Author's Note: Thank you so much to Shattered _Mug, the great red dragon,
Steel, Saavik, EyeSeeU, and Allegretto Emily for your great reviews. I
really appreciate them. I'm having a lot of fun writing this story and I'm
glad that you are having fun reading it. Thank you.
Chapter 4: The Good Doctor
The waiter made his way through the crowded restaurant, weaving through the tangle of tables, precariously balancing the bottle of red wine on the tray he held. As he approached the small table tucked into the back corner of the restaurant, the man sitting there did not look up from his book.
The waiter briefly studied the man as his head was bent. He was a little on the short side and he had a very slight bulging stomach although his upper body was large and powerfully built. There was no doubt in the waiter's mind that this was a man to be reckoned with. The man's thick black hair glistened in the low light of the restaurant's atmosphere. He was elegant in his stature and carriage of himself, even the movement of his hand as he turned the page of the book screamed refinement.
"Your wine, sir," the waiter bowed his head slightly as he poured the rich liquid into the crystal goblet.
The man glanced up and the waiter was struck at how piercingly blue his eyes were. Those eyes seemed to bore into the waiter. It seemed as if with the blink of an eye the man could see directly into his mind and probe his deepest, darkest secrets.
"Thank you kindly," the man replied and flashed a brief smile. He spoke with a thick southern drawl that intrigued the waiter.
The waiter suddenly wondered if the man was a descendant of some powerful southern plantation family. That would explain his refinement and accent. The waiter placed the bottle of wine in an iced wine holder.
"Is there anything else I can get for you right now sir?" he asked.
The man glanced up again and the waiter was pierced with those shocking eyes once more. "No, thank you."
"Very good sir," the waiter bowed his head again and turned to leave.
"Oh," the man said. "Just please be sure to remind the chef I would like my entrée as rare as possible, just very lightly browned."
"Of course, sir," the waiter replied and mused on the oddness of the request as he walked toward the kitchen. The refined man had ordered veal which was not odd in and of it self. The odd thing was that he insisted the meat be extremely rare. He had already reminded the waiter of this fact three times now. The waiter shook his head. 'Rare veal?' he thought and grimaced. 'No one eats rare veal. That's just gross.'
Dr. Hannibal Lecter smiled to himself as the waiter departed his table. He could tell that the uncivilized young whelp of a waiter found his entrée choice distasteful and the fact amused Lecter to no end. 'One must have one's fun when one can,' he smiled to himself again.
Lecter stared, unseeing, at the book of modern poetry on the table in front of him. Suddenly he blinked and looked discreetly about the crowded restaurant to see if anyone was observing him. Couples young and old chatted merrily with each other, most with eyes only for their lover. Business men and women debated at various tables and were too absorbed in their latest business conquest to worry about what was going on around them. Everyone was too absorbed in their own table mates to pay the old man sitting alone in the corner much notice.
When he was sure that no one was watching him, Lecter pulled a worn picture with frayed edges from his suit jacket pocket and placed it on the book in front of him. He carried this picture with him continuously, wherever he went. While Hannibal Lecter did not necessarily need the use of a picture, he could merely escape into his memory palace, he found the image of this picture comforting so he kept it. He stared down at the angelic face of his beloved, his Clarice. It was a picture taken about three years ago as she had sat in the park chatting with her best friend and former roommate Ardelia Mapp on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Lecter had snapped it in an instant that Clarice had laughed. He had captured her laughing, bright face, eyes gleaming, chestnut hair blowing faintly in the breeze. As always, she had been blissfully unaware that he was watching her. It was better that way.
Lecter sighed inwardly and looked up from the photo. He glanced over at a young couple sitting in the booth to his immediate left. They sat as close to each other as possible, holding hands under the table as they waited for their meals to arrive. Lecter watched as the young woman laid her head on the young man's shoulder and he kissed it lightly. Then she raised her head and smiled at him sweetly. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. His words made her blush slightly and she giggled into her hand for a moment before he tilted her chin up and kissed her passionately.
