Chapter 5
See Disclaimers on chapter 1
A/N: As this story progresses, I realise fully that I've written both Clarice and the GD as slightly (or extremely – take your pick) OOC. For that I would like to apologise. But that does not mean that it was not intentional. I wanted to do something different, and I hope this achieves it. I'm also sorry for the proliferation of non-canon characters, since as a rule I generally avoid stories that feature them. Never meant for those nuts to get out of hand. But rest assured that only two of them shall be given further elaboration. Thank you for having the patience to read my pathetic whingeing, now on with the show.
For LadyOfTruths who never stopped liking this story despite my laxness in posting.
**
Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with all these people snoring their lives away. Night is the best part of the day.
Max, Dark Angel.
Hannibal Lecter put the phone down and smiled grimly to himself. He had heard every single word of the two lovers' conversation.
Yes. Lovers. He had no doubts about the young man's intentions towards Clarice; it was hers he was not guaranteed of. On one hand, young St. John's feelings could easily be reciprocated as well, but that was something he did not gather from the tone of their discourse. Any somewhat deeper emotions had to be coming from his end, and were as yet undeclared.
He had watched her as she lay on the bed in the cramped motel room, smelling of sex and sweat, her expression closed to him save for the occasional puckering of her forehead and rapid eye twitches as she tossed and turned, betraying the direction her dreams had taken and assuring him that the lambs were still screaming.
A whimsical smiled flitted across the doctor's face for the briefest of moments before disappearing entirely as he once again cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear as he punched the buttons of a particular phone number. As the phone began to ring, Lecter ruminated on recent events while waiting for the person at the other end of the line to pick up.
Despite all evidence towards the contrary, Hannibal Lecter did not think of himself as omniscient these days. If perhaps at one time he did, his encounters with the former FBI Agent had quickly disabused him of that notion.
That maddeningly provoking yet oh-so-desirable woman brought out a multitude of long denied emotions in him, emotions which he thought were forgotten or even incapable of feeling but now realised were only lying dormant, waiting for the right kind of pilot to come and take the wheel. Someone to push his buttons, so to speak and Clarice Starling could push them very well, whether she was aware of it or not.
Rage. Envy. Lust. An overwhelming desire to gut and string her incommodious lover's chitterlings up for the world to see . . . yeah. That would be good. Cut the bothersome bastard's belly like a kielbasa and savour the fear and agony in the little shit's ridiculously green eyes as the life slowly drained out of him. Lecter allowed himself a slight smile that slowly disappeared as he contemplated on the ramifications of his actions. While he was fairly certain that Clarice could not possibly love the man (or maybe it was the thought that she would choose some insignificant pup over him that led him towards this line of thinking), she could very well care for him.
He shook himself mentally somewhat disturbed that he had been perturbed at the thought of distressing his Clarice.
Two years was an eternity spent in a voyeuristic limbo. Two years, in which he had to watch her, to derive pleasure from the very sight of her . . . well, happiness it certainly was not. Could it ever have been? Perhaps a more apt term for her current state of emotion was contentment. Yes, contentment. Despite everything she might have said during their Sunday repast, he had every reason to believe that Clarice was finally at peace with herself and the people around her. Which was why he chose this time to make his presence known to her.
Click.
"Hello?" A sleepy male voice at the other end of the line fairly snarled into the receiver.
Lecter had never really been fond of Conan Doyle's stories, but his ludicrous detective's battle cry could not have been more apropos to the present scenario.
The game was indeed afoot.
**
Odalisque, 311 Bourbon St. 9:00 p.m. Day 15.
J. Irvin was a man above all other men. A gossip columnist with phenomenal talent, he could have written several novels of which any one was more than certain to be deemed veritable classics, had he not decided to pursue a career in journalism instead. New Orleans society trembled in fear of his acid pen and even more acidic wit that could and had reduced even the most haughty of debutantes into whining, whimpering masses of humiliated lace and chiffon within mere minutes. This compounded with a formidable presence that easily drew men and women to him like steel to a magnet cemented the celebrity that came with the name and left no room for additional speculation to the already abundant gossip on the subject of his life, which was fuelled by and revolved around it. They say that the pen is mightier than the sword, but for many of J. Irvin's lovers, his sword was absolutely mightier than his pen.
From his lofty perch on the second level of the club, he scanned the pit; crawling with the teeming masses of humanity that seemed to be gyrating in time to the frenzied cadence of the onstage band. Damn bunch of demented pied pipers with amplifiers, he thought moodily to himself. His cold grey eyes with their all encompassing gaze was that of a conquering ruler, a cigarette his right and the ever-present glass of scotch in the other.
