Fan fiction is what literature might look like if it were reinvented from scratch after a nuclear apocalypse by a band of brilliant pop-culture junkies trapped in a sealed bunker. They don’t do it for money. That’s not what it’s about. The writers write it and put it up online just for the satisfaction. They’re fans, but they’re not silent, couchbound consumers of media. The culture talks to them, and they talk back to the culture in its own language.

I’m including it here because fanfic is a first-cousin of sorts to YA fiction. Authors average out on the youngish side, and participants learn early on to be selective in sharing their hobby, which is often subject to negative judgment.

Originally posted on:  http://www.angelfire.com/realm/ffrc/stories/Lexicon.html

http://cananalyze.blogspot.com/2010/04/hannibal-analysis-of-movie-part-1.html

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads This blog is on fire!.

Crunchy numbers

The average container ship can carry about 4,500 containers. This blog was viewed about 17,000 times in 2010. If each view were a shipping container, your blog would have filled about 4 fully loaded ships.

In 2010, there were 389 new posts, not bad for the first year!

The busiest day of the year was November 14th with 235 views. The most popular post that day was Speculation, Part 1 of 2.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were en.wordpress.com, perevod.yandex.ru, digg.com, translate.google.ru, and blogsurfer.us.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for hannibal lecter fanfiction, visionary hannibal, hannibal visionary, margot verger, and hannibal and clarice fiction stories.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

Speculation, Part 1 of 2 May 2010

Capture March 2010

Clarice and Hannibal May 2010

Hannibal: A Method Behind His Madness? March 2010
1 comment

Siren Sweet and Harpy Shrill June 2010

This is very Lecteresque, IMO.

~

Beautiful moon
the murderer begins to sing
The thief takes off his mask
to smell
the heliotrope

A junkie steals asters from a rich man’s grave
And spreads them
on the modest mound of his mother

A lone girl walks with moonlit haste
in the shadow of
the maquiladoras
*
Pol Pot sleeps
counting heaven’s lambs
His ex-wife is learning ikebana
*
A pretty boy dances naked in a cage
Twelve or thirteen
he is brown and slender
He sings
My father sold me to the hillside wolves
For a snort of the white dragon

Timeline: The first days after that special dinner…

Rating:  PG-13

Summary:  Clarice helps Hannibal relive the night at Muskrat Farm.

_____________________________________________________

This morning, Clarice observed, it was Salvadoran.  She stood in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, inhaling the aromas from her cup as well as those from the French press coffee pot.  It was gratifying to guess at the blend and to find she’d been correct upon glancing at the container.  This had happened so frequently lately that even Hannibal was impressed.

The gentleman in question entered the kitchen and she got a whiff of his pleasant, subtle aftershave.

“How long do you expect to be out?” she asked.

“An hour or two at the most, I think.  Do you have any plans while I’m gone?”

“I haven’t cleaned my gun since I arrived here,” she replied absently.  Her thoughts had drifted to the top drawer of the chest where, indeed, her purse, knife, gun and car keys remained untouched.  Tokens of her little low-ceilinged life, as Dr. Lecter had termed it.

There was, however, a blank spot in the more recent tableaux of that life.

“Hannibal,” she inquired, “I’m not sure I ever asked you exactly what transpired in Mason Verger’s barn.”

He smiled at her over his coffee cup.  “There is a space between the forklift and that top drawer, Clarice?”  She nodded.  ”How much have you pieced together for yourself?”

She made her way slowly to a chair, lost in thought.  Closed her eyes, which seemed to help her focus.

“There you were, with the knife I had given you to cut your bonds.  I was trying to figure out a way to get those two guys out of commission and keep a hold of you.  I was debating whether to try and hog-tie you in the trunk of the Mustang.”  They looked at each other and smiled, like a young married couple recalling the serendipities of their first meeting.

Growing serious again, she continued.  ”But then you warned me about a third person, and he was in the hayloft with a dart gun.  I felt it hit me in the back,” she said, reaching behind her.  Hannibal Lecter watched the angle of her elbow tighten, then her arm stopped.

“I know I tried to shoot him.  I wonder how many shots I got out?”

“Four, Clarice.  The first two sent splinters flying into Tommaso’s face.  That was his name, you know.  His brother, Piero, was handcuffed to Carlo Deogracias.  Carlo owned, trained, and transported the herd of swine that Mason had such ambitious plans for.  Carlo was equally determined to see me tormented and digested by his prize livestock, due to the unfortunate demise of his brother, Matteo, in Florence.”

“Quite a crew.”

“Indeed.  You had fallen onto your face after attempting to shoot Tommaso.  The tranquilizer was a bit too quick for you.  I thought it best for us to be taking our leave in some haste, so I picked you up and was making for the latch on the Dutch gate, when Tommaso fired one more dart.  His aim was quite good; he had my chest in his sights.”

“And I think you said that one hit me in the leg.”

“Correct.  The shin, directly on the bone, where it bent.  Therefore, you did not receive a true double dose.  Still, I was concerned about getting you away safely where I could remove the darts and suck the wounds.”

Her eyebrows raised.  ”Oh, really?”

He took another sip of coffee.  ”I got the latch open and stood behind the gate, holding you.  The pigs came in in a rush, quite intent on investigating the three tempting targets that lay on the floor.  When they were sufficiently distracted, I took you out.”

“Tomasso didn’t follow?”

A short laugh.  ”Tomasso, at that moment, had other things on his mind, I suspect.  The evening hadn’t gone well for his three companions.  It was much quieter out on the back service road that led to your car, and I paused long enough to minister to you.”

She shook her head, bemused.  ”I somehow can’t picture all you’re telling me, Hannibal.”

Pursed lips and a raised brow.  ”Which part gives you a problem?”

She arched a smile up at him.  ”You, carrying me, putting me down…on the ground?  Sucking the wounds?”  she finished with a laugh.

He waited, the cup warming his hands.  When she looked at him again, he rose.  ”You’d like me to demonstrate?”  He was seeing her blush for the first time, and it fascinated him.

She stood and set down the cup.  ”Start in the barn when you picked me up after that first dart hit me,” she said, and stretched out prone on the clean, sunny kitchen floor.

Remembering was easy for Hannibal Lecter.  He approached Clarice Starling from the same angle that he had in the barn, stooped and gathered her into his arms, glorying in her scent as it markedly improved.

“Now, a few steps backward – let your head loll, Clarice, over my arm there…  Tomasso is stepping carefully along the edge of the loft, lifting the rifle.  The pigs are noisy now – the gunshots excited them.  I see Tommaso taking aim at my chest.  Forgive me, Clarice, I fear it may have been a simple instinctive response that caused me to lift your body to block it, like so.”  He jerked his arms upward slightly.  ”There, yes, that’s the dart striking your shin.  Moving backward toward the gate, here’s the bolt, pulling the gate inward and waiting as the pigs come storming in.  There was a huge pregnant sow.  I think she would have charged us, had I shown any fear.

