle with hardly any sound. until he pushes in further and twists, then tears it away. will this kill him, or delay him?]

[rowd]

( he's been beaten down before. had limbs barely hanging on by bits of skin that just refused to let go and, thankfully, saved him from figuring out how the hell to go without a leg for an extended period. he's had claws and teeth bite into him, among weapons that actually managed to do the kind of damage that sam's body has to work real hard to heal up. this isn't the first time. it won't be the last. taking extensive amounts of damage and getting back up is what sam was made for. it's just - one never really gets used to the amount of pain that comes with that. he can take the damage just fine, has tanked through significantly worse when his adrenaline has been in overdrive, but this isn't exactly a battlefield, and this creepy old dude isn't someone sam would generally consider a threat. generally.

unfortunately, it doesn't seem to apply now. his head's pounding and fuzzy all at the same time, healing through the concussion as sam tries to calm himself down and will his head to fucking think all at the same moment. hannibal's eyes are on sam, but sam's are - distant, brow furrowed.

up until a goddamn knife drives into his throat, tearing through flesh and muscle while sam tenses. it only makes it worse when the knife tears its way out of his throat and he's left choking on his own blood, unable to vocalize anything given how fucked his throat is. eyes roll back into his head, blood pouring from the wound to drench the front of sam's shirt. his blood is notably more metallic than a regular human being's, though without sam having the brain power needed to manipulate it, it splatters uselessly against the floor. skin stitches itself back together, blood coagulating to try and keep as much of it as possible within the body it resides in and sam's -

out for a moment. just a moment, before he's thrashing violently against hannibal's hold. he's stronger than he looks, all dense muscle built onto a wiry frame which he uses to yank as hard as he can back, away from hannibal.

his first instinct isn't to harm, but to get the hell away from whatever's hurting him. )

[relished]

[god, with how much damage that's been dealt already, Hannibal is surprised that Sam is still managing to fight death off. has he even been able to get a good look at him? would he be able to identify him? not that it matters, since he has other plans to delay his own inevitable hunt. at least, for a little while.

more blood that gallops, but never stumbles. something in Sam stops it from going too far each time, but it does look to have a toll on him. the regeneration is fast, but not fast enough to allow him to retaliate in the way that he would need to in order to put Hannibal to a stop.

his strength in his condition is unexpected, but he's been bracing for resistance. he loses his grip on Sam's hair. two messy steps backward as Sam yanks away and his hand reaching out to brace for impact behind him, tools clattering in knocked drawers. he's hardly dismayed, if not excited. he needs to find a way to bring Sam down. eyes dart around the dark room: the stairs, the stranger, a nearby cabinet with the drugs he'd stolen from the hospital. the idea is quickly nixed. if this man is regenerating so quickly, his metabolism for substances might be overwhelmingly fast. who knows how long one dose would last, or if it would last at all.

he can smell the fear hidden beneath something else - a certainty. he's determined to keep Sam on the ground, or at least below him. he doesn't let him get very far, maybe a few paces ahead as he's dragging himself away. he continues with his precise strikes, this time kicking down to aim at his kidney to cause a brief paralysis.]

[rowd]

( it takes time for the body to make more blood cells. stem cells can only work so much, especially when his body is continuously getting more injured, thus requiring it to work harder to heal. sam's down on the ground in a puddle of his blood, and his head isn't working enough to utilize the boon hannibal has unknowingly given him: sam's abilities lie in his blood, which he's drenched in. but unfortunately, the longer it's outside of him, the more likely it'll be useless before sam even gets a chance to use it to his advantage.

his palm slips in the blood around the ground as hannibal's fingers release his hair, knocking him face-first into the puddle below him. sam makes a low, pained sound - more air than anything else, given his throat is still healing - but before he's able to pull himself up, there's a goddamn foot shoving into his side. this time when he grunts it's less airy - but making noises that scream i'm hurting doesn't help him any. this asshole doesn't give two shits. sam curls his arms up over his head, hands pressed to the back of his neck and knees curling into his chest as if making himself smaller, protecting his midsection and his neck, will do him any good here. )

S-stop--stop, jesus -

[relished]

[he tilts his head as he watches Sam cower, dark shadows morphing into a much larger one as blood is smeared across his floor. he allows a soft sigh, as if he's done, or taken pity on the weakened body below him. he's calculated, stepping over and around pools of blood and limbs; slow and relaxed.

he kneels down by Sam's head, knife-free hand palming against the remaining exposed hair and forehead, brushing it away from whatever parts of his face that he's trying to hide. he lets out a small scoff.]

Jesus isn't going to help you. [he clicks his tongue, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.] You've been terribly rude, coming into my home without an invitation. What's to be done about that?

[he's been aiming for major arteries, but blood loss hasn't stopped Sam the way he's wanted it to stop him. the hand so delicately brushing away hair is shoved right in between his guarded arms, elbow curving around neck. briefly, the knife's handle is between his teeth while his other hand curls into the fabric of Sam's jacket to heave him upward and against Hannibal's chest. muscles flex into soft flesh and adam's apple. his chin is tilted upward for the struggle, expecting some flailing. his free hand grabs the knife from his teeth once more.

normally he would end it here: asphyxiation. but he wants a little more reassurance, and he's predicting that Sam will be trying to get out and away from him instead of focusing on the knife that's now in his hand. he drives it into his left eye, blade slicing through skin and cornea, then optic nerve and finally, brain tissue - the prefrontal cortex.]

