A young Hannibal Lecter has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad Christmas Eve's eve.

December 23, 1965

Dr. Lecter was not having a good holiday week.

Of course, the Christmas season was never the easiest at the hospital, especially if you were fool enough to pull overtime shifts in the ER. Everything from the end results of domestic disputes in visiting families, kitchen accidents and suicide attempts poured in and working with a skeleton crew of those unfortunate not to get leave, or unfortunate enough to not have their religious holidays directly at Christmas time, made the overload even more burdensome. But as a young man attempting to save enough not only to buy his own apartment but start up his own business he needed all the hours he could get.

Still, the end of this grueling fourteen-hour day was almost more than he could bear. He ducked into a supply closet, closing the door out from the dings of room alarms and jingles of the decorative bells at the nurse's station amidst the shrill phones demanding attention. He took a deep breath, mouth turning down as he inhaled the stinging scent of cleaning supplies and smoke from snuck cigarettes.

On top of it all now that he had a taste for the mind-stimulating and sedate nature of psychiatry, returning to the physically taxing and rather routine act of treating wounds and emergency medicine was more grueling. He would be glad to launch his own practice, away from the hospital with its petty ladder climbing and ironic disregard of health.

Lecter himself was no patron saint of ethics, as the river just outside of town could boast, having seen him more often than once with evidence that needed to disappear, however, he did not understand the attitude of taking vows-and expensive years of education-to disregard it all once out in the field. His colleagues were more interested churning out unintelligent and pathetic papers that were more for supporting their name than any actual new theories and picking out the prettiest nursing students to bed. It was all so typical and worst of all, boring.

He would be glad to get out of the hospital with its shifts and reeking of alcohol and linoleum while his scrubs and clothes stuck to him with sweat from his hustle and bustle. He, unlike many doctors, even the new and residents, actually strove to work as hard as the nurses and aides rather than breeze in with a list of demands to pile preciously on top of their other duties. More than anything it was his distaste for his colleagues than any real hatred of medicine and surgery that was the driving force behind his fervent wish to exit this vocation.

With another deep breath of blessedly cool air in the darkroom, he checked his watch by the chink of light from the doorway. One more hour to go, almost dinnertime. Then he'd run back to his house and bid his roommate goodbye before grabbing his suitcase. He was leaving this chaotic bustling city for the countryside and Abigail Reynolds' father's estate.

Miss Reynolds was a pretty but unintelligent young girl who came from a very old-money family that dabbled in everything from hotels, theaters to high-end restaurants. They had met at one said restaurant-an establishment Hannibal had worked for years before when he first made land in America fresh from the French jail-house but before his internship and following paycheck. Now as a favorite former staff member, he was always guaranteed a discount seat. He'd stumbled upon her-almost literally-outside the back while taking an after-dinner smoke. She had been crying over something (Hannibal hadn't really listened that well, nor invited a list of her troubles, he had really just wanted a smoke) and he had served as a compassionate if rather unwilling sounding board for her hatred of men and her father.

Learning about her connections made the at-first horrifying prospect of accepting her number much more agreeable. She was not so dull as to be unbearable-her palette for food was well developed and mostly their dates consisted of his cooking for her, experimenting and honing his skill as she had no shortage of opinions on both a good or bad dish. If only she didn't talk so much during sex, the relationship might have developed into something more than just comfortable.

That being said, the comfort had carried them almost a year, and now he had been invited to come with her and stay with her parents for the holidays. Her mother did not like the idea of him, handsome and charming, not having at least some type of family to spend the holidays with. And when that family was known for their lavish black and white parties, who was he to refuse?

What did it matter if Abby was more than likely cheating on him with someone who wore the most atrocious cologne Hannibal had even smelt? He wanted a taste of the Reynolds' famed celebrations before saying his goodbyes to the relationship.

The closet door swung open, and a nurse sighed. "I found him," she called over her shoulder. "We've been looking for you! The hospital bigwigs brought champagne!"

