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A Little of What You Fancy
Dec. 6th, 2018 02:21 am
I wrote this a couple of weeks ago for @bluecaliessi's Amuse-Bouche proverb challenge over on tumblr. The prompts are designed for people to create drabbles, or double drabbles, or triple drabbles, short vignettes up to a maximum word count of 500.
Oops? So I failed the challenge, but I did stick to a multiple of 100 at least!
Post-TWOTL, written in a couple of hours, not beta'd due to the last minute nature of my inspiration and the challenge deadline. I managed to keep two rules out of three :-)
Fic here on AO3 if you prefer to read or comment over there.
He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the curved wood of the chair. Relaxes into the hands manipulating his body, his arm slack within a firm grip. “Your spinatus muscles are tight.” Fingers press deeper around the ridge of his scapula, working in concert either side of the bone. “Have you been doing your exercises?”
He takes in another breath, full and slow, lets it seep out, the tension leeching away with the ebbing air. “Every day.”
Delicious, rhythmic movements probing above his collarbone, warmth seeping through the thin polycotton blend of his T-shirt. “Don’t overdo it, Will. The muscles and fascia have been repeatedly traumatised, and they haven’t healed well in the past.” A transition, a pause, the fingers sinking harder, the brief pain of a knot surging high.
Will inhales sharp, a moment so heavy it’s almost a burden, and then it crests and melts away in a wash of relief, and he’s close to laughing, the humour parched in his words. “It might heal better if people would stop stabbing and shooting me.”
Too much, he knows, even before the hands cease their work. A single second, frozen, the weight of time dragging like pins over his skin, and then there’s movement again. Movement with no words, no response to his flippancy, only the touch, silent, methodical and entirely professional.
There’s no honest conversation at these times, no human interaction or connection. There’s only necessity.
Necessity and the flood of endorphins, the heightening swell of his senses. The fingers moving lower, beyond the cloth and onto his exposed arm, the brush of them dry and slightly rough as they exhaustively explore his musculature. The flow of breath from a figure leaning close, the rich scent of apples and onions sliced only minutes before, and the hands, always the hands, the touch, the absence of boundaries. Careful, delicate, firm, testing, glorious hands, beautiful and vital, and then gone.
His eyes are closed and he still sees the change, the influx of light as the shadow pulls away.
When he sucks in enough air to open his eyes, Hannibal has already withdrawn, leaving Will to stare at the neat wave of his hair edging over the sharp collar of his shirt. Follow the pressed line of his sleeve down to his hands, to the long fingers and thick veins that moments ago kissed electricity over his skin.
“Hannibal.”
Hannibal stops and turns back, meeting his eyes. “Yes, Will?” His face is still and shuttered, his hands curled tense by his thighs.
It’s Will who drops his head, breaks the gaze. “Nothing.”
He’s not watching any more, only hearing the tap of feet on boards and the creak of leather as Hannibal sinks into the armchair across the room.
When Will was a kid, his dad would pretend not to see when he sneaked a cookie out of the jar, a trail of crumbs scattered across the kitchen. Later, he’d wink at him and say, “A little of what you fancy does you good.”
A little never did cut it for Will. It only ever whet his appetite, left him eyeing the jar from across the room with the sweetness lingering on his tongue, wanting more of the vanilla-chocolate flavour bursting out when he crushed down with his teeth.
Hannibal’s hands rest on the arms of the chair, fingers spread; a twitch, the lightest tap against the hide before they fall into calm.
Will scrunches his eyes shut to stop himself looking. If he looks, he’ll want to take, and if he takes, he’ll destroy.
He doesn’t need empathy to understand.
Hannibal doesn’t trust him, can’t trust him, always that cool layer of frosting sprinkled over the cookie. The dusting of doubt that maybe one day Will’s going to reject him, might move to kill him.
Only ever one cookie, the rest of the jar forbidden, out of reach.
The ache through the muscles wrapped around his shoulder is nothing to the ache suffused between his ribs.
“We’ll work more on your range of motion, tomorrow.” Hannibal’s voice, accented and rich, snaps his attention across the room. “We should begin exercises with the tension band.”
Will’s muscles twitch within his thigh, within his chest, air forced from his lungs.
Tomorrow. There’ll be another cookie tomorrow.
Hannibal will keep working on Will, and Will’s going to keep working on Hannibal, keep working until the day he can finally shatter the glass and feast on everything inside.
They’ll get there. He knows they will.
