Introductory Author's Note: I intend to continue updating this... I have ideas flying around in my head and I'm relieved to be able to write and post this here. This isn't going to be a "Hannibal finds Clarice, Hannibal falls in love with Clarice, Hannibal and Clarice have sex" kind of story. Those are good, and I have to say I really enjoy those, but that's not what this is going to be. If you care to stay, maybe the twists will satisfy your Hannibalistic needs. :) And this is probably going to be long. Not a one-shot. Fasten your seatbelts, folks.
And for the required disclaimer: I do not own Dr. Hannibal Lecter (could anyone?), nor do I own Special Agent Clarice Starling. These amazing and inspiring characters belong to Thomas Harris. It may come as a shock, but no, I am not Thomas Harris. If I were Thomas Harris, I'd use my kick-ass fairy-pirate magic, make the world of Hannibal and Clarice real, and I would take Clarice's place. ;)
It's rated for language and because I have a feeling this isn't going to be filled with rainbows and bunnies. This is Hannibal Lecter. You should have been expecting violence from the time his name crossed your mind. Rated for language, gore, possible nudity, possible sexuality. Has anyone here noticed that it's okay to show boobs in a Disney movie as long as no nipple is visible? There's a bunch of boobs in Fantasia--the female centaurs, for one--but no nipples, so it's okay. Sorry. Just pondering the bounds of rating and nudity.
This story takes place post-SotL and before our lovely Hannibal. I suppose it's a sort of "instead of Hannibal, we have this..." kind of story. Or at least it will be. If you do start and continue reading this, I may have to go back to previous chapters and alter them, but I will forewarn before letting you read on. 'Cause I'm cool like that. Sure. Whatever. Have fun reading, and if you spot any mistakes or anything I may improve, please email me so I may edit them. My email is on my bio page. Don't be shy. I'm no Hannibal; I won't bite.
Read on, fellow Hannibalists. Read on.
Special Agent Clarice Starling, twenty-eight, was roused out of her bed in the middle of the night by an unknown noise. When, raking fingers through her tousled auburn hair in her newly-waked stupor, she realized the sound was that of her sliding glass door opening and heavily closing on her side of the duplex, her hand groped into her side table drawer for her fully loaded GLOCK 22 semi-automatic pistol.
Listening carefully for any other noise to forewarn of the intruder, she padded across her room, barefoot and on the balls of her toes. She slid her heel into the crack of her slightly ajar door and the doorframe and pulled it open—just enough for her to slip through, and not enough for it to alert the intruder of her knowledge by banging against the wall. Starling stepped through, her GLOCK held steadily before her in both hands. Danger areas, the corner. Checked. She moved down the hall toward where the noise resonated from.
As she neared the kitchen, a rank stench pervaded her nostrils. With her blood now pounding in her ears and the back of her hand over her mouth and nose, she moved into the light of her flickering kitchen.
Dr. Hannibal Lecter stood before her. Starling abandoned the attempt to keep the stink out of her nose and put both hands on her gun. Lecter did not falter. He kept his eyes locked onto hers and didn't seem to move at all. He wore his white asylum clothes, a brown cowboy hat crowned deeply on his head, and cradled a small white sleeping lamb gently in his arms. Starling's legs were bent slightly at the knee as she circled at the perimeter of the kitchen, glancing from Dr. Lecter to her surroundings.
"You move, I shoot," Clarice clearly said. When her blood pounded through her veins, in anger or in danger, her voice became clear and loud. He remained still and said nothing.
A pile orange rinds flamed in her trash bin. The smell, thought Starling. Flashes of her father with the square-tipped knife peeling oranges and laughing. Flashes of her father swinging her around in his arms. Starling flashed back to the present and continued her double surveillance of the doctor and her environment. In the stainless steal sink, she saw the unmistakable crimson stain of blood. There were no knives visible on the counter, none visible on Lecter. The lamb appeared unharmed. Starling's limbs went weak and she almost dropped her pistol. Ardelia! her mind screamed. That bastard better have not fucking touched her.
Her lips and tongue felt thick and numb and she could hardly hear how she stuttered her words over the din of her rapid pulse. "Stay where you are, Doctor. You're under arrest. Put down the lamb. Lay on the floor, arms and legs spread. Any quick movements and I will shoot. Do not underestimate me, Doctor." Speaking helped Starling get in control, but Lecter didn't move.
"Doctor, I said you're under arrest. Put the lamb on the ground and lay on the floor. No quick movements. Now, Doctor. This gun is loaded and I'm not playing around here."
A beat of silence.
"The lamb is sleeping, Clarice," Dr. Lecter quietly said.
His sudden soft words and use of her name caught her off guard, and before she knew it, when he lithely stepped forward, her trigger finger jerked and the firearm exploded in her hands. A .40 millimeter bullet nipped the brim of his hat and sailed through the crown, deep into Dr. Lecter's left forehead. Blood seeped through the hat in a circle several inches in diameter and streaked down his pale face beneath the brim. His maroon eyes, matching the stain in the hat, blinked.
"I'm disappointed in you, Clarice."
He knelt on both knees on the ground and let the lamb, awakened by the gunfire, step out of his arms. Blood had dripped onto the lamb, marring the snowy, feathery fur. It looked around sleepily and wandered off on weak legs. Dr. Lecter looked up at Starling once more before he fell forward in his last death bow.
Gouged deeply into his upper back was his stout, curved Harpy blade. The blood that circled this wound was bright red. Off in the midnight-quiet of her home, the lamb began to scream.
-
When Starling woke from her nightmare, she didn't open her eyes. She didn't scream nor wipe the sweat off her brow. She lay in silence for several minutes, mentally cleansing herself of her twisted dream. She analyzed herself. Dr. Lecter had a knife in his back long before I shot him. It was just a dream. Just a dream. When he held the lamb, it was silent. What does this all mean? After he keeled over, the lamb started screaming. What the hell does this shit all mean? Fucking hell. The hat was my father's. I shot him and it notched the brim. Just like when Daddy was shot. God fucking hell. I have a headache. I'm getting some coffee..
Starling lay in silence a minute more before opening her eyes and staring at her ceiling. The dark blurred all the edges in the room. However, when her eyes traveled down her ceiling, to her wall and to the figure standing with his back to her at the foot of her bed, she saw the silhouette as crisp as the frozen water in a mountain river at the first frost of the season. Faint light from the moon out her window revealed a familiar strong compact torso and hands clasped behind his back.
He slowly turned to face her. She expected to see the same maroon eyes she saw in her dream pierce out from the darkness, but she did not. Starling moved for her bedside table, where her fully loaded GLOCK was, but her hands were bound. She found her feet were bound as well. She let out a low cry of dismay and failure.
"Surprised, are we?"
The voice was medium-ranged and had no audible accent. It was not rich nor commanding, and with a shiver down her spine, she realized this was not Dr. Lecter at all.
A/N: And of course, this is to be continued. Thank you for reading. Reviews are appreciated.