Lecter smiled longingly and his gaze returned to Clarice. His finger gently stroked her profile and his mind wandered. He recalled how she had come to his rescue five years ago, saving him from Mason Verger's vicious man-eating boars. He recalled returning the favor when she had been wounded, carrying her through the swarming mass of boars to her waiting car outside. He remembered taking her to Paul Krendler's summer home where he had instructed Mr. Krendler in the importance of civility and politeness. Lecter grinned slightly at the memory of Mr. Krendler ingesting a piece of his own brain. Lecter had outdone himself that time.
Lecter closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He knew he should stop this, he was in a public place and these memories, their memories, always caused him to break down. Lecter put his head in his hands for a brief moment then regained his composure, lifted his head and looked around the restaurant again. Seemingly no one had observed his breach of etiquette. He sighed outwardly this time and looked at his picture again.
'Oh hell,' Lecter thought. He had taken the memories this far, he might as well see them through to their conclusion. He recalled every detail about that night, about her, vividly. He recalled how Clarice had attempted to club him with a candlestick. He remembered the struggle that had ensued and how he had pressed her up against the age-old refrigerator and finally closed her long ponytail into the door so she was unable to move much. He remembered how her body had felt pressed against his. In that moment he had memorized each tantalizing curve of her body. With little effort, he could to this day still smell the lotion that he had rubbed into her skin prior to dressing her, a scent of jasmine, and how smooth her skin has felt under his hands. How many nights had he lain awake, alone in his bed, and imagined how it would feel to run his hands along those curves, how it would taste to lick their combined sweat from her body after making love?
Lecter breathed deep and closed his eyes again. He recalled his and Clarice's most intimate moment together. While she was trapped with her hair in the refrigerator he had said to her, "Tell me, Clarice, would you ever say to me 'stop. If you love me, you'd stop'?" She had replied coolly, "Not in a thousand years." In that moment, Lecter's heart had shattered into a million tiny pieces. His protégé, his beloved, the only woman he'd ever truly loved and deeply cared for, had rejected him. In that moment, he had realized her true feelings for him. She saw him only as a monster, despite the fact that she had shared intimate details with him about herself, and she would stop at nothing to put him back behind bars.
Despite his broken heart he had echoed her words, "Not in a thousand years." To test how well she knew him, he had made a quick movement toward her face with his mouth open and teeth bared, as if to bite her. She had not flinched. She had not even batted an eye at him. He had smiled solemnly and replied, "That's my girl." He had known then that despite her seeming feelings of loathing for him, the intimate bond that they seemed to share was still intact for she had known instinctively that he could never intentionally hurt her. Lecter had been overjoyed and had leaned in and kissed her. He recalled how sweet her lips had tasted with a trace of wine still on them. How many times since then had he imagined how delectable her mouth would taste? She had not kissed him back but instead had locked a hidden pair of handcuffs to his left wrist. But he recalled how a single tear had slipped down her cheek as he broke their kiss. Although to this day, he was undecided as to whether that tear had been shed in regret, longing, or fear.
Lecter opened his eyes then as his own tear slipped down his cheek in remembrance and longing. He wiped it away quickly. She was all he wanted, all he desired but their love was not to be. She would not give in to her darker side and allow herself to love him, Lecter knew that with certainty. So he had resigned himself to being her guardian angel. He watched over her and made sure she was safe and relatively happy. Within the last five years since their encounter, Lecter had perfected the art of disguise in order to maintain his inconspicuous role in her life and to keep anyone else from recognizing his famous features. He had become a master with latex facial pieces such as noses and chins. He wore wigs and toupees and sometimes colored contact lenses or glasses. He had mastered diverse accents in order to pass as a tourist. All in all, Hannibal Lecter was content. He was content with his role in Clarice's life. At least for now.
But Lecter could feel a restlessness building inside him, a restlessness that he worked daily to squelch. This restlessness made him desire to reveal himself to Clarice, to once again profess his love. He knew the time for this was swiftly approaching, much as he attempted to fend it off, for he knew it would probably result in his capture.
He heard the uncultured waiter approaching and hurriedly closed his book of poetry with Clarice's picture still inside.
"Your dinner, sir," the waiter smiled and placed the plate in front of Lecter. "Can I get you anything else?"
"No, thank you," Lecter replied.