Without asking she took his hand and tugged him out of the closet, back into the crush of bodies of the ER hallway. In the closet the rank stench of sweat, peppermint, sick and balsam had been considerably less, so he clapped a hand over his mouth and nose as he let himself be led to the break room. Indeed an impromptu party was set up over the rickety wooden table where an aged hand-me-down red tablecloth had been tossed in a half-effort of cheer. The hospital owners in their nice suits and thickly lacquered down hair were pulling bottles of domestic champagne from crates while nurses scurried about finding any spare cup they could.

While they were going on about some long spiel of appreciation and Christmas tides of joy, Hannibal thought for the sake of safety that he had better help in the uncorking unless he wanted a few more hours of overtime treating the various lost eyes their fumbling would produce. Four loud pops later, he was helping pour out the frothing liquid with one hand, taking sips of it from his own paper cup. It was cheap and over-sweet but the smell was cleansing his palette at least, masking the odor of the small room.

The conversation steered towards everyone's holiday plans. What were they cooking, who was coming into town and who was leaving for hearth and home? Many hoped Hannibal would stay, as he had a year or two, thrown a small dinner party for the nurses and other students who had no homes to return to-or no money in which to do it. Even on a paltry budget, he had been able to work wonders. "I'm afraid I will be spending Christmas with my girl," he said delicately, rubbing under his nose. What was that awful stench in here? "Her family invited me down to their estate for their celebrations."

"Your girl," one nurse snickered. "Haven't you been calling her that for almost a year?"

"Meeting the parents is rather serious," a doctor teased. "Dreaming of a white wedding rather than Christmas?"

"I've met them before," Hannibal demurred. "They visit often, and while they're very nice, I wouldn't be saving any dates quite so soon." Not that the Reynolds weren't of that opinion-they'd already laid down more than enough obvious hints that finally Abby had caught a young man they not only tolerated but liked. Frankly, it was clear they liked him more than their own daughter. Not that it was much of a horse race...

"Hannibal, marry? Hah!" A hand fell on Lecter's shoulder and the stench intensified. "He's got the makings of a confirmed bachelor I think. A future of heading the opera boards and balls foot-loose and fancy-free, isn't that right, Han?"

Hannibal eyed the invasive hand and the man who it belonged to. After a moment of concentration, he recognized the loud voice. Dr. Seamus Lighton, a proctologist who was a skirt chaser that was always so kind to offer tired nurses a ride home. Hannibal had heard that one of them had already caught another ride-straight to the maternity ward nine months after being escorted home by Lighton. After a moment, the younger doctor started-not because of the implications of his sexuality or this overly familiar touch-but standing next to the man he recognized the smell that had been bothering him since he entered the room.

The most repulsive cologne he'd ever smelled.

This? This was the man Abigail canceled dinners and Sunday walks to be with? And it was him-the scent was damning enough, but Abigail had been visiting him at the hospital more often lately, which had confused him ever since he deduced her unfaithfulness. From his too-small suit, his coffee yellowed teeth and wedding band, Hannibal was more dumbfounded than insulted.

He forced a smile to cover his surprise, and asked, "Perhaps. And you Seamus?"

"Don't know what I'm doing yet. Depends. But I bet you have some swanky party in-store, huh?" With another uninvited pat on the back, Lighton stepped away to intrude on some other circle of conversation. Hannibal drained his cup and checked his watch again. He'd forgo twenty minutes of pay just to leave here now.

He made his goodbyes and grabbed his coat, still off-kilter. He was glad that he had not slept with her since he suspected her infidelity. He was not the kind of man to judge a woman based on her virginity-he'd slept with too many unattached young women with no intention of marriage to be so hypocritical. But the idea of sleeping with Abigail after she had often been with Seamas Lighton that her clothes began to reek of him, was off-putting, to say the least.

