Who: Hannibal King & Leonard Snart What: Random Encounter (Match-Up) When: Friday Oct 6th Where: Lou's Bar Warnings: Mild, for language Who: Complete
Hannibal could feel the tension in him coiling a little tighter each day, it made his fingers itch and his shoulders tight. It wasn’t so much the inactivity, it was… no it was the inactivity. He’d never been very good at sitting still, like a five year old with a sugar high according to Sommer, but at least back home he could go out and hunt.
He sipped his beer, and rolled his head to try and work the tension out of his neck. Getting his ass handed to him at fight night had helped some, but it wasn’t the same sort of high as when you knew your life was on the line.
He had a job now at least, got him out of the apartment and gave him somewhere to go but more often than not he found himself skulking near some of the vampire hangouts and sitting on a stool at Lou’s.
Actually not ‘a’ stool, ‘this’ stool, but anyone who called him Norm was going to get hit.
Leonard had his cold gun now, but he still avoided competing in the monthly Fight club. Getting one’s hands dirty was more Mick’s thing than Leonard’s though both of them were equally vicious when it came to criminal activity and survival. One thing he still allowed himself to indulge in was grabbing a drink at Lou’s. It was the kind of “hole-in-the-wall” joint that made Leonard feel right at home and caressed his inner criminal.
That was where he found himself tonight. Seated on a stool in Lou’s, sipping on a beer and people watching. Leonard noted that the man beside him seemed to be lost in thought. He wasn’t familiar with the thief, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t be after a word or two.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Leonard inquired then nodded towards the man’s beer. “Or beer?”
“Not worth that much,” but he’d take the beer and drained his glass before signaling for the bartender.
“Just this place, it’s… I don’t know, too quiet? Don’t think I’ve gone this long without..” A fight? A woman? A cause. Who the hell knew what he meant, he certainly didn’t. The bartender slid him another stout and glanced at the other man to see what he wanted.
“Something to keep me occupied I guess. This point is usually when I do something reckless and self destructive.”
Leonard was amused at the response. “Perhaps you underestimate yourself.” He drained his own glass. After the bartender passed the man another beer, Leonard gestured for one of his own. He wasn’t a big drinker, but this kind of conversation usually involved some level of inebriation.
“Have you tried Fight club? A lot of people participate in that as a way to keep themselves occupied. Expend any dangerous energy.” As far as any other causes worthy of a fight, there weren't many to choose from. Not unless this place decided to act up.
The guy reminded him of Mick. When Mick was bored, he tended to indulge in reckless behavior…usually involving fire. Sometimes, Leonard believed he was the only one standing between Mick and the world turning to ash.
“If the reckless, self-destructive behavior doesn’t harm anyone else, you’re golden. If it ends up including someone else and not for the better? This place doesn’t tend to look to kindly on it.”
“I don’t hurt people,” the import of the words may not be evident to the other man, but they were to Hannibal. He hadn’t always had a choice, Danica hadn’t always given him one. What he’d been hadn’t always given him one. And he would always hate that part of him that had liked hurting people more than he was comfortable with now that he’d been cured. “Other people anyway.”
So don’t worry, harming others wasn’t actually on his bucket list.
“That wasn’t a cry for help, I’m not going to go into a consumption or start voting Republican. I might take home an inappropriate bed partner, and I did Fight Night. Came, saw, got my ass kicked.” The words might sound like a complaint but the tone is wry and amused and completely devoid of any bitterness. “It felt good to move.”
Hannibal doesn’t actually know this guy, he might not relate at all.
Leonard said nothing. He’d hurt plenty of people and killed some of them too. Hell, he’d killed his own father and hadn’t felt the smallest bit bad about it. Oh, he’d felt bad for his sister. Mourned the fact that she’d lost a father…even if he’d been a piece of trash since the day she was born. She deserved better than that. Leonard would mourn the fact that she never got it.
“Even if it was, who says I would be inclined to help?” He took another sip of his beer. He’d merely been making conversation’ he wasn’t interested in being someone’s therapist. Therapists were people with fancy degrees to show off the fact that they’d achieved some form of self-actualization. Leonard had achieved as much, but he’d never been one for proper education or a desire to brag about it. He had plenty of other things in his arsenal to serve that purpose.