As the waiter departed, Lecter took one look at his veal and sighed. It was much too overcooked for his liking although blood pooled around it. 'This is why I much prefer to dine in,' he thought to himself as he cut into the meat.
To be continued!! Please review!!
Chapter 4: The Good Doctor
The waiter made his way through the crowded restaurant, weaving through the tangle of tables, precariously balancing the bottle of red wine on the tray he held. As he approached the small table tucked into the back corner of the restaurant, the man sitting there did not look up from his book.
The waiter briefly studied the man as his head was bent. He was a little on the short side and he had a very slight bulging stomach although his upper body was large and powerfully built. There was no doubt in the waiter's mind that this was a man to be reckoned with. The man's thick black hair glistened in the low light of the restaurant's atmosphere. He was elegant in his stature and carriage of himself, even the movement of his hand as he turned the page of the book screamed refinement.
"Your wine, sir," the waiter bowed his head slightly as he poured the rich liquid into the crystal goblet.
The man glanced up and the waiter was struck at how piercingly blue his eyes were. Those eyes seemed to bore into the waiter. It seemed as if with the blink of an eye the man could see directly into his mind and probe his deepest, darkest secrets.
"Thank you kindly," the man replied and flashed a brief smile. He spoke with a thick southern drawl that intrigued the waiter.
The waiter suddenly wondered if the man was a descendant of some powerful southern plantation family. That would explain his refinement and accent. The waiter placed the bottle of wine in an iced wine holder.
"Is there anything else I can get for you right now sir?" he asked.
The man glanced up again and the waiter was pierced with those shocking eyes once more. "No, thank you."
"Very good sir," the waiter bowed his head again and turned to leave.
"Oh," the man said. "Just please be sure to remind the chef I would like my entrée as rare as possible, just very lightly browned."
"Of course, sir," the waiter replied and mused on the oddness of the request as he walked toward the kitchen. The refined man had ordered veal which was not odd in and of it self. The odd thing was that he insisted the meat be extremely rare. He had already reminded the waiter of this fact three times now. The waiter shook his head. 'Rare veal?' he thought and grimaced. 'No one eats rare veal. That's just gross.'
Dr. Hannibal Lecter smiled to himself as the waiter departed his table. He could tell that the uncivilized young whelp of a waiter found his entrée choice distasteful and the fact amused Lecter to no end. 'One must have one's fun when one can,' he smiled to himself again.
Lecter stared, unseeing, at the book of modern poetry on the table in front of him. Suddenly he blinked and looked discreetly about the crowded restaurant to see if anyone was observing him. Couples young and old chatted merrily with each other, most with eyes only for their lover. Business men and women debated at various tables and were too absorbed in their latest business conquest to worry about what was going on around them. Everyone was too absorbed in their own table mates to pay the old man sitting alone in the corner much notice.
When he was sure that no one was watching him, Lecter pulled a worn picture with frayed edges from his suit jacket pocket and placed it on the book in front of him. He carried this picture with him continuously, wherever he went. While Hannibal Lecter did not necessarily need the use of a picture, he could merely escape into his memory palace, he found the image of this picture comforting so he kept it. He stared down at the angelic face of his beloved, his Clarice. It was a picture taken about three years ago as she had sat in the park chatting with her best friend and former roommate Ardelia Mapp on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Lecter had snapped it in an instant that Clarice had laughed. He had captured her laughing, bright face, eyes gleaming, chestnut hair blowing faintly in the breeze. As always, she had been blissfully unaware that he was watching her. It was better that way.
Lecter sighed inwardly and looked up from the photo. He glanced over at a young couple sitting in the booth to his immediate left. They sat as close to each other as possible, holding hands under the table as they waited for their meals to arrive. Lecter watched as the young woman laid her head on the young man's shoulder and he kissed it lightly. Then she raised her head and smiled at him sweetly. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. His words made her blush slightly and she giggled into her hand for a moment before he tilted her chin up and kissed her passionately.
Lecter smiled longingly and his gaze returned to Clarice. His finger gently stroked her profile and his mind wandered. He recalled how she had come to his rescue five years ago, saving him from Mason Verger's vicious man-eating boars. He recalled returning the favor when she had been wounded, carrying her through the swarming mass of boars to her waiting car outside. He remembered taking her to Paul Krendler's summer home where he had instructed Mr. Krendler in the importance of civility and politeness. Lecter grinned slightly at the memory of Mr. Krendler ingesting a piece of his own brain. Lecter had outdone himself that time.
