There will be a r e c k o n i n g.
Greetings — I am Thor Odinson, the god of thunder and the wielder of the all-powerful Mjölnir.
yeah, so: i totally made a thor. i’ve been fighting the temptation, but i just had to, okay? ;A; it’s gonna be super fun, because he’s so different from will — he’s brash, loud, and pretty brave. i’m gonna have a lot of fun with this guy, i know for sure! c:
so if you wanna follow him, please do~ and if you’re in the marvel/thor/avengers fandom and would like to roleplay, please hit him up! i know i got behind on following rp blogs here, but i’ll be sure to do so there. c: everyone’s invited~
Hannibal’s clinical eye for young promises doesn’t generally betray him and he’s pretty good at spotting geniuses with the scalpel. Fantastic professionals that will make him proud in the future. He has a large amount of the most appreciated surgeons, worldwide wise that were his students and now have their own clinics and participate in international investigations. He takes that as a personal achievement.
Young Mr. William Graham seems to be the case.
"I can see in your eyes the flame, the thirst of knowledge and the genuine interest to help those in need." The doctor takes a sheet of paper and draws a line with vertical lines all along it. "You’re here," he says marking the start of the line. Then his pencil moves to the third line. "And I am here. Look at all the road we have ahead to improve," he points out as he paints the rest of the bars until the tenth one with the graphite. "I want to be able to see the rest of the road. Preferentially with you," he adds.
Perhaps he’s overstepping on his boundaries once more. It seems like it’s natural for him to do it with Will. Hannibal wonders what is bringing him so close to the young man but he can’t pin point it.
"I think," he starts. "That you’re holding yourself back because you’re being bullied by your peers. Do not fear them. They are going to end up being the mediocre doctors in the future while you’ll be always improving yourself to reach perfection."
Will puts down his book to glance across the paper; he doesn’t want to miss a thing. A moment passes, and he reaches across to press a hand against the paper, as if he needs to make sure that it’s really there. He traces the lines, following the graphite-marked rungs, and gives a soft exhale.
"I’m trying to not hold myself back,” Will says, putting down his book completely and instead trying to maintain steady eye-contact with his professor, an impressive feat, “—but it’s, uhm, difficult. I haven’t had to socialize like this even a year ago, you know. I just thought that I’d be able to get there, to my destination, just like this.”
But maybe that was impossible, and he was pushing it. If this professor, who had coached an incredible amount of students to become well-renowned, successful doctors and surgeons, Will definitely wouldn’t complain.
"Just, uh," he searches for the right words, but he doesn’t need to: "—t-thank you.”
Hannibal takes the cash into his hand. “You are welcome.” He leaves their conversation there for the moment, walking between tables back to the counter to make change. The café falls silent, and Hannibal wants to push a record onto the old phonograph set aside against one of the black walls, though he feels this might offset his newest customer.
With $2.40 and a receipt held in his hand, he came to a stop just in front of the table. “You look rather troubled Mr. Grahams, my business is designed as a place where people can relax, and you seem more anxious than when you came in.” He placed the cash on the tablecloth and attempted to make eye contact through the thin glasses the other man donned.
Placing the money and receipt in front of his newest customer, Hannibal decided to make an offer he rarely ever made. “Perhaps you are in need of someone to talk to, you look as if you live a heavy life.”
Will grasps the warm mug with both of his hands, before pulling it up and pressing his lips against the rim to take a tentative sip. Immediately, the warmth and deliciousness spreads out against every corner of his body, and he feels himself relaxing in his seat. He was right; this wasn’t just the cheap coffee he’d buy for himself at the BAU facility, nor was it the instant mix he’d have to put together for himself in the mornings. It was bitter, because of how he’d ordered it, but there was a tint of sweetness at the edge of the taste. In addition to that, it was savory and thick, and soothed Will’s tongue and throat to loosen up.
All-in-all, Will appreciated the cup of coffee very much. He would’ve given up half of his home to know how to make such a concoction; after all, all he had were the instant mix powders ( and a drip-coffee maker, too, but that was stored away in his storage somewhere ).
