Chapter Text
Frederick slept uneasily in the bedroom of the cabin, the bed had also been covered in a dust sheet which had revealed just a bare mattress below it. He’d found some bedding in the closet but rather than make the bed properly, he’d shoved the sheets on the bed haphazardly, without tucking the corners, and used only one of the pillows, and then the blankets as a cover. It was still cold.
“I have breakfast.” A deep voice interrupted his dozing. He sighed at the unwelcome intrusion, but rose from the bed, not unlike a zombie in a cheap horror he was sure he’d watched. His prosthetic eye was tucked in its protective casing, but his cheek insert had remained and was sore. Eating would be painful after a night with it in.
“Thanks.” He said listlessly. It earned him a bemused frown. He followed Francis back into the main room, sitting on the sofa and looking at the selection on the beautiful rustic oak coffee table.
Fast food breakfast had never held any appeal for him, and lukewarm porridge in a cardboard pot definitely didn’t. However, it was soft and his sore jaw and gums would thank him for that. The bag of pre-sliced apple pieces went ignored but he did make use of a golden syrup packet that had been set out.
“Did you know my mouth would hurt?” He asked, his words slow and sleepy. Francis was now sitting next to him on the couch, reaching for his own food. It was not porridge.
“Yes.” He said, and then tucked into his food without expanding upon his answer. It was considerate, Frederick mused as he followed suit. Perhaps not surprisingly so, Francis had shown him thoughtfulness before. That was surprising in and of itself, but nevertheless, these little gestures (which would be heartwarming from anyone else) weren’t unprecedented.
“Are we staying here?”
“No.”
“When are we leaving?”
“Soon.”
Frederick frowned at the monosyllabic answers. He knew better than to expect full cooperation but he was still disappointed. Apparently he was being too obvious about the dejection, because Francis sighed.
“When we finish breakfast, I will be expecting to leave as soon as possible.”
Oh.
Frederick wondered why his quiet dejectedness got him better answers than questioning did, but he suspected that Francis would never tell him if he asked. If he was Hannibal, he’d have deduced it by now, but he wasn’t Hannibal.
And thank god for that honestly, he doubted the dragon would have spared him if he was.
“When do… when do we stop?” Running, he meant. Where would they settle? If they settled at all.
Francis shrugged, and Frederick sighed. He finished his food, surprisingly decent for lukewarm porridge, and cast it aside. He knew they’d be leaving as soon as Francis finished so he went straight for the bathroom, he might as well freshen up whilst he had the opportunity. There weren’t many items in here, the cabin was clearly a vacation home, but there was a spray can of deodorant, some soap and towels. He made use of the smallest one he could find as a cloth to wash his face with. He pulled his shirt off and wiped his chest and underarms clean too, scrubbing a bit with the wet towel and then using a larger one to dry off before getting redressed.
He went back to Francis, feeling a little better, and stopped.
The other man was swapping his shirt for one that he’d either found in the cabin, or perhaps had gotten when he was out, it was another plain tee, but this one was dark green instead of black. His broad chest was just as muscled as he remembered, but when he shifted, turning just a little, he saw the dark lines of that horrible tattoo on his back. The Dragon. He shuddered, which caught Francis’s attention.
“Why are you staring?”
Frederick startled, mortification making his cheeks darken and his eyes dropped rapidly to the floor as he stuttered out some apologies, and a denial in the same breath. Heavy footsteps denoted Francis’s approach, and he backed himself into a wall, still looking down at the floor until Francis was right in front of him. He was, thankfully, wearing the new shirt and it was… flattering. The shoulders were perhaps a little tight.
“Stop babbling.” Francis huffed, frustrated, and Frederick clamped his jaw shut and winced as the tension caused pain to lance down his face and neck. “It’s fine.”
Why was he cornered then?
“I’m sorry.” He said, but jumped when a large hand came too close to his face, long fingers brushing his jaw. The side with the facial plate, of course. They were gentle, not prodding or making the pain worse, just smoothing over the skin and the ruined scar that he had no makeup for. “What… what are you doing?”
Francis’s other hand suddenly mirrored the first hand, and Frederick flinched back, head hitting the wall with a sharp thunk. Still, there was no escape, and Francis was now cradling his face. The hand that had just recently joined the party, the left one, moved to cup the back of his head, his fingers weaving into his hair and almost petting him, to soothe the ache now in the back of his skull.
“Even with these scars, you’re pretty.” Francis said, whispered really, and Frederick’s eyes went wide, fear and shock making his knees weak. Then the hand at the back of his head moved away, to touch Francis’s own scar, the one above his lip, the straight line from lip to nose. That hand was shaking, Frederick noted, unstable. “This? Isn’t pretty.”
Frederick didn’t dare to say a word.
