Chapter Text
Hannibal’s thoughts flickered like a zoetrope. He had a flight to catch at five in the morning. If his travel kit was in the custody of some leather conditioning shop, he was going to have to change his flight. He’d be trapped here in Seattle, and meanwhile the question of what Frasier Crane was up to remained stuck to the bulletin board. He should have just wrung his neck in the cloakroom of the Doubletree.
“Dr. Crane, I hope you’re satisfied. That leather satchel of yours weighed a bloody ton, and now me right arm’s all out of sorts.”
“Daphne, aren’t you a physical therapist? Isn’t there some sort of trick you could do?”
“Trick? What am I going to do, walk on me own back?”
Niles’ eyes began to flutter and the lines in his forehead went all wobbly. “Is that what’s going on at home with Dad?”
“Niles, that’s nonsense, what kind of a place do you think I’m running here, a good-time bar for servicemen?” said Marty.
Daphne huffed, “Of course not, Dr. Crane – my goodness, it does get confusing with both of you here, Dr. Crane and Dr. Crane. I do ordinary facilitated muscle manipulation, stretching, and massage, of course!”
“Oh, all right, I think now I’m confused,” said Niles, upturning his features into the plaintive expression of a lost calf. “Here, Daphne, do you think you could show me?”
“Niles!” Frasier dragged his brother aside. “I don’t care what’s going on at home, you have got to get this out of your system.”
“Yes, Frasier, I quite agree, now if I could only get this crick out of my neck, it would compose my mind considerably.” He turned to try to walk toward Daphne, but Frasier held him in place by the back of his collar and whacked him.
“There’s your adjustment, Mister.”
“Doctor.” Niles rubbed the back of his neck, sulking.
Daphne continued talking to Frasier: “So, as I was about to say, the luggage place was closed once I got out the door. It was after nine o’clock, what with all your laundry, Dr. Crane.”
“Daphne, if the place was closed, then why didn’t you have the satchel when you came in?”
“Oh, very funny. As if I’d be hauling that thing back up in the lift when I was late already. I left it in the mailroom and went to me psychic group like I’d planned.”
“The mailroom? Daphne, are you crazy? Do you have any idea how much I spent on that bag?”
“I’m sure I don’t want to know, Imelda Marcos. Who’s going to steal it anyway?”
“Daphne, the last time your brother, Simon, was here, he walked off with the waffle iron, my steam cleaning attachment, a drawer full of eating utensils, and a jar of peanut butter. When we caught him he said he was making breakfast and didn’t want to leave stains on his football jacket. If he hadn’t been hotwiring Dad’s RV at the time, I might have believed it.”
Frasier was left with the original problem and had to refocus. “Daphne, I hate to tell you this, but that wasn’t my satchel you took to the shop. It was Dr. Lecter’s.”
Daphne went a bit wild-eyed and flung out her arms. “Well, I’m tired of the lot of you. What are you carrying around in there, Dr. Lecter?”
Hannibal’s features did not change, so much as smooth themselves out into a shifting sand dune.
“Daphne, what’s gotten into you?” said Martin. “It’s none of your business what Hannibal brought for his date with Frasier.”
In a surge of confusion, the Crane brothers transformed into glitchy robots. Eddie the dog froze in place for a moment and trotted to the couch where he leapt up and buried himself under a throw pillow.
“Eddie, you’re not supposed to be up there either! See, look, you’ve upset him. He doesn’t even know where he is now,” Marty scolded.
“Dad, I don’t know where you got this idea, Dr. – Hannibal did not come to stay the night, he dropped by so that I could share my sausage!”
Hannibal was dumbfounded. Marty stared off to the balcony as if he were weighing the idea of throwing himself from it.
Niles stood where he’d been left by the recliner and grumbled, “And this all could have been avoided if he’d only joined us at Le Cigare Volant.”
