The Wolf and The Lamb
ORIGINALLY WRITTEN: April 2025
SUMMARY:
[This is a ficlet inspired by my partner and I’s current hyperfixations; In this AU, Mischa lecter survives the events of her childhood and only learns of Hannibal’s survival well into her adult years. She works at PPTH as the Head of Obstetrics and Pediatrics; I remembered the word this time! The title is also a reference to the fable of Aesop, what about it– Blockquoted/italicized text was written by my partner.]
The overlap between law enforcement and swine is quite thin, particularly in realm where Michael Tritter is concerned. Abusive, self righteous, and morally corrupt (as many of his ilk are), he has grown overconfident in his actions after seeing how closely they ruined the life of a renowned diagnostician.
Unfortunately for him, he did not account for said diagnostician's close confidante being the younger sister of an equally renowned butcher.
It was well beyond visiting hours for any clients. Already deep into the night, where just a few steps away, two of the three predators in this humble abode found themselves wistfully asleep. The third was awoken by the soft ringing of a phone; the gentle tune that he’d known all too well. He’d assigned the ringtone, currently breaking the peaceful silence, to his dearest younger sister, who–when he’d picked up to answer–simply apologized for the unexpected visit and hung up.
Hannibal was wide awake then, cautious in slipping from the sheets (as not to disturb his lounging lovers) and dressing himself. He’d shut the bedroom door behind himself, whispering for them not to worry as the raven-haired vixen raised her head in curiosity. The softness in his tone was enough to convince her back to slumber.
Mere moments passed before knocking fell in tune with the ticking clock in the den, and Hannibal answered with swiftness.
“I don’t come to you asking this lightly.”
Mischa is visibly uncomfortable from where she stands in the doorway to her brother’s home. Her pink sweater and her lab coat cling to her soaked frame, golden locks stuck to her forehead; a crown hung heavy over a tender frown.
Her brother is all too keen in his observations, his composition faltering as he sees the sorrowful sight before him. He had not noticed it raining outside, senses still waking themselves as he’d paced around in anticipation, otherwise he would have retrieved a spare set of clothing and some towels. Still, such matters seemed trivial when he’d caught the tone in her voice; the weight of her words. It was not time for him to speak, for he suspected such an interruption would throw the remnant balance Mischa held.
“In fact, I hoped I’d never have to ask this of you.”
So he listened.
She makes no move to step inside. She knows how Hannibal values cleanliness and she’d rather not trail water across the fine wooden floors and carpets of his domicile. A wolf dressed in satins and silks…
She knows what he is. She knows what he is capable of. She knows now that the Monster of Florence that she feared in her youth stood by her cradle as an infant and struck ivory keys to her ballet dances. It doted on her, crooning over her every act and word, embraced her tenderly and with such devotion to her innocence. It walked beside her as guide and a guardian; a wolf donning the role of keeper, and she a humble fawn as his charge; submissive to her in just the same way. And just as his carnal nature still drove him to bare his teeth in its instinctual desire for the sweet taste of flesh once the herd was gone, so too does his love and devotion for her come to collar and leash him just as naturally. In any other life, she would be his prey. But in this life, she is his sister— beloved above all, even so different from himself. He loves her as she is, just as he always has. Enough that he would do anything for her. Anything at all.
Even kill.
And as much as she wishes for it to be otherwise, that’s exactly what she wants him to do.
“I have a request.” She meets his eye, and it takes everything in her to keep her nerve. Not because of him. But because of what she knows this will make her.
“I know how much you value selecting your own livestock. I’m sorry I can’t afford you that luxury now. Especially since, I would not call this a choice pick, but it is a pig that I need handled with a certain level of… skill. And you are the only one whose judgment I trust to carry that out.” A pause, and Mischa bows her head in a silent act of shame. Not with him. But with herself.
“Please. You know I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t important, Hannibal.”
There is only a moment that passes before the words are spoken: “I know you would not, and I will do so because you ask me to.”
It is spoken so… plainly. As if the request was not a literal matter of life and death. It was as if Mischa, at this ungodly hour, had simply asked him if he would transfer clothing from the washer to the dryer. To do something so menial–so benign to existence–that it didn’t require a second thought. And for him, it hadn’t. He left the request at that, at least for the moment, and stepped aside to invite her in.
“Wait right there, my auksi̇̀nė (feminine: golden; beautiful). Please shut the door behind you.”
Once she finds her footing in the warm foyer, Hannibal disappears. Off to the exact places that appear in his mind to grab the exact pieces of clothing he knew would benefit her in this moment. He makes a brief stop to the bathroom, grabbing a fresh linen towel, then returns. The clothing is set on the coffee table, and he steps close with the towel, gently beginning to swaddle her in the fabric and allow her some sanctuary from the turmoil beyond. As he finishes the wrap, he hugs her and places his chin on the top of her head.
“Tell me what has happened.”