Shadow (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shadowesque) wrote2013-05-25 09:58 pm
shadowesque) wrote2013-05-25 09:58 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: English as a Second Language (1/?)
Title: English as a Second Language (1/?)
Fandom: NBC's Hannibal
Rating: PG (thusfar for language)
Warnings: None (so far)
Summary: Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hannibalkink: Hannibal/Will, Highschool AU. (fluff, blushing)
Will is upset Hannibal-senpai doesn't notice him., Will finds himself in need of a tutor; enter Hannibal Lecter
Will is smart. Beyond smart. He has a way about him that made many subjects (and people, in fact) come easy to him. But obviously not every subject could be so simple.
Normally this might not bother Will. He had high enough grades in most other subjects to be sure he wouldn't have to worry about college and probably gain a number of scholarships along the way. But that seemed so boring. Mundane. It seems like a waste when he still doesn’t even know what to do with himself.
Really, it’s not the subject so much that caught his attention. No, it’s the tutor.
Shit.
Some of the students thought it was unfair that a student that wasn't even from the states should excel in English, but Will thought them stupid and dull. Ignorant. But he doesn’t let the opinions of others get to him; no, he's had his fair share of abuse from his peers, and ignoring everything and fading into the background had been a quickly learned skill. He suspected he could ignore anyone's opinion on the tutor as well.
An email is easier than finding Hannibal out in the crowded hallways. Simpler. More professional. The reply is prompt and courteous, indicating a time and place to meet to work on whatever was most troubling him in his courses. Better that way, without fumbling through the request in person, with averted eyes, awkward. Hannibal will find out soon enough (if he doesn't already know) how strange a boy Will can be.
Will never liked study halls, just an excuse for people to do whatever they pleased, an excuse for him to observe and get a little in over his head. At least it tended to provide him with time to read for enjoyment, even if that enjoyment was derived from medical texts, books on motors and engines, and a secret pleasure of psychology tomes. But he'd much rather meet Hannibal during the free time. Even if it gives him a few stomach-churning butterflies. (He can't pinpoint why. Meeting someone new? The idea that he needs a tutor to start with? The reasons why?)
The other student is already in the quiet library alcove by the time Will gets there, but he doesn't immediately approach, shifting his backpack uneasily on his shoulder. Hannibal is slightly older, though puberty seems to have been relatively kind to him. He has a dignified face for a high schooler, though his limbs still seem to retain the awkward gangliness that comes with teenaged years. His posture is straight, his hair parted just so. This is a kid in control of his life, confident. He probably has his whole life planned out, maybe plans to go to Harvard or Yale or--maybe this was a bad idea.
He's about to turn and leave (plotting out a kindly worded thanks but no thanks it was a big misunderstanding don't need the help sorry for wasting your time email in his head) when Hannibal looks up from his book and catches sight of him through the bookshelves. "Will Graham?"
Too late. Will gives a minor flinch and turns back to the alcove, giving a twitch of an apologetic smile. Makes his legs move, mechanically. "Sorry, I wasn't sure if I was at the right place," he lies, setting down his backpack and slipping into the seat opposite the tutor.
Hannibal nods, as if he accepts it, but instead says, "Many people need a little help in their classes, Will. This isn't anything to be ashamed of. One can't be perfect at everything."
The accent has an interesting heft to it. Thick enough to be pronounced but perfectly understandable, unless you're not paying attention. And who wouldn't pay attention?
Hannibal is certainly paying perfect attention to Will. Though he doesn't lift his gaze to meet those eyes, his tutor is staring him down. As any normal person might. He can feel them boring in. But Hannibal never asks him to look, doesn't ask why he won't, and in fact removes his gaze to arrange the space before them as Will takes out one of his books and a notebook. Will holds his mechanical pencil in a fist, laying it across lined pages, licking his lips. Someone will have to break the silence. But Will's immediate impulse is to apologize. He finds he's usually apologizing when he interacts with someone, except for those who know him best, the ones who insist that there's nothing to keep apologizing for. Will understands (as much as he's going to, at this point in his life) his mind and how it works, understands his--condition. Even if he's been told that it isn't a condition so much as a different way of perceiving the world. Some days, it feels like a disease that keeps him from the rest of humanity.
"What seems to be troubling you about English class, Will?" It's Hannibal that breaks the quiet first, and he doesn't sound at all awkward about it, and it doesn't sound forced. In fact, the interest strikes him as genuine. "Besides the reading material," he adds lightly, a jab at the high school level novel laid on the tabletop.
Will thumbs the eraser of his pencil, clicks it once, twice, to have just enough graphite sticking out. "I like the stories." Well, not all of them. But it isn't that he hates fiction as opposed to nonfiction. "But it's hard to write about them. The characters, the settings, the events--I understand them, how it happens, what is going on, the eventual conclusions reached, but I can't talk about them." He gives a bit of a huff, feeling childish. It sounds stupid now that he says it out loud. Especially given what he's so good at.
