I'm accomplishing so much today...
Aug. 23rd, 2003 07:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
3pipeproblemThe Red Dragon fanfic. If someone comments, I'll be floored.
In other news, I <3 Billy/Amos.
Anyway, Red Dragon. It's called "Alike" (in reference to a line from the book; I think it's in the film too). It was written in 42 minutes for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
contrelamontre's "love without being obvious" challenge (Although it wasn't much of a challenge for me. All I had to do was avoid Beecher/Keller, which isn't all that obvious anyway.)
He didn't need to recognize the handwriting to know who the letter was from, didn't need to wonder what kind of card the crime lab would forward to him.
As far as these things went, he was glad it had arrived two days after Christmas. Willy and Molly deserved that, even if he didn't. Deserved a day when he wasn't distant and cold, made self-conscious by the faint awareness of another man roaming around in his head. But that was, indeed, as far as it went.
Because there he stood, two days later, trying to stop his fingers shaking as he clutched the letter he'd snatched from the mail box before Molly could even catch sight of it. He stood in his kitchen, stock-still except for his traitorous hands, and could hear Lecter's voice reciting the address.
He fled to the backyard, the doctor's curious lilt trailing after him, as though reluctant to leave the house. He marvelled at the fact that Lecter's voice always gave him an inescapable impression of the man's head tilted to one side, as it always was when he was intensely interested in something. In an instant his mind rebelled at such a mundane thought, the fingers steadied, and he tore the card open.
Knowing Lecter's wit and intelligence, he had half expected a cartoon, a joke disturbing in its normalcy. Or perhaps the unease would have come with the note scrawled on the inside, the anticipation just as bad.
Instead, a small cabin, blanketed by snow, a whisp of smoke rising from the chimney ("But how will Santa get down the chimney?" Willy would have asked.) A moon, hanging over the house, alone in the starless sky. A fleeting impression of loneliness, of isolation, before he opened the card.
"Best wishes," it read. He read it again and again and again, couldn't stop. Kept thinking there had to be more. Then he reminded himself that there was a difference between the Lecter you expected, the one you imagined, the one that seemed the perfect summation of the man's known qualities, and the real thing.
That thought occurred to him, and he reached for the match.
Even as he stuck it, he knew Lecter had pictured all of this. Writing the card back in his cell, he had thought about twilight and the lonely house on the beach and Will fighting to maintain his composure.
Will watched the card burn, eyed the flames warily as they scortched the surrounding grass. He waited until nothing remained but ashes, then he stomped out the fire.
He used to wonder, if he shared Doctor Lecter's thoughts and Doctor Lecter his, if that was how he had caught the man when everyone else had failed, did that make them similar?
Did that make them the same?
And, the worst question, which he heard late at night in his head from a hushed voice not unlike Lecter's: Isn't there another word for that?
In other news, I <3 Billy/Amos.
Anyway, Red Dragon. It's called "Alike" (in reference to a line from the book; I think it's in the film too). It was written in 42 minutes for
contrelamontre's "love without being obvious" challenge (Although it wasn't much of a challenge for me. All I had to do was avoid Beecher/Keller, which isn't all that obvious anyway.)He didn't need to recognize the handwriting to know who the letter was from, didn't need to wonder what kind of card the crime lab would forward to him.
As far as these things went, he was glad it had arrived two days after Christmas. Willy and Molly deserved that, even if he didn't. Deserved a day when he wasn't distant and cold, made self-conscious by the faint awareness of another man roaming around in his head. But that was, indeed, as far as it went.
Because there he stood, two days later, trying to stop his fingers shaking as he clutched the letter he'd snatched from the mail box before Molly could even catch sight of it. He stood in his kitchen, stock-still except for his traitorous hands, and could hear Lecter's voice reciting the address.
He fled to the backyard, the doctor's curious lilt trailing after him, as though reluctant to leave the house. He marvelled at the fact that Lecter's voice always gave him an inescapable impression of the man's head tilted to one side, as it always was when he was intensely interested in something. In an instant his mind rebelled at such a mundane thought, the fingers steadied, and he tore the card open.
Knowing Lecter's wit and intelligence, he had half expected a cartoon, a joke disturbing in its normalcy. Or perhaps the unease would have come with the note scrawled on the inside, the anticipation just as bad.
Instead, a small cabin, blanketed by snow, a whisp of smoke rising from the chimney ("But how will Santa get down the chimney?" Willy would have asked.) A moon, hanging over the house, alone in the starless sky. A fleeting impression of loneliness, of isolation, before he opened the card.
"Best wishes," it read. He read it again and again and again, couldn't stop. Kept thinking there had to be more. Then he reminded himself that there was a difference between the Lecter you expected, the one you imagined, the one that seemed the perfect summation of the man's known qualities, and the real thing.
That thought occurred to him, and he reached for the match.
Even as he stuck it, he knew Lecter had pictured all of this. Writing the card back in his cell, he had thought about twilight and the lonely house on the beach and Will fighting to maintain his composure.
Will watched the card burn, eyed the flames warily as they scortched the surrounding grass. He waited until nothing remained but ashes, then he stomped out the fire.
He used to wonder, if he shared Doctor Lecter's thoughts and Doctor Lecter his, if that was how he had caught the man when everyone else had failed, did that make them similar?
Did that make them the same?
And, the worst question, which he heard late at night in his head from a hushed voice not unlike Lecter's: Isn't there another word for that?