The tip of the thumb of Francis’s right hand was pressed over the round puckered scar, if he dug into it, it would hurt, likely dislodge the facial plate in a pretty painful way too. He didn’t want to provoke the big guy into hurting him.
“Many people stare here.” The shaking hand moved from Francis’s lip, and came back to Chilton, but resting on his shoulder now, almost his neck. “They don’t look happy when they do.”
Objectively, Frederick thought this strange encounter was heartbreaking. Terrifying though it was to be in this position, he could hear the anguish and the human desire to empathise was a hard one to ignore. He knew Francis was insecure, of course he was. It was part of his motive, part of why he did the horrendous things he did, or at least the reasoning to his methods if not the actual killing part. Yet, to hear it said like this, like everyone had only ever viewed him as ugly, as unsightly, never a smile or kind face, it was bleak. He carefully reached up, and grasped Francis’s bulging bicep and patted it gently.
“Reba smiled at you. She must have.” It’s a poor attempt at comfort, but it’s all he has.
“She couldn’t see this.”
Ah yes, there was that. Frederick grimaced, his hand falling away from Francis’s arm.
“Even you look at me with… revulsion.” Francis said and Frederick gaped.
“I don’t.” He denied reflexively, but he knew it wasn’t the whole truth, but Francis misunderstood. “I don’t.”
His eyes darkened, and the hand on his shoulder tightened warningly.
“I look at you with fear, but your looks don’t repulse me. It’s the murder and torture that puts me off.” He explained, starting to get a little frantic as the pain in his shoulder grew. The pressure there released, but the hand didn’t move.
“...really.” Francis said flatly, but it wasn’t a question. Or if it was, it didn’t have the right inflection.
“Yes.” Frederick answered anyway. “You think otherwise, but I guarantee you at least some of those stares were because you’re attractive. Some people are very, very shallow and so your scar is prominent to them, but most people don’t care.”
“Attractive.” Francis repeated, doubtful. “Reba said that too, that people look at me because they like what they see, but they don’t. Not really.”
Frederick was still feeling sympathetic, but he was also getting impatient. His fear was waning almost, and the stubborn refusal of the man before him was… well it was petty. If Reba had told him that, he must have heard some of it, and whilst a few compliments could never erase a lifetime of insecurity, it certainly should show him that he wasn’t always right about how people looked at him.
“Yes they do. You’re conventionally handsome, you’re tall with good skin, good bone structure, your hair is clean and usually neat, you’re muscular and all those typical stereotypes about what a man should look like.” Frederick sighed at the end of his little rant. “A small scar doesn’t erase that.”
The grimace was the only warning he had before Francis wrenched him away from the wall, and all but threw him to the side. He stumbled, and fell, knees and hands catching him painfully, but he managed to turn in time to see Francis punch the wall with a yell of rage. It was lucky that the wall was plastered over to hide the wood behind, or he might have broken something, but as it was, the plaster cracked under the force of a punch that probably would have broken Frederick’s jaw. He scrambled back, still on the floor, and hid by the couch, huddling against it and listening to the still yelling man that kept him captive. That was still keeping him captive.
He was trembling.
It didn’t stop, even when Francis did. Frederick didn’t truly understand why his words had set the man off, it was all good things, unless Francis objected to flattery. Perhaps he’d overwhelmed him and well, he was quite a repressed man, and as with most men who have the emotional intelligence of a toddler, he would react with anger. Anger was a safe emotion for most people, it was both defensive and offensive, covering all the bases. It also compelled you to act, and sometimes that act was violence. Frederick much preferred that the wall got the thrashing instead of himself.
Heavy boots stopped in his line of vision, the distance between them wasn’t great, but then Francis crouched. He was perhaps just out of touching distance, even with Francis’s longer arms, and troubled eyes stared at him from under creased brows.
“Are you hurt?” Francis pointed at Frederick’s knees, but they had stopped hurting a while ago already. His palms still smarted, but his knees were strangely okay. Less of a distance to fall, he supposed.
“No.” His voice faltered on the single syllable, petering out with a pathetic hoarse whine.
“You’re shaking.”
Frederick closed his eyes, and bit back the retort he wanted to say. Something along the lines of ‘fucking duh’ and ‘you frightened the life out of me’. When he reopened them, he saw the troubled pale eyes again and halted.
There was an apology hidden there, one that wouldn’t be spoken, but it lingered in the creases around the eyes, the furrow of his brow, the tightness in his jaw. His large frame was crouched in such a way to appear as small as he could be, non-threatening, and yet it didn’t really matter. A predator like this? There was no hiding it. Still, when Francis stood slowly, and offered his hand, Frederick took it. Letting the other man keep him stable as he stretched his legs out.
He missed his cane.
“We should go now.” Francis said, his voice flat and even again.
“Yeah.” Frederick sighed.