"Do you find it difficult because what there is to be said has already been said in the text?"
"No, it's not--" Will feels a creeping blush of embarrassment up his cheeks, which only enhances the feeling; the perpetual cycle of being embarrassed about being embarrassed in front of someone. It sucks. "Kind of? Everything doesn't need to be said in the text. But the implications the author makes seem pretty plain sometimes, if you look at it through their eyes. And the characters--I can't--"
"Can't what, Will?" Hannibal is patient with the stops and starts, and for that, he's grateful.
"I can't get into their heads." Will slumps in his seat, scowling at the book as if it was its offensive fault. "And I should be able to. The details are already there. I'm reading them, I'm just not reading them."
Hannibal was quiet for a few moments. "They're not real people."
"I know that," Will snaps quickly.
A placating hand is held up, a call for calm. "I mean you can't observe them and pick up on the details. The relevant details are already laid out for you for anyone mundane to pick up on. They don't feel like people."
Will's brow furrows. That sounds...pretty accurate, actually. His eyes flick up, momentarily on Hannibal's, before flicking away again, at the bookshelves. "How did you know?"
Hannibal shrugs. "It was the way that you were attempting to phrase your thoughts. Reading them. Like reading people. You observe a lot, don't you? Before, you were going to leave. You'd been standing there watching me." He leans in, not menacingly, casual, just enough to catch Will's attention. "You are very particular about the people whose company you keep, I imagine. Which is good; you can't be friends with everyone."
The room spins slightly. It's very good advice, and it seems...suspicious. How much had Hannibal already known about Will when he took him up on the need for help? "I really don't need a therapist in my life. You don't look old enough to have your license," he mocks, though there isn't much venom in the bite.
Hannibal looks sheepish for a moment, leaning back--farther back into his chair, away and away from Will, giving space. "I like to people-watch as well. Sorry. It's a little hard to turn off sometimes."
"...I know the feeling."
"I have to be fair with you; I've heard about you before. But children are vicious, and they don't understand what they don't want to. Just know that around me, you are safe. I will not judge you. I'm not here to be your therapist; you're right." He places his hands flat on the table. "I'm here to help you see the characters as plot devices rather than people. I think that might help. You cannot force a perspective if it is not there for you, even if it is only for you." Hannibal seems merrier now that they've gotten back on topic, and Will has to admit, a small, small bit of tension in the room seems to have lifted. "We work with our problems, not barrel through them. Let's start with the latest assignment..."
Fandom: NBC's Hannibal
Rating: PG (thusfar for language)
Warnings: None (so far)
Summary: Written for
hannibalkink: Hannibal/Will, Highschool AU. (fluff, blushing)Will is upset Hannibal-senpai doesn't notice him., Will finds himself in need of a tutor; enter Hannibal Lecter
Will is smart. Beyond smart. He has a way about him that made many subjects (and people, in fact) come easy to him. But obviously not every subject could be so simple.
Normally this might not bother Will. He had high enough grades in most other subjects to be sure he wouldn't have to worry about college and probably gain a number of scholarships along the way. But that seemed so boring. Mundane. It seems like a waste when he still doesn’t even know what to do with himself.
Really, it’s not the subject so much that caught his attention. No, it’s the tutor.
Shit.
Some of the students thought it was unfair that a student that wasn't even from the states should excel in English, but Will thought them stupid and dull. Ignorant. But he doesn’t let the opinions of others get to him; no, he's had his fair share of abuse from his peers, and ignoring everything and fading into the background had been a quickly learned skill. He suspected he could ignore anyone's opinion on the tutor as well.
An email is easier than finding Hannibal out in the crowded hallways. Simpler. More professional. The reply is prompt and courteous, indicating a time and place to meet to work on whatever was most troubling him in his courses. Better that way, without fumbling through the request in person, with averted eyes, awkward. Hannibal will find out soon enough (if he doesn't already know) how strange a boy Will can be.
Will never liked study halls, just an excuse for people to do whatever they pleased, an excuse for him to observe and get a little in over his head. At least it tended to provide him with time to read for enjoyment, even if that enjoyment was derived from medical texts, books on motors and engines, and a secret pleasure of psychology tomes. But he'd much rather meet Hannibal during the free time. Even if it gives him a few stomach-churning butterflies. (He can't pinpoint why. Meeting someone new? The idea that he needs a tutor to start with? The reasons why?)
The other student is already in the quiet library alcove by the time Will gets there, but he doesn't immediately approach, shifting his backpack uneasily on his shoulder. Hannibal is slightly older, though puberty seems to have been relatively kind to him. He has a dignified face for a high schooler, though his limbs still seem to retain the awkward gangliness that comes with teenaged years. His posture is straight, his hair parted just so. This is a kid in control of his life, confident. He probably has his whole life planned out, maybe plans to go to Harvard or Yale or--maybe this was a bad idea.