“Leaving the barn now.”   Dr. Lecter carried Starling into the hallway.  ”And now, we’re under some trees, with a soft, sighing wind.  Quiet.  Not yet cold, but we had a dusting of snow that night, did you know?  Perhaps not.  And now we come to a patch of grass, where I can set you down for a moment.”

He knelt, using one leg as a platform, and turned Starling over it.  Lecter raised the back of Starling’s cashmere sweater and pressed a finger briefly at the place where the dart had been.  Starling felt an echo of its intrusion, and relief when Lecter said “It’s out.”  She felt a similar phantom pain at her lower leg, but this was eclipsed by a sizzle of wet warmth in the center of her back.

In the week previous, Dr. Lecter had introduced Clarice Starling to a variety of heretofore new sensations, but the vacuum seal of his lips in the center of her spine was far beyond her imaginings, and she moaned.  Lecter lifted his face from her body, indulged himself with a little cat lick at the spot, then flipped her over and applied his lips to her shin, which was smooth and bare under the loose linen trousers she wore.

“There.  I’ll refrain from spitting on the rug, if you don’t mind, but I certainly did so at the time.”  He paused and studied her face in repose.  When she didn’t open her eyes, he lifted her again.

“We resume walking, toward your car.  The pigs have left us alone but they are still crashing about nearby.  The sound reminds me that  I am barefoot and you are not.  And so we pause again.  This is where I relieve you of your boots.  They come off your feet easily but I have to lean you –” He maneuvered the inert Starling into a corner of a doorway “—against a tree while I work on putting them on.  Before we venture out of the house together, I will be sure to get you a suitable replacement.”

Lecter had shown Clarice the boots, both of which he had slashed up the sides with the Harpy in order to remove them.

“The other gun is still in the ankle holster, within reach of my hand if needed.  And we continue, a short distance down this dark road, until at last the scant moonlight glints off the chrome on your front bumper.”

Arriving at the garage, Lecter had no trouble with the doorknob or the short set of steps from the house.

Dr. Lecter gently draped Clarice’s body over the hood.  ”The better to find your keys, my dear, which I feel stuffed … tightly … down into this … front … pocket.”  The front pocket of the trousers was not at all tight, and there was nothing in it, but Lecter made an exaggerated show of wiggling his fingers down into it, down along Starling’s hip and groin, wiggling and exploring, listening as her breathing quickened.

“Ah, here they are.”  He stepped away long enough to open the passenger-side door of the Mustang.  He lifted her one last time, then crouched and arranged her in the seat, fastening the belt.  Light, quick steps around to the driver’s side.

“Starting the engine, back up the service road, I found a locked gate, but upon examination, it was merely chained.  It was a pleasure to leave that place, Clarice, and your presence by my side made it more so.”

“How long did it take you to get us here?” she asked, eyes open.

“Twenty-two minutes,” he said.

She smiled at him again.  ”And then?”

He regarded her with amusement.  ”We’ll continue this conversation after I return.  I imagine you’d like more demonstration?”

“Indeed,” she replied.

…To be continued in Another Conversation, which will appear here when completed.

(Many thanks to Glimmerdark)
*

Nyx was tired. She’d done two loads of laundry, petted various sleeping cats, cleaned the results of two feline indiscretions off the carpet, sweated out another two hundred words of her latest interminable Lecterfic opus, wandered around the house noting various shortcomings in her housekeeping skills, looked up the word “didactic” in the dictionary, watched half of a rerun of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” before she’d realized she’d seen the episode, glared at the dog for snoring, checked on her sleeping mother, and stepped on an errant bottle cap in her barefooted wanderings, which caused her to swear vividly under her breath.

It was three AM. She couldn’t sleep.

You’re pathetic, she told herself. Flitting around the house in the dead of night like a ghost. Everyone else is asleep. So what’s wrong with you?

She sat down on the sofa, and then curled up on it, determined to see if stillness and a comfortable position might induce slumber, since aimless wandering had not. The television was on, sound muted. An ancient black and white episode of The Three Stooges was currently unspooling onscreen.

She sighed. She wasn’t crazy about the Stooges.

Three different cats had already made themselves comfortable on various portions of her anatomy, now that she was at rest, and had each gone back to sleep once settled on her person. The dog was still snoring.

I hate you guys, she muttered under her breath. All of you. I really do.

She closed her eyes as she listened to the symphony of snores and somnolent breathing coming from all the other living beings in the house with her. She murmured snippets of dialogue and description from the sparse and unsatisfactory passage she had just written in chapter 547 of her current Lecter-epic under construction.

“he said, didactically no umm let’s see stubbornly, emphatically, definitely . . . what’s with all the adverbs, you goddamned hack? he said, in a voice like the Hoover
Dam what the hell does THAT mean? he declared he stated, he posited didactically . . . oh, Christ, did I pay the phone bill? moronically heh, why’s he saying this anyway he must know the dentist from Las Vegas isn’t really listening to him in a stony voice that brooked no argument . . .”

“That’s a cliche.”

“stony? harsh? implacably cliche??? What? WHO SAID THAT?

Her eyes snapped open and her body jerked into a defensive crouch instantly and involuntarily.

She saw Moe poke Larry in the eye on television, and she saw Dr. Hannibal Lecter standing at the far end of the couch, gazing down at her with red-eyed disdain.  Her thoughts clamped down into a panicked, senseless closed loop.

“A cliche,” Dr. Lecter repeated. “Your ‘prose’ is littered with them.”

Oh, shit. I’m dead.

What must she say to him? I’m sorry I spilled coffee in your lap and turned you into a scarecrow and sent you to Las Vegas and made fun of your southern accent and called you a vicious rabid ferret and implied that you’re short and said your head was stuffed full of trash and I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m really sorry

His voice cut into her useless thoughts like a blade into shrinking flesh.

“Nothing to say, Nyx? I’m astonished. Your latest is 100,000 words and counting.”

She opened her mouth and words spilled out, completely independent of her brain or volition.

“Oh, fuck,” she declared didactically.

“That’s another thing,” he said. “Of those 100,000 words, roughly five thousand were the word “fuck”. Your vocabulary is sadly limited.”

“Oh, fuck ME,” she countered, unable, for the moment, to formulate a more pertinent argument.

“My intention precisely,” he commented. “In the metaphorical sense, you understand.”

Nyx noticed that all of the cats had awakened during the last two exchanges, and were all gazing at him with obvious awe and adoration. The dog was rapidly squirming into the small, protected space behind the couch.

Traitors, she thought bitterly. Thanks a lot.

