Disclaimer: All of the characters found within this story are the property of Thomas Harris. Some of the dialogue has been taken from the novel Red Dragon. In order to make this story possible, I have messed with the timeline, ages, and character of certain individuals, and there will be inconsistencies in dates, facts and events (Hey, it's an alternate universe!). So sorry, and remember-if you want to flame me, all you have to do is e-mail! :)
**
"So, How did your interview with Starling go?"
"As well as could be." It was nine in the morning and Hannibal Lecter had once again reported to the office of Ardelia Mapp, Behavioural Sciences Section Chief, and Mapp was interrogating him from behind her aircraft-carrier of a desk, piled high with stacks of papers and documentation.
"She beat you up, didn't she?"
"Chewed and spat me out to dry." Mapp arches a brow.
"Come again, Agent?"
"Ma'am, may I inquire about something?"
"Fire away, Lecter."
"The information on the file on Starling which you gave me is lacking."
"What do you mean lacking? It's the kind of standard info you would find on a typical criminal's file." Mapp takes an unsharpened pencil from a drawer and twirls it around her fingers.
"Well, yes, but it's also the kind of information you are most likely to find in who's who. It is completely insufficient from what is needed in order to provide a better understanding on the doctor."
"And why would she be on who's who?"
"That's beside the point, which is how come there is very little information on Starling's past? It just says here that she was orphaned at the age of eight…and that's about it."
"You want more information on Starling?" Mapp leaned across the desk.
"Yes," he said.
"Then I suggest you get it yourself." If Lecter was taken aback by Mapp's brusque almost rude behaviour at the mention of Starling, he does not show it but rises stiffly and does not say a word. His maroon eyes darken and he looks very dangerous. Mapp swallows audibly before dismissing him.
"Carry on, Lecter. I expect you to report here at 0800 tomorrow."
He does not say anything as he goes out the door, surrounded by an aura akin to a thundercloud.
**
"So, this is your place." It is the voice of Jack Crawford, definitely impressed, even though intoxicated. We see him and Lecter inside the small yet sumptuously appointed foyer inside somebody's two-storey apartment.
"My abode, Jack. The proper term for it is my abode, domicile, residence, dwelling. I would very much appreciate it if you saved your teenage slang for the streets."
"Whatever, Lecter. I say you're letting Starling get to you too much. She's bad news, boy. You need to get off more often. Speaking of getting off, where the hell is your broad, anyway?"
Lecter has taken off his coat and hung it behind the door, walking into the living room where he pours himself a glass of brandy before flopping down onto one of the maroon sofas and lighting a cigarette. He tips his head back, revealing the vulnerable jugular and exhales hard, watching the smoke dissipate in the cool air of the room.
"Crawford, sit down before you hurt yourself. I would thank you not to address her that way."
"Well, don't mind if I do. Sit down, I mean."
Jack enters the living room, but instead of sitting down, he also pours himself some brandy from the crystal decanter beside Lecter and takes a look at the pictures placed on the mantelpiece. One of them in particular catches his fancy. It is a watercolour of a teenage girl, sitting on a chair all alone in a bare room, playing a cello. The artist seems to have captured the moment perfectly. Her brown eyes even seem to twinkle with a bit of mirth, as if sharing a private joke with whoever painted the picture.
"This is a damned fine piece of art, my friend." Lecter raises his head from the back of the couch.
"Which one?"
"This here painting of the girl. Where did you get it? She's really pretty, too."
Hannibal cocks his head to one side, regarding Jack with hooded maroon eyes. "I painted it."
"Bull-shit you did. I didn't know you could paint."
"I can do a lot of things, Jackie."
"You sure can." He peered closer at the painting. "Nice hair. Red an' all. Is this what they call titian?"
"No. Starling's hair is a more precise example of titian, actually."
"She looks kinda like Molly Ringwald…or maybe Melissa Gilbert."
"Who, Starling?" Lecter said, amused.
