(MM continuity)

[suspects_ravens]

(Post- this; pre- that.)

The Hannibals are occupying roughly half of a couch by the fireplace.

By their posture you'd expect them to be shaking, but they are very, very still.

Mischa left. She's (gone) back in her world with her zombies and her brother. Her brother. Her lucky bastard of a brother.

Comments

[eidetiker]

Will is only passing, heading upstairs, but the sight of the double Hannibals together and -- upset? Can you use a word like that with any certainty on them? -- is enough to catch his attention.

He pauses, then comes towards them, halting a few steps away with his hands in view by his sides.

"Evening."

[suspects_ravens]

"Good evening," says a Hannibal, and her arm tightens around her double's waist for a moment.

"Mischa was here."

Which nicely explains their upset.

[eidetiker]

He blinks, frowning.

"Mischa. That's your sister, isn't it?"

[suspects_ravens]

Nod.

Their unison is imperfect.

They're holding hands, a weave of long, elegant fingers.

[eidetiker]

. . . Clearly he's missing something.

"Is she all right?"

[suspects_ravens]

"She is... Mischa."

They haven't told him, have they.

But he knew they had a sister; how--

"In our world she died when she was two. In hers, she is eighteen years old at a guess, and fighting zombies with a sword."

Their cold, blank faces do an excellent job of hiding the pain and confusion.

It's those hands, tangled together in their laps, that tell the story; those, and the lines of their bodies made harder than usual by tension and the effort of not crying.

They didn't retreat to their room. They don't want to know what they'd do, alone with this. Get drunk? Cry? Neither option is attractive.

[eidetiker]

". . . Oh."

He's watching them more closely, clearly concerned.

Under the concern, though, is sharp cold focus. Whatever is going on -- this is important. More than important, maybe.

"I'm sorry," he adds, quiet and honest.

[suspects_ravens]

They look up, and are for a moment visibly startled.

And then: a nod. No, two.

"Thank you," she says, and her voices are small and soft and wound as tight as the strings of a guitar too enthusiatically tuned.

[eidetiker]

He saw that. Not because he was looking, but because it showed.

She's not just upset, she's rattled.

"That's got to be hard. Is--

"--did you say zombies?"

[suspects_ravens]

Shrug.

"Yes."

Dryly: "Hardly the strangest thing this place has seen."

[eidetiker]

"Strangest thing I have," he mutters.

[suspects_ravens]

She raises her eyebrows.

All four of 'em.

[eidetiker]

He sighs.

"I'm sorry, that was pretty tactless."

[suspects_ravens]

"We accept your apology."

They've gone all tight again. Whatever you might say about Hannibal, she usually doesn't have this kind of tension to her. Them. Him. Whatever.

[eidetiker]

"Mm."

He eyes them for a moment, and then settles onto the arm of an armchair across from them, still with that slight frown of someone puzzling out a problem.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

[suspects_ravens]

The tangle of hands in their laps sorts itself out so that one of her might brush the other's hair out of her face.

Yes. They do want to talk about it.

But they don't know if they can. There are more problems than solutions. He doesn't know the background and they aren't sure they want him to. They can't discuss this in public and like hell is he going to trot off to some secluded nook to listen to them unload their cryptic woes.

This conversation occupies perhaps fifteen seconds of silence, during which one Hannibal slides her arm around the other's shoulders. (They are never, ever this demonstrative in public.)

At the end of fifteen seconds, however, they speak.

"She was murdered by looters in the war. I was eight years old."

A pair of small, bitter smiles.

"They are mostly dead now. Some of them even by accident."

If Hannibal sounds frustrated, it's because she is. It all feels so futile, knowing that somewhere Mischa is alive. And yet-- for them, she isn't. Isn't and never will be.