Yep, the fic happened. I’ve never really written crack, and this is in fact my first Hannibal fic.
What a woeful place to start…
There might be a more adults-only version on AO3 at some point but here’s what we can have on the Tumblr:
“Laphroaig” Will says lazily, without looking at the bar. He doesn’t particularly care but it seems better to look like he does.
“Ten, twelve or eighteen?” Asks the bartender distractedly, more focussed on the milky cleavage of the blonde at the end of the bar than Will’s pretended passion for Islay.
“Eighteen” Will tells him after a moment, throwing down his bureau credit card. Fuck it, he thinks, this is the closest thing he’s had to a vacation in years - if by vacation he meant repeated exposure to cretinous psychiatrists who want to pick apart my brain. Perhaps literally, he adds, remembering the hungry expression on some of the faces who had leaned close to examine his name badge.
“Graham? Hmm,” one particularly fussy little man had exclaimed “I’ve certainly heard about you.”
He’d clasped his cane prissily between both hands and examined Will with a tilted head and a lecherous, almost reptilian expression.
“Funny,” Will said to him thoughtfully “I’ve never heard your name, uh…”
“Frederick” the prissy man supplied, inclining his pointed chin toward his badge “Chilton.”
“Oh.” Will had said, nonplussed. Then he’d leaned back just a little on his heels and stared at the man over the top of his glasses until he turned and fled just as fast as the cane and his wounded dignity would allow.
The badge. Fuck the badge, he thinks, tearing it from his lapel and shoving it deep into his pocket. Without the badge, Will feels more comfortably anonymous amongst the post-panel crowds. He sips his drink and watches their reflections ripple across the coppery tiles behind the bar.
The whiskey is good, great actually, and it’s gone quickly. Will orders another from the indifferent bartender, raising the glass to his own watery image in a silent toast to Jack Crawford for signing Will’s expense form in advance. By the time Jack and Bella return from New York, the form will already be in the accounts inbox and Will’s sixty-dollar whiskey will be someone else’s problem.
Will’s risk-benefit analysis of ordering a third drink is rudely interrupted by warm breath at his right ear.
“With my face” says the stranger in a thick European accent “and your ass, we could rule the world.”
Will turns, a pointed fuck off ready on the tip of his tongue, but the stranger’s face gives him pause. He certainly has a point, Will thinks, taking in dark eyes and sharp cheekbones with absent interest. But seriously, what a fucking line.
The stranger raises an eyebrow. “Belay my last,” he says, staring rather pointedly at Will’s mouth “you clearly have everything you need for world domination.”
With his other eyebrow and a tap of one long, elegant finger, the previously indifferent bartender has appeared with a fresh drink for Will and a glass of rosé. Will tilts his glass toward the stranger in thanks and takes a small sip, trying very hard to keep his expression civil for at least as long as it takes him to finish his drink. This will make a great story to tell Bev, and Will owes it to her to see it out.
“Tell me” the stranger continues, with very little respect for Will’s disinterest “how are you not yet feared and worshipped as a god by the masses?” He’s not smiling, but there is a slight tilt to his eyes that might be amusement on a face made of something other than fucking angles and edges. What is he made of, anyway? Origami?
“I” says Will in a deliberately dry and disinterested tone “am a chronic under-achiever.”
The old Graham Special Combination of hostility, rudeness and transparent self-loathing usually puts the KO on any potential romantic encounter but Will starts to suspect this particular situation might call for something a little more drastic. He wonders just how many pictures of his dogs the stranger will look at with pretended interest before he gives up. Then he wonders whether the stranger has any more lines ready and whether he should wait to hear them.
The stranger turns to lean against the bar next to Will, facing out into the crowd. Will casts a surreptitious eye over the stranger’s perfectly-tailored suit pants and decides that yes, he should definitely wait for the next line. Fortunately for both of them, it isn’t a long wait.
“What a coincidence it is that we should meet,” the stranger pauses to take a sip of his wine “as I happen to be a chronic achiever.” He turns his face to Will’s and when he speaks again, his voice is little more than a low rumble “I don’t suppose you would be interested in being under an achiever.”
Oh Christ. The stranger has taken pick-up lines to new and dizzying heights of embarrassment but the purring bass of his voice has kick-started something in Will’s gut and it only takes one quick breath laced with expensive cologne for his traitorous dick to get in on the act as well. Whatever, he’s on vacation.
“If I say yes” he asks in what he hopes is a steady voice (he feels anything but) “will you promise not to throw any more lines?”
The stranger smiles - a real smile this time, sharp and predatory with charmingly pointed little teeth - and slides closer to Will, slipping one warm hand under his open suit jacket and over the curve of his ass. “If I said” he murmurs against Will’s ear “that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”
Will’s chuckle catches on a groan when he feels the stranger’s teeth scrape the shell of his ear. He pulls away slowly, letting his reluctance show. “If we get any closer here,” Will says quietly, peeling the stranger’s hand from his ass and setting it back on the bar “I don’t think I’m going to be able to stand up to leave.”
The stranger lets his eyes fall to Will’s crotch. His gaze lingers there for long moments, tongue darting out to wet his lips before he raises his gaze again to meet Will’s. His eyes tilt again and there is an air of mischief about him as he reaches over again, this time just letting his fingertips drift over Will’s belt before slipping something into Will’s pocket. A card key.
“Room twelve-oh-five” He says with a growl, “I suggest you make all possible haste.”
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