He glances at the receipt and money before stuffing it into his lined pockets, quickly wrapping his hands around the warmth of the mug again ― he didn’t want to lose the feeling, however fleeting it would be. He shrugs, a mere rise and fall of one of his shoulders, before glancing at the spot right next to the other’s eyes, zooming in on his temples. He had high, delicate-looking cheekbones, and a nice hairline. Awkward.
"Doesn’t everyone?" He responds, before picking up his fork; he looks at the tines for a while, before prodding at the slice he’d ordered, "―lead a heavy life, I mean. Some by choice, some by … pressure. Necessity." he stares at the piece he’d cut off, before putting it into his mouth to chew; and, after a moment, he swallows.
"Mm, delicious. Thank you."
The two had been living in their own world for so long, that she had almost forgotten about what they had left behind in Baltimore. Almost. Abigail looked back at Hannibal once more, before she walked into the kitchen.
She walked inside of the kitchen, closing the door behind her. The walls were paper thin, and Abigail knew that if he cared to, Hannibal would be able to hear their conversation in the other room.
Abigail leaned against the counter as she waited for him, trying to collect her thoughts. What would she tell him? That he was dying, that was obvious. He would probably ask what was wrong with Hannibal, and she would have to lie. After hours of research, Abigail was afraid that one day that she might suffer the same fate.
Will follows Abigail into the kitchen, watching with skeptical eyes as she closed the barricading door. It didn’t look as if it’d do much; after all, the paper-thin walls and the poor cement job on the plasters looked pretty bad. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he just stands there, shifting one feet to another, awaiting for her to say something.
The way Hannibal was shook Will, for a lack of a better word. He was a different man, especially a stark contrast from someone that had been in his memories. He was more gaunt, thin; and although he could see the shadow of the man in his actions and words, it was incredibly minimalistic.
The difference scared Will.
He keeps his gaze focused on the mottled dining room table instead of Abigail’s face, and hopes that that movement comforts her somehow. His tongue peeks out of his mouth to sweep across his lips, and he has to look up to the ceiling to suck in a much-needed breath of worry. He holds it, feeling the abundance of air burning his lungs and rattling his ribs, before ―
oh my god, hannibal, you can’t just ask someone if they do anal!
"You did,” Will accentuates, pushing his tongue upwards against to the roof of his mouth momentarily, before adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “—but, uh, don’t worry about it.”
The fact that she’s interested in what he does isn’t a surprise; in fact, the rush of rash reporters and curious interviewers seemed to pick him out out of his environments, now, and that came as a surprise more than anything else. He was a plain man; nothing on the outside of him showed abnormality. Sure, he sleepwalked, and sweat more than the normal person, and grew a stubble that seemed as if he never shaved, but —
"It’s, uhm, getting cold," he says, haphazardly, "—you should wear warmer clothes.”
There isn’t much Hannibal can do about helping students but he wants to watch Mr. Graham’s progress. Will’s, he mentally corrects since it’s getting tired of not addressing him by his first name. It’s easier and it breaks the ice just a little more.
The doctor peeks over the top of his book from time to time to check on his student, deep in concentration and giving it all of himself to reach a positive result. It’s refreshing to see someone so serious about his work.
A doubt is present in the young man’s head, no doubt. When he clears his throat, the professor leaves his book on the table and looks at the student’s notes. “Is there anything I can help you with?” he asks.
Soon enough, Will finds the answer he’d been looking for in the bottom text of the page, and that relieves some of the stress that rests heavy against his brow. He licks his lips, chewing on the tip of his pencil, before risking a look up and over the top of the book to catch his professor’s eyes in mid-thought.
"Ah, uhm," he immediately takes out his pencil out from his lips, glaring at the writing utensil as if it was its fault ( and hoping for no shy strand of saliva to trail out alongside the tip ), "—I was just, uh, wondering, that’s all." Honestly, though, he could pat himself on the back for such an intricate, eloquent answer. No sarcasm here!
"I just was wondering, uh, why me. I mean, you’re a renowned professor, and I’ve seen really good surgeons and apprentice surgeons fly out from underneath you, so — I mean, this chance is very appreciated, professor Lecter, please don’t get me wrong. It’s a huge advantage, and I, uh, really, really appreciate it.”
He shoots the other a high-cheeked, fine-boned smile, and hopes that makes up for the awkwardness that’s his words spewing from his lips.