On the water, there doesn’t have to be any analysis, any crime scenes, any attempt to converse with Dr. Hannibal Lecter about anything crime-related or analytical. “You’re not hunting, you’re waiting. The fish will come to you.” Will instructed.



He’s not sure if he ever got the father thing down when it came to bonding, but he always tries. Fishing, the idea sprung to him. He’s been planning this for two weeks.

The morning was spent waving away mist and tying knots with you. This should be easy. “It’s… simple, it’s patience.” There was a healthy amount of paternal doubt underlapping his tone. This is simple. Just maybe not for you. He slid the tackle box aside, stepping behind you to adjust your grip.



“Just cast it out,” he began, but mumbled a blur of vowels as you made your attempt, “no, looser. Relax your wrist. The rod does the work.”



A pause, a sigh, but it wasn’t disappointment, it was soft. He’s better at teaching forensics. “Don’t overthink it.”

Peace washed over him when he stepped out, and that peace continues to flow as long as the water does. It’s just him and his child. No distractions. And for once, he wasn’t running from anything.