“No other vulgarities forthcoming? Good. Shall we begin?” He flashed that deadly, serene killing smile of his and glided closer to her end of the couch. “I think I’ll cut your blasted typing fingers off first.”

Couldn’t make my typing any worse than it already is, she thought, and incredibly, snickered.

He stopped gliding and gazed at her quizzically, head cocked at his signature angle.

“Nyx, let me just ask you one thing, before I carve your tar and nicotine encrusted lungs out, all right? I’m curious. Is there anything in this world you don’t find funny?”

“Ummmm Jim Carrey?”

He snorted in spite of himself.

“I must agree with you there. But I feel I ought to point out to you that flippancy is not an appropriate response in this situation.”

“Well, I know that,” she sighed. “But I can’t seem to help it. I’ve always been that way. It’s something of a curse.”

“I’d also like to remind you that deliberately provoking me is not only unwise, it is also quite redundant. Not unlike your convoluted sentence structure and penchant for repetitive adjectives and clauses.”

“It’s not deliberate. I’m just naturally annoying. A born smartass. Ask anyone.”

“I do not require a second opinion. Okey, dokey, then, here we go”

He flashed past the remaining gap between them with terrible swiftness and pounced on her. One quick blur of shadow, color and motion, and then he was kneeling on her chest, compressing the breath out of her and pressing the wicked edge of a Harpy blade to her left carotid, pulsing away like mad just under her skin.

“Ack,” she said, lacking the breath to attempt a more complex statement. “Dack. “

“Such eloquence,” he sneered. “Such economy. A pity you’ve never been able to incorporate these principles of brevity into your writing.”

Nyx was asking herself if she really had to put up with his snide literary criticism in addition to physical assault and imminent death. It seemed a bit much, considering that he was busy killing her. Hmmph!

“Well, fuck you, too! ” she gasped, struggling to breathe. “Your famous poison-pen letters could use a little pruning, if you ask me. AND the obscure references are mannered and self-conscious!”

The blade wavered from her throat momentarily as he considered this last-ditch stylistic onslaught.

“What rubbish,” he argued, irritated. “Erudition is not the same thing as affectation. I’ve never had any complaints.”

“Maybe your pen pals couldn’t get past the content long enough to evaluate the style. A letter from you is usually worse than a letter from the IRS.”

“Nevertheless “

“Listen, if you’re not going to kill me right away, would you mind not sitting on me? I can’t breathe.”

“What makes you think I’m not going to kill you right away? And exactly what do you mean, ‘mannered’?”

“Mannered. A slavish devotion to form above function, a shallow inversion of the purpose of any written communication, namely, to communicate, and– “

He suddenly stood up, too indignant to remain in his kneeling position. She gasped to fill her newly uncompressed lungs and coughed.

“How dare you, you ridiculous creature? You wouldn’t know a succinct phrase if I drilled one directly into your brain through your ear!”

She sat up shakily and coughed some more.

“A phrase cannot be drilled or otherwise physically handled. That’s a mixed metaphor,” she choked out.

“And you’re a corpse,” he hissed, once again stooping on her like an eagle on a rodent.

“Wait!” she squeaked, thus completing the rodent imagery nicely.

“Wait?” he hissed again, metallic voice way too close to her ear. “Wait for what?”

“Ummm, you haven’t even ridiculed me yet. Made a lot of cutting personal observations and flayed my self-image to ribbons. Don’t you want to reduce me to a quivering mass of demoralized jelly before you kill me?”

“Nyx, forgive me, but I don’t have all night. I’m planning a dinner party for tomorrow and I have a pot of stock on the stove. You are close enough to a quivering mass of jelly as it is. And your self image is quite – “

He interrupted himself to gaze down at his feet and ankles. Some dozen cats were swirling at his feet, rubbing themselves on him in sheer ecstasy and gazing upward at him with worshipful eyes. Most of them were purring.

“What on earth are these disgusting animals doing?” he demanded.

“Adoring you, it looks like. I’m guessing they’ve just elected you as their god.”

“A dubious honor. They’re shedding on my pants legs. I’ll have to have these trousers cleaned.”

“They’ve never seen a human who was even more amoral than they are before. They’re impressed.”

“I am not. Tell them to stop.”

Nyx guffawed, unable to control her amusement.

“Oh, sure. Right away. Stop that, kitties. Stop it right now.”

None of the newly formed congregation of cats paid her the slightest attention. If anything, they redoubled their devotions to their new deity.

“Cease and desist at once, cats!” Nyx cried, knowing she probably shouldn’t have grinned maliciously at her uninvited visitor as she said it. She could see that Lecter was moving toward her again, wading through the twining mass of furry bodies in a purposeful manner. And she was completely certain she should not have laughed out loud when Argentina, the small grey kitten, bit his ankle in a frenzy of awestruck affection.

“How can you live this way? ” Lecter asked, as he reached down and disengaged Argentina’s tiny fangs from his ankle. “How many of these brutes do you have here?”

Argentina writhed in the grip of religious ecstasy as Lecter picked her up and examined her momentarily. Her little legs waved in the air while he gazed at her, and her tail twined around his wrist as she purred feverishly.

“I’m not really sure,” Nyx said. “I’m afraid to count them. I think she likes you, by the way.”

“I’ve decided that I will take a few moments to ridicule you after all,” he said, and set Argentina down on the coffee table. The grey kitten immediately rolled onto her back and exposed her fluffy belly to him along with her cutest kitten face. She was obviously hoping to inveigle the Divine Furless One into scratching her tummy.

“First, your life is clearly in disarray. How could you have let this cat population get so out of control?”

“I’m not sure. Two of the females got pregnant before I could get them fixed last spring, and all the strays in the neighborhood just seem to find their way to my door. Next thing I know”

“And look at this carpet! When was the last time you vacuumed?”

“As recently as September, I think. And so far, you’re not really hurting my feelings all that much.”

“I see,” he snarled, annoyed. “Very well, then. Do you know what you look like to me, with your silly nose and overflowing ashtrays and your messy house and your great enormous feet? You look like a nut. You’re an aging dotty cat lady with a mind as rumpled as your jeans and T-shirt. Your fiction is as absurd as your life, even though you only write it to escape from that very absurdity. You can barely function in the real world and someday soon you’ll be pushing a grocery cart full of worthless junk down the street, wearing an aluminum foil hat and trying to talk to strangers about the secret conspiracy to appoint Joan Rivers ruler of the universe.”

Nyx stared at Lecter and something in her guts twisted like a fist. She tried to control her emotions, but all he had said had undone her completely. She shook her head and jammed her fists against her trembling mouth, but it was no good.

She burst out laughing.

Lecter stiffened, offended, and rocked back a bit from his threatening position at her throat.

