This is my first attempt at Hannigram fic and the first piece of fan fiction I've written in several years. Fair warning - the M rating is for events that will be included in the next chapter (spoiler alert - there will be smit). I hope you enjoy it! Comments would be lovely 3

Chapter 1

"I believe I was waiting to be served before you."

"Yeah? Well, if you aren't fast, you're last, so…"

Hannibal feels his nostrils flare, his skin prickle with irritation, as he glares at the surly, scruffily-dressed stranger across the bar, who had scuttled through the quiet hotel lounge, leaned heavily on the counter and barked his order - double bourbon, neat - at the bartender (who'd barely finished setting a cocktail in front of another patron) without a thought for social propriety. If the action in and of itself had crossed the line of discourtesy, his response to Hannibal's entirely fair and equanimous comment, uttered without even the decency to look in his direction, had traipsed into the territory of damnable bad manners, and if there is one thing that Hannibal Lecter will simply not tolerate, it is rudeness.

He watches surreptitiously as the man downs the drink in one before sucking air through his teeth and pushing a forefinger and thumb underneath his thick-rimmed glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose. The stranger has the decency, after that, to wait until the bartender has poured Hannibal's glass of Barolo before motioning for a refill and asking, "Do you have any aspirin?"

The bartender shakes her head no and purses her lips as she tops up his empty glass. The stranger heaves a sigh in response and raises a hand to rub a knot of tension from his neck before his eyes land on Hannibal, remaining briefly before, realizing he's been caught looking, defensively darting away.

Hannibal swirls his wine, inhales the rich aroma of tar and roses, and observes the strain in the man's shoulders, the world-weary posture, while considering the best course of action to take. There's no denying that there's a classically handsome face underneath a riot of dark Botticelli curls (although most alluring, Hannibal isn't entirely swayed by this; he knows only too well that even the most beautiful people can house unspeakable ugliness within). Thick stubble caresses his jaw - too unkempt to be there by design, the scruff of one who doesn't care to shave - and frames well-formed, lightly chapped lips that are set in a deep, contemplative frown. He's slim - a little on the underfed side, perhaps - but looks to be strong enough, sinewy, underneath a crinkled grey blazer and mismatched green flannel shirt. He cradles the bourbon glass protectively in his hand (which bears no sign of a wedding ring), eyes pinched as he stares at the amber liquid within. Hannibal finds himself intensely curious to learn more. Initial rudeness aside, this man doesn't have the overall bearing of a boor; rather, he looks pained, like a lost soul in need of succor.

Certainly, he could let the indiscretion go; enjoy his wine and retire to his room. He had, after all, taken care of one pig already within the last twenty-four hours (a dissembling politician, religious zealot and proponent of gay conversion therapy who had a well-known penchant for the young men he sought to 'cure'), but…there is little else around to distract him this evening, save for the few amorphous hotel guests and the faux-classical musak humming in the background, and Hannibal knows himself; an unapologetic hedonist by nature, he enjoys the pleasures of the flesh in myriad ways. He simply will not deny himself the satisfaction of either seduction or slaughter should such opportunities present themselves.

Tack decided upon, he slides around the corner of the bar to get closer before speaking. The man doesn't react to his proximity; he seems to have retreated into deep thought as he stares into the middle-distance wearing a slightly haunted expression. How best to subdue your pain? Hannibal wonders.

He thrills when his voice startles the man out of his reverie; blue eyes, deep set with melancholy, flit towards him without actually meeting his own. "I heard you requesting aspirin from the bartender. I have painkillers in my room upstairs, should you find yourself indisposed."

The man blinks, surprise turning to incredulity as he looks Hannibal over. "It's fine. Thanks," he says and huffs out a breath of bitter laughter before lifting his drink. "First time I've heard that one used as a pick-up line, though."

"Not at all," Hannibal demurs, unleashing his most charming smile as he leans an elbow casually on the bar. "Merely a Doctor's professional concern."

"And now you've managed to tell me you're a Doctor," the man turns at that, angling his body towards Hannibal, tilting his chin towards him without - yet again - making eye contact, considering. "I'd bet that one usually works for you."

