Mischa Lecter, Hannibal Rising (gone VERY AU), Somebarshapedplace

[mmsaki]

Mischa Lecter, dressed for a party in 1959, is sitting at the Bar. Heels, earrings, gloves, silk dress with petticoats underneath

Comments

[mm_danii]

"I dare to wonder what could have upset a beautiful lady such as yourself," said the young man who walked towards her almost silently. He was used to quiet, fierce necessary quiet, and sometimes it infected him in ways he didn't realize until a step too late. Such was it now.

He smiled faintly and the next footfall was more audible.

He was dressed for another era, perhaps; 1899, and suitably presentable for his assumed station. Sebastien would have no less from him, after all.

[his_usurper]

Almost silent is not silent in itself, and she had already started to turn to face him.

"A rather...rude young man, actually." Her accent is odd, French on Russian with a Lithuanian twist.

[mm_danii]

"I've been called better and worse," he said with a briefer smile. "Though there is, of course the question of if you are the young lady I was speaking of. My guardian always speaks against the dangers of assumption."

[his_usurper]

"So, 'such as yourself' as more by way of thinking me an example? Forgive me, sir, but I am a trifle too upset to fence with words and distinctions."

[her_protector]

*pretends I have icons*

"Mischa."

Instant concern. Hannibal crosses the Bar easily, looks her in the eye, rests a hand on her elbow.

It's reassurance and question and everything at once: what happened? Are you all right? Who do I need to kill?

[his_usurper]

A quick smile, I am all right.

"Claude." Is the answer to the other two questions - end of term party.

[her_protector]

"Claude."

Soft, disgusted exhalation.

"Of course."

He kisses her forehead, like a good older brother, and sits.

And plots murder. Like a good older brother.

"I should have known he wouldn't learn so easily."

You'd think they'd get it, after a while. Do Not Fuck With Mischa Lecter. But no.

[his_usurper]

"He was drunk." It's not excuse, but a reason for the reddened marks on her arm instead of just seething with his words.

[hearts_winter]

There, at the end of the table and staring at her with wide, dark brown(red) eyes is a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen. He's dressed formally, but his tie is loose and his shirt is open at the collar to show the healed but not-yet-faded scarring that rings his throat.

She looks. . . . But she cannot possibly be.

[his_usurper]

She doesn't know the scarring, but she remembers what her brother looked like.

Her anger is gone, replaced by an icy bucket of shock.

[hearts_winter]

He blinks, once, and continues to stare, trying to process this. He knows - knows that she cannot possibly be who she looks like, all logic dictates against it and yet. . . There is something there. He just needs to work out what it is.

[his_usurper]

Not again. Oh, oh, not again. It was easier when they were older, as they should be. Cold and accepting of it, wearing it well.

Not younger.

Not a boy.