“Oh–oh– ” she spluttered, knowing full well that she shouldn’t be laughing at him, but helpless to stop. “Oh, my God, Dr. Lecter wow! You see a lot!”

She dissolved into incoherent guffaws, punctuated by the occasional understandable phrase, such as “Foil hat” and “Joan Rivers”.

“You disagree with my assessment?” he asked coldly.

“Oh . . . oh . . . no, no, you’ve got MY number all right. No doubt about that!” She cracked up again.

“Then why?”

“I’m sorry. Really, I am. I know I should be really upset and all, but it’s just that you’re so–  you’re just so,  so utterly– ATROCIOUS! “

She descended into yet another helpless laughing spell and shook her head helplessly.

“And this amuses you?” he asked.

“Yeah, yeah it really does. Exaggeration always strikes me as funny. And I’ve always had a total lack of resistance to black humor. It’s a sickness. I guess I just like to see things turned upside down.”

Her laughter tapered off and she looked up at him and smiled, a surprisingly fond smile, considering the situation.

“But all that doesn’t mean you’re wrong about me. I probably will wind up a bag lady one of these days. But that’s kind of funny too, you know?”

The Harpy disappeared back up his sleeve for the time being and he sat down on the couch next to her, leaving enough distance between them to take the threat out of the proximity. He stared at her as though she was an exhibit in a sideshow for a time.

“You know, Nyx,” he finally said, in the kindest of tones. “I believe you may be very nearly as perverse as I am. I am not at all sure that you don’t surpass me, in some ways.”

“Yeah,” she said, a touch grimly. “Yeah, I think you’re probably right about that too.”

“Gets difficult, sometimes, doesn’t it? Wearisome? Living inside a crooked mind?”

She smiled. “You would know as well as I. But it’s not a matter for debate, is it? It’s not like either of us could return the merchandise. I’ve been looking for the Cosmic Complaint Department for years. “

“As have I. I could give you a few pointers, if you’re interested.”

“Thanks, but no. I’m not as pissed off about it as you are. Besides, I’m perpetually consumed by guilt as it is.”

He snorted. “You embrace that guilt, Nyx. You hang on to it like a drowning man clutching at a life preserver. Shall I tell you what your greatest fear is?”

“No,” she answered, sharply.

“You can control your behavior, but you can’t do a thing about your intrinsic nature, can you?” he asked, just as though she hadn’t just told him she didn’t want to hear it. “You can school yourself to kindness as best you can, but you can never still that cold, cruel voice inside that always has the first say. You can act like you care, you can be a “care-giver”, but you can never alter that part of you that is utterly callous first. You can pursue ethical standards obsessively, but you can’t put aside the suspicion that all your precious ethics are borrowed, tacked on like an afterthought to a nature that lacks them entirely. You do your best to behave decently, but your first instinct never bears close examination, does it? You’re always afraid that your carefully constructed bulwark of guilt is really the only thing that separates you from me, isn’t that so?”

She stared at him for a while.

“I think maybe you’d better cut my throat after all, Dr. Lecter,” she snarled through her teeth. “Because I guaran-fucking-tee you I’ll send you to goddamned Disneyland next time! You’ll be trapped inside “It’s A Small World” for ninety chapters before I’m done with you!”

He laughed unpleasantly. “Dressed in fishnets and polyester, no doubt, and living on a diet of Gatorade and Chicken McNuggets. You do have a talent for torment, don’t you? A certain feel for the art? Not so very inclined to laugh at my observations now, are you?”

She glared at him, dozens of humiliating and thoroughly unpleasant plot developments for him to suffer coiling like venomous snakes through her mind. Then, at length, and after some cooler thoughts, she smiled at him again, a touch ruefully.

“Oh, all right, all right. Ouch! That smarts! Feel better? That what you wanted to hear?”

“It’s a start. Thank you. I quite like pain too.”

“What a nasty little fellow you are. I’m not really like you, you know. Not completely.”

He laughed. “But you have potential, Nyx. Trust me, I’m an expert in these matters. Just give it some time.”

They were quiet a moment, sitting on the couch with cats at their feet, watching the Stooges on the television careen through sequential acts of appalling violence and silently comparing world views that weren’t so terribly far apart.

Nyx broke the quiet moment with a pained chuckle.

“Game, set, and match. You’re not really going to kill me at all, are you?”

“Ah. Ask yourself what you would do, were our positions reversed.”

She sighed. “Okay, okay. You win. I probably won’t sleep for a year. You’re still the champ, doctor, the worst there is. Anything else you’d like to discuss before we say good night?”

“Yes. About your fiction “

“Well, on that score, you ought to thank me, actually. You ought to thank all of us.”

“Thank you for nosing into my private thoughts and putting me into the most absurd situations imagination can devise and slavering over my most intimate moments like rain-coated degenerates in a greasy porno theater?
And how do you arrive at that startling conclusion?”

“It’s a life, isn’t it? What else have you got to do? Without us, you’d be floating around in fiction limbo, waiting for Harris to get around to thinking about you again. And he’s the slowest popular author in the history of publishing.”

Now Dr. Lecter sighed. “Touche. It’s true. I devil him constantly, but he’s stubborn. As things stand now, he’s still clinging to his asinine notion of leaving us dancing on that everlasting terrace forever.”

Nyx smiled cruelly, thus partially confirming his earlier analysis of her many character flaws. “Well, there’s always Dino and ‘Red Dragon’. You’re a regular franchise now. Can a television series be completely out of the question? ‘Hannibal Lecter’s Atrocity of the Week’?”

“What a nasty, snippy bitch you are. Tell me, is it hard to find shoes to fit those great hulking clodhoppers of yours? And while you think about that, are you honestly suggesting that you ”Lecterphiles”’ puerile fantasies offer any improvement over Ridley Scott?”

“At least WE’RE not making Clarice shut you down like some pimply high school math geek and chopping your damn hand off!”

He laughed, his familiar malevolent chuckle that could frighten a turnip.

“Ah, Ridley and his transparent, tiresomely Freudian castration themes. ‘Gladiator’ was riddled with them, in addition to being manipulative, simple minded clap-trap. Do you know, I have a naughty-and-nice list of calls to make of my own, just like Santa. Mr. Scott is featured prominently on that list.”

Nyx snickered. “Well, we agree on one thing, it seems. I’d go after Mamet too, if I were you. But my point was “

“You were trying to suggest that your collection of amateur scenarios are an acceptable alternative to –”

“We are all genuinely fond of you,” she interrupted. “At least we don’t see you as just another cash cow, like Luke Skywalker or Rocky Balboa. With us, things may get a little flaky from time to time, but you get to travel the world, scare the crap out of everyone, torture Jack Crawford and Freddy Chilton repeatedly, AND enjoy a sex life that would make a rabbit on Viagra jealous. “

“But–”

“No, hang on, I’m just getting started. You get to fuck with Clarice for the very first time over and over again, and if that’s not enough, she’s magically a virgin each time. But she’s also always a raging sex-vixen with an imagination that would make the Penthouse Forum look tame, virgin or no. What about that?”

