Warnings: brief mentions of murder/blood; nothing graphic
Author's Note: Hannibal is an incredibly difficult character to write owing to the fact that I am not Thomas Harris. I've done the best I can. The timeline presented in the trilogy (er, quadrilogy now I guess?) doesn't really affect this fic. At least at this point, in this universe, there is no Will Graham and no Buffalo Bill. My Hannibal is also inevitably a hybrid of Harris' and Anthony Hopkins', and my Clarice likewise.
Your hands can heal, your hands can bruise.
I don't have a choice, but I still choose you.
Doctor Hannibal Lecter's life had not always been an enviable one. There had been periods when he had endured a considerable amount of hardship and suffering; some would say he had endured more than his fair share. Those days, however, were long behind him now. He may once have dwelled upon the wrongs and troubles of his past. No longer. The son of European nobility, Doctor Lecter did not live in Europe, and certainly not in a castle, now. He was nevertheless quite comfortable—and yes, he was to be envied; no doubt he was by many who knew him. The reasons were manifold.
Doctor Lecter was wealthy enough to live as he chose. Society knew him as a man of impeccable taste, held in high esteem by all. He was undeniably the most brilliant man his friends were likely ever to meet. To put it simply, Doctor Lecter was a genius. Yet he was a modest man, at least in that respect. True, he made a show of his wealth. He did have friends in high places—politicians, writers, fellow psychiatrists. He threw lavish dinner parties, and all who attended them agreed that they had enjoyed neither a better meal nor warmer hospitality anywhere. He wore the finest clothes—linen shirts, silk ties, tailored suits—and kept his handsome Baltimore townhouse impeccably organized and sparkling clean.
On top of it all, he had a thriving psychiatric practice. He had once been a medical doctor and had in fact worked in an emergency room. He was still licensed to practice medicine, but had chosen to make a change. So far, he had not regretted the choice. Doctor Lecter now aided those suffering from mental trauma rather than physical, or that was the intent. More often, patients simply wanted someone to talk to. Occasionally he did prescribe drugs for them, but the good Doctor Lecter was capable of diagnosing and (for all intents and purposes) curing them without even lifting a finger.
By now, some five years into his practice, he was renowned. Countless students of psychology and even some professors had come to his Baltimore office. Everyone wanted an interview; everyone wanted some kind of insight into his mind. They rarely got it. For the most part, their questions were dull and uninspired; they bored him. Doctor Lecter had very little use for boredom.
That was something of special note about Doctor Lecter, however. Though he found that those with whom he was forced to interact often bored him, his behavior remained impeccable. He was never rude. Not one person could ever recall being offended by him. He had never said or done anything in poor taste at a dinner. As far as anyone could tell, he had never done or said anything in poor taste at all. If his practice had not been as renowned as it was, if he had not been so hospitable, so confident, so well-groomed, surely his sheer politeness would have surely earned him society's esteem.
One thing only marred Doctor Lecter's charmed life. A small matter, really; a handful, perhaps three or four, of his patients, had turned up missing.
He had been fully cooperative in the investigations and had made it clear—as clear as he could without invading the patients' privacy, which he, as a doctor, was obligated to protect—that a number of them were badly disturbed or at least depressed. It would be no surprise, he told the authorities with a shake of his head, if the patients in question had been beyond even his help. His cooperation and sympathy, which bordered on genuine distress, were more than enough to clear him of suspicion.
Doctor Lecter had a good poker face.
Certainly no one other than the occasional detective even dreamed that Hannibal Lecter would be capable of any crime at all, much less one as heinous and undoubtedly messy as murder.
How little they knew. How unfortunately—for the justice system—unimaginative most people were! They could not see beyond Doctor Lecter's pleasant smile or his cultured dinner talk to what may be lurking behind it; what some would call a "monster." A fool might label him a sociopath, as though a mind such as his could be reduced to such terminology. They might—if they knew. And no one knew. As he was far cleverer than the general populous, he doubted that anyone ever would. There was really no reason for anyone to know. He had no use for the ideas of "justice" or "closure" for his victims; and as long as they remained courteous and respectful, none of Doctor Lecter's acquaintances had anything to fear from him. They may have bored him sometimes, yes; but that did not mean he saw reason to kill them. In brief, as long as none of the people who associated with Hannibal Lecter offended him, they had no reason to see him as anything but a charming host and a gifted doctor.
