Chapter Text
Technically, you have a real brother out there…
He was the closest thing she had to a father. Since he was under the influence his words were messy and slurred. But that didn't stop the news from wrecking her with the detonation of a hand grenade.
She stared at the early-1900s Edwardian-style townhouse towering over her. Her palms were sweaty the closer her feet took her towards the entrance. The bushes and trees in front of it looked perfectly manicured, she almost expected a beautician to put some top coat polish among the leaves.
She drew in a deep breath until she couldn't hold it anymore, her lungs filled with air like a balloon brought to the edge.
Her trembling, gloved finger rang the doorbell. Slow breathing didn't help, her heart wanted to jump out of her ribcage and run all the way back to Ohio without a second thought.
The door opened.
The owner looked exactly like his house.
Towering, expensive and way too intense with his dark eyes and the aristocratic cheekbones.
How ridiculous to wear a three-piece suit at home. That was what Sweatpants and large shirts were made for.
The owner didn't say anything, he just stared at her and had gone entirely still, his eyes tracking her like a suspicious movement in the tall grass.
Her throat was dry and the noise around her had turned into a fine ringing in her ears.
Hey, I know it's sudden and ridiculous and completely out of the blue, but I can be your fucking sister if you let me…
“Cleaning.”
She said instead.
The only word her needled throat could get out. The black turtle neck sweater choked her like a tight rope around her neck. The man blinked and then moved his head only a fraction by the unexpected greeting.
“I beg your pardon?”
His voice was deep and inviting and his words polite. The European accent elegantly interwoven with the American English.
“Cleaning. I…Ehm….offer cleaning services.”
+++
Hannibal hadn't expected anyone today. It was a Sunday morning and he had been thinking about taking a walk through the neighborhood. Early autumn always gave nature an incomparable display of colors.
Now this nervous ghost with his mother's eyes and his own facial features stared at him with big eyes.
But he always found joy to cater to guests, even the unexpected ones.
He had often wondered what Mischa could look like if she had gotten the opportunity to grow up. The face he had always imagined came incredibly close to the one right in front of him.
Hannibal took in every detail, the blood-red coat, the black boots, the turtle neck and the gloves, the dark toffee hair. She was hiding every part of her body beside her hair and face. The longer he mapped her features the more his past suddenly collided with a possible future.
“Cleaning services?” He repeated her terrible lie.
“Yes.”
He had expected her to tell him more, making the silence awkward enough until she felt the pressure to reveal herself, but she just stood there, feeling no need to say anything else, expecting him to lead the sales pitch she had started. His lips formed a genuine, amused smile that even reached his eyes for a change.
“Will you tell me your name?”
“I'm Elvis Presley Smith.”
The silence that followed was not just deafening in a strange contradictory way, it was also unbelievably awkward.
“I'm not joking. The man who raised us chose to name us after his favorite musicians. My brother is Frank Sinatra…” Another awkward pause, another stumble over her own words. “...Smith.”
His mind effortlessly cataloged the pieces she had unwittingly handed him. The man who raised us. Not Father. Important enough to name them after his taste in music, but not as important as if they were his own children.
And she already had someone she considered a brother.
She was also a terrible liar, which could only play in his favor.
“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”
The word ‘Doctor’ let her facial expression drop only for a moment, before she grabbed his held out hand clumsily but with confident strength.
“It's nice to meet you, Doc.”
Her smile wasn't genuine anymore, her eyes had become much more attentive. She was watching him now the way people watched animals they weren't sure were domesticated.
Hannibal stepped back from the door.
"Come in.”
She looked inside, catalogued the walls and the harmonized decor.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure,” Hannibal said, his voice a smooth, calming invitation. “Though I must admit, I usually require a reference or at least a business card before inviting a stranger into my home. I assume you have one on hand, along with your rates?”
There was no awkward silence this time when she answered him honestly.
“No.”
Hopelessly blunt and yet a liar. A fascinating contradiction.
Hannibal stepped aside and gestured gracefully toward the interior.
“Well, we can discuss your qualifications over a fresh brew. New customer acquisition can be a parching work.”
“Thank you, but I don't drink coffee.”
She walked past him, while he leaned forward and drew in a deep, but subtle breath. No perfume. Only the heavy scent of a medical cream with high lipid content, the nervousness in her sweat and then it hit him with the blow of a roof collapse.
Mischa.
He knew this was impossible. He had consumed her decades ago and she was the very foundation of his mind palace ever since, but here this woman was, smelling like the original sin. He wanted to reach out badly, wanting to find out if she was real, but he decided to close the door like a trap instead.
“What do you drink?”
“Water. Herbal tea…but you don't have to offer.”
“I insist.”
Hannibal took her coat, led her towards the big kitchen, she followed him, still nervous, but incredibly curious.
She sat down and beamed at him, while he boiled water and looked for the right tea.
“You're nice. I mean, really, really nice.”
She had already made herself comfortable at his kitchen island the way a cat does, not with permission, but with the quiet certainty that warmth was enough to be comfortable.
"And that surprises you?”
“It does. Doctors are usually the fucking worst.”
Her beaming smile dropped from her lips like water from a sloping surface. Her eyes went to the left, she clearly remembered something unpleasant.
He set the tea down in front of her with the quiet ceremony he applied to everything, then settled onto the stool across from her.
"In my experience…" he said, looking into his cup “...people who hold doctors in such contempt have usually been failed by one in a rather specific way."
She turned her gaze from the perfect tea fusion enlightened by the autumn sun to him.
"Or…”, he continued softly, "...they've watched someone they loved be failed by one."
She reached out to the glass cup, testing the temperature through the thin gloves.
“Both I guess.” Then she changed the topic. “What do you want me to clean for you? Your house seems rather tidy. Much more like a museum than a home, which I mean as a compliment.”
It wasn't a compliment, but it wasn't an insult either, he thought.
“What did you clean until now?”
“The Lab and the infirmary.” She stated in her usual bluntness. “I don't have experience with expensive homes. I would be happy if you could guide me and I would give you 50% off. What do you say?”
“Mrs. Smith…or may I call you Elvis?”
“You can call me whatever you want, Doc.”
Hannibal just nodded and they worked out a time. He didn't ask for an ID or any other credentials in fear it would make her run away.
He had already started to draw a picture of her life in his mind.