[ hannibal's hands fold atop his crossed legs, a closed mirror to will's posture, legs and arms braced open defiantly in the chair across from him. he studies the small changes in the man that he took in when he opened the door earlier - it's more than just a haircut that's been altered in will's style and bearing. he'd taken time to prepare for this. hannibal knew that applied to more than just the cosmetic.
this would be interesting. which was enough to make it entirely irresistible. will knew that, and was attempting to exert a measure of control in the situation that was enough to bring a feeling of something rather like pride to the doctor's chest.
they were closer to meeting as equals now, closer to coming face to true face. there would be veils in this new game as well, assuredly, but some had been removed, and lecter would be lying if he didn't admit the degree of delight that this turn of events brought him.
delight and encroaching danger tended to go hand in hand where will was concerned, and he was oblivious to neither in the moment, particularly not with the darkly guarded way that the other man regarded him now. ]
Tell me, Will. What would you care to discuss first?
[ he doesn’t know quite what he expected when coming back into hannibal’s home — lack of gun and queer eye makeover aside. but he never knew quite what to expect out of hannibal. not completely. not in the same way he could easily pinpoint anyone else’s psyche.
it didn’t feel like a conversation — much less therapy — than it did the beginning of a long and perilous chess game. slowly sliding a piece onto the board. it wasn’t as easy as putting himself out there like “uhhhhh i’d like to talk about how you gaslit me, framed me, murdered our daughter, etc???” ]
I’d say we should catch up, but I don’t think there’s much that you’ve missed.
[So, you know those lovely thoughts that Will has about taking Abigail fishing? He's doing it for real this time.
He's already taught her how to trick the fish, lure it to its probable demise, and they've successfully caught a good number by now, which leads them to their next little adventure.
Cleaning.
She holds the knife strangely, like it might jump out of her hand at any moment, looking down at the fish with placid eyes.]
[ it’s hard not to treat abigail like something delicate. the part of him that wants to be a father to her having to acknowledge that there’s something hard and steely to her. survival drive. something more like him. and hannibal.
he felt trepidation about teaching her how to fish, but she took to it quickly enough. (he’s still not 100% sure if this is real or not. he can’t bring himself to believe it — like if he believes too hard, he might wake up.) ]
We rinsed it off, so… now we’re gonna cut off the fins.
[ to demonstrate, he pulls a fin up with one hand to come down with the knife with the other.
it still left him feeling a little uneasy. too much like her father in the wrong kind of way. but he pushes though it, stepping back to allow her to handle the rest. ]
Makes it easier to de-scale it next.
Edited (don't mind me ok my error was gonna bother me) 2019-10-12 16:08 (UTC)
[ it's... late. not four am, drive down to the nearest in-n-out for animal style fries and a double cheeseburger late. it's late morning, as evidenced by the impolite rapping of knuckles against the hollow-core hotel room door, and the broken english of the housekeeper just outside.
mister graham, sounding more like mee-ster gah-rum, followed by the click of a master key in a lock... and then the thunk of a door opening only to be held at bay by the deadbolt ball sliding in place, and the huff of a displeased housekeeper. i come back later, accompanied by the shuffling of feet moving away, down the hallway and off the floor.
daisy stretches in the silence that follows, bedsheet tangled around her bare legs, and yawns as her eyes open, adjusting to the warm sunlight streaming in from open windows.
[ he's definitely having a whole katy perry "last friday night" moment. it takes a moment for the setting around him to sink in, coming in piece by piece. housekeeping? sheets that feel starchy? hotel. the sun. the sun is loud from behind his eyes, just like the sound of
someone else next to him. yawning. daisy?
oh. oh no. this sure is a thing he should not have done. "last friday night" was last night and alcohol happened. so much and …
he groans. why does his head hurt so much? is it old age? ]
[ a calm, lazy answer — but a true one. she doesn't know what time it is. rolling onto her side, a motion that exposes the full line of her bare back, means she can reach for her phone, grabbing it from where it lay face down on the nightstand. ]
Two-thirty.
[ that's inconveniently late, probably. not that she has anywhere to go on whatever day of the week it happens to be. or that she wants to go anywhere, considering the mild pounding in her head. she's happy to just lay here for a while with... whoever that is.
maybe she should roll over and find out. maybe she'll just close her eyes again, instead, because avoidance techniques are great ways to make someone else deal with problems. ]
[ oh no. that is... very very late. did he have plans today? if he did, it doesn't really matter, because he'd have to cancel them due to feeling like death warmed over. ]
We should probably get up, then.