Lecter closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He knew he should stop this, he was in a public place and these memories, their memories, always caused him to break down. Lecter put his head in his hands for a brief moment then regained his composure, lifted his head and looked around the restaurant again. Seemingly no one had observed his breach of etiquette. He sighed outwardly this time and looked at his picture again.
'Oh hell,' Lecter thought. He had taken the memories this far, he might as well see them through to their conclusion. He recalled every detail about that night, about her, vividly. He recalled how Clarice had attempted to club him with a candlestick. He remembered the struggle that had ensued and how he had pressed her up against the age-old refrigerator and finally closed her long ponytail into the door so she was unable to move much. He remembered how her body had felt pressed against his. In that moment he had memorized each tantalizing curve of her body. With little effort, he could to this day still smell the lotion that he had rubbed into her skin prior to dressing her, a scent of jasmine, and how smooth her skin has felt under his hands. How many nights had he lain awake, alone in his bed, and imagined how it would feel to run his hands along those curves, how it would taste to lick their combined sweat from her body after making love?
Lecter breathed deep and closed his eyes again. He recalled his and Clarice's most intimate moment together. While she was trapped with her hair in the refrigerator he had said to her, "Tell me, Clarice, would you ever say to me 'stop. If you love me, you'd stop'?" She had replied coolly, "Not in a thousand years." In that moment, Lecter's heart had shattered into a million tiny pieces. His protégé, his beloved, the only woman he'd ever truly loved and deeply cared for, had rejected him. In that moment, he had realized her true feelings for him. She saw him only as a monster, despite the fact that she had shared intimate details with him about herself, and she would stop at nothing to put him back behind bars.
Despite his broken heart he had echoed her words, "Not in a thousand years." To test how well she knew him, he had made a quick movement toward her face with his mouth open and teeth bared, as if to bite her. She had not flinched. She had not even batted an eye at him. He had smiled solemnly and replied, "That's my girl." He had known then that despite her seeming feelings of loathing for him, the intimate bond that they seemed to share was still intact for she had known instinctively that he could never intentionally hurt her. Lecter had been overjoyed and had leaned in and kissed her. He recalled how sweet her lips had tasted with a trace of wine still on them. How many times since then had he imagined how delectable her mouth would taste? She had not kissed him back but instead had locked a hidden pair of handcuffs to his left wrist. But he recalled how a single tear had slipped down her cheek as he broke their kiss. Although to this day, he was undecided as to whether that tear had been shed in regret, longing, or fear.
Lecter opened his eyes then as his own tear slipped down his cheek in remembrance and longing. He wiped it away quickly. She was all he wanted, all he desired but their love was not to be. She would not give in to her darker side and allow herself to love him, Lecter knew that with certainty. So he had resigned himself to being her guardian angel. He watched over her and made sure she was safe and relatively happy. Within the last five years since their encounter, Lecter had perfected the art of disguise in order to maintain his inconspicuous role in her life and to keep anyone else from recognizing his famous features. He had become a master with latex facial pieces such as noses and chins. He wore wigs and toupees and sometimes colored contact lenses or glasses. He had mastered diverse accents in order to pass as a tourist. All in all, Hannibal Lecter was content. He was content with his role in Clarice's life. At least for now.
But Lecter could feel a restlessness building inside him, a restlessness that he worked daily to squelch. This restlessness made him desire to reveal himself to Clarice, to once again profess his love. He knew the time for this was swiftly approaching, much as he attempted to fend it off, for he knew it would probably result in his capture.
He heard the uncultured waiter approaching and hurriedly closed his book of poetry with Clarice's picture still inside.
"Your dinner, sir," the waiter smiled and placed the plate in front of Lecter. "Can I get you anything else?"
"No, thank you," Lecter replied.
As the waiter departed, Lecter took one look at his veal and sighed. It was much too overcooked for his liking although blood pooled around it. 'This is why I much prefer to dine in,' he thought to himself as he cut into the meat.
To be continued!! Please review!!
