Chapter Text
The annual conference of the American Psychological Association was not usually a point of curiosity for Dr. Lecter, but this year he’d felt compelled to attend. The ubiquitous presence of a certain celebrity lab rat from Philadelphia as chair for more than one panel was to be expected in 2002, when his research had taken a political pivot due to national trauma and the immediacy of war, but Hannibal found his shift from the experimental study of learned helplessness and depression to “resiliency” in dogs distastefully opportunistic, and no kinder to the animals. Such ironies aside, he’d registered for one reason: a presentation early Thursday evening by Martha Curtis, who was not a psychiatrist at all, but an almost lifelong neurology patient. Her speaking engagement would feature a solo performance on violin.
Hannibal could easily arrive late enough to miss the indulgent keynote, while slipping into the 5 PM lecture by Curtis. "I Am, Therefore I Will: A Personal Story of Resiliency, Will, and Transformative Powers of Music.” Intriguing.
Her seizures had begun in the limbic system, the center of powerful emotions, and were brought on by a childhood case of measles. Intense fever, enough to boil the brain. Yet her clinically basic EEG’s had indicated no abnormality.
Her young life could have been upended completely by a kaleidoscope of fear, lush and dreadful blacks upon blacks like the Rothko chapel suite, as electric fingers dug into her amygdala, crushing and stretching the nerve bundles; but the influence of a powerful mother who enrolled her in dance and music classes, as she stated in her charmingly reedy, conspiratorial tone, “entered me into a world of beauty and order.” At those words, the conference hall tunneled, and all else vanished from Hannibal’s senses. The room contained Martha and himself alone. She disclosed a proud secret, meeting his eyes at the back of the hall: “I took control of that body that was attacking me and trained it to save me with beauty.”
To practice she’d used a mirror. How elementary. How gorgeous. Contact with her own eyes spun a golden thread through the labyrinth of her dissonant lobes. Neither stupefying drug cocktails nor multiple brain surgeries could deter the force of her will. Hannibal gently inhaled through his soft palate and nostrils at once, as if he could taste her implacable mind.
After a brief applause, she picked up her instrument as if she were presenting an old friend. Her choice of the “Melodie” from Gluck’s Orfeo ed Eurydice was a message of its own. In no way could this audience appreciate its defiance. The extraordinary rendition of the Beloved from Hell. The Beloved a mystic counterpart, one’s elusive, deep Self. All worthy acts were derived from doing one's Will. “Fay ce que vouldras,” Hannibal murmured, as if she alone could hear and knowingly laugh at his reference.
The ovation pushed him back into the crude boundaries of his skin.
The cocktail party was de rigeur. Despite the many establishments that would be far more interesting in Seattle, the Doubletree was best equipped to host such a number. Glass in hand, Hannibal glanced up at the chandeliers, so much like a spray of the white dogwood blossoms which were one of the most subtle charms of spring he’d come to enjoy in his time at Johns Hopkins. Drifting into an indulgent synesthesia, he could hear those petals like a peal of bells.
Seeming to meander, but spine alert, he sought the gray pageboy cut of Ms. Curtis. Her psychotropic regimen would not allow for the consumption of alcohol, and her profession required no networking here, but he could still hope she might dip a toe into the bland pools of sociability.
He stilled at the sight of his quarry. She was smiling politely at some person of no consequence, everything below her neck turned so slightly toward the elevators for a courteous exit. With an epicurean lift to his mouth, he inhaled with a revived sense of pleasure. He could still reach her destination well ahead of her without betraying any hurry.
The trouble with hyper focused attention is its momentary failure to see any other trees in the forest. In this case, a shrub. Hannibal glanced down and halted before Dr. Crane, the Younger, could collide with him.
“Doctor Lecter!” An adequate man in his mid-30s, Niles Crane dropped his adult professional demeanor like a puppy with a ball in the presence of a superior animal.
Hannibal settled his features into a polite, aloof expression. “Doctor Crane.”
Niles twiddled his fingers along the stem of his champagne glass, sky-blue eyes goggling behind rapid blinks, thinning blond bangs somehow fluffed. “I failed to see you during the keynote, but I am positively …” he paused to collect a phrase, “... chuffed! That you happen to be here. There is simply no other practitioner with whom I could possibly discuss the ruckus.”