"No, boyo. The chick in the painting."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that you approve of my taste in women." He lied through his teeth. As if he could really give a flying fuck what Jack Crawford thought.
"No shit! THIS is your broad?" Lecter winced once again at Crawford's use of tavern language. "Isn't she kind of young for you?" Crawford eyed him suspiciously. Lecter gave him a weak smile.
"She was eighteen when I painted that. She's four years older than me, Jack."
"That's a relief."
"And why is that?"
"Wouldn't want to bring you in for child abuse or something. Them poor innocents."
"Trust me, Jack, she is neither poor nor innocent." Lecter grinned devilishly.
"That good, huh?"
"I'm not telling…"
Crawford then sank beside Lecter and raised his glass up in the air. "Glad at least one of us is getting some." He took a swig, downing half the contents of the glass. "To Bella."
"To Bella," Lecter echoed. "How is she, really, Jack?"
Crawford looked at him, slightly bleary-eyed. "The truth?"
"Yeah, I want the truth."
"Truth is, the fucking quacks say she doesn't have long to live. They give her six months, Hannibal."
"I'm so sorry about Bella, Jack."
"Don't be sorry. You didn't have nothing to do with it. Besides, you got more important things to worry about. What did the guru say about your interview with Starling?"
Hannibal put his glass down on the side table at his right and poured more brandy into it before taking another sip. "Nothing much. In fact, she didn't want to talk about Starling at all. Why do you suppose that is?"
"Didn't you pay any attention at all to her trial a few years back?"
"A few years back I was sunning myself in the countryside in a little Italian villa."
"It was a fucking madhouse, my friend."
"Figuratively?"
"Literally!! I mean, the goddamn DA said that they had enough evidence to convict her of at LEAST ten counts of murder, and she beat it all on an insanity plea."
"She was advised to plead insanity? Tell me, and don't lie Jack, or I'll know."
Crawford looked sheepish. "Actually, the courts found her guilty. Dr. Starling did not plead." Lecter seemed to be digesting this when his cellphone rang.
"Lecter here." His face was unreadable. "Uh-huh. Yeah. You'll be coming on over then? Yes, thanks very much. I'll be here waiting."
"Who was that? Your girlfriend? I get to hold her hand, right?" he teased.
Lecter smiled, "All good things to those who wait, Jack, but I regret to inform you that the caller was not in the least bit female."
Crawford looked crestfallen. "No? Pity, that. Who was he, then?" he straightened up and looked at Lecter.
"An old friend. I'm having him over for dinner. Do you mind?"
"Naw. Hey, where ya going?" Lecter had stood and gone out the room. Jack sank back into the cushions and closed his eyes. "Son of a bitch." Lecter pops his dark sleek head back into the room.
"What did you say, Jack?"
"Nothing. Who's your 'old friend' anyway?"
"Someone I knew back from medical school." Crawford looked puzzled.
"Medical school? Oh yeah, you're a doctor too, right? Hot damn. Why'd you become a Fed, anyway?"
"I don't know," Lecter shrugged. "Perhaps it was a moment of temporary insanity."
"We have all the nuts we need, boyo. Especially what with you and Starling having all these conversations."
"Conversations, Jack?"
"Come on, Lecter. It's no secret that she talks to you. Now, the guru doesn't want you to go back to Starling, does she?"
"No."
"You want to hear what I think?"
"Do I have a choice?" he said sarcastically.
Crawford pretended not to notice. "In my opinion, you should definitely pursue this. You're the one she talks to, Lecter. Use it to your advantage."
"Whatever you say, Jack," he took the crystal decanter still half-filled with brandy, or half empty of brandy, depending on your perspective and uncharacteristically took a swig from the decanter itself.
"Whoah, there, boy." Crawford said. "Are you drinking yourself over Starling now?"
"That's absurd," Lecter said, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.
