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Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler	By : Prentice Category: G through L > Hannibal Views: 1574 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hannibal, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler
- 1
Title: Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler

Author: Prentice

Rating: Teen

Pairing: pre-Hannibal/Will

Category: Accent Kink, Friendship, Pre-Slash

Warning: cajun accents, implied cannibalism

Author's Note: This was written for a fill for a prompt on the Hannibal Kink Meme. The prompt was: After a few fingers of whiskey, Will's native Louisiana and/or Cajun accent comes back to him. Someone(s) finds it incredibly sexy. Will taught himself a generic American accent, but some things will take him back to his roots. A million bonus points for Will knowing Cajun. I didn't follow the prompt to the letter but I hope the original poster enjoys it anyway!
Summary: It's somewhere during college that he starts to lose it. The sharp strokes of an accent he hadn't even realized he owned. It slips away in stops and starts, flavoring his words with an odd lilt that people notice immediately, their attention shifting from what he's saying to how he's saying it.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler
Part 1
It's somewhere during college that he starts to lose it. The sharp strokes of an accent he hadn't even realized he owned. It slips away in stops and starts, flavoring his words with an odd lilt that people notice immediately, their attention shifting from what he's saying to how he's saying it.
At first, they say it's charming. That he is charming. That it's a 'quaint' little accent, like they are speaking to a small child who's looking for approval. After that, they say other things. Things that make their home in the same neighborhood of words like 'uneducated' and 'uncultured', but without the obvious barbs and sharp edges that come with them.
And after that, comes the rest. Professors turning their heads from him, eyebrows rising in patent disbelief, expression wondering. Sharp words with their spiky barbs that dig into him, take hold of him, and make their home inside of him.
No one takes him seriously. How can they, his roommate argues, when he sounds like that? Like a coon ass that just crawled out of the backwaters of the bayou, the smell of Lake Pontchatrain embedded in his skin?
He starts to bleed it out after that. Those rough loud words slowly smoothing themselves out into something that's a bit more monotone and bland, the generic blend of north and south that makes him sound like nothing at all. Normal, everyday phrases turning in on themselves, disappearing from his speech and echoing only within the familiar confines of his mind, which is filled with the smell of newspaper and crawfish, of warm beignets dashed with powdered sugar and the rich sounds of zydeco; of the echoes of people screaming 'throw me somethin', mister!' and colorful beads being thrown out to sidewalks and balconies.
It gets easier after that. People, always people, looking at him more seriously, like what he says has value, even if it doesn't say it to their face. Gaze skip-skidding past their shoulders and over their heads, glasses always crooked.
He isn't rid of it completely, though. Can't be, really, even if he wanted to be, because it's part of who he is and always will be, the origin of Will Graham. Born and bred, they always said, born and bred.
Bits of it slosh out of him now, body swaying in burning exhaustion, feet planted on slippery grass and mud, the mist of a rainy morning clinging to his skin. The body on the ground in front of them is dewy, a dreamscape of moisture and pale skin, of streaky blood and a horrid curling smile that slides itself from hip to hip, the flap of skin pushed up into a Mickey Mouse grin.
"Hold 'dese for me, would ya, cher?" He asks absently, monotone slipping into up-down swings that rolls around on his tongue like butter on fresh cornbread. Mist-streaked glasses held out in his hand, he waits for Hannibal to take them, warm fingers brushing slowly over his cooler ones, never noticing the strange stillness that momentarily falls between them. "Don' wanna lose 'em if I git the freesons."
"Freesons?" He hears someone mutter, not Hannibal, whose crimson eyes seem to burn into the side of his face, but someone else. Jimmy Price, maybe. Brian Zeller. Someone.
He doesn't know, isn't sure, but it hardly matters now, what with the way their voices are already falling away, Jack shepherding them further away from him as his eyes flutter close, the soft strings of moody blues echoing inside his thoughts, mixing with this poor girl's hitching screams and the slick sound of a knife through flesh.
**
The teasing he gets over the next few weeks is not wholly unexpected. Beverly Katz with her red plush crawdad she presents to him on the morgue table, hidden beneath a white sheet. Jimmy Price with his latent fingerprint collage that's ridiculously pieced together to make the outline of Louisiana in loops and whorls that he presents in a fleur de lis gilt frame. Brian Zeller with his not entirely mean spirited and mocking chatter, who sounds more like he's borrowing from Boston than New Orleans. Jack Crawford with nothing, nothing at all, but a raised eyebrow and a demand for results, an Alka Seltzer dissolving itself in a glass of cool water in one hand and the end of Will's proverbial leash in the other.
