Tête de Veau (Boiled Calf's Head)

October 22nd | 12:00 PM

"They should be all finished by about 3 o'clock, Mr. Graham. Would you like us to give you a call?"

Will felt around in his jacket to make sure he'd remembered his phone. "Yes," he nodded, "that would be my preference. Thank you."

"Of course," the administrative assistant replied, smile gentle but fatigued. "We'll see you soon, then!"

Will nodded at her before turning and heading to the door, trying not to feel trapped by the looming stock photography of happy animals and grinning families that stared at him as he walked out. Three of his dogs had gotten into god knows what in the trash overnight, and it left him with a profound sense of financial doom looming over him as he walked to his car.

He paused, leaning against the car's hood and soaking up the cold sunlight as he pulled out his phone. He had time to kill and money to make, so he opened up the app, looking for any outstanding orders for him to pick up.

The alert appeared almost instantly, and Will felt that cold sensation behind his navel reappear. If Minhua hadn't told him that Lecter was an idiot with technology, Will might've worried that his phone had been hacked—because there were those damn initials again, tempting him to open up the order. Will heard a bark from somewhere in the building behind him.

It was a long list of produce, spices, mayonnaise and red wine vinegar. Most of the list appeared to be populated by things that a chef as apparently prolific as the doctor would absolutely already have on hand. And yet there it all was, laid out before him in plain invitation. Will made a mental map of how close he was to Aneto, frowning as he did the math on how much gas it would take to get there, to the doctor's house, and back again. He scrolled to the bottom of the page to see the tip, not sure that the previous amount, though generous, would make it worthwhile.

"Damn."

The number was bright orange against the white background. Four. Hundred. Dollars. Will felt his eyes swell and his breathing go shallow for a moment. There were two options: this man was clinically insane, or he'd made a mistake and offered a far bigger tip than he'd meant to.

If it was the latter, Will needed to say something about it, to warn the doctor to be more careful next time, and it wasn't as though he could just show up outside the man's house to tell him as much. Will hadn't bothered to re-read the company policy after his chat with Minhua, but he didn't need to to know that showing up unannounced and unbidden at a customer's residence would not be tolerated. The only way he'd be able to deal with it would be to accept the order. If he was right, and it was an honest mistake, he could negotiate a refund with the company—and if it turned out that Hannibal was utterly batshit, Will could tell the man to fuck off and report him as soon as he got back into his car. Simple. This would be the last time he would see Dr. Lecter either way.

2:15 PM

Will was, despite having put absolutely no effort into it, about to arrive at exactly the quoted time. The realization made him grimace as he pulled the groceries out of his hatchback and began the short walk to Dr. Lecter's front door. There were no vehicles parked outside today—unsurprising, given the time. Will presumed that this meant the doctor was home alone, and that seemed like yet another vibrant red flag.

The doctor was not waiting at the door today. Will knocked several times, some part of him expected Lecter to swing open the door immediately, having been lurking just behind it, but it remained shut for what felt like an eternity. There were far more groceries than had been in previous orders today, and Will's hands were starting to ache. He was dangerously close to setting the bags down on the porch when the door finally opened.

"Will!" Hannibal exclaimed in a somewhat breathless voice. His hair was mussed and he wasn't wearing a suit, dressed instead in a simple white button-up with rolled sleeves and a pair of dark trousers. Seeing the man dressed down when he was usually so strangely formal caught Will off guard. His grasp on the bags faltered and he found himself fumbling not to drop the doctor's ingredients.

"Oh, please, allow me," Hannibal stepped forward, reaching out to grab the bags from between Will's fingers. Their hands touched, and Will barely managed not to jolt away, shocked by how warm and soft the other man's skin felt against his own. The doctor seemed to have the hands of an artist; Will had the hands of a mechanic.

"I'm so sorry for my tardiness," Hannibal apologized, easily pulling all of the grocery bags against his body and then turning to set them down on the floor just behind him. "I'm afraid I was caught up in my work."

"You're… with a client?" Will asked, unable to hide the irritation in his voice. "I can't imagine I'd be pleased if my therapist left in the middle of a session to pick up his groceries."

Hannibal blinked several times before a slow, entertained smile appeared across his aging face. "Do you have a therapist, Will?"

"No," Will flinched, "I don't."

"You may want to consider finding one," Hannibal continued, eyes twinkling, leaning in as if he were sharing some salacious piece of gossip. "Some people may think it concerning for a delivery driver to be Googling his customers."

