Hannibal
Alcuin had never done this before, and he realized that it might be a bad idea when one of the girls who worked at the brothel talked to him for a few minutes, then gave the person working the bar a Look and then went down the hallway in the direction of Hannibal's office. Where she informed him that Alcuin had been drinking gin martinis at a steady clip for the last hour.
... he really should have gone somewhere else. Or just gotten a bottle of gin and brought it to his room.
When he heard Hannibal's familiar footfalls behind him he said without looking, "I truly hope you're not here to scold me."
... he really should have gone somewhere else. Or just gotten a bottle of gin and brought it to his room.
When he heard Hannibal's familiar footfalls behind him he said without looking, "I truly hope you're not here to scold me."
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Hannibal smiled mildly, but he did not like this one bit. Alcuin never drank.
He took a seat on the stool next to him. "Not here to scold you," he said. "But I am wondering why you have been drinking. For quite some time, if I understand Jeanne correctly."
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Alcuin didn't look at him. "I'm trying to forget that I can't remember," he said. "Or maybe... knock something loose in my brain. I spent some time trying to remember and it was making my head hurt."
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"If you do not want me to scold you, then it would be very helpful if you made some sense, which I'm sad to say; you do not," Hannibal replied, still calm, though a little more annoyed.
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That was not what Hannibal wanted to hear. But he remained calm. "Who told you that?"
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Hannibal put a hand on Alcuin's shoulder, gently. "My love...," he said, compassionately. "It does make sense, I suppose, but... I don't think drinking will help."
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"Nothing of your childhood," Hannibal reminded. "But you've learned about yourself since." Under Hannibal's influence.
"It doesn't help to fret. Or, does this friend know how to retrieve your memory?"
That would be a problem.
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And now he looked at Hannibal and said, "Everything you've ever told me about my parents, it never sparks anything at all. Not even the faintest glimmer of memory. Like they're characters in a storybook."
In all honesty, it had made Alcuin wonder more than once if Hannibal was lying to him, if the things he said weren't true. Because how could none of it cause even a spark of recognition? But he supposed this explained it.
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That was quite a relief. "Alcuin, my love, I would do anything, if it could help. You know that. I don't know who might have done this - if it's true."
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... but he didn't.
"I just wish I felt more..." He faltered, not even sure what he wanted to say. "In control."
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"You are in control of your life now," Hannibal assured him. "The past should not consume you so."
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"I don't know how to explain how it feels," he said. "But it's... hard, to not be constantly staring at that blank abyss."
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"I can't help you there, my love," Hannibal said. "You might try to find out what magic caused this - if that truly is what happened - but I wouldn't know where to start. And what good can come of it?"
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"To be perfectly honest, I have my reservations trusting your source - whom I don't know," Hannibal replied.
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"You meet a man, he says it's magic and you believe it because it seems like a more comforting answer than trauma," Hannibal replied.
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"Fine, Alcuin, believe what you will, but I would rather not have you lamenting your past while drunk," Hannibal finally said, thus foregoing his promise of not scolding him.
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"Sober up, my love," he said, gentle once more. "You have work tonight. The French attache is back." Gentle, but not asking. Demanding.
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"Sorry," he said, mouth in a straight line, but his voice was wavering as if he was fighting to keep in emotion. "I guess I'm useless to you tonight. I hope you don't have to fuck him yourself."
And then he turned and moved quickly out of the brothel to the street, his heart pounding.
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Hannibal considered for a moment going after him, grabbing him forcefully and making him stay. All these new developments were harming their relationship. And were harming Alcuin's use to him.
He didn't go after Alcuin, though. The young man was right; he was useless to him like this. Perhaps a night in the cold air would set him straight again.
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