There's different kinds of hunger, and the most obvious meaning isn't the only one that gives some people - children and adults - a gaunt, lonely look. A hunger for affection burns acidic in the stomach of thousands, millions of people every day, but it's an invisible illness. It kills just as surely, but the killing is metaphorical and so no one notices. It's harder to campaign against it.
You can't throw money at it and solve it. Lecter, will all his degrees and wealth and investments and knowledge, had still lacked something so basic that most people wouldn't have even given thought to what he'd been missing. Who wants to acknowledge that one of a person's most simple, integral needs can be so subjective, unmeasurable, nontransferable? If you can't take it and redistribute it until equity is reached, how do you even campaign to solve that sort of problem? And how can a single isolated person ever be expected to climb out of that pit themselves?
It's not glamorous to admit to. It's uncomfortable to notice.
But it feels wonderful to have the antidote suddenly delivered. Neph touches his wrist, lets him stay so close he can feel her breath against his closed eyes, and he floats along with the reminder that he has someone dedicated to him, who doesn't mind his own possessive dedication being latched back onto her.
By the time Hannibal has processed what Neph says, he's smiling, lips pulled away from teeth in the dark. "I would say I don't care, but you know that isn't true." Hannibal is fastidious about his grades, but much less so about his actual attendance - when skipping is possible. Practicums, however, mean one absolutely needs to be present for any credit. "But given the choice, I would rather you woke me up than resisted the urge."
She leans into him more heavily, and Hannibal has a second to decide - prop himself up more sturdy, or let himself drift back to his mattress? He chooses the latter, elbow easing out so he can slide vertebra-by-vertebra into a more horizontal position. Hopefully she takes the cue and follows him back to laying down. If not, one of his hands finds its helpful way to the back of her head, cupping it and coaxing.
Had Hannibal reassured her that no, no, it was all fine really, some certainty that it was not fine at all would've burrowed into the junkpile of Neph's brain. He dredges up a wry one liner somehow, at 3am, and her answering laugh is loud and bright and shatters that doubt to smithereens.
If they can come through murmured midnight confessions and end on a joke, then maybe it's not fucked up to want to stick so close to him after all. She may not have the words for this yet, for what exactly she wants from Hannibal or why she wants it; up til now it's been easier to define this relationship by what she doesn't want - his money, sex, for either of them to be merely obligated to the other - than to try and label it. For once it's not just her lack of education getting in the way of finding the right word. Nothing pings back when she searches her vocabulary. Not from books, movies, tv, chatter from friends, nothing.
They can't possibly be the first people to do whatever it is they're doing, but it may not be something that's commonly talked about. Wouldn't that just be the story of her life?
"Yeah," Neph says, lowering her voice back to a more acceptable volume for a pitch black bedroom in the no-mans-land hours of the morning. "I'm...I'm glad I did." She's surprised at how intensely she means that, even if she doesn't know if she'd want to come to him every time. Just having the option available is a talisman against the dark.
The hand at the back of her head tugs her from her thoughts, and also down to the mattress. Neph obliges by tucking her supporting arm under her side and wriggling back under the covers. Hannibal guides her head to his shoulder, fingers lacing through her hair, and Neph settles her cheek there with a sigh. Her topside arm curls over his chest in, not at all shaking or desperate. She'll just have to consider herself cured of the nightmare for now.
"Can we do fancy pancakes tomorrow?" she mumbles, because it's only funny to say 'crepes' when she can watch his soul leave his body at her horrible pronunciation. It's longstanding tradition to smother her bad dreams in sugary carbs, so really, she deserves props for upgrading her choice of junkfood.
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nepharious) wrote2016-06-02 11:53 pm
no subject
You can't throw money at it and solve it. Lecter, will all his degrees and wealth and investments and knowledge, had still lacked something so basic that most people wouldn't have even given thought to what he'd been missing. Who wants to acknowledge that one of a person's most simple, integral needs can be so subjective, unmeasurable, nontransferable? If you can't take it and redistribute it until equity is reached, how do you even campaign to solve that sort of problem? And how can a single isolated person ever be expected to climb out of that pit themselves?
It's not glamorous to admit to. It's uncomfortable to notice.
But it feels wonderful to have the antidote suddenly delivered. Neph touches his wrist, lets him stay so close he can feel her breath against his closed eyes, and he floats along with the reminder that he has someone dedicated to him, who doesn't mind his own possessive dedication being latched back onto her.
By the time Hannibal has processed what Neph says, he's smiling, lips pulled away from teeth in the dark. "I would say I don't care, but you know that isn't true." Hannibal is fastidious about his grades, but much less so about his actual attendance - when skipping is possible. Practicums, however, mean one absolutely needs to be present for any credit. "But given the choice, I would rather you woke me up than resisted the urge."
She leans into him more heavily, and Hannibal has a second to decide - prop himself up more sturdy, or let himself drift back to his mattress? He chooses the latter, elbow easing out so he can slide vertebra-by-vertebra into a more horizontal position. Hopefully she takes the cue and follows him back to laying down. If not, one of his hands finds its helpful way to the back of her head, cupping it and coaxing.
Aaaand scene?
If they can come through murmured midnight confessions and end on a joke, then maybe it's not fucked up to want to stick so close to him after all. She may not have the words for this yet, for what exactly she wants from Hannibal or why she wants it; up til now it's been easier to define this relationship by what she doesn't want - his money, sex, for either of them to be merely obligated to the other - than to try and label it. For once it's not just her lack of education getting in the way of finding the right word. Nothing pings back when she searches her vocabulary. Not from books, movies, tv, chatter from friends, nothing.
They can't possibly be the first people to do whatever it is they're doing, but it may not be something that's commonly talked about. Wouldn't that just be the story of her life?
"Yeah," Neph says, lowering her voice back to a more acceptable volume for a pitch black bedroom in the no-mans-land hours of the morning. "I'm...I'm glad I did." She's surprised at how intensely she means that, even if she doesn't know if she'd want to come to him every time. Just having the option available is a talisman against the dark.
The hand at the back of her head tugs her from her thoughts, and also down to the mattress. Neph obliges by tucking her supporting arm under her side and wriggling back under the covers. Hannibal guides her head to his shoulder, fingers lacing through her hair, and Neph settles her cheek there with a sigh. Her topside arm curls over his chest in, not at all shaking or desperate. She'll just have to consider herself cured of the nightmare for now.
"Can we do fancy pancakes tomorrow?" she mumbles, because it's only funny to say 'crepes' when she can watch his soul leave his body at her horrible pronunciation. It's longstanding tradition to smother her bad dreams in sugary carbs, so really, she deserves props for upgrading her choice of junkfood.