Work Text:
Fishing is one thing that makes sense when everything else doesn’t. It relies on natural instincts, the human instinct to catch prey, and the animal instinct to eat, to survive. It’s not unnoticed to Will how in the fish’s search to eat and survive that was its ultimate undoing, would be the reason he went on to gut it, if it was an appropriate size to keep.
It’s easy, you bait and you catch, and so long as you know when to go and where to go then there’s a good chance you’ll catch more than enough to have your fill.
Will rises around four naturally anyways, full nights of sleep were not a privilege he often got the chance to indulge in. Sometimes he would, if Hannibal grew irritated enough with his restlessness to inject him with some tranquilizer or sedative, then he wouldn’t wake until the sun had already risen, feeling more heavy than usual.
Last night Will laid down early, having made plans with himself to go fishing. So at four, when his body jolts him awake to some mild feeling of panic and dread Will sits up in bed, running a hand down his face.
He peeks over, eyes running over Hannibal’s sleeping form. Being in the same bed, to Will, felt like another way for Hannibal to trap him in place, to remind him of where he resided. As an addition to Hannibal’s life, rather than an autonomous being. Sort of like a pet.
Will grimaces at the thought and slowly peels the blankets back standing out of the bed. He knows by now which parts of the floor are the quietest. Using soft steps he navigates his way to the closet. Carefully and slowly he grabs the outfit he set out yesterday.
Hannibal has always been an exceptionally light sleeper, he’s very minutely aware of everything at all times, like a cat with permanently raised hackles. When he hears Will’s soft footsteps padding about his house he doesn’t think much of it. Will isn’t a good sleeper either, so Hannibal supposes he can’t really hold too much contempt for how much Will ruined his sleeps.
Something closer to annoyed pity would more accurately describe how Hannibal feels every time he hears Will up and about at odd hours.
He lays there, waiting for Will to return as he usually did, having drank some water or alcohol if it were a particularly bad night and he wanted to fall asleep quickly. However Hannibal just hears more stirring. In his kitchen, his living room, his bathroom.
Curiosity along with some bitterness welled until it got to a point, and Hannibal climbed out of bed. He slides on one of his crisp white button ups to cover himself unnecessarily. He leaves the buttons undone, and rolls up the sleeves, carding a hand through his hair to collect himself before he walks just as quietly through his house.
Hannibal’s silence is near stalking in the way he slowly yet swiftly approaches where he hears Will pacing in the kitchen. He peeks in and glimpses Will, dressed, put together, and trying to silently brew a thermos of coffee.
Hannibal takes a moment to button his shirt up at least half way before stepping into the doorway and standing, waiting for Will to notice him. Despite the fact Will is looking in the opposite direction, it doesn’t take long. A presence like Hannibal’s, looming and authoritative wasn’t one you got so used to you could disregard it.
His gaze is unnerving and heavy. So Will slowly turns to see Hannibal, a worn-out feeling of dread and dull fear roiling in his gut for a few seconds before he reminds himself of the unique circumstance he’s in.
Hannibal stares in silence, tension and pressure used to draw out what he wants; an answer. Will doesn’t give in. He stares back before turning to continue making his coffee, however without a word he reaches for another thermos.
“Going somewhere Will?” Hannibal stares intently at Will as he reaches for a second thermos. It’s not lost on Hannibal how his simple presence forces Will to change everything, to accommodate for him where he previously wasn’t concerned.
“I am. Will you be joining me?” Will’s voice is quiet, as if still trying to respect some sleeping person who does not exist. His habits have been hard to shake, he’d find himself going to let the dogs out only to remember they’re not here. He used to whisper when his dogs were asleep, otherwise they’d wake and be anxious messes by Will’s legs until he forced himself restlessly back into his bed.
Hannibal drew closer next to Will, the strong scent of coffee curling around him. Hannibal watches Will, who watches the coffee brew, not quite wanting to look at Hannibal. An unspoken rule was that they remained inside unless necessary. And that Will is to receive permission or at the very least acknowledgment before he goes to do something.
“Where are you going at such an hour?” Will looks over now, scanning Hannibal’s face. Mild bitterness at being woken, curiosity and the usual air of grim infatuation that Will felt like a chain wrapped and locked around his body.