[rowd]

( sam's trying not to lose his shit, is what he's attempting to do. there's a fine line between remaining calm and sane and going batshit on everything around him, and he doesn't want to do that. maybe he wants to fuck up this asshole. but it won't end there. it never ends there. once he's let himself go, he's gone until someone capable of pulling him back manages to get their hands on him, and who the hell knows how long that'll take? ari's around here - somewhere, but ari also doesn't give two shits about most people here; sam's hands covered in the blood of humans isn't something he'd consider bad. not in the way sam does. it's why he's not - struggling as much. why he's focusing on trying to keep himself calm and collected rather than clawing at hannibal himself.

he can't do both. not while he's still so lightheaded, so close to letting himself tip over that edge into rage.

there's no flailing when hannibal picks him up. he's counting in his head, down from ten, up to one hundred from fives. sam's concern for his physical well-being is - minimal, he uses his own body as a shield often, tanking through a few knife wounds is fine. he's almost, almost gotten his breathing back under control when the knife shoves its way into his eye socket. sam screams, hands dropping from his head to instead dig blunt nails into hannibal's arms. his head tips back even with the knife embedded into his head, skull slamming back against his collarbone. the fingers of his left hand press right up against his cheek just below the blood dripping out of him, and for a moment, the blood seems to - move towards his hand, threads of silver making themselves clear as they form into the beginning of a blade before sam -

- runs out of air and goes limp. his heart's still beating, blood still pouring out of the wound to his goddamn eye, but it's - arrhythmic. he's out cold, even if he's not quite dead yet. )

[relished]

[his brows furrow as he sees the blood change direction. it's impossible not to notice, with the abrupt thrash against him. yet, nothing happens. a last resort attempted too late. desperate nail marks and minor bruises in his arms are all that's left of Sam on Hannibal's skin once his body finally gives into the assault. he waits, but not too long. fingers press against bloodied neck to check the pulse and he listens, times it.

he leaves the knife in his eye for good measure - at least while he works. Sam's body is left on the floor while lights are turned on, supplies arranged, table adjusted and sanitized. he puts on classical music and its rhythm hums down the basement stairs. the hospital allowed him many items that he normally kept in his home. he changes his clothes, donning plastic protective gear and surgical gloves, then Sam is hoisted to the table and stripped.

the amputation begins neat: a sharp blade into the upper right thigh, it eases through skin and muscle, straight to the bone. an unconscious body means a professional cut. blood is caught by the plastic beneath the table. the bone saw he'd taken from the hospital comes in next, to finish the cut off. he's not a savage - he dresses the wound, is sure to keep it sanitized. the leg is set aside to be taken to the kitchen. he cares for Sam as he did his impersonator; dresses him in a shirt, boxers and a thick robe before hauling him up the stairs to be sat in his dining room at the head of the table. a guest. a rope is used to tie one of Sam's hands behind his back and around his waist, looping it around his neck. if he tugs at it, it'll choke him. the knot is in an inconvenient place at the center of his back.

he treats each part of the leg differently, cutting into it and separating it as one would an animal's. flesh to be savored later, the slices are then vacuum sealed and put in his freezer. only when he's halfway through making dinner does he inspect Sam, finally yanking out the knife from his eye. the smell of rosemary and chicken wafts through the house. Sam will find that his place has been set at the table. Hannibal's changed - again - to a three piece suit, one not covered in blood.]

[rowd]

( one of the pros and cons of being a genetically enhanced being is that - nephilim come in all kinds of different shapes, sizes, and capabilities. you never know what one's limitation is going to be until they reach it. ari had been born with a full set of wings, even if one had come out janky. sam would've argued he was much closer to the ideal than he is, even if the ideal that humans look for these days isn't - those who appear more seraphim, but those who look almost completely human. ari is a nephilim with strength, power, one who'd almost lost a goddamn arm and came out of it better, badder, because he doesn't let jack shit take him down.

sam's younger. he'd had ari and raff to help look out for him, he's never been pushed to that edge before - the one where he doesn't know if he's coming back from it or not. he's been injured, been torn apart, had to hold his own guts to keep them from getting dirt and grime on them more times than he can count, but he's never had reason to fear death.

the wound in his eye slowly heals around the knife: brain matter reforms, the torn skin around where the blade had entered repairs itself, even if it can't fix what the knife's still digging into. it's slowed down by the removal of his leg, which takes a significant amount of effort to patch back together. even as hannibal cuts, skin, muscle, and tendons try to reform around his work. it slows as he reaches sam's femur, when he cuts through bone, but it doesn't stop entirely.

bone begins reforming, trying to remake the femur that had once been whole. new muscle and flesh begins growing in place, but it will be over twelve hours before sam has fully functional legs. twelve excruciating hours of feeling bone exposed to air, of suffering through skin rebuilding, muscle wrapping around bone to protect it.