“Ruckus?” Lecter was unable to resist the probe. Ms. Curtis was getting away, but the moment for discreet pursuit had passed. It would not do to appear too eager, let alone irritable.
Niles straightened his posture and his features burst with a chaotic light: “Yes, you know exactly to what I refer: the ruckus from the Experimentalists over the successful replications of our esteemed colleague’s --” he sneered slightly “--Consumer Reports publication on the efficacy of my, and I believe your, beloved Jungian science.”
Of course Crane wanted to revel in discussion of the Old Masters. “Ah yes. The controversy continues.” Hannibal struggled against his own politesse in vain.
“Dr. Lecter, must we always defend our delving into the sublime against the petty tyrants of empiricism? It is most vexing!” Niles spluttered, champagne sloshing against the rim of his glass.
Hannibal leaned back to avoid getting it on his pants.
“ ‘We are such things as dreams are made on’, Dr. Crane.”
For someone professionally attuned to the unconscious, Dr. Crane seemed incapable of deciphering basic human body language.
A plummy baritone rumbled from behind. “Niles, are you boring Dr. Lecter with your archetypes?”
The moment Lecter dreaded had come.
“Dr. Crane. Good evening. Imagine the pleasure of seeing you both here.” It was impossible to find one without the other, and yet the brothers were immune to irony. Frasier Crane, paunchy and balding at forty, yet carrying himself with the braggadocio of Miles Gloriosus himself, had the oblivious nerve to derogate archetypes.
If a handshake could be both pompous and stultifying, it would be Dr. Frasier Crane’s. He lumbered like a mechanical bear. He could make a pair of Ferragamo brogues look like tattered bedroom slippers.
Niles could have been shrugged off like a nylon rope in moments, but if his elder brother were to get the first word in, his droning would never cease. To ask for deliverance by a capricious god would be a tempting jest; and yet, somehow Hannibal’s wish was granted.
A subtle fragrance drifted into the side entrance to his memory palace: Dior Dune, the barest hint, oceanic and redolent of mink, enhancing the wine-blushed skin of its unmistakable wearer.
"If we were to speak of archetypes, I believe the First Woman is approaching," Hannibal said, gazing past the other men.
"Doctor Lecter, I presume?" The hackneyed line was delivered like a scrumptious private joke in a crisp, mid-Atlantic twang.
The Cranes erupted in a miasma of pheromones. Surprise, irritation, lust. That last heavy note most emphatically, yet ambiguously, from Niles. Interesting. But not as interesting as Lilith.
"Doctor Sternin, correct as usual."
“Good evening, Frasier. Niles.” Lilith’s smooth extension of her slim hand to Hannibal could scarcely be considered an obvious exclusion of the other two. Dr. Sternin could be arch and superior, but never rude. Many did mistake her natural reserve for prudishness, but how wrong they were. Hannibal himself was fortunate to know that her black hair, slicked back in a severe bun, would tumble past her shoulders into luxuriant waves at the strategic pull of a pin, and that what she liked to wear under her blazers and pencil skirts was a tasteful confection for the senses.
“Hannibal, I truly enjoyed reading your recent article on deviant behavior in normal children. You really shake the dust off of attachment theory. If only more practitioners had your scientific mind, and if only more scientists shared your sense of poetry. Are you speaking this year?”
“Thank you, Lilith. As it happens, I had not planned to attend, but since I was in Seattle for a few days…. You are presenting tomorrow, are you not?”
“Bright and early, unfortunately. They do like to punish us East Coasters.”
“What a pity. I’d ask you to join me for dinner.”
“Well. I wouldn’t refuse a bite,” she murmured, glancing up through her eyelashes. “It’s still rather early, and the promise of ‘heavy hors d’oeuvres’ has left something to be desired.”
Niles watched this exchange of banter as if it were a confusing game of ping pong. As for Frasier, he seemed to have resolved his large frame into a brick wall.
