Hannibal gives a soft hum at the comparison, faint amusement touching his expression.

“Checkers.

A simpler game, on the surface. I rarely play it.”

A small pause.

“Chess appeals to me because of its imbalance. Power distributed unequally from the very beginning. Kings protected by disposable pieces. Loss not merely expected, but required.”

His gaze lowers briefly, thoughtful.

“There is honesty in that inevitability.”

…

“But checkers…”

A faint tilt of his head

“Checkers is a game of conversion. Of crossing boundaries and returning altered. One survives long enough, reaches the opposing side, and becomes something more dangerous than what it began as.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

“So if someone viewed life through that lens of red for life, black for death, each capable of becoming the other… one would think them someone intimately familiar with transformation.”

His eyes sharpen with interest.

“Someone who understands that death and life are not opposites, but neighboring states.

Hannibal’s expression softens almost imperceptibly at Abigail’s name. He considers the question longer than necessary before answering.

“Well, I suppose at first it began with the most common vice, curiosity.”

He folds his hands neatly behind his back, gaze distant.

“She survived what should have consumed her. Most people in her position would have broken entirely… Abigail adapted.”

A faint smile touches his lips, though there is little warmth in it.

“I recognized something familiar in her. A loneliness shaped by violence.

A young person forced to become intimate with death before she was ever allowed innocence.”

His eyes lower briefly.

“And perhaps… I wished to see whether something wounded could be guided toward becoming something more than merely damaged.”

A pause. Quiet.

He doesn’t mention how Mischa’s smile mirrored in Abigail’s. He doesn’t mention how his breath felt knocked out, how mocked he felt, assuming god had given back his sister to mock him.

He simply smiles.

…

- 🐈‍⬛

Ah, my dear informant. How refreshing to be greeted so warmly. One could almost mistake it for loyalty.

I have been… well. Quiet. A period of reflection can be quite restorative. It sharpens the palate and clarifies one’s appreciation for discretion.

I would ask after you in return, but you seem well enough. Composed. I trust you have been… selective in your disclosures. Information, after all, is like a fine wine. Once poured too freely, it cannot be gathered back into the bottle.

Do take care of what you choose to share, Kitty. Some ears are far less appreciative than mine.

His smile does not quite reach his eyes, as it often is when talking about a certain brunette. his reply is composed, but sharp.

My holidays were satisfactory, as I hope yours were as well. Quiet has its uses, particularly when one is forced to grow accustomed to it.

A measured pause.

Mr. Graham’s absence has not gone unnoticed. Absence, after all, is a form of presence when it is intentional. Assuredly, I have no doubt he will return to what understands him best.

I trust he is enjoy himself.

was wondering if there’s any dishes you’ve been particularly enjoying recently? i’ve been looking to cook some new recipes.

thank you :3

Dr. Lecter smiles gently as he types, his tone warm and measured.

I’ve been favoring very modest dishes of late—rabbit with mustard and fresh herbs, for instance. Simple things have a way of revealing more than elaborate ones, if you allow them the time.

There’s a pause, as if he’s considering you rather than the recipe.

Cook attentively. What you notice along the way is often the most important part.