Author's note:
To those campaigning for Clarice to pop up: All good things to those who wait, Dear Reader. She'll be along.
To those who think I'm good at goo. Thank you. I'm not a romantic at heart, though – just a gore author who decided to try something different. Killing sprees are all well and good, you know, but I don't really want to be the Wes Craven of Hannibal fics. (Though I did get Samantha Bridges to include a severed head in her latest story.)
Dr. Hannibal Lecter awoke with a fuzzy grunt. It took him just a moment to remember where he was and what had happened to him. He was on a stretcher, being wheeled back to his room by a silent attendant. When he stirred, the attendant looked down at him and smiled pleasantly.
"You're awake," the attendant said. "You feeling OK?"
Dr. Lecter put his good hand on his forehead. "Yes…I suppose so." He looked around. He wasn't in recovery, so he must have woken up there and fallen back asleep. He could not recall being in the operating room or in recovery, but he knew that was not uncommon. It would come in time. For now, he had to plot his escape from the hospital.
The attendant wheeled him back to his room and helped him get onto the bed. He shared the room with another man who lay in his own bed, watching TV desultorily. The room was small, with two beds on either side of the room. A small TV was bolted to the wall in front of each bed. The other man's was on, and he was watching football. Dr. Lecter's was off.
The room had no door, and a glassed-in window all the way across one wall made it easy for the nurses to check in on their charges. Dr. Lecter thought of the suicide-watch cell back at the asylum and scowled.
"Hey," the other patient grunted. "How you doin?"
"I'm fine, thank you," Dr. Lecter said courteously. "And yourself?"
The man shrugged. With one arm, Dr. Lecter noted: the other was bound in a sling across his chest. "All fine except for the shoulder."
"What happened, if I may ask?"
"Broke it. They put a steel pin in it to keep it in. How about you?"
Dr. Lecter nodded. He held up his own heavily bandaged hand. "They reattached my thumb."
The man's eyes widened. "Woah," he said. "You got your thumb chopped off?"
"No," Dr. Lecter said, "I did it myself."
"Accident, huh? That's a bitch."
"Indeed," Dr. Lecter confirmed, and then looked at his hand. The hand was bandaged heavily. But he could see the tip of his thumb poking out of the white gauze shrouding his hand. The thumb itself was numb. He could feel nothing beyond the heel of his hand. That didn't surprise him. It would take time for the nerves to grow and re-attach.
He probed his bandaged hand and discovered that there were aluminum splints holding his thumb on. The color of his thumb was better than it had been, but still pale. That was all right, too. He knew better than to expect his thumb would work immediately again.
A nurse walked into the room and looked at him calmly.
"Mr. Daum," she said gently, "please leave that be. Don't pick at it."
"I'm just looking," Dr. Lecter said calmly.
"Let your doctor do it. She'll be here in just a little while."
"Very well," Dr. Lecter said with a sigh.
"Are you hungry? I can get you something to eat."
Dr. Lecter knew from his own experience about hospital food. "Thank you, but no."
"All right then. If you need anything, just give a holler."
He lay back and thought about how he was going to get out of here. He could always sign out AMA, but that would leave a record. Better to simply melt into the crowd and escape. If only he didn't feel so groggy. He wasn't sure if he would be able to walk, let alone escape.
So he lay in his bed for perhaps half an hour or so. His TV remained off. He had no real interest in football. His roommate tried to engage him in conversation a few times, but Dr. Lecter did not respond.
Eventually, the man left him alone. His eyes closed and he did not move, but he was not asleep. He was back in his memory palace, reviewing what he knew about anesthesia and when it might wear off.
He was drawn out of his palace by the sight of Erin Lander appearing in his doorway. She held a chart in one hand and looked diffident. She smiled when she saw him and crossed to his bedside. The curtain ran shut with a screech. Dr. Lecter winced.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Tired," Dr. Lecter said carefully.
"That's the anesthesia. Your surgery went well. Let me look at your hand."
Dr. Lecter handed over his bandaged hand without complaint. She undid the bandages, exposing the thumb. A black row of stitches marked the line where his thumb had been re-attached to his hand.
"Did you do the procedure?" he asked gently.
He saw her face light up with pride. "Yes, I did," she said. "It went fine. No complications. You should recover a lot of function. You'll need therapy, though."
Dr. Lecter dropped his voice and spoke in a conspiratorial tone.
"Erin," he said intensely, "I want you to bring me a set of surgical scrubs. Generally I take a large."
Her mouth quirked and her eyebrow rose. "Scrubs? Why?"
"To get out of here."