twelve hours he'd have rather stayed passed out for. unfortunately for him, it's the damage to his goddamn brain stalling that's keeping him out, and hannibal yanking it out from his skull immediately has sam waking up with a screech that doesn't sound human. it's too high-pitched, and not in a way that could be explained by vocal training but by differing vocal chords entirely. he thrashes, hard enough the rope digs into his neck, harder still until it's leaving a rather nasty across his skin before he manages to come back to himself enough to open the one eye that's still there.

he's biting down on his tongue, hard enough that it bleeds. sam's nose flares, the bright gold almost glowing. when he finally finds hannibal and meets his gaze, there's clear anger there. anger, discomfort, pain, irritation, but he's - carefully biting it down. trying to keep a lid on it.

sam sucks in another breath. opens his mouth. )

Can you please get my arm off of my fucking wings. Fuck. ( not actual wings. just the uncomfortable little pieces of flesh and bone that stick out of his back, with the occasional feather hanging off. he'll usually try and saw them down a little himself when he gets the time, because they like to regrow, albeit slower than anything else would, and they're just - uncomfortable. bothersome. he can handle having his guts spill out. having other things fall apart. having a knife stuck in his goddamn eyesocket.

he can't tolerate the discomfort of having fabric and his goddamn arm shoved up against them for long. he'd rather lose the arm. and freeze without the shirt. but the shirt's at least significantly less bothersome than how tight the rope's holding him in place. )

[relished]

[the scream is the only thing that gives Hannibal pause; it drives down to his gut, rings in his ears which he barely has time to cover before it's over. he's looking at Sam in some form of awe as his arms relax once more at his sides. a work of art, just as the art in his home is displayed. on one of the walls of the dining room above the mantle, once Sam decides to have a look-around, is leda and the swan.

Hannibal is unperturbed by the anger shot at him, so palpable he can taste it. he's a blank slate comparatively, inscrutable. all that's returned is a flicker of the same amusement he met before. just one quick inhale tells him he's bitten his tongue.

yes, that. ambiguous, jagged bits of flesh that protrude from Sam's back. he inspected them and left them alone. he's going to ask about them during their time together.]

You're not exactly in a position to make demands.

[he straightens the silverware on the table once more, surely disturbed by Sam's struggling.]

Dinner is almost ready. Would you like some water?

[rowd]

( he's missing a leg. has a headache from hell. his heart's pounding so hard he swears he can feel it through his ribcage, and with one of his eyes still missing, it's fucking with his ability to perceive things right. he keeps wanting to turn his head, to check the area beyond where his one eye can see, but that'd be a little too telling. so he doesn't.

instead, he squirms. slouches forward a little so at least they're not pressed against the back of the chair. looks down to his remaining leg, then moves his free arm up to start clawing at the rope around his neck. he's not making any progress. it's more - testing it than anything else. )

I'm gonna hurl all over the place if you leave me like this.

( not the lack of a leg. not the still-healing injuries. the wing thing. it feels like he's suffocating. like something's digging deep into his lungs and fucking up his ability to breathe. even though sam knows it's not. )

You can't keep me here.

[relished]

[poised in how he stands beside him, one hand resting casually over the back of an empty chair. he's so still compared to Sam, who's squirming in discomfort, testing the reigns Hannibal has given him. Hannibal knows how this can play out, is fully aware of the consequences that can take place. he isn't sure if Echo cares, or if Aurora is capable of interfering, but he knows people will care. he'd like this to last as long as possible.]

I can bring you back downstairs, but I thought you'd be hungry. I am, and it's nice to have company for dinner.

[he's breezing over Sam's little rebellious threat with a tone that one would have with any other guest. it's familiar to him; normal. all of Etraya aside from his home is unfamiliar. here in his home, it's easy to block out all the other noise and pretend it doesn't exist. there's no one in the world but them right now, and it's clear in the confidence of his tone that he's enjoying it. this is the first time he doesn't have to hide any parts of himself.

he tuts, a chide,]

You don't have your earpiece on you. Nothing is stopping me from keeping you here.

[rowd]

( he could get up.

down a leg doesn't mean he's down and out for the count. an arm tied behind his back not only causes the extreme discomfort of his forearm shoved up against those bones that don't quite fit anywhere, but it still leaves him one hand. a hand, a leg, and every vague half-plan that comes into his head. that's plenty to figure out how to escape. sam wants to open his mouth, tell hannibal how fucking stupid it is to keep someone like him like this. he's lucky he'd cut into sam, whose tolerance for nonsense is... higher than most. he hasn't lost his shit yet, but it doesn't mean he won't.

voicing any of that is just asking for trouble, and he needs a lack of trouble to keep his wits about him. to get out of this. so sam settles instead for a, )

You didn't fuck with my dick, did you? Like, I might occasionally be easy, but damn man. You gotta get consent first.

[relished]

[what a mouth on him. barely a twitch in his lips to indicate disgust. the only sounds between them for a few long moments is the sizzling of oil on iron in the kitchen and the soft classical music.]

You have to get consent to enter a home, too.

[of course he didn't mutilate him in that way. it's offensive that it's even a suggestion. he leaves him with that, disappearing back into the kitchen to arrange his meal. he'd had rabbit in the freezer from his hunts with Vanessa, but he'd felt that it would have gone unappreciated. chicken is easier to come by around here, anyway. homemade pasta and a side of green beans to go with it, he'd made his own take of chicken with mustard. he arranges everything neatly, garnished and beautiful, bringing the plates out. he serves Sam first, plate quiet against the place mat, before setting his own plate down.]