I'll make the best of the week, he decided, running to catch the end of the queue lining up for the last bus towards the residential area. I'll enjoy the conversation and the party and discreetly tell her that I know and that I never want to see her again. Perhaps make a new friend while I'm there. She'll understand, she won't make a show in front of her parents.

That would be best. He'd let her know as soon as the first party was over, and offer to stay so they would save face and not become the object of gossip for the season. He lay his head against the cool glass of the bus, the sweat cooling on his forehead while he drowned out the off-key singing around him-a terrible half inebriated version of We Wish You A Merry Christmas sung by workers already ready for the cheer of their families and warm meals at home.

Looking out at the dark street, he saw the first few flakes of snow dance in the cone of light from the passing street lights. It was always a toss-up whether or not they would have a white Christmas in Baltimore, unlike the Christmases he remembered so long ago. Lecter closed his eyes. Those memories-of long halls and ballrooms trimmed, trees covered in tinsel and family curled about a large fireplace while a mother knelt and stirred mulled wine over a fire that caught in her red eyes and on her white pearls-where tucked in a dark cellar of his mind that yawned wider and more dangerous every year. With a shake of his head, he slammed the door closed on his memory of the palace for now.

The Reynolds were supposed to have a rather extensive library. Instead of wandering through the shadows of his past, he would spend the week curled up with their books, perhaps he could convince Mr. Reynolds to take an afternoon and hunt on their large property, or slip into the kitchen and make a mental list of all the things he would like in his own kitchen one day. Yes, despite the current state of his romance, he could salvage his trip.

Three stops and Hannibal was home. The house he rented with his roommate Charles Finch, was in fact owned by the man's father. The young men met at the University, having shared a few advanced mathematics classes together. Hannibal was in need of a place to stay in town that was cheaper than his horrible studio flat, and Charles had no clue how to cook, so a friendship of necessity blossomed. Charles' father gave them a discounted price that served them both rather nicely. And for all their differences, Charles' career in the undiscovered country that was computer programming was more than fascinating-and when such machines became more commonplace as Mr. Finch swore they would-it would be good to have an acquaintance well versed in the technology. At least the conversation was never boring.

Opening the door to the refurbished victorian, however, Hannibal nearly fell face-first onto the carpet. Catching himself on the coat rack, he glanced around in slight horror at the disarray the front hall was. Crammed with chairs and the side tables from the living room, rugs rolled up and tossed on top as well as the dinner table disassembled, the leaves leaning against the wall. To add to the chaos, the record player was screaming out Jingle Bell Rock at an ungodly volume.

"Charles," Hannibal called out, picked a precarious path through the furniture.

"You're early!" The blonde poked his shaggy head from out of the dining room, pushing his thick glasses up his nose. "Sorry, I was gonna have this all gone by the time you got home."

"And what is-is all this," Lecter asked, grunting the last as he shoved the dining room table out of his way. "Are you having a Christmas Eve yard sale? Hello Catherine."

Charles' girl who sported glasses just as thick, waved from her stop by the window where she was hanging garland. "Hello, Hannibal! I made punch-go have some in the kitchen. And butter cookies!"

"Don't worry, Hannibal. It's temporary I'm going to clean it up."

It wasn't even the mess, really. It was that the furniture shoved in the hall was his, his table, chairs, and rugs. And-"Where's the piano?"

"Calm yourself, it's in the sunroom," Charles said, gesturing to the small room off the living room that was once a Victorian breakfast room and now a spare space utilized more by Catherine and her projects than, more the two bachelors. "I promise I was the most gentle with it, and everything. It's just been moved for a second-"

"Very carefully," Catherine assured.

"-And will be back in a few minutes. We just have to make enough room for everyone."

Hannibal blinked. "Everyone?"

"We're having a party!"

"You don't mind do you?" Charles combed back his blonde hair and returned to the Christmas tree, fiddling with the star he was trying to shove on top. "I mean you're still leaving tonight, right?"

"You're more than welcome to stay if you want," Catherine said, suddenly concerned for Hannibal's exclusion.

