Disclaimer: Hannibal, Clarice and other characters mentioned here
are not mine. Please don't mention Copyright Law...

A/N: Plots, fish-nets, and the good Doc can't get no respect...
Inspired by Helene and Diana. Thanks ladies! *grins*. Oh, and ta to
my mate Squiz for his enlightening comments on Teletubbies


Losing The Plot


In a dark, dark room, in a dark, dark house, a computer screen
glowed in electronic splendor.

A door creaked open, disturbing the silence of the room. A female
figure clad in jeans and a tatty t-shirt padded barefoot towards the
computer, like a faithful supplicant approaching a strange God.

The girl sat down. There was a brief pause as she carefully balanced
a teddy-bear mug on top of a battered copy of 'The Divine Comedy'.
Seconds later, the sound of typing filled the room.

When the clicking of the keyboard halted for the typer to take a
much-needed swig of caffeine, a dark shape detached itself from the
shadows, strolled forward and peered over the author's shoulder at
the glowing screen.

"Fish-nets? Again?"

The author leapt from her seat, spraying coffee all over her keyboard
and monitor. She flung her mug down and turned to face the intruder.

" Must you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Sneak up on me like that!"

He looked affronted. "Of course. It's what I do."

The author glared at him as he slipped smoothly past her, and
pointed at the computer screen.

"Explain."

"Explain what, Dr Lecter?"

His maroon eyes narrowed dangerously. "Explain why it is necessary
for me to wear fish-net stockings, a little black number and - " he
choked - "a *lamp-shade* in your latest fic."

"Oh, that..." She waved it aside breezily. "It's part of the plot."

He stared at her with an expression of growing incredulity. "What
plot, on what planet, could possibly feature 'Hannibal the Cannibal'
dressed as a *French maid?*"

The author shrugged. "Mine. Please excuse me, Doctor, but I want to
post this tonight."

She made to sit back down again, but Dr Lecter was quicker. He
darted in front of the computer and stood there, arms folded,
glowering.

"Who am I?" he demanded.

She stared at him. "Doctor Hannibal Lecter, of course."

"Of course. *What* am I?"

She gulped. "Um, a cannibal?"

"Correct! And I will not - repeat NOT - suffer the indignity of
prancing around a stage in fish-net stockings once more. Understood?"

Meeting his fearsome eyes, the author mentally gathered her courage.
"I'm afraid, sir, that it's part of the plot. And I've already
written it. You *will* do it." It took every ounce of courage and
sheer foolhardiness she possessed to not drop her gaze from his.

The good doctor seemed nonplussed. People rarely, if ever, dared to
contradict him. It was not something he was used to.

"I'm a *monster!*" he yelled. "I don't do drag and I don't do
children's parties! Good heavens, next you'll have me dressing up as
Barney the purple dinosaur!"

It was unusual to see the doctor so agitated. Sparks flew from his
eyes, and he paced up and down, waving his hands in the air.

There was a small silence after that last statement. Then -

She giggled. She couldn't help it.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned to face her. "Yes?" The word had it's
very own iceberg.

"B-B-Barney...." She sank into the chair, gasping for breath. "
Barney!" When she had recovered enough to speak polysyllabic words,
she looked up, grinning.

He regarded her with a mystified expression.

"Thanks. Nice twist..."

Dr Lecter lunged forwards, grabbing the wheeled computer chair - and
her - and slamming them both into the wall.

"Don't. Even. Think. About. It." he growled, his face inches from
hers.

Eyes wide, she shook her head vehemently. "Nosir. No way. You have
my word."

Dr Lecter seemed satisfied. He stepped away. The author,
unfortunately perhaps, chose this moment to pipe up with "But what
about Tinky Winky?"

The good doctor stopped dead. "Tinky Winky?" he whispered.

"Um, yeah. Oh, I've got a great plot for that one..."

"With the handbag."

"Of course. Tinky Winky is gay, y'know."

He blinked, very slowly, like a lizard caught in car headlights.
"Absolutely NOT. Under no circumstances whatsoever. As for the
French Maid, who do you think I am? Elton John?" He shuddered.

The author rose, her face set. "It's the plot" she reminded him. She
knew perfectly well that fictional characters cannot argue with the
plot.

It was typical Lecter that he seemed to feel that the rules of
fiction did not apply to him.

"Which plot?" he snapped. "The Rocky Horror Show?"

She shook her head. "Nah. Someone's already done that."

"Regardless of who's done what, I ain't doing it!"

