cook_the_rude: (Bookcases increase credibility)
Hannibal's room in Milliways is quite simple, compared to the way he lived in Florence.
There is a book case full of well-worn old books, a small fireplace with a comfortable-looking chair, some historical prints of Florence, and a small harpsichord. There's a desk, and a desk chair to go with it. Most furniture is vintage midcentury modern, unobtrusively luxurious and classic. He even has what must be a small kitchen, made up from two towers and an island.
Everything is rich, warm wood and mature colours -- an off-grey, and some accents in oxblood red.

He turns on the lights, which are gentle and indirect, and leads Sin inside.

"Would you like a drink?"
cook_the_rude: (Cooking the rude)
 The restaurant is locked down, but a little foray into a side alley and three minutes with a set of lockpicks get Hannibal and Noriko into the kitchen of the closed restaurant.

When he turns on the lights rows of gleaming professional cook stations made of stainless steel shimmer in the flickering neon. Hannibal opens the walk-in fridge, and takes a few minutes to view it all.

"Even the mushrooms are still good," he says. "What would you like to eat?"
cook_the_rude: (xx -- AU vampire -- curious)
Lecter leads the way outside, turning towards the Caribbean inlet. "I want you to be warm and comfortable," he explains. "None of the danger should stem from harsh rushes or sharp-edged stones against your skin."
cook_the_rude: (**Cubefall16 - female cynic)
 Hannibal's room is almost unchanged -- apart from the pictures, which are mostly paintings of exotic beaches today, giving the room a more colourful and slightly more cheerful air than usual.

Hannibal opens the door, stands aside, and smiles. "And this time," 'she' says, "we won't even offend Noriko -- this body is wholly my own."
cook_the_rude: (Best office ever)
Hannibal's office is brightly lit today, the windows open to let in grey wintery light which washes palely over the furniture and art.

The pictures are Tang dynasty landscape paintings today, interspersed with court scenes of officials wearing complex hats.

Hannibal politely gestures at the couch, then goes to fetch the wine glasses.
cook_the_rude: (My friend the escargot)
 Hannibal leads the way upstairs and to his private room -- which is as it was. Mostly.

"Dream of the Fisherman's Wife" is gone from the walls; instead, there are archaeological drawing of Scythian tattoos, with the merest hint at the bodies they used to be applied to, the stark black art dominating the pencilled outline of a neck, a shoulder, a thigh, a pair of buttocks.
cook_the_rude: (Best office ever)
 Hannibal's office looks much as it always does, with the one difference that the prints of cityscapes and fancy scenes have mostly been replaced with 18th century illustrations for de Sade works.

Hannibal holds the door for Ganymede, then closes it with something of a hurry.
cook_the_rude: (zzz -- Bodyswap Noriko)
 Hannibal leads the way upstairs and to his private room -- which is as it was. Mostly.

Among the pictures on the wall, the infamous shunga print "Dream of the Fisherman's Wife" (also known as "Octopus and Abalone Diver") now takes pride on place, as if to comment on the present situation.
cook_the_rude: (zz -- One-Eye: tattoos)
Bending his neck to whisper into the man's ear, Ganymede continues. "I welcome the challenge of taking you, barbarian. Our of you taking me. Unlikely, though."

Hannibal laughs, grabs Ganymede around the middle, and starts walking towards the back door.

Ganymede kicks once involuntarily, and laughs as he's half carried and half dragged towards the outdoors, to do...or, well, to be done, rather.

The door slams shut, and out in the dark, Hannibal drags him towards the lake shore.
cook_the_rude: (zz -- One-Eye: tattoos)
It seems like an invasion, the dirty, scruffy barbarian striding into the clean, civilised room. Kitchen and bed, desk and dining table, book cases and sofa are all still there. The prints on the walls today are vintage 1950s fashion plates and pin-ups, giving the place a touch of playfulness.

The large polished table with six chairs awaits the pleasure of the diners.
cook_the_rude: (Hannibal prefers blue and plaid)
 Hannibal's office is dimmer today, the windows largely covered by dark grey blackout blinds to keep out the summer sun, while two lamps, one by the couch, the other stooped over the drawing table, provide islands in the soft gloom.

The prints on the wall, still mostly Istanbul, and harem scenes, have now been joined by a series from the 18th century depicting Farinelli in different operatic costumes that all have ridiculously huge and long plumes on the helmet or hats in common.

Hannibal puts down the exhausted Sinric on the couch and then fetches his medical bag from the closed bottom part of the book case.
cook_the_rude: (I smell...)
[[From here]]

The doctor's office is much as it was the last time, with the one difference that one or two of the city views may have been exchanged for languid, sensual 18th century 'harem' scenes.

Dr. Lecter opens the door and leads the way inside.

"Please, do take a seat," he says, gesturing at the couch.

He closes the door, eyes on Sinric.
cook_the_rude: (Best office ever)
The door opens onto a -- living space, for want of a better word. It is a hall, may have been a ball-room when this house (it is old, for America) was first built; but now, it's a library, a museum, a lair.

There are books, so many books -- book-cases line the walls of the ground floor at intervals, interspersed with 18th and 19th century prints, small paintings, a comfortable blue sofa, a fireplace, a drawing table, more art...