"Hello, baby," the slender Hispanic woman smiled up at him as she wrapped her arms about his middle, chin resting on his chest as she looked up into his face.
"Hello to you, too. And how is my favourite bitch today?" J. Irvin enquired glibly, pinching one plump ass cheek and pressing a fatherly kiss to her forehead. This woman was not one of his lovers and thus more respected and adored for it.
"Still bitchin'. Can you believe the crowd? I tell you, I have to get myself out of this business."
"Why? You make so much money from it." He tossed back the two fingers of scotch in one go, settling the empty glass on one of the black, wood and steel circular tables.
"It bores me."
"What doesn't?"
"Well fuck me, is that who I think it is?" she said almost to herself before grabbing J. Irvin by the arm and yanking his face down in order for his line of vision to match hers. The both stared at the tall, dark haired man, identical mischievously glee-filled grins gracing their very dissimilar faces.
"Johnny," they chorused.
"Did you see that hot number with him," the woman murmured appreciatively, gesturing at the couple who were making their way across the jam-packed dance floor.
"She's pretty," J. Irvin pronounced with the experienced tone of a man well versed in the feminine physique. "But a little too wholesome-looking for my tastes. Or his for that matter. Always thought he went for petite, dark and sarcastic."
"Shut the fuck up."
"Still in denial, aren't you?"
"Yeah. Whatever. Denial my ass," she grumbled as she shoved him in the chest before moving to greet the approaching couple at the stairs. She cocked her head to one side, blocking their path.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the infamous Malcolm St. John."
**
"I thought we were going to a jazz club," Starling yelled at St. John over the din of discotheque music that was hammering fiercely through her skull, causing her blood to thrum as it pooled in her not-to-be-mentioned-in-public places. Her temperature went up two degrees, something she had yet to decide whether the cause that particular sensation was the atmospheric heat generated by the many bodies surrounding her or from the half glass of brandy she had already consumed in the ten minutes they had both been here.
"I lied," he yelled back. "Sort of. This used to be a Jazz club," he muttered to himself.
"What?"
"I said I changed my mind. Besides, I want you to meet some friends of mine," he gripped her hand tightly as he tugged her up the industrial steel stairs, fishing the both of them out of the pit.
Meet. Friends. Oh shit.
In Starling's opinion, it was never a good thing when they wanted you to meet their friends. It meant that they were getting serious. Somehow she didn't think she was quite ready for that yet. When she turned her head to look back down, she was temporarily blinded and left seeing spots by the flashing kaleidoscope of light into her eyes. As St. John steered her over to one of the more secluded corners, she resisted the childish urge to rub at her eyelids.
"Well, well, well. If it isn't the infamous Malcolm St. John, finally deigning to step down from his loft perch to mingle with us mere mortals." Starling looked up to see a smiling Hispanic woman and a tall, strongly built mulatto man with the most striking grey eyes she had ever seen glinting deep set from his dark face. She turned to her lover (or her what-fucking-ever) who looked like he'd been slapped in the face before quickly recovering himself and turning up the charm.
**
Upper Level, Odalisque, 311 Bourbon. 9:30 p.m. Day 15
Maddox Capriccio was slightly smaller than Clarice with a tiny but perfectly proportioned frame that made her look taller than she actually was. Her short-cropped hair had blue highlights in it and was gelled just enough to achieve that just-rolled-out-of-bed-look that was the rage nowadays. She had a stud in one nose and a cigarette was hanging out of her mouth. Very gothic. She gave Starling the once over with her coolly assessing gaze, her features remaining blank and expressionless. Whatever Maddox thought of Clarice, she kept it to herself as she continued to appraise the redhead.
"How long have you been fucking him?"
"Excuse me?" Starling's eyes widened in disbelief. The dark haired woman made and impatient gesture with her hand.
"Him. Johnny. Or St. John, as those not in the know usually call him," she took a deep drag off her cigarette, puffing the grey, white and ever so pale blue of smoke in a series of perfectly formed rings.
"Er, not that long," said Starling carefully, surreptitiously looking around to see if St. John had returned with their drinks. He was still down in the pit and hadn't even reached the bar yet. "Why?"
"Nothing much. Just don't expect it to last. He's like that, you see. All fun and games one minute and Mr. gloom and doom the next. "
"I've noticed. And I assume you speak from experience."
"Possibly."
"Are you attempting to discourage me?"
The other woman gave her a shrewd look from the inky depths of her eyes. "Would it make you feel better if I told you that every single tramp, woman, bitch, slut or God knows what kind of dumb ho that useless skunk brings here gets the same treatment? Not that I'm implying that you belong to one of those categories. For all I know, you could be the girl."
