[VERY AU MM continuity; NC-17] Hannibelles-Will

[eidetiker]

Will has been having trouble sleeping. The constant tension of watching for Lecter, waiting for him to make some move -- on him, on Clarice, on some poor rude waiter in the bar, who the hell knows anymore -- is getting to him. And the Scottish exterior is cold, and gray, and he misses Sugarloaf. God he misses Sugarloaf, and Molly, and Josh. Hell, he'd shake Crawford's hand if he showed up here.

He can't sleep.

It took him a long time, all things considered, to finally realize that there's a fully-stocked bar downstairs and that he can take advantage of it. It takes a little longer to talk himself into going downstairs and getting a bottle of Southern Comfort; as a concession to his own caution, he takes it upstairs and locks and chains the door before he starts drinking.

Half an hour later, he's two glasses into the bottle and starting to feel a little fuzzy.

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[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

There's a knock.

It echoes strangely, as though given in imperfect unison by a pair of less-than-steady left hands.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

Will's head comes up, frowning. Clarice, maybe? But this late?

God, he hopes nothing's happened on the one night he's decided to get drunk.

He gets up and heads over to the door, not yet drunk enough to sway, and checks the peephole.

. . . What the fuck.



There's the heavy click of a deadbolt being unlocked, and the door opens as far as the chain will allow. Will peers at the Hannibals through the gap, puzzled.

"Yes?"

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

They laugh. It's an odd, blurred sound, twisted by the half-second delay between them and further by the empty bottle of wine they left back in their room.

"I see we found the right room," says the Hannibal on the left; there's an edge of hysteria to her light chuckle, and her words come with the fresh scent of Château d'Yquem.

Even when they drink to get drunk, they're snobs about it.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

After getting used to their seamless unity, the delay is . . . disconcerting.

"Do you need something?" He sniffs. "You've been drinking."

Says the man with whiskey on his breath.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

"So have you," counters Hannibal-on-the-right, which sets Left-Hannibal to smirking uncontrollably. On a normal woman, that would be a giggle.

Their arms are around one another's waists, and a head leans on a head which leans on a shoulder; they certainly aren't unsteady enough to need the support, but apparently they're unsteady enough to need the contact.

It's Left-Hannibal, with her irrepressible mirth, who suggests: "Let us in and we can all drink together."

Right-Hannibal seems to have a milder echo of her duplicate's humour.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

"You're drunk," he says, sounding surprised. They've got to be to be that uncontrolled.

What the hell.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

Left rubs her face, and for a moment regains all of Hannibal's deadly seriousness.

"Mischa," she explains succinctly.

Right: "She was here."

"We saw her."

"Spoke to her."

"And now..."

A combined shrug, which the delay turns into a bizarre cascade of lifted shoulders; somehow, a single understated gesture of Right's free hand manages to convey a bottle of wine obtained and drunk.

Which in turn gives some rationale for their showing up at his door leaning on one another.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

"Mischa -- your sister, right?"

He examines them for a moment, then shuts the door. The chain rattles, and then the door opens. Will's still standing in the opening; it's not an invitation in yet, just a way to see them both more clearly.

"Why'd you come up here?"

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

Left's shirt doesn't quite fit.

It's one of theirs from when they're male.

On closer examination, they both show signs of hasty dressing-- shirts untucked, buttoned perfectly but with collars slightly askew, pants wrinkled.

"Our sister," agrees Right.

"It was... spontaneous," Left adds, with a wry smile. Because when the hell are they spontaneous? About never.

Or when they need someone to talk to and aren't quite tipsy enough to admit it outright.

Y'know.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

You're really drunk, he thinks, taking in their appearance, but doesn't bother to point it out. Presumably they know that.

"I don't know what," he starts, stops. "Do you want me to help or something?"

He sounds uncertain. More than uncertain: confused. The Southern Comfort's not helping.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

Oh to hell with it.

"We'd appreciate a friend," says Right, bluntly.

"You'll do," adds Left in a murmur, half-into her double's shoulder.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

Will looks genuinely startled.

"Oh."

Beat.

"I . . . come in, I guess."

He steps aside to let them in.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

They retain their customary grace, at least, on entering.



"Thank you."

It is seriously uncomfortable being this emotionally honest with another human being.

Then again, it beats the hell out of eventual alcohol poisoning. Sometimes you just know you're headed nowhere good.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

"Have a seat," he offers vaguely. There's the bed, or there's the large overstuffed armchair he'd been sitting in, with a lamp, the bottle, and his half-full glass on the table next to it.

He heads for the bedside table to turn on the lamp there, and to check his gun. Fully loaded, but the safety's on. That'll work.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

The checking of the gun, oddly, prompts a laugh.

And yes, they're occupying his armchair, and yes, she of the ill-fitting shirt is snuggled into her double's lap.

The door is closed; the outside world is... outside, and they are as much at home as they can be in the presence of someone not themselves. Hannibal is relaxed. Both of her. Which means, apparently, being rather obviously-- if decorously-- lesbian with herself.

And hey, it saves space.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

He gives them a sidelong look as he replaces the gun, but doesn't apologize for it.

Crossing to the armchair table, he screws the cap back on the bottle, picks up his glass, and retreats to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Jesus Christ but this is surreal.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

Yes.

No.

Fuck it.

"We've never told you how she died."

It's not exactly a question.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

". . . No one has," he says quietly, suddenly a little tense.

None of the theories he's come up with quite fit all the evidence.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

"Nineteen forty-four," says Hannibal in unsteady unison with herself. "It was winter. In the war. The Russians came to the manor looking for water; the Germans found them. There was shooting. Mother and Father were killed, and it was just Mischa and I, in the manor, in the cold."

They take a breath, as unsteady as their imperfect synchronicity, and continue.

"A gang of looters found us. They needed us for cover at first, but there was no food, and they couldn't leave. They would crowd around, feeling at our cheeks, our arms--"

Hannibal shivers, both of her, all at once as though to clear dust from the memory. It's the first time they've done something as human as tremble in his presence.

"They took her outside, killed her, and ate her."

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

Will can't say anything.

Nauseated horror is slamming into the clear hot triumph of understanding is slamming into the memory of Lecter's office (that's where we're wrong he's eating them remarkable boy I think I'll) and the conflict is roiling tightly someplace just below his solar plexus.


He downs the rest of his drink.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

Her arms are tightening around herself, each to each, and their eyes are closed and she has her head buried in her shoulder and look you try managing pronouns at a time like this.

"We wouldn't mind some of that ourselves," she says softly, nodding to the bottle.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

"Help yourself. Just don't overdo it," he warns, standing and heading for the bathroom to get them glasses.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

They'll wait.

Although, for the record, they only need one glass.

[eidetiker.livejournal.com]

He's not gone long. He puts the glasses on the table when he returns, unsure that they'd take well to being touched.

He pours himself another shot, as long as he's there, because watching people drink is awkward -- and stands there looking down at them, glass in his hand. The lamp makes the play of light and shadows on them particularly stark.

[suspects-ravens.livejournal.com]

Two hands wrap around a glass, and they don't belong to the same body.

When they drink, they're too shaken to turn from their usual habits. One Hannibal sips, and the other shares.

She kisses with her eyes half-closed, both of her, and they have to set the glass down before their hands start to shake.