“Fishing,” He says simply, as though it’s the most obvious thing. “Best time is the first light.” The coffee finishes brewing, so Will takes the pot off and fills the thermos with steaming black coffee, the rich scent stronger now. He knows that so easily Hannibal could knock down his apparent confidence and steadfast resolve.
All it would take is a simple: 'I don’t think it’s best for you to leave, Will.’ and Will would resign himself to sit on the couch with his coffee and stare out the window, silent contemplation. Being in the mental hospital and being Hannibal’s dog weren’t all that different. It was a lot of feeling trapped, being trapped, and escaping by pretending he wasn’t. Worse was that resigned contentment that had begun to settle over him.
Acceptance of the grim reality and the death of hope. The death of all Will had been and prided himself on being, laying at the feet of Hannibal, his opposite and his parallel.
“Well then we should go soon, we’ve only an hour until the sun starts to rise.” And without another word Hannibal is off to get ready, leaving Will in somewhat incredulous disbelief and silence.
Once he shakes himself out of the catatonic contemplation he starts to double all of the preparations he had previously made. His plan was to slip out unnoticed and return to deal with the consequences later, finding that more probable than Hannibal’s agreement.
Hannibal searches his closet for clothes that he cares the least about, already frowning at the prospect of wading in nasty water, being soaked to catch fish that weren’t even to his taste. He could eat whatever it was that Will is to catch, he likely even knows just the way to prepare it, but there’s no good fish around, none good enough to suit him.
However, the mere fact Will considered leaving with not even an utterance of the idea was downright mortifying and irritating to Hannibal. Hannibal understands it’s necessary to properly fulfill and enrich Will to keep him healthy enough to be any fun to play with, which is the only reason he agreed at all.
He settles for his oldest clothes, the ones he was never too favorable towards, and dresses quickly. He decides he’ll be content to watch Will fish and not engage directly, and if Hannibal found himself too disinterested he knew it wouldn’t take much to coerce Will back to the house.
Hannibal rejoins Will a few moments later, finding him packing some handmade lures into a tackle box. When Hannibal had started supplying Will with stuff like this it was mostly to keep him in line, to have something to take away in case he got too unruly.
Will was surprisingly obedient and in order, which delighted Hannibal, though he still never had any real intention of letting Will use what he bought him outside of entertainment.
Once everything was in order Will stood by the door, looking at Hannibal who was quite pleased with his behavior. Hannibal places his hand on the door handle and looks at Will. There’s a discerning look in his gaze, assuring that Will’s want to fish is just that and not some secret motive of escape.
The door knob turns with a click and opens with a soft creak, chill morning air that smells of petrichor and spring washes over the two like the icey flow of a stream. Already Will feels a sense of peace at the idyllic image in his mind.
Will steps outside, waiting for Hannibal before stepping off the porch. He hasn’t left the grounds, and every time he got close it was with Hannibal a few feet off. Will has given up the silly idea of escape, running only leads to being chased, and he has no home to return to.
Acceptance is heavy and bitter, but it’s an easier weight to bear than the burden of his being untethered, unanchored, unwanted in a place hollow of life and filled with the ghosts and the echoes of last breaths.
Will had been planning to drive since he knew exactly where to go, it was a spot he’d scouted for a while through various vicarious means. However Hannibal is walking towards the driver’s seat already and he knows better than to push the fragile agreement he had coaxed from Hannibal.
Relenting he puts the equipment in the trunk, closing it carefully before climbing into the passenger seat, buckling himself in as Hannibal begins to pull backwards out of the driveway. “Did you have a spot in mind when you were planning to sneak out, Will?”
Will glances at Hannibal, who’s glancing back at him with an accusatory look. Will wasn’t naive enough to think that Hannibal’s acceptance meant he wouldn’t harbor any questions or malice pertaining to the fact he had attempted to leave when that was very clearly not something he was allowed to do.