"He's driving to New York tonight," Charles snorted. "He's going to be dancing with billionaires and sipping orphan tears or whatever those types of people drink at those swank black and white parties."

"Oh, that'll be fun! Do you have a tux and everything?"

"Oh yeah-he looks like he's auditioning to replace Frankie Valli. I think the jacket's velvet."

Hannibal leaned against an upturned dining room chair and raised a brow. "I hope I've answered all your questions, Catherine."

She laughed and went to the kitchen to get him an early cup of punch and plate of cookies. "Here-I promise I will make sure there isn't a scuff on your furniture. I'll baby it myself and make sure it's covered."

Lecter favored her with a small smile. Catherine was officially good people, and she and Charles were obviously a couple already starting on a seventy-year long relationship. Their engagement was already assumed. "Bless you, Cat."

He did trust them not to damage his things-and Hannibal was not himself the most neurotic about the housekeeping. But disarray and chaos did not sit well with him-even out of sight. Especially with the fact that they had wheeled his piano without him there to observe. It was a second hand upright, nothing terribly valuable-but still cost him a whole paycheck! Slipping into his bedroom, he drained the punch glass and took a bite into a biscuit-then schooled himself not to spit it out immediately.

Catherine might have been good people-but she was no baker. He swallowed anyway, and the taste coated his tongue and throat-not even filling his cup with water from the bathroom could wash it out despite his attempts to gargle and spit. He made a mental note to stop for coffee before he got onto the interstate.

He was halfway through packing when Charles called up the stairs, "Abby's here!"

A quick glance at his watch. She was early-good. He decided not to wait until they arrived at the estate-they needed to speak before starting off. He was fine with putting on a show for the sake of the weekend, but he would not be played for a fool. "Please, send her up Charles." Seamus Lighton-I don't even want to know why not me. Why him?

He heard her before she bounded the corner. She was already in a festive red dress, her white lace peter pan collar peeking over her black fur coat. His eyes dropped immediately to her white tight clad legs-shapely in her chunky white heels. Happily, any desire he had for her had long been extinguished-a flame put out by disgusting cologne.

He invited her to sit on the end of his bed before closing the door. "I need to speak with you-"

"Wait." She reached out and wiggled her fingers. Hannibal hated being interrupted and hesitated before taking her hand. "Hannibal, you're such a swell guy. And this is really hard for me to say but-I'm not marrying you."

Well, he hadn't expected that. "I'm sorry?"

"No, I'm sorry. I know you were looking forward to this, but I think it's best we don't go to my parent's together." She stood and smiled. "So you're off the hook! You don't have to drive for hours tonight, okay?"

"You're breaking up with me," Hannibal clarified.

"Well...well, yes," she said slowly as if he were the unintelligent one. "I mean, I thought that was implied."

He snatched his hand free from her 'comforting' touch. "You're fucking my co-worker, have been for a month, and you are breaking up with me?"

Her jaw dropped-did she think she had been a paragon of secrecy? "I'm no-"

"That was how Lighton knew about the party." Hannibal never made his personal life known to anyone other than whom it concerned, and he was not yet of the means to be a common face at the gatherings of the Maryland elite. How else would Seamus know there would be elegant parties in his future. Don't know what I'm doing yet. Depends. "You're taking Lighton with you."

Forgoing any charade of innocence, Abigail smoothed down her skirt. "Yes. I am. He and I are going to get married."

"He's already married, Abby."

"He's leaving his wife. He told me-they're just staying together until the new year, for tax reasons-stop laughing at me, Hannibal!"

For the young doctor, shock had turned to humor. By the time she reprimanded him, he nearly had tears in his eyes from his chuckles. He groped blindly until he found his desk chair and dropped himself into it. "Abigail," he finally gasped. The situation was almost too ridiculous. "Abigail, I always knew you were about as smart as a parrot, but bringing a married man to your parent's Christmas? On top of that, you can't seriously believe he's going to leave his wife for you." For a girl born and raised in the upper echelon of society, she did not have any understanding of how these things worked.

