Chapter Text
Part I: Hannibal Lecter vs. Dollar Tree: A Tragedy in Several Acts
It was, perhaps, the lowest point of his existence.
Dr Hannibal Lecter stood in the fluorescent-lit aisles of Dollar Tree, his polished shoes nearly sticking to the questionably cleaned linoleum floor, his gaze flicking over the sheer horror of what surrounded him. The shelves, precarious and overstuffed, boasted an assault of neon-colored packaging, their labels shouting in bold, enthusiastic fonts that suggested he was getting an unbeatable deal! There were canned goods with dubious expiration dates, plastic cutlery that looked as though it would snap under the weight of a single olive, and an entire aisle dedicated to what could barely be called candy.
He did not belong here.
And yet, here he was.
Clarice had made sure of that.
She was somewhere in the store, tossing items into a green plastic basket with an ease that suggested she did this often. He had lost track of her somewhere between the discount greeting cards and a display of what was labeled fine home décor—which was, in fact, a collection of plastic angel figurines and picture frames that might dissolve if exposed to direct sunlight for too long.
With an exaggerated exhale and an unnecessary adjustment of his cuffs, he turned a corner, pausing to glance at a bin filled with what appeared to be off-brand gummy worms. His brow arched. “Tangy Snakz”? God had long since abandoned this place.
Before he could lament further, Clarice appeared at his side, holding up a pack of paper napkins as if presenting something of great value. “Look at these,” she said, wiggling them for emphasis. “One dollar. You know how much you paid for those fancy-ass ones last week?”
Hannibal barely turned his head. “Clarice—”
“Twenty-eight dollars.”
His expression did not change. “They were embossed.”
She rolled her eyes, tossing the napkins into her basket. “Oh yeah, real life-changing experience, wiping your mouth on a tiny gold fleur-de-lis.”
He sighed, glancing down at her basket. “Do you need anything in there?”
“Nope.” She grinned, all teeth.
Hannibal pinched the bridge of his nose.
Delighting in his suffering, she reached into the basket and held up a can. “Okay, but seriously, how do we feel about Dollar Tree caviar?”
Hannibal turned to her, so very slowly. “I’d rather die.”
Clarice threw her head back and laughed, bright and unbothered, before placing the can back onto the shelf.
Shaking his head with resignation, he glanced over at the checkout area, where an elderly cashier stood with the expression of someone who had seen things.
“I’m leaving,” he announced.
Clarice barely looked up from the rack of $1 sunglasses she was rifling through. “No, you’re not.”
And, much to his eternal shame, she was right. Hannibal suppressed the deep, bone-weary sigh threatening to escape as he maneuvered through the cramped aisles of this establishment, his steps slow, calculated—like a man carefully avoiding landmines.
The smell was… impossible to ignore. A curious blend of synthetic lemon cleaner, expired chocolate, and something he could only describe as plastic trying to be food. It clung to the air like an omen, thick and artificial, seeping into the very fabric of his clothing, his pores.
Clarice, meanwhile, seemed unaffected. She had wandered into the kitchenware section, turning a plastic spatula over in her hands as if it required careful consideration.
Hannibal came to a stop beside her, glancing at the garish collection of flimsy utensils. “I assume you have lost your ability to reason.”
Flipping the spatula like a knife, she pondered, “You never know when you’ll need a backup.”
Hannibal rubbed his temple. “If your primary cooking instrument fails, I assure you, this—” he gestured at the sad, wilting spatula, “—will not be its worthy successor.”
She hummed, unconvinced, and put it in the basket anyway.
Hannibal muttered something in Italian. Before he could fully recover, his gaze flickered to a nearby display labeled "Gourmet Selections," and his entire being recoiled. He took an involuntary step back. “Clarice.”
She turned, barely containing her laughter at the look on his face. “What?”
He lifted a single, trembling finger to the offending shelf. A box of Dollar Tree escargot.
“Oh my God,” she squinted at the container.
Hannibal remained utterly still, staring at the box as though it might move if he let his guard down. “This is undoubtedly far worse than any crime I have ever committed.”
A short, sharp laugh escaped her, the kind that meant she was about to start trouble. “Really? Worse than anything? ”
He did not waver. “Anything.”
She picked up the box, turning it over in her hands like she was considering it. “Worse than… I dunno… licking my steering wheel?”
He stilled.
Clarice’s grin stretched slow and wide.
“I should never have told you that,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
“I forgot about it until right now.” She had to grip the edge of the shelf to steady herself. “What was the reason??”
Hannibal inhaled sharply, lifting his chin. “ It was one time—”
“It was unhinged—”
“—and I was curious—”
“—and it was nasty—”
“It was not nasty—”
“It was the worst thing you’ve ever done—”
“I strongly disagree—”
Delighted beyond words, Clarice picked up the package and turned it over in her hands. “You have to admit, you’re a little curious.”
“I have never been less curious about anything in my life.”
“Alright, alright,” she said, placing the box back onto the shelf with the flick of a finger. “But what if—”
“No.”
“Not even if—”
“No.”
She nudged his arm. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“Clarice, I am begging you to collect your items so we may leave before I lose my last shred of dignity.”
Entirely unbothered, she held up a bottle of mystery-brand wine. “Oh, come on. Tell me you wouldn’t love to pair this with dinner.”
Reluctantly, he took the bottle from her hands, scrutinizing the label with the disgust of a man who had been personally offended.
He read aloud, voice flat. “Aged for several weeks…”
Clarice howled as Hannibal put the bottle down immediately, brushing imaginary filth from his fingers.
