Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: "If space is infinite then there's tons of yous out there and tons of mes."

"I like that thought. Somewhere out there, I'm having a good time." (Rabbit Hole)

Two different Molly Fosters. Two different Will Grahams. Just two out of innumerable possibilities. AU.

Author's Notes: They cast Molly Foster and Reba McClane this week with two immensely talented people, and then, just when my week was full of joyous dancing, I watched the trailer (again). I'm working my way back into the fandom. I don't remember it being this hard last he-ate-us, but I guess there was a shorter gap between seasons. Hopefully, I can work myself back into writing regularly again.

I promise this chapter relates to the new, main arc established last chapter. I just want to spin a few more strings before I get there. Will and Willy in this chapter.

(A chapter that is AU despite following the canon, since Molly's son is named Walter in the series. EEP. More universes to write.)

A Bridge Over Troubled Water

-Sugarloaf Key, Florida-

Interactions between Will and Willy are loaded. Their silences are fraught with white noise and a steady current of emotional charge. It's a constant negotiation: Willy's not angry, but he's anxious. He's taken up the mantle of man of the house before he even understands his own boyhood. He takes his time measuring Will, observing him, assessing the possible risks. Willy knows there's secrets being kept, but he's smart enough to know adults don't reveal them by being asked.

For that reason, Will finds himself observing and assessing possible risks too. He's careful to keep the conversation focused on Willy, a trait Willy responds to despite himself. The boy wants a father, and Will sees an opportunity to have a child now that the greatest opponent to his paternity is locked up and away.

He's all but moved to the Key now. The dogs took to the property one by one, with Winston being the last holdout out of loyalty to Will. That leaves a lot more time to dance in orbit with Molly's son, especially since Will's become privy to her baseball days. The days when Molly collapses on the couch in front of the television and doesn't move, barely speaks. "I'm fine," she says with a fragile smile. "I'm fine, I just want to watch the game. That's all."

The house becomes one large expression of her melancholy. All the symbol of life come with the implication of mortality. Her photographs are of Mollys and Willys and Phils that are all gone, gone and dead and buried. Will doesn't want to walk away, but he knows the value of solitude better than he cares to admit and heads out to the beach.

Where he sees Willy on the dock, also alone, fiddling with one of the many fishing rods he and his mother have amassed over the years.

"She hasn't done this in a while," Willy says by way of a greeting.

Will was too busy thinking of opening sentences, trying to get the words in order, that he starts saying something fishing-related before his brain catches up with Willy. "Your dad played college ball," he notes.

Willy nods, masking his sadness with a seriousness beyond his years, "Yeah, he was pretty good too. Mom only watches the games when she's upset."

"Hm."

"You two have a fight?"

"No, no," Will doesn't mean to laugh, but he can't help it. "I wouldn't fight with your mom." Molly's fighting spirit is made out of titanium. Her son's did as well no doubt. Even if Will could contend with one, he wouldn't survive the other.

As if he can hear the compliment he's silently being paid, Willy breaks into a small, sardonic smile, "Smart." He finishes tying a hook onto his line and stands up. "I wouldn't take it personally then. Sometimes she just gets sad. Usually around the end of the baseball season."

"I'll keep that in mind."

That settled, Willy gets down to business. "You staying for dinner?"

"Do you want me to go?"

Willy doesn't have to think about his answer for as long as Will expects him to, "No. You're okay."

"Thanks."

"Do you want to go?"

"No," Will replies, "but I don't want to intrude. I know it's been your mom and you for a while."

Willy responds by casting his line. The familiar, electric silence swells between them. Will is about to retreat when the boy makes a decision he's been waffling around for a while. He doesn't quite know how to ask, so his statement comes out sounding like a question, "Mom said you liked fishing…?"

Will gets it. He's been in Willy's shoes before, searching for some kind of bridge between human beings and not knowing how to articulate it. He walks up to the poles, "Fly fish, spin fish…" murderer-fish, "I like fishing. I used to love fishing."

"What happened?"

He laughs again, feeling free as he clutches an old, weather-beaten rod and goes through the motions of baiting the hook. "I used myself as bait. Got chewed up and spit out by my catch."

Willy glances at him. "Is that how you got that?"

Will's not sure what to say. He thinks about Molly, who must not have told her son because who would tell an eight year old about getting gutted by a psychopath? He also thinks about the gleam of insight in Willy's eyes, the perceptiveness of that stare, and the role that the boy took on after his father died. If there's a bridge between Will and Molly, Willy's positioned himself in the middle of it with all the mettle of his mother and deceased father combined.

So he can't lie. He doesn't tell the whole truth, but he can't lie.

"Yes," Will says.

Willy gets bolder. He's not even paying attention to his fishing pole anymore. "Does it hurt?"

"Sometimes."

"Did you catch him?"

"Not at first," Will runs a hand over the deliberate curve of scar tissue on his waist. He's trying to smooth away the phantom sensations of Hannibal carving him. "But eventually. He's locked up now."
That doesn't matter to Willy. He has an adult's sense of security, tenuous and skeptical. "Is he still after you?"

"Will he come after us?" is what Will knows the boy means to say, and he doesn't hesitate for a second to lie. The universe has given him the opportunity to build a life away from Hannibal Lecter, and there is no greater punishment than to forget the good doctor like the God of a bygone era. "No," Will replies, "he's not. Not anymore."

Willy's nod is damn near imperceptible. He turns to look back at the water, feigning aloofness until Will casts his own line. That's when Willy inches closer to Will on the dock.

And for once, the silence is just that: silent.

Happy reading!