She smoothed down her front again. "Yes I do-I'm having his baby, so he has no choice."

That successfully sobered him. "You're pregnant?"

She lifted her chin. "Yes. It works out perfectly. Seamus will have to leave his wife, and Daddy can't say no if he wants to protect our reputation."

Hannibal didn't even bother to point out that stealing a married man from his wife by having his bastard wouldn't reflect too well on the Reynolds' name. "You got pregnant on purpose?" But Lecter held up a hand before she answered. Despite the bitter taste of disappointment mingling with the awful butter cookie in his mouth, he had clear proof that with Abigail Reynolds, he had just dodged a bullet. Better to bow out of this melodrama in motion while he still could. "No, I've changed my mind. I don't want to know. I wash my hands of it, Abigail and I'd really rather you leave now."

Turning on her heel, Abigail flounced out of his room in what she, perhaps, thought was dignified silence. Lecter sunk back into his desk chair with a sigh. Now he was not sure what he was more disappointed about, not being there for the party or not being there to see the utter debacle Abigail and Lighton's presence would make.

Either way, he was abandoned for Christmas. No library, no hunting, no cozy Christmas for him.

Charles came up a little while later, not daring to cross the threshold. "So, not going to New York then?"

"No." Hannibal tucked the last of his shirts into his dresser and pushed the drawer closed with a finger. While free of an impulsive and rather stupid girl, having a totally barren schedule for the holidays wasn't sitting well with him. At best he'd be quarantined to the house and his books, as it was too late to get tickets or seats to any venue that was worth the effort.

"I take that it's...all over?"

As much as he appreciated his friend's tact, Hannibal cut through the niceties. He propped an elbow on the dresser and leaned his cheek against his fist. "If you're asking if I got dumped the day before Christmas Eve, the answer is yes." He rubbed between his brows. He could feel a headache coming on.

"I would say I'm sorry, but it was never a good match, you know."

Lecter spared his roommate a glare out of the corner of his eye. "Of course I knew. But it was convenient."

"Well, there should be plenty of nice girls at the party-Catherine invited half of her librarian class. You can tuck into the corner and talk about Meditations all night with some cute skirt."

It took a little more prodding, and the threat of Catherine bringing up another plate of her cooking to 'comfort' him to finally pulled Hannibal downstairs to help prepare. Charles was correct there were several girls who arrived that were rather attractive and exceptionally smart, however, the conversation never deviated from up-coming weddings, past weddings, children or computers; all topics Hannibal either couldn't stomach or had nothing to add.

To escape the questions about his marital status (I know so one who would be perfect for you, you're a doctor and you aren't married yet how do you fend them off), and his nonexistent plans to rectify it (you can't let those cheekbones go to waste, your children would be so handsome), he pulled his piano out of the sunroom and sat down to replace the awful vinyl playing on the record player. It was slightly out of tune-a task he hadn't had time to complete, but no one seemed to mind the hymns slightly out of key.

Everyone, however, did notice when there was a ringing snap that created a disjointed chord of its own into a stunned silence and even made a bump in the wood right above the music stand of the instrument. Slowly rising, Hannibal confirmed his fear-inside the piano, he saw a wire, snapped and curled up laying atop the hammers.

"Oh sh-" Charles hurried over, a little unsteady on his feet from indulging in the punch. "Oh God-Hannibal I swear we were so careful! Can it be fixed?"

Closing the lid and the fallboard, Hannibal took a deep fortifying breath. "Yes, but not tonight. I'm going for a walk."

"Hannibal-"

He shook his head. His holiday plans were totally upended, his love life had taken an almost Shakspearean turn for the comical, and now even his piano had failed him. Instead of continuing to be beaten, he thought it best to fold and leave the table, considering the cards he'd been dealt. "I think it best if I am simply alone. Excuse me."