"The girl?" parroted Starling. Dax took swirled the ice cubes round and round in her glass, taking one of them into her mouth with her tongue and crunching on it.
"Not too quick, are you? Two kinds of relationships we have in this world, babe. A relationship you have with someone, or a relationship you have with the one. It's an everlasting search that only a few of us are able to finish successfully. Most just give up and settle for second best." Clarice nodded her head in mute understanding. "Do you use any protection? Pills? Condoms?"
"I am a grown woman. I don't think we need this talk—"
"Yadda, yadda, yadda. That's what they all say until he," there was no doubt whom she was talking about, "knocks them up sooner or later. Then they find out that the illustrious Mr. Malcolm never intended for their so-called relationship to be anything but a very brief fling. Then starts the crying, the weeping, the all-out bawling but in the end, they get rid of the kid once they realise they'll never be able to use it as leverage against him. Do you understand?"
"All too well. And if it will make you abandon this distasteful topic, it's the latter."
Dax rolled her eyes. "Well, don't rely on that, love. All them Catholics have got is the rhythm method, and we both know that doesn't work. Keep it up and you'll be pregnant faster than you can say bastard," Dax narrowed her eyes and scrutinised her. "Unless of course that's what you want."
"Want? Hell no!" she remonstrated vehemently. "That's the last thing I want."
"Frabjous. We've now sort of established you're no gold-digger. My advise to you is that you better get yourself on the pill, girlfriend. If there's one thing worse than getting pregnant, it's not knowing who the father is."
"Why wouldn't I?" asked Starling curiously.
"Please, darling. Juggling isn't conductive to paternal assurance. Besides, I doubt if you'd really want to subject your bambino to the tests required for that sort of shit."
"Juggling?" she echoed. This really was starting to get quite tedious. The woman was talking so fast and being so damned ambiguous, Starling had to struggle to keep up with what sounded to her like riddles.
"Man over there, six o'clock. He's been looking at you in the weirdest way. That's not the look of some nut with a crush. That's the look of a man in love. And let me tell you, baby, that kind of lovin' doesn't go unreciprocated for long. If you aren't sleeping with him now, very soon you will be. Take my word for it. Been there and done that and let me tell you, it ain't gonna be pretty."
With those words, her head snapped to the direction Dax had inclined her head towards.
**
Ground Level, Odalisque, 311 Bourbon. 9:30 p.m. Day 15
"Right. What did you drag me here for, again?" Guillermo Ruiz, still half asleep torpidly inquired of Hannibal Lecter, who was attempting to gain a clear view of the second-floor through the thick haze of smoke pervading the club's atmosphere. Ruiz tilted his head a little and glanced at the two women who had commanded his friend's attention. "She's going to kill me if she finds out I'm with you, you know," he remarked off-handedly, signalling a passing waiter for another brandy.
"And here I thought you were the eternal masochist considering your choice in life partners."
"I take it you're referring to Lorelai?"
"You mean the vicious harpy you married has a name?" said Lecter distractedly, trying to read Clarice's lips without being sidetracked by the less than acceptable thoughts that particular sight inevitably conjured up.
"Touché. But I'm not the one trying to hide and play the Peeping Tom at the same time."
"I prefer to refer to this as surreptitious surveillance, thank you very much."
"Political correctness has nothing to do with the fact that your present behaviour is a radical departure from what passes as your norms. But then, Lor always said that love doth make fools of us all."
"You're assuming, Guillermo," Lecter said blandly, calling the other man by his much despised first name.
"And you're ridiculous, Hannibal."
"You do of course realise I've killed people for lesser remarks than that?" Lecter smiled malevolently at Ruiz who remained unperturbed and was now scrying into a fresh glass of brandy.
"You can't kill me."
"Why not?"
"You'd be bored. Not to mention short of people you could actually tolerate. We all know what happens when you're bored. You'd have been climbing walls back in Med school had I not been there. Have you noticed that the ice cubes look rather fascinating in this light?"
"You're deviating. Are you quite certain you aren't suffering from premature Alzheimer's?"
"All wishful thinking on your part. If you want her, tell her the truth. Stop with all this cloak and dagger nonsense. Women generally like that, but there are always exceptions to the rule. I am more than sure that Clarice Starling has had enough to last her several lifetimes over. Honesty goes a long way, my friend. You should try it sometime."