On the mezzanine, there are even more books -- the walls are solid shelves, solidly filled with books. There is a ladder leading up there, but it looks a tad awkward and unused, as if the vampire didn't really need it to get up there.

Pride of place, in the middle of the room, where in the actual Hannibal's Best Office Ever would be the never-used couch, is a comfortable yellow rococo love-seat.

There is a fire in the fireplace, and a bottle of red wine on the drawing table, breathing beside an empty glass.
cook_the_rude: (xx -- AU vampire -- brooding)
 Hannibal Lecter is a vampire that vaguely belongs to the tradition of the 'Vampire Chronicles' -- susceptible to sunlight, fire, and beheading, less impressed with the religious symbols, or silver. When his body changed, he lost the ability to enjoy all human pleasures which are instead sublimated into drinking blood.

Being Hannibal Lecter, he has a very fine palate for individual taste, and can tell great details from a single drop. He will savour different humans as if they were courses or wines at a dinner. If they behave and comply, they might even survive. If they comply very well, they will be fed delicacies which Hannibal then enjoys through their blood.

Hannibal Lecter was born a few years before World War II. in Lithuania, where his family belonged to the old nobility; his parents and little sister Misha were murdered by Lithuanian Nazi collaborators, he himself ended up in a Soviet orphanage after the war. He ran away to France where he joined his uncle and his uncle's Japanese partner who put him through a posh boarding school, and some years later jumped at the chance to turn himself into vampire so he would be able to avenge his family in a sufficiently bloody manner.

That accomplished, he went to America in the 1960s and has been living ever since in a grand old 19th century mansion just outside Baltimore, collecting books, musical instruments, interesting people and the recipes and wines that he plies them with, amassing great fortune the way vampires tend to do.

He will treat you well -- up to and including the moment he bites you.
cook_the_rude: (Best office ever)
When Sinric follows Dr. Lecter to his office upstairs, he will find it's near the library, in an area of the non-linear rooms section that feels more business-like because of that location and the presence of the indoor chapel that had been used before Javert's church was finished.

It is small but functional, with clean-lined modernist furniture made of pale wood contrasting with the 18th and 19th century prints of Istanbul cityscapes and 'Turkish' harem scenes that were quite the fashion at the rococo period in ornate frames that adorn the walls. There are two comfortable chairs with end-tables, a small book-case, and a pale leather couch. There is a small drawing table with two straight-backed chairs that, at this moment, holds nothing but a flower arrangement. There are two doors, one slightly ajar to reveal a tiny pantry kitchen, the other firmly closed, with a covered lock that clearly labels it a bathroom door, lockable from the inside.

There are two floor-length windows obscured by pale, gauzy blinds, at the bottom of which a balcony is visible, and beyond its grate, the lake area, with a view to the stables, the garden, and the forge.

Dr. Lecter puts down his bag of medical supplies and gestures towards the couch.
cook_the_rude: (Coming out of the darkness)
Hannibal's room in Milliways is quite simple, for his standards.

There is a book case full of well-worn old books, a small fireplace with a comfortable-looking chair, some historical prints of Florence, and a small harpsichord. There's a desk, and a desk chair to go with it. Most furniture is vintage midcentury modern, unobtrusively luxurious and classic. He even has what must be a small kitchen, made up from two towers and an island.

Everything is rich, warm wood and mature colours -- an off-grey, and some accents in oxblood red.
cook_the_rude: (Gazing at the scene)
At the top of a hill, there is a door, set into the hill-face.

The lake is shimmering in the distance, and the Scottish summer is in full effect.

But the door in the hillside might still be considered boding.

"Not making any Dante puns," Dr. Lecter declares, gesturing to the door invitingly.
cook_the_rude: (Gun tango)
There is a small stack of books, most of them looking old or slightly strange, marring the neatness of Dr. Lecter's desk.

The topmost one is bound in blood-red leather.

"Do come on up," Dr. Lecter calls out when Graham enters, briefly bending over the railing of his mezzanine to smile at him before continuing the intense perusal of his own bookshelves.
cook_the_rude: (Throwing the book at you)
Things are shifting around the house very, very subtly. Dr. Hannibal Lecter knows how to make his space feel exactly the same while the details move around, parts vanish or are added; he does this all the time.

There are horns and antlers replacing some statuary now, flower arrangements where there were chairs and tables, and prints replace a painting or two.

At the moment, he is carrying a small stack of select books through his office. One, he casts carelessly into the burning fire of his fireplace; with the others, he walks towards the door to his private waiting room.

On his way, passing the drawing table, he straightens his pens.
cook_the_rude: (Pass the knife)
Dr. Lecter seems to expect Graham to do his part now. He seems to want them to work as equals, dine as equals, talk as equals.

Act as one.

His anger and grief at the loss of Margot's child seems genuine; but then, his anger and grief at anything always seems genuine, even if Graham knew that he had done it, as if he'd seen the surveillance records of God on the inside of his own eyelids.

Lecter's knives are mirrors, reflecting the wielder down their entire length.

They're in the kitchen. There are meat and vegetables laid out, Dr. Lecter's choice this time. Whatever the meat is, Graham is in so deep, it will be merely a small pebble on an ever-growing dune that, shifting in some vague future, may yet come down on  him and overwhelm him with nightmares.

Dr. Lecter passes him the knife.
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