Forgive the half-assed ficlet, my dears, but my writing time has been short lately and while I would have liked to have something a bit more polished for @lecteronthelam‘s Mardi Gras event, it was not to be. So please forgive the very rushed, rough draft of a thing which vaguely flirts with the notion of discussing New Orleans and so is maybe technically within the rules of the event.
the silver branch
(or: the one where Hannibal bakes a pie and has no chill)
Hannibal postponed his own first bite of the pie to watch Will savor his. Watching closely, he was fairly certain he could tell when the first hint of the bourbon broke over Will’s palate. He waited for the faint twitch of a smile, then turned to his own plate.
They ate a few bites in companionable silence before Will spoke.
“You used the good stuff. You know it’s insane to waste that on baking, right?”
Hannibal gave that the half-second’s consideration that was all it deserved before responding: “If you can taste the difference, then it wasn’t wasted.” Will rolled his eyes in decidedly rude fashion and popped another forkful into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment with a faraway look in his eyes.
Hannibal bit back the astringent taste of jealousy long enough to ask, “Where have you gone, Will?”
A soft, noncommittal hum and another bite of pie passed before Will refocused and answered him. “Ancient history. I was thinking about this little café back in New Orleans. They stayed open late and I’d stop there sometimes after my shift. Their pecan pie was the best I’d ever had, at the time. You’d have hated it. The whipped cream came from a can.”
His smile was bright and nearly malicious as he punctuated that with another bite, leaving Hannibal to shudder near-imperceptibly at the thought of sprayed-on whipped cream, and at the glimpse of Will’s teeth closing around his fork.
(cont’d under the cut)