He wants to say: ‘I wasn’t sneaking.’ but he knows that Hannibal will then say: ‘You didn’t tell me and you were cautiously quiet Will, that is sneaking.’ and he’d be right, because Will was sneaking. The issue was with the negative connotation of sneaking, Will was going to come back, and stay hidden and leave if there was any trouble.
That mouthful of explanation felt unbearably heavy on his tongue when he knew it’d be delivered into ears that would hardly hear them for what they are or believe them. So Will lets those words die and only says: “Yes, actually I did.” Will had pinned it on the maps in his phone.
Hannibal quirks a brow at Will’s response, frowning softly as he stops the car before it can reach the road. “So you admit that you were trying to sneak out?”
Will looks at Hannibal confused. “Would you call it something else?”
Hannibal takes a pause, staring for a good long moment at Will. “I would not.”
Will nods and sucks his teeth. “So then, I was sneaking out. To this location, to be precise.” Will has pulled up the location and flashes the maps to Hannibal.
Hannibal grew increasingly annoyed at Will’s indifference and nonchalance. He knew Will could sense the roiling anger at the disrespectful action. His lack of care was irritating. “Do you see the issue with that, Will?”
Will represses an exasperated sigh. “I was trying to go fishing.”
“You were disrespecting rules and boundaries put in order to keep us safe. You were being reckless and rude.”
“I would have been back by eight.”
“You still would have left, it is not your return, it’s your departure, Will.”
Will can’t find the words, frustrated ones tried to bubble up and out of his mouth, but his right mind held them back. He takes a deep measured breath. “I would have been careful.”
“You wouldn’t need to be careful if you listened. You didn’t consider asking me?”
“I considered it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Would you have said yes?”
“That’s not the point of our discussion Will. The point is your carelessness. Your insolence. I have reason behind my decisions, Will. If I said no, it would have been for good reason.”
There’s a heavy silence following Hannibal’s words as Will’s jaw clenches, and he looks forward to retain any words that he might regret. Hannibal is in no mood to wait for a response.
“You understand this, don’t you?”
Of course, of course Will understands that to Hannibal everything he does is rational and reasonable. Will can’t force those words out, he just takes a deep controlled breath. Hannibal watches Will grapple with himself.
When he eventually collects himself, Will looks at Hannibal. “I understand.”
Hannibal searches his face, scanning for any hint that he still has fight left in him. Once he’s satisfied he puts the car into drive and nods. Will provides the starting directions.
It takes all of five minutes in the silence for it to be broken by Will. “Do you understand why I tried to sneak out?”
Hannibal spares a glance at Will somewhat surprised he’s continuing to talk about this topic which he thought was settled. But he maintains his neutral face. “I believe I do.”
“You wanted your fun, your freedom. You felt entitled to a bit of rule breaking and trouble given the past six months.” Hannibal pauses for a moment letting Will digest his words. “And you thought if you asked I’d say no.”
“Would you have?” When it comes to Hannibal, Will can only ever be sure of one thing; he will never be sure of anything about Hannibal, Hannibal is unpredictable and chaotic in a way that is damn near meticulous in its rule following. It’s not the absence of order that throws Will off, he’s learned to find rhythm in the unruly, it’s the fact that the rules and order Hannibal follow are so contradicting and confusing it’s hard to discern what rules he’s following when.
Hannibal’s lips curl into a small smile. “I’m taking you there now, aren’t I?” His gaze remains on the road. “Even if you didn’t exactly ask this time Will, there are things I would do and risk for you.”
“It’s very fortunate that your hobbies are rather solitary ones.” Will knows that Hannibal means very fortunate for the both of them, fortunate for Hannibal in that Will was deeply and unnervingly alone and lonely, fortunate for Will in that it meant Hannibal could permit him more life.
Will supposes that Hannibal is right, it is very fortunate for the both of them, however it was only fortunate due to the misfortune that is being collared and leashed by Hannibal. Forced to heel and bite like a dog.
The car falls back into silence, but one that is less heavy with unspoken words. There will always be words between Will and Hannibal that either party leaves unsaid. Every interaction is watched by thoughts that loom like storm clouds that refuse to rain.
When they do eventually get to where Will wants to go Hannibal finds a place to park, the car not easily visible from the road and the license plate obscured. He opens the trunk for Will, but Will takes the task of carrying everything.