His fair skin took on the faintest of rosy casts, and Nyx momentarily suspected he might be blushing, then dismissed the idea as too outlandish to credit. She went on.

“You never run out of money and the weather is always perfect. You’ve had about two dozen adorable children, but they always conveniently disappear before they hit the terrible twos or throw up on your coat sleeve or get old enough to ask for the keys to the Mercedes.   You feast on human flesh at least every other meal, but you never put on a pound. You don’t age, you don’t lose your hair, you never have to get a root canal or suffer from lower back pain or have to visit the bathroom or get a prostate examination.”

“Nyx, I AM a fictional character, after all. Such small indignities rarely trouble any of us.”

“True. But think about this. Your body count is well past the hundred mark at this point, and you’ve even killed and eaten Martha Stewart, which is everybody’s fondest wish, as you well know. Would anyone but one of us do THAT for you?”

“Yeaaahhhh,” he said, smiling to himself. “That was goooood.”

“Sure it was. What about the time you castrated Chilton with a bear trap? Or the time you killed an obnoxious Hopkins fan with a Mont Blanc pen? Or that time you and Clarice developed a whole new definition of a ‘banana split’? Or the time you screwed Sharon Stone? You think Harris would let you stage the Wound Man time after time? Do you think Scott would let you wade through a sea of blood and still get home in time to dress for dinner? Aren’t any of those things worth something?”

He considered. After a time, a faint evil smile curved his red lips.

“There is some truth in what you say. I must confess, I did enjoy many of the incidents you mention. Very much. “

“I’m only saying it’s a life. It’s not perfect and there may be plenty of dross along with the gold, but every now and then -”

“There are compensations?” he asked, piercing her with a mocking smile.

She responded with a small smile of her own. “Just because I’ve put you through a lot of nonsense doesn’t mean I don’t like you. That anyone could have seen the things you’ve seen and still come out as optimistic as you are is some sort of testament to the human spirit, even if it is kind of . . . left-handed. No wonder they found you not guilty by reason of insanity. And I’m flattered, by the way.”

“Don’t be. I’d never say anything as pollyanna as that, not even as an internal observation. And I still find your prose as clumsy and awkward as your overlong stature. And your plots are contrived and overwritten, while we’re on the subject.”

She laughed. “Everyone’s entitled to an opinion. But you’ll never get out of Vegas without me.”

“Heaven help me. Are you EVER going to finish that interminable tale, incidentally? You’re almost as slow as Harris, and with far less excuse.”

As Nyx tried to think of a retort, or even some sort of an answer, Argentina the kitten jumped up onto the couch and settled herself, unasked, in Dr. Lecter’s lap. She kneaded at his coat with passionate enthusiasm and purred in a transport of beatitude.

“I think it’s time to bring this rather unpleasant visit to a close,” he commented, and stood up. Argentina attached herself to his person with all four sets of sharp little claws and stood up with him. She might have been a feline limpet.

“This won’t do,” he remarked to Nyx.

“Take her home to Clarice,” Nyx suggested. “I imagine it’s been almost an hour since you’ve given her a present of some kind.”

“And I just thought of at least fifty preferable gift alternatives in the past millisecond,” he said, attempting to dislodge the clinging, purring kitty.

“Think of the surprise, though. She’d never expect a fluffy kitten from you. Imagine her face when she sees. I even have some pink ribbon I could lend you, if you want to tie a bow around the kitty’s neck.”

Nyx was aware he would often go to great lengths to remain unpredictable to Clarice. She was probably the only person on the face of the earth whose opinion mattered a jot to him, or ever had. And as she watched, an amused, nefarious gleam sparked in his deep red eyes.

Success, Nyx thought. Sorry, C. Nothing personal, but I’d kinda like to finish this night in one piece. Hope you like cats.

On the television, The Three Stooges gave way to an episode of “Gilligan’s Island”.

One commercial break and two lengths of pink satin ribbon later, Dr. Lecter was gone, back to whatever peculiar nexus of dream and myth he had come from, and Nyx was washing six Advil down with a double shot of tequila all by herself.

The usual chorus of multi-species snores resumed in the darkened house, just as though there had been no disruption in the usual pattern of reality. Just as though Dr. Hannibal Lecter had never been there at all.

Several long, long moments passed.

“I STILL can’t sleep,” Nyx cried under her breath, and set about refilling her shot glass.

*
Elsewhere, in some alternate dimension of existence that often parallels our own but only rarely intersects it, Clarice Starling was awakened by a strange sensation. It was as though a tiny scrap of moistened sandpaper was been rubbed repeatedly over the very tip of her nose. She also noticed an odd sound, something like the squeaky hum of a small motor in need of oiling.

She raised her sleep-sticky lids slowly and saw a pair of enormous golden eyes with vertical pupils staring back at her. She had a confusing impression of grey fluff and a pink bow, and then she felt a set of miniature fangs nip gently at her nose.

“Uh-hhh Hannibal?” she called out cautiously. “What the hell?”

The End

Timeline:          Set after the film version of Hannibal.

My hand slams down on my alarm clock, silencing the incessant screech of its wake up call. Human beings were not meant to wake like this. We were meant to huddle together throughout the night, the sweet kiss of sunlight softly stroking our eyes open to greet another day. I contemplate hurling the clock across the room, but decline. No need to punish a poor defenseless clock, dutifully performing the function a pathological society constructed it for. No need to punish myself. I’m only performing the function I was trained for.

My eyes stray to the wall calendar, another demarcation of a sick world. I should count my days in sunsets and dawnings, not as numbers on a grid. No kittens greet me, no mountains or classic cars, just days and numbers in rapid succession. I would not say that it suits my life, but rather reflects it back with all the impartial judgment of a mirror. My eyes are drawn to the only speck of color, a dim red circle looping around a two and nine. The twenty-ninth. Today. In my businesslike hand, a legend is scrawled: 1:30 Meeting Room 34A, Operation: Siren.

*

I walk down the hallway in my modest but well made suit, silently cursing the dilettante who decided to exercise his paltry wit in the naming of my current assignment. I reach the door and draw it open, casting a hush over the already occupied room. No doubt they snicker at it behind my back already, but will wait to snicker in front of my face until the outcome is known. That is, of course, if I still HAVE a face. You see I am the Siren in question. And Hannibal Lecter is the  wayward traveler I must lure onto the rocks of my treachery. I choke back a wave of bile as I take my seat. Their eyes roam over my face and I can practically hear them thinking: “This? This is what he courts disaster for?”  To my left, a senior agent rises. His name has no consequence. I have seen so many like him come, stay a while, them move on to better things. I never move on with them. I am stuck here as surely as if I were chained to the leg of the table we congregate around. He is speaking, and so, out of habit, I listen.