He smirked. “That tends to happen. Especially when you first start competing.” And even for those that had been doing it a long time. “So don’t start calling you Dr. Ruth. Got it.” He took a long swallow of his beer, all evidence to the contrary considering he tended to blather to literally anyone, he wasn’t looking for help. He could probably use it, but the last therapist he’s encountered had been a familiar, and then Drake in disguise. So the profession was suspect.
“I’m not a bad fighter but I would have taken literally any of those people on the team back home.” They never had enough people who could fight, really fight. Which was how Sommer, Hedges and Dex ended up dead. Because he’d gotten hurt, and Whistler had been off with Blade. Not that Hannibal could have taken Drake, he wasn’t even convinced that Blade could.
“Being able to take a punch is half the battle.”
“Not unless you want to test your ability to take a punch again.” Leonard was joking. Mostly. He wasn’t one to use his fists, preferring to find a way in which to strategize his way out of situations. That or utilize his cold gun. Mick was the one who preferred to use violence to solve a problem or make a point.
Leonard nodded. “Madison Valley seems to attract people who happen to be skilled fighters. Well, mostly.” He knew there were plenty of those that showed up and never stepped foot in the ring.
“It did seem like there were a lot of people taking part,” he agreed, remembering the number of bouts at Fight Night. He’d watched most of them after losing his own. “And most of them obviously knew what they were doing.”
He considered that, and wondered if they should be concerned that maybe this place thought it would need fighters. Then he shook his head, Madison was a place, it didn’t have intent.
“I’m Hannibal, by the way.”
Leonard nodded. He knew Fight Club tended to attract a lot of people because it was a way for those with fighting skills to stay in shape. Now that he had his cold gun, perhaps he would give it a try too. Though, it wouldn’t be the same without Mick. They were partners and Leonard had rarely fought a battle without him by his side. He could do it, but it never felt right without Mick.
Oddly, the thief had pondered the same thing. If this place attracted fighters because it thought it needed them for some reason. While Madison wasn’t completely peaceful, it tended to be most of the time. It was rather uncomfortable to think this place might change. “Leonard Snart,” Leonard introduced himself in return.
He opened his mouth to comment, then closed it, then opened it again. Snart was almost too good to pass up but he managed, barely, by sheer force of will not to crack wise.
Too much.
“The kids on the playground must have loved you,” because Leonard was only marginally better than Snart. Not that Hannibal was a whole lot better.
Leonard had owned his name a long time ago. Yes, there were wisecracks, smart remarks, but if you owned your weaknesses, your “hiccups,” then they couldn’t be used against you. Besides, Leonard was far more than his name; he’d proven that when he’d robbed most of those children blind by the time they hit puberty.
Still, it was amusing to watch Hannibal’s mouth open, close, and then open again like some kind of fish.
His lips twitched into a brief smirk. “About as much as they must have loved you,” Leonard replied smoothly and took another sip from his beer.
“So many cannibal jokes.” He agreed amiably. Then his face shifted and he did a passable impersonation of Anthony Hopkins. “I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti.”
He slurped theatrically, then toasted his beer at Leonard and took a drink.
“Had a pretty strong line about looking good enough to eat when I was in my twenties that the ladies loved.” The last time he’d used it Danica had turned the tables, more than a little bit making a meal out of him. Literally. But before that, it had worked pretty regularly.
Leonard chuckled. “I may offer to buy you another beer just so I never have to see you do that again.”
He had a few of his own cheesy lines, but seeing as they involved stealing hearts, he thought better than to mention them. Only a few people in town knew Leonard was a former thief and he wanted to keep it that way for now.
He arched his brow. “Really? You mean it didn’t earn you a single eyeroll? Or a drink to the face?” Being that line was rather cheesy, he would be surprised if it didn’t earn any of those kinds of responses.
“Was about fifty fifty,” he admitted with a laugh. But it was a numbers game back when he was younger. And stupider.
“You only regret the shots you don’t take, or so I’ve been told.” He didn’t actually subscribe to that, he’d taken some successful shots that bit him in the ass so it was demonstrably untrue.