Hannibal notices the second rod Will brought and feels a sense of satisfaction again at the way Will so easily could be made to accommodate for him, without any outward resistance. Though, he still finds the prospect not to his liking, and will still be fine to spectate from the bank.
There’s something Hannibal enjoys as well about just observing Will. He was a pretty and peculiar thing, especially when he was focused. There was a lot to ascertain about people if you watch them while they’re not expecting to be watched.
Will guides Hannibal, seeking out a good bend in the creek where lots of trees hang over the water. Will sets everything down on a rock that brings all the supplies to about waist height and starts to set up. With only ten minutes until the sun started rising.
“Have you ever gone fishing?” Will asks, trying to estimate how much time he’ll have to spend teaching Hannibal the ropes.
“I have not. It’s not particularly interesting to me. I’d do it on the sea for a good fish, or a delicacy,” He looks almost dismissively at the creek as the water flows past. “But this creek holds nothing of interest to me.”
Will almost scoffs at Hannibal’s simple view of fishing. “There’s more to fishing than just eating the fish.”
Hannibal finds a dry boulder a few feet off from Will, which he lowers himself on to. Will doesn’t give him time to formulate a response before he continues. “There is an art to fishing, it’s something anybody can do but not everybody can do it well.”
Hannibal smiles at that. “And you consider yourself a good fisherman, do you, Will?”
Will looks at Hannibal to gauge the nature of the question before responding. “I think I’m an excellent fisherman. I’ve been doing it since I could hold a rod.” The tackle box is shut quietly so as not to startle the fish.
Hannibal nods once and purses his lips thoughtfully, watching as Will sets up the rods. Will continues. “You have to know the fish. What does it eat, where does it live, when is it hungry? You find the right lure, the right location, the right time,” Will shakes his head. “That doesn’t mean you’ll catch the fish you want.”
“You have to be patient and sure of every action you make. Each tug of the line, each flick when you’re fly fishing, every time you cast and reel it back in, especially when you’re hooking the fish.” Will sets one rod angled against a tree and works on the other.
“Even then you might not catch the fish you want.” Will is quick to set up the second rod, the one for Hannibal, not putting much time or effort for the beginner rod. “It’s also an art of acceptance and gratitude. Learning to take the fish you get and be grateful you caught one.”
Will walks close to Hannibal and offers the rod. Hannibal looks as if considering but shakes his head no. Will leaves the rod leaning against a tree next to Hannibal before walking towards the stream with his rod. It wasn’t uncommon for them to leave conversations hanging in midair, unfinished and never to be finished.
Will used to own several pairs of well worn, well loved waders. This time he simply brought an extra change of pants, socks, and shoes. He puts supplies he may need on the water in his pockets and slowly steps into the water, grimacing at the chill of it.
It felt freeing though, to wade into the water slowly and orient himself. He stares down the line of the river until it turns out of view. Rows and rows of trees, the froth of water where it goes around the boulders jutting out, the river stones visible through the water, the audible waterfall likely after the curve.
The whole area smells of earthy minerals and wet soil. Hannibal is slowly realizing that how Will fishes and views it is very telling. He views it, as he views most things, as a form of psychology and understanding. Understand the fish, best it, catch it. Then eat it.
Hannibal smiles at that, at how similar he and Will are and can be without Will ever truly coming to believe or realize it. He watches the sun come up in the sky somewhere between Will and himself, the light golden as it pours in between branches and leaves to illuminate Will in a way that looks akin to a halo and wings, he’s like a glowing angel bathed in sunlight. But not really, he’s a man caught in the heat of a burning star.
Will scans the expanse of the river before casting his line in what he has assessed to be the best spot. And then he waits, patiently, not a thought on his mind except how he has attuned himself to the line so he can differentiate the pull of the stream and the tug of a bite.
The biting cold of the water helped his mind stay present and aware. Hannibal is watching with acute interest on the way Will seems to forget the world around him. He’s heard Will talk about fishing, though he hadn’t listened particularly hard because Hannibal had never been too aquatically inclined. But to observe and witness him slip away with the flow of the river was something that struck that spark inside him again.