Poulet à la Moutarde. I had to improvise a few ingredients.

[still, the wine is brought out. if not for Sam, for himself. it sloshes into glass, red swallowing up the space. he finally sits down, eyes twinkling.]

Bon Appétit.

[rowd]

( the twitch is what he was looking for. it's what has that smarmy grin returning to his mouth as the eye that had been gutted begins reforming inside his skull, nerves rebuilding themselves from scratch, blood vessels rebuilding inside his optic nerve as the vitreous body becomes visible. it - leaks fluid at the beginning, until his body figures out it's not quite reforming right and begins working harder to fill in that open space that isn't what it should be. it's painful. the headache sam's nursing is enough that, had he not been tied to a chair and legless, this would be about when he starts screaming and bitching while his body pulls itself together.

as it is, he doesn't have the luxury of complaining with any kind of seriousness. this isn't that kind of party. )

Is it yours? I didn't see your name written on it. ( maybe it was there, fuck if sam knows. he can't remember what happened that long ago now, not when his body's screaming at him in protest, demanding nutrients to replace what he's losing. he can go on without it, it just won't be - fun or comfortable. you know. kind of like the rest of this isn't.

it's the nausea from the discomfort of having his arm tied up against his back that has him looking to the plate but not touching it when hannibal brings it over, not any kind of table manners. but he's dealt with worse.

he's really, really regretting not getting someone to help him sand those down earlier. jesus. )

Hey. ( still not reaching for the food just yet. sam turns his attention to something else. ) You wanna see something neat?

( not that he's waiting for an answer. because he's reaching for his nice fork. not to eat with it, that'd be too easy. instead, he takes it and shoves the prongs into his neck. bad idea, he's already a little woozy from blood loss. but it's less bad than biting off his tongue, considering how inconvenient suffocating would be. instead, he just bleeds. a lot.

enough he can reach up with his free hand to where the blood is pouring out of his neck, fingers slipping in the mess of blood so he can try and scrape the wound open wider. a lot of it just... gets everywhere, messily, but not all of it; silvery strands of... something, a metal, begin threading themselves together into sam's hand, forming the hilt of a blade, that then begins to extend into a - not pathetically small knife, but it's not all that impressive either.

he needs to bleed way more for that, and he can't afford it. )

[relished]

You wouldn't.

[in a tone that suggests that Sam doesn't have the manners, or he wouldn't have been snooping around in his basement in the first place. each hand holds their respective silverware, resting on the table. a different tension rises and he's slow to look at his dinner companion, gaze expectant, hiding annoyance.

he had offered some solace. a meal, clothing. one hand free to fee himself with, yet it's thrown in his face violently, as if he'd had a drink tossed his way. that's exactly what it is to Hannibal - a petty act. a shame, since he had wanted to sit down and eat.

he watches just long enough to fully understand what Sam is doing, but not long enough to let him finish.]

That is neat.

[a humoring, a confirmation. blood drips down Sam's neck and soaks into the collar of the robe he's given him. a slight narrowing of his eyes - that's going to be hard to get out. he taps an index finger along his own knife twice, then stands once more. give someone an inch and they'll take a mile; he has to make it clear that escape is not an option. Sam is weak, he can tell. he can tell even if he has no true knowledge of how his body regenerates or how quickly it regenerates. he can smell it on him; he's lost too much blood.

and he gifts Sam darkness once again with a strike of his dinner knife through his temple.]

[rowd]

( do not enter, and dibs signs are, generally, enough to discourage sam from breaking and entering. not because he's afraid of what would happen if he did break in, but because - well. he doesn't like his shit being touched, it's only fair to try and keep his sticky fingers out of others' crap too. but he's not telling this guy that. not when he's already been tied down and fucked up. he no longer deserves an explanation, considering his response to sam digging into his crap wasn't to ask what the hell he was doing but to try and kill him.

doesn't matter anyway. he's so close to having the blade complete enough he can use it to cut through the rope and at least get himself a little more comfortable. unfortunately for sam, by the time he starts moving to cut the rope, the asshole's already a step ahead of him.

the dinner knife goes straight through his temple, and sam drops down. the blade, silver tinged with red, drops down to the ground beside sam's chair. it doesn't dissipate just yet, but it'll start falling apart within the next twenty four hours; they're not meant to last forever, as inconvenient as that is. )

[relished]

[darkness breaks once the knife is removed. slower this time, tantalizing.

when Sam wakes again, exactly in the same spot at the dining table, he'll find he's missing his left arm. for any normal human, the loss of one limb is disorienting to the mind enough. to take another in such a short amount of time is like cutting off oxygen. it weakens balance, creates a significant amount of neuropathy, and the mind can't comprehend the absence and still sends signals to an empty area. the pain is excruciating, a phantom limb wishing it could react. an IV is pricked into his remaining arm for the pain, and maybe a little dissociation.

his goal is to make him a little more sluggish, but he's experimenting with the regeneration factor. will the drug even affect him, and if it does, how long before his body completely rejects it?

the blade Sam had created is gone from the floor, placed on the table beside Hannibal's plate, which is now nearly empty. it seems he's had time to dine while Sam's been unconscious, or more accurately: Hannibal left the blade in his temple for a tad longer and chose to eat in silence. he stands over him, hands clasped behind his back.]

