hadriel_logs | A Dinner of Delights [OPEN]

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A Dinner of Delights [OPEN]

Who: Hannibal and YOU!
What: A dinner party for the benefit of Delight
Where: A restaurant in the ruins
When: Backdated to the evening of the 18th
Warnings: Nothing yet....depends on what the guests decide to do! Will update accordingly.

***

In the morning, a card is slipped under everyone's door with these words written in an ornate hand:

Your attendance is kindly requested for dinner this evening ~ Dr. Hannibal Lecter

There's a map drawn below those words that indicates a location in one of the ruined parts of Hadriel. If you're brave enough, curious enough, or perhaps foolish enough to follow the map that evening, you find one of the old restaurants has been cleared out and furnished with simple wooden tables and chairs, all covered in candles, giving the room a warm, sensual glow. One long table is set against the wall, and is heavy laden with a wide variety of what are essentially tapas, small dishes so artfully presented that they are almost too beautiful to eat. Almost, until you get close enough for the scent to make your mouth water. There are bottles of spirits from Delight's bar at one end of the table, and Hannibal is standing there, impeccably dressed in a suit and trinity-knotted tie. When guests enter he greets them with a smile, and pours them a drink.

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Hannibal notes the outfit and the weapons. He might have found it rude for his guests to be armed back in Baltimore (or, at least, those without service weapons) but this place is different. He can't begrudge the man self-protection in the face of the terrors potentially lurking in the city.

He would, however, have to remember this man.

"I'm afraid it's not a welcome party," he remarks with a smile. "Just a dinner party." He offers a hand. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter."

Dangerous times call for dangerous measures, even when you're virtually immune to anything that can give you even the slightest case of death. Wade's gotten so used to just toting his weaponry around with him that they've almost become like appendages to him. Besides... it was sort of like free advertisement. One never knew who was carrying cash and looking for some extra muscle.

"Ah, don't listen to me. I'm just bein' snarky on account of the fact that I rarely get invited to these kinds of things. You usually bring wine or something to a party, right? I'll have to remember it for next time."

Wade's never trusted doctors in the best of times, especially not ones who have a degree in messing around with the brain pan, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Fight a guy to the death afterwards if you have to, but at least shake his hand first-- that was Wade's motto. Usually. Occasionally. He might've said it at one time.

Wade grasps the man's hand and gives it a hearty shake. "Wade Wilson. Or Deadpool, if... y'know. You're not into the whole brevity thing. My friends call me Wade, though-- it's not like it's a secret identity or anything."

Have you clued in that this man's a talker yet, Dr. Lecter?

Were Hannibal in need of protection or a hired gun, he would almost certainly choose this man. His posture, the easy, casual grace of his movements, the confidence in his voice, all are the hallmarks of a man well trained to fight, a man who deserves that suit, those guns at his hips. An aficionado of killers, Hannibal finds himself quite interested in the man, and doubly so when it becomes clear that this is one of the people he spoke with over the network about psychiatry. And a particular one at that.

"Wade. It's..."

Hannibal pauses as a certain scent meets his nose, one he knows quite well as indicative of cancer. But this is incredibly strong, and of several different types of the deadly disease. In his years of experience as a doctor, he is genuinely surprised this man is still alive.

He clears his throat.

"Pardon me. It's very good to meet you."

Huh. That pause was kind of weird. Brain-fart, perhaps? Wade didn't know head doctors could get those, but he supposes everyone's guilty of those at one point or another. Shit-- he doesn't have a booger, does he?

Releasing the man's hand-- dude has a strong handshake, which he notes with mild approval-- Wade briefly and surreptitiously checks his face with two fingers on the pretense of scratching his nose. Nothing odd there that he can feel, which is a relief. Maybe this Lecter guy just needed a moment to collect his thoughts. Judging from the accent-- he can't get a read on what it is, but the inflection sounds vaguely European-- English might not be his first language.

"Likewise." Said in a vague, distracted tone, partly because he hasn't made up his mind whether it is good to meet this guy yet, but mostly because his appetite's taken the wheel again. He casts his gaze once more over the food laid out before him, as if taking in the lavish culinary pornography for the first time. Appreciatively, he whistles.

"Where'd you get the spread, doc? I didn't know this place actually had catering here."

Edited 2017-04-13 14:03 (UTC)

Hannibal steps to the side, gesturing toward the table, inviting his guest to it. "No catering, no. I made everything here. The ingredients available in Hadriel are, shall we say, eclectic. It made for quite a challenge, and one that I hope I've succeeded to match." He watches as the man moves, noting no particular weakness that might identify any specific cancers, no tremors or breathing irregularities. And certainly his appetite was unhindered.

"How long have you been in Hadriel, Wade?"

Well. You don't have to tell Wade twice. The man plops himself down in one of the seats just as easy as you please, plucking one one of the appetizers from its plate and popping it into his mouth with relish. His eyes immediately roll back and he utters a sigh he doesn't bother to suppress as the flavor virtually explodes over his taste buds.

Fortunately, he has the presence of mind to finish chewing and swallowing before he speaks.

"Mmnh-- jesus christ it's like my mouth had an orgasm. What would you even call that, an oral-gasm?"

He grabs one of the empty plates and proceeds to load it up with more food.

"What was the question again? Oh-- how long have I been in Hadriel, right. Uhhh... kinda hard to say, actually. Six months? A year? Time kinda flies when you're livin' in a cave, y'know?"

Hannibal might not particularly approve of the man's less than refined choice of language, but he is sufficiently prideful in his culinary skills that the man's reaction to the morsel forgives many sins.

"You're very kind. And a year is a long time to be in a cave." Had he been sick when he came here? Was it something he developed while he was here? Was it because of this place, because he had been here so long? Or was it this place that was keeping him alive, even as his body filled with tumors?