Whenever he had first met Will, he felt it then too, a quick flicker of something that felt achingly human, achingly pleasant, shamefully so. Something that intrigued him and infuriated him to no end. He tried to do it easily, to find a way to make Will’s spirit to break without direct intervention, so that he could take Will as a shattered mosaic, the only way Hannibal could have people.
He can’t just love them, date them, marry them. They have to be dependent on him, they have to need him. So he can assure he’ll always keep them, or at the very least keep them until he has wrung every bit he can get from them.
But Will was far too resilient. Hannibal had to be so cruel in this to get Will to be what he is now, and not a single day passes where he regrets it. He’d do it over again however many times it took to keep Will perfectly broken and his.
Watching him fish reminds Hannibal that Will can never truly be broken if he was never born whole. Hannibal isn’t sure what in Will broke that day six months ago, because Will has still seemed his lively and usually sarcastic sassy self.
Now Will just seems more content to heel and fall in line where Hannibal orders him to. It’s everything he hoped to have achieved. He toys with the idea that he didn’t break Will, but he took the broken parts and put them into place. Hannibal never wanted children, never intended to have any nor to raise any. Not after Mischa, he couldn’t.
Even so he wishes he wouldn’t have had to kill Abigail, for Will’s sake and partly his own. Hannibal is not one to harbor regrets over any blood he’s spilled, his decisions come with reason, that’s not to say he won’t miss a presence. He supposes he’s more upset over the reason he had to kill Abigail, the betrayal of that night.
As per usual anybody Hannibal killed was a means to an end, he could detach when he needed to. It was less tolerable with Will, which is why Will is still alive. Hannibal will keep it that way until Will’s presence is less tolerable than his absence.
Will snaps the line swiftly and starts to reel with a zeroed in focus. It takes him only a few moments more to have the fish, hanging and writhing, hook in its mouth. He unhooks it, thumb in its mouth.
He holds it up towards Hannibal before releasing it and shaking off his hand, much to Hannibal’s confusion. It looked an appropriate size, healthy, by all means a fish Hannibal would have kept if he bothered with fishing.
Will catches sight of Hannibal’s slightly puzzled look and casts out again before going to answer Hannibal. “I never keep my first catch.” Which only leaves him more confused.
Will could tell Hannibal was curious but he also wanted to make the most of his time so he simply looked back to the water and got lost in the soft press of water against his calves. Hannibal tries to deconstruct the idea of why. Maybe Will’s overactive empathy, or a habit he picked up from whoever taught him.
Once Will hooks the second fish and starts reeling it in, he explains. “There’s an old superstition that if you keep the first catch you’ll have bad luck the rest of your trip.” This one he unhooks and measures before wading back towards the bank. “If you let one go, at least you know there’s one in the water. That’s what I used to be told.”
Hannibal chuckles softly at the dry humor behind the superstition and watches Will fill a small pail he brought with water before tossing the fish into it. He watches the fish thrash in frantic tight circles. “You intend to bring the fish home?”
Will looks at Hannibal. “Would you prefer if I didn’t?”
Hannibal looks at Will, then the fish. He frowns. “Why not kill it now?”
Will looks down at the fish too. “The meat wouldn’t be as good. You’re supposed to kill it, bleed it, and leave it on ice. Then gut it as soon as possible.”
Hannibal just nods because the information sounds reasonable enough and he really doesn’t care about the fish. Will can pick up the disinterest and promptly wades back out into the water.
It continues like this for a slow hour as the sun starts to slowly peek up above the trees. Will is on a roll that starts to slow the more the sun rises and after leaving a cast line untouched for 20 minutes he reels it in, knowing Hannibal is restless to go home.
Will slowly drudges out of the water, however on his way to get out he feels something in the flow pressed and wrapped around his leg like a vine. He looks down and it’s not a vine, it's a cottonmouth. Will panics and tries to kick the poor snake off, which he succeeds in after he’s fallen backwards, flat on his ass.
