the return of the revenge of just rp it.

[musedactyl]

how to play.

1. Drop a comment with one or more of your muses. It can be empty if you want me to make a scenario, or you can toss one at me. Prompts are boss. (a word, song, lyric, picture, phrase, a meme prompt, anything). Specify if there's something you do or don't want, otherwise I could throw anything at you: AUs, shippiness, awfulness. You've been warned, son.
1b. If you want to continue a verse we started in another thread somewhere, specify it in the comment or subject line. I'd be down for revisiting any of those.

2. In the subject line, you can specify any of my muses you might want to play with (including OCs, who have their own list), or you can ask me to pick someone. No muses are off-limits except for those that have no icon uploaded on the list. Otherwise, I'll pick or randomize someone.
2b. Muses I would really love to play right now, in case you are having a hard time choosing: Hawke, Hannibal Lecter, Selina Kyle, Fox Mulder, Cigarette Smoking Man, Serafina, Pepper Potts, Lois Lane, Jacen Solo.

3. just rp with me. if something jives really well, maybe we can continue it in another one of these later, sort of like a super casual verse. if it doesn't, it doesn't.

Comments

but of course.

[entrees]

[ hannibal draws the coat off from bedelia's shoulders and folds it over his arm, meeting her eyes once he's done so, expression betraying less than nothing, a contrast to the study of emotion playing across her own features. she's barely holding back tears, her breathing coming in quick, shallow gasps. but he notices the way her eyes keep trailing back to the track of blood that bisects the room, the body now slumped in front of the door, on the very threshold of his futile grasp for freedom.

instead of averting her eyes, he can see how she can't look away.

he crosses the room once more, his back to her, as he steps carefully over that smear of crimson again, letting her have a moment unwatched, to stare all she wants. to indulge herself in looking as he unfolds the coat and hangs it back in the closet.

his words still hang in the air between them.

what have you gotten yourself into, bedelia?

he allows her to mull over her own complicity, her presence here and the choices she made that led her to this moment. he takes his time, before turning back towards her, the click of the closet door closing breaking the moment of silence. he stops on the other side of that line from her once more, looks between her and the body. his voice is full of the usual clinical curiosity when he speaks, but backed with a hint of the forcefulness with which he demanded she examine herself moments before. ] You say you saw this coming, predicted how this evening would unfold.

Tell me. What do you believe comes next? [ it's purposefully ambiguous whether he's referring to what she thinks he will do next, or if he's asking what her own next move will be in this macabre dance. ]

[relevee]

[ she'd weighed this, he said. thought about every potential response and counter-response. there's a part of her that is still frozen and unwilling to move even from where she stands, for fear that the moment she takes a step forward will be her own undoing. she'd lost consciousness only once before, after her patient lay dead on the floor of her home. and while she may not have been the one to snap anthony dimmond's neck - but her actions had led to this moment, without question. it was what she had envisioned would transpire, and now they've reached the point of no return. she can't close her eyes and re-open them to a different world.

her one solace now is that she believes hannibal did not intend this man to experience any unnecessary suffering. in fact, a part of her believes that hannibal actually liked the man. if it had not been for the fact that his secret had been exposed, she's convinced they could have carried on something resembling an acquaintanceship (even if dimmond had been under the impression that he'd been invited in for more than a mere repast).

suddenly she's shivering - but it isn't from the lack of her coat or anything resembling a chill. a tear continues its descent in a slow roll down the curve of one cheek. she reaches up with one hand to flick it away, her gaze unwavering at the trail of blood leading to the door. her first instinct may not necessarily be his own, and she swallows once, trying to get her bearings.

she steels herself. looks to him with her chin lifted and her eyes wet, but clear. ]

Taking care of - the body. [ she'd almost slipped, attached a name to it and thus assigned herself that same degree of personal attachment. ]

It shouldn't stay there, Hannibal.