She shook her head absently. "No. You can't. You need to stay here, let me take care of you." He could see rejection and hurt on her face and hated himself for it. But he'd be damned if the FBI tracked him here and found him lying dumbly in this bed.
"No," he said. "I would like nothing better, but it cannot be. Just bring them here, I'll take care of the rest."
"You need help," she implored. "Let me help you."
"You already have, more than you know. And I thank you for it. But I will not be taken again."
"You won't," she said. "You're under another name, no one will know."
He sighed. "The FBI is smarter than that, you know. And they may track me here. Now: bring me the scrubs, there's a good girl."
He saw her chin wobble and knew what it meant. Although she had been afraid of him this morning – and still was – she did not want him to leave. Dr. Lecter did not need to be told that he doubtlessly had a plethora of emotional effects on his surgeon. Belatedly, he remembered that Erin Lander, like Clarice Starling, had lost her father as a girl.
How do I attract these women? he wondered to himself.
"Do it for me," he said. "Otherwise, I'll leave anyway and you'll never see me again. Do this for me, and you will."
That got a reaction out of her, as he had suspected it would. He saw her eyes fill with tears and watched her blink them away resolutely. Her throat worked. He did not want to hurt her, but he said nothing, simply watched her stone-faced.
She wouldn't refuse him. She couldn't refuse him. She closed her eyes, swallowed once, and nodded.
"All right," she said in a toneless voice.
She re-bandaged his hand. Her face was distant.
"I'll be back to check on you in a bit," she said in a robotic, faraway tone, and pulled back the curtains. Her sneakered feet made little sound in the hallway.
Dr. Lecter watched her depart and shook his head. He didn't want to hurt her. But priorities were priorities, and escaping from the hospital was priority. Besides, he tried to convince himself, it would all be worth it.
"Nice, uh?" the man in the next bed asked.
Dr. Lecter turned and tilted his head. "Excuse me?"
"She's nice. Tight. YanowadImean?"
"She's quite pleasant," Dr. Lecter said calmly.
The man chuckled crudely. "Maybe, but that's not what I meant."
Dr. Lecter had an idea where this was going, but he took a measured breath and asked, "Then what did you mean?"
"You know. Pretty hot little doctor." The man chuckled lewdly. "Nice ya-ya's."
Dr. Lecter had first learned English at age six from the British troops who had rescued him from his parents' estate in Lithuania. During his years in the United States, his accent had slowly been clipped away bit by bit to the eastern American norm. His normal speech contained just a shadow of what it had been. Except when he was angry. And he was angry now.
"Ya-ya's?" he asked, drawing out the vowels in scorn.
"Yeah," the man said obliviously. "That blonde nursie has got bigger ones, but that doc is smaller, see? So they look bigger." He cackled unpleasantly and cupped his free hand up by his own pectorals to illustrate his point.
"I see," Dr. Lecter said. "Tell me, were you ever acquainted with one I.J. Miggs?"
The man gawped at him. "No. Why? Who's he?"
"An acquaintance of mine. You remind me of him."
The discussion shut off as efficiently as a light switch as Dr. Lander re-entered the room. Her eyes were dry and angry. They sparkled at Dr. Lecter like pools of bitter oil. She tossed a green bundle onto his bed and walked off without another word. Her anger at him was palpable. The hem of her lab coat flapped around her calves as she stalked down the hall.
Dr. Lecter took them and sighed. She would come to understand. She would have to. In the meantime, he could only be truly sorry for any pain she suffered. He gathered up the scrubs and stuffed them under the paper gown. Gathering his IV pole, he headed off for the bathroom.
The nurse watched him as he went. He did not seem to need help, so she allowed him the dignity of standing by unless he asked for it. Dr. Lecter understood that. Actually, he was suitably impressed with this staff, considering he was supposedly a homeless man who could not pay for the care he received. He decided that once he was away, he would send the Surgical Department a large but anonymous gift.
In the bathroom, Dr. Lecter swiftly changed into the scrubs. He removed his IV from his hand and held a paper towel over it to stanch the bleeding. He knew he ought to leave immediately, but his shoes were in his room along with the horrid clothes, and he did not want even those horrid rags to fall into the hands of the FBI.
Besides, he had to do something about that fellow.
In the room, the fellow squinted at him as Dr. Lecter took the green bag containing his belongings and put on his shoes. He unwrapped a scalpel blade and held it between the thumb and finger of his good hand.
"You outa here?" he asked.
"Yes," Dr. Lecter said. "My clothes were destroyed unfortunately. In the ER. So they gave me these."
"Me too," the man said. "Outa here, I mean. Soon as they get off their butts and sign my paperwork."
