Dr Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal had definitely figured out it was one of those days. He wasn't exactly the type to break into song about his ingredients otherwise. He was hardly going to let a little singing get in the way of a dinner party, though; he'd been planning and cooking, and after all, there was only so much singing they could do while they were actually eating.

He hoped Kanan and his friend weren't the type to sing with their mouths full, anyway.

[OOC: Expecting a few, but open if you like!]

Hannibal smoothed down his lapels - burgundy with a lighter pinstripe - and tweaked his gold tie and pocket square into position.

"Well?" he asked with a smirk.( Read more... )

[Preplayed with the awesome furnaceface! NFB once they're in London, due to distance.]

So, because Hannibal loved being nosy people-watching like a train wreck helping people through their traumas (and a good excuse to cook), he'd decided on a dinner party for tonight. He'd even put up signs.

And then he'd cooked. A lot.

There were crudites, assorted styles of bruschetta, several different meats (all of them non-sentient), a number of desserts, and numerous bottles of wine, beer, and liquor.

And if fewer people showed up than he hoped, it just meant some homeless shelter would eat very well.

There were also darts, billiards, and a card table downstairs, and if people wanted to start their own games, well..."Never had I Ever" would probably get Hannibal very drunk, but that was neither here nor there.



[Open post! Come and party your dead-people's trauma away!]

Hannibal and Jono had returned from their honeymoon in time for Christmas Eve, but where most people might have taken a few days to relax, Hannibal was taking the opportunity to cook.

Sparkle had been invited, along with their collective students, and they'd asked that word be passed to anyone who might still be on the island and needing or wanting to spend the holiday with others.

There were eggnog, coffee, lamb, quail, copious roasted vegetables, and desserts in the oven. The fireplaces were lit, and the smells of pine, spices, and roasting meats were everywhere.

Christmas was ready!


[OOC: EVERYONE IS INVITED! If you're around, feel free to drop in. SP is the name of the game, I expect.]

Jono had been handling the latest of the island's whims fairly well, but it was obvious that he'd needed a bit of time regardless. Not that Hannibal minded the massages and the food-sharing.

Eventually, however, they were going to have to discuss the yet another wedding plan, this one as minimalist as possible, that had gotten, to use his (still) fiancé's parlance, totally buggered.

And as Jono had made it to class Wednesday, Hannibal thought that the time might be now.

Hannibal woke early in the morning; his nose was the first to tell him there was something wrong.

As he stretched out the kinks of sleeping on the couch and looked around, the rest became apparent - the living room he was in was still his own, but...dingier. There were scratches on one wall and gouges out of another as if something heavy had hit it repeatedly. Several pieces of furniture were missing. He flicked on the lamp, but got nothing - nor, he realized, could he hear the hum of the fan circulating heat. No power, then. Possibly no gas.

He found Jono and padded over to him, avoiding waking the children that might still be asleep. What happened? he asked, putting a hand on his back.



[Open to anyone who stayed or who wants to find their way there!]

Hannibal had gotten up early that morning and skipped his morning run in favor of heading directly to the Boards. He still wasn't entirely convinced that the cleanup should be his job, but he did have the expertise for it, and he wanted Jono happy, so he'd been willing to make the compromise. Today was the last of it.

Which didn't mean he actually enjoyed it all. He'd already swept up bits of vases and ribbons, candles and dead flowers, and set the broken chairs to one side; today he had left for cleaning up the blood stains from the floor and the side of the stage. By the time he'd finished enough to call and schedule the carpenter and contractor for the rest, he was sweaty, slightly sore, and more than a little annoyed.

A shower took care of some of that. The rest, he fully intended to take out on Jono.



[OOC: For the one mentioned, expected to go NSFW, and standard warnings for what these guys do not really being remotely safe or sane for anybody but them. (But it is completely consensual.)]

Between his cracked ribs, wrenched leg, and bruised...everything...it took a while longer for Hannibal to get home than usual, even with Jono helping.

Well, at least they had dinner already made, thanks to Eliot. And the time spent wrapped so close to Jono did give him time to soak in Hannibal's calm, which would hopefully help. Along with the aches and pains he was feeling, unfortunately; Hannibal had considered attempting to hide them, but he rather thought Jono wouldn't thank him for that.

Luckily, there was a full bath on the lower level, since that seemed to be where Hannibal was grounded to.

He wasn't bothering to hide his amusement at being grounded, either. Even if he suspected it rather defeated the purpose.

"Am I entitled to towels after my soak?"

Hannibal marched into the music room to where Jono was playing guitar and held out a bouquet of strawberries. "Happy birthday." With his other hand, he held out Jono's voucher from Portalocity. "I've booked us a portal to Sweden; the standard hotel next to the icehotel is open in summer now."

And it didn't smell overpoweringly of cheese.

Today had been a mix of overcoming a hangover, finishing the preparations for class, class itself, cooking a proper breakfast and lunch, and trying to find time in between to reconnect with both himself and Jono.

Now, home from class and with nothing else to do (before they had to start planning a third wedding), Hannibal had fallen back on an assortment of berries with chocolate sauce, and coffee with brandy.

He was eating it in bed, and to hell with it. If the sheets got sauce on them, they could be washed. Or thrown out.

This was as close as Hannibal got to a Mood without being actively homicidal.