“At least no one’s died from my food preferences.”
“I highly doubt that, my dear…”
*continues to eye Twinkies suspiciously*
Clannibal Sketch Prompt! Grocery Shopping, suggested by licensetocannibalize and gosch-arts. Clarice probably has a secret stash in their pantry full of Sno Balls, Twinkies and Donettes. Hannibal knows of course but chooses to turn a blind eye to keep her happy.
I just saw a post about the whole “millennials are ruining their chances for home ownership by eating avocado toast” thing. And it gave me the best idea for the crack fic event and now I’m sorry I had the idea too late.
But for your imagining pleasure, I offer you the notion of:
Murder Family, in an alternate S3 where Abigail lives. Abigail getting increasingly annoyed at terrible thinkpieces about millennials and their [avocado toast, failure to buy diamonds, ruining shopping malls, etc.]. Abigail convincing Hannibal that it’s downright *rude* to slander an entire generation for the sins of their parents. Will reluctantly being like, “I still think we should maybe try NOT killing people but I recognize that Hannibal’s gonna Hannibal, and as targets go, millennial thinkpiece writers aren’t bad.” Hannibal going on a killing spree. Every time a new article pops up spouting nonsense about millennials, the writer mysteriously turns up dead within the week.
Abigail smugly making herself avocado toast, in her house bought by her Murder Dads, who would buy her diamonds if she wanted them but she doesn’t, quietly directing vengeance on behalf of an entire generation.
Will is a criminology professor teaching night classes at the local community college. He spends most of his mornings keeping up with the forensics literature and preparing lectures at the coffee shop at the end of his block.
He lowkey hates it because it’s entirely too pretentious and expensive, and the clientele is mostly twenty-something freelance graphic designers in ill-fitting knit beanies and grandpa shirts they bought at J. Crew (but want you to believe they bought at Goodwill). But it’s the closest one to his house and they make a turkey sandwich he really likes, so he deals with it.
Oh, and also there’s Hannibal. Who always comes in right at 11:30, in a perfectly-pressed, immaculately-fitted white shirt, and is less a “deal with it” situation and more a “reason to pay $5 for drip coffee” situation.
Hannibal owns a local high-end pastry shop who vends to cafes in the area, filling the demand for bergamot macarons, lavender scones, chamomile pound cake, and other things people convince themselves they want (when they actually just want a Tollhouse cookie). He mostly stays at the bakery, but has to fill in on delivery rounds when his assistant calls in sick.
On deliveries, he tries to get in and out as quickly as possible so he can hit all 20 cafes on the schedule and get back to his calm, clean, organized kitchen, where he has to listen to neither the banal chatter of the awkward first date crowd nor the toneless wail of whichever Wisconsin-based acoustic guitarist is making the rounds on Pandora that week.
Oh, and also there’s Will. Who is a fixture of his 11:30 delivery in Wolf Trap, and who appears determined, through his body language and choice of corner table, to make it clear that he is not a part of this crowd.
And Will, with his decidedly Eddie Bauer aesthetic and stack of crime literature, is most definitely not a part of this crowd. There’s a keenness about Will that interests him: the hawkish way he observes other people, his legitimate interest in the work in front of him, his complete disinterest in whichever app has the coffee-shop tech crowd abuzz that week.
Hannibal finds himself, despite his best intentions, taking the delivery rounds more and more, “just for a chance to get some air,” and always taking his sweet time unloading the van in Wolf Trap.
For his part, Will always takes notice of people who walk through the door, immediately sizing them up: their hobbies, worries, interests, purposes. But when Hannibal comes in, he can’t get any kind of handle on him at all, and his mind is roaring with it, with the challenge. He starts looking forward to it, this new and different intruder in his daily routine.
After months of this (by which time Hannibal has completely fired his assistant and is just doing all the deliveries himself now), in which their only communication has been brief but definite eye contact, Hannibal orders himself a coffee and sits down at the table next to Will’s. All the hair on Will’s arm is standing up, and he’s not sure whether it’s in annoyance or excitement. How dare this guy just decide to make a move-that-isn’t-a-move, how dare he sit there looking like a marble statue, pretending they haven’t been eye fucking for months now.
Will sits there for ten minutes trying to figure out what to do. Finally he just can’t take it anymore and opens his mouth to tell him off, but the only thing that comes out is, “If you’re going to stay for lunch, don’t order the chicken salad sandwich. They put way too much celery in it.”
Hannibal is instantly smitten, and he feels a little absurd about it, but he orders a turkey sandwich, moves his coffee to sit across from Will, and introduces himself.
Five years later, Will has finally reached tenure, and Hannibal has expanded his business to open his own storefront. They live together in a little house with a French press and an ever-growing family of stray dogs, second-hand criminology books, and pie pans, and they always have lunch at “their” coffee shop on their anniversary, eating turkey sandwiches and people-watching.