Dr. Lecter did not know that, so he hopped into bed and hurriedly put on his gown to cover the scrub shirt. He did not want to miss a chance to teach this man a lesson for his rudeness. After another twenty minutes or so, a nurse came in, removed the man's IV, and told him he was free to go. The man got his things and changed. Dr. Lecter turned away courteously while he did so.
"Well, catch ya later," the man said, and waved goodbye. Dr. Lecter counted to twenty before getting up, removing his gown, and following.
He turned and exited into the hall. He strode past the nurses's station with his head turned the other way as if examining the walls to ensure they would not collapse. Then he was at the elevators. One binged and disgorged several passengers. Dr. Lecter got onto the elevator and rode down to the lobby.
As the door closed, he saw a small, resolute figure standing against the far wall with her arms crossed, glaring at him.
Ah well. In time, she would understand.
In the parking garage, Dr. Lecter caught up with his erstwhile roommate. The man only started to turn when Dr. Lecter's arm slipped around his throat. He was large and strong, but even the strongest man needs oxygen, and Dr. Lecter throttled him unconscious within seconds. He was bulky enough to give Dr. Lecter a bit of pause in getting him to the ground one-handed, but he managed.
Dr. Lecter pried the man's mouth open and stuck his bandaged hand in. A blast of bad breath struck him and he winced with distaste. Firmly, he gripped the man's tongue and pulled. It was slippery and not terribly pleasant, but Dr. Lecter was determined. Eventually, he had the tongue fully extended and as far out of the mouth as it would go.
The scalpel blade was small but quite sharp. It sank into the pink meat of the tongue quite easily. Even without the aid of a scalpel handle, Dr. Lecter was able to cut through the thickness of the tongue without too much difficulty. The blood flow was immediate, but that was what scrubs were for, after all. He toyed with the idea of bringing the tongue back to her apartment to cook it, but decided against it. After all, tongue was rather unappetizing. So once he had severed the tongue completely, Dr. Lecter threw it over the concrete wall of the parking garage and watched it plummet to the ground three floors below. It landed on the access road and rolled into the gutter. Dr. Lecter found that quite fitting.
He dragged the man behind a large Ford Explorer and left him there without a second thought. He would comment on the ya-ya's of no more medical professionals. Fortunately, the man did not move. Dr. Lecter thought this a more fitting punishment than death.
Dr. Lecter got his Jeep out of the parking garage and headed out of the city. An hour's drive down the Interstate provided him with plenty of rural area in which he could dispose of the Cherokee's prior owner, whose odor was becoming objectionable. Then he turned around and drove back into the city.
Shopping was something Dr. Lecter liked very much to do. At a rest stop, he was fortunate to find a Yellow Pages that had not been vandalized. It was tied down with a cable, but Dr. Lecter was able to detach it with a wrench he found in the Cherokee. Then he headed back to the city. The Yellow Pages served to provide him with the locations for what he sought. A local department store provided him with clothing and cookware. A hardware store provided him with a few other tools he wanted. And a locksmith supply store provided him with some real lockpicks. A large grocery store in a wealthy suburb provided him with a selection of food that met his discriminating tastes. Finally, a medical supply store provided him with what he would need to care for his hand.
He returned to Erin's apartment a few hours later. There were many locks on her door, but a bit of patience with his picks let him in. The apartment soon filled with the smell of cooking meat. Dr. Lecter found cooking a very enjoyable experience and was able to lose himself as he prepared the meal. He did not like the stove, as he believed firmly that gas stoves were superior. Nonetheless, it was sufficient.
It was dark by the time Erin returned. Dr. Lecter had expected this. Residents pulled long hours. Her key scratched in the door. Dr. Lecter turned as she approached. She stared blankly at him as the door slid shut unnoticed. Anger, hurt, happiness, gratitude, and wariness carried out a brief battle across the planes of her face.
"Good evening," Dr. Lecter said courteously. "Won't you sit down? Dinner is ready." He had changed back to his suit, which thankfully was not bloodstained. He sported one of the new ties he had bought, a bright red tie with He indicated her table, which was covered with a white damask tablecloth and set for two places. Two candles burned in the center of the table on silver candlesticks. A bottle of wine stood chummily by a large dish on which two rare steaks lay.
She stood for a moment silently, a tired woman in wrinkled surgical scrubs. She took in the elegance he had brought to her apartment. Her eyes flitted over the tablecloth, the steaks, the candles, then back to him. It was several moments before she spoke. When she did, he saw the gleam of unshed tears in her eyes.
"You came back," she said simply.
"Of course I did," Dr. Lecter answered, and smiled.