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Paradise Valley was exactly as the pictures advertised: Paradise. Situated fifteen minutes from LA proper and Hollywood itself, Paradise Valley was an upper crust suburbia designed for deep pockets and elegance. The homes were brightly colored and large, ranch and two story style with a sort of timeless charm. The grass was well watered, green, and perfectly trimmed on each lawn, bordered only by white picket fences. Little touches of life could be found throughout, a stray bike here, a barking dog there, neighbors laughing, cars driving lazily by. It was so…normal. So chronically suburban and everything that the Graham-Lecter family tended to avoid.
In other words, it was perfect.
“It’s disgustingly…quaint. It’s like a museum threw up all over this place! Look, even the neighbors are like little mannequins.” Abigail pointed through the window of their new Chrysler. Will thought the vehicular indulgence was too much but Hannibal insisted that there was no such thing. In the end, Hannibal won out. Will could at least admit the thing purred beautifully and seemingly matched the overall elegance of their new neighborhood.
“Yes, well most of these people haven’t known a day without shittin’ sunshine.” Will grumbled with a smirk and Abigail giggled.
“Do give it a chance, at least. And I stress to remind you both how important these first few weeks are, ingraining ourselves in the community is pivotal.” Hannibal worried, Will knew that, as much as the man pretended he did not–he did greatly. He loved his family and any perceived threat was snuffed out accordingly. Moves were always a lot on them all, everyone on edge and exhausted from wearing and learning a new veneer to blend in.
“When do I start at the Academy?” Abigail asked, flipping through the brochure she had procured from Hannibal on the plane.
Paradise Valley Academy of the Arts was a co-ed private institution that Hannibal and Will had fought very hard to get Abigail into, not that it took much after the school saw her skillset. Abigail was excited to ditch her previous school for a place that prioritized her art, curious to see how her workload would change. She loved dancing.
“Conditioning for the dance program begins in July, my dear. But, the new home has a dedicated room for you in the meantime.” Will smiled through the rearview and Abigail grinned. It had been a last minute renovation, turning one of the spare rooms into a dance studio. It was nothing extraordinary but it would be enough for Abigail to upkeep her ability and stay in shape until conditioning began.
“Thank you.” Her voice was a whisper, genuine as she looked back out the window. Will once again reminded himself that they would be fine.
The first week had gone by quietly, as the family had planned. Keeping a clearly busy schedule of unpacking and shopping for their new home they received little to no interruptions in those first few days. The most they were subjected to was the flight of conversation between fellow dog walkers in the mornings and evenings when they took Winston and Nim out. But with that first period of settling done, now the real work began.
Hannibal had recently accepted a job as a curator for the Paradise Valley Museum of Art, a renowned and classical collection that even had Hannibal’s taste satiated. It was the first real step in making sure the family had an adequate foothold in the community before Autumn. Hannibal found that it was much easier in the leisure of summertime to establish oneself than in the colder months. There was an inspiration of change and exuberance that the summertime brought that made people malleable and open to new things they might otherwise be keenly suspicious of. And in the well off Paradise Valley, where the upper crust of society ran free and without a hitch– it was important for the Graham-Lecter’s to blend in before they shattered the quaintness of the air.
As such, Hannibal had been invited to a Gala in the city and it would be the unofficial debut of the Graham-Lecter family in such a public setting. In order to prepare, the family had spent the previous day at the shoppes choosing appropriate attire. This, as it most often did, consisted of Hannibal and Will following their daughter from shop to shop as they acquisted to all her wants with little protest. The argument Hannibal countered whenever Will commented about “spoiling her” was that, considering the complexities of every aspect of their life, this seemed a simple thing they could provide. That, and, Hannibal loved helping his daughter give into the finery of life, as she deserved. In the end Abigail was a practical mix of both her parents which meant she knew when and how to appease them both, so she declined Hannibal's offer of a custom gown and chose one on display. Will was grateful for the decline in zeroes on the bill and Hannibal was still pleased to see her choose an elegant off-shoulder evening gown cut of a similar fabric as her father’s tuxedos. They would be the image of propriety and elegance.