Curious.

"May I get you a drink, Wade?"

Wade responds to that observation with a shrug. "Hey, aside from the jackass gods who don't seem to give a shit about us beyond our use as living batteries it ain't so bad. At least they had the good sense to let us have free rein instead of hookin' us up to machinery like we're in The Matrix. Somethin' about that flick always bugged me-- I mean, I wouldn't trust Keanu Reeves to hold the door open for me."

He's getting off-topic. Again. Kind of a chronic condition of his, really.

"Anyway, it's a helluva lot better than the place I used to live. At least this place doesn't have a dude with a hard-on for torture and a tenuous grasp on the Hippocratic Oath. Oh, and uh... I'd love a drink, thanks. Whatever you got'll be fine."

Hannibal remembered speaking to this man over the network, when he spoke about his mistrust of psychiatrists. That combined with these comments made Hannibal wonder if Wade had been in a psychiatric institution. He did not strike Hannibal as insane, but he had been in the field long enough to know that didn't mean anything.

He poured a glass of wine and turned back to his guest, offering him the glass.

"I feel I must apologize for my fellow disciple of Aeschylus. May I ask what you were hospitalized for?"

Unfortunately for Hannibal, Wade's not particularly classy when it comes to wine. He's not very classy when it comes to much of anything, really. So while he takes the offered glass of wine with a word of thanks like any polite guest, he holds the glass by the bowl the way that any well-respected wine-taster is instructed never to do. Hannibal's remark gives him pause, however-- he's not entirely sure who or what this "Eskalis" is, so he decides not to prove his ignorance by mentioning it.

"Wouldn't exactly say I was hospitalized per se-- I mean, I was at one point, but that's not what I'm talkin' about. Unless you imagine a hospital run by Jigsaw, anyway. You'd think I'd get used to that shit after the second time, y'know? Must be like, I dunno... givin' birth or something-- your mind just kinda blocks off the memory afterwards or whatever."

Hannibal noted the appalling way the man treated the wine, but made no outward show of it. Unfortunately, were he to consider the improper treatment of wine to be unforgivable, he would have far more people in his mental rolodex.

It was Wade's answer that was particularly interesting. Hannibal poured himself a glass of wine and sat beside his guest.

"Are you speaking of medical experimentation?"

Wade can't get a read on this guy-- strange really, he's usually so good at that-- but something nonetheless causes his heart to take a sickening plunge; causes him to regret spilling his guts out of his mouth. It's a chronic condition, one that he's had throughout most of his life, and as far as he knows there is no cure. Wade takes a bracing gulp of the wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he replies.

"In so many words, sure." A safe, noncommittal statement. "But hey-- if I came clean about all the raw shit I've seen, we'd be here all night, yeah? Not exactly good topics of conversation to help with digestion either, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Indeed." The man's discomfort is palpable. In other situations, that may well have been the signal for Hannibal to back off, lest he shut down someone who is particularly sensitive. This man, however, is not such a wilting flower. He wouldn't press him on the terrible things he's seen, but he would not pull back from what he planned to say next. He leans in to ensure that what he said was heard by Wade only.

"Tell me...did the cancer appear before or after the experimentation?"

Smart man. Probing without seeming like he's probing, in such a way that would make Wade want to divulge the information freely. Which is not to say that he's not willing to give Hannibal what he wants-- after all, the topic of Wade's cancer had long since stopped being a sensitive subject with him.

"Before. Definitely before. Leukemia, if you're wondering. The same thing Colonel Sanders died of, if I'm rememberin' correctly."

The mention of the fried chicken tycoon reminds Wade of how hungry he is, and he stuffs another forkful into his mouth. It's definitely not to stop him from talking. Not at all.

Hannibal notes Wade's table manners with a mild sense of distaste. "You may find that you enjoy the flavors more if you give them a chance to spread across your tongue before swallowing," he remarks, his tone gentle and devoid of the disapproval he feels. When Wade swallows, Hannibal continues his line of questioning.

"It started with leukemia, but it's more than that now, is it not?"

A sheepish smile in Hannibal's direction-- he's being polite as hell about it, but Wade knows when he's being chastised. The next forkful goes into his mouth more slowly, and he holds it in his mouth for a few seconds, savoring it. The man's not wrong-- the subtle flavors of the dish are sublime. Wade closes his eyes, chews; swallows.

"Heh. Sorry. Last place I was at didn't have much in terms of food, either. Gave me a real penchant for boltin' stuff down as soon as I get my hands on it. I'll try to rein it in, though. A spread like this is worth savoring."

He's about to pop another morsel into his mouth, but something in the far reaches of his mind stops him; arrests the fork on the way to his lips. He looks at Hannibal now, puzzled but not yet suspicious.

"Wait... did I tell you I had cancer?"

The inexcusably rude would have told Hannibal off for his remarks about the food, or continued gorging himself with no respect for Hannibal's artistry. That Wade took heed and slowed down, with clear appreciation, was a significant mark in his favor. As a psychiatrist, Hannibal had seen patients with various eating irregularities, and he was well familiar with the sort of learned behavior Wade was exhibiting.

At the last question, Hannibal gave a gentle smile. "You did not. Various illnesses produce distinct scents. These are commonly imperceptible to humans; however, I have a particularly acute sense of smell."

"Huh. Wait-- scents?"

Has he been stinking up the place this entire time without even knowing it? Wade puts his fork down, taking a moment to not-so-surreptitiously sniff under his armpit. Nothing strikes him as particularly pungent, save for a slight odor of blood and gunpowder that he's never been able to get out of his clothing. This guy must have the DNA of a bloodhound or something, to smell a disease like that.

"Uhh... soooo what does it smell like, then? In the interest of science, or whatever."

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A Dinner of Delights [OPEN]

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