Hannibal doesn't reply to that, simply maintains his smile, pleased at the absence of an outright rejection, and allows his silence to act as an admission of culpability while he watches the other man intently; takes in the subtle defiance in the clench of his jaw, the frown that softens to a sardonic smile as he looks back at his drink, raising his brows, before asking, "Shouldn't we at least pretend to get to know each other a little first?"

"What would you like to know?" Hannibal settles himself on the bar stool beside his new acquaintance, amused by the feigned reluctance in the man's acquiescence. He drinks from his glass, gaze unwavering as he shamelessly allows his tongue to dart out, following the flavor of the wine on his lips.

The man's eyes linger on Hannibal's mouth before flitting away, back to his own drink as color blooms, ever-so-slightly, high on his cheeks. "It's usually polite to exchange names before room numbers," he shrugs, sets his jaw, and adds, "or bodily fluids."

"Interesting. Our encounter just a few moments ago led me to believe that you were not bound by the mores of polite society."

"I'm…I apologize, for that." He takes a gulp of his drink, eyes closing briefly, almost a wince, as he holds the liquor in his mouth for a beat before swallowing, sighing. Hannibal finds himself oddly warmed, bemused, by the sincerity of it, "I just really needed a drink."

Thus signals a chink in his armor; for that's what it appears to be - from his shabby appearance to his snapping tone to the frames of his glasses positioned deliberately just so as to block eye contact - layers of protection from a disagreeable world. Perhaps not such a piggy after all. It's almost a shame, Hannibal thinks; he does so enjoy playing with his food.

"Bad day at the office?" Hannibal enquires.

The man's lips quirk into something resembling a smile, but it doesn't manage to reach his eyes. "You could say that."

Interest piqued by the obvious evasion, Hannibal presses, "And what does a day at the office entail?"

"I teach, mostly, but not today." He says, almost through gritted teeth, and takes another sip of bourbon as Hannibal waits, patiently, for him to elaborate. "I sometimes dabble in…other areas," he adds. It's a conciliatory response; he does not wish to elaborate further, which drives Hannibal's interest all the more.

"How illuminating," Hannibal replies, teasingly. "May I ask in which other areas, or would you have to kill me if your secrets were revealed?"

He rolls his eyes and heaves an inflated sigh, the impudence from earlier returning, only with considerably more charm, this time. Hannibal lets the silence linger, grow faintly uncomfortable between them; a well-used technique. He's pleased when the man bites his bottom lip, shakes his head and yields; an enticing taste of events that may yet come. "I used to be in law enforcement, I still consult on...special cases, sometimes".

Hannibal stills at that, nerves thrumming with suddenly new possibilities. He thinks back to the tableau he had left behind that morning; the one that is responsible for this man's presence and disposition, the fresh peril he now reprasents. How curious the twists of fate that have brought them both here, together, in this moment. Meat may be back on the menu. To market, to market…Hannibal muses. The higher the risk, after all, the more delicious the reward.

"Fascinating work," Hannibal intones. He schools his features, maintains his cool exterior even while his pulse quickens delightfully. "You've been called upon to assist with the case of the politician who was killed, I presume?"

He nods, once, and his shoulders sag slightly.

"Nasty piece of work." Hannibal states, referring, of course, to the man rather than the scene in question. The tableau he'd assembled had been a work of art to reflect the hypocrisy of the subject: he'd removed his heart (a souvenir; now packed in ice in cooler in Hannibal's room), his genitalia (a step further than the chemical castration inflicted upon past converts), and delivered him in flames (to represent the fires of hell he'd used as a threat to those he deemed sinners) and on his knees to a statue of Jesus in what was, frankly, an act of mercy, so that he might seek forgiveness from his lord for his own misdeeds.

"You saw the pictures?"

"Indeed, it was quite the topic of conversation among delegates at the conference I attended earlier today." Hannibal responds with a small shrug. "You must be quite talented to be tasked with such a feat," He probes, intrigued by the new depths in this man that remain infuriatingly hidden to him; eager to expose them, carve them out and take them into himself, and yet…the idea of remaining so brazenly in plain sight is not without its appeal.