Hannibal watches the scene unfold with an amused smile, maybe fishing could be fun after all. After Will assures himself the snake is gone he slowly stands up and groans. His briefs are soaked and so is the bottom half of his shirt, the briefs he had accounted for as it’s not uncommon for the water to be a bit deeper or rougher than you’re expecting, but he hadn’t brought a shirt.
And Will, quite truthfully, hates the feeling of wet clothes on his body. Will starts to peel off his shirt and Hannibal figures that he’d be fine to keep going fishing with Will so long as Will kept being clumsy.
Will can feel Hannibal staring but he doesn’t say anything or acknowledge it. They don’t really acknowledge these things. How they’ll both leave touches and stares that linger unnecessarily, how sometimes they’ll wake up tangled together and breakfast is awkward that morning.
It’s a simple truth that’s discomforting for the both of them. Neither of them like that they love each other, Hannibal is growing increasingly more okay with the prospect as Will behaves better, and Will is settling into some sort of begrudging acceptance.
He fishes for the change of clothes, turns his back to Hannibal, and strips. He has to resist a shiver down his spine at the very obvious weight of Hannibal’s eyes. He towels himself off quickly, and begins to redress.
Once he’s got his pants up and fastened he wraps the towel around his shoulders, and turns to face Hannibal who’s still staring unabashedly. Hannibal’s eyes trail up until they meet Will’s. “Are you done fishing, Will?”
“It’s been about an hour, hasn’t it?”
Hannibal extends his arm pulling his wrist from his sleeve and checking his watch. “It has.” He stands and looks at the rod Will left next to him propped up against a tree. Technically it’s been more than an hour, but he’s just happy to get to go home.
Will is only entertaining for so long. Will grabs the rod, takes a few moments to remove the lures and tuck the lures away. He places the lid on the pail and envelops it in a trash bag like a fish at a fair destined to go home and die in two days.
Hannibal is frowning at the idea of having river water and fish sloshing around in the back of his car but he’d prefer that to bad fish meat. Bad fish meat is a grievance most atrocious to Hannibal. Will grabs the handle through the trash bag filled with air so the fish don't suffocate.
Will collects all the things into his hands again and follows Hannibal back to the car. It’s a quiet, near silent walk aside from every snapping twig they step on or the soft wind blowing through the leaves. Will knows that Hannibal had been watching him the whole time, Hannibal isn’t exactly subtle with the weight of his gaze.
Will loads the gear back into the trunk, using a corner and well placed weight to make sure the pail doesn’t tip over, and wraps his wet clothes in the towel leaving them there as well. He climbs into the passenger seat, still shirtless and hair a bit damp from the splash he made.
Hannibal pulls out and starts heading back home. “Did you have a good day fishing Will?”
Will looks over, knowing Hannibal is likely expecting some show of gratitude. “Aside from the falling? Yes, I did.” Will looks out the window at the trees whizzing by. “I… appreciate your leniency, Hannibal.”
Hannibal smiles and looks over at Will. He is thoroughly pleased with the acknowledgment. “While fishing isn’t of my taste Will, I have to say it was intriguing to watch you fish. Though next time I will have to find other entertainment.”
Will knows the agreement, as all agreements with Hannibal, is tentative and conditional. Will had very scarcely tested the boundaries or pushed Hannibal, the few times he had Hannibal’s reprimands and punishments were swift and silencing.
Besides that, Will hadn’t found much reason to test anything. The contentment Will felt in the life Hannibal provided was unmatched to anything he had felt in a long, long time. He doesn’t feel cared for, so to speak, but he has everything he needs, most things he wants, and so long as he stays content and in line he will continue like that.
“Maybe you’d like lake fishing more.” Will suggests.
Hannibal looks over, a bit surprised at Will’s insistence to involve him in this particular hobby of his. A hobby that is blaringly solitary or reserved for those you’re close with. It makes him feel the spark again, the one that makes his mind blare alarms loudly.
Feeling and vulnerability are weaknesses to be exploited, it’s why he can’t be too careful with Will. Maybe it’s also partially why he’s resistant to Will’s hobbies, Hannibal has done far more unclean and unsanitary acts than fishing. Typically for more intense and serious reasons though, than simply engaging in a past time.