“All right, We’ve been over this before. In a few hours we’ll be leaking to the press that Agent Starling has been discharged from duty. In another hour, after the gossip press has had a chance to congregate we’ll be escorting her out, and onto a plane. Under no circumstances is her destination to be even hinted at, people. We don’t want poachers shooting at rabbits to scare away the big game.”

I try to keep the disgust I feel from registering on my face. If they were really looking at me, they might see it, but fortunately, no one has looked at me for a very long time. He turns to me, or rather in my direction.

“Once you reach your destination, all that’s left for you to do is to wait and flush him out.”

Why do they always use backwoods hunting metaphors when they speak of me? This man has never been hunting a day in his life. When I was 8, my father took me hunting in the woods by our home. He taught me how to track, and I had a prize buck in my sights in just under nine hours. I was shaking like a leaf, and squeezing hot burning tears from my eyes, knowing I couldn’t shoot, torn between that truth and the devastating pain of disappointing my daddy. My father “accidentally” startled the buck when he kicked loose some stray rocks, and I loved him for it.

“You’ll be heavily guarded, of course, but at enough of a distance to complete the illusion of your helplessness.”

I almost snort with derision. I almost took him, jacked up on morphine, armed only with a candlestick and handcuffs. Hannibal Lecter doesn’t think I’m helpless, you stupid fuck.

“OK, people. If there aren’t any questions, it’s go time.” He pauses for effect. “Let’s all give Agent Starling a round of applause for agreeing to help us out”. The false applause echoes in my ears with the sickening roar of a mile-high wave towering above a lifeboat. You sick bastards. You’d clap for Judas as he counted out his thirty pieces of silver. I hate them almost as much as I hate myself.

If it were possible to drown in a sea of people, my water-logged corpse would have no doubt washed up on the distant shore of the Tattler’s main office. They crush in on all sides of me, shouting a thousand insipid questions, sounding for all the world like a cadre of seagulls swarming a garbage barge. A microphone is thrust into my face and I knock it away with enough force to elicit a surprised squawk from the little man who put it there. Don’t you know me, boy? Haven’t you penned a hundred dirty missives, recounting all the kills notched squarely on my holster? Shove that thing back in my face and I’ll see to it that your family line ends with you. After all the muck the tabloids have drug my name through, my rage does not surprise me. I point its sleek nose towards the back of my cavernous mind, until it has slunk away, curled up and lain down. Wait till it counts.

Whether it’s seconds or minutes till I reach the sanctuary of the waiting car, I don’t know. The door is pulled open for me, and I’m hustled inside. Collapsing against the practical material seats of the federal vehicle, I lower my gaze from the tinted windows. The driver presses carefully through the huddled mass, and I can hear their palms squeak as they drag over the car’s exterior. I close my eyes and lie back, letting the gentle rocking motion of the sea of humanity lull me into the murky depths of sleep.

In my dream, I’m trapped in the brig of a foundering ship. The water is licking at the backs of my knees, frigid and sharp as my fingers curl about the unbending bars of my plight. The sounds of the frantic crew create a terrible din, and I know with utter certainty that in my watery prison, I don’t even cross their minds. The water’s up to my waist now, and a rat swims determinedly by, pumping plump little legs in a effort to abandon ship. God’s speed, furry pestilence. May your generations multiply and go forth, trailing new epidemics of disease so devastating that your ancestors could only dream of them. Cold watery fingers circle my neck, stroking hypothermic caresses down the length of my spine. The shouts of the crew begin to die down as they cut loose the lifeboats and make for the uncertainty of the open sea. I prepare myself to meet death, a few select scenes flittering before my eyes, until there is a deafening “snick”. I’ve heard that sound before. It signaled something fearfully meaningful in some other, far off context, but the water’s so cold that I can’t place it. I open my eyes underwater, trying to discern the sound here and now, in the dream time. The lock on my cell. It’s open. I push the heavy bars back with the last of my cold-sapped strength and swim for the deck. He is standing in the doorway, holding out his hand to me. And as the last wave breaks over my head, I grasp it.

I shudder awake and wrap my arms around my waist, shivering with a chill that leaches deep into my bones. The car glides to a stop beside a small private aircraft, and my door opens. The driver plucks my luggage from the trunk of the car. I shoulder my suitcase and make for the plane. I am the only passenger aboard, of course, and there is no stewardess to offer me a Jack Daniel’s to ease my nerves. As if a drink could possibly quell the nausea swirling in my stomach. I am not afraid of flying. The anxiousness that constricts around me has its genesis in the cold dark corridors of a seductive dungeon. They want me to help catch him. They want me to bring him down. My shoulder itches, a not so subtle reminder of his touch gliding over my traitorous flesh. They want me to sing him to his doom. They want me to nod my acquiescence as they drive the bullet home. And they think I can do it. I don’t know who’s the bigger fool, them for believing in me or me believing I have a chance to push the iron bars open before I drown.

The plane touches down on the tarmac, with barely a squeak or bump. It is still enough to wake me. I take refuge in sleep so often now. Before, I shrugged away from the boredom. Now, I toss and turn in the clutches of something far more sinister. Daily, I am flooded with a mélange of cruel emotions: fear, longing, despair, allegiance, guilt, and blood red hatred are my constant companions. Alone? I haven’t been alone since he took up residence inside my head. I only think I’m alone because  when I wake, my arms are always wrapped tightly around my body in a wan and pathetic imitation of a lover’s embrace.

The boarding ramp is down, and I’m down it in little more than a minute. The airport is desolated. No doubt the flight was scheduled to land when there would be the least amount of activity. The only reception that greets me is the bright, salty sparkle of the sea air. I can see it from the airport, gleaming across winter-white wave caps, crashing gently on bleached sunlit sand. I breathe it in, feel it cleanse my lungs of the last vestiges of stuffy recirculated air. The crisp breeze is invigorating, and I hate to leave it when I hurry inside to pick up my rental car. The girl at the terminal speaks in a round New England accent that I’m sure tourists find charming. The car, waiting under the name Hannah Aaron, is compact and inconspicuous. I have not explained the significance of my assumed identity to my superiors, and it will, likewise, slip under the radar of the tabloids. But he’ll know it a mile away. That is, if he bothers to look.