He doesn't answer that, just looks fleetingly at Hannibal, eyes dark, before correcting his posture and changing the subject. "I'm Will, by the way."

"Will," Hannibal repeats, his accent naturally drawing out the vowel sound as he takes a moment to consider his next move.

"I'm Han," he says after a moment, and offers his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

He - Will - lets out an amused huff of breath but returns the handshake, calloused fingers pressing pleasingly against Hannibal's palm. "Are you sure about that?"

"First impressions aside," Hannibal adds.

The jibe has the desired effect on Will, who reacts with a reluctant quirk of his lips, expression softening. "What kind of Doctor are you, anyway?"

"A very good one," Hannibal replies with a smirk.

Will waits for a real answer by continuing to look in his direction, if not quite at him, expectantly.

"I'm a psychiatrist."

"Fuck, I knew it." he says with a groan, smile fading as he turns away to drain the last of the bourbon from his glass. "Just don't psychoanalyze me. You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed."

"Duly noted," Hannibal says, evenly; reassuringly.

"Listen," Will says suddenly, turning in his seat to face Hannibal, visibly steeling himself with a breath. "I don't do this."

"And this is?"

"This." He gestures broadly with open palms. "Small talk, and...whatever else. I'm not very sociable."

Hannibal lifts his wine glass and lets the stem balance between his fingers as he regards the man in front of him. He keeps his expression impassive as he wonders how he'll taste, thoughts diverting, abruptly, to the idea of chasing the flavor of the bourbon on his tongue rather than sating his less conventional desires; craving consummation over consumption. He tilts his head and says, quietly, "One often meets their destiny on the path they seek to avoid."

"Is that another line, Doctor?" Will asks, voice dropping to match Hannibal's tone, the corner of his lips tugging upwards, threatening to betray his irascible facade. "Are you suggesting that you're my destiny?"

I could be, Hannibal doesn't say. He licks his lips instead, flagrantly flirtatious, and presses the wine glass to his mouth, lets it linger, enjoying the heat of hungry eyes there as much as the press of the cool glass, before taking a deep swallow.

The spark of attraction is evident; explicit, even. Will's tongue darts out to wet his own lips; his Adam's apple bobs deliciously in a mirror of Hannibal's actions.

Hannibal sets the glass down on the bar and leans forward slowly, allowing his knee to briefly brush against that of his new-found companion, to feel his heat and make his intentions - at least, to a certain extent - clear. "May I?" He asks and raises his hand, pushes Will's glasses up so that the frames serve their true purpose, outlining, rather than shielding, his eyes. "Not fond of eye contact, are you?"

"I find eyes distracting," Will blushes again, deeper this time, beautifully so; eyes shining with sudden vulnerability at odds with his previous posturing. "They reveal too much. I see more than I want to when I make eye contact."

See me, Will. Hannibal's blood thrums at the thought; catches his eye for a thrilling fraction of a second. I dare you.

"Well, if I cannot tempt you with pharmaceuticals, would you care to join me instead for another drink in my room?"

"Hmm," Will murmurs, levity returning to his tone, eyes fixed on Hannibal's mouth as his own lips curve downwards in a temporary, exaggerated frown, "I don't know. You could be a serial killer, for all I know."

"You would certainly seem qualified to make that call." Hannibal replies with a baiting smile, unable to contain his mirth. "Although it is quite an unpalatable thought."

"Well, my thoughts are often not tasty."

"Nor mine. No effective barriers. We see too much in our fields of work."

Will raises his eyes then, exhales a slow breath."Tell me about it."

"So," Hannibal stands smoothly, last of his wine abandoned as he pulls enough from his billfold to cover both tabs, and a generous tip, and leaves the money on the bar. "Have you arrived at a verdict?"

"I guess I could still use something for my headache," Will laughs, a little self consciously, and rubs a rough hand through the curls at the base of his skull.

Hannibal grins. "I believe I know just the thing."