Crawford shook his head. "This is bad, boyo. Really bad. You don't want Clarice Starling in your head. Trust me on that one…" he let his last words drift off, but Hannibal was staring blindly at the fireplace, mutely watching the yellow-orange flames leap and play against the soot covered bricks. Three loud knocks coming from the door distracted him from wherever his thoughts had brought him to and Lecter stood up and walked briskly to the door, opening it quickly. Outside stood a giant of a man, dressed casually in jeans, a white shirt and denim jacket. He had something tucked underneath his arm. It looked to Crawford like a file of some sort. Lecter invited the man in and they shook hands. No hugs, no nothing. Just a simple handshake.
"Hello, Barney." Lecter took the file from him,
"Hey yourself, Han," the black man said.
"Come on in. I haven't quite gotten around to cooking anything yet. Perhaps you'd like to help me?"
"No thanks, doc. I grabbed me some McDonald's on my way here."
"All right. Jack, this is an acquaintance of mine from Johns Hopkins."
"Hi," Crawford said. "My name's Jack Crawford, but you can call me Jack."
"Mine's Barney."
"Just plain Barney?" Crawford said.
"Just plain Barney."
"Are you a doctor, too?"
"Yes." the big man shifted slightly.
"What kind?" Crawford persisted.
"Psychiatrist."
"Oh, just like Clarice Starling."
"Yeah. Just like Clarice Starling." He stared at Jack Crawford as if daring him to say something.
"So Barney," Lecter interrupted the tense silence between the two. "Do you want to go over and discuss these with me?"
"Sure, why ever the hell not? As long as the G-man doesn't open his bill." Jack took justifiable offence at this and did open his mouth as if to say something but quickly shut it as Lecter gave him a look that clearly told him to do so.
**
Hours later, Lecter had gained sufficient insight into the past of Clarice Starling. He knew about the lambs, about the orphanage, about her lineage. But what he could still not figure out was what drove her to kill. He escorted Barney out the front door. Jack had left about thirty minutes ago for his home.
"You know what, Lecter?"
"No, I don't know what Barney." He smiled slightly.
"If I were you, I'd drop this case. You don't want Starling inside your head."
"Why is it that everyone tells me that I would not want Clarice Starling inside my head?"
"I'm not the only one, then?"
"No, Crawford told me that same thing."
Barney smirked. "That's the only smart thing the G-man's said all night."
"Hold your judgement on him, Barney. He's going through a really rough time. His wife's dying." Barney fell silent for a moment.
"All right. If you say so, Hannibal. Nice place you got here. But I like the one in Baltimore better."
"So do I, Barney. So do I," said Lecter as he closed the door and went back into his study. He poured himself a liberal amount of whiskey and grimaced as he took a sip. What the hell was Starling driving him to? He never partook of hard liquor, only wine, and the only reason he kept such things around were because Barney liked them, and Barney was one of the few people he allowed himself a smidgen of affection for. He picked up the cordless phone and rang one of them now.
"Hello?" a female voice, soft and mellifluous.
"Hi, sweetheart."
"Hey, where are you?"
"I'm in my apartment, just near Quantico."
"How're you doing?" the female voice said.
"Not very well. I'm lonesome."
"Me, too."
"Horny."
"Me, too."
"Tell me about yourself."
A giggle at the other end of the line. "Are you trying to psychoanalyse me, doctor?"
"No, madam, I most assuredly am not," Lecter replied with a daffy grin on his face.
"When are you coming back to Baltimore? I'm not bugging you about coming home, I'm just wondering. I miss you."
"I miss you, too. I'll be there tomorrow for a case I'm working on."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
"Wanna talk about fucking?" she said, surprising him.
"I don't think I could stand it. I think, perhaps we had better not do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk about fucking."
"Okay," she acquiesced. "You don't mind if I think about it, though?"
"Absolutely not."
The conversation ran far into the night, neither of them getting much sleep.
**
You know the drill, ladies and gentlemen. There's a nice little box at the bottom where you can write your reviews, suggestion, comments, flames (preferably not), and anything else that comes to mind. However, if you should feel the urge to flame me, please do it via e-mail. To do so otherwise would be *rude*.
