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“I ain’t gonna tell you again to keep your head still, darlin’,” Will scolded Abigail affectionately, scooping more Blue Magic onto his fingers and applying it gingerly to her scalp.
It was Sunday, and Sunday was hair day in the Lecter-Graham household. No child of Hannibal’s was allowed to leave the house without proper grooming, and since Abigail was still slightly too young to do it herself, it was up to her parents to maintain her appearance.
This had become their Sunday tradition: Hannibal would pick a style, submit it to Abigail’s approval, and if she gave him the green light, Will would acquire the necessary products and make an attempt at it.
If Will’s husband loved nothing else, he loved research, and it was very cute how invested he was in finding the appropriate hairstyles for Abby. Today, the hairstyle in question was twists, complete with flower clips and hot pink beads. It was a classic style, and, thankfully, easier on Will’s fingers than braids or cornrows.
Abby always loved the finished product, but it was hard for her to sit still, especially as most styles took a few hours to execute. Will had found a pretty good solution; sitting her in front of the living room TV and playing Spongebob (to his husband’s chagrin).
Currently, the Krusty Krab Pizza episode of Spongebob was blasting through the living room speakers, and Hannibal was beside Will on the couch, shaking his head and grumbling to himself about that confounded sponge, yet making no attempt to move to another room. It was supremely adorable how he never left Abby or Will’s side-- when they’d first gotten married, they’d often spend hours on opposite ends of the house, going about their daily tasks separately before converging in the evenings for dinner and sex. But now, they had a new addition to their family, and there was hardly a time Will could remember even being in the next room from his husband; the three of them were attached at the hip.
As Will continued to work on Abby’s hair, Hannibal’s big, warm hand was snug in its grip on his inner thigh, squeezing every so often and making him pause from his task to level his husband with a secretive grin of appreciation.
Abigail was especially squirmy today, since it was nice outside and she was high on sugar (Will had, regretfully, snuck her a Laffy Taffy behind Hannibal’s back at lunchtime).
“How much longer, Daddy?” she whined to Will, practically bouncing where she sat on the living room floor. “I wanna go play with Marissa.”
“Listen to your father, Abby,” Hannibal instructed in that Strict Fatherly Tone that never failed to make Will weak in the knees. “You can play with Marissa as soon as he is done.”
“Fine,” Abby huffed, acquiescing as Will secured the section of hair he was working on with an elastic band and began a new twist.
THANK YOU, he mouthed to Hannibal, and his husband responded with a playful wink.
Often, as Will did her hair, he would teach Abby about the specific style; where it came from, its historical significance, its function. He was more than conscious of his responsibility as a white adoptive parent of a black child, and neither him nor Hannibal had taken such a decision lightly; they had a duty to her, to instill in her a connection to her heritage, and a major part of that was teaching her to be proud of her hair.
Hannibal, of course, meticulously curated Abby’s outfits to match each style, and she would frequently come home from school elated at how many compliments she’d received on her appearance.
And Will was elated too, when he looked into her wide, trusting little eyes. He knew there’d be things he wouldn’t be able to protect her from, and he wanted to let it crush him, but he didn’t, for her sake.
When he was done with Abby’s hair, he gave her a hand mirror to admire herself in, and she squealed in delight, shaking her head back and forth to make the little hot pink beads clack together.
Will chuckled and flexed his fingers, slightly sore from their efforts. “You like it, darlin’?” he asked his daughter, noting a slight blush on Hannibal’s cheeks (he always blushed when he heard a peek of Will’s accent).
Abigail sprang up and threw her arms around him. “It’s perfect, Daddy! Thank you thank you thank you!”
He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the fresh scent of mango and coconut from his products of choice. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Alright now, why don’t you go help Papa pick your outfit?”
She grinned wide and nodded, jumping up and down in excitement.
“Come on then, little fawn,” Hannibal cooed, scooping her up and flipping her upside down as she screamed.
Will watched with a grin, heart swelling as he thought to himself what an amazing dad his husband was, and how much he loved him.
Family had always been a foreign concept to both men, and Will, especially-- despite Hannibal’s constant reassurances-- was perpetually in fear that he was going to fuck it all up. He had no blueprint, no frame of reference for what might resemble good parenting, and neither did his husband. Sometimes, he felt like he’d never get it right, and that he’d never deserve the life they had together. But other times, in moments like these, moments filled with a joy so sickeningly domestic it made him want to bawl, he thought that maybe they were doing just fine.
And perhaps, when she got a little older, Hannibal and Will would teach Abigail to hunt.
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