Hannibal doesn't do well with letting attachments go.
He has to frame it in a more palatable manner to accomplish it at all, in fact. While Will and he walk to the bus stop another nine blocks away, he tries to breathe around the panicked vacuum in his chest. While they pay and sit down (Will offers him the window seat, Hannibal takes it), he starts looking for anything available to patch up that hole with. While the bus rocks around corners and eases past pedestrians crossing the street at unwise moments, Hannibal decides he's going to look at this as a longer tether. Not the cutting of ties, but perhaps just more flexible ones.
Like a cat being tricked into eating vitamins by tucking them inside treats, Hannibal has to slowly chisel away what he's done until it's softened to a size and shape that doesn't interrupt the beating of his heart.
"I had this dog once."
Hannibal looks across at Will, who's been leaning fully into the back of his seat like he's tired, except Hannibal can see the antsy energy in his tapping right foot, the way he's checked and re-checked all his jacket pockets three times since they sat down ten minutes ago. "He ran off every other week. We got him a collar, but we couldn't afford to chip him, and he'd come back after a few days every time anyway."
Hannibal lets the pause sink in between them. "What happened to the dog?"
Will's staring down at his shoes, glasses pulled by gravity to the very end of his nose. They're balanced so precariously that Hannibal almost leans over to pull them back up when they hit a bump and he watches them shudder in place. "Didn't come back one week. Thought he got hit by a car."
"Did it?" The pronoun's reflexive for animals. Will might be frowning from that, or from the memory itself.
"No. Saw him again a year later, right before we moved. Bit thinner, but not hurt. Looked happy to see me. I didn't bother trying to get a collar back on him that time, he followed me home anyway. Stayed there in the yard for two weeks straight because my dad didn't want to let him back in the house after all the trouble last time from him." Will wipes the end of his nose, jostles his own glasses and ends up nudging them back up to a safer spot. "We ended up taking him to Montana with us."
Hannibal makes a soft sound, inquisitive. Will's face twitches with that pained, apologetic smile that comes out so often in conversations where comfort's been scraped off the walls.
"He never ran off again. Lived with me - us - til he died, three years later. Think he needed the reassurance that we'd let him be free when he needed to be."
Hannibal leans his temple against the window in the silence that follows. Halfway back to the apartment, Will leans across him to open it, with a muttered comment about needing fresh air. Hannibal spends the rest of the ride thinking of Will burying his old dogs alone in his backyards, of Neph flying over rooftops without him.
*
Neph beat them home, and she showered already. The steam-scent of hot water carrying soap perfumes laps against Hannibal when he opens the door, soft as ocean waves. His head tilts down the hall instantly, following the smell. "She beat us home."
Will blinks down the corridor with far less comprehension. "Did you hear her?"
"No." Will just stares at him, confused but not alarmed. Hannibal is far more interested by what could possibly cause the 'dawning comprehension' that slowly blossoms across his face as he kicks off his shoes onto the mat.
Hannibal, who sits down to methodically untie everything and hangs his jacket and scarf up in the closet before moving beyond the doorway, is what holds up a surprisingly-impatient Will. He's pacing in place, hands in pockets, wind breaker open but still hanging off his shoulders like he's got no intentions of removing it anytime soon.
A few steps further in, and it's clear that she's actually still showering - the soft pounding of water, changing pitch as someone moves underneath its stream, can be barely heard from around the bend and in the bathroom. So Hannibal leads them both into the kitchen, mind buzzing.
His hands are steady on the coffee machine, a silver-and-black contraption that likely cost more than all of Will's wardrobe combined. "Would you like any?"
"Uh, yeah." Will doesn't sit down. The silence is interrupted only with a bag rustling, the grinder buzzing, and then eventually by Hannibal taking a small risk. "Would you get mugs from that cabinet there?" He points, but doesn't move from his spot, as if he's far too busy fiddling with the water in the machine to budge.
It is a strange, energetic satisfaction to watch Will search through the cabinet and pull down three matching mugs. After a small pause, he actually takes a guess and opens two drawers without asking, pulling out three spoons when he successfully finds them.