Niles piped up, “As a matter of fact, Dr. Lecter, I know just the place! The Maitre d’ happens to consider my brother and myself ‘regulars’ of sorts, and they have the most delectable--”
“Niles, a word.” Frasier manhandled his brother several feet away.
“Niles, you’re making a fool of yourself. That little engagement was about as subtle as strip kickboxing. Dr. Lecter is not going to make this evening a foursome, and now that I’ve uttered those words I need to wash my mouth out with kerosene.”
Niles looked stricken. “A foursome. Frasier, I am married, and my interest in … it’s purely professional! And I like women!”
Frasier paused briefly, his eyes turning inside out at the phrasing of the protest. “Come now, Niles,” he muttered, “You’re married, but you’re not dead… despite Yummy Mummy Maris never seeming to get the bandages off before she goes for another facelift.” Before his brother could spiral into further defense of his heterosexuality, he hissed, “You know people only come to these things to get laid!”
Niles puffed up like a bantam rooster. “It seems as if you have some opinions to get off your chest, but not to me. I suggest you take it up with Dr. Lecter. Furthermore, if I were to desire your ex-wife’s attention, which I certainly do not in the least by any stretch of the imagination, I would confront my rival post haste. Good night!” Raising his chin, he began stomping off but turned on his heel. “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, same time as usual?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Frasier replied, waving his brother goodbye.
Lilith had drifted away to mingle with some colleagues, her impromptu date with Hannibal secured. This unfortunately left her dreary ex-husband at loose ends. In fact, he had already begun speaking.
"No hard feelings, of course. But I was going to say, Dr. Lecter, I'd love to have you for dinner myself, if you happen to be available. I believe that as well as women, we have certain rare culinary interests in common, in particular charcuterie of, shall we say, exotic provenance. Oh, haha, not to mention fine menswear."
Hannibal raised his eyebrows. Frasier Crane had clearly never seen a shade of flat navy or beige he didn’t appreciate. A sweater vest was the man’s idea of panache.
“Exotic provenance? How interesting, Dr. Crane. I must know more.”
“I do believe the best way you could find out would be to come by my apartment this weekend. I certainly won’t keep you from your ah, engagement this evening, but I happen to have my home address on these business cards I keep for special acquaintances, especially those with whom I share certain uncommon proclivities.”
Hannibal relished life on principle, taking big bites wherever he could. It should have been effortless to dispel nagging thoughts. Sure enough, nothing stood in the way of his pleasure in dining with Lilith, nor intruded behind the veil as they enjoyed an athletic post-prandial romp in her hotel room. Yet, as he left the scented warmth of his sated, gently snoring little demigoddess, irritation prickled on his skin like a harsh detergent.
It was simply too much. Frasier Crane was incapable of subtlety. His broad suggestions should have been easily discarded. And yet? No. Impossible. Could Frasier have taken his absurd, one-sided, professional and amorous rivalry to a new level? What exactly did the man know about Hannibal's deeper vocation as a predator and gourmand?
Hannibal had only left home with a rudimentary tool kit, but arrogant buffoon was always in season.
*******
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Since Chapter Notes are being weird, I'll put them here:
This is my “free space” entry for this year’s Hannibal Bingo challenge. The idea of a Frasier/Hannibal crossover came to me over a year ago with the thought that there’s just no way these snooty shrinks don’t know each other. It was going to be a one-shot, but for the sitcom structure, three short chapters made more sense and gave me some room to play.
I have taken a few liberties with the setting and incidental real-person mentions: The APA conference of 2002 was held in Chicago, but the Frasier sitcom takes place in Seattle. The “lab rat from Philadelphia” is a reference to Dr. Martin Seligman, who became famous in the field of positive psychology for his theories of learned helplessness and optimism based on lab experiments involving dogs. Martha Curtis is a real person, and her words and story are lifted directly. Her philosophy about music and human nature is simple and elegant. http://www.marthacurtis.com/Vision.htm
I don’t have a video of her performing the piece mentioned in this fic, but if you want to hear it, it’s about 3 minutes long and very pretty. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNQ4AOqM0e0
“Fay ce que vouldras” is taken from a novel by 16th-century French author François Rabelais. It means “Do what you will.”
Shout out to diabolica for beta-reading. Any errors are mine alone :)