Frasier rubbed at his head, then exclaimed, “Niles, Dr. Lecter does not want to be friends with you, and can you blame him? Look at yourself! Where’s your dignity? Every time you cross his path you act like you’re courting the favor of Louis the Fourteenth. If you kissed his ass any harder, it’d be sous vide!”
This accusation revived Niles immediately. “And what about you, Frasier? I see the little game you’re playing. Dr. Lecter is making time with your ex, so you try to be the bigger man by stealing him away for yourself!”
Frasier emitted a thunderclap of air from his lungs. “PAH. You self-righteous, twitchy –”
“Dad, make him stop!” Niles whined, covering his head with his arms while trying to run around the couch.
Frasier gave chase as Eddie howled under the pillow. “You run like a girl!” he bellowed.
Daphne stuck her two forefingers in her mouth and whistled. The high-pitched sound brought everything to a halt and she shouted, “Were you all quite finished?”
“I’m sorry Daphne,” Frasier began, and Niles overlapped with his own leaden apologies.
“Until you can all behave like adults, I’ll be in my room.”
“Can I make you a cup of chamomile tea?” Niles called after her plaintively, just before the door slammed.
****
Hannibal knocked gently at the bedroom door, which was painted a cheery buttercup yellow.
"Miss Moon."
The doorknob jerked and Daphne stood before him, face blotchy, although she clearly hadn't cried.
"Yes, Dr. Lecter?"
"I can see that my carelessness and your considerate intentions have led to a stressful evening for you. I'd like to solve the problem without bothering you any further, but it seems that you have the key to the mailroom.”
Daphne huffed. “Fine. Just one moment, Dr. Lecter.” She shut the door behind her, leaving Hannibal in the hallway, but was no more than a moment opening it again to hand him a key on a lanyard. “Don’t bother bringing it back to me, just set it in the kitchen.” She raised her hands to interrupt herself. “No, no, something’ll happen to it. Just. Hang it on me bedroom doorknob.”
Hannibal thanked her and pocketed the key.
“They do seem to lean on you rather heavily. It was no exaggeration when Marty said you keep this household from falling apart,” he said. “If I may ask, Miss Moon: why do you stay? I can understand your commitment to your work, of course, but it seems that the household is rather chaotic, and perhaps your contributions could be better appreciated.”
Daphne gave Hannibal a long look in the eye. He wondered if he’d miscalculated. “I stay here because I love that cantankerous old fuss-pot, and I want him to get better, even if he refuses to eat anything that was too recently growing out of the ground, and even if he sneaks a smoke while he's walking the dog.” She huffed a bit and added, “Oh, fine – If we're being honest, I'm the one making Yorkshire puddings at all hours. I don't care what he eats, so long as he does his exercises and gets out of the house. I want Mr. Crane to be happy. What's the good of getting better if you're not happy?"
Hannibal met her eyes appraisingly. “Of course. I can see the wisdom in that very well. Perhaps I’ve spent so much time alone, I forgot to consider that the right sort of companionship might be worth a number of associated inconveniences.”
Daphne smiled a tired, thin line. “Yes, Dr. Lecter. That’s certainly one way to describe it. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to put me feet up.”
“I hope to be on my way soon myself. I notice that Niles seemed eager to bring you some sort of refreshment, but in the interest of your getting some rest, might I slip you some of the good sherry along with the key? As thanks.”
This offer got a genuine soft burst of laughter from Miss Moon. “You’re too kind. Thank you for the offer, but unless you move like a cat burglar, Dr. Crane and Dr. Crane will be on you like flypaper before you can grab it.”
“I think I can risk it,” said Hannibal with a conspiratorial smirk.
He truly felt that he owed this odd young woman some sort of thanks for an insight that had failed to occur to him. Happiness. Perhaps that was the missing link in the celebrated papers and conference keynotes. Not resiliency, but happiness. The sort of plain satisfaction that came not from the hearty meal, but from the act of sharing it, and from someone making that meal out of a desire to make a specific someone feel good.
