Work Text:
Will was already running late. He hastily buttoned up his shirt, grabbed his coat, and turned to where Hannibal stood near the dining table, looking as composed as ever despite the chaos surrounding him.
Mischa, only six years old, sat on the couch with her arms crossed, glaring at her father with the sharp intensity she had definitely inherited from Hannibal. Nicholas, at just two years old, clung to Will’s pant leg, his chubby hands making it difficult for Will to move.
— Daddy, do you have to go? — Mischa pouted, her lower lip trembling dramatically.
Will sighed, kneeling down to gently pry Nicholas off his leg.
— Yes, sweetheart. Daddy has to work.
— But it’s Saturday! — Mischa countered. — You should stay home and play with us!
Hannibal stepped forward, placing a hand on Will’s shoulder as he crouched next to their children.
— Your father has important work to do, Mischa. But you and Nicholas will have a wonderful day with me.
Will arched an eyebrow at his husband.
— Please don’t try to teach them about 18th-century French cuisine again, Hannibal.
Hannibal merely smiled, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
— I was thinking of a more refined approach today. Perhaps some lessons in etiquette, followed by an introduction to the operatic works of Puccini?
— No! — Mischa protested. — I want to watch cartoons and eat cookies! Nicholas, as if understanding his sister’s argument, clapped excitedly and echoed:
— Cookies!
Hannibal sighed as if the weight of the world had suddenly fallen upon him.
— Such an uncultured rebellion in my own home... — he murmured, shaking his head dramatically.
Will chuckled, kissing Mischa’s forehead before ruffling Nicholas’ soft curls.
— You’re in for a long day, Hannibal.
Hannibal’s expression was unreadable, but Will didn’t miss the slight twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips.
— I have tamed far more formidable creatures, my love.
— They’re children, Hannibal. Not serial killers.
— Some would argue there is little difference.
Will rolled his eyes before heading for the door. As soon as it clicked shut behind him, Mischa turned to Hannibal with a smirk.
— So… cartoons?
Hannibal sighed, seating himself in the armchair with perfect posture.
— One episode. And only if you agree to try at least one bite of something from the Baroque period.
Mischa grinned in triumph, grabbing the remote. Nicholas wobbled over, climbing onto the couch beside her as the bright colors of their favorite show filled the screen.
Hannibal glanced at them both, then at the untouched copy of The Art of Manners he had planned to introduce. With a resigned sigh, he leaned back and prepared himself for the longest morning of his life.
Mischa had no intention of stopping at one episode. As soon as the credits rolled, she expertly maneuvered the remote and started another before Hannibal could even open his mouth.
— Mischa. — His voice was even, but there was a warning in it.
She didn’t even turn to look at him.
— Oops. It just started all on its own.
Nicholas, delighted with the turn of events, clapped his chubby hands.
— More!
Hannibal exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was a man of control, of patience. He had performed delicate surgeries with a steadier hand than this. He would not let two small children unravel him.
— Enough. — He stood, walking over to the television and pressing the power button manually, watching as the screen went black.
Mischa gasped as if she had just witnessed a crime.
— You turned it off!
— Indeed.
Nicholas’s lower lip wobbled dangerously.
— No more?!
Hannibal crouched beside them, clasping his hands together as if mediating a negotiation.
— We had an agreement. One episode in exchange for a cultural experience.
— Cartoons are culture. — Mischa folded her arms.
— That is debatable.
Nicholas, however, had lost all interest in the discussion. He had discovered, to his horror, that he had run out of cookies.
— More cookies, Papa!
Hannibal lifted an eyebrow.
— You have already consumed more sugar than is necessary for a single morning.
Nicholas’s response was immediate. He threw himself backward onto the floor, limbs flailing.
— COOKIES!
Mischa, ever the strategist, pointed at her brother.
— If you don’t give him one, he’s going to cry.
Hannibal regarded his son with an unimpressed look.
