Chapter Text
“It’s that guy again,” Beverly grumbled, scribbling the name of a customer onto a plastic coffee cup. “Please God go handle him. I don’t want Zeller to get a stick up his ass this early in the morning.”
It was six am early spring in New York City: tourist season--people were piling into the city all at once for a spring vacation. Will could spot the difference between the tourists and the natives based on their expression’s alone; New York City was cold as shit in March, the snow melted and magic of the holiday’s long gone, the wind whipping through the city, and the bagel shop was crowded with people desperate for coffee, breakfast, warmth and servers to bitch at.
Will got a look at the customer Beverly was eyeing; a well-dressed man with silver-blond hair, late-to-mid-thirties. He was dressed for the weather, immaculate black pea coat buttoned over a neatly pressed grey suit, a navy blue scarf tied elegantly around his neck.
Will rolled his eyes and shot her a look; you owe me. She gave him a playful shove towards the register, where he tried to tell Zeller to take a five.
“What? I've been here an hour." He protested defensively. Zeller didn't like Will, didn't like working with him and didn't like being bossed around by him. The register was a good position in the morning, but Zeller was better working on bar and he knew it.
“That customer,” he lowered his voice and nodded discreetly in towards the tall stranger. “is not how you want to start your second hour.”
"C'mon, Brian." Beverly barked, pulling bagels out of the small stove. "Don't give him shit, it's too early. Go on bar."
Zeller threw Will an indignant glare and left the register, shoving past Will to start the next order.
The man’s name was Hannibal--though Will feigned a lack familiarity with him around his coworkers when he could--showing too much familiarity with them had, in the past, led to several mishaps: Beverly tried constantly to set him up with customers he showed “too much” interest in. There was the psychiatrist, for example, that had come in a couple times in a row; long dark wavy hair and piercing blue eyes, as smart and scintillating as she was handsome. When Beverly had arranged the date, he'd been more than a little nervous, more than a little pleased. He'd met her in Central Park in the morning, the park alive with the colors of fall; orange and yellow leaves strewn about the grass, a soft breeze in the air--idyllic for a first date. She'd met him near 5th Avenue and 85th Street by the Met Museum, dressed in a simple black wrap around dress and blue chesterfield coat and black, practical boots that went up to her calves, a slightly taller women in a white quilted jacket and black dress pants, straight black hair halfway down her shoulders. It was her wife.
(Thanks, Bev.)
It was all fun and games most of the time, joking about the snippy redhead that came in early Wednesday and stayed late on Thursday, typing away violently on her computer, the short blonde a couple years older than Will with an easy smile and a baby named Walter, Beverly imagining what her husband was like and what sort of affair they’d have. But, as Will revealed his general inability to sustain anything non-platonic, Beverly had grown more aggressive, teasing him when his eye lingered too long on any customer, when he exchanged names with them or when regulars searched for him behind the counter with their eyes--it was becoming a work hazard.
“I’m not into guys.” He’d had to insist after being teased for speaking too long to a well-dressed regular named Frederick. Generally, he didn't mind he teasing about men--but it had gotten so frequent he was beginning to worry she would start setting up dates. “And even if I was, he’s an asshole.”
“How do you know if you’ve never tried?” she’d winked, jabbing him in the rib with her elbow.
But, anyway--back to Hannibal.
“Good morning, what can I get you?” Will asked, an easy smile on his face as he approached the register.
“Good morning,” Hannibal said, tugging the wool gloves from his hands, lips only just curved in a smile, eyes dimly lit with the sentiment. His accent was thick and elegant and equipped on another person he likely would have had difficulty wading through it, but Hannibal spoke deliberately, with such care that Will rarely had to strain to understand him. “Are you familiar with Tuan mac Cairill?”
"Wasn’t he...from In Celtic mythology?” Will asked, leaning against the counter and nodding Beverly to the second register as more customers poured in. Hannibal’s orders had a habit of taking more time than others--the man was nothing if not enigmatic, and deciphering them was, at this point, exclusively Will’s responsibility. Today, however, Will thought he might guess correctly on the first attempt. “'He is reputed to be a wise and hardy man,'" Will recounted one of the stories. He was a recluse from Irish mythology, known for his continued reincarnations, one of which-- "...you want lox?”
Hannibal’s smile grew palpable, eyebrows raising and chin tucking in acknowledgment of Will’s success.
“You are getting considerably better at this,” Hannibal remarked. Will felt silently pleased. “have you been studying?”
“For you? No, Hannibal,” Will laughed a little too quickly, Beverly looking smug in his peripheral--oh, well--great. “I uh, just got lucky on this one.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, he--he’d just happened to spend a few hours nosing through the relation of the history of the foods and meats on their menu, poking through Wikipedia pages and if he'd taken notes, well--it's not like it could hurt to be more familiar with the menu. It wasn’t...studying, really. Just research. “Tuan mac Cairill? It had to be salmon or stag, and uh,” he gestured at the menu, “we don’t serve that here. Are you going easy on me?” Will tore the receipt from the register and handed it to him, their eyes meeting and hands grazing as he hands it over, and Will rolling his eyes internally at the total corniness of the situation.
“Thank you, Will.”
“Anytime, Hannibal.”
He let Zeller take the register back a few customers later. Will wasn't necessarily bad at register but to say he was good wouldn't be quite accurate, either. Beverly bounced between bar and register, starting orders and nodding at Price and Will if the customers in line start to look too impatient behind the register.
Beverly handed him a warm cup of chai tea in accompaniment with the bagel.
“What’s that?” Will asked. "He...didn’t order a drink.”
“It’s on you.” she winked, “Now hurry, Zeller is giving you a dirty look.”
"On the house,” Will said, when Hannibal approached for the food. He passed Hannibal the steaming tea and warm lox bagel over the serving counter.
Hannibal looked pleasantly surprised, thanking him for a second time before bidding him goodbye. It’s only as he was walking away that Will saw the slip of paper tucked purposefully into the coffee cup sleeve. Shit.
He noticed it only a second before Hannibal did, his eyes shooting over to Beverly's, full of accusation while, outside the shop, Hannibal paused to read it. Beverly’s own gaze flickered back between the two of them, looking overly smug. Hannibal read the note, a look a of surprise on his face. He looked at Will over his shoulder, gave a small nod and then continued down the street.
“Beverly,” Will’s voice was flat, chastising. Beverly looked unaffected. “What was that?”
“Oh, did you not get a chance to read it?” Her reply was satisfied and sardonic, only mockingly surprised. “Guess you’ll have to wait for him to call to find out.”