“I am leaving,” he announced again, already turning toward the door.
Grabbing him by his sleeve, cackling, “No, you’re paying.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. Then, slowly, slowly, he turned to her, expression unreadable. “Pardon?”
“You’re the sugar daddy here, babe.” She grinned up at him, smug and unrepentant.
Hannibal closed his eyes. Counted to three. Then, with the solemnity of a man accepting his fate, he plucked the basket from her hands and strode toward the checkout. Clarice followed at a leisurely pace, arms crossed, deeply entertained.
“See? You love it here.”
He did not dignify that with a response.
Somewhere behind them, a child shrieked at a frequency only dogs should have been able to hear.
Clarice, of course, was thriving. She leaned against the counter, watching him with poorly concealed amusement as he set the basket down, his fingers delicately removing each item, as though unwilling to touch them longer than absolutely necessary.
The elderly cashier gave him a tired glance and started ringing up their items, her movements slow, methodical, as if she had long since given up on the idea of urgency.
Hannibal was already deeply regretting his decision to comply with Clarice’s demands, and his patience—legendary as it was—was wearing dangerously thin. And then, the woman scanned the bottle of mystery-brand wine.
It beeped.
She frowned.
She scanned it again.
Another beep.
Then, shaking her head, she muttered, "Oh, you don't want this one."
"Pardon?" Hannibal blinked in bewilderment.
Clarice straightened, thrilled at this development. "Why not?"
The woman sighed, leaning forward as though sharing a terrible secret. "A man came in here last week, bought three bottles. I swear to God, he came back the next day, said he was seeing demons in his microwave."
Face screwed up in pure joy, Clarice gripped Hannibal’s forearm as he turned to her, unimpressed. "And yet," he said dryly, "this was nearly served with dinner."
"God, I love this place," she wiped a tear from her eye.
Scanning the next item—a pack of glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth—the cashier gave them a look and asked, "Y’all got kids?"
"Nope," Clarice answered, popping the ‘p’ with delight. "These are for me."
The woman stared at her for a long moment. Then, resigned, she just nodded. "Alright, then."
Hannibal closed his eyes, actively dissociating.
By the time the cashier finished scanning the rest of the questionable purchases, Hannibal had never retrieved his wallet faster in his life. He handed over a crisp bill, but before she could make change, Clarice suddenly gasped.
"Oh my God," she whispered dramatically. "We forgot something."
Hannibal stilled.
Then, slowly, slowly, he turned his head, his expression blank with carefully restrained murder. "Clarice."
She grinned, unfazed. "We need a lighter. And some candy. Oh, and one of those tiny spray bottles."
Hannibal inhaled through his nose. " Do you wish to die in a Dollar Tree? "
With zero hesitation, she shot finger guns at him and said, "Wouldn't be my first choice, but I could make it work."
The cashier, with the absolute exhaustion of a woman who had been standing at this register for thirty years, just handed Hannibal his receipt and muttered, "Y'all have a good night now."
Hannibal, without another word, grabbed the bags, grabbed Clarice, and left.
The Dollar Tree doors swung shut behind them, releasing them from their fluorescent captivity and into the relative sanity of the outside world. The parking lot was dimly lit, a few flickering lamps illuminating the cracked pavement. It smelled like hot asphalt, stale fast food, and the faint chemical tang of whatever had just been mopped onto the store’s grimy tile floors.
Hannibal exhaled, as though he were shedding the experience from his very being. He walked to the car, placing the plastic bags inside with the care of a man handling radioactive material. The thin, crinkling plastic felt offensive in his hands. A single glance down revealed the silhouette of the mystery-brand wine against the crumpled receipt, a reminder of the unholy transaction that had just taken place.
Clarice, meanwhile, was still riding the high of his suffering as she threw herself into the passenger seat, the door slamming shut as she all but vibrated with delight. "Man, that was fun."
Hannibal shut the door with a decisive click, standing there for a moment, staring into the abyss of his own choices. His jaw tightened. His fingers flexed at his sides. Then, after a pause, he simply said, "I need to bathe."
Clarice lost it, her laughter echoing through the parking lot, head tipping back against the seat as she clutched her stomach. "Oh my God," she gasped between wheezes. "You sound like you just walked through a battlefield."
Hannibal rounded the car with great dignity, ignoring her.
She wiped at her eyes, still giggling as he opened the driver’s side door and slid inside with the quiet restraint of a man attempting to regain his honor. Clarice, barely composed, turned to him with a shit-eating grin. "You’re gonna scrub yourself like Lady Macbeth, aren’t you?"
Hannibal closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and gripped the steering wheel with both hands. "I will be sanitizing this entire experience from my mind."
"You went to war and lost."
He glanced at her, unamused. "I was dragged into war."
"No," she shot back, smug. "You were escorted into war by your sugar baby, and now you have to deal with it."
Hannibal sighed and started the car. As he pulled out of the lot, Clarice reached into one of the bags, crinkling the plastic as she fished around. A second later, she held up the glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth and shoved them into her mouth, turned toward him, and grinned like a lunatic.
Without looking at her, reached over and slowly rolled down her window.
Clarice sputtered through the plastic teeth as the night air hit her. "What the fuck, babe?!”
Hannibal kept his eyes on the road. "You must air out before we arrive home."
Clarice screamed laughing, grabbing at his sleeve as she tried to roll the window back up. "YOU CAN’T JUST AIR ME OUT LIKE BAD PRODUCE—"
Hannibal smirked. "And yet.”