Ta,
Tailgunner.
**
"So, How did your interview with Starling go?"
"As well as could be." It was nine in the morning and Hannibal Lecter had once again reported to the office of Ardelia Mapp, Behavioural Sciences Section Chief, and Mapp was interrogating him from behind her aircraft-carrier of a desk, piled high with stacks of papers and documentation.
"She beat you up, didn't she?"
"Chewed and spat me out to dry." Mapp arches a brow.
"Come again, Agent?"
"Ma'am, may I inquire about something?"
"Fire away, Lecter."
"The information on the file on Starling which you gave me is lacking."
"What do you mean lacking? It's the kind of standard info you would find on a typical criminal's file." Mapp takes an unsharpened pencil from a drawer and twirls it around her fingers.
"Well, yes, but it's also the kind of information you are most likely to find in who's who. It is completely insufficient from what is needed in order to provide a better understanding on the doctor."
"And why would she be on who's who?"
"That's beside the point, which is how come there is very little information on Starling's past? It just says here that she was orphaned at the age of eight…and that's about it."
"You want more information on Starling?" Mapp leaned across the desk.
"Yes," he said.
"Then I suggest you get it yourself." If Lecter was taken aback by Mapp's brusque almost rude behaviour at the mention of Starling, he does not show it but rises stiffly and does not say a word. His maroon eyes darken and he looks very dangerous. Mapp swallows audibly before dismissing him.
"Carry on, Lecter. I expect you to report here at 0800 tomorrow."
He does not say anything as he goes out the door, surrounded by an aura akin to a thundercloud.
**
"So, this is your place." It is the voice of Jack Crawford, definitely impressed, even though intoxicated. We see him and Lecter inside the small yet sumptuously appointed foyer inside somebody's two-storey apartment.
"My abode, Jack. The proper term for it is my abode, domicile, residence, dwelling. I would very much appreciate it if you saved your teenage slang for the streets."
"Whatever, Lecter. I say you're letting Starling get to you too much. She's bad news, boy. You need to get off more often. Speaking of getting off, where the hell is your broad, anyway?"
Lecter has taken off his coat and hung it behind the door, walking into the living room where he pours himself a glass of brandy before flopping down onto one of the maroon sofas and lighting a cigarette. He tips his head back, revealing the vulnerable jugular and exhales hard, watching the smoke dissipate in the cool air of the room.
"Crawford, sit down before you hurt yourself. I would thank you not to address her that way."
"Well, don't mind if I do. Sit down, I mean."
Jack enters the living room, but instead of sitting down, he also pours himself some brandy from the crystal decanter beside Lecter and takes a look at the pictures placed on the mantelpiece. One of them in particular catches his fancy. It is a watercolour of a teenage girl, sitting on a chair all alone in a bare room, playing a cello. The artist seems to have captured the moment perfectly. Her brown eyes even seem to twinkle with a bit of mirth, as if sharing a private joke with whoever painted the picture.
"This is a damned fine piece of art, my friend." Lecter raises his head from the back of the couch.
"Which one?"
"This here painting of the girl. Where did you get it? She's really pretty, too."
Hannibal cocks his head to one side, regarding Jack with hooded maroon eyes. "I painted it."
"Bull-shit you did. I didn't know you could paint."
"I can do a lot of things, Jackie."
"You sure can." He peered closer at the painting. "Nice hair. Red an' all. Is this what they call titian?"
"No. Starling's hair is a more precise example of titian, actually."
"She looks kinda like Molly Ringwald…or maybe Melissa Gilbert."
"Who, Starling?" Lecter said, amused.
"No, boyo. The chick in the painting."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that you approve of my taste in women." He lied through his teeth. As if he could really give a flying fuck what Jack Crawford thought.