[entrees]

[ mercy, as she seemed to think of it, hardly entered into his methods where anthony was concerned. to be fair, that was because every element of this evening was about bedelia's reaction, rather than dimmond's. the man himself had offered some amusement, perhaps the most valuable currency that any living being could provide, so far as hannibal was concerned. but he'd quickly lowered himself when he'd fallen into the tasteless role of simple blackmailer, and his offer of finding a solution that would stand to their 'mutual benefit' demonstrated that his only concern was for himself. while hannibal certainly wasn't one to begrudge a survivalist attitude, dimmond's arrogant assumption that this gave him the upper hand in their dealings was enough to earn him an abject lesson in humility.

and presented the possibility of this truly intriguing crisis of faith for bedelia. he delighted in little more than he did watching such faith shatter: faith in herself, in who she thought she was, in what she had convinced herself she was or was not capable of. he dug mercilessly beneath the stitching that covered those old wounds, imagined the black sutures bursting, allowing her to emotionally relive that moment with her former patient. to confront the part of herself she had tried so long to hide from.

the swiftness with which he finally executed the man was not to alleviate his suffering. it was, rather, to illustrate a purposeful decisiveness, a startling certainty to contrast her hesitance. she would find no morality here, as he had cautioned her. there was action, and consequence. she would see both now, as she had desired to in coming here, see them in all their grotesque beauty.

her words move from a responsive hypothetical into something more damning - into advice, that includes her as much as it does he and dimmond. he tilts his head to turn his attention to the body once more, a tacit approval beneath his words, tone all too pleasant considering the subject at hand. ]

No, it should not. Which brings us to an interesting question. [ he looks back at her, chin lifted slightly ] What shall we do with our dear Mr. Dimmond? [ his gaze is unwavering as he waits for her response, more insistent pressure on her psychological wounds.

the last time they had been in a room together with a body, he had taken the responsibility out of her hands, stained red as they had been. done the work of cleaning up for her. allowed her to find comfort in his assistance.

now, he withdraws that net brutally from beneath her, allows her to sense the impending plummet. it doesn't matter that he already has something in mind for mr. dimmond. he wants her to believe, for a moment, that the choice is in her hands. wants her to struggle through making it.

wants to hear the conclusion she draws. ]

[relevee]

[ she glances away from the body, stomach suddenly roiling without warning. she's not feeling particularly inclined in the direction of fainting at this moment - not the way she had before, falling unconscious next to the body of their former patient and only coming to after a fair amount of time had passed. it had been enough time to concoct a story, to rewrite it even after it had already been told to them both. it had been enough time for her to wash her hands free of blood, to take a white silk blouse off that she would never be able to wear again. hannibal's hands on her face had been gentle, the barest brush of fingertips tilting her head to one side under the light to scrub the dried flakes of blood from her skin. it is those same hand, she thinks, that had so expertly taken the life from anthony dimmond with a mere snap of his neck.

she does not know what she would do if he dared come close to her now, and she's almost grateful when he doesn't.like the memory of the bath, she can feel herself slipping into darkness, beginning the deep descent as the waters start to rise up with the intention of enfolding over her head, cocooning her entire body in nothing but unforgiving black. she'd been able to resurface before, to find her breath again in sucking gasps - but it seems as though there will be no emerging from it this time.

he refers to it by name and she shakes her head - a barely imperceptible movement on her part, but he is paying attention. it is not what she is planning to do that matters, ultimately. he has had a plan for this since before the man first showed up to dinner tonight. this is just a different game he plays, this kind of party, one designed to upend and dismantle and completely force her to re-examine everything she thought she knew.

when her eyes meet his again, she's more removed, no hint of a tremor in her voice as she speaks. ]

Are you planning on eating him, Hannibal?

[entrees]

[ watching the conflict play out upon her features, sensing the dread excitement on the air, is a greater feast than any he could otherwise prepare. he watches her process it, push through it, come out the other side with that cooler gaze fixed on his own, which remains unrelenting through it all. ]

Parts of him, perhaps. [ the admission is brutally dismissive, an undisguised after-thought. he finally looks away from her, fixing his eyes on the body with a critical air, visibly dissecting dimmond in his mind. ] I have something special in mind for him.

