sharp_as_knives: (At home)
So, because Hannibal loved being nosy people-watching like a train wreck helping people through their traumas (and a good excuse to cook), he'd decided on a dinner party for tonight. He'd even put up signs.

And then he'd cooked. A lot.

There were crudites, assorted styles of bruschetta, several different meats (all of them non-sentient), a number of desserts, and numerous bottles of wine, beer, and liquor.

And if fewer people showed up than he hoped, it just meant some homeless shelter would eat very well.

There were also darts, billiards, and a card table downstairs, and if people wanted to start their own games, well..."Never had I Ever" would probably get Hannibal very drunk, but that was neither here nor there.



[Open post! Come and party your dead-people's trauma away!]
sharp_as_knives: (blue)
Abigail around meant a lot of things, but one of them was cooking breakfast for more than just himself. She rolled her eyes and grinned at his showmanship, and Hannibal smiled back and realized he truly was a little sorry to have missed out on more of this.

Even if breakfast itself consisted of her throwing insults at his husband across the table.

Cut for insults and length )

[OOC: Preplayed with the lovely [livejournal.com profile] furnaceface!]
sharp_as_knives: (At home)
The knock came later than most would be visiting, but this being Fandom, it would hardly be the strangest thing.

When Hannibal opened the door, though...

He blinked.

Abigail smirked. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Hannibal rallied. "I'm surprised you didn't find a window to climb in."

"Didn't look." She shrugged. "It's winter; figured they'd be closed up tight."

The silence was slightly awkward, and it was Abigail that broke it again, though she sounded a bit less certain now. "So...can I come in? Kind of a waste of a visit otherwise."

Hannibal stepped back and waved her in, the pieces clicking into place. "It's that whim of the island's, then." He should have guessed, but it wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of Abigail. He closed the door behind her and took her hand. "It is good to see you."

Abigail let him pull her a bit closer, but she scowled. "Whose fault is it you can't?" She tucked her head into his shoulder and held on.

Hannibal sighed and kissed the top of her head. "Entirely mine, my dear. So, the weekend, then? Where shall we start?"
sharp_as_knives: (At home)
Hannibal hadn't slept last night. Not through any sudden bout of insomnia, but because of staying up to listen to a five-year-old's chatter. Memory played tricks on you; Hannibal knew that better than most. But his memories of Mischa couldn't have painted her as any more sunny or wonderful than she was.

She'd spent the evening exploring his house and pulling him along with her. He'd told her the history of himself and their family, albeit somewhat edited.

Now they were sitting in the library, Hannibal on the sofa and Mischa in his lap as he read to her from a book of French poetry. She only understood one word in five, but she'd always enjoyed just listening to his voice. In her lap was a purring Joni, who had unsurprisingly taken to her. On the other end of the sofa was Beethoven, equally unsurprisingly eyeing her suspiciously.

He could manage for a weekend. Hannibal had Mischa back, however temporarily, and he wasn't giving her up until he had to.



[OOC: Expecting one or two, but open!]

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