“My love, you torture yourself,” Hannibal hid his amusement at watching his husband pace aimlessly in the living room, a whiskey in hand and his untied bowtie hanging around his neck. Will was not necessarily a fan of this part of their lives. That’s not to say he didn’t understand the importance but he also would much rather enjoy outings as a unit, rather than on display and playing the perfect veneer of themselves. It was exhausting, for everyone, but especially for Will whose empathy was harder to shut away in the face of dozens of new faces.
“If any of them make even a gesture of a comment about either of you–” Will mumbled and there it was, really, the root of his worry. Hannibal couldn’t help his fond gaze as he stood and approached Will. He placed his hands on the man's waist and traced soothing patterns into his ribcage.
“What would they say that would even matter, beloved? They will love you, they will love Abigail, as do all who see her.” Hannibal assures him, but Will shakes his head.
“But you can’t know that, if they comment about Abigail’s scar or–”
“Then it will be the last comment they make in this world.” Hannibal spoke sharply, cutting off that train of thought at its origin. Although, it was not without merit. In the past, after the war, there was a rather strong spike in suspicion and aggression towards Hannibal. It was the accent, the way he held himself, no one was sure of him anymore. It had been mildly annoying to Hannibal who found it pretentious and rude but also knew it would pass. For Will it was as if every scoff, every comment, every expression was pointed at him and not Hannibal. Pointed in scrutiny at their family, at their home. Will had been particularly ferocious in his kills during those years. Abigail had also gone through periods of confidence and lack thereof regarding the pink raised scar on her neck. School children were curious, then cruel, then smart and it was harder for Abigail to establish herself outside her bloody origins. Despite being the daughter of Will and Hannibal longer than she hadn’t been, someone still found it in themselves to point out her biological father and his crimes. In these times, Abigail would become a shut in, she would retreat and spiral and it got harder to pull her out. Will worried, Hannibal worried and the dogs would become restless. Hannibal could understand the worry, but he had already vowed to Abigail that he would protect her with his life, and he always would.
Will sighed and nodded, an understanding. The worried lines of his posture faded and he straightened, throwing back the rest of his whiskey and giving Hannibal his signature innocent gaze.
“Feelin’ protective, Dr. Lecter?” Will drawled, lilting out the lines of his southern accent in the safety of their home. He watched Hannibal’s minute twitch of a smile before the man began to tie Will’s bowtie.
“Protective is an understatement, darling.” Hannibal kissed him soundly, softly and passionately as punctuation to such a solid statement.
“The gods would bathe in their own blood before an ounce of yours is shed,” Will quoted Hannibal’s vows from all those years ago spoken boldly under the moonlight. It was a vivid memory, an oddly comforting one , “some would call love like that dangerous, destructive.”
“If I recall. My dear, it was you who tore a man’s throat out after making unwanted advances towards me not even a month ago.” Hannibal smirked secretly and Will shrugged.
“Dangerous and destructive is the sub clause of our marriage, the fine print you agreed to when you said ‘I do.’”
Hannibal hummed in agreement and the two rested their foreheads against one another in the quiet of their living room, matching the steadiness of their breathing.
“Are the two of you going to be like this all night?” Abigail’s teasing, yet fond, exasperation came from the entryway and both men parted to look at their daughter.
Abigail was a vision. She had, despite Will’s fear she would despise it, decided upon taking the metaphorical “big chop” and gotten a haircut more akin to Audrey Hepburn’s “pixie” (whatever that meant Will didn’t know). As such, Her auburn hair was styled and pinned back maturely making her look proper and elegant. Her gown was floor length, flaring out softly at her hips and cutting cleanly on her torso before the off shoulder style showed off her necklace tastefully. The gown was a crimson color, contrasting and complimenting the opposing patterns of Hannibal’s black suit with crimson accents and Will’s crimson suit with black accents. The tone of the red was intentional, as Hannibal had found the color of blood brought out the electricity of Abigail and Will's aquamarine irises. To finish off the ensemble, Abigail had on simple earrings and a bracelet, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood.
“Well?” Abigail raised a brow.
“Beautiful, petite loup,” Hannibal smiled and opened the door for his family.
Showtime.
__________________________
The Ballroom in the Paradise Valley Museum of Art was older than the gallery itself. A beautiful display of architecture and design, the circular room was decorated head to toe in intricate murals of mythological creatures, gods and legends taken from a plethora of cultures. The soft glow of lighting gave everything a romantic air in harmony with the small symphonic orchestra that played in the corner. The room was packed with the very pick of high society and gaggling matrons that spoke swiftly and excitedly with one another.