[ is he wearing clothes? he has to force himself to be aware enough to take stock of the clothes situation... and that's a no. well, he's going to make the best of her not looking at him by rolling over the edge of his side of the bed to grab his underwear. ]
My head is killing me.
[ he's still trying to figure out how to ask "uhhh do you know what we did last night because i sure don't remember" without sounding like a fool. ]
[ should is accurate, but that doesn't mean daisy wants to do it. the bed is comfortable, the sheets cool against her legs, the pillows full and plush beneath her head. getting up is sure to be less enjoyable.
but the longer she lays here, the more her memory begins to slot together the puzzle pieces of how and when and why she's in this bed to begin with. like the realization of who is on the other side of the bed, the memory of how she wound up in this hotel in the first place... right. cool.
no wonder his head was killing him. he'd been real drunk. ]
Yeah, I bet. [ she finally drags herself upright, if not out of bed completely; the sheets pool at her waist, but daisy doesn't bother to cover herself. he's seen it now, hasn't he? what's the point? ] I could go for hashbrowns, to be honest.
[ he's fumbling around his side of the bed, grabbing for his glasses to assist in finding his clothes... but also maybe if he uses them, he'll see that it's not daisy after all? maybe there's an au of his life where he didn't get wasted and bone a student.
nope. still her. ]
Breakfast'd be good.
[ he replies, but it sounds distracted. it's then that he's actually looking at her, glasses charmingly askew, to ask ]
[ she has clothes. they are pooled somewhere in this room, probably on the floor — her shirt, she realizes as she squints, is tossed over the back of a chair. none of the clothes she has are really breakfast appropriate.
they're more appropriate for a hired girl to come in and do a striptease, if she's honest, which is also exactly what she was doing. diners might be understanding, but even daisy's not that risque. ]
Not diner clothes, no. [ a beat. ] Do you want me to wear your shirt?
[ she's not a prostitute. he's not paying her for this. but if he wants her to wear something appropriate, that's about as close as it's going to get. ]
[ what happened last night is coming back to him in the slowest rolling waves possible. the “this was in no way appropriate”ness of it all.
lucky for daisy, will is a man of layers. a very unfashionable man of layers. look out, he’s got his favorite ugly light gray sweater and a flannel underneath it. clothing for everyone. ]
Yeah, sure. You can pick which one. [ meanwhile, he’s getting his pants on. putting on clothes when you feel like you’re dying is quite the accomplishment; everyone applaud him. ]
[ it's a look, alright. she's not much for flannels, so that means she's going to have to commandeer his sweater — which, considering how much smaller she is, means it hangs more like a very short dress on her frame. good thing she doesn't fuckin care. ]
Better?
[ than her being naked? uh. jury's probably out on that. she can at least rewear her shorts, even if they are a sorry scrap of denim fabric. it's something. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
will would like to resume his therapy .__.
[ hannibal's hands fold atop his crossed legs, a closed mirror to will's posture, legs and arms braced open defiantly in the chair across from him. he studies the small changes in the man that he took in when he opened the door earlier - it's more than just a haircut that's been altered in will's style and bearing. he'd taken time to prepare for this. hannibal knew that applied to more than just the cosmetic.
this would be interesting. which was enough to make it entirely irresistible. will knew that, and was attempting to exert a measure of control in the situation that was enough to bring a feeling of something rather like pride to the doctor's chest.
they were closer to meeting as equals now, closer to coming face to true face. there would be veils in this new game as well, assuredly, but some had been removed, and lecter would be lying if he didn't admit the degree of delight that this turn of events brought him.
delight and encroaching danger tended to go hand in hand where will was concerned, and he was oblivious to neither in the moment, particularly not with the darkly guarded way that the other man regarded him now. ]
Tell me, Will. What would you care to discuss first?
no subject
it didn’t feel like a conversation — much less therapy — than it did the beginning of a long and perilous chess game. slowly sliding a piece onto the board. it wasn’t as easy as putting himself out there like “uhhhhh i’d like to talk about how you gaslit me, framed me, murdered our daughter, etc???” ]
I’d say we should catch up, but I don’t think there’s much that you’ve missed.
no subject
no subject
b u t he has all this anger and hurt with nowhere else for it to go. besides therapy. "therapy." ]
My point of view of slowly realizing all the ways you tried to mold and manipulate that point of view?
this is fine
He's already taught her how to trick the fish, lure it to its probable demise, and they've successfully caught a good number by now, which leads them to their next little adventure.
