[ In the kitchen on level sixteen a lone figure sits at table. His blonde hair, greying universally, is flattened back away from his face, hairline receding, a pinched expression in his cold blue eyes, as though every moment is under his intense scrutiny. He wears a white sling across his shoulder, a pale grey suit, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone.
In front of him is a glass, a dinner set laid out in silver and crystal, a decanter in which blood red wine breathes, and a grey hat, wide-brimmed against the sun. The meal is served, some kind of meat in a thick teak sauce, the scent of it filling even this large room. It's art on a plate; gently poached baby vegetables sit whole beside the strips of flesh, drizzled too with the rich sauce.
With his right arm, Hannibal reaches for the glass, lifting it to his nose. The movement wastes nothing; he could be a statue, from each moment to the next. But when he lowers the glass his left arm moves for his fork before he catches himself, and in that moment something that might be anger but in reality is infinitely more complicated flickers across his expression.
Clarice.
But it's not Clarice disturbing his meal, is it? ]
no subject
In front of him is a glass, a dinner set laid out in silver and crystal, a decanter in which blood red wine breathes, and a grey hat, wide-brimmed against the sun. The meal is served, some kind of meat in a thick teak sauce, the scent of it filling even this large room. It's art on a plate; gently poached baby vegetables sit whole beside the strips of flesh, drizzled too with the rich sauce.
With his right arm, Hannibal reaches for the glass, lifting it to his nose. The movement wastes nothing; he could be a statue, from each moment to the next. But when he lowers the glass his left arm moves for his fork before he catches himself, and in that moment something that might be anger but in reality is infinitely more complicated flickers across his expression.
Clarice.
But it's not Clarice disturbing his meal, is it? ]