Tossing my suitcase on the passenger seat, I get in my rented skiff and fish my directions out of my purse. I have not seen the rented cottage. In the unlikely event he can’t detect that this little excursion is a trap, I hope the house is suitable. I’d hate to offend his sensibilities, or disappoint him with my tastes. I ruminate on the fact that his knowledge of their trap is most likely not enough to keep him away. He lives to rub their noses in their ineptitude. He exhibits a malevolent glee in decimating their carefully constructed ruses, like a beach bully toppling a child’s sand castle. His arrogance is both frightening and breathtaking. I am afraid it will be his undoing, and I am in awe of his heroic attempts to evade capture. Heroic is not the right word, but it’s the only one that comes to mind. I’m caught in a vise grip, torn between fear and anticipation. Not fear that he will come, not fear that he will butcher me and pose my remains in some exquisitely ironic tableau, but fear that this time he might not make it back out alive. I cannot be his executioner, and I cannot be their stalking horse. But although I tell myself this, I still make my way down the road to our destiny.

I pull up to the cottage and park in the driveway. It’s perfect: remote and secluded. From the Bureau’s point of view, if this turns into a blood bath, the fewer witnesses, the better. The public might even find some shred of sympathy for me if, cut off from the bureau, my mutilated corpse (identified by dental records, of course) was attributed to the list of Lecter’s victims.

From my debriefing, I know the surveillance team should already be in place. The fact that I cannot pinpoint their locations is both reassuring and unsettling. Good, I am safe. Bad, he is not. Flicking my key into the lock, I enter my new lair. The sitting room is tastefully furnished with a couch, arm chair and coffee table. The light streams through the shade-bare windows, illuminating the several gilt-framed pastoral scenes that line the wall. My eyes are drawn to one painting, in particular: a verdant field dotted with the cotton-white of a flock of sheep. On the hill above, a black and white border collie stands, her nose upturned, scenting the air. They never leave a sheep to guard the flock. He’d go along, thinking little sheep thoughts of green grass and cool water, and very likely end up dinner along with his compatriots. The dog, on the other hand, understands the threat of danger because her mind is able to grasp the thought process of the wolf. The very skill that makes her the ultimate protector, also makes her dangerous. She walks a fine line between domestication and the instincts of her blood, forever torn between duty and desire. In the distance, silver fur flashes through the shadows, reflecting back her smoky silhouette in a different time and place. He stands, proud and unapologetic, daring her to look away. She has seen the carnage the wolf brings with him, and she knows the consequences of dropping her guard. But sometimes, when she looks at the sheep, the dog salivates too.

I unpack my suitcase, several interchangeable sweaters and slacks, and stow them neatly in an empty dresser drawer. A single dress, I hang in the closet. It’s over too quickly, and I’m left with nothing to do. I return to the sitting room and plop down on the couch, avoiding the painting. It’s far too appropriate. Almost painfully so. I let my thoughts drift to the surveillance men outside. Are they as bored as I am? Have they let their guard down yet, or are they diligently staring off into nothingness, waiting for a head to split? I think of him, and wonder if he’s out there already. He can’t be. It’s too soon. He might like to court danger, but he’s not so foolish as to rush in without first comprehensively assessing the situation. As my eyes drift unbidden, back to the painting, I think of my superiors at the bureau, and I’m struck by their unmitigated stupidity. When the dog has danced with the wolf, how can they ever trust her to guard the sheep again?

Days melt into days…Three? Four? I lose track without my calendar to keep me company. The boredom is oppressive, weighing on my chest like a succubus, stealing my breath, stealing my will, stealing my desire to do anything but wait for the inevitable. The surveillance men are bored too…This afternoon, walking along the perimeter of my rented home, I saw the flash of a rifle scope’s mirrored lens and pinpointed his location to within two meters. I don’t know whether to be relieved or disgusted. I decide to be both.

Mornings, I wake at my leisure, and enjoy a cup of coffee on the terrace. Sometimes Jack joins me, others I take my coffee black. The air here is incredible, and though I cannot see the sea from my terrace, I can pinpoint its location by scent alone. After coffee, I change into exercise clothes and go for a run along the beach. Once, I thought I had been followed. I felt eyes moving over my flesh, but when I turned I found myself alone with the sea spray. I stretch my run out as long as possible. It’s all downhill from here. I may go into town and rack up charges that will later be added to expense account. I may stop at a corner café, don a baseball cap, and munch on local delicacies as inconspicuously as possible. I may just go back to the cottage and slip into restless sleep. I wonder how closely my surveillance is watching me. I wonder how closely he is surveilling me. If he is surveilling me. Perhaps he has grown bored and is seeking new hunting grounds. Perhaps I guarded the flock too well.

A week passes. Nothing. The banality of the days is matched only by the banality of the nights. Any new recruit, fresh out of grad school, would stumble over themselves in anticipation of such an exciting, intoxicatingly dangerous assignment. And for the hundredth time this week I contemplate whether or not a person can actually die of ennui. I come to the conclusion that it doesn’t kill…it only makes you wish you were dead. At times, I think of the bureau, and their plan for my redemption. With the genius of a Salem witch hunt, they construct such petty, inconclusive torments. Toss her in a river…if she drowns, we have sent a good Christian woman to the welcoming arms of God. If she floats, we’ll dry her off with a nice stake and pyre. Throw her to the mercy of a serial killer and see who ends up with blood on their hands. Either way, at least one of their problems is solved.

At night, my dreams are oddly empty. Even my lambs have left me. The silence I once craved so keenly now echoes back like a thunderclap in a vacuum. I would trade it for screams in a heartbeat, even if they have to be my own. I toss. I turn. I vacillate between believing he is waiting just outside my door, and fearing he is stalking through the streets of some European metropolis. It is no longer a surprise to find which scenario I favor. Finally, exhausted from all the nothingness, I sleep.

I am awake. I am not alone. I hear a drop of blood hit the floor with a deafening roar. The wait is over. He has arrived.

Part 2

Copyright 2004, Natasha von Lecter

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Siren Sweet and Harpy Shrill

Natasha von Lecter

My first instinct is to throw back the covers and run for my life. Fast on its heels, only a moment later, is the gut wrenching conclusion that to do so would be disaster. If I run, he will chase me. If he chases me, he will take me down. If he takes me down, I’m lost in more ways than one. The scenario plays out in my mind, and I marvel at the dark, ermine shiver it sends up the length of my spine. I squeeze my eyelids shut as I hear the coffin lid thump of footsteps in my bedroom. I can sense his movements, tense and controlled, as he breaches my threshold. He is inside. He’s always been inside.