[relevee]

[ she hasn't moved from this spot since the moment he first struck, blindsiding dimmond as well as her, partially. now it's her turn to cross the room, changing her fixed position, her heels decisively meeting the floor as she steps toward and around the body, careful to avoid treading on any blood.

her destination is the drinks tray and she stops in front of it to pour herself something, willing her hands not to shake as she pours some of the dark liquid into a small tumbler. the glass decanter rattles against the metal when she puts the lid back on and she slides fingers around her drink in a secure grip before lifting it to her lips, tossing it back with a soft exhale.

she swivels back to face him, still holding the empty glass in both hands. ]

I think he would've appreciated that, in a way.

[entrees]

[ he lets her pass by him, waiting for her to speak again, his lips drawing up in the corner, his amusement at that positively ghastly. ] I am quite certain of it. [ dimmond carried himself with the easy arrogance of a man who thought himself set apart from the rest, a false impression, but one that he had been clearly convinced of. ] Now the real work begins. [ there's much to be done to prepare the body for the project he's envisioned. those organs that he wishes to preserve will need to be harvested and prepared, the incriminating trail of blood dividing the room eradicated, the rest of mr. dimmond rendered more ... portable. ]

[relevee]

[ she hasn't looked him in the eye directly until now, either, and when she does she's very nearly taken aback by what she witnesses in the moment. he'd explained to her matter-of-factly the shedding of his person suit at his home, the night she'd found him washing himself clean in hers. she'd turned a gun on him but found herself unable to fire it and even now she berates herself for that choice.

she hadn't seen him discard the layers he worked so hard to preserve, only the mere aftermath. now, she sees the horrible truth of what it looks like in the moment and she's taken aback, stopping short of standing within arm's reach. ]

How certain are you that no one will come looking for him?

[entrees]

[ he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and begins rolling up his sleeves past his elbows with deliberate movements, holding that eye contact as long as she will grant it, reading the turmoil there. ] Mr. Dimmond knew that I had stolen Dr. Fell's identity, but did not understand my purposes for doing so. Instead of inquiring, he came here to make some arrangement that would allow us to continue as we were, if he stood to benefit in some way.

You had every chance to observe him as well as I did. Tell me. Do you believe this man expected harm to befall him when he came to dine with us tonight, enough to encourage him to inform someone of his intended whereabouts before his arrival?

Or you do think his arrogance caused him to believe he was in control of this situation, to keep quiet, out of some misplaced belief that the potential profit would outweigh any potential immorality in collaborating with whatever led us to assume the Fell name?

[relevee]

[ the tension in her hands is evident in her hold on the glass, that tightness in her knuckles palpable until she turns back to pour herself another drink. the liquid splashing into the glass is a strangely soothing sound and this time her hand doesn't shake. there's a methodicalness to him now, a calm as he performs the act of rolling up his sleeves. a part of her wants to call it a detachment but she knows he's never been more present than he is in this moment that he shares with her, one she doubts he's shared with very many other people besides - except will graham.

she picks up the glass again but doesn't drink from it, the hollow sound of her heels and the whisper of fabric against skin tracking her movement for him even if she can still feel his gaze on her. ]

He would have tried to blackmail you. To blackmail us.

[ a foolish attempt at gaining the upper hand, like wandering into the den when the lion is hungry and believing that he would re-emerge unscathed.

she sets the glass down. crosses the room to where he stands and idly reaches in to smooth over the rolled sleeve of his shirt across his arm. she does not look at him immediately, only lets her gaze trail upward after speaking again. ]

What would you have me do?

[entrees]

[ /fires myself from early morning tags where i don't even get the episode timeline remotely right whatsoever shhh that never happened i've got this now

hannibal looks down at her for an inscrutable moment at the contact, studying her face, before he once again withdraws his handkerchief and raises it to her cheek, pausing for a moment to allow her to remember that she's still stained with dimmond's blood. he waits for her silent agreement before he wipes it away, the motions surer and firmer than the last occasion he had to do the same. the blood has been there long enough to leave a slight stain beneath, upon the skin, but that will take more careful attention on her behalf to remove entirely.

an appropriate precursor then, to answering her question. he pockets the handkerchief, as he grants her a response. ]

At the end of the hall, you will find baking soda, white vinegar, and peroxide amid the supplies in the closet. [ he gestures to the trail of blood with a slight motion of his elbow ] They will serve for the floor.

