It had been several years since Hannibal had tortured and killed animals. After his taste for humans had developed the very notion had seemed childish and futile, but the black cat which had been rummaging in his garbage had met a swift finale at the end of his harpy.

He was unsure as to whether the bones needed to be cleaned, but he carefully removed all attached ligaments and bloodstains and tied them neatly together with a length of the cat's skin. He placed it next to a small cloth sachet, filled with dirt scraped from the crevasses of a buried coffin, in a small hand-carved wooden box.

He had brought a new shovel for the task, and hung his jacket on a coat-hanger in his car before rolling up his sleeves and turning to the area of ground he was to upturn.

Although Hannibal had never done anything such as this, and thus had no expectations as to what would happen, the casualness the event still caught him slightly off guard.

There were no cracks of lightning, pillars of fire or blood bubbling up from the earth. Hannibal appreciated the subtle dignity of the being who simply appeared in the world, without fanfare or bravado.

"Well, if that ain't the neatest summoning I've seen in a long while."

Hannibal bowed his head slightly at the man in the finely tailored suit and red eldredge knotted tie. He was holding the box Hannibal had just buried, and removed from it a tiny vial of scrapped incense, uncorking the tube and giving it a sniff.

"Marvellous. But this," the man replaced the glass and picked out the small sketched self-portrait, "this is beautiful." He flicked it around to show Hannibal. The streetlight overhead reflected off the flat charcoal sketch, making it appear as though he had stuck beads of red glass to the parchment.

It sent a shiver down the doctor's spine.

"You have such exquisite eyes, Doctor Lecter." The creature brought his gaze to Hannibal's, a red spreading through them from the corners, as if all his vessels had burst and the sockets were filling with blood. "I'm almost jealous."

"As you are aware of my name," Hannibal spoke, unfazed, "it seems only courteous that I have yours."

The box snapped shut, the sketch replaced inside. "My apologies," he drawled, "My name is Crowley," he bowed slightly, "and I'll be your crossroads demon for this evening."

Hannibal nodded, "A pleasure."

Crowley smirked, "That remains to be seen." The box in his hands disappeared, but with no flash of fire or smoke, just an elegant blink from existence. "Do you want to get straight down to business, or would you like some foreplay?"

A thin smile spread across his face. "While I am usually an advocate of delayed gratification, perhaps a degree of haste would be more efficient."

"Well, that's your loss, mate." Crowley put his hands in his pant pockets and strolled a little closer. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"I have only recently become aware of the supernatural world and I would like some information."

"Ah, yes," Crowley rocked back and gestured up and down Hannibal. "About your condition."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed, but he kept his composure.

"You are aware then?"

"Yeah, I could smell it from two circles down. Although, I gotta say, I've very impressed at how you're managing it. Keeping hold of your control with both hands," He brought his fists out of his pockets to demonstrate the motion, "so very human of you."

The doctor blinked at the description. To be faced by such an otherworldly creature, albeit one with a British accent, and called a 'human' was startling. Although he had only recently started to entertain the prospect that he may be a supernatural creature, he had always felt he was, somehow, above the banality of humanity.

No man would call him 'human', and it humbled Hannibal slightly to accept the label.

"Was I ever human?" he asked lowly, folding his hands together and trying not to show the importance of the question.

Crowley smiled, not unkindly, but certainly without sympathy. "Yes. One starts off as a human but transforms through... a specialized diet." His smile grew sharper. "What's that like, anyhow?"

"It's not without its charm."

Crowley shuddered slightly in a strange suppressed glee, admiration and curiosity shining from dark eyes, which were surprisingly expressive for a demonic creature.

"I don't think you'll be able to say the same 'bout being a Wendigo."

Hannibal nodded once, frowning. He hesitated to speak for a moment, something which disturbed him as he rarely hesitated in anything he did.

"A Wendigo," the doctor started, "what are they like?"

"They say they have human intelligence," the demon shrugged, "we usually 'ave games, make bets with them; How long will the humans last, sometimes pitting two Wendigo's to hunt each other, things like that. They're smart, and tactical, but they don't have the capacity to think of anything other than food. 'Spose it seems like a boring life, but it works for them. They can't perceive anything different anyway."

Crowley's eyes ran over Hannibal. "How far along are you, mate? If you don't mind my asking?"

The doctor took a breath, his nostrils flaring in disgust at the prospect of turning into something like the man had described.

"It has begun interfering with my work." He admitted, keeping the exasperation from his voice, "I cannot complete a surgery without wanting to devour the man on the table." He looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers, "I can smell them on my hands, and when the sun goes down I want to gnaw on my own flesh just to taste their blood."

He looked up, clenching his fists to stop the minute tremor before the other could notice it. "It is not dignified."

"No," Crowley concluded, his eyes dark and flashing, "It's many things, but not that."

"Do you have the ability to halt this decent?"

Crowley took a moment to think. "I can halt the transformation, remove the influence of the Wendigo from our psyche, but physically you'll still be partially Wendigo. Can't undo the damage that's been done, but some'ow I don't think you'll mind the strength and sense of smell."

Hannibal tinted his head in contemplation. "If you make an attempt to cure my mind, and it fails, would it cause any brain damage?"

"No chance." He took a step towards Hannibal, "You're far to interesting to risk compromising."

"And what would you require in return? My soul?"

Crowley laughed and turned to walk a distance from Hannibal, looking up at the stars, "You being a captive of hell, would be like Paul Cézanne sitting in a junior-high art class. You'll come to us eventually, but as an honoured guest, not a contract"

He looked back around, "In several years someone will come to you, someone whose mind will be very valuable." He gestured vaguely with one hand, "you just need to... look after him for us."

"How so?"

Crowley smiled. "Keep him alive for us." he flashed sharp teeth, "You can do whatever else you want with him, but just keep him alive."

"And who is the man?"

"Oh, you'll know him when he comes."

Hannibal frowned at the vague task. This was not at all what he thought a deal with the devil would entail.

Crowley stepped back towards Hannibal to a proximity he hadn't quite ventured into before. It caused Hannibal to give a reflective sniff, trying to see beyond his lack of fear and determine whether there was danger in the air.

He was surprised to find that the demon Crowley didn't smell like anything in particular, with no detectable ash or brimstone like he would have predicted. A hint of rain and scotch, perhaps, but he lacked any of the natural human scents. No oils in the hair, or sweat on the skin, no soap on his clothes.

"Look, Wendigo aside, you're probably the least human, human I've met, so I like you. I'm not gonna screw you around like I normally would with a rookie. We got a deal?"

The good doctor took a moment to assess the other being before he offered his hand. "We have an accord, Mr. Crowley."

The demon smirked, "'Have to seal it with a kiss, love. It's the rules."

Hannibal quirked a smile and nodded once. "If the rules insist, then we must follow them."

Crowley tasted as he smelt, but the heat of his mouth was warmer than Hannibal would have thought, and the scruff was not unpleasant.

He felt his mind go black for a moment, and an alien sense of fear jumped through him at the alien sensation, but when the moment passed he could feel clarity within his mind. Something which had been pressing baser instincts had been reigned back, allowing the natural impulses of his nature to simmer rather than boil over.

However, to reaffirm who he was as a human, and not a supernatural half-breed, he observed the tongue that had snaked its way into his mouth and bit down. Hard.

Crowley jumped back, and parted with a chunk of his flesh which remained in Hannibal's mouth.

There was that surfer taste he had been expecting. He licked the blood from around his mouth and chewed languidly on what he had claimed.

Crowley laughed, spitting blood onto the ground as his mouth filled with the sticky substance.

"It's been a pleasure doing business."