"No shit! THIS is your broad?" Lecter winced once again at Crawford's use of tavern language. "Isn't she kind of young for you?" Crawford eyed him suspiciously. Lecter gave him a weak smile.
"She was eighteen when I painted that. She's four years older than me, Jack."
"That's a relief."
"And why is that?"
"Wouldn't want to bring you in for child abuse or something. Them poor innocents."
"Trust me, Jack, she is neither poor nor innocent." Lecter grinned devilishly.
"That good, huh?"
"I'm not telling…"
Crawford then sank beside Lecter and raised his glass up in the air. "Glad at least one of us is getting some." He took a swig, downing half the contents of the glass. "To Bella."
"To Bella," Lecter echoed. "How is she, really, Jack?"
Crawford looked at him, slightly bleary-eyed. "The truth?"
"Yeah, I want the truth."
"Truth is, the fucking quacks say she doesn't have long to live. They give her six months, Hannibal."
"I'm so sorry about Bella, Jack."
"Don't be sorry. You didn't have nothing to do with it. Besides, you got more important things to worry about. What did the guru say about your interview with Starling?"
Hannibal put his glass down on the side table at his right and poured more brandy into it before taking another sip. "Nothing much. In fact, she didn't want to talk about Starling at all. Why do you suppose that is?"
"Didn't you pay any attention at all to her trial a few years back?"
"A few years back I was sunning myself in the countryside in a little Italian villa."
"It was a fucking madhouse, my friend."
"Figuratively?"
"Literally!! I mean, the goddamn DA said that they had enough evidence to convict her of at LEAST ten counts of murder, and she beat it all on an insanity plea."
"She was advised to plead insanity? Tell me, and don't lie Jack, or I'll know."
Crawford looked sheepish. "Actually, the courts found her guilty. Dr. Starling did not plead." Lecter seemed to be digesting this when his cellphone rang.
"Lecter here." His face was unreadable. "Uh-huh. Yeah. You'll be coming on over then? Yes, thanks very much. I'll be here waiting."
"Who was that? Your girlfriend? I get to hold her hand, right?" he teased.
Lecter smiled, "All good things to those who wait, Jack, but I regret to inform you that the caller was not in the least bit female."
Crawford looked crestfallen. "No? Pity, that. Who was he, then?" he straightened up and looked at Lecter.
"An old friend. I'm having him over for dinner. Do you mind?"
"Naw. Hey, where ya going?" Lecter had stood and gone out the room. Jack sank back into the cushions and closed his eyes. "Son of a bitch." Lecter pops his dark sleek head back into the room.
"What did you say, Jack?"
"Nothing. Who's your 'old friend' anyway?"
"Someone I knew back from medical school." Crawford looked puzzled.
"Medical school? Oh yeah, you're a doctor too, right? Hot damn. Why'd you become a Fed, anyway?"
"I don't know," Lecter shrugged. "Perhaps it was a moment of temporary insanity."
"We have all the nuts we need, boyo. Especially what with you and Starling having all these conversations."
"Conversations, Jack?"
"Come on, Lecter. It's no secret that she talks to you. Now, the guru doesn't want you to go back to Starling, does she?"
"No."
"You want to hear what I think?"
"Do I have a choice?" he said sarcastically.
Crawford pretended not to notice. "In my opinion, you should definitely pursue this. You're the one she talks to, Lecter. Use it to your advantage."
"Whatever you say, Jack," he took the crystal decanter still half-filled with brandy, or half empty of brandy, depending on your perspective and uncharacteristically took a swig from the decanter itself.
"Whoah, there, boy." Crawford said. "Are you drinking yourself over Starling now?"
"That's absurd," Lecter said, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.
Crawford shook his head. "This is bad, boyo. Really bad. You don't want Clarice Starling in your head. Trust me on that one…" he let his last words drift off, but Hannibal was staring blindly at the fireplace, mutely watching the yellow-orange flames leap and play against the soot covered bricks. Three loud knocks coming from the door distracted him from wherever his thoughts had brought him to and Lecter stood up and walked briskly to the door, opening it quickly. Outside stood a giant of a man, dressed casually in jeans, a white shirt and denim jacket. He had something tucked underneath his arm. It looked to Crawford like a file of some sort. Lecter invited the man in and they shook hands. No hugs, no nothing. Just a simple handshake.