The drive home is quiet, Hannibal doesn’t dignify Will’s suggestion but he considers it. Will can tell that Hannibal is contemplating it, or at the very least trying to determine Will’s motives. Will’s motives? Well if Hannibal likes the same hobbies he can get him to agree easier, at least that's what he tells himself his motive is, he's not too sure anymore of his motives.
Will is sure, however that he’s done with the backwards tricks and plots, he’s trying to achieve a life that leads with some semblance of normalcy. Something that has never been his strong suit, and continues to not be his strong suit, nothing about his life had been normal for about as long as he could remember, especially with how days and weeks blurred and muddled together.
Once they pull into the driveway Will is quick to get out check on the pail in the trunk, which luckily had remained upright. Will unpacks the trunk setting the fish down before heading inside. He’d go out to bring them in to bleed them in a minute.
Hannibal, like before, doesn’t offer any physical assistance, though he does hold the door open for Will and close it behind him. Will is quick to go find a shirt before going to grab the bucket of fish. He drains the water before bringing it in.
Hannibal watches Will take the pail to the kitchen and follows him. Will looks up from where he’s starting his preparations. “You wanna help?” He asks, setting out a second cutting board. Hannibal smiles at Will’s ability to predict things.
Hannibal rolls up his sleeves and selects a knife for himself. With only 6 fish it doesn’t take them long to dispatch and bleed the fish. Hannibal takes to wrapping them in wet paper towels, storing them in a container and placing them in the refrigerator, while Will washes his hands several times over.
“Worst part of fishing is the smell.” Will comments.
Hannibal chuckles. “You’re preaching to the choir, my dear.”
Will just nods as he dries off his hands. Hannibal forces Will to step aside so he can start washing his hands. Hannibal looks at Will, who stands just a foot or two off awkwardly. “Is there something you’d like to say, Will? Or, a question perhaps?”
Will realizes he’s standing, waiting. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for entirely. Suddenly he realizes he's trying to gauge how much Hannibal enjoyed it, whether out of genuine care or a wish to resume his typical hobbies is lost in the stream of his mind. “Did you give any thought to lake fishing?”
Hannibal’s lips downturn in that little smile he does that made Will feel somewhat patronized. “I have.”
Will waits for him to elaborate, but as Hannibal goes for another wash Will realizes he won’t. “And?” He prompts.
Hannibal chuckles. “You’re very impatient Will.”
“Not impatient, curious.”
“Curious about what?”
“I like to fish,”
“I know that.”
“If you liked to fish, that’d make it easier for me.”
Hannibal looks at Will to try and discern if that’s the truth of his statement, the real reason he was so pushy. “Yes I suppose it would, wouldn’t it?”
Will sighs impatiently. “Are you being intentionally redundant?” Will asks, voice edged with frustration.
Hannibal dries off his hands and takes a deep breath before looking at Will to speak. “I’m trying to understand you, Will, fully. To know all I can know about you.”
“Well I feel I’ve been pretty transparent.”
Hannibal nods. “That is true, you have been exceptionally well since…” They hadn’t really come up with a way to refer to what happened, so Hannibal leaves it unsaid. “And I appreciate it, it’s helped me make great strides in my efforts, Will. But I only understand your view of yourself.”
“And I mean no offense when I say this, but you don’t know yourself, Will, or understand yourself for that matter. Not to the depths I hope to achieve.”
They stare at each other for a long moment, storm clouds of unsaid things looming, feeling remarkably heavy this time what with the way Hannibal laid bare his intent to understand Will in a more deep and intimate way then he had ever tried or wanted to understand himself.
There’s discomfort to the notion, that somebody could know and predict his actions better than himself, but Will feels that bone-deep ache that Hannibal seems to stir. The one that begs so fervently, that seeps into his blood, his lungs, his heart, and his brain, to be known. To be understood. To have the darkest worst parts of him be borne into the light and to not be shied away from.
He swallows thickly, and nods curtly, deciding that if he’s not to flood his life he has to get away from Hannibal before everything comes showering out. He excuses himself with a mumble and departs to the room Hannibal has appointed to him for his interests.
Hannibal watches amused before getting to work on breakfast, using their time apart to fully digest all he’s learned today.