Chapter Text
“What’s all this?” Hannibal enquired, faced with a pile of ingredients. His chopping boards and preferred knives laid out neatly, ready for use. Will stood at the opposite side of the kitchen centre counter, diligently peeling raw vegetables and chopping them into matching sticks.
A wicker and gingham hamper has been placed on a far counter behind him, and was already partially filled with dried nuts and fruits, as well as a bottle of pink lemonade.
Will used his knife to indicate the ingredients laid out. “I know a few tuna sandwiches won’t cut it, so you’re on lunch duty. Get to work.”
Hannibal blinked in pleasant surprise, but removed his suit jacket diligently, unhooking his apron from its customary home against the wall.
“For what occasion?” He asked, perusing the cards Will has left out for him; a collection of canapes and entrees, the simpler things made when they host garden parties, for the children’s table. Most children do not appreciate caviar, of course. Though the ingredients may be more basic, he prides himself on providing stellar quality, no matter the audience. He washes his hands, drying them briskly on a clean towel, before indeed setting to work.
“I believed you were taking the children out. I was not aware we were hosting a party. I set aside this afternoon to work on my current paper.” He remarked.
It is his subtle way of requesting more information, but as usual lately, Will evades him. Choosing instead to scoop his carrot and celery sticks into the waiting tupperware with a hum. He deposits the box into the hamper, and begins clearing away the detritus. He finally fixed Hannibal with an uncompromising gaze once he was done.
“Shelve it,” he demanded, “We’re going out, the four of us. No more excuses. You’re a part of this family, and you’re going to start acting like it.”
Will quickly rinsed his hands, roughly drying them on a towel, tossing it carelessly on the far counter when he was done.
“Where are we going?” Hannibal asked gently, repressing the aggressive urge that told him to subdue such posturing behaviour from his mate.
“Wherever I want,” Will snapped at him, before visibly reigning in his temper. “It’s a goddamn picnic Hannibal, you go to a field, a river if you can. It’s not the Spanish Inquisition, it won’t kill you to take one afternoon off.”
“I have no intention of not attending,” Hannibal soothed, “I merely wondered if perhaps my attire was inappropriate.”
Will snorts, but something softens behind his eyes. Hannibal’s continued campaign is beginning to wear down his defenses, or at least he hopes. Will can be extremely stubborn, and unpredictable when cornered. It is one of the reasons Hannibal still finds him so fascinating, even after all these years. That inner fire that kept Will so acerbic and unapproachable still burns bright within him, usually turned outwardly, directed at those outside their family. Hannibal wonders when he came to be counted amongst those people. If Will has even consciously recognised it, in private moments, of if he still considers them a team, much as Hannibal himself does.
Will turned a critical eye on his dark purple and navy tartan woolen suit. He sighed heavily, and announced that something lighter, both in density and colour, may be more appropriate. There was fondness in his tone, charmed by Hannibal’s eccentricities. Hannibal took it as a positive movement, an early tactical success.
“Stop looking so smug,” said Will, “A get on with your canapes.”
Hannibal merely smiles.
*
He has never had occasion to attend a picnic. They were not conducted at the orphanage, and certainly, his aunt and uncle had no desire to trample through overgrown fields to eat outside. Hannibal detests eating anywhere save a correctly set table, but he sacrifices some decorum for the sake of family bonding. Will is determined to act naturally, but the boys are dubious regarding Hannibal’s presence. Toby especially eyes him with a faint mistrust, but Vasili is more hopeful, pleasantly surprised that Hannibal has chosen to join them on this ritual.
The day is blisteringly hot as always, but rolling clouds provide some much needed shade. Will has brought a large sun umbrella to protect the boys from the sun. Having grown up in Louisiana, Will himself is unaffected by the heat. Though the boys have spent most of their lives in Italy, their fair complexions still burn easily.
Will allows Hannibal to drive them to their destination, following the pre-prepared navigation system in Will’s more modern car. Hannibal senses disappointment in the moue of Vasili’s downturned mouth, as they are about to off, and Hannibal immediately reaches for the radio. His youngest son was clutching something small and plastic in his hands, which he squeezed tightly when Hannibal met his eyes in the mirror.
“What’s that you have, Vasili?” He asked, and Will turned to face the boys in the backseat, gently reaching for it before Hannibal could. Vasili promptly reaches out a little hand, passing Will the memory stick.
There is an attachment for it in the dashboard; Will raises a challenging, enquiring eyebrow at him. Not wishing to seem uncharitable, Hannibal slides it in, flicking the settings from radio to mp3. He doubts any music Vasili wishes to listen to would be too offensive, and it is a small concession to make. He is the guest on this excursion. Will often takes the boys to various attractions and adventures while Hannibal is at work. He no doubt allows them to listen to their music along the trip. In this, he can be as accommodating as his husband.
The well known sound of the strings of a cello begin the song; plucked and played, but that is where Hannibal’s familiarity with the tune ends. Instead of the usual melancholy, passionate notes he is used to encountering, the melody is extremely fast, gaining in volume, aggressive and bold. Something about the rhythmic plucking of the strings is similar to that of a guitar, and certainly not one tuned for classical music. Hannibal felt his eyebrows ascend toward his hairline, but said nothing. As they drive, he glances at Vasili, who looked apprehensive, but steadily growing more pleased. Though he found the pace a tad fast, Hannibal can hear no technical flaw in the music. The next song has a slower tempo, and the familiar melancholy low notes. Still, something about the instrumental tunes is oddly reminiscent of rock music, from what little Hannibal knows of it.
“To whom are we listening?” He eventually asked, directing his question to the backseat.
Vasili squirmed, but did not fail to answer. “Two cellos. They’re a cellist duo. Sometimes singers accompany them, but it’s mostly just instrumental. I have all their albums.”
The personal information volunteered is perhaps more startling than learning that his musical protege is apparently very enamoured with this alternative blend of music. Still, Hannibal cannot say he is angered to learn of it.
“I imagine they play live concerts?”
Vasili blinked at him, not expecting such an enquiry. “They’re Slovenian, they go on tour across Europe.”
“Should you like to attend such a performance?” Hannibal enquired, already anticipating the answer.
“Yes!” Vasili hollered, quite forgetting himself. “Yes, Papa, I should like that very much.”
Hannibal caught sight of Toby burying himself further into his seat with a huff, insolently rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. But a reluctant smile is playing about his lips. Will slid a hand onto his thigh, and sent him a grateful look. Hannibal doesn’t bother to clamp down on the howl of victory in his ears.