She gaped at him, her jaw dropping open in shock. " Ain't? But - but
- that's not proper grammar!. Dr Lecter, that's slang!" Never, ever,
had she dreamed of hearing slang from the mouth of Lecter. It was
beyond belief. It was as unlikely as a hippopotamus donning a pink
tutu and joining the Royal Ballet.

The temperature in the room dropped noticeably.

"You're being rude...." he purred.

"I AM NOT BEING RUDE! I AM NOT GONNA LOSE THE PLOT THIS TIME!" she
howled, looking quite deranged. Dr Lecter had to take two steps
backwards, or risk being deafened. Obviously, he had underestimated
fanfiction author“ tendencies to cling on to the plot - any plot -
once they had one.

Chest heaving and eyes wild, the author glared across the room at
the doctor. He seemed just about to speak, when there was a tap on
the door. Both heads turned towards it.

A boy poked his head cautiously around the door. He looked straight
through Dr Lecter - it was as if he could not see him at all.

"Mum says if you're gonna keep screaming at the computer, she's
gonna call the special ambulance for you." With that, he
disappeared.

Dr Lecter grinned. "Special ambulance? Would they like a
psychological evaluation too?"

"Huh. Thanks." The author appeared to have calmed a little. She
sidled towards the computer again.

A powerful arm shot out, barring her way. "I don't think so" he said
coldly. "We haven't resolved the matter of the French maid yet. Or
the lamp-shade..."

She stared at him in exasperation. "If you think I'm gonna rewrite
the whole thing again, they you're wrong. It's only one little
scene. What's wrong with that?"

The doctor seemed to swell with indignation. "What's wrong with
that? What's wrong with it?! I have a REPUTATION! How can I be
terrifying while wearing a lamp-shade? The sleeveless vest in the
film was bad enough..."

She backed up as he approached, his eyes blazing. When she felt her
back against the wall, she gave a little whimper.

The doctor smirked. He picked her up by her t-shirt, holding her
against the wall. The girl's eyes were as round as saucers, her feet
dangled above the floor.

"You've forgotten the first rule of Lecterphiles everywhere, haven't
you?"

There was a very audible gulp.

"Never forget what he is!" he hissed, baring his teeth. "Oh, little
fan-fic author, I am going to make you suffer."

The author had regained a little of her voice. "What - what're you
gonna do?"

Dr Lecter smiled, a frightening sight. "Two words for you, my dear.
Copyright. Law." He let her go and stepped backwards. She scuttled
away, staring at him in horror.

Copyright Law. The words that strike terror into the heart of any
fanfiction author. She knew the Anne Rice fic groups had already
suffered that blow.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me." He smiled again.

The author shook her head. "No, you won't. Who keeps you in business
in the decade or so between books? And in the years between films.
Without us, you'd be nothing. Worse, you'd be bored." She knew her
subject all right.

The doctor looked surprised. He hadn't counted on her calling his
bluff.

She drove the point home. "Rumor has it that Tom Harris isn't
writing another Lecter book. What if you're out of a job? What then,
Doctor?"

Dr Lecter snarled. "Fine. I was bluffing. But I'm not wearing that
ridiculous costume."

"You are."

" Make me."

"Fine." She strode to the center of the room. "Clarice!"

There was a pause. Then another figure emerged from the shadows.
This person moved with the same athletic grace as Dr Lecter.

"Hannibal!"

"Clarice!"

Dr Lecter almost leapt forward and hugged her. "Clarice, you
wouldn't believe what this writer -" he glared at the author "wants
me to do."

There was another silence as Clarice perused the screen.

The author edged away. This could get nasty...

Clarice grinned. Dr Lecter looked horrified.

"Oh Hannibal, where's your sense of humor?"

"I drowned it in the fish-tank."

"Shame. I think you look good in women's clothes."

He shook his head. "Clarice, please! Not in company!"

Clarice Starling laughed. "Come on, it'll be fun" she coaxed.

The author stared in astonishment at the pair. Her last card had
worked. A smug grin settled on her face. Every Lecterphile knew that
the good doctor would do anything for his lady. Oh, the
possibilities....

The argument was one-sided.

"Why does nobody ever listen to me?" Dr Lecter sulked as Clarice set
a frilly white maid's cap on his head.

"Oh, stop grousing" she told him. She brandished a feather duster.
"Now, remember, swish and flick. Got that?"

"It's hardly difficult" he grumbled, waving the duster.

The author watched them from her computer chair. She lounged there,
trying not to appear too smug. She didn't want to upset the doctor,
after all.

"Hey, cheer up!" she told him brightly. "You think my fic's bad - my
friend once wrote you into a pink, sequined G-string and a very
compromising position with Yoda."

It was worth it all, she reflected, just for the look on his face.
Priceless.

FIN