He lingered only long enough to make his polite goodbyes and grab his overcoat. He knew there would be no seat for him at the Four Seasons, even if he wanted to splurge-and his old workplace would be closed for the holidays. He hoped the best he could find was a quiet coffee shop, open for the displaced and lonely.

Fate, however, was as cold to him as she had been all day. It was late, and the shopping district of town was mostly abandoned, including any suitable place to grab a bite or a hot drink. Instead, like a moth, he was drawn to the overly bright buzzing sign of an all-hours diner. The bell's ding was intrusive as he slipped into the empty establishment, cupping his fingers over his panting mouth, trying to warm the digits through his gloves.

"Good evening," he choked out. He'd been wandering for hours now and chilled through. He just wanted to warm up, and wait for the next bus. "Could-"

"We don't have it." The waitress behind the counter tossed a menu before a bar stool and shrugged. Her once-white apron was stained, and her blue uniform dress wrinkled. She looked like Hannibal felt. "Just so you know."

"Excuse me?"

"We're out of almost everything."

"You're out…?"

She nodded, propping her fists on her hips. "Yeah, ain't it a kick in the head? My idiot boss didn't reckon anyone in Baltimore would be lonely around Christmas and didn't order enough for the demand. It's been one lonely soul after another. So whatever you want, I probably don't have."

"You're open, but you've run out of food?" Hannibal was a little dumbfounded by just how rotten his luck was. Still, he wasn't about to wander back out into the cold just now and still took a seat.

"Well, I have biscuits, and I can add gravy. That's about it."

"Biscuits and gravy? It's Maryland." He sighed, rattled by a sudden severe shiver that ran through him. "Coffee? I will take hot water, even."

"No coffee." The woman swept her steady grey eyes over him. "But...I have a teabag in my purse. No, keep your money." She waved a hand as he reached into his overcoat for his wallet. "You look like you need it."

"I couldn't...or, I could." Hannibal sighed. His gloved hand had been reaching in his overcoat pocket-then his suit jacket's breast pocket-and finally his back pocket only to discover his wallet was nowhere to be found. So much for busing home.

The waitress smirked as she took the kettle to the big industrial sink behind the counter, filling it. "Not the best day?"

"Not exactly."

"What is it, alone for the holiday? Or do you wish you were alone?"

"Both." He declined elaborating any further and instead opted for watching the few straggling cars pass by the wide window by the booths. A car, that was another purchase he needed to save up for. Hannibal amused himself by imagining the car he would choose, once his practice was successful and known, of course.

He was kicked out of his fantasy Bently while trying to decide if white leather or black was the best for the seats by the first sip of borrowed tea. Once again, his lips clamped down to quell the urge to spit. The tea was strong and herbal and combined with the taste of the failed butter cookie that still had not left him, it was a cacophony of flavor that he desperately wanted to eject. "Could I have the cream?"

The waitress only smirked.

"No cream? Not even milk?"

"I think there's some sugar left in one of these." She breezed through the swinging door next to the counter and went through every sugar container on the tables before bringing him one that had at least a teaspoon of sugar in it. Hannibal unscrewed the top and poured it all into his paper cup. It didn't help much, but he could swallow now. "Thank you. I'm sorry I have nothing to tip with."

"Don't think about it. Where are you going?"

Hannibal nodded to the window. "The snow is really coming now. And without the bus fare, I have a few hours of walking, and with the way my night is going I better head home now. Thank you again." He was going to head off as much bad luck as he could, and would not tempt the universe by even thinking what else could happen.

He held the cup close to his face, so that the steam wafted up, warming his nose over his scarf. The heat from the paper cup heated through his gloves, and though it was scant warmth, it was just enough.