Perhaps the thing that most puzzled these acquaintances was that Doctor Lecter had never shown interest in love or dating or anything of the kind. He had never been married, had no children. Of course, he could (and frequently did) appreciate a beautiful, well-dressed woman when he saw one. He had eyes. But no one had ever heard mention of his taking a woman to dinner, or even asking a woman to dinner, for that matter. Some surely wondered if he was, perhaps, a homosexual, though no one would dream of having the gall to actually ask him.
The truth of the matter was simple. He had not been particularly interested in any woman in particular until he received a visitor who changed everything.
It happened on a Wednesday. The week up to that point had been ordinary—boring, really. One of his regular patients stepped out, and Doctor Lecter stepped out with him. He was dressed casually: one of those fine linen shirts, white, tucked neatly into his black trousers; but no tie, no jacket. As he saw his patient out, he spotted a young woman in the lobby whom he had never seen before.
Would she excuse him, but was she waiting for Doctor Lecter? Yes, she was. Then it was his pleasure to introduce himself as the very same.
The young woman smiled, displaying straight white teeth. It was a nervous smile, a guarded smile; it did not reach her cornflower-blue eyes. He showed her into his office, already intrigued; invited her to sit. She did so, setting down her purse and crossing her legs, and he took the opportunity to observe her her more closely. She had hair that gleamed auburn in the light but in shadow was almost brown. Her clothes were modest, inexpensive, perhaps even cheap, but she had taste. A pretty girl, yes. More importantly, she was polite, if a little distant, and spoke with a slight accent. West Virginia, he pegged.
She introduced herself as Clarice Starling.
"I'm not really here as a patient, Dr. Lecter," she explained. "I'm here to…learn from you. I'm a student at the FBI academy."
Leaning over, Clarice Starling fished out identification—it was not a real FBI badge, of course, but it was confirmation. Doctor Lecter smiled. He liked that he had not needed to prompt her to do so. If his suspicions proved correct, a mere generation separated Miss Starling and poor white trash, but she still had manners. Very good.
"Yes, I believe I spoke to Jack about seeing one of his students," he replied. His smile suggested that the discussion had not gone exactly as Jack Crawford may have liked.
Doctor Lecter had given the FBI some paltry assistance before. Between that and his famed brilliance, Jack Crawford had called him rather grudgingly with a proposal: with a little education from him, a student could make a "significant" difference in Behavioral Science, the FBI's program designed to catch serial killers. Doctor Lecter had summoned all his self-control not to chuckle. The irony of it! But Crawford did not and could not know that. It depends on just what kind of student you send to me, Jack, he had said instead.
This was a kind of student he had not quite expected.
He rarely had anyone sitting opposite him in whom he took real interest. Clarice Starling was one of them. She was pretty, yes, but his interest went far beyond that. She could have come from no different background than himself—it was clear that she had little money (no surprise there; she was, after all, a student) and never had had any. Yet somehow, he saw a little of himself in young, reserved would-be Agent Starling. She was not as bright as Doctor Lecter himself, maybe, but then, very few were. A few minutes proved her intelligence to be more than satisfactory ("I graduated from the University of Virginia with honors, sir," she announced with just a hint of pride), and he found her far more perceptive than many of the dreadful students of psychology who had written or visited him in the past.
For those reasons, Doctor Lecter allowed her to stay. He would heed Crawford's request and would do his best to "educate" Clarice Starling: for a price. He would trade his time for some small bits of personal information about her. Surprising even himself, he found that he could not resist getting inside that auburn head.
By the time Clarice was set to graduate and become an FBI special agent, he had learned a good deal of interesting information about her: she had been quite fond of her father, but she had lost him years ago; and of course, the lambs. Clearly, that particular memory had been difficult for Clarice to face. He had seen the tears sparkle in her eyes as he had asked—and insisted that she be truthful, when she had lied the first time around. On the day he attended her graduation, however, something he would never normally have done, he could tell she was the better for it. Walking across the stage to accept her new badge, which glinted gold in the flash of a Polaroid camera, Clarice stood taller. Confidence shone in her eyes instead of tears, and her smile was dazzling, not half as shy as it had been on the first day he had met her. Doctor Lecter felt a curious sensation as he watched her, beaming on that stage.
He made an effort to deceive himself about that feeling, or at least to half-deceive himself, and did so willingly. Sitting amongst the friends and family of other graduates, he decided that what he felt was pride—perhaps some satisfaction in himself as well—and left it at that.
That self-deception worked well enough until he saw his protégé face-to-face. Clarice glowed with pride herself. Here was a girl who knew she looked good and who, more importantly, knew she had achieved something. She was still smiling in that fashion when she spotted Doctor Lecter in the crowd. As she moved towards him he returned her smile, knowing full well that his was, perhaps, a little more than merely courteous.
"Congratulations, Clarice," he told her. Crinkes appeared around his strange maroon eyes.
"I hadn't expected to see you here, Dr. Lecter," she replied and tilted her head slightly to one side. He could hear the pleasure in her voice, mingled with the surprise. It pleased him, and reminded him just how much he liked Clarice Starling.
He had known that for a while.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world." The words sounded slightly off, but they earned him another of her winning smiles. She appeared to be genuinely touched. Doctor Lecter offered a hand to her. He had not quite expected the rush he felt when her small fingers close around his. Though his face did not change and he shook her hand firmly in congratulations, it was more than that between them—something she felt, too. He decided then that there was no more need for deception.
He offered to take Clarice to dinner, if she had no other plans, and joked that he could make her a better meal, but that he was willing to sacrifice quality for convenience—for her sake.
"I couldn't let you work in the kitchen while I waited to be served, Dr. Lecter," Clarice laughed. Those quiet, small-town manners were still there. Still, she accepted, and confessed that she had had no other plans. This, too, pleased him. It would surely have puzzled his friends in Baltimore. Hannibal Lecter, forever disinterested in women and particularly in romance, was suddenly romancing the most unlikely of women.
If he had not already known that Clarice owned few truly good clothes, he could have guessed. She had little money, and never had, but she did have good taste. He had seen her do the best with what she could on such a tight budget in the past, and knew also that she came from what was commonly called "white trash." He had spent three months or more observing her and picking her brain for such facts. He wanted to observe her again, in a different setting. He wanted to glimpse a different Clarice Starling than the one who had sat across from him in his lovely Baltimore office once or twice a week. He wanted to see her with a glass of fine wine in her hand.
He also wanted her to observe a different Doctor Lecter than the one to whom she had grown accustomed. He wanted her to see him in a fine suit, suave as always but perhaps a little less Hannibal Lecter, M.D., respected psychiatrist, and more Hannibal Lecter, esquire, charming dinner host; cultured theatre-goer; member of the symphony board. He wanted to watch Clarice interact with that man.
The dinner went splendidly. It was in a fine Italian restaurant that Doctor Lecter had become really enamored of Clarice's laughter and her fine white teeth, of the way they looked when she laughed at some witty observation that escaped his lips. Having already probed her darkest memories, he found he liked this Clarice just as much. While she was not a mooch by any means—no, Clarice Starling was a proud, strong girl if she was anything—but he was pleased the way a free meal and a glass of wine could loosen her up.
From that very first dinner, theirs was a different kind of courtship. A fortnight passed before Clarice stopped addressing him as "Dr. Lecter." She first called him Hannibal on the very night he kissed her for the first time.
He had taken her to the national ballet in Washington after she confessed to never having seen one before. She wore the same dress, simple and black, as on the night of her graduation dinner. He had donned a finely-tailored tuxedo. At the close of the ballet, they stepped together into the muggy Washington air and strolled beneath a blanket of winking stars. Clarice opened her mouth to say something and to his astonishment, he realized that suddenly, he did not like the way Doctor Lecter sounded coming from her lips anymore. While Clarice had been a student, the situation had been markedly different. He had instructed her to call him that on the first day, after he had asked if he could call her simply "Clarice." Fitting, he said.
But things had since changed. She was no longer a student, but a special agent. He had a sudden desire to add her to the small number of people who called him simply Hannibal.
Clarice tilted her face up to look at him. "The ballet was lovely, Dr. Lecter," she murmured, and smiled, "as promised." Her eyes still glinted with the hint of unshed tears. After a pause, he took her aside. His hand pressed gently against the small of her back to guide her. The car was parked around the corner, and the street on which they now stood dark and empty. No need for self-consciousness; no one would disturb them.
The confusion he read in her face as she turned to look at him properly amused him a little. He touched her chin.
"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."
Silence passed between them for a long moment interrupted by nothing but the hum of crickets. The shadow transformed her eyes into a deep blue, nearly black. A person could get lost in those eyes if they were not careful.
"I would like it very much, I think, if you called me 'Hannibal' from now on, Clarice."
He very much liked the idea of kissing her, and had entertained it since the beginning. As she struggled to find something to say, he decided that the time had come. He lowered his head and covered her lips with his own, cutting off the half-formed words just escaping them ("oh—alright, then…"). She tasted fresh and sweet there in the humid night air, and that evening opened a new chapter in their relationship.
It was doomed to be the last chapter—one with no sequel. Hannibal could not have known that then, but perhaps if he had come to his senses earlier, he would have spared them both a headache.
For six weeks, maybe a little fewer, he lost himself in their love affair; allowed himself to be lost. He did so in his own way: he did not become a new or different person and remained as courteous and hospitable and brilliant as ever. His practice did not suffer from his feelings for Clarice. There seemed to be no negative consequences at all. No, it was simply that with Clarice he felt able to be just Hannibal, the same man he had always been, but on a more intimate level. Of course, there were things she could not know, secrets that still must be kept, but these did not bother him. His was a peculiar hobby, but merely that: a hobby.
He still fully intended to peel away yet more of the layers that made up Clarice Starling, Federal Agent, as he had when she studied with him. Yet somehow, he also found himself caught up in the fundamentals of being in a relationship. Before Clarice had walked into his office, he had enjoyed a thriving, full social life, but throwing dinner parties and sitting on the orchestra board were quite different things from spending time with a lover.
When he went to Washington, where she now shared a small duplex with her former roommate, or when she came to Baltimore, they indulged in activities suggested by Hannibal: the ballet, an orchestra concerto, and once a tour of Baltimore at sunset.
Once and only once, Clarice managed to convince him to visit her in her half of the duplex. She fixed them a cheap but well-made dinner, which he found he enjoyed more than he had expected to, and put an old Humphrey Bogart film into the VCR. As on their first night out together, his dryly humorous observations elicited easy laughter from Clarice—until the film's romance truly got underway. Then silence fell between them. Gradually, while Bogie seduced his leading lady, Clarice pressed herself closer to Hannibal—her former mentor; her friend; her would-be lover—and finally raised her head, staring at him rather than tryst unfolding on the television screen.
"Would you mind kissing me, Hannibal?" she asked quietly.
He smiled wanly. It was a request, not a demand—one he could not refuse.
As if he would have wanted to.
Clarice Starling's alarm clock read 2:36 A.M. Her breathing was even and quiet in the darkness of the small bedroom. Hannibal did not disturb her when he rose from the bed.
He had realized a few moments before that he had made a mistake. The entirety of the past eight weeks had been a mistake. As he walked silently across the bedroom floor, collecting his discarded clothes, he thought of the vanished patients, the police, and the questions.
He turned his face towards Clarice where she lay peacefully in tangle of sheets and pillows where, just hours ago, they had made love to the blaring soundtrack of a 40s film. He had taken great pleasure in her pale, smooth skin. In bed, she had become a student again, more than willing to submit to him, this time physically. Hannibal had never liked his name better than in those moments when her voice, husky and more heavily accented than usual cried it out beneath him. For a while, he had been content as she drifted to sleep with her cheek pressed against his shoulder. If only he could have kept from thinking.
Yes, he would miss her, but he could not stay. He did not intend to be caught, now or in a year's time or in ten. It remained a possibility all the same, however. It was likewise possible that he would kill again.
The thought did not repulse him simply because Clarice Starling lay naked on the bed not ten feet away. It was his nature. If they had known, they would have called him a monster. Perhaps he was. He did not shy away from the idea, though he would prefer more intellectual terminology.
Still considering this, he buttoned his fine linen shirt which was somewhat wrinkled now, and shrugged on his sport coat. (He recalled Clarice's teasing words of greeting: "You always look like we're going to the fucking ballet, doctor.") No. He would very likely kill again, and it was best for Clarice if she did not find herself wrapped up in a long-term relationship with him. With a killer. A cannibal. A monster.
He easily found paper, and sat down at the same table where he and Clarice had so recently eaten dinner. He considered the blank sheet in the semidarkness before he began to write. Despite knowing he was doing the right thing, he found the writing itself poignant, almost difficult. It surprised him.
My dear Clarice,
You must allow me to apologize, and I'm afraid you must also take me on my word that this is for the best…
He signed it "Hannibal Lecter, M.D." No more "Hannibal." No more relationship. No more Clarice Starling. She would reside in some sunny corner of his expansive memory palace. She would survive only as a memory—a memory like Europe; like medical school; like Mischa. Mischa. The name echoed in his mind as he thought it; he swallowed hard and willed it away. He had paid his debt to her long ago.
He folded the letter and wrote her name carefully in his elegant hand upon it. He laid it on her nightstand and stood for a moment by her bed. Memories. He at least had those. He knew very well that if he was caught, they would be all he would ever have.
Another man might have kissed her forehead or brushed her cheek with his hand before he left her. Hannibal did none of these things. He had left his mark on Clarice Starling and no touch could further cement it now. After another long pause, he turned and walked away. He locked Clarice's door with care behind him. As it closed, clicking softly, he whispered "Good-bye, Clarice," into the still, dark air. Perhaps Hannibal was a coward for not lingering till morning and explaining himself in person. He felt, however, that it was better this way. He suspected Clarice would be angry and hurt, but not devastated.
He had, after all, seen to it that he left her far stronger than she had come to him.
Hannibal passed the next six years in relative peace. No one had asked the ever-more esteemed Doctor Lecter what had happened to his pretty friend after he had returned to Baltimore alone, and had never again been spotted out and about (or at all) in her company. This suited him perfectly, and he made no effort to alleviate their curiosity. Clarice had neither called nor written in that time. Part of him was disappointed, but unsurprised. He had assured her in his letter that parting ways was for the best, particularly for her. Clarice was at perfect liberty contact him. He had never planned to turn tail and hide somewhere—change his name, or even his phone number; he had far too much dignity. He had kept his word that should she find herself somehow in need of him (which he doubted) she knew where to find him.
And so far, she had not needed him. That, at least, pleased him. He knew that she was alive and well, for he had seen nothing about her in the papers. She had simply moved on, just as he had been sure she would. Clarice was a pro at moving on: from her father; from the screaming lambs; and now from him, Hannibal Lecter, M.D. It was one of the things he liked best about her.
On more than one occasion, Hannibal thought of her. He remembered her quite distinctly—her auburn hair and shining blue eyes and straight white teeth. Her West Virginia accent, just barely masked. Her distant politeness; her confident laugh. He thought of all of those things. In some ways, her memory had replaced Mischa's. He only dreamt of his sister now; he daydreamed of Clarice.
He missed her sometimes, but he killed twice more in those six years. As he washed the blood calmly from his hands, he knew he had done right by Clarice. She could, of course, take care of herself. All the same, he felt better knowing that he had protected her from this. If she had ever discovered his secret, she would surely have seen it as betrayal. She would have been confused. Conflicted. Perhaps even suspected.
Hannibal was not ashamed of what he had done. Yet he truly cared for Clarice Starling, and therefore he had happily spared her that suffering.
Thus everything in Hannibal's life carried on much in the same way as before Clarice Starling had walked into his office with the exception of his memories. His practice remained successful and popular; his dinner parties were always well-attended and well-reviewed. Even his wealth grew modestly. He was once more comfortable and content. The threat of boredom occasionally hovered over him. He thought that a trip might be in order. A trip to Europe or to Asia, or possibly both. Other than such half-made plans, life carried on as usual and without interruption.
He did not go into the office on Tuesdays. Often he relished the reprieve and the silence. He strove to make the most of solitude, though it sometimes bored him. Today he had buried himself deeply in a Dumas novel when the telephone rang in the living room.
Once—twice—a third time.
He set the book down in spite of the temptation to let the machine pick it up. There could be a problem at the office or with his patients. He preferred to deal with such things as soon and as concisely as possible.
He reached the phone just before the machine clicked on, lifted it off the receiver, and said pleasantly, "Good afternoon?"
The same voice that had so shaken his world six years previous now hissed through the phone cable, and he could not help the surprise in his tone as he murmured, "Clarice?"
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