Hannibal made his way to the mailroom and back with his satchel. Nothing was missing or tampered with. He’d left the front door to the apartment braced with a matchbook to keep it from locking behind him, but he was surprised to find it shut upon his return. A gruff little bark from Eddie preceded the door unlatching, and Marty Crane stood there with a stern look, the matchbook in hand.
“Hannibal, don’t try this on a cop’s front door.” At first it was unclear whether or not the man was angry, but he chuckled and laid a reassuring hand on Hannibal’s arm. “I’d invite you back in for a nightcap, but the boys are having it out in the kitchen.”
There was a crash of pots and pans and lots of yelling.
Hannibal stood very still and asked, “Do you tend to hide the knives?”
Marty shrugged. “Nah, there’s no need for that. Niles would faint at the sight of a hangnail. As for Frasier, he wouldn’t recognize a Mangalitsa pig even if it handed him a business card. It’s been a long night. What do you say we get out of here?”
Marty had a gift for phrasing beyond what he might possibly know. “And continue our conversation? I think that sounds most enjoyable, Marty. Anyplace in mind?”
“Normally I’d suggest my old watering hole, but I have a suspicion the cigarette smoke wouldn’t agree with your wardrobe.”
“That’s very considerate. In the meantime I promised Miss Moon I would smuggle a drop of the good sherry outside her door.”
Marty thumped Hannibal on the shoulder with a grin, “You know who’s in charge around here. Wait in the hallway so the boys don’t see you. I’ll take care of Daphne and meet you in…” he checked his wristwatch – “Ten minutes.”
Marty did in fact emerge from the apartment in precisely ten minutes. He’d even changed his clothes and put on a few drops of 4711, a dashingly simple, old-fashioned cologne.
“Sorry for the wait, Han. I thought I’d spiff up a little. I made a quick phone call from my room to that Cigare Volant place the boys are always yapping about. Gave them your name. Hope you don’t mind, but let’s just say they’ve probably had enough of the name Crane for one night,” he chuckled.
“Marty, what a nice surprise. I admit they had me curious to try its charms, but I didn’t imagine I’d be in town much longer.”
“I’m not going to make you miss your flight, am I?”
“Not at all,” Hannibal said as the elevator doors opened. “Since I’ve been reunited with my carry-on luggage.”
The ride down to the lobby was quick at this hour. Marty said, “By the way, Hannibal, I hope I didn’t embarrass you earlier. I know Frasier better than he thinks, and to be quite honest, I don’t think he’s your type. He changes partners like an octopus at a hoedown.”
Hannibal stifled a laugh. “I wouldn’t have imagined.”
Marty insisted upon hailing a taxi, and Hannibal was glad to oblige. No need for the license plate of his rental to be observed by “a cop” in the event that he did decide to miss his flight for a bit of hunting. The question of Dr. Crane’s extracurricular pastimes remained, and Marty’s comment about pigs and business cards was a bit too heavily on the nose.
Le Cigare Volant did provide a delightful atmosphere for getting to know each other in a more genteel manner. Guarded by a snooty maitre’d, the restaurant was dimly lit, richly upholstered and cavernous. A table awaited for Lecter, party of two.
Marty ordered an old-fashioned. “There’s fruit in it, call it dessert,” he said with the sly smile which Hannibal had already tucked away in a richly scented humidor of memories. Trusting the bartender, Hannibal ordered the same. Whiskey was his beverage of choice for encouraging more intimate revelations from a companion, regardless.
The two men raised their glasses. “Here’s to new friends,” Hannibal toasted, inwardly marveling a bit at the cliché proving so beautifully apt for the unfolding of a special evening.
“We were reminiscing before we were interrupted. I believe you were recalling the pleasure of conversations with your wife?” Hannibal would not dream of inserting the sting of the modifier, “late”. “What was her name?”
Marty’s gaze lit up behind a nimbus of bittersweet, loving grief. “Hester,” he replied.
“A New Englander, I would surmise?”