As he made it to the edge of the residential area, crossing the street to pause before a church and adjust his scarf, he heard the screech of tires on cement. He moved away from the edge of the sidewalk-but was a second too late. With a shock and splash, the speeding vehicle passed by, kicking up a tall wave of water and dark slush. The slap of water shocked him, making him grip his cup too hard-hot tea splashed over his front, staining his coat and dribbling down onto his shoes. After a second of stunned silence, he looked down at himself, a mix of hot and cold and wet all the way through.

The street was silent, nothing but the church bells softly calling out the late hour beside him with almost mocking cheer. Trudging to the bench right before the graveyard gate, Hannibal seated himself on the chilly wood. He was alone, he was cold, he was wet, and he still had an hour's walk home.

And it was the night before Christmas Eve.

Heat pricked at the corners of his eyes. I am going to sit here, and cry, he decided stoically. Like a child, I am going to have myself a tantrum-I've earned it. I deserve it.

"Here."

Sniffling-for at the moment, what did he care if a stranger saw him-he turned to face the owner of the soft voice. He hadn't noticed anyone sitting on the opposite side of the bench, their seat facing the graveyard rather than the street. An elegantly gloved hand was holding out a handkerchief. Its owner was a woman, her bright brown eyes glittered like gemstones over her scarf. From her warm knit hat wisps of white-blonde hair escaped, and though her ensemble covered most of her face, he could feel her smile.

"Thank you." He took it and hesitated. It wasn't much and certainly wouldn't dry his clothes. So he decided to mop off the water and tea splatter from his face rather than waste it blotting his shirtfront.

"You're welcome. Merry Christmas."

He could not contain his hateful scoff.

"Well, that sounded certainly un-festive. Not the best yuletide, then?"

"No, not the best."

"What's happened, if I may ask?"

"It's a long story."

"I adore long stories."

"I won't bother you with my troubles."

"It isn't a bother if I asked. Come on, you'll distract me. I'm having a rather bloody hard time of it myself." The woman shifted so that she was facing him over the backs of their benches. She lifted a white box off her lap. Sliding the bow off and lifted the wrapped lid, offering him five rows of neatly placed candied orange slices. "Here. Have one, and tell me what a young man like you is doing wandering around town all alone."

Hannibal eyed the fruit, his mouth salivating. Knowing his fate tonight, they'd probably taste like dried blood and cough syrup. But...he had put worse in this mouth-especially tonight. And the current flavors on his tongue could not possibly get worse. Sliding off a glove, he picked up a slice and bit into it. Sugar and citrus exploded over his tongue, and mixed with the coconut flakes that were sprinkled on top-heaven!

She chuckled, seeing him eye the rest with ravenous desperation. "Go ahead, have another. You look starved." She didn't need to offer twice.

"I am having an absolutely tragic night. I am not sure what I did to cause such offense, but I am certainly being punished."

"Forget to hold your breath?" She nodded to their silent companions beyond the gate.

"Not so much." He hesitated and took a third slice. "Perhaps He up there is teaching me not to dally with girls I have no intentions with."

"Ah, I see, you broke a young girl's heart, and getting splashed by a Ford is your comeuppance."

"Well, she left me. But that might have been the best part of my night." Hannibal took one last slice and began his tale of woe, starting from the hospital on. His pretty companion listened, mostly silently, quiet and reserved except when there was an opportunity for a quick quip. He even managed to make him laugh at himself more than once.

When he finished, she closed the candy box and summed up; "So that was the car that splashed the doctor that forgot his wallet an hour from his home where his piano broke in the house that the girl dumped him that Finch built."

By this time Hannibal had stretched out his legs, his head leaning back against the bench, staring up at the stars above him, or where he knew the stars were. The city lights drowned out the twinkling dots themselves. He handed her back her now dry handkerchief, chuckling. "Something like that."

"Well, it seems that the only direction you can go is up."

"I hope so. I'm already cold as hell."

"Makes sense-the last level of it is ice. Like I said, now that Satan's chewed you up and spat you out, nowhere else but up. It's almost eleven, the day's almost done. I don't think anything worse can happen."