He tips his head back once more, slides into the saturated pigments of his mind, lets the fingers press into his skin once more. Lets them glide and spread over the contours of his body.
They’ll get there, because otherwise it’s all been for nothing.
Oops? So I failed the challenge, but I did stick to a multiple of 100 at least!
Post-TWOTL, written in a couple of hours, not beta'd due to the last minute nature of my inspiration and the challenge deadline. I managed to keep two rules out of three :-)
Fic here on AO3 if you prefer to read or comment over there.
He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the curved wood of the chair. Relaxes into the hands manipulating his body, his arm slack within a firm grip. “Your spinatus muscles are tight.” Fingers press deeper around the ridge of his scapula, working in concert either side of the bone. “Have you been doing your exercises?”
He takes in another breath, full and slow, lets it seep out, the tension leeching away with the ebbing air. “Every day.”
Delicious, rhythmic movements probing above his collarbone, warmth seeping through the thin polycotton blend of his T-shirt. “Don’t overdo it, Will. The muscles and fascia have been repeatedly traumatised, and they haven’t healed well in the past.” A transition, a pause, the fingers sinking harder, the brief pain of a knot surging high.
Will inhales sharp, a moment so heavy it’s almost a burden, and then it crests and melts away in a wash of relief, and he’s close to laughing, the humour parched in his words. “It might heal better if people would stop stabbing and shooting me.”
Too much, he knows, even before the hands cease their work. A single second, frozen, the weight of time dragging like pins over his skin, and then there’s movement again. Movement with no words, no response to his flippancy, only the touch, silent, methodical and entirely professional.
There’s no honest conversation at these times, no human interaction or connection. There’s only necessity.
Necessity and the flood of endorphins, the heightening swell of his senses. The fingers moving lower, beyond the cloth and onto his exposed arm, the brush of them dry and slightly rough as they exhaustively explore his musculature. The flow of breath from a figure leaning close, the rich scent of apples and onions sliced only minutes before, and the hands, always the hands, the touch, the absence of boundaries. Careful, delicate, firm, testing, glorious hands, beautiful and vital, and then gone.
His eyes are closed and he still sees the change, the influx of light as the shadow pulls away.
When he sucks in enough air to open his eyes, Hannibal has already withdrawn, leaving Will to stare at the neat wave of his hair edging over the sharp collar of his shirt. Follow the pressed line of his sleeve down to his hands, to the long fingers and thick veins that moments ago kissed electricity over his skin.
“Hannibal.”
Hannibal stops and turns back, meeting his eyes. “Yes, Will?” His face is still and shuttered, his hands curled tense by his thighs.
It’s Will who drops his head, breaks the gaze. “Nothing.”
He’s not watching any more, only hearing the tap of feet on boards and the creak of leather as Hannibal sinks into the armchair across the room.
When Will was a kid, his dad would pretend not to see when he sneaked a cookie out of the jar, a trail of crumbs scattered across the kitchen. Later, he’d wink at him and say, “A little of what you fancy does you good.”
A little never did cut it for Will. It only ever whet his appetite, left him eyeing the jar from across the room with the sweetness lingering on his tongue, wanting more of the vanilla-chocolate flavour bursting out when he crushed down with his teeth.
Hannibal’s hands rest on the arms of the chair, fingers spread; a twitch, the lightest tap against the hide before they fall into calm.
Will scrunches his eyes shut to stop himself looking. If he looks, he’ll want to take, and if he takes, he’ll destroy.
He doesn’t need empathy to understand.
Hannibal doesn’t trust him, can’t trust him, always that cool layer of frosting sprinkled over the cookie. The dusting of doubt that maybe one day Will’s going to reject him, might move to kill him.
Only ever one cookie, the rest of the jar forbidden, out of reach.
The ache through the muscles wrapped around his shoulder is nothing to the ache suffused between his ribs.
“We’ll work more on your range of motion, tomorrow.” Hannibal’s voice, accented and rich, snaps his attention across the room. “We should begin exercises with the tension band.”
Will’s muscles twitch within his thigh, within his chest, air forced from his lungs.
Tomorrow. There’ll be another cookie tomorrow.
Hannibal will keep working on Will, and Will’s going to keep working on Hannibal, keep working until the day he can finally shatter the glass and feast on everything inside.
They’ll get there. He knows they will.
He tips his head back once more, slides into the saturated pigments of his mind, lets the fingers press into his skin once more. Lets them glide and spread over the contours of his body.
They’ll get there, because otherwise it’s all been for nothing.
