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Delectable scents of apple butter and nutmeg and chocolate waft out from the kitchen today, where Autor is hard at work. He has donned an apron and is crooning along with--of all people--Frank Sinatra.

Covered bowls litter the countertops and the fridge, but only for a moment; the industrious boy codes them all into his sylladex to preserve their contents. Having chopped and sautéed and boiled all day, the boy pulls more bowls out to prepare dough.

He's busy, but might be willing to take a break.

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"What is on Friday?" Hannibal asks.

Edited 2014-09-17 00:50 (UTC)

"A Happy Hour," Autor says, and selects a glass bowl to pour the apple butter into. "I'm not making these croissants just for myself. They'll be distributed at random to bar patrons."

"It will be amusing to see their faces when they happen to eat one of the less orthodox ones," Hannibal says. "I should have thought of something like that when people were still willing to eat my food."

"I'm thinking of reserving the buttered asparagus for myself," Autor confesses. "I don't know that many people will like it as much as I do."

He seals the bowl with a lid, and codes it into his bulging food bag in sylladex with a whispered, "Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, or gluttoning on all, or all away.*"

"Does it hurt, that people no longer eat your food, Dr. Lecter?" the boy asks genuinely, taking the apple butter pot to the sink.

*Shakespeare, Sonnet 75

"Cooking isn't quite as enjoyable if there is nobody to appreciate the result, beside me," Hannibal says, "even when the ingredients are perfectly orthodox. I never used truly unorthodox ingredients here. Nothing stranger than Lunar blue steak."

"Ah, so you have met Mia," Autor says, and bristles a bit. He's not sure where he's going with that, so he submerges the warm apple butter pot in the warmer water and soap, not bothering to mask his displeasure.

"You can't very well see what happens anymore if no one will try it, can you?" Autor says, shaking his head. "Even with orthodox ingredients."

"Some people still will," Hannibal says. "Either out of ignorance, or out of curiosity, or because they are sensible and know I'm not going to harm the food."

Pause.

"Or my chances of using this refuge."

"Rae has always said that the first bite is the best for people watching," Autor says, feeling a bit guilty for bringing her up in the conversation. Still, she was the one to teach him.

He turns away from Dr. Lecter, bent over the sink and scrubbing the pot. "I know that you won't," he says, "but I still don't plan on trying anything you make anytime soon."

Hannibal leans back against a kitchen cabinet, one hand on his drip stand.

"Simply to deny me the pleasure," he says. "Which I can well understand."

"Can you?" Autor says, adjusting his glasses. He shrugs. "Yes, well, I am petty like that. How long will you have your"--and here he waves a soapy hand at the drip stand--"accompaniment?"

"That is for Guppy Sandhu to decide," Hannibal says. "I'm in no hurry and would rather err on the side of caution, personally."

"That makes sense," Autor says, scrubbing his pot. "I'm still amazed that you're up and about after being shot. I wouldn't be. Where were you shot again, and how often?"

"Once in the left lung, twice in the right lung -- which is why I still have drainage on the right side -- and once in the right biceps," Hannibal says. "In your time, I'd be dead. Unfortunately for you, we have modern medicine here, and Guppy is a very good doctor."

Autor draws a quick breath through his nose. "That must have happened so fast. Good grouping, too; she must have practiced," he says, and shakes his head.

"And unfortunately for me?" Autor says, smiling callously. "You make it sound like I wanted you dead."

"Don't you?" Hannibal says.

Autor turns back to his dishes. "Sometimes. Having you dead would mean I have a little less to worry about. But only a little."

"So you're finally realising that I pose no danger to you," Hannibal says, his voice sounding almost smug.

Autor rolls his eyes, something he rarely indulges in. "No, never," he says, back to scrubbing the next dish. "That's something an abuser would say."

"Something you would say to somebody you're misleading, you mean?" Hannibal says.

Autor stiffens. He resists the urge to turn and face Dr. Lecter, keeping his back to the man. "Misleading is abusive. And I try not to mislead people anymore."

"Try and any more being the operative terms here," Hannibal points out, amusement in his voice.

"It's still better than what you do," Autor says roughly, lowering his head. He closes his eyes, focusing on the feel of the warm water pruning his fingers, and the tickling of the soap bubbles.

"Say you," Hannibal says. "Why would you, of all people, be the arbiter of good and evil?"

"I never said I was," Autor says, back to cleaning dishes again. "Stop trying to reduce the issue to black and white thinking."

"Trying to sidle softly into the paler, pearlier grey, are you?" Hannibal says, chuckling.