Hannibal sat up, his interest peaked in this good-humored woman. He handed her back her handkerchief, her fingers brushing his palm as she took it back. He repressed the urge to take her hand. "Thank you for listening. And for sharing your food."

"No one should be left with the taste of herbal tea. It's a punishment, not a comfort."

Lecter stood. Perhaps she was right, perhaps the night was salvageable. "Well then, Virgil, would you like to journey back with me? I'm going that way." He gestured up the lane, towards the cluster of homes where the lights were all turned off and the residence already a bed.

"Not yet," she said. "It's time for me to go."

On cue, the church bells behind rang out again. Hannibal turned towards it, now finding the chimes pleasantly domestic, and counted the rings. Eleven o'clock already? It was that late? "Then let me-"

But when he turned back, she was nowhere to be seen. The doctor turned in a full circle, searching for her beyond the light of the streetlamp. There was no way she could have walked that fast in the span of eleven rings-not without him hearing it. With a bit of a jolt, he wondered if he had imagined that entire conversation. If he had become so stressed from the cavalcade of inconveniences that he conjured up his very own companion to air his troubles to. But the taste of orange was too strong in his mouth to believe that-that he was so far gone.

He hoped.

He put a hand to his forehead and called out softly into the dark, but all that accompanied him was the sound of the wind, kicking up the fresh layer of snow that was already coating the ground. He hadn't wished her luck on whatever was giving her such a 'bloody time' of it.

Hannibal didn't even know her name to thank her. With another turn, just to make sure, Hannibal fixed his mostly dry scarf and started off home again. Just beyond midnight, Hannibal slipped into his dark home. In the ambient light from the windows, he saw that the dinner table and chairs had been returned to their proper place, with his rug beneath. The only traces of the party were the large plastic bags willed with the paper streamers and cups discarded after use.

In the kitchen, he began to strip down to his shirt and pants, placing his gloves and scarf on the radiator to dry and warm, his overcoat on top of a nearby chair. On the table, there was a note propped up against a plate of butter cookies. Lecter used his thumb and forefinger to lift it as if the flavor of the biscuits might infect him through touch alone. In Catherine's tight flowery hand was a small note of apology, encouraging him to have as many of the butter cookies as he so desired. Appreciating the sentiment, he wondered if he could dispose of the batch quietly without her finding them in the trash. He stepped out of his shoes, tucking them under the radiator as well, and sat stretching out his legs towards the heat.

Well, thank you, he mused sleepily. Whoever you are. Thank you.

Late into the night, once the blood was cleaned up, and the ordeal was finally over, John was allowed into the room. Taking off his hat, he edged inside, peering through the low light to the bed. The nurses hadn't returned yet, giving the couple some time alone together, and also having an excuse to sneak into the break room and salvage the last of the Christmas treats. It was dark, and the small hospital quiet. His own whispered voice was loud in the silence.

"Shelby?"

On the bed, the woman moved, lifting her bright eyes to her husband. Tears already glistened on her cheeks, and her voice was thick when she whispered his name. He came close, perching on the edge of the bed. "Is she…?"

"She's asleep," Shelby assured. "And she's perfect John. Look."

Bending close, careful and oh so gentle, she transferred the bundle to his arms. John looked down and grinned wide, tears crowding his eyes. It had been worth the hours and hours of suffering through his wife's shouts of pain echoing into the sitting room, and hours of pay lost. Such a perfectly round face was worth it. "Aw, Shelby. Look at what you did. Look at her…"

Shelby gently reached out, her arms suddenly too empty without their new and precious burden. She took the baby's little hand in hers and ran her thumbs over the impossibly small fingernails. "I think you're right. She doesn't look much like a Beatrice."

John laughed, then choked on it as the baby stirred. He didn't want to wake her-not after the time they had just to bring her into the world. "No, she don't look nothing like a Beatrice." Leaning down he pressed his lips to her smooth little forehead and inhaled the sweet baby scent.

"Hello, Clarice."