Chapter Text
Will stood idly behind the counter, top half leaned against it lazily. His posture seemed more slouched than straight up. The scuffed glass in front of him was covered in faded alcohol promos and half-peeled cigarette ads. They blocked a portion of his view of the store, but he didn’t really mind. It actually made dealing with customers easier. Hed just stare at the back of a crumpled lotto ticket ad instead of someone’s face. No eye contact, no forced smiles. No face, no problem.
His job wasn't the greatest one out there, but it wasn't terrible either. He was as content with it as he could be.
Dealing with customers was never easy, but it definitely wasn't the worst part of his job. Will caught on to the usual pace of the interactions quickly, sifting through them with ease. Not much conversation sparks when waiting in line, but when it does, he ignores it until he can't anymore. Whenever someone seemed particularly chatty, he'd just nod along as let out a short huff of a laugh, falsely engaged in the topic they were blabbing about.
The worst part of his job had to be the "regulars." Those who walked into the store acting like they owned the place, expecting some kind of praise and recognition every time they came in. Will hated it. He hated when they tried to converse with him. Conversations with a wall that cosisted of forced smiles, one ended questions, the assumption they had somehow earned his attention purely because they're always there.
He wanted no part in it. It interfered with his routine. It's impossible to scan items and have irritating small talk at the same time. People didn't seem to understand that, and he believes they never will. They'd stand there babbling on about the weather or their weekend plans while he silently begged the receipt printer to go faster. He wasn’t being paid to entertain them, just to ring up their stupid buzz balls and off-brand candy bars and make sure they didn’t steal anything.
When he wasn't dealing with old pricks, air-headed regulars, or prissy highschool kids or prissy high school kids who thought the “party” part of the store meant they could giggle and gossip right next to the alcohol, he retreated to the spare storage closet near the back.
He’d cleared it out a few months back. He carefully swept up the broken glass and mopped all the msyerious sticky stains off the floor and made it into his retreat. His safe space to get away from all the buzz and exhaustion of his job. In the far corner sat a stool, a crowded desk, and a tackle box filled with tools, feather, and thread. It was peaceful in there. He could work on his fishing lures uninterrupted, pretending the sound of the fridge units was the sound of running water down a stream.
He absentmindedly picked at the skin near his fingernails, blue eyes boring into the small candy isle out to the right. He wanted to pick something up for after his shift. He isn't particularly fond of sweets, but after sitting and doing next to nothing all day, it seems like a good time to treat himself.
It was ten minutes before close when Will started wiping down the counter, slow and methodical. He focused especially on the side opposite him. The spot every customer leaned on, touched, breathed over. He didn’t consider himself a germaphobe exactly, but the thought of all those hands, all that skin and sweat and breath gathering in one place... it made him sick. He liked cleaning. It gave him something to do with his hands, something quiet to focus on while the minutes ticked down.
He was halfway through disinfecting the card reader when the door chimed. Three minutes left. His stomach sank. The sound was too familiar, too distinct in the stillness of the near-empty store. Will didn’t have to look up to know who it was—no one else came in this close to closing. Not unless they wanted to be a problem.
And Hannibal Lecter always wanted to be a problem.
Will kept his eyes on the counter, gave the surface one last slow wipe as footsteps echoed softly across the floor. Polished shoes, unhurried steps. Like the man had all the time in the world. Will didn’t have to see him to picture it: the long coat, the perfectly centered tie, the faint scent of something expensive and sharp cutting through the stale air of corn chips and gasoline.
“Good evening,” came that familiar voice, smooth, deliberate, and lannoyingly pleasant. Hannibal always greeted him like they were old friends, like this was a weekly ritual they both secretly enjoyed. Will didn’t respond. He rarely did. That didn’t seem to bother Hannibal.
There was a pause, followed by the faint rustle of paper as he picked up a bag of rubber bands or some other useless item no one needed at 11:57 PM on a Tuesday. Will didn’t look up. He could feel Hannibal watching him. He knows he always does, but he kept his focus on organizing the counter, pretending the presence behind the glass wasn’t crawling under his skin like it lived there.
The clock above the door clicked by ever slowly, the seconds Will could be used tidying up were wasted on thinking about getting Hannibal out. It's 11:58 now and Hannibal is walking up and down the aisles peeking at different luxury liquors and whiskeys like he's actually going to buy one. Why would anyone buy nice whiskey from a party store?
Two minutes. Just two more minutes, and then he could lock the door, grab his candy, and act like he didn't see Hannibal driving away eyeing him through his rearview mirror.
"Ahem... We close in—" Will glanced down to check his watch, praying it was closer to midnight than it felt.
"Oh, I'm aware. I’ll be out soon." Hannibal cut him off without missing a beat, like he’d been waiting for the exact second to do it. His boldness always got on Will’s nerves. It was the that way he spoke with that calm, smug certainty, like the world bent around his timing. It made his blood boil.
Will sighed, dragging a firm hand through his hair, fingers catching slightly on the knots forming from a long, dead-end shift. He didn’t bother replying. There was no point. Hannibal always said the same thing, always showed up right before closing, always took his time like it was his name on the lease.
He knew all too well that Hannibal would stay past closing. It had become routine. Once the late-night visits started happening more regularly, Hannibal seemed to latch onto the idea that Will didn’t have the nerve to actually kick him out. He’d waltz in just before the doors were meant to lock, always with that quiet smugness, fully aware he was pushing boundaries. And sure, he could tell Will was irritated, anyone could, but since Will never said anything outright, Hannibal just kept doing it. Kept lingering. Overstaying his welcome. He began staying later and later each time, like he was testing how far he could go.
Will watched him out of the corner of his eye as he drifted down aisle two, where the gift bags and streamers were. He moved like he was in an art gallery, not a dingy party store that smelled faintly of motor oil and sour sugar. Will didn’t know what bothered him more: the late-night shifts or the way Hannibal treated the store like it was his, as if Will was the one of the other side of the glass.
He tapped his fingers on the countertop, jaw clenched in irritation. Just have to make it through the last two minutes, pray he actually pays attention to the time, and lock those doors for the night. Unless, of course, Hannibal decided he had questions. And he always had questions.
Questions about plastic knives, about paper plates, about novelty candles shaped like farm animals—things no sane adult should be this curious about. Will wasn’t sure if Hannibal was actually interested or if he just liked the sound of his own voice echoing through the near-empty building. Either way, Will had stopped answering most of them.
He heard the soft creak of the steel shelving unitsand the click of Hannibal’s shoes as he wandered back toward the register, something small and useless in hand. Will didn’t look up right away. He could feel the man’s presence, standing too close, probably wearing that unreadable expression that somehow made Will feel both studied and dismissed at the same time.
“I believe this will do,” Hannibal said, placing a package of gold ribbon and those rubber bands from a few moments ago on the counter like it was rare treasure.
Will scanned it without a word, punched in the total, and held out his hand for the cash. No chit-chat. No eye contact. Not this time.
“Receipt?” he asked flatly.
“No, thank you.”
The drawer snapped shut. Will nodded once, barely.
“Have a good night,” Hannibal offered as he turned to leave, tone infuriatingly genuine.
Will didn’t respond. Just watched the door swing shut behind him, the little chime ringing like a final insult.
He locked up thirty seconds later, flipped the lights off, and stepped out into the cold night with tired eyes and the faintest headache forming just behind them. Same thing tomorrow, he thought grimly, fishing the pack of taffy he just stole from out of his pocket.
Same time. Same man. Same damn routine.
It's 12:15.