Leonard chuckled. “I’d say the odds were still in your favor.” He’d imagined when he asked that the number in his favor would be far less.
The thief looked amused. “Are you sure you didn’t miss your calling as a greeting card writer or some kind of motivational speaker?” It was far more positive than he ever cared to be.
You had to find what worked for you, so the odds might be in Hannibal's favor with that one but he figured that he couldn’t pull off some of the things Leonard probably made work.
“You know I thought about making those kitten posters, ‘Hang in There’, that sort of thing. But I couldn’t work with the little fluffers. Divas, all of them.” Sarcasm, thy name is Hannibal. He figured he couldn’t motivate his way out of a wet paper sack. He was better at pissing people off.
Leonard was not motivational either. He was a realist and found that the best motivator was often telling someone the truth…or a rather colorful lie. It really depended on the situation.
He smirked. “I’m not much for anything with fur.” Leonard wasn’t an animal person. “Though, cats are probably my least favorite.” Leonard also succeeded far more in pissing people off.
“If I wanted a prickly loner who sheds on my stuff and goes feral without notice in my life I’d have asked Blade to shack up.” Which is Hannibal’s way of agreeing about cats. He doesn’t dislike them per se, but his entire demeanor screams dog person.
“Haven’t had a pet since I was a kid, I can barely keep myself alive. No one should trust me with the welfare of anyone else.” There’s only a touch of self loathing in his tone, if he was capable at all then Sommer and the others would still be alive back home.
“Already had the prickly loner with the potential to go feral in my life. Except he didn’t shed.” Mick was more so the type to set your stuff a blaze if you pissed him off. He was also more so the type to kill you rather than give you a chance to explain yourself.
Leonard knew all about self loathing, but instead of drowning in it, he’d used it to push himself into being a better criminal. In succeeding where his father failed. He used it as a reason to kick his own ass into gear. Besides, his father would have loved it if Leonard drowned in self pity just like him and Leonard was not going to give that bastard the satisfaction.
“I think it’s more that you don’t trust yourself with the welfare of anyone else,” Leonard replied bluntly. He shrugged. “And maybe you have a good reason to. I don’t know.”
“Good enough,” which was basically an admission that the other man was right. Even before Danica, before Drake killed his team, hell all the way back to when he’d been a working dick he’d avoided being responsible for other people. He blamed Whistler for changing that, way easier than blaming himself. He drained his beer and smirked at Leonard. “Doc.”
Since they might have been veering toward therapy again.
Given Leonard’s own history, he was in no position to give Hannibal advice. Some might say he was a therapist’s “dream” thanks to his abusive father, absent mother, and criminal history. Not that he’d ever put himself into a position to find out.
Leonard smirked over the edge of his glass. “If you start calling me ‘Doc,’ you’re going to owe me a lot more beer.”
He considered that briefly, then signaled the bartender for two more, “Worth it.”
Hannibal was also probably a therapist's “dream”, he was a master at using humor as a coping mechanism, had some breathtaking control issues and probably undiagnosed PTSD. Though similarly he’d never tried to find out. And he had no plans on doing so.
“Should I ask what you do here? How long have you been in Madison? If the whole, different planet, two suns thing is weird for you or just a regular Tuesday? Or just grunt in monosyllables things like: beer good.”
Leonard merely looked amused. “For a free beer? Worth it.” He was no therapist, but if offering up some common sense advice earned him a free beer or two? Well, he wasn’t going to be disappointed.
The thief shrugged. “You forgot sitting in companionable silence as an option.” Though, somehow, Leonard felt as if Hannibal probably didn’t like silence.
Didn’t like it, and was possibly congenitally incapable of silence.
“We can try companionable silence, but I might sprain something.” The bartender slid the second beer over to Hannibal and then one to Leonard before melting into the background. He lifted his almost empty glass toward the other man in cheers, drained it and then started on his second.
He could do this, he sat companionably with Whistler all the time.
Okay once in a while.
Leonard chuckled. “Lucky for you, if you do, I apparently happen to be a doctor.” Leonard raised his glass in return and then took a sip, curious to see how long Hannibal could go without uttering a single syllable.