“Yeah, you could say that. Old family, the kind that never throws anything away, and their ancestors might as well be propped up in the living room. She had protocols for everything, and I don’t think she owned a sweater that wasn’t 100 years old and in perfect condition. It was an interesting day when she brought me home.”
Hannibal settled in for a story.
“We’d nearly broken up a day before that. We’d had our first fight, about Lizzie Borden, if you can imagine. She insisted that woman did nothing wrong. ‘How do you figure she did nothing wrong? She chopped up her parents with an axe!’ Well, Hester dives right in, talking about legacies of abuse in the family, the psychosexual intimacy of the blade and the emotional forbearance of the handle, those were the kinds of words she used. I was flabbergasted, as you can imagine.”
Flabbergasted would not have been Hannibal’s choice of words. Charmed, delighted, intrigued… Freudian gimmickry aside, he could already taste a hint of the woman’s animated spirit and sense of visceral poetry.
“I told her that sounded like a lot of aristocratic, psychobabble mumbo-jumbo, and asked her if she was into that sort of thing. You know what she said? ‘Marty, everyone has thought about killing someone at one time or another. How we would do it, why we would do it, how the bastards would have it coming. We’re human animals. We have our pride and our rage for territory, to keep what we feel is our own. When someone says they would die for a cause, for example, don’t you think they really mean they’d kill for it? That’s why men join the army.’”
Hannibal had to remind himself to breathe, and took a smooth sip of his drink, feeling the smoke and sweetness permeate his palate.
“Well, I was pretty ticked off by that crack. ‘Hester, I joined the police force to protect and serve, to catch the bad guys, not to kill ‘em with an axe.’”
“And she must have had a singular response to that, I imagine?” Hannibal murmured, his dark eyes deepening as he sank into the luxury of focus.
Marty drew back a bit, shifting on his hip, and followed with a sip of his own. “Ho ho, you bet she did! This is good stuff,” he added, glancing with appreciation at the crystal tumbler and swirling it before taking another swallow. “She said, ‘Marty, you strap a weapon to your side every time you put on that uniform. It’s not a decorative dueling sword, for heaven’s sake. You’d use it if you believed you had to.’ I think that was the moment I pounded the table with my fist.” Marty burst into a delicious chuckle.
Hannibal widened his eyes. “Did you?”
Marty grinned and said, “Oh, her eyes went just like that, too. And then she pounded the table, and stood up, and that was about the time Matty behind the bar told us we’d have to take it outside or to the bedroom.”
“And did you?”
“The first one, right away, the second one, about 25 minutes later. We had to finish the argument.”
“Such a pivotal argument, though. It seems to have brought your core beliefs and values quite literally out onto the table. Did you resolve it so quickly?”
“Oh, not by a long shot, but they would’ve kicked us off of the Red Line and our stop wasn’t that far.” Marty raised his empty glass to call for another round.
“I have to say it’s very rewarding to hear about the meeting of two passionate natures.”
“People called her an ice queen and said I was uptight, but put us together, and there go the fireworks. The fighting at least we kept down to a dull roar, especially after we had Frasier and then Niles to think of. But we had many days and many nights to work out our differences.”
“Difference can be the food of romance. Nymphs and youths on a Grecian urn remain eternally chasing and fleeing. Tell me Marty, did you arrive at a conclusion about her premises regarding the inner beast?”
“I think we arrived at Plato.”
“The charioteer and his two horses?”
“That’s right. From The Republic. The forces of nature versus ideals, and the self-discipline to balance the two.”
“I must admit that my first recollection of that allegory is from another work, Phaedrus. It is on the topic of love and sexual passion between an older man and a younger one. The dark horse strives to seduce the beautiful lad, and the bright one raises its eyes to heaven and calls for chastity in its love.”
“I see,” said Marty, his enigmatic smile returning, with a glance into the shadows. “I can’t say I recall the details over 40 years later, and Hester and I were a man and a woman and well into our twenties.”