___—___
Frederick wasn’t exactly sure where Francis had taken them, he’d drifted off in the car again, but the motel was decent looking. Not a place he’d stay in by choice, but he had always considered himself as having a more refined taste, but he couldn’t object to it. The lights weren’t missing any bulbs, the parking lot was well lit, as well as the ground floor which was otherwise covered by the first floor walkways. The walls were not grimy or covered in moss, and no boarded up windows.
All in all, pleasant.
The inside of the room was dated, but it smelled like detergent and pine floor cleaner (no carpet, he noted, and hoped that the first floor had rugs or he would be hearing their upstairs neighbour all night). Francis had apparently found the time to stop and get them clothes. Frederick thanked him but he chose his own pyjamas that he had packed in his weekend travel bag but he didn’t change yet.
Francis took over the bathroom first, and Frederick turned on the TV. It was a “flat screen” but an older model, still fairly thick and heavy looking despite being a generous 24 inch screen. He left it on whatever channel it was already set to, and turned the volume down low, just for background noise. He’d already slept a lot today, so he sat on the bed and waited for his turn in the shower. Whatever it was on the TV, it looked like possibly a sit-com though nothing he heard made him laugh, it was barely holding his attention.
Which is why, he reasoned, he stared at Francis so much when the man re-entered with a small towel wrapped around his waist, showing off his powerful thighs and broach chest. He swallowed thickly, suppressing a squeak when he was almost caught, and fled to the bathroom. Locking the door wouldn’t save him if Francis wanted in, but he did so anyway. It would make him feel better.
Shakily, he took his own clothes off, and folded them over the sink counter to keep them off the floor even though it was clean. The shower was easy to get going, and already decently warm, but the heat of the water couldn’t compare to the strange warmth in his groin.
Men didn’t do it for him, they just didn’t. He chastised himself, horrified at his reaction. Most of the time, he amended, because lying to yourself was a poor habit to feed. Men usually didn’t do it for him, and murderous men definitely didn’t. They intrigued him on a professional level, certainly, but it had nothing to do with his… desires, whims, whatever one might call it.
Yet, his cock was still half hard and aching just enough that his hand was drawn to it, squeezing the base.
His other hand covered his mouth before his groan could echo off the shower tiles. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, and yet, as the warm water ran down his body, all he could think about was stroking his cock while ignoring the reason he was aroused to begin with. Mortified, his dick chubbed up further, lengthening in his grasp and he dragged his hand over it, gentle but firm, and very nearly whined when his thumb swiped over the head a bit rougher than he’d meant to.
He kept his hand over his mouth, and his movements as slow as he could bear it, crushing the sounds as he spilled messily down the drain, thankful the evidence was wicked away as quickly as it came. Shamefully, his dick softened and his hand guiltily moved to a safe height, his ‘clean’ hand grasping for the complimentary soap dispenser mounted on the wall. He used several handfuls to scrub as best as he could without a washcloth, he missed his exfoliating glove already, and rinsed his hair out. He didn’t use the cheap shampoo and conditioner, he would wait until he could get his own brand, or at least a better one. Surely if they passed by a town’s drugstore, Francis could be convinced.
He stepped out, and used the remaining small towel to dry himself before slipping his pyjamas on, thankful he’d already been holding them on his lap before he ran into the bathroom. Sighing, he leaned to look at the mirror, wiping the steam away and gingerly touching his jaw.
He should get the sanitation kit from his bag and give his face a rest from the prosthetics.
He should, but he couldn’t make his hand move to remove them.
Taking a deep breath, he counted to ten, and then again. His hand reluctantly went for the eye, carefully slipping it loose, and placing it carefully on the counter. The facial plate followed, and he avoided the mirror this time as he backed away. A brief glance at the damp towel had him considering using it as a hood, but he decided not to.
Hesitating at the door only made him more anxious, but when he came face to face with an empty room, he relaxed. And then tensed again, scampering to the window to look for the car. They hadn’t parked right outside of the room, but he should still be able to see it from here. It was gone.
He looked at the door, at the twist lock that meant he was free to go because he could open it from the inside without the key.
He could go. He had his licence, passport, the emergency cash, he had not committed any crimes. He still had access to his cards because he was innocent (he just didn’t currently trust that Hannibal wasn’t somehow spying on him through it, the man was both a genius and insane). Run, his mind urged. Go, call the cops and hide. Francis would get caught, even a human tank could be tased or shot and arrested. There would be no retribution from the Dragon, because the dragon might very well end up with multiple life sentences if they don’t go for the insanity plea. Which they would, but nobody in their right mind would sanction his release even with a substantial amount of recovery.
Go!
His hand reached for blinds again, peering out. Still no car.
BANG!
He dropped, flat on the floor, heart hammering as he struggled to breathe.