I PRESENT TO YOU: THE FAIRY QUEEN
hannibal is not a fisherman, is not a hunter. he’s a gardener.
OH MY GOD. OHHHHH MY GOD
you just like me for my brain
I DO but apparently my phone wants the world to know that on a level I was not prepared for
do we call this freudian autocorrect or what
“The ending to my composition has been eluding me, but you may have just solved that problem with Chopsticks.”
Will isn't the Chesapeake Ripper.
Not yet. -
I made a thing…
this is beyond beautiful
will you write that one scene i want? of will getting himself ready to go and see hannibal for their therapy date. making himself look nice. thank you <3
Will was released from Chilton’s care on a Monday. His usual appointment with Hannibal was, or had been, on Thursdays. Near enough to the end of the week that he had sometimes looked forward to it as if to the weekend. He’d been more likely to find temporary sanctuary in Hannibal’s office than he had on any so-called day of rest.
On this particular Thursday, he left his house after lunch, got a haircut at the barbershop in Wolf Trap, and stopped outside afterward in the winter sun. Little things kept demanding his attention: the chill of the air, the piercing sparkle of light off grit embedded in the sidewalk, the smell of cooking food that hadn’t come out of an industrial sized can to be slopped onto a plastic tray.
At some point, he’d find himself back at Hannibal’s table, but that was a problem for another time.
For now, he got a slice of pizza and drove home to shower and wash away the tiny bits of hair that clung to his skin and, hopefully, some of the singing tension that settled into his spine when he thought about tonight.
Clean and dry, he shaved down a bare minimum of stubble. To take it all off would be too obviously manipulative, like buying a new aftershave. He’d go without. This was compromise, not capitulation. Hannibal would believe compromise, would believe Will was prepared to meet him halfway.
He’d let the man at the barber shop press some kind of styling goop on him, and he ran it through his hair. Hannibal would appreciate the attempt, and at least it would keep it out of his eyes.
His clothes only needed to be clean, presentable, and probably not plaid, which left him with few enough choices to make the decision relatively simple. Faded red shirt, gray pants, and the new coat and leather gloves he’d bought yesterday. Both were an intentional echo of Hannibal’s style, but obviously inferior, at once subservient and almost offensive. Just as good as you without trying half as hard.
Will looked himself over in the mirror. Everything he wanted to say was there, and Hannibal would see it. Even now, Hannibal was usually the only one who understood what he wanted to say.
He pressed his hands briefly over his face, arranged his expression into something less telling, and left the house.
SHAW/ROOT NEEDS TO BE CANON. THIS HAD BETTER BE GENUINE FORESHADOWING FOR THE NEXT SEASON, IS ALL I CAN SAY.