[ whether her question implied that she was truly volunteering her assistance, or whether she had been hoping he would instruct her to stay out of the way, he wasn't quite certain that she was ready to assist in any task that involved the body directly. this would serve a two-fold purpose, in granting her a sense of lateral cooperation with the disposal of dimmond's body, and in relieving hannibal of what was to him the distasteful task of treating the blooded floors. the full, rich scents of flesh and organs held their own latent appeal to him and his particular appetites, but his heightened sense of smell made working with the acrid strong-odored cleaning chemicals into an unpleasant necessity, as he saw it. ] And I will see to our would-be extortionist.

[relevee]

[ she doesn't flinch. doesn't let herself shrink and wither as he lifts the handkerchief to apply it to her cheek. it calls back to another time when he'd done similarly for her - but then his touch had been gentle, almost soothing, his application of the water on her skin almost something of a baptism. she'd closed her eyes under it the first time; now she keeps them open, waiting until he drops his hand away from her face.

she won't be able to do this in her dress. that's the first thought that crosses her mind - trying to picture doing it in what she's wearing and heels. she considers that for a beat and then nods quietly, turning on her heel. her hands reach behind her back to find the zipper on her dress and lower it slowly as she walks - again, calling back to another time when he'd done it for her, but then she hadn't had a body to concern herself with the last time, long before she even had to wonder if anthony dimmond would be a problem.

what would you have me do, bedelia?

she's in a robe, in bare feet by the time she returns with what's required, gingerly stepping around the path of blood leading to the exit - but she stays out of his way, beginning at the spot of origin in order to start cleaning. in her mind, that will be the hardest to get up first, the place where the blood has started to dry and cake against the floor. her hair is beginning to spring free from its set curls, falling in front of her face as she kneels to begin. ]

[entrees]

[ by the time she returns, the body has been moved, a testament to Hannibal's deceptive strength. It's the sounds that echo down the hallway which announce his part in this grim work, and in the relative quiet of the foyer, those noises, distant at first to her ears, would loom louder, magnify as they become the only audible point of focus: the metallic clink of tools, both medical and culinary, the peeling, wet sounds of the body giving way beneath them. Without being able to see what he's doing to prompt each such gruesome note, the imagination is left to fill in the blanks. He has left the door to the room where he works open, knowing that her task will place her where she cannot help but listen.

The blood is stubborn, but as she works her way closer to the door, she would be able to see that before removing Anthony Dimmond from the place of his final moments, Hannibal has latched the doors.

She would get the quiet, certain sense that this was not merely to keep someone without from interrupting their work. Any doubt she had of this would likely be removed by the way he has carefully set the suitcase she had had in hand when he returned up on the table, in the very center of it.

He feels no need to confront her about this. The quiet reminder of her failed departure, and the act that she now engages in willingly, cementing her part in this, would make his point with silent, sinister eloquence. ]

[relevee]

[ her stomach leaps into her throat at the sight of the suitcase; she wrings out the rag that has been soaking in the cleaning solution a little tighter than she means to and the scent of vinegar seeps into everything, every crevice. she's on her knees scrubbing until the cloth and her hands are stained pink. in the dim lighting it could almost be as if she'd spilled a glass of wine on herself, struggling to wash it clean before it sets.

she can hear the sound of bones breaking - that sharp snap like someone stepping on sticks in the woods, sudden and unexpected, and she pauses to sit back on her heels. looks at one of her hands and holds it out in front of her. she can see the bones shifting underneath her skin. such strong things that hold the human body together - and yet, in an instant, can be broken.