Will felt his entire body seize up, suddenly certain that every ounce of his blood had been swapped out with some horrible, ice cold poison. He could feel his face growing pale as the world started to spin behind him.

"I—I don't—"

"It's fine, Will," Hannibal continued to smirk, straightening back out and tucking a hand into one of his pockets. Will glanced down to see if there was anything else protruding from his pockets, remembering his original mission and his very genuine concern that he might be dealing with some kind of honest-to-god psychopath. "I'm only joking. It's perfectly normal to want to know more about the people we work with. Sometimes we get lucky and find something interesting."

"I didn't," Will blurted out. "I didn't find anything that interesting."

"No?" Hannibal asked, smirk softening slightly. "Is that why you refused my last order?"

"No," Will snarked. "I was busy."

Lecter crossed his hands behind his back. "You smell like three-day-old rotisserie chicken and gas station shaving cream, Will. I doubt that you were busy."

Will blanched, panic flaring up inside of his chest as he tried to figure out how, exactly, the doctor could know something like that.

"I'm grateful you were able to help this time. I am not with a client—I think you'll find that there are many pursuits with which I like to occupy myself."

"I don't intend to find anything, Dr. Lecter," Will sighed, leaning back and hunching his shoulders. "I'm only here to ask how much you meant to tip me so that I can send in a correction for you."

"I meant to tip you $400.00. Did I make a mistake? I'm happy to correct it—"

Will froze, staring at the other man for a moment. Suspicions confirmed, then. He started to walk backwards toward the step. "I can't accept that, Dr. Lecter. It's completely inappropriate."

"Inappropriate?" Hannibal offered another innocent blink. "But you didn't complain about my previous tips, did you?"

"Your previous tips were reasonable percentages, doctor. I deserve $40 for this at most. I'm going to call in and get them to return your money—and in the meantime, Dr. Lecter," Will hovered over the first step, feeling himself start to shake with anger and discomfort, "I would ask that you stop requesting my services."

"You also smell like medical supplies and anxious dogs. Your pets need you, don't they? Just take it, Will. There's no strings attached."

"Aren't there?" Will scoffed, heart doing a somersault in his chest as he turned and walked down the front steps.

"None," Lecter assured him in a voice so earnest he almost sounded affronted. "I believe that offering a fair tip is the only respectable thing to do when paying others for their services. It would be rude not to. Your services are exemplary, and so I have offered you an honest reflection of my appreciation."

"I'm sure you say that to all the delivery people," Will snapped, his volume suddenly increasing. Good review be damned—this man was a lunatic, and Will wanted to make it abundantly clear that he wasn't interested in making time for lunatics. "I go to stores and pick things up off of shelves. It's not brain surgery."

"Funny you should mention brains," Hannibal replied, a placid expression overtaking his features. "I'm making a special delicacy for my guests this evening, using a very naughty little calf's head."

"So you pick apart peoples' brains by day and eat animals' brains by night," Will spat, turning to face the doctor from the bottom of the steps. "You're in a rut. Lacking inspiration."

Hannibal looked offended by this, lifting a hand to smooth some of his hair off of his face. "I have been accused of many things, Will, but never of being uninspired. I make an effort to serve my guests a wide variety of dishes from around the world. What is the point in dining if we are not doing so with a willingness to taste every flavour available to us? For what purpose were we gifted our tongues if not to lap at each of God's luxuries?"

Will clenched his jaw, eyelids sagging to show how completely unimpressed he was. "I wouldn't know. I'm perfectly happy to go home to my meatloaf."

At that, Hannibal looked truly horror-stricken.

"Don't contact me again, Dr. Lecter. I'll report you on the app," Will instructed before turning again, taking long, confident strides away from the house.

"You're denying yourself something, Will," Hannibal called after him, raising his voice as a car splashed by on the street.

"You're right!" Will called back as he opened his driver's side door. "I'm denying myself my right to punch you in the face!"

Will couldn't tell from this distance whether the doctor was unperturbed or masking his rage.

"I hope your dogs feel better soon, Will," Hannibal called, and then Will could see in his side mirror that the doctor was turning on his heels and heading back into the house.

Will slammed the car door shut. He wasn't entirely sure why he felt so sick to his stomach, but he did know that the dogs would be done soon. Their vet bill would be significantly less of a concern now, and then the money would be gone, and so would his last tie to the insufferable H.L. If he got lucky, the doctor wouldn't report him, and he'd be able to get back to delivering shitty groceries to faceless strangers.