CleoHan, "Read to me?"
It's a lazy evening.
In general, Hannibal doesn't have a lot of them - but taking a whole year off means he has more lazy evenings then he knows what to do with. Especially now that Cleo has settled in.
So he wanders around the house, looking for something more entertaining than another documentary.
He finds Cleo, curled up on the parlor floor, on the shag rug, in front of the crackling fireplace. She's so involved in her phone that she doesn't even look up as he enters.
"Hey." He grunts.
"Mm."
"Woman, I'm talking to you."
She looks up, amusement flickering over her features.
"And they call me an attention hog. Would you like to join me?" She pats the rug,
"Depends on what you're up to."
"Reading." She waves her phone. "Come, join me. I'm lonely."
Hannibal complies without further comment. The rug is opulently soft and thick, so he lays down on it and rests his head on Cleo's knee. The fire is perfectly warm, and the lights low enough that he can take off his glasses. If she could've laid a trap for him, she couldn't have personalized it better to her tastes unless she got some food.
(Which means this probably was, indeed, meant to subtly tempt him to lay down for a bit. What a little schemer. It's a good thing she's so ridiculously in love with him, he decides as he settles down more comfortably.)
"Read to me." He says.
"I will, but you have to promise not to bully me about my choice of media."
"You're reading that mafia swill again."
"Loverboy, that is exactly the attitude I'm talking about."
He merely hums a note and closes his eyes.
"All right. The premise is that Leia, the daughter of a mafia boss, falls in love with an unconnected smuggler who picks up odd jobs and refuses to work exclusively with anyone."
"You realize any responsible mob boss would off that kid, don'tcha?"
Cleo thwacks his shoulder and he chortles.
"Hush now. I'll start at the beginning, just for you."
"Gee, thanks."
With a huff, Cleo fiddles with her phone a moment. Then she begins, and, honestly, she ain't half bad at this reading out loud. The story is decent, although as inaccurate and romanticizing as anything else in that borderline moronic genre. He appreciates the fight scenes, which are brutally short and terrifically gory. And the lead gal has a spunk to her that he finds hard not to like.
The story ends abruptly, though, and he opens his eyes as Cleo's voice trails off.
"Oh, dear. That's the last update."
"Huh?"
"It's fanfiction, darling, which means it was written and posted chapter by chapter by a harried collage student who's probably neck deep in finals right now."
"It's not finished?"
"No."
Cleo seems remarkably unruffled by this, so Hannibal sits up to fix her with an irritated glare. It also does nothing to daunt her.
"That's the screwiest thing yet."
"Well, I'll just leave a comment telling them how frustrated you are."
Hannibal leans in to watch, seeing her fill up a little white and red box with gushing praise, no less than 40 heart emojis, and the declaration that 'my mob-obsessed husband simply adored having this read out to him. He's a bit old for this sort of thing, but nonetheless enjoyed it and is excited for the next chapter'.
"If I'm too old for it, what are you?" He asks.
"I'm a delight, honey."
"Uh-huh."
"Would you like another story? I've got a couple finished ones I've printed out."
Hannibal ponders it a moment, then grunts his assent and lays down again. When Cleo comes back, hand bound book in hand, he's found a blanket and a couple pillows, and they curl up close to read it.
All in all, not half bad for a lazy evening.