"Hello, Barney." Lecter took the file from him,
"Hey yourself, Han," the black man said.
"Come on in. I haven't quite gotten around to cooking anything yet. Perhaps you'd like to help me?"
"No thanks, doc. I grabbed me some McDonald's on my way here."
"All right. Jack, this is an acquaintance of mine from Johns Hopkins."
"Hi," Crawford said. "My name's Jack Crawford, but you can call me Jack."
"Mine's Barney."
"Just plain Barney?" Crawford said.
"Just plain Barney."
"Are you a doctor, too?"
"Yes." the big man shifted slightly.
"What kind?" Crawford persisted.
"Psychiatrist."
"Oh, just like Clarice Starling."
"Yeah. Just like Clarice Starling." He stared at Jack Crawford as if daring him to say something.
"So Barney," Lecter interrupted the tense silence between the two. "Do you want to go over and discuss these with me?"
"Sure, why ever the hell not? As long as the G-man doesn't open his bill." Jack took justifiable offence at this and did open his mouth as if to say something but quickly shut it as Lecter gave him a look that clearly told him to do so.
**
Hours later, Lecter had gained sufficient insight into the past of Clarice Starling. He knew about the lambs, about the orphanage, about her lineage. But what he could still not figure out was what drove her to kill. He escorted Barney out the front door. Jack had left about thirty minutes ago for his home.
"You know what, Lecter?"
"No, I don't know what Barney." He smiled slightly.
"If I were you, I'd drop this case. You don't want Starling inside your head."
"Why is it that everyone tells me that I would not want Clarice Starling inside my head?"
"I'm not the only one, then?"
"No, Crawford told me that same thing."
Barney smirked. "That's the only smart thing the G-man's said all night."
"Hold your judgement on him, Barney. He's going through a really rough time. His wife's dying." Barney fell silent for a moment.
"All right. If you say so, Hannibal. Nice place you got here. But I like the one in Baltimore better."
"So do I, Barney. So do I," said Lecter as he closed the door and went back into his study. He poured himself a liberal amount of whiskey and grimaced as he took a sip. What the hell was Starling driving him to? He never partook of hard liquor, only wine, and the only reason he kept such things around were because Barney liked them, and Barney was one of the few people he allowed himself a smidgen of affection for. He picked up the cordless phone and rang one of them now.
"Hello?" a female voice, soft and mellifluous.
"Hi, sweetheart."
"Hey, where are you?"
"I'm in my apartment, just near Quantico."
"How're you doing?" the female voice said.
"Not very well. I'm lonesome."
"Me, too."
"Horny."
"Me, too."
"Tell me about yourself."
A giggle at the other end of the line. "Are you trying to psychoanalyse me, doctor?"
"No, madam, I most assuredly am not," Lecter replied with a daffy grin on his face.
"When are you coming back to Baltimore? I'm not bugging you about coming home, I'm just wondering. I miss you."
"I miss you, too. I'll be there tomorrow for a case I'm working on."
"Sounds important."
"It is."
"Wanna talk about fucking?" she said, surprising him.
"I don't think I could stand it. I think, perhaps we had better not do that."
"Do what?"
"Talk about fucking."
"Okay," she acquiesced. "You don't mind if I think about it, though?"
"Absolutely not."
The conversation ran far into the night, neither of them getting much sleep.
**
You know the drill, ladies and gentlemen. There's a nice little box at the bottom where you can write your reviews, suggestion, comments, flames (preferably not), and anything else that comes to mind. However, if you should feel the urge to flame me, please do it via e-mail. To do so otherwise would be *rude*.
Ta,
Tailgunner.