At the center of it all, waltzing smoothly and entirely in an inexhaustible world of their own were Hannibal and Will. Their steps in time outshone every other couple in the room, as did the loving gazes they granted to one another with each spin, dip and twirl. It was a strategy they had adopted for several parties, garnering attention through establishing this subtle dominance, as if a prelude to the waltz of conversation they would partake in afterwards. It was also something that, despite the eyes on them, Will enjoyed a great deal. He loved the way the envy of the crowd would wash over him in waves at the sight of them, how jealousy would dig into each patron. Will was well aware he had a possessive streak when it came to Hannibal, but he wasn’t above it.
“I can feel their envy,” Will smirked softly as Hannibal brought him a few inches closer on the next turn.
“I can feel Abigail’s amusement,” Hannibal winked and Will smiled wide, knowing somewhere near their daughter was likely rolling her eyes fondly.
“Who do we need to talk to next?”
“Likely Miss Komeda, she is a colleague and holds me in high regard.” Hannibal let his eyes flicker to the direction of the woman in question and Will nodded in understanding as the music finally came to a soft close. Ever the creature of habit, Will took Hannibal softly in his hands and kissed him as long as was appropriate before the two stepped apart. Claps erupted for the band and the dancers alike as the crowd once again fell into careful conversation.
Will looked out in the crowd and found Abigail speaking with a young woman he recognized as Cassandra, their neighbor's daughter. She looked to be having a genuine time, the smile on her face lacking the stress lines in her jaw. He was glad for it, Abigail deserved a genuine friend, a shred of normalcy in all of this. And Cassandra seemed like a nice girl, a nice contrast to Abigail's brash charm. It also helped that she would be attending the same academy as Abigail come July.
“Hannibal, darling, when you said you were bringing your husband I didn’t know what to expect, but this charming young man is simply your perfect match. How handsome you both are! And how in love,” Miss Komeda was an outspoken and charming woman that Hannibal respected a great deal. Her work to preserve the art around her was a calling she took seriously, taking on a no-nonsense style of authority.
“Miss Komeda, you look lovely this evening,” Hannibal kissed her hand with a smile and the woman waved him off.
“This old thing? You’re too kind, now introduce me to the one who managed to tame your fire,” The woman’s attention moved to Will who was watching the exchange with mild amusement. He liked her.
“This is my husband, Will Graham, he is a detective with the LAPD,” Hannibal spoke with pride as he looked at Will with a warm smile.
Their story was the same as it always had been. Will and Hannibal met during university, which led to a whirlwind romance only punctuated by the shadow of war. They’d been married within the year much like other couples during that time and had been together nearly a decade before their daughter came along. Abigail was theirs, born from a surrogate. She’d inherited Will’s eyes and Hannibal’s sharp wit, after which they’d traversed Europe until finally settling in California. It was idealistic, an easy story to remember and prevented anyone from looking too closely. Besides, as far as they were concerned–Abigail was their daughter.
“ It’s lovely to meet you Miss Komeda, I’ve heard lovely things,” Will shook her hand kindly.
“As have I, Hannibal tells me you have been married for some time, yes?”
“Married for ten, together slightly longer. We met when we were students,” Will recalled fondly those years of academia, of bloodstained kisses and romanced violence. Of the unexpected gentleness Hannibal held in contrast with his sadistic pleasure in taking a life. How good of a father he was, how good of a husband, how good of a killer.
“A true love story, how gorgeous.” Miss Komeda swooned.
“Our daughter is around here somewhere, likely taking advantage of the opportunity to sample the wine.” Hannibal scanned the crowd in mock exasperation.
“Ah, to be young again, yes? I suppose she must have a refined pallet, with you both being her guides?”
“That and a childhood spent abroad has made her somewhat spoiled I’m afraid.” Hannibal smiled fondly, no mask needed when speaking of Abigail. For, however close Will and Abigail were, there was a special bond between Hannibal and Abigail. He had been the first face she had seen when she woke up all those years ago, he had refused to leave her side, almost lost in those foggy memories of his own tragic origins. And Will supposed darkness recognized darkness because Abigail latched right back, taking to her savagery like a panther.
