Chapter Text
"In the valley of the dolls we sleep. I've got a hole inside of me. Living with identities that do not belong to me." - Valley of the Dolls, Marina and the Diamonds.
Hannibal closed and locked the door behind him, relishing the sound of the latch clicking over even if he knew no one else was in his home with him. Locking the door felt safe, good. Like he could keep this room, this part of him, inside and away from everything else. Hannibal was very good at sectioning off pieces of his life and preventing them from touching each other, but this piece of him hurt to hide.
Shades and pieces of her hung in the back of Hannibal’s mind every waking moment. Every second he was around someone who didn’t know, she seemed to scream in his ear even louder than before. Her soft scent hung in the air and snagged on each of his fingers when he tried to move them. Her lipstick stained his teeth and he couldn’t get her polish off his nails, couldn’t get her blush off his cheeks. Long blonde hairs clung to his suits. She spoke in gasps and sighs that only he could hear in a voice that was soft and feminine like his could never be. She bled out and stained him crimson more than the piece of him hidden in the basement ever did.
She would not, and could not, leave him alone. And he did not want her to.
He flicked on the light next to the door and blinked as the soft bulbs flooded the room. Still holding the doorknob in his loosening fist, he let his eyes wander the modestly sized room, taking in everything that he had collected over the years. The walls were a pale cream color, offset by the muted pink moldings that lined the hardwood floor. An antique vanity with a rounded mirror was the centerpiece of the room, overflowing with bottles of perfumes and foundations all stacked neatly on top of lace doilies. Each of the drawers were organized impeccably, Hannibal would have it no other way, lipsticks and blushes and shadows arranged neatly by color.
Slowly, carefully, he removed his suit jacket and hung it neatly on the hook inside the small closet that was near the door. He unbuttoned each of the buttons on his shirt with as much care as he could before hanging it up as well. Next came him pants, and boxers, which were also meticulously hung. Hannibal took a moment and looked himself over in the long mirror that hung on the back of the door, a sharpened edge of hate creeping into his gaze. He tilted his chin back, baring his teeth slightly, before snatching up a light chiffon silk dressing gown that was light pink at the top and faded into a darker shade at the bottom. He bunched up the fabric of a sleeve and pressed it against his nose and mouth, inhaling for a short moment before throwing it around his shoulders and relaxing as it caressed his skin. He folded it over himself and knotted the braided rope around the middle, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked into the mirror and some of the hate ebbed.
Hands in the limp tendrils of his hair, he sighed before turning and walking deeper into the room. He ran his hands over each and every dress lining the racks installed in the back wall. He took handfuls of ruffles, tulle, and lace as he walked, submerging himself completely. He wrapped his fingers in a knot of pearls that hung on a hook near another mirror and memorized the way the beads tumbled in the palm of his hand. He was completely at peace in this room, and he hated having to go through most of his days without it. He hated locking it all away, even if he knew he had to.
But none of that mattered now. Tonight, he was safely tucked away, encased in these walls and everything that he was and that he loved. He spread his hands over the lace on the surface of the vanity, letting his fingers get looped and tangled in the edges. He picked up a bottle of perfume, one that was clearly obscenely expensive, and squeezed the pump into the air, leaning into the cloud of scent. Delicate and understated, yet feminine and beautiful all the same. Hannibal let his eyes fall closed again before opening them and letting them fall on the most important piece in the room with him.
A small, gorgeous porcelain doll stared up from her perch on the vanity. She smiled, a tame and timid smile, one that Hannibal longed to emulate. Blonde curls cascaded from her head and fell delicately to her shoulders. The tiny bows in her hair matched the satin dress she wore in a wonderful shade of pink. A shade that Hannibal wished his skin tone complimented, but he knew he needed to wear things that were darker. She was everything. He wanted to look just like this little doll, her perfect stature, perfect hair, perfect makeup, in a dress that hung perfectly on her frame and looked just the way it was meant to.
He just wanted to be perfect.
Hannibal reached a hand down and traced the contour of the doll’s cheek with the pad of his pinky. He hummed to himself, baring his teeth in a smile. He scooped up a bottle of foundation and began applying it to his face, leaning in to inspect the pores on his cheekbones to be sure he was contouring correctly. Powdering liberally, he covered any imperfections that dared to blemish his skin. Next came the blush, only a light dusting. There was no reason to look garish. A bit of mascara on both the top and bottom lashes, painstakingly and perfectly applied. Hannibal was nothing if not a perfectionist.
He rose from the table, letting the dressing gown fan out in a flourish before walking back to the racks and selecting a pale yellow dress with a darling floral print. He held it out at arm’s length, admiring it and nodding in miniscule approval. Then he held it against himself and looked himself up and down in the mirror before slipping out of the dressing gown and letting the flowy silk pool around his feet. He stepped into the dress and pulled it up onto his shoulders, loving the way it cinched around his hips. He struggled a bit to zip the back up, but eventually got it. He was used to having to do up the backs of his own dresses by now. There was no one he could trust enough to ask for help. Anyone who had known in the past was gone now, and Hannibal liked it that way. There was no way he could risk this secret getting out. He honestly was not sure what secret would be more detrimental to his career - this, or that of the Ripper.
Putting thoughts of his other persona out of his mind and straightening the straps of the dress on his shoulders, he walked back across the room to the vanity again, letting his hips swish and sway under the fabric on the way. A small smile perked the corners of his lips as he ran a comb through his hair, pinning back the soft tendrils that almost fell past his eyes - nearly long enough to be curled and styled on their own, but not quite. Maybe someday soon he would try his curling iron again, but tonight he was on a mission. Loose ends all pinned up and back, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a tan colored wig cap. With practiced fingers, he secured the piece of fabric to his head, making sure it was tugged on perfectly and flat. Then, spreading his fingers and taking it gingerly in his hands, he removed a full blonde wig that was brushed and curled to perfection from a bust that sat on another part of the vanity. The wig fit on his head perfectly, the blonde tresses cascading gently down his shoulders and back. He ran his fingers through the bangs, making them lay correctly against his forehead.
He took a moment, leaned back and looked at himself in the mirror. He was nearly unrecognizable. He was beautiful. It was always this part in getting ready that he felt tears welling up in his eyes at just how perfect he looked. Tilting his head back, he blinked the tears away. He could not, would not ruin the eye make up he had spend so much time on. Flipping his hair over one shoulder, he leaned back into the mirror after selecting the perfect shade of red lipstick to match the flowers in the dress.
He leaned in close, nose almost touching the glass, and outlined the shape of his lips perfectly. He puckered them for a moment in a mock kiss before dabbing them on a piece of tissue. His lips left the perfect outline on the white square. He looked at the lipstick tube in his hand and his reflection in the mirror. Without really thinking, he lifted the lipstick to the mirror and drew a large “M” on the reflective surface.
“M for Mischa…”
He was no longer Hannibal, no longer he. At night, during these nights, Hannibal morphed into someone he loved dearly, into someone perfect, into Mischa.
And when Mischa left the house, she left Hannibal’s well tailored person suit hanging in the closet at home. He was not a part of her at all. Hannibal was subpar at best, Mischa was absolute art.
She shut the door behind her and got into the sleek black Mercedes that was specifically for her use only.