It's Will whose head cocks first when the shower water stops being a background hum. He grows antsy again, as if unsure what will come through that door, and shifts the identical mugs and spoons around at least twice before Hannibal hears the bathroom door even open.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2017-02-07 05:22 pm (UTC)He has to frame it in a more palatable manner to accomplish it at all, in fact. While Will and he walk to the bus stop another nine blocks away, he tries to breathe around the panicked vacuum in his chest. While they pay and sit down (Will offers him the window seat, Hannibal takes it), he starts looking for anything available to patch up that hole with. While the bus rocks around corners and eases past pedestrians crossing the street at unwise moments, Hannibal decides he's going to look at this as a longer tether. Not the cutting of ties, but perhaps just more flexible ones.
Like a cat being tricked into eating vitamins by tucking them inside treats, Hannibal has to slowly chisel away what he's done until it's softened to a size and shape that doesn't interrupt the beating of his heart.
"I had this dog once."
Hannibal looks across at Will, who's been leaning fully into the back of his seat like he's tired, except Hannibal can see the antsy energy in his tapping right foot, the way he's checked and re-checked all his jacket pockets three times since they sat down ten minutes ago. "He ran off every other week. We got him a collar, but we couldn't afford to chip him, and he'd come back after a few days every time anyway."
Hannibal lets the pause sink in between them. "What happened to the dog?"
Will's staring down at his shoes, glasses pulled by gravity to the very end of his nose. They're balanced so precariously that Hannibal almost leans over to pull them back up when they hit a bump and he watches them shudder in place. "Didn't come back one week. Thought he got hit by a car."
"Did it?" The pronoun's reflexive for animals. Will might be frowning from that, or from the memory itself.
"No. Saw him again a year later, right before we moved. Bit thinner, but not hurt. Looked happy to see me. I didn't bother trying to get a collar back on him that time, he followed me home anyway. Stayed there in the yard for two weeks straight because my dad didn't want to let him back in the house after all the trouble last time from him." Will wipes the end of his nose, jostles his own glasses and ends up nudging them back up to a safer spot. "We ended up taking him to Montana with us."
Hannibal makes a soft sound, inquisitive. Will's face twitches with that pained, apologetic smile that comes out so often in conversations where comfort's been scraped off the walls.
"He never ran off again. Lived with me - us - til he died, three years later. Think he needed the reassurance that we'd let him be free when he needed to be."
Hannibal leans his temple against the window in the silence that follows. Halfway back to the apartment, Will leans across him to open it, with a muttered comment about needing fresh air. Hannibal spends the rest of the ride thinking of Will burying his old dogs alone in his backyards, of Neph flying over rooftops without him.
*
Neph beat them home, and she showered already. The steam-scent of hot water carrying soap perfumes laps against Hannibal when he opens the door, soft as ocean waves. His head tilts down the hall instantly, following the smell. "She beat us home."
Will blinks down the corridor with far less comprehension. "Did you hear her?"
"No." Will just stares at him, confused but not alarmed. Hannibal is far more interested by what could possibly cause the 'dawning comprehension' that slowly blossoms across his face as he kicks off his shoes onto the mat.
Hannibal, who sits down to methodically untie everything and hangs his jacket and scarf up in the closet before moving beyond the doorway, is what holds up a surprisingly-impatient Will. He's pacing in place, hands in pockets, wind breaker open but still hanging off his shoulders like he's got no intentions of removing it anytime soon.
A few steps further in, and it's clear that she's actually still showering - the soft pounding of water, changing pitch as someone moves underneath its stream, can be barely heard from around the bend and in the bathroom. So Hannibal leads them both into the kitchen, mind buzzing.
His hands are steady on the coffee machine, a silver-and-black contraption that likely cost more than all of Will's wardrobe combined. "Would you like any?"
"Uh, yeah." Will doesn't sit down. The silence is interrupted only with a bag rustling, the grinder buzzing, and then eventually by Hannibal taking a small risk. "Would you get mugs from that cabinet there?" He points, but doesn't move from his spot, as if he's far too busy fiddling with the water in the machine to budge.
It is a strange, energetic satisfaction to watch Will search through the cabinet and pull down three matching mugs. After a small pause, he actually takes a guess and opens two drawers without asking, pulling out three spoons when he successfully finds them.
It's Will whose head cocks first when the shower water stops being a background hum. He grows antsy again, as if unsure what will come through that door, and shifts the identical mugs and spoons around at least twice before Hannibal hears the bathroom door even open.