Are you going to behave?

[rowd]

( it's the blood loss that's fucking him up. that leaves him feeling extraordinarily exhausted, like he's gotten done running several marathons one after another. which - considering sam doesn't get exhausted, not like this, feels like a lot as it is. it reminds him of the time he'd gotten sliced right through his gut, left temporarily paralyzed from the waist down while trying to shove his innards back in. as if that'd help any. the burning sensations around his limbs where his thigh has begun to rebuild, where his upper arm is - healing over rather than trying to rebuild given there's so much other shit that's wrong with him currently.

right leg, left arm. the lie of i've had it worse sits on his tongue even though he knows it's damn wrong. being poked and prodded at, getting taken down in a fight, is different than this. at least when he's gone down in the field he's had control. at least when he was smaller, it wasn't losing limbs.

his tongue darts out, licking across dry lips as he shifts his weight. moves his hand to steady himself against the table, which causes his focus to shift to the needle in his arm. fuck if he knows what the hell is in that, but considering the liquid doesn't look dark, he's not all that concerned. )

O neg. Kinda. ( is he talking to himself or hannibal. who knows. the eye that has regenerated - lacks all the brown color to its iris; the gold has overtaken it entirely, even if his pupil seems to be functioning as expected. )

Gimmie a minute, my head's killing me.

( he's not struggling. less because of a lack of desire to, and more because - well. he may have lost an arm, but it's not pressed painfully close to his spine either. )

[relished]

[the situation is an odd win for Hannibal. for months, he's hidden himself. the veil, however convenient it makes everything else, is just that: a veil. through its murky glass, Hannibal stands. Sam may have mutations and genetics that he has yet to encounter until today, but he's more human than Hannibal will ever be.

maroon eyes study gold ones. some appreciation in them, for however mutilated he's been made, his eyes are beautiful. he's noticed they change color when under duress, or when he's hit a certain emotional point. he doubts if he removes them the gold will stay. it's the brain he'll have to save for last.]

Good, because I've prepared dessert.

[he recedes into the kitchen, clearing his plate with one hand while the other skims over the table to take the blood knife with him. it had been mostly out of reach, yes, but Sam would've only needed to lean a bit further to snatch it back up again.

he returns with two plates of a blood and chocolate pudding encased in half of an orange peel. the blood, normally from a pig or cow, is Sam's.]

You inspired me to make a traditional dish - Sanguinaccio dolce, sweet blood pudding.

[served with a smile, he sits down and picks up his spoon to scoop an appropriate amount and bring it to his lips before pausing, eyes looking fondly at his spoonful,]

I'm curious as to what this recipe procured. [spoon to mouth, pudding against tongue. the taste is savored, memorized, each layer melting into the other effortlessly.] Please, try it. It's quite unforgettable.

[it's not really a suggestion.]

[rowd]

( sam's eyes close, as he takes several deep breaths. he's tired, his body hurts, the muscles around his thigh and where his arm has been. . . removed keep twitching painfully as skin, bone, and muscle slowly regenerate. it's going to take him a significant amount of time to come back from this, especially given how much blood he's lost, and how little he's taking in.

but his head's feeling a little better. not by much, but enough he doesn't feel like he's got something stabbing into his skull (ha) which means he's got some room in his brain for thinky thoughts.

this isn't a scenario he's going to get out of on his own. not now. if he'd been more careful when the guy'd first caught him, he might have been okay. unfortunately, he'd chosen mercy over violence, and whoever this asshole is, he knows right where to hit to take someone out. even someone like sam.

fuck.

he needs to get out of here. which means first and foremost, he needs to get his shit together.

his hand slides across the table to grab onto the fork left out for him, but he drops it a few moments later. squints down at it, and drags his tongue across his lips again. )

Is this some kinda kink thing? 'cause we could've done this with a hell of a lot less. . . whatever this is.

( his hand slides across the table, to try grab onto the glass of wine. hydrate first, he's thirsty. )

[relished]

[people always smell different if they're tired, in pain, or sick. the scent oozes off of Sam and breaks into the gentle smell of chocolate and blood beneath his nose. he doesn't bat an eye. instead of engaging with him immediately, he continues to eat his pudding, spoon delicate against orange peel. he's using a conditioning method, only allowing Sam attention when deserved - treating any of his responses as a reward.

thoughtful after his second spoonful, he studies Sam as he would a patient, but his gaze is one similar to how people look at their pets.]

Would that make it easier for you?

[those that would be swept under his blade usually never had the time to converse with him. only a select few would ever get that grace, and by then they had accepted their fate. they would never step back outside his home. so he entertains Sam's crude comment, if only to throw it back at him. people try to make sense of what Hannibal does - but there is no sense or reason. whatever Sam discovers will only leave him with more questions.]

[rowd]

No.