He's about to turn and leave (plotting out a kindly worded thanks but no thanks it was a big misunderstanding don't need the help sorry for wasting your time email in his head) when Hannibal looks up from his book and catches sight of him through the bookshelves. "Will Graham?"
Too late. Will gives a minor flinch and turns back to the alcove, giving a twitch of an apologetic smile. Makes his legs move, mechanically. "Sorry, I wasn't sure if I was at the right place," he lies, setting down his backpack and slipping into the seat opposite the tutor.
Hannibal nods, as if he accepts it, but instead says, "Many people need a little help in their classes, Will. This isn't anything to be ashamed of. One can't be perfect at everything."
The accent has an interesting heft to it. Thick enough to be pronounced but perfectly understandable, unless you're not paying attention. And who wouldn't pay attention?
Hannibal is certainly paying perfect attention to Will. Though he doesn't lift his gaze to meet those eyes, his tutor is staring him down. As any normal person might. He can feel them boring in. But Hannibal never asks him to look, doesn't ask why he won't, and in fact removes his gaze to arrange the space before them as Will takes out one of his books and a notebook. Will holds his mechanical pencil in a fist, laying it across lined pages, licking his lips. Someone will have to break the silence. But Will's immediate impulse is to apologize. He finds he's usually apologizing when he interacts with someone, except for those who know him best, the ones who insist that there's nothing to keep apologizing for. Will understands (as much as he's going to, at this point in his life) his mind and how it works, understands his--condition. Even if he's been told that it isn't a condition so much as a different way of perceiving the world. Some days, it feels like a disease that keeps him from the rest of humanity.
"What seems to be troubling you about English class, Will?" It's Hannibal that breaks the quiet first, and he doesn't sound at all awkward about it, and it doesn't sound forced. In fact, the interest strikes him as genuine. "Besides the reading material," he adds lightly, a jab at the high school level novel laid on the tabletop.
Will thumbs the eraser of his pencil, clicks it once, twice, to have just enough graphite sticking out. "I like the stories." Well, not all of them. But it isn't that he hates fiction as opposed to nonfiction. "But it's hard to write about them. The characters, the settings, the events--I understand them, how it happens, what is going on, the eventual conclusions reached, but I can't talk about them." He gives a bit of a huff, feeling childish. It sounds stupid now that he says it out loud. Especially given what he's so good at.
"Do you find it difficult because what there is to be said has already been said in the text?"
"No, it's not--" Will feels a creeping blush of embarrassment up his cheeks, which only enhances the feeling; the perpetual cycle of being embarrassed about being embarrassed in front of someone. It sucks. "Kind of? Everything doesn't need to be said in the text. But the implications the author makes seem pretty plain sometimes, if you look at it through their eyes. And the characters--I can't--"
"Can't what, Will?" Hannibal is patient with the stops and starts, and for that, he's grateful.
"I can't get into their heads." Will slumps in his seat, scowling at the book as if it was its offensive fault. "And I should be able to. The details are already there. I'm reading them, I'm just not reading them."
Hannibal was quiet for a few moments. "They're not real people."
"I know that," Will snaps quickly.
A placating hand is held up, a call for calm. "I mean you can't observe them and pick up on the details. The relevant details are already laid out for you for anyone mundane to pick up on. They don't feel like people."
Will's brow furrows. That sounds...pretty accurate, actually. His eyes flick up, momentarily on Hannibal's, before flicking away again, at the bookshelves. "How did you know?"
Hannibal shrugs. "It was the way that you were attempting to phrase your thoughts. Reading them. Like reading people. You observe a lot, don't you? Before, you were going to leave. You'd been standing there watching me." He leans in, not menacingly, casual, just enough to catch Will's attention. "You are very particular about the people whose company you keep, I imagine. Which is good; you can't be friends with everyone."
The room spins slightly. It's very good advice, and it seems...suspicious. How much had Hannibal already known about Will when he took him up on the need for help? "I really don't need a therapist in my life. You don't look old enough to have your license," he mocks, though there isn't much venom in the bite.
Hannibal looks sheepish for a moment, leaning back--farther back into his chair, away and away from Will, giving space. "I like to people-watch as well. Sorry. It's a little hard to turn off sometimes."
"...I know the feeling."
"I have to be fair with you; I've heard about you before. But children are vicious, and they don't understand what they don't want to. Just know that around me, you are safe. I will not judge you. I'm not here to be your therapist; you're right." He places his hands flat on the table. "I'm here to help you see the characters as plot devices rather than people. I think that might help. You cannot force a perspective if it is not there for you, even if it is only for you." Hannibal seems merrier now that they've gotten back on topic, and Will has to admit, a small, small bit of tension in the room seems to have lifted. "We work with our problems, not barrel through them. Let's start with the latest assignment..."