“Nothing wrong with that! Now, Will, tell me what it’s like being a detective. I admit I’m quite a fan of detective novels, I can only hope real life isn’t disenchanted compared,” Miss Komeda turned her attention to Will with a kind smile. Will straightened his shoulders and began the exhaustingly long routine of relaying an interesting cop story to a civilian.
In contrast, across the Gala Abigail was playing a rather entertaining game with her newfound friend.
Cassandra Boudelaire was thought to be rather peculiar by those who knew her. She had a strange adoration for the macabre and her fashion kept strictly to various textures and shades of black. There was an odd way the light caught her electrifying amber eyes that looked almost like melted gold against her impossibly long onyx waves and pale skin. The Boudelaire’s were a family of renowned Archivists and Conservators at the Natural History Museum. Mrs. Diatrix Boudelaire specialized in the study of night creatures while her husband , Mr. Victor Boudelaire, spent much of his days preserving and dusting medieval torture devices. So, between Cassandra’s sense of humor, her parents and her hobby of mounting her pet bugs (she was an aspiring entomologist, thinking it best to have a backup should her ballet career fall short) she tended to put people off.
Abigail adored her immediately.
As such the two girls have been doing nothing but gossiping and drinking expensive wine for the better part of the hour.
“What about him?” Abigail whispered, pointing discreetly to a rather overweight looking man who was sweating profusely into his whiskey.
“Mr. Carmichael has a rolodex of easily accessible women who take more kindly to his easily accessible money than the sausages he calls hands.” Cassandra wiggled her gloved hands with a wink and Abigail giggled.
“And her?” Abigail pointed to an older woman sitting down, hair perfectly styled and a lazy cigarette on her lips. She eyed the crowd tiredly as a small flock of young handsome men sat around her eagerly.
“That is my personal hero, The Duchess is what I call her. She sweeps in and out of the social eye every few months leaving a long line of broken hearts behind. No one knows her story and I think she works very hard to keep it that way.”
Abigail whistled lowly and smirked.
“And you? What about you, Miss Doe Eyes?” Cassandra suddenly turned her attention on Abigail, eyes aflame with curiosity and something else Abigail couldn’t put a name to. Cassandra sipped her wine and looked expectedly as Abigail rolled her eyes fondly.
“Me? Hardly anything of note, my fathers and I moved here a few weeks ago because my Dad got a job. I enjoy my dogs, Nimue and Winston, old books and my modest collection of medieval throwing daggers, just like all the other girls,” Abigail laughed, a true laugh, and Cassandra’s eyes widened as she beamed.
“Hardly like any other girls around here, thank Heavens. I admit, my dear, it’s been dreadfully boring here. It isn’t that the social scene is lacking–it’s the people. But, you are a chameleon, Abigail, like myself. That’s what allows us these small moments, our deception.”
“Deception?” Abigail raised a brow.
“Of course, you look around this place like a newborn fawn, all disarmingly innocent. But I can tell you’re used to the prying eyes and probing questions. The careful glass fixtures of high society when your family doesn’t fit the mold. I’m intimate with the feeling, as you are. We play on our looks. It’s effective, if not deceiving,” Cassandra smirked, setting her wine glass down casually.
“That so? I’m not sure if you mean such a thing as a compliment or not,” Abigail frowned, finishing her wine.
“Take it as you will, you’re like me. We blend in, play on our assets and stick to ourselves as much as we can manage. Having a deceptive innocence is like having the key to the city in a place like this, Abigail.” Cassandra spoke elegantly, gesturing about the room with a quirked smile.
“And yet you saw through it.” Abigail replied in interest.
“I suspect you saw through me as well.” Cassandra eyed her, hazel meeting blue like the sky meeting the land. There was something electrifying in the air, something raw and Abigail couldn’t fight the feelings of excitement and caution overtaking her.
But, before Abigail could reply she heard her father’s voice vying for her attention. She sighed and set her wine down. Cassandra simply hummed her goodbyes and slipped away elegantly back to her parents across the room.
“My ears are burning,” Abigail slid casually into the conversation next to Will and Hannibal, adopting the face of innocence and maturity.
“Nothing bad, petite loup, I assure you.” Hannibal spoke kindly.
“You must be the beautiful Abigail! Why, you look just like your father, those blue eyes, my days!” Miss Komeda kissed Abigail on each cheek and she flushed at the attention.