( but it's at least something he can make sense of. make fun of, even. why not bully some weird old guy living in the woods for his weird de-limbing kink? sounds fair and reasonable to him. everything feels slower. duller. like someone's dimmed the lights and turned the volume down a good several notches. he'd discount it as just - his body trying to heal, but there's that goddamn iv in his arm, too. it wouldn't be hard to raise his arm and bite it out, but sam has a good feeling that resistance here is futile, and intentionally doing shit just to piss this guy off isn't going to get him anywhere.

hell. if he thought it'd at least make him feel better about being trapped like this, he'd do it anyway. fuck this guy and his great aim, he can rip sam to shreds if he wants to but sam isn't going to give him jack shit. and death isn't permanent here anyway, is it?

but he doesn't want to die. doesn't want to pay whatever the cost would be to come back. he likes being alive. doesn't want to lose anything. if he plays his cards right, he's betting he can catch this guy off guard enough to get away.

even if right now he's just so damn tired. the entire glass of wine gets downed, slowly, before sam sets it aside. his balance right now is garbage, so he's careful with how he moves. how his weight adjusts, because without the arm and the leg, he can't catch himself if his hand is busy, and he can't lean his weight on the leg that's mostly gone and healing.

his forearm leans on the table a bit while he picks up the fork. the dude seems to have settled on using a spoon for whatever this bullshit is, and sam's nothing if not an overachiever in refusing to do what everyone else may expect from him - including protesting whatever silverware may be appropriate in a situation. which leaves him trying to scoop pudding one-handed with a fork.

it does manage to get into his mouth, at least. )

But if you keep looking at me like that, I swear to fuck, I'll make it across this table and take out an eye before you even know what hit you.

( he's tired. so tired, his limbs ache, sam doesn't have the energy for that right now. but he'd find it. )

[relished]

[nothing feeds Hannibal the way watching someone eat their own flesh does. it's a feeling of great pleasure - he imagines that the feeling is similar to that of a parent watching their child accomplish a task for the first time. there's delight twinkling in his eyes with a pleasant, controlled smile tugging on his lips.]

Of course you will, [why he's choosing to use a fork is beyond him, but the pudding being consumed erases any concerns he has about the silverware.] but before you do, why don't you tell me how you like it?

[eyes fall to the pudding, then to Sam's. he's hiding something; his tone is back to erring on playful. a cat batting his prey around for the sake of joy.]

[rowd]

( he hates that look on this guy's face. hates the belittling sam can feel behind it. as if this guy thinks he's lesser than him. a pet, a child, fuck if sam knows, but regardless - it's putting a sour taste in his mouth. he's pissed, but he can't do anything about it, especially when he's fighting against the post-losing two limbs exhaustion.

a normal human wouldn't be able to take this. sam wonders if this guy knows that if he's - testing how far he can push sam's body before it gives out because he doesn't give a shit if he dies or not so why not play around. it pulls at memories sam would rather not remember.

another bite of the pudding, before sam's pointing his fork towards hannibal, )

I feel like you're looking all smug over there 'cause you're feeding me my own damn blood. Is that it?

( it could be ari's. sam can't tell the difference between nephilim, but he severely doubts this old guy would have been able to catch ari. if it had been ari's, he'd be significantly more bothered by it. so unless told otherwise, he's running off the assumption it's his own. )

Or is it just 'cause you know I can't do shit right now an' you're enjoying the company? Don't get too many people out this way?

( fork back facing himself, and sam stabs through the orange peel.

to shove it into his mouth too. )

[relished]

[isn't he astute. a smirk has settled on his features, a delicate brush stroke. he never plays with the food on his plate, but the food that runs, breathes, talks - he'll play with that for as long as he likes. it's rude to point any kind of utensil toward anyone, but with Sam exactly where he wants him, little ticks of negative behavior go (mostly) ignored.]

It would be a shame to let it go to waste.

[which is exactly what Sam does by taking the delicately prepared dessert and assaulting it with his fork. why he's deciding to cause himself displeasure for the sake of Hannibal isn't his concern. it's an odd sight, a jab at his efforts of preparation, but not really his problem.]

You've gifted me with quite a learning experience. I appreciate the donation - I've been wanting to have guests over for a party, but I never found the right time. Sometimes you have to wait until it's presented to you.

[rowd]

( a lack of most normal table manners doesn't mean sam talks with his mouth full- he at least waits until he's swallowed down the orange peel to open his mouth. )

Why would anyone wanna come out here and have a party with some weird old guy?

( with the fork still in his hand, sam drops his head down toward his arm and - digs his teeth into the cannula sticking out of his arm so he can pull it out. he's not quite stupid enough to raise his arm and throw off his balance, especially considering how precariously he's keeping himself upright. )

'specially since you seem like the kind of guy who'd slit someone's throat for breaking a vase. Do you have any vases?

( you know. so sam can break them. )

[relished]

Perhaps you'll find out, but I don't know how long it will take you to come back. Echo might have to use more energy to put you back together after I kill you.

[said so casually as he finishes off his pudding, spoon quietly placed against porcelain. Sam continues to make a show of himself, and Hannibal finds humor in it. a caged animal doing whatever it can to snap its jaws and appear as though it has a chance. that's what he is to him, an animal; a thing to be slaughtered.]

I do.

[but none of them are within reach or eyesight.]

[rowd]

You've already got an arm and a leg. Is that not enough? Greedy.

