"Michael, you're late."
In which Hannibal has expected his arrival. The dinner table was already set and adored with his favorite porcelain. "Upstairs," he instructed after a second turning back to the dish shimmering on the stove, "Clean yourself up, then return. We wouldn’t want to spoil the evening's… presentation."
This had not been an easy feat for Michael. It's true he would not have been able to escape from Smith's Grove without the other's help-- although the help had been minimal considering the security around the place and inside, he still gave Michael the final push he needed. Michael isn't an idiot-- he knows the doctor has ulterior motives, but he doesn't really care. Not yet, anyway. Not when he is finally free again after being in that place for more than a decade. Whatever agenda Hannibal has, whatever plans he has in store for Michael, it's something he can think about later. For now, his feet ache terribly from walking barefoot all the way to Hannibal's home. The older man told Michael his address once, and that had been enough for Michael to find his way here. It shows just how strong his mind is, how fully aware he is, even if some medical professionals liked to believe he was extremely unintelligent or too dissociated to pay attention to his surroundings.
The young man glances around the other's house, never having been inside somewhere so... elegant. Expensive. He is aware he is bleeding on the pristine floors, his feet torn from all the walking. Hannibal doesn't seem to mind. Baby blues glance at the feast behind him, and although he doesn't intentionally wish to defy Hannibal's request (order, perhaps?), his hunger speaks louder than anything else. The small gown isn't dinner attire, but this is the best-smelling and looking food he has seen since he was six. He approaches the table, reaching out for one of the meats on display.
Old dogs don't learn new tricks, but Michael is incredibly young. Clearly, he needs to be taught a thing or two.