"Seeing as the tactics you employ with regards to your personal life only landed you in the welcoming claws of Cruella De Ville, I believe I would be wise to take your words with a pinch—no, make that a cup of salt. And as for honesty, I believe I have always been brutally honest."
"The operative word there was brutality, as opposed to honesty. What the girl needs is normality. Pick something you like about her and complement her on it. Maybe even embellish a little."
"That would be lying."
"But, it would be lying to your advantage," Ruiz wagged his finger as if to make a point. "And yes, there is a difference."
"I do wish you would make up your mind. Not only do you have Alzheimer's, you're schizophrenic as well," he groused tetchily. Ruiz chortled, much too accustomed to the other man's mercurial temperament to actually take any offence at it.
"You've missed this, haven't you," he gestured at the both of them. "Just sitting down, relaxed, surrounded by beautiful, scantily-clad women," Ruiz wagged an eyebrow suggestively to the effect of having Lecter roll his eyes. But not before the other man had seen the tiniest of smiles tugging at one corner of the doctor's mouth. "Fine. You've always had the beauties at your beck and call, but what about being able to engage in friendly banter with someone with an IQ who knows you for who you are and still accepts you?"
"Maybe."
"You did. Admit it."
"If I say yes, will you be quiet at last?"
"Not likely," Ruiz smiled, spreading his arms out in a friendly gesture. "You know me too well."
"You're worthless. If you cannot be still will you at least inform me what causes Lorelai to detest me so?"
"Detest? Really, Hannibal. That's too strong a word even when pertaining to you. She's wary of you, mistrustful, but I doubt she detests you. If she did, she would have called the Feds on you. Especially since she seems to be rather fond of Clarice."
"You mean the Fucking Bushel of Idiots?"
"No, I meant the Comprehensive Imbecile's Association. Of course I meant the FBI."
"You're definitely schizophrenic. Have you tried seeking psychiatric help?"
"Not yet. Are you offering? I've heard it can be quite expensive."
"Are we going to argue for the rest of the night?"
"What can I say? Can't really blame me, as I'm being perfectly reasonable while you're stubborn as a mule and twice as ugly. Oh shit. Uh, Hannibal, I think you've just caught the little birdie's eye," Ruiz muttered almost unintelligibly before ducking to avoid the sudden glare of a startled Starling.
**
Clarice quickly scanned the dimness of the alcoves with her trained eyes for a glimpse of the man whom Maddox had mentioned. Five teenagers getting drunk . . . the empty beer bottles on their table stood as testament to that. The next three tables occupied by groups of friends prattling animatedly with each other, a lone woman furtively looking around as if she were afraid of being stood up. Best of luck to you, sister, Starling thought wryly. Nobody even remotely interesting in the other table and . . .she found him. He was nearly obscured by the large fronds of a potted palm sitting with another man whose face she couldn't see at all only a vaguely familiar back and head of salt and pepper hair.
Lecter. Dammit, does the man never quit?
Just as she narrowed her eyes in irked awareness, her quarry subtly inclined his sleek head towards hers in a manner of greeting that struck her as condescending in every aspect and caused her hackles to rise up. She barely felt St. John as he returned with their drinks and slid his body next to her in the booth, his arm coming around her shoulders to draw her nearer to him.
Lecter's dark, knowing eyes mocked her, causing her temper not to mention body temperature to escalate a few degrees more than it had climbed previously. Starling felt her upper lip curling involuntarily and his answering smile of smug arrogance, no doubt in the knowledge that he had sufficiently perturbed her. His head moved just the slightest bit, enough to let her know that he was looking at St. John before once again giving her his full attention.
The gall of that man.
He raised his right hand in a contemptuous two-fingered salute accompanied by an even more infuriating smile that made her blood boil.
A challenge issued, a gauntlet thrown. In a heartbeat she made her decision.
Let the games begin.
**
"God, that's depressing," said Dax, flashing a grin in both Starling and St. John's general direction, her attention on the blonde woman onstage. Starling tried to focus hers back into the conversation, trying to assess what she had missed by picking up hints here and there, all the while her mind on the man whose gaze she felt boring into her out of the corner of one eye.
"So, how you been, mate?"
St. John grunted what must have passed for an answer as Dax merely arched a brow and chuckled. "Same old, same old. You've never changed, have you, you morose old bastard? Best of luck with him, girlie. You'll need a truckload of it just to deal with his gloomy Irishness. It's like G.K. Chesterton. The Irish are the race that God made mad, for all their wars are merry, and all their songs are sad," she quoted smoothly, flashing the both of them a sad smile before picking up her Gin & Tonic and swaggering effortlessly away, cutting through the crowd with the practiced ease of the perpetual party-hopper.