( this fork belongs to him now. with his elbow still pressed to the table, sam flips the fork over in his hand, so he can use the tines to start picking under his nails. a nervous habit, of a sort. one that also makes the fork harder to take from him, in case he opts to try and take out an eye with it. )

You know people don't stay dead. What's the point of killing me?

[relished]

[that's a nasty habit, Sam. eyes flicker to his hand. hard to focus when someone is picking their nails at the dinner table. a click of his tongue before he speaks, further straightening his already very straight posture. fingers linger around the neck of his wine glass.]

I'm curious as to what will happen.

[looking pointedly at him now, a more relaxed expression - though, it's hard to find anything about him relaxed, all angled structure and beast under skin. translation: he's bored.]

[rowd]

You've shoved shit into my head, twice, an' I'm still up.

( sam understands his own mortality better than - most. he's seen the bodies of those he loved strewn about, broken down to bits and pieces until they couldn't get back up again. he knows he can die. he also knows how fucking hard it is to kill him.

knows, too, that this guy's capable of it. sam already feels fucked up, even if he's working hard to keep it from looking like he does. there's the stupid quirky grin on his mouth, how he's not even looking at the guy while he picks under his nails. )

What makes you think you can kill me? 's only a matter of time before my leg and arm regrow.

[relished]

You're alive because I'm keeping you alive. I imagine I'll have to decapitate you, eventually.

[his focus travels along Sam's body, from forehead to amputated to arm, torso to as far as his eyes can see until the table cuts his line of vision. Hannibal has been anticipating any form of new regrowth, even if all of his healing is happening beneath bandages.]

Time is all I have. Your abilities can't catch up.

[like he knows Sam's body better than he does in the hours that have gone by.]

[rowd]

Do you know what I am?

( asking, first. he could simply start rambling on and on but talking shit when he doesn't have half an idea of what the hell this guy's figured out is - well. not particularly smart. shit works differently here. he can, potentially, use that to his advantage. )

[relished]

[it's the first thing that's come out of Sam's mouth that he can actually appreciate. he sees that there is a potential for intelligence in there, somewhere, that he's chosen to muddle with predictable basics. Hannibal has religious texts memorized, and he's considered several options for what Sam could be already. to him Sam feels young, someone not yet truly awakened. the wings on his back had given him an obvious answer, but there is no god here, and Hannibal now has a being at his table that he's been able to overpower simply by outsmarting him.

he believes he's only outsmarted him because Sam hesitated from the very beginning. he gave too much away, let Hannibal know him too quickly. he takes a sip of wine, gazing into the glass thoughtfully.]

I had a few theories when I first saw you.

[on average, humans aren't Sam's height. they exist, but it's rare. Hannibal initially thought that perhaps his anatomy may give him more clues about his origins, but he knows he won't be getting any more information until he gets into his brain, heart and lungs. if it's going to be anywhere, it'll be there.

he also smells different.]

My instinct is telling me that you're a Nephilim, but whether you are a child of the divine I've read about or something else is unknown to me.

[rowd]

( so. yes and no, in a way. alright. sam can work with that. maybe.

though given the shit this guy has already pulled, having an idea of what sam is but not the full picture - well. it doesn't bode well for his chances of getting out of here in mostly one piece. it's not the first time a group of people has eaten one of them - sam remembers one of the fucked cults, the ascendance or whatever, who'd run off with handfuls of nephilim, figuring devouring their flesh'd give them a bit of their 'divine essence' and help them reach God.

it was all bullshit. or at least, probably bullshit. maybe they did find their god, considering they're all dead now. lior was their last victim, and they'd made damn sure of it.

his arm itches. the arm that isn't there; there is no flesh to be itchy, and knowing something in his head is yelling at him to scratch a nonexistent limb is - well. it's pissing him off. and it hurts, too. skin and bone knitting itself together slowly, bone exposed to air when it shouldn't be, healing even as it fucks itself over because his body isn't - it's not used to this. it wasn't made for being torn apart. worse: nephilim, while functional, aren't naturally occurring - he can heal, but humans aren't meant to regenerate to this extent.

so sam's fucked multiple ways: his head's fuzzy, his body hurts, he feels tired and cold but also too hot. alert and yet struggling to keep his head up—instincts warring with the need to give himself time to recover.

he's struggling. visibly and mentally. )

Yet you're cutting into me anyway. Damn. You must really have a death wish, don't you?

( when in doubt: bullshit. )

Jesus may not be coming for me, but he sure as hell ain't coming for you either man. I'd pull the whole my father will hear about this line, but I ain't really in the mood for bad impressions.

[relished]

[amusement once again breaks through his sculpted features, a thin line of a smile as he looks at Sam as one would look at an imaginative child. there is a flash of fondness in his eyes, only as he recalls conversations from months and months ago. odd to see any form of benevolence as he holds a man hostage at his table.

he can only imagine how he's feeling. the potential of dope still in his system, limbs fighting to regrow against the carefully bound wrappings of bandages. the iv drip had been helping and harming him at once.

he knows Sam's words hold no truth to them, and if they do, time will tell. while not unprepared for the sudden visit, it wasn't in his immediate timeline. talking of god and his heavy hand will do him no good.]

