Work Text:
“There's no need for introductions, Ray Don, we know who you are. You're the guy who's always wherever women gather or try to be alone. You want to eat with us when we're dining in hotels. You want to know if the book we're reading is any good, or if you can keep us company on the plane.”
Hannibal Lecter reached for his wine, a wry smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. Even if he wanted to, he would be unable to ignore the woman seated at the table behind him as she figuratively eviscerated the presumptuous man who had interrupted her meal with friends. Not because she was making a scene, mind you. There was no shrillness to her voice, no evidence of emotion that his psychiatric forebears would have once deemed hysteria. No, she spoke in a voice quiet but self-assured, with a confidence that made her lilting Southern accent all the more alluring. Hannibal was intrigued. He swirled the wine in his glass.
“I want to thank you, Ray Don, on behalf of all the women in the world for your unfailing attention and concern,” the woman continued. Hiding his smile behind the glass, Hannibal breathed in the rich aromas of his pinot noir—raspberry and pomegranate, with just a hint of roast coffee—feeling eager as a schoolboy as he listened for the woman’s killing blow.
“But read my lips and remember,” she drawled, sweet and lethal as a treacle-coated razor, “as hard as it is to believe, sometimes we like talking just to each other, and sometimes we like just being alone.” Amused, Hannibal took a celebratory sip, curious to see how this Ray Don fellow compared to the image painted in his mind’s eye, of a crass man in an ill-fitting, yet expensive, suit. A man used to all the privileges afforded wealthy men; a man not used to accepting ‘no’ from anyone.
“Okay, I can take a hint,” this Ray Don said, as though he’d not heard a single thing the woman had said. Which, come to think of it, Hannibal scoffed inwardly, was rather likely. “You want a little girl talk, so I’ll just go make a couple of phone calls. Be right back.”
Silverware rattled and glasses clinked on the women’s table as the man stood up. The movement was so abrupt that the chair he’d dragged over nearly toppled onto its side, caught only by its impact with the back of Hannibal’s seat, which in turn jostled that lovely pinot over the rim of Hannibal’s glass to spill down the back of his hand.
Rude, he thought to himself, reaching for the crisp linen napkin to mop the wine from his hand, only to notice a splash of red starting to spread along the edge of his French cuff.
So very rude.
Hannibal raised his unsoiled hand to flag his waiter, deliberate in his movement so that his elbow jabbed into the soft flesh of Ray Don’s back, just above his right kidney. “Could you point me in the direction of the washroom?” He glanced over to where Ray Don was now slightly bent over, one hand clutching at his lower back, and allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. “It seems I need to take care of a little mess.”
“Of course, sir. Make your way back toward the entrance and hang a left,” the young man began, “it looks like you’ll just need to follow that gentleman.”
Nodding his gratitude, Hannibal rose to his feet so that he could follow an unsuspecting Ray Don in the direction of the washrooms.
Julia Sugarbaker refused to suffer fools gladly. If there was one thing on God’s green earth upon which she prided herself, it was this. While some of her more conservative acquaintances and family members could find this facet of her personality a bit…troubling, at times, those few people she allowed close to her understood and appreciated this about her. Even if it meant, sometimes, they found themselves caught up in the maelstrom of her (always well-directed and deserved) rage.
Out of the corner of her eye, Julia saw her friends bracing themselves against the storm. Poor Charlene wasn’t sure what to do, her eyes wide in some combination of panic and sympathy, while Mary Jo just shook her head in exasperation. And all the while, Ray Don Simpson sat there, uninvited, and oblivious to his precarious position in the eye of the hurricane.
When she finished speaking—and speak she had, never raising her voice above a volume of absolute propriety for a Southern woman of means and tradition—Julia plastered a ‘bless your heart’ smile on her face and waited for Mr. Simpson to fumble his way through an awkward exit.
Only then the smarmy, parasitic waste of a perfectly serviceable Y-chromosome had the nerve to smile back. “Okay, I can take a hint. You want a little girl talk.” Julia cut her eyes over to Mary Jo, who appeared as nonplussed at the man’s utter refusal to take no for an answer as she was. Mary Jo shrugged, giving a slight shake of her deep auburn curls as she mouthed silently “What the hell?”
He was still talking as he rose to his feet. “I’ll just go make a couple of phone calls,” he said, carelessly bumping the edge of the table as he stood, his pilfered chair scraping loudly against the floor before tumbling back against the patron seated behind them.
“Be right back!” Mr. Simpson rapped the knuckles of one hand against the table and raised the other in some strange mock salute, winking at Charlene as he turned to walk away. Before he got more than a step away, however, he doubled over, gasping as he grabbed at his lower back.
It would be unkind to take pleasure in the pain of another, Julia thought to herself, even if schadenfreude was especially delicious. She pursed her lips to quash the sadistic smile threatening to find its way out, though that did nothing to halt the gleam in her eyes.
As Ray Don hobbled away clutching his lower back, the man he had disturbed at the other table caught her eye. He was dressed to the nines in a fitted charcoal and cranberry suit, and although she could only see his aquiline features in profile, what she could see of them were certainly stunning, even painted, as they were, with a frown as he dabbed at a spot on his cuff. It appeared that Mr. Simpson’s rude antics had disturbed more than just their own lunch, and the other man’s poor shirt had become a casualty.
“Pardon me,” Julia called, waving her napkin when she noticed the man leaving his table, “I couldn’t help but notice that our lunch—“ she paused, searching for an appropriate descriptor, finally settling on, “companion damaged your shirt.” The man smiled at how the word tripped over her tongue, a knowing twinkle in his honey-gold eyes, and Julia was immediately charmed.
“Nothing that a little club soda won’t fix,” he replied, his voice husky and his accent unfamiliar, but vaguely European. “That, and perhaps a lesson in table manners for your…companion.”
“Oh I’ve got some club soda right here,” Charlene began, her demeanor as effervescent as her beverage. “Why don’t you sit down?”
The man remained standing, glancing around the table appraisingly. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your luncheon.”
“Oh please, do sit down,” Mary Jo offered, and with that, it was unanimous. He smiled broadly and sat down in the spot left vacant.
“My apologies, I seem to have forgotten my own manners, as well. My name is Hannibal Lecter.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Lecter. I’m Julia Sugarbaker, and these are my friends and colleagues, Charlene Frazier and Mary Jo Shively.”
“Ladies, it is lovely to make your acquaintance.” Hannibal nodded his salutation at Julia’s friends as he settled in next to Julia.
“Now, let’s see if we can get at that stain before it gets a chance to set.” Charlene set to work, dabbing the corner of her napkin in her drink, then pressing it against the stained edge of Hannibal’s cuff.
“Oh look,” Mary Jo said, as he bent down to pick something up from the floor next to her, “and if that doesn’t work, it looks like Ray Don left his card. You can have him pay for the dry cleaning.”
For a millisecond, Hannibal’s eyes flashed with something dark and intriguing, but only for that moment.
“Now, Hannibal, tell us all about yourself,” Charlene said, “I just love getting to know new people. And I love your accent. Where are you from?”
Hannibal flashed another brilliant smile, and did as Charlene commanded.