She's gone? That was one short convo. A surreptitious glance at her wristwatch gave her the surprising and disconcerting information that she and Lecter had been glaring and staring each other respectively for nearly ten minutes. Time's sure fun when you're having flies. She stifled the urge to roll her eyeballs and was glad that she did for when she turned her head to St. John, she was caught unawares by the distant and could it be—almost melancholy look replacing the perpetually amused glitter in his lovely greens. Instinctively, she knew it had something to do with the seemingly harmless (but now she began to doubt that) chatter she missed.
"Who's Maddox to you?" she enquired softly. He started, giving her a startled glance, as no doubt she had interrupted his ruminations from wherever they had wandered.
"Dax is. . ." he hesitated. "Dax is just a girl I used to know. Or thought I knew." He finished more firmly, a poignant expression still haunting him.
"Old flame?"
"More like old flamed," he replied quietly, folding a paper napkin again and again until it was a tiny triangular wad. "I crashed and burned when she left me high and dry." Starling nearly winced at the flicker of pain she saw in his green eyes.
"Interesting friends you have."
"They're more interesting than they seem," he replied bafflingly. "J. Irvin's completely insane and Dax is just about twice as mad as he is. Lord knows how they get along."
"She's very frank." Starling leaned her head into the crook of his neck, inhaling the distinctly masculine smell of him, mixed with cigarette smoke, albeit not unpleasantly. As his fingers reached up to stroke her hair, her guardian devil planted the seed of an interesting scenario that positively screamed payback into her brain. What had began as an act of comfort from her towards her lover now began to escalate into a delicious form of tit for tat that set the wheels and gears turning in her mind.
All I need is a little cooperation from that very bad man down there. Either that, or some divine intervention would be appreciated. A glance down into the pit confirmed that she still commanded Lecter's full attention and she fought the urge to smirk. If this ain't killing two birds with one stone, I don't know what is.
"To the point of being rude and insulting?" her lover grinned. "She's always been like that. But that's Maddox for you and she means well. Most of the time."
"And the rest of the time," she murmured huskily into the sensitive skin behind his ear.
This is wrong, wrong, wrong, Starling's conscience chanted into her head but the memory of Lecter's eyes boring into hers and the offending gesture of a mock-salute was enough to steel her resolve.
"And the rest of the time . . . Mmmmm," St. John sighed at the delicious pressure of her lips and the soft little nips she was giving his earlobe.
"I'm sorry, you were saying?" Starling grinned impishly at him, shooting him a come-hither glance, her eyes filled with the knowledge gifted to all women since the dawn of time.
Now or never. Come on, boy. Don't disappoint. If that man wants a show, he's got another thing coming to him . . . Hannibal Lecter, you had better be watching this.
"Oh fucking 'ell," St. John groaned as he pulled her to him. She reciprocated his kiss with equal fervour. But her eyes were locked with a man, cloaked in smoky darkness, sitting behind and below them, down in one of the tables in one of the alcoves on the platforms lining the pit. Daring him, taunting him. She knew that in the tumultuous chaos of the gardens in his mind's eye he was walking the proverbial fine line between sanity and all other forms of life. And she knew that it would take only the slightest push to make him decide to remove that line.
Well, when that happened, the shit was going to hit the fan. Big time.
**
Lecter wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. Intellectually, he knew perfectly well that the chances of such occurrence were slimmer than none. After all, he was in fit shape and made certain that he kept that a constant. But there was something to be said about the feeling of all his blood rushing to his head in a manner that was not good at all, the pounding sound it made in his ears, drowning out the hubbub of the club. The erratic beat of the music becoming the unsteady pulse of his heart. His vision had seemingly narrowed to tunnel-like pinpoints with air refusing to be dragged into his garrotted lungs.
Knowing they were doing the deed in private was one thing, but watching them practically devour each other in public was another. And that was something he would not tolerate.
He was barely even aware of the sting in his palm until he looked down and realised that he had crushed his glass. Brandy flowed over, around and into the wound mixing with the red of blood and disinfecting it to some extent what with its alcohol content. Lecter really didn't have the time to ponder on such mundane elementary first-aid medicine mainly because the foremost thing on his mind was murder.
St. John's in particular.
The pup was going to die slowly.
As excruciatingly as he could possibly make it.
Who was it that said, "Hell hath no fury . . ." clearly had never met a pissed off Hannibal Lecter.
**
A/N: Credit where it's due:
"You'll be pregnant faster than you can say bastard," taken from a conversation with MischaLecter.
Ghenghis Khan is quoted in a butchered manner. Forgive me.