Meat Cute
Will despises public transportation almost as much as he fears it. The noise, the smell, the prickle of thoughtsfeelingsideas taking up what little space their sources haven’t already. It doesn’t help that the predominant emotion in a crowded bus tends to be irritation. Will can’t tell if he’s truly irritable or just soaking in it, which only serves to irritate him further.
Will’s alarm hadn’t woken him the first time it had gone off, as he was still exhausted from his night terrors, and then Winston had decided to join him in the shower. He’d had to towel him off so that he wouldn’t get frost bite during their morning walk, during which Buster had made a break for it. Will had had to hunt him down through a bramble patch and pick out all the thorns from his wiry coat, pricking his fingers raw in the process. To make matters even worse, his car wouldn’t start, and Will was too late and too socially inept to ask his neighbors for a jump start.
So now he’s packed into a bus like a sardine and doing his level best to look as misanthropic as possible. It isn’t very difficult.
The floor lurches tremendously under his feet, and Will yelps as he falls back into some unfortunate’s lap. Hands clad in soft leather gloves come up to steady him even as he scrambles to pull away, causing him to overbalance once more. His glasses slip off his face and clatter underneath the seat. Will whines pitifully before he can stop himself. He’s taking far too much after his pack.
“Oh, god, I am so sorry,” he babbles as the stranger helps him up. Will kneels to retrieve his glasses and their eyes catch in the process. Will freezes, bracing himself, but all he sees in the man’s maroon irises is his own reflection. He shields incredibly well. In this chaotic environment, it’s comforting, like sinking into a warm bath.
“My pleasure,” he responds, amusement in his tone but not his gaze. Will stares, fascinated.
The passenger sitting beside them mumbles something unsavory. Will tears his eyes away and stands, flushing. The man sends them a single sharp glance, cowing them into submission, and extends a hand.
“Hannibal Lecter. And you are?”
Will smiles nervously, reflexively, eyes glued to Hannibal’s fine leather glove. “Will Graham.”