Cleaning.
She holds the knife strangely, like it might jump out of her hand at any moment, looking down at the fish with placid eyes.]
Where do I start?
no subject
he felt trepidation about teaching her how to fish, but she took to it quickly enough. (he’s still not 100% sure if this is real or not. he can’t bring himself to believe it — like if he believes too hard, he might wake up.) ]
We rinsed it off, so… now we’re gonna cut off the fins.
[ to demonstrate, he pulls a fin up with one hand to come down with the knife with the other.
it still left him feeling a little uneasy. too much like her father in the wrong kind of way. but he pushes though it, stepping back to allow her to handle the rest. ]
Makes it easier to de-scale it next.
thanks fanfic generator
mister graham, sounding more like mee-ster gah-rum, followed by the click of a master key in a lock... and then the thunk of a door opening only to be held at bay by the deadbolt ball sliding in place, and the huff of a displeased housekeeper. i come back later, accompanied by the shuffling of feet moving away, down the hallway and off the floor.
daisy stretches in the silence that follows, bedsheet tangled around her bare legs, and yawns as her eyes open, adjusting to the warm sunlight streaming in from open windows.
good morning. or is it afternoon? ]
no subject
someone else next to him. yawning. daisy?
oh. oh no. this sure is a thing he should not have done. "last friday night" was last night and alcohol happened. so much and …
he groans. why does his head hurt so much? is it old age? ]
What…. what time is it?
no subject
[ a calm, lazy answer — but a true one. she doesn't know what time it is. rolling onto her side, a motion that exposes the full line of her bare back, means she can reach for her phone, grabbing it from where it lay face down on the nightstand. ]
Two-thirty.
[ that's inconveniently late, probably. not that she has anywhere to go on whatever day of the week it happens to be. or that she wants to go anywhere, considering the mild pounding in her head. she's happy to just lay here for a while with... whoever that is.
maybe she should roll over and find out. maybe she'll just close her eyes again, instead, because avoidance techniques are great ways to make someone else deal with problems. ]
no subject
We should probably get up, then.
[ is he wearing clothes? he has to force himself to be aware enough to take stock of the clothes situation... and that's a no. well, he's going to make the best of her not looking at him by rolling over the edge of his side of the bed to grab his underwear. ]
My head is killing me.
[ he's still trying to figure out how to ask "uhhh do you know what we did last night because i sure don't remember" without sounding like a fool. ]
no subject
but the longer she lays here, the more her memory begins to slot together the puzzle pieces of how and when and why she's in this bed to begin with. like the realization of who is on the other side of the bed, the memory of how she wound up in this hotel in the first place... right. cool.
no wonder his head was killing him. he'd been real drunk. ]
Yeah, I bet. [ she finally drags herself upright, if not out of bed completely; the sheets pool at her waist, but daisy doesn't bother to cover herself. he's seen it now, hasn't he? what's the point? ] I could go for hashbrowns, to be honest.
[ the perfect hangover cure-all. ]
no subject
nope. still her. ]
Breakfast'd be good.
[ he replies, but it sounds distracted. it's then that he's actually looking at her, glasses charmingly askew, to ask ]
You have clothes, right? Do you need them...?
[ william??? u ok there buddy??? ]
no subject
they're more appropriate for a hired girl to come in and do a striptease, if she's honest, which is also exactly what she was doing. diners might be understanding, but even daisy's not that risque. ]
Not diner clothes, no. [ a beat. ] Do you want me to wear your shirt?
[ she's not a prostitute. he's not paying her for this. but if he wants her to wear something appropriate, that's about as close as it's going to get. ]
no subject
lucky for daisy, will is a man of layers. a very unfashionable man of layers. look out, he’s got his favorite ugly light gray sweater and a flannel underneath it. clothing for everyone. ]
Yeah, sure. You can pick which one. [ meanwhile, he’s getting his pants on. putting on clothes when you feel like you’re dying is quite the accomplishment; everyone applaud him. ]
no subject
Better?
[ than her being naked? uh. jury's probably out on that. she can at least rewear her shorts, even if they are a sorry scrap of denim fabric. it's something. ]