“So, I’ve been told. It is lovely to meet you, this is a wonderful party, thank you for inviting us,” Abigail bowed her head softly and gave her best doe eyed charming smile. It worked, as if it often did, and Miss Komeda was melting.
“Always! Always! Speak nothing of it my dear, perhaps you can convince your father to cook for me and my fiancé sometime, yes? I’ve been trying to get a taste of his fine dining for weeks now!” Miss Komeda giggled conspiringly with Abigail who winked.
“A meal must present itself, Miss Komeda, I’m afraid my father is particular about his inspirations. But I can see what I can do.”
“Thatta girl!”
The rest of the evening went without incident, the Graham-Lecters worked every corner of the room exchanging several phone numbers and promises of future interactions. Hannibal was a shark in the water, smooth and unwavering, and Will was happy to watch. Abigail for her part did a splendid job of playing the role of the kind, mature, beautiful young daughter. She spoke of her refined interests and desire to pick up her violin lessons once school begins. She indulged conversation and laughed when appropriate. Will was content being quiet for the majority of the evening, drinking fine whiskey and letting Hannibal take the lead. He answered questions and kept his boredom hidden when the drole of it all became unbearable.
“Dad—I’m sorry to interrupt—but I’m not feeling well.” And like a saving grace Abigail looked at Will with a pitiful expression. A silent conversation was had then I’m done with this followed by can we please go home and ended with let’s find your father.
“Oh, Abby, are you okay?” Will turned away from Mr.WhateverHisNameIs and laid a concerned palm on Abigail’s forehead. Will pursed his lips at a nonexistent fever and tutted his tongue.
“You’re a little warm for my liking, let’s find your father and head home. I apologize, it was wonderful speaking to you all but I best be off.” Will set his whiskey on a nearby table and didn’t even wait to hear the chorus of voices telling him it was fine. He knew it was fine.
They found Hannibal surrounded by a crowd of people all laughing and touching his arm a little too much for his liking. Will's face must have betrayed his dismay because Abigail nudged him.
“Green isn’t becoming on you, Dad,” Abigail scolded and Will rolled his eyes.
“They’re vultures.”
“I won’t disagree, well– the Boudelaire’s didn’t seem so bad.” Abigail commented, a tone of whimsy in her voice that Will might have investigated had it not been for a particularly brave manicured hand that tapped and squeezed Hannibal’s bicep. Will’s eye twitched.
“No, but the Boudelaire’s left an hour ago and I’m thinking they had the right idea.” Will began to walk towards the crowd, hands clenching.
“Be nice.”
“I am nice.” Will gritted out before breaking through the circle of hens and approaching Hannibal. True to form as soon as Will appeared Hannibal’s entire attention was instantly turned to him. Whatever he was saying was stale on his tongue in the face of Will’s saccharine smile and head tilt.
“Excuse me?” The woman, the handsy one, looked at Will with a curious brow and disdainful expression at the disruption. Will turned to her, eyeing her slowly before turning away once again,
“Yes, excuse you,” he replied, not a note of anything but politeness in his tone making the display sharper than a dagger.
“It’s getting late,” Will hummed, voice soft as he gazed at Hannibal shamelessly. Will took the wine from Hannibal’s hand and drank it languidly before setting it on a passing waiter's tray. Hannibal got that glint in his eye that spoke of a curiosity to Will’s next move. Around them, the crowd watched in confusion and awe at Will’s impoliteness.
“And so it is, I apologize, time got away from me, cara mio,” Hannibal took Will’s slightly trembling hand in his and kissed it softly where his wedding ring resided.
“Nothing to forgive, now if you’ll excuse us my husband and I must take our daughter home,” Will turned to see the shocked, upset, and confused faces of the vultures before guiding Hannibal from the crowd and towards Abigail.
“I said be nice.” Abigail scolded as she handed Hannibal his coat. Will ignored the comment and sent one last look to the crowd, where the woman was still staring at him in disdain. As if knowing of the righteous display Will was orchestrating, Hannibal slid Will’s coat on his shoulders and kissed him softly on the cheek.
“Let’s go home.” Hannibal whispered and Will took his hand, Abigail leading through the doors.
“You two are worse than teenagers.” Abigail huffed with a giggle.
That night, the name on everyone’s tongues was Graham-Lecter.