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The late July sun was doing the alley behind the restaurant no favors. Hannibal's lip curled as he lifted the lid to the dumpster and more of the pungent, baked-refuse aroma surrounded him. For once, the acuity of his senses was more a curse than a blessing.
Noseblind from the stench, the young man didn't notice the others at the mouth of the alley until he heard them. He went instinctively still as he studied the scene, hidden by the stark shade of the day's end.
Five children surrounded a much smaller boy. They whispered at him, vicious hisses only audible in small slices of sound, but the words were unnecessary to interpret the scene. The boy-- white, poor, hair too long without a proper trim and clothes that looked to be nearly as old as he was-- had his hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up and his head determinedly down. He swayed and stumbled with their shoves but didn't otherwise react.
From where Hannibal stood he could only just make out the boy's expression-- his lips were an almost invisible line, holding tight to whatever emotion he was suppressing. A muscle in his thin cheek pulsed, giving the lie to his meek stance.
Having given some thought to interrupting, Hannibal now settled in to watch, curious what the child would do. He reevaluated his initial impression, looking the boy over; he was small, yes, but beneath his dirt and the ill-fitting clothes he had a wiry strength born of hardships the older, softer children couldn't imagine. Here was a child who had lived more than his years suggested, trying to ignore the wealthier children around him more for their protection than his own.
The group's leader, emboldened by the boy's silence, escalated first. Taking a handful of the boy's dark, unkempt hair, he crooned something too quiet for even Hannibal's ears. The boy's hands clenched convulsively and then, contrarily, the child seemed to become loose and relaxed, passive in the bully's grip. Garbage forgotten, Hannibal watched with anticipation, savoring it in the same way he would the bouquet of a lovely Amarone.
Oblivious to the warning signs, the larger child sneered and pushed his erstwhile victim harshly away. To the jeering and encouragement of his friends he swung back-handed with a blow that, had it landed, would have sent the smaller boy spinning away with a ringing head.
He hadn't waited to find that out. Dropping beneath the swinging arm the boy snatched half of a crumbling brick from the alley's floor and came up inside of the bully's guard. The brick connected with the temporal bone, staggering the taller boy and causing him to attempt to push his diminutive attacker away with an unsteady hand to his face. Fierce and determined now, the tinier child held fast to the other's shirt.
The tides had turned too quickly for the group to adjust. They gawped and looked to each other, waiting for their leader to regain control. While they hesitated the boy's brick broke the bully's nose.
Apparently the blood was the impetus that the gang had needed. Prying their leader free with curses and threats, they fled, leaving behind a panting child with eyes like a wild dog's.
Deliberately, Hannibal lifted his forgotten bag of garbage and tossed it into the dumpster with a thump. The boy whirled, flecks of red spattering his thin, tanned face and brick half-raised in preparation for another fight.
Releasing the lid of the dumpster, Hannibal brushed his hands together more out of habit than need and regarded the boy with open interest. "Quite the show you put on," he called out, pitching his tone to be gentle despite the distance. He wanted to speak with him, not spook him away.
Straightening slowly from his crouch, the boy returned Hannibal's regard, though he kept his gaze moving, never quite meeting Hannibal's. "You just stand there watching, couyon?" The words carried easily and the vitriol in them made him raise the child's estimated edge from ten to the early teens.
"You seemed to do well on your own." Hannibal dropped his attention deliberately to the gory brick in the boy's hand. "Are you planning to use that on me or keep it?"
The child paused, looking to the improvised weapon and then back to Hannibal. With evident reluctance he tossed it to rejoin the detritus along the alley's edge. Tired of nearly having to shout, he edged closer, still keeping a good four meters between them. "There were five of them. Were you waiting to see if they killed me?"
"That would have been quite unlikely," Hannibal dismissed.
"What, then?"
"I merely wanted to see what would happen."
The boy met Hannibal's eyes for the first time, surprised at the answer and checking for honesty. Whatever he saw made him study the restaurant's back door instead and rub at the drying blood on his face. Hannibal knew that itch well. "So you get off on kids beating up on each other, great. Seen enough, old man?"
"That was very rude." Hannibal's voice was firm and the boy tensed, shoving his hands into his pockets and scuffing a foot. Hannibal noted that the child's little toe was just beginning to protrude from the edge of it. His plain shirt and jeans were repaired in places with neat stitches, though they were more clean than Hannibal had first assumed. What he had taken for a fine layer of dust was only the natural fading of clothing long-worn and well-used. "I did not expect the others to win because I, unlike them, could see your face. They failed to recognize that they were baiting the bear." He allowed the rude slip to pass; he didn't hurt children, and in any case the boy had already proved mildly diverting.
An incredulous laugh burst from the boy before it was choked off with self-loathing. Holding out his arms to show off his slight form, a permanent layer of dirt or oil beneath the fingers and patches and all. "Yeah, I'm terrifying." There was a flinching around the boy's blue eyes and a tightness to his smile that was all Hannibal needed to know about the child's belief in his own words. He had just beaten a boy in the face with a brick but Hannibal suspected it was not the only time the boy had had cause to wonder at the darkness he was capable of.
"Terror takes many forms." A slight smile, and Hannibal opened l'Essonne's door. "I doubt that boy will soon be sleeping easily." He turned to leave, pausing when the boy's thin form twinged at what was left of his conscience. "If you would like to come in, we could get the boy's blood cleaned from you and find you something to eat."
Pride warred with desire and won. The boy's chin lifted, jaw set and eyes steady. "I can pay for my own food."
Hannibal was already considering how best to present the boy to his uncle. "How would you like a job? You are strong; I could use a boy to run errands and do chores. They were keeping me from the kitchen for far too long."
Caution took the place of pride and the boy stopped at the edge of the door. "You can do that? Offer me a job, I mean. Are you the manager?" Intrigued, Hannibal noted that over the past few exchanges the child's mid-Louisianan accent had faded markedly and already had a shadow of his own speech patterns. It didn't seem to be a conscious mimicry but rather something peculiar to the child.
"Something like that." Uncle Robert had wanted Hannibal to take more of an interest in the business; this was as good a place to start as any. "Well?"
The state of the child's clothes didn't leave his desperation in much doubt and Hannibal was unsurprised but strangely pleased when he stepped over the threshold. "When do I start?"
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So this was a random idea that hit me while I was listening to Ratt on the radio. Is it good? Bad? Blah? I might keep going if I get more ideas or there seems to be interest. If so the next chapter would be with the both of them a few years older. Comments and feedback would be much loved and appreciated! I am also not from Louisiana and my knowledge of it extends to like a few hours of research online so yeah. My idea is that l'Essonne is in a wealthier part of Baton Rouge and Will lives along the Mississippi in the poorer region.
Also I suck at titles, I'm sorry!