she does not enter the neighboring room when she is finished, almost as if she can't bring herself to see the horror of it for herself. this is participation, but only to a point.

she scrubs her hands beneath the faucet until the water runs clear again. her robe is wet, the silk blotched and damp. she looks at her reflection in the mirror almost as if she is reluctant to see his face looking back at her. ]

[entrees]

[ it is intricate work, this origami grostesquerie of his, and he has donned one of his tailored plastic suits for the crafting of it, as a sculptor might don an apron. He turns away from his project only to go and fetch a rather specific saw from another room of the house. In so doing, he notices the sound of running water in the bathroom, moves to stand at the threshold, studying her as she struggles to examine herself in the reflection. After a moment, he speaks. ]

What do you see, Bedelia, now that your eyes are open?

[relevee]

[ he is somehow immaculate in this, polished even while he dismembers and handles limbs with care. there is an ironic intimacy in this, perhaps moreso than in the moment she had held a gun on him. the baring of the self holds more sensuality than the baring of the body. she suddenly feels as though she could just as easily be standing there naked, exposed.

she braces her hands against the edges of the sink and looks at him in the mirror. ]

A man that I never truly knew until this moment.

[entrees]

[ as it has long been in his company, her tremoring fear is balanced by a quiet resiliency, and hannibal allows himself a moment's rumination on how this is the enticing duality of her character, that which holds his interest, this creature of such fragility and such steel.

He, too, thinks of bones. And of breaking. ] You once said you saw enough to see to the truth of me. [ there's a certain cruelty in the reminder, and he waits for her flinch, curious if she will evince it. She'd also said, then, that she liked him, in spite of what she claimed to see about his true character. he waited for her to remember her own words, for them to taste bitter in her memory.

What did it say about her, that she had once claimed as much? ]

Is this not what you expected to find, beneath my human veil?

[relevee]

I do not know what I expected to find. I only had hints of what you hid under your person suit.

[ her gaze does not shift away from his; she only breaks it when she turns to face him directly instead of speaking to a reflection. there, confronted with the hard evidence of the truth, she finds her resolve.

she's holding the rag in one hand, limply resting at her side. she walks over to him leisurely as though exhausted by the events of the day. ]

You once helped me when I asked it of you. That too was a truth that I would not soon forget.

[entrees]

[ she chooses her words with such deliberate care, something he has always valued about her, particularly in this modern age, where what most call 'communication' has become increasingly mislabeled as such. It is part of her elegance, of her poise. While she is often frank with him, she is never truly candid, shrouding herself in ways that are in part a habit of her profession, but in other ways an essential characteristic of her personality. even now, he can sense the hidden meanings roiling beneath her words, finds excitement in the interplay.

Comparing the two situations she refers to is bold, given the motivations behind each. She is sweeping aside degrees of morality, or at least granting the appearance of placing a higher value on the dynamic of personal debt, or gratitude.

As she's said, Hannibal can appreciate even mere appearances, more than most. He lets her have them. ] I see.

My work with Mr. Dimmond will take some time. I think you have helped enough for this evening, Bedelia.

[relevee]

[ her relief is palpable at the reprieve he has issued her - permission, if not absolution, to remove herself of this participation into which she only slightly entered willingly. it is this sensation that ripples through her and floods her body with calm; she pauses to allow him a brief nod of acknowledgment, of appreciation at this release.

almost subconsciously, she draws the edges of her robe more securely around her body, tightening the knot at her waist. ]

Then, if you don't mind, I'll be in the bath.

[entrees]

[ he reads into the shift in her demeanor, although his eyes don't specifically drop to follow the movement of her hands at her waist, remaining on her face instead. he turns to cast his gaze across the room for a moment, before he steps back out of the door frame and into the hall. ] Very well.

[ the plastic suit makes the slightest whispering noise at the movement, a single droplet of blood sliding its way off from a previously creased ridge that shifted to set it free, skating further down his side, a macabre shiver of motion. ] Good night. [ he turns from her, with that deceptively benign well-wishing hanging in the air, after reaching out to close the door partially for her. ]