God kills people all the time, and are we not created in His image? [he nudges his plate away from him, only enough to let him lean forward, interlacing his hands on the table, elbows nearing the edge.] It isn't personal.

[as in, he is bunched in with everyone else.]

[rowd]

You want to know a secret? ( sam's sharing regardless of whatever the guy's answer is, so he doesn't give him time to give an actual answer. ) I tell people I don't lie, which's true. I don't. Every Nephilim is different, y'know? We all get fun, neat little things inheritances whether we want 'em or not. An' maybe I don't lie, but it's 'cause I can't. Physically incapable. I open my mouth to try to spew out bullshit, but I can never quite get it out. Some people get the ability to just fucking know when they're being lied to, some get visions, and a shitton of other bullshit. Me? A complete inability to say shit I don't think is true.

( an inconvenience, for one. not one sam minds all that much, because he's learned to adapt around it. he can't lie directly, but he can choose not to answer crap. or talk around it. )

But I guess there's no real way to prove that. Someone who'd lie would probably say something similar. Point being, it ain't all I got.

( so tired. sam feels like he's two moments off from falling face-first into his plate for a good, long nap. unfortunately for him, he doesn't have time for that. )

An' I didn't show up here alone either. The other guy - he's much more keen on the whole, kill off every goddamn human 'cause you guys're useless as far as he cares. You caught me off guard, but you're not gonna be able to do the same with him - an' even if you kill me before he finds me, I've seen you. I never forget a face. What's your plan, for after you're done fucking me over? 'cause you're not gonna like mine very much.

[relished]

[his brows raise briefly - an indication that he knew that he wasn't really being asked if he wanted to know anything. Sam offers an explanation of himself, and he's clearly in some form of bargaining phase. everyone goes through it, when given the chance. he wants to delay or watch for some kind of slip up that Hannibal simply will not have. it's all in his face, even more as words continue tumbling out of his mouth.

honestly, he's speeding up the process. the more he talks, the more energy he wastes. he can see his eyes faltering, fighting against the fatigue and trauma Hannibal has so surgically induced.]

Even truth can become poisoned.

[no lying, fast healing, blood transmutation; he's an alchemic enigma. as Sam is waning, Hannibal is becoming more eager, pupils dilating while he studies a supernatural creature that he now has full advantage of. he feels for him in a way, and despite being incapable of pity he can only imagine what the rebirth will feel like. or how long it will take. or what happens after-]

I expect a ripple of effects will take place after your return. Tell me, what is your plan? Unless you'd like to keep it a surprise.

[nothing that has been said is bothering Hannibal at all.]

[rowd]

I'm gonna take you apart. An' I won't be nice about it. You won't have a goddamn stick in your head keeping you out, you're gonna be conscious the whole goddamn time - even if I need to pull in a healer to make sure you're kept up just enough.

( he'd made hannibal a promise earlier, hadn't he? if he didn't stop looking at sam like he was a toy, he would come across the table to take an eye out. force him to stop. he meant it. but sam doesn't go for that just yet. mostly because he knows the moment he makes an aggressive move, this guy will respond in turn. and he is exhausted. it's the strain of his body trying to pull itself together, of how much he's lost. sam might be used to taking a shitton of damage, but that doesn't usually include fully losing limbs. this is a new kind of fucked up mess to have gotten himself stuck in. )

It's a small world, man. If you weren't such a dick, I'd've probably let it go. Knife in my head? No biggie. Losing a leg? Ain't fun, but fair 'nough. When you kick it, I want you to know it's cause the look in your eyes. Like you're fucking playing with an animal.

( the fork he'd been using to pick under his nails swings around in his hand, so the prongs are towards hannibal himself. sam is usually fast - not inhumanly so, but fast enough to make it count. now? he's - feeling a little more sluggish, his balance is off, his eye has healed but the light feels especially bright to it. doesn't matter.

because he's throwing the fork straight for hannibal's face regardless, then shoving his arm down against the table to try and pull what's left of himself up onto it. this isn't an escape attempt, it's an attempt to take hannibal out with him. )

[relished]

[the threats ring as pleasantries to his ears, some of the only interesting words to leave him as of yet. Hannibal chooses when to feel pity, and his version of it will lay blades into Sam's body postmortem, carve out designs for his tastes. he neither confirms not denies him - he is an animal and they are not equals.

words are lost when the fork is flung at him, ends grazing against his right cheekbone with a strike forceful enough to leave two lines of red in its wake. the fork clinks against the floor with Hannibal's eyes slowly following it, then back to Sam as he tries to stand against him. plates clatter together when he pulls himself onto the table and glass breaks, spilling pieces and wine along wood.

he almost doesn't stand up, purely out of disrespect. an amputated, drained thing fighting for anything he can grab on to. Hannibal knows that look in his eyes, that wild frenzy.]

I would have kept things relatively painless. You can let go, succumb to the darkness that calls inside of you.

[he's looking for faltering - and there is, everywhere - in the imbalance of Sam's body, the loss of blood, the unfocused eyes. he wonders if his healing is taking up a fair amount of energy, too. he doesn't need a weapon to win this fight. he rises from his seat to deal a merciless blow to Sam's head. if he'd been holding on to any mercy at all, it's gone.]