Still, though, it's not unexpected. He's dealt with it before. Gives the plush crawfish to his dogs, puts the gilt frame on his shelf. Let's the flavor of home mix with the flavor of here, before letting it bleed away again.
Bleed away and be shut up. Until Hannibal invites him over for dinner, that is.
"What's all this?" He asks in surprise, bottle of expensive wine still held in his hands. It's chilled to the touch, not quite the perfect temperature for pouring, the heat from the ride over leeching some of its coolness. "Hannibal?"
"This," Hannibal says, slipping the bottle from his fingers and placing a hand on the small of his back, proprietary and strangely soothing, pushing him closer towards the table. It is laid with old newspaper, piled in carefully stacked patterns so that every inch is covered and covered well, napkins and silverware set atop it. "Is a taste of home."
"Home?" Will echoes, eyes widening behind his round frames. Unconsciously, he takes a deep breath, breathing in all those old familiar scents. Onions, lemons, salt and seafood. A symphony of beautifully blended spices. Stomach rumbling hungrily, he repeats: "Home?"
"I believe," Hannibal murmurs from right beside him, presence a streak of tingling heat down his side. "That a crawfish boil is traditional. There is also bread pudding for dessert."
"'Annibal," Will says slowly, words rolling around like oil in his mouth, that old familiar lilt stumbling clumsily off his lips despite himself. Head tilting towards the man, his tongue slides out reflexively; wetting his bottom lip, he hesitates briefly. He can almost taste the crawfish, corn, potatoes, and spicy sausage in his mouth. Feel the slippery juice on his chin and burn of spice on his tongue. "Cher, you didn' have ta do 'dis."
Eyes darkening to a deep burgundy, Hannibal smiles down at him, something flashing glittery bright behind his gaze before he nudges Will forward once more. "Oh, I think I did." Hand sliding up his back, fingers curling gently against the back of Will's neck, fingertips a warm press against his curls, he directs him to a seat. "Now, please, have a seat. Dinner will be out momentarily. "
"But –" Will starts, fingers crinkling against the stacked newspapers as he settles into a seat but it's too late. Hannibal is already disappearing into the kitchen, the warm gust of a good boil wafting out at him. Good god, how long had it been since he'd been to a crawfish boil? Years, probably; since he left Louisiana, certainly.
To think that Hannibal took the time to prepare one for him now…
"Here we are," Hannibal says moments later, backing his way through the doorway, a steaming metal basket held carefully out in front of him, dish cloths folded around the handle. For a moment, Will can only stare. It is such an incongruous sight, seeing Hannibal with his sleeves rolled up, forearms bare, apron tied around his waist, bringing Will a crawfish boil. It's just – it's too – domestic isn't quite the word but –
"Lemme 'elp you wid dat," he says quickly, cheeks flushing at the way his words curve over themselves, sharp and loud and flavored with the bayou. Hannibal hushes him, crimson eyes doing that strange twinkle they did before as he deftly dumps the basket onto the table so that the food spills out in a mouthwatering cascade. Will's stomach growls immediately at the sight, the sound loud over the soft hiss of steam rising up between them.
Checks reddening even further, Will put a hand on his stomach. "Sorry, ah'm vary – uh, very hungry."
Lips curling up at the corners, Hannibal's tilts his head towards the table, gaze moving down to Will's mouth and then back up. "Perhaps you should start then. I'll just return this to the kitchen. You needn't wait for me."
With that, Hannibal slips back through the doorway, metal basket in tow. Eyes dragging themselves away from the man's disappearing form, Will turns his attention to the seafood piled high in front of him. Steam rose from it in curling wisps, aromatic and delicious, the colors just as bright as he remembers.
'A taste of home,' Hannibal had said.
Gaze flicking back and forth from the empty doorway to the pile of steaming crawfish, Will smiles, an unfamiliar rush of warmth blossoming inside of him. "Well, al'right then, cher," he murmurs quietly, fingers carefully snagging a nearby piece of corn. "Laissez les bons temps rouler, Ah guess."
TBC

Cajon phrases/words that you might not know (but totally want to):

Laissez les bon temps rouler - Let the good times roll

Freesons - goosebumps/a sudden chill

cher - affectionate term used to mean everything from 'dear/darling' to 'buddy/pal' depending on who it's said to and how it's said.
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Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler