I've had this sitting around on tumblr for a while, so I decided to post it here as well. Updates will be slow with this, be warned. Inspired by my own fervent denial of recent events, I just couldn't resist the pull of writing such a delightful crossover. I tried my best to get characters' ages and small details right, but if there's anything glaringly wrong, please feel free to point it out so I can correct it. Note also that I'm not looking to be super philosophical about my writing or anything. This is all in good fun and I wanted to fit the writing style with the narration from Pushing Daisies, but you'll see a lot of my own voice coming through as well.
Warning: This story contains SPOILERS for all of Hannibal up to episode 4 of season 2. After that point, the canon events will be disregarded for…obvious reasons. Also since this is a crossover with Hannibal's veritable polar opposite…don't expect things to be all dark and gloomy all the time. This is supposed to be a fun thing, as my poor attempts at humor will attest to. As far as alignment with the Pushing Daisies storyline…this takes place toward the beginning of season 2.
Well then, let's get down to the dirty business!
Sampler: Almost Mincemeat (this is your prologue thing)
The facts were these;
Beverly Katz was approximately 31 years, 5 months, and 17 days of age when she made a discovery that, for all intents and purposes, should have served as proof of the Chesapeake Ripper's true identity.
Perhaps it had indeed been foolish to go alone to the lair of the beast, but Beverly had found aforementioned proof right inside of Hannibal Lecter's refrigerator. Said proof took the form of a Ziploc-packed kidney, dated and labeled with the name of a recently-dead murder muralist. The flavor of victory was almost too strong for Beverly to handle. In her hands was essentially a confession, vacuum sealed for freshness and likely intended to be made into a steak and kidney pie later. The thought made Beverly cringe, for she was quite a fan of pie (when it didn't contain organ meats from a man who was known for stitching people together and spraying them with resin). Nevertheless, she had what she needed to prove her friend's innocence—and it was definitely Hannibal Lecter's handwriting on the bag, all slants in neat letters and, shockingly, ascribed onto the plastic with a sharpie. Beverly had always figured Lecter for a "custom labels" kind of guy…
Fate, however, being a cruel and ironic entity, led to Beverly spilling a glass of carelessly left wine (or had it been done on purpose? She was beginning to fully understand that Lecter was a crafty sort of bastard), thus leading to the discovery of a basement which would be right at home in a Saw movie. The proof within was beyond damning, a veritable playground of murder toys and devices that would make Inquisitors proud. It reminded her of a room in a meat packaging plant. She'd found him, alright.
But then he found her.
Like a scene from a horror film, dripping with anxious sweat and the scent of an overused cliche, as soon as she turned on the lights and turned around, he was there. She should have known it seemed too easy, that the basement had been presented too obviously, that it was too good to be true when Zeller had told her the good doctor was at the hospital with Jack. And she felt fearful, truly fearful for perhaps the first time in her life. Bile rose up in her throat at the thought that he had been in her lab, in her personal space, and she had once been alone with the monster without knowing what he was, welcoming the wolf in sheep's clothing. Will had been right all along. Hannibal Lecter had played them all like a finely-tuned violin (or a slightly less well-tuned harpsichord). How many people had he killed? What exactly had he done to Will? Just how far would his reach extend?
Worse than any of those thoughts was the fact that she was fairly certain she'd eaten his cooking before. Had her dinner's name been Bob?
But none of her disgust or fear showed as she stared coldly at the killer and raised her gun. For a brief moment, their eyes locked, justice staring into the profane. Then he lunged for the switch, intent on plunging them into darkness. Beverly's heart leaped into her throat in anticipation of the death she was sure lurked near. But then she fired at the man, and in his hasty movements, he completely missed the switch. A bubble of insane, relieved laughter threatened to escape her, particularly at the funny scuttle-dance he did to position himself upright after his miss. He made another move toward the light, only to backpedal as a bullet sank into the floor inches from his (now scuffed) leather shoes. He left the light then, stalking towards her with an eerie stoicism. Heart racing, Beverly took a deep breath, aimed a few inches away from Lecter's head, and fired. She wasn't looking to kill him, not by any means. She'd rather see him stewed slowly in his own pot after serving years and years in the very cell that Will Graham wrongly called home. There'd be nothing as satisfying as burning all of his stupid suits and seeing him wear those ugly Velcro shoes.
The bullet whizzed a mere breath away from Lecter's ear and he stopped charging her, reflex alone breaking his concentration in a bid to avoid having the lead burrow into his temporal lobe. Beverly took the opportunity to book it.
In her rush to escape what was definitely among the top ten worst nights of her life, Beverly did not realize she had dropped the muralist's kidney. She would not realize it until she was well on the road, risking many a speeding ticket in her quest to put distance between herself and the simpering psychopath.
She cursed aloud when she realized her mistake, but collected herself with the assurance that she could just tell Jack all that had happened. And so she did, with nary an embellishment or unnecessary factoid, but when the team charged into Hannibal's basement, they found nothing.
No saws or plastic suits or anything. There wasn't a single human body part in his home, whether it be the refrigerator or any other hidden-away spot. It was almost as though Beverly had dreamed the whole affair, and the only evidence to the contrary was the knowing, self-satisfied smirk Hannibal wore as they exited his home empty-handed.
Beverly was quite certain of what she'd seen, what had occurred in the basement, and that Lecter had somehow gotten rid of anything even remotely incriminating (even if that one painting he had of the lady getting it on with a swan was incriminating enough for Beverly's taste). She was also certain that now, since his secret was out and that she was the keeper of it, Hannibal would be even more dangerous to be around. She could no more insist on a conviction without evidence than she could stomach steak tartar. She could not speak to Jack about it either, for he was beyond furious that his time and resources had been wasted, that his most trusted forensics expert had led him into an empty alley. Zeller and Price would be no help, either, because there was no way Jack would give an accusation of such magnitude any consideration—at least not from their mouths. Worse still, she was utterly forbidden from visiting Will again, to at least tell him that she now knew the truth.
Thus, with no other options and knowing that continuing her work meant that she'd be marked with a "use by" date, Beverly Katz tendered her resignation the very next day without explanation. Her friends and colleagues would later find that her home, a quaint apartment with too-white walls, had been cleared of any trace of her existence. She left no indication to anyone where she would be going, and in fact she had no inkling either. She would simply stop driving when she found a place that seemed like a good spot to do so.
And so it came to pass that Beverly Katz, at 31 years, 5 months, and 18 days of age, vanished from Quantico as she squeezed all of the worldly possessions that she could into her small car and drove into the sunset, intent on parts unknown.