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“Do you see me as a pig, Hannibal?”
It was solid weeks into Abel’s captivity when he asked the question, which seemed awfully absurd to pose when one of his own calves (brined and braised) lay steaming on the table between them. But he couldn’t help being curious, clear answer or not. Hannibal did so often surprise him.
He answered with no hesitation as he divided the cut he’d taken for himself into bite-sized portions, motions delicate and economical. A surgeon’s muscle memory. Abel wondered if he’d been expecting this.
“Not one of the usual ones,” he said, and lifted his gaze to make eye contact as he placed a sliver of meat on his tongue. The lighting in his dining room brought ruby highlights out of the depths of his irises.
“No, of course not.” Abel picked up his own fork, spun it in his fingers. The IV somewhat hindered his dexterity, but not enough that he couldn’t mimic Hannibal. Manners were so very important. “You ordinarily prefer - feral head, don’t you? Free-range. You stalk your prey, occasionally for years, and then run them down out in the wild.” The tines of his fork sank crisply into a slice of lotus root, a starburst bed upon which a section of his gastrocnemius had been laid, shining sauce drizzled over it like liquid glass. “But in my case? You plucked me straight from captivity, and now here you are, hand-rearing me for harvest.” He put the root in his mouth, chewing. The juice of the meat had sunk into it, granting the starch a savory note. “Perhaps I’m more of a pig than the others.”
“Do you think so?” Hannibal asked mildly, reaching for his wine.
“You certainly feed me like one.”
“And here I thought I was being a gracious host.”
“I suppose the accommodations have been - warm. I have few complaints.” Abel eyed the leg where it lay on its lovely bed of ice-white china, pinned all over with slices of citrus. Specifically the exposed bones, marking the point where it had, until earlier that morning, been attached to the rest of him. “Well. Besides the obvious.”
“Surely you can’t begrudge me the opportunity to experiment, Abel.” Hannibal set down his glass, poured himself another. “How often do I get to flavor the meat for so long beforehand?”
“Mm. Of course; how could anyone?” Abel reached for his own wine. He really oughtn’t be drinking so soon after an amputation, but it had been his doctor who gave it to him, so it was probably fine. “I still don’t think that feeding me up on…me is going to have any measurable effect, though.”
“You never know.” Hannibal shrugged. “Perhaps I’m just curious what will happen.”
“That informs an awful lot of your decisions, doesn’t it?”
Hannibal just smiled at him, and Abel finally took a forkful of the meat.
It was excellent. Of course it was.
For some time, there was only the clinking of flatware and china, and then Hannibal said conversationally, “Tell me, Abel. How does it feel to be fattened for slaughter?”
“Oh, I think you can guess.” Abel looked across the table at Hannibal as he put another forkful of himself in his mouth. “How does it feel to be doing the fattening?”
“I have always been an advocate for familiarizing oneself with one’s meat.” Hannibal dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “Is there any other ethical means of carnivorism?”
Abel tapped his fork against the edge of his plate. “I think I’m…decently familiar with it.”
“The degree of control has been intoxicating, Abel: I see no shame in admitting that.” Hannibal rose to his feet. Abel finished the last bite of what had been on his plate as he came around the table to him. “To have complete and final say not only in what comes off of your body, but in what goes into it.”
You, power-mad? Never. Abel didn’t say it out loud, because he was insane, not stupid. Besides, best to hold his tongue while he still had it. He watched Hannibal put another slice of his leg on his plate, the lion’s share of the meal as always going to him. He went to pick up his silverware again, but Hannibal beat him to it, carving off a tender slice.
“Is this really necessary?” Abel asked, looking up at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Better to become accustomed to it now,” Hannibal replied pleasantly, and reached up to cup the back of Abel’s head. A gentle hold, but one that brooked no argument. “Otherwise, the adjustment when you lose your arms will be quite harsh.”
Abel opened his mouth as his fork was brought up to it.
“To feed you with the same hands that take you to pieces…there’s something of the divine in that, don’t you think?”
Abel had gained weight since Hannibal had taken him. The food at the Baltimore State Hospital had never been particularly good. His body was under an immense amount of stress, healing from both his original injuries and those that had been so politely inflicted upon him since his arrival, but combined with Hannibal’s excellent care and how sedentary he was by necessity, he’d plumped up anyway. It was most obvious in an increasingly well-fed belly, which was what Hannibal’s hand dipped towards as Abel chewed, after dropping the fork on the table. He cupped, squeezed. As if to check the size, test how far a finger could sink in.
“After all,” Hannibal continued, letting go of Abel’s stomach in order to feed him another bite, “the most beloved of God have always been shepherds, and murderers.”
Abel swallowed before speaking. “And you have the immense good fortune to currently be both.”
Hannibal smiled, and fed Abel another bite.
“As you lose extremities, your body will have less and less to fuel - if you discount the healing process,” he commented as he worked. “More of the calories you consume will go towards adipose tissue, towards your organs. You were a transplant surgeon; tell me, Abel, what will I find when I finally cut you open?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t have many autocannibal patients.”
“That you knew of.” The plate was empty again. Hannibal filled it with more. “I’m quite looking forward to it. I’m already searching for recipes - I’d like to try something new.”
“That will certainly be a special meal,” Abel murmured, voice low and husky with arousal he didn’t try to hide. “Might I ask whom you plan to share it with?”
“Depending on the limits to which I can push my surgical skills…” The pad of Hannibal’s thumb moved fondly over neatly-clipped hair. “Ideally yourself, Abel.”