[spins wheel] (NBC Hannibal)
“I don’t understand why my mechanic needs to have a degree,” Will grumbled.
“A license to fix cars in the state of Virginia is not a degree,” Jack said, reaching across Will to shut off the faucet. “Will you knock that off and look at me? You must have sung happy birthday in that head at least eight times by now.”
Will flicked water off her hands into the sink, avoiding Jack’s stare in the mirror. The worst thing about working for the only female bureau chief was that she could follow Will into the bathroom and harass Will for as long as she wanted, as there were no other women who worked on the floor and could thus be relied on to intervene. “We can agree it’s at least some kind of certification,” she said.
“It is embarrassing to the FBI to have a AAA employee involved in a failed apprehension due to their lady agent’s car breaking down a quarter-mile from the scene of a triple homicide!” Jack said, progressing along the way to a shout.
“Freddy’s going to do something appalling with that double-triple,” Will mumbled.
“Bully for fucking Freddy,” Jack said, still at shout-volume. “Alan’s mechanic friend is going to meet you in the parking garage at 5:05. Let her fix that thing, or I’ll have the impound lot guys crush it down so small it causes an anomaly in the Earth’s gravitational field.”
“If only,” Will muttered, wishing Jimmy hadn’t ruined her plan to switch over to the men’s bathroom.
***
At 5:07, Will entered the parking structure to find the owner of a tailored crimson jumpsuit bent down under the open hood of Will’s own car. Will watched the woman work for a moment, bewildered. “Um, hey,” she objected.
The jumpsuit owner straightened up and turned towards Will. After a beat, Will’s eyes tracked up to her face. The mechanic raised her eyebrows. Will briefly considered offering up evidence to contraindicate lesbianism, but decided it was beside the point with a woman who’d just had her hands inside Will’s 1997 Subaru Outback and was now wiping them on what appeared to be the flannel that had been flung over the back of Will’s passenger seat.
“Willa Graham, I assume?” the mechanic said, extending a still-filthy but well-manicured hand in Will’s direction.
“Just Will,” she corrected.
“Hannibal Lecter.” Hannibal took Will’s hand in a firm, warm grip that made Will feel like the greasy one. She hadn’t expected Alan’s mechanic friend to evoke Rosie the Riveter, with her hair pinned up and her biceps ever so slightly straining the arms of her jumpsuit. H. LECTER was embroidered in off-white above her left breast—not in bowling-league cursive, but something off a monogrammed napkin.
“Pretty sure I locked my car,” Will said.
“Did you?” Hannibal said evenly. She had a faint accent, vaguely European but unplaceable to Will. Her lipstick, Will noticed, was the precise color of her jumpsuit.
“Basically always,” Will said. Her eyes kept catching on Hannibal’s—the woman didn’t seem to have any pores, much less sunspots or blemishes for Will to focus on in lieu of looking at her.
“Basically covers a multitude of sins,” Hannibal murmured, releasing Will’s hand. “I’m pleased you can confirm this is indeed your car, though.”
“Whose did you think this was?” Will asked, skeptical. It was the only old as shit Subaru on the lot, and the paint job, or lack thereof, tended to stick out.
“Oh, I knew the vehicle was yours,” Hannibal said, turning back to eye the engine critically. “There was some manner of doubt as to whether it qualified as a car, however.”
“Fuck off,” Will said reflexively. “She drives, alright? I’ve already got Jack giving me shit about not being able to come screaming into crime scenes at ninety miles an hour and Alan forwarding me studies from 1978 on the importance of functioning seatbelts. It’s a fine car. Thad fixes her fine.”
Hannibal hummed in acknowledgment, flicking something under hood with her nail. “Is Thad the gentleman who melted all this duct tape into critical components?”
“Thad’s my neighbor, I clean his gutters in the fall.” After a beat: “The duct tape was me.”
“Ah,” Hannibal said, placid expression stretching into a smug grin. “In that case, my first piece of advice is free: never to do that again.”
“I’m sorry, am I paying you?” asked Will, who had been under the impression that this service was a favor, or else a work-related expense.
Hannibal’s face shifted; deep lines formed around her eyes. “One way or another.”