dear milk, I loved your takes on Will as a father, I could read them forever, and if you ever write a fanfic on this I would devour it, sincerely, "I have a father kink, and that's okay" <3<3
hahahaha anon, it is okay! Well, ask and you shall receive. What would you like? Would a little juxtaposition excerpt be okay?
MORNING IN TWO HOMES
Will knows she’s awake before she even moves. He hears the way her breathing changes, senses the slight shift under the blankets. He pushes the door open without knocking.
Mina is curled in the sheets, her face half-buried in the pillow, hair messy from sleep. She doesn’t startle when he steps in—she never does. Instead, she sighs, heavy with the weight of someone who already knows exactly how this morning is going to go.
“You’re staring at me again,” she mumbles.
Will leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You say that like it’s a crime.”
She groans, rolling onto her back. “It could lead to one.”
“I’m not gonna answer that,“ he says without moving.
Eventually, she stretches, arms above her head, spine arching before she pushes herself up to sit. The blanket slides off her shoulders. When she stands she brushes her hand over his arm on the way out.
In the kitchen, she moves through the space with easy familiarity, pulling the coffee canister from the shelf without looking. Will watches as she pours water into the machine, then measures out the grounds, her hands steady, practiced.
“You need to go grocery shopping,” she mutters, glancing at the fridge.
Will takes a sip of the coffee she’s just made—black, exactly how he likes it. She doesn’t drink hers the same way, but still, she picks up his cup and takes a small sip before setting it back down. It’s not something he ever commented on.
“You need to eat,” he says, watching as she pushes at her food with the edge of her fork.
She lifts a brow. “So do you.”
Will huffs. He doesn’t argue.
She smirks, picking up her cup, feet tucked under herself on the chair. “You’re staring at me again.”
He doesn’t look away. Neither does she.
-
The soft click of the door opening is the only sound as Hannibal steps into Charlotte’s room. She is already at her vanity, brushing through her long, dark hair, back straight, movements slow and deliberate.
He watches her through the mirror. “Good morning, my love.”
Her eyes meet his in the glass. “Good morning, Daddy.”
Hannibal moves behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. She tilts her head just slightly, acknowledging him without breaking her rhythm. The brush glides through the strands again, smooth, methodical.
“You woke before I called for you.”
“I have class,” she says simply. “And I dislike feeling rushed.”
A pleased hum rumbles in his throat. He picks up a silver hairpin from the vanity, inspecting it before gathering a section of her hair and fastening it in place.
At the breakfast table, she arranges the silverware with precise care, then takes her seat as he pours their tea. The rich aroma of the meal fills the space—something refined, something carefully selected. Charlotte does not toy with her food or waste time. She eats neatly, efficiently, every gesture intentional.
“You received another invitation to the symposium,” he notes between sips of tea.
“I did.” She dabs her lips with a linen napkin. “I accepted.”
He watches her over the rim of his cup. “Good.”
Hannibal smiles. Charlotte returns it.