— He is already crying.
— Yeah, but he’s gonna get louder. And then I’m going to get annoyed. And then I’m going to whine. And then—
Hannibal held up a hand.
— Enough.
Silence.
Then, smoothly, he stood and walked toward the kitchen.
Mischa and Nicholas exchanged a glance before scrambling after him.
They arrived just in time to see Hannibal opening a cabinet, retrieving something that very much did not look like a cookie.
— I have something better for you, — he said, placing two small plates on the counter.
Mischa squinted at the delicate little pastries.
— What’s that?
— Petit fours.
Nicholas poked one suspiciously.
— Cookies?
— Far superior.
Mischa sniffed the pastry before taking a hesitant bite. Her face twisted in deep thought.
— ...This is good.
Nicholas stuffed his entire piece into his mouth, chewing happily.
Hannibal allowed himself the smallest smile.
— You see? Culture can be delicious.
Mischa finished her bite, licking her fingers.
— Still think cookies are better.
Hannibal exhaled sharply through his nose.
This was going to be a very long day.
After finishing their petit fours, Mischa and Nicholas seemed to be in deep contemplation—though Hannibal doubted it had anything to do with appreciating the delicate flavors.
Mischa, ever the mastermind, suddenly brightened.
— Since we ate your fancy food, does that mean we get to watch more cartoons?
Hannibal sipped his tea, leveling her with an unreadable stare.
— No.
Mischa groaned, flopping dramatically onto the kitchen counter.
— But we compromised!
— We did not. I set terms, and you accepted them.
— That’s the same thing!
— No, Mischa, that is what we call a "deal with the devil."
Mischa blinked.
— Wait. Are you the devil?
Hannibal smiled.
— What do you think?
Before Mischa could answer, Nicholas—who had grown bored of the conversation—reached for a spoon and began rhythmically banging it against the table.
— Dum! Dum! DUM!
Hannibal sighed, setting down his cup.
— Nicholas, we do not treat fine silverware as percussion instruments.
— Why?
— Because we are not savages.
Nicholas processed this for a moment before nodding sagely. Then he grabbed a second spoon and handed it to Mischa.
— Dum dum dum dum!
Mischa, ever her father’s accomplice, joined in.
— DUM DUM DUM DUM!
Hannibal closed his eyes briefly.
— Enough.
The banging continued.
— Enough.
Louder.
With a sigh, Hannibal leaned over and plucked both spoons from their hands in one fluid motion.
— That is quite enough.
Mischa crossed her arms.
— What are we supposed to do, then?
Hannibal steepled his fingers.
— I had planned for an afternoon of refinement. A lesson in calligraphy, followed by an introduction to classical literature.
Mischa wrinkled her nose.
— You mean… homework?
— No, culture.
— Sounds like homework.
Nicholas, sensing an opening, gasped dramatically.
— homework!
— It is not homework.
Mischa patted Nicholas’s back, whispering conspiratorially,
— It’s worse. It’s homework in disguise.
Nicholas’s eyes widened in horror.
Hannibal pinched the bridge of his nose again.
He had spent years manipulating the most cunning minds, bending them to his will with a carefully chosen word or glance. But these two? They were immune to his tactics.
— Fine. — He exhaled, giving in with an air of dignified defeat. — What would you prefer to do?
Mischa and Nicholas exchanged a look.
Then Mischa grinned.
— Pillow fort.
Hannibal blinked.
— Excuse me?
Nicholas nodded eagerly.
— A BIG one!
Hannibal glanced at the pristine furniture. At the carefully curated pillows, the spotless rugs.
Then at the two small forces of chaos in front of him.
He sighed.
— Very well.
Mischa and Nicholas gasped in delight.
— We’re gonna need all the pillows.
And so, Hannibal Lecter—former surgeon, brilliant psychiatrist, and master manipulator—found himself reluctantly constructing the most structurally sound pillow fort in the history of mankind.