Hannibal was leaning gently on the table with his elbows, his bangs mussed. Feeling unaccountably boyish, he pursued where prudence might have restrained him. Perhaps it was the drink, entangling his own brighter horse in the reins. “The question of influence arises in the course of the dialogue. It is observed that the elder man must bear some responsibility for the well-being of the younger man he loves. To follow his baser nature into sexual license and seducing the youth away from the exigencies of grown manhood – honor, participation in war or politics, the dutiful raising of a family in marriage, that is the temptation. But further than that, the impiety would be to do not what is best for his beloved, but what he arrogantly believes might be best.”
Marty waited for him to pause, then said, “I gotta admit you’re losing me, here, Hann. You want to tell me where this is going? Asking from one chariot driver to another, let’s leave the horses out of it.”
"Tell me, Marty," he said, "When you told Frasier that 'you could see how any guy would make an exception…" He inwardly noted a frisson of something akin to nervousness adding spice to his ordinary curiosity.
Marty waved his hand and turned his face away to conceal an adorably bashful smile. "Aw, Hannibal."
Hannibal leaned in as subtly as he breathed, and added, "You surprised me. That's all. I find it one of the most enjoyable experiences in life, to be surprised by a person."
"What, because the world doesn't end at the idea that a man can appreciate another man? I'm old, Hannibal, but I wasn't born yesterday. You like men. If I followed what the boys were yammering about, you like women, too. At least you like Lilith, and she likes you, which bugs the hell out of Frasier." Marty chuckled. "I avoid the subject at home, but I can see the appeal. She's got brains and class, and a killer set of legs. All that aside, she's a damn good mother to my grandson, even if the kid's allergic to his own shadow.”
Marty interrupted himself, looking at Hannibal with great gentleness. His eyes were like star sapphires with a pale glimmer of dawn. “Anyway, not to change the subject. You wouldn’t be the first guy I’d accompanied to the opera. I admit at the time I had no idea what the guy had in mind. We’d been on three dates already, but I hadn’t caught onto that fact before he asked where the relationship was going. Old fashioned guy, my age, very kind about the whole situation once I explained. Since I wasn’t likely to put out, he let me down easy and that was that.”
Hannibal sat up and finger-combed his bangs into some semblance of their place, recouping his dignity like a cat washing himself after an inadvertent tumble off the fence. “I assure you, Marty…”
“Aw, Hannibal, don’t start with that, you sound like Frasier.”
Hannibal felt himself frosting over. He felt simultaneously caught out and profoundly misunderstood. To remain in this place might be deadly.
“Do I?” He asked, his voice cool and low.
“No, no, not like that. To be honest, I don’t think you could. I just didn’t like to see you get defensive. Look, I’m lousy at this. I like you, I just think that if we’re going to be friends, it has to be as equals. You’re not a boy. You’re a grown man, you’re accomplished, and very interesting.”
Hannibal felt mollified.
“I appreciate the kind words, Marty. It is getting quite late, and perhaps I was carried away. My question remains…” He sat very still and placed his right hand gently upon the table. “Would you accompany me to the opera? There’s a performance of Bizet’s “Pearl Fishers” here in Seattle next month. The plot concerns friendship. A platonic one.” He paused with a wry curve of the lip. “In the colloquial sense. It’s not often performed, so I was already considering a weekend trip. And I wouldn’t ask you to put out.”
Before Marty could follow up, the moment was utterly bludgeoned.
“AHA!” Frasier Crane shouted, as the maitre d’ scrambled to catch up with him. “First you cuckold me with my own sausages, and now you're having a secret tête-à-tête in my favorite watering hole! Dad, this is worse than the time you dated that lady cop under my nose!"
“Frasier, what are you doing here?” said Marty. “You’re making a scene.”
“Well, Dad, after Niles passed out on the couch, I happened to catch a whiff of 4711 cologne in the air. The last time you wore that was when you went to the opera. Given the events of the weekend, I put two and two together. You’re not the only detective in this family, Dad!” Frasier stopped to preen.
Hannibal said, “Why, Dr. Crane, whatever are you implying?”
Frasier huffed. “Dr. Lecter, I don’t know what I did in this lifetime to merit this competitive attitude from you, but first Lilith and now my own father? Really.”
Marty flattened his palms on the table and then reached for his cane. “Hannibal, I apologize for this. I’m gonna take him home.”
The maitre d’, who had been hot at Frasier’s heels, reached out to take him by the collar, but Hannibal stopped him with a casual glance. He motioned to Marty to remain and said, “Marty, perhaps if I had a word with Frasier…”
“Oh, no,” said Marty. “He’s my son and I’ll deal with him.” He was already on his feet, and although Frasier still towered over his father, his sheepish expression was that of a little boy about to get a lecture.
“Frasier,” Marty said firmly, “I already apologized for cooking your food, and Hannibal didn’t know you were saving it for him. Are you going to tell me what this is really about?”
Frasier looked at his feet and murmured, “Well, Dad, I guess I was feeling a bit upstaged. Dr. Lecter is someone I would like to have as a friend. We have everything in common. But here the two of you are, thick as thieves, and I’m left bickering in the kitchen with Niles.”
Marty leaned on his cane and reached out to pat Frasier on the arm. “Aw, Fras. I understand. Sometimes people just hit it off. It’s nothing personal. And just think about it, in a few hours, Hannibal’s getting on a plane, and you’ll still be the most famous psychiatrist in Seattle. Speaking of which, your agent left a message this afternoon. Well, yesterday afternoon by now. She said she’d drop by with some news in the morning. You’d better get your beauty sleep, she sounded excited.”
Frasier’s hands began trembling and he jumped in excitement. “HOT DAMN! CBC Syndication, here we come!” He began to bellow, “OH, CANADAAA!” before another glance and a nod from Hannibal brought the maitre d’ running to usher Dr. Crane out of the restaurant.
Marty settled back into his chair, as Hannibal raised his hands in slow, silent applause.
“That was nicely handled, Marty. We all need to feel appreciated. Your son requires it on a more public level.”
Marty smiled and finished his drink. “All in a day’s work when you’re raising Crane. Ha!” He laughed at his own very bad pun. “In any case, Hannibal, this has been great, but if it’s all the same to you, I feel like finishing the night with a cold one at Duke’s. Give Frasier some time to fall asleep. Maybe find out how the Seahawks did. You’re welcome to join me.” He motioned to the waiter to bring the check.
Hannibal claimed the check and took his wallet out of his waistcoat pocket. “Marty, I insist. You provided the meal, after all. Cigarette smoke regardless, I’d follow you just about anywhere if I didn’t have airport security in my near future. It’s been a pleasure spending time with you.”
“Pleasure’s mine,” said Marty, shaking his hand. “You’ve got our number, don’t be a stranger. Sometime I’ll have to find out exactly how you get that carry-on of yours through the x-rays.” He winked. “Daphne’s a strong girl. Nothing Frasier carries would make her break a sweat.”
Hannibal was taken aback but simply smiled. “Indeed.”
As the mysterious Marty Crane set off to hail a cab out of the Seattle fog, Hannibal picked up his satchel and took a seat at the bar of Le Cigare Volant to ponder the night’s events. The clues as revealed thus far indicated that Frasier Crane was no killer. Furthermore, he was entirely self-absorbed, his rivalry merely sex-obsessed, and clearly oblivious to Hannibal’s own darker proclivities. The man’s father, however, might be getting too close to the truth. Mangalitsa pigs and business cards. That quip about his luggage, with no knowledge of how he had disguised its contents against cursory screenings. The question of “kiss or kill” played over in his mind. How romantic.
“What might I offer you, Monsieur?” the bartender inquired.
Hannibal paused to consider his choices. “Surprise me,” he said, and set his features into his most blandly charming mask. “Perhaps something pink.”