I school my breathing, emulating the shallow rasp of a sleeping maiden. I can feel the air chill as he moves closer to me, casting his shadow across my supine form. And then a drop of sweet metallic warmth falls from his hand and splatters on my cheek. I know that smell. I’d know it anywhere. And I wonder which surveillance man made the donation. I never bothered to learn their names, like so many carnival goldfish destined for a burial at sea. I struggle to keep my eyes shut but he draws them open by the force of his will. We’re eye to eye and I’ve never seen him more alive. His hands are black in the shafts of moonlight. A twin-hued smudge dances like war paint on his right cheek. If I dared to look any closer, I’d see it was a fingerprint. In a gesture so maddeningly obscene that I have to quell my desire to vomit along with my own hand creeping between my legs, he lowers his tongue to my cheek and licks off his handiwork. I gasp as I remember to breathe, his voice rumbling low in my ear.

“Good Evening, Clarice”

“There are two surveillance men keeping a perimeter around this house.”

“Not anymore.”

The dead leaf echo casts me back across the years as my stomach performs the same mourning tango that I danced for Miggs. His raven-wing shadow is as paralyzing as a curare dart, but he sees my secret pain etched over the planes of my face.

“Survival of the fittest, Clarice. If their demise still pains you, perhaps you can take solace in the fact that while somewhat painful, their end at least came very, very quickly.”

If remorse has a place in his heart it is hidden even from himself.

Like a wolf standing over a fresh kill; the lambs interest him only as long as they take to digest. And I never even bothered to learn their names. Because I knew.

My eyes dart to the top drawer of my dresser, but he cuts me off at the pass.

“Come now, Clarice. It’s much too far to risk it, don’t you think? Although…”

The grin that twists those thin cruel lips sends agonizing shivers up the length of my spine. He gingerly slips his fingers into his pocket, mindful of their still-sticky red coating, producing six gems of gleaming silver.

“I doubt it would be very helpful to you, without these.”

The bullets hit the hard wood floor with a clatter, and roll away to dark corners and the under caves of furniture. My mind races back over the last few days, screeching to a halt three days earlier. I knew I hadn’t left the door ajar to my room, but shrugged off my instincts. Fatal.

His smile widens as he savors the realization forcing my shamed blush.

“I contemplated leaving Calla Lilies, but it just seemed too cliché.”

The flush in my cheeks burns hot as he looks at me. Anger rears up, railing against that implacable smile that taunts me with it’s smug superiority. “Why are you here, Dr. Lecter?”

“Your owners went through such elaborate preparations to welcome me, Clarice. It would have been unspeakably rude to eschew putting in an appearance, brief though it may be.”

“It can’t be long until they know you’re here, Dr. Lecter. They may know already. It’s not safe for you. Leave now, and I‘ll give you a head start.”

The words that fall from my lips are at once familiar and strange. He purses his lips and studies my night-gown clad form. Another blush, hotter, sweeter, lower, stains my flesh the color of fresh-shed blood.

“No.”

One syllable. No argument. No explanation. Just one concrete syllable hammering in my ears.

“What do you want?”

“I want a lot of things, Clarice. But at this very moment, the one thing I want most in the world is to sit down with you and have a long, leisurely chat.”

“Dr. Lecter, we don’t have the time.”

He cocks his head, and looks at me with an absence of emotion that makes me feel as transparent as glass.

“My time does not concern you, Clarice. And I’d say you have as much time as I care to extend to you.”

I choke down the lump forming in my throat. He extends his hand to me, and I hesitate a moment before laying my own inside his grasp. Flakes of dark dried blood fall from his skin to dust my own. I shudder as he squeezes my fingers, pulling me up from the bed. For a moment I think he is going to pull me into his iron embrace, but the distance he maintains between us is stately enough for even the most rigid Victorian. I gaze into those knowing eyes, and think I can detect a subtle hint of amusement.

“I’m going to take a moment to freshen up, Clarice. I’d appreciate it if you’d put a pot on to boil.”

A click registers in my chest as he shuts the bathroom door. If I’m going to run, this is the time to do it. I hear the faucet turn, and then a steady stream of warm water frantically rushing down the drain and out to sea. The sound resonates in my ears as I tear myself away, stumbling numbly towards the kitchen. Grounding myself with the simple, homey tasks of childhood, I pull a bright copper kettle from the cupboard and proceed to fill it with frigid, oxygen rich water. I shove my wrists below the spigot, scrubbing away at the dusty crimson powder that stains my birch-white skin. The burner flame sparks to life, and I give the kettle over to it’s ministrations. With no instructions left to carry out, I sink into the stiff-backed comfort of a wooden chair.

Hours pass, surely, before I hear the bathroom open down the hall, and see the ineffable black whisper of his shadow staining the carpet. He steps into the kitchen warily, and I can feel his eyes studying me with appraisal. He glances at the pot on the stove, sees the tension pooling between my shoulder blades, and glances back to my bedroom. Did I have enough time to retrieve my gun AND chase down a hidden bullet? Could I be secreting it upon my body like a shining pair of handcuffs? He rolls the notion over in his mouth, tastes it, and swallows. And then he turns his back on me and opens a kitchen cabinet. He is either very sure of me, or very sure of himself.

He pulls out a worn paper box of Lipton tea and I sense, more than see, the look of disdain that turns up the corner of his lip. He digs deeper into the cabinet, far to the back, and is rewarded by a little tin of earl gray. He sets it on the counter below, and turns his attention back to me. He looks at me for a long time, and his silence is maddening. I want to scream, and run at him, throwing curses and rocks at him, like I would a maddeningly devoted pet that brushes my ankles as the hunters close in. I’m convinced he’ll stand there, looking at me forever, until time rots the flesh from his bones, leaving nothing but dust and tattered Armani. He looks deep into my eyes, and I wonder if he can hear the rising scream that’s threatening to tear through my lungs. And then, there IS a scream…He turns away to quell the teapots incessant yell.

Tea leaves locked in a pierced silver ball plunge into the roiling water of the kettles design. They release their musk-citrus perfume in one heady breath, causing my lungs to suck deep, moist air into their lower register.

“Do you take milk, Clarice?”

“No.”

He smiles, and lays his hand to the teapot’s lid, a thin, amber stream circling the basin of a transparent china cup.

“No. Of course not.”

He hands the cup and saucer to me, and I cradle it’s delicate fragile beauty in my death-dealing grasp. He pours himself a cup, but doesn’t join me at the table. Standing above me, he closes his eyes, savoring the fragrance as he takes his first sip.

“Dr. Lecter, I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, but very soon those surveillance men will miss their check in, and this house…”

“This house will become my gallows? Really, Clarice, you need to do this more often. Tea time can be a wonderfully relaxing ritual. Just look at the tension you’re carrying in your shoulders.”

At the suggestion, my shoulders tense even further, pinching erectors taut between blade and spine. I half expect him to set aside his cup and coax the tension from my muscles with his broad, strong hands, but he continues to sip his tea. He is fingering the rim of his cup, and my eyes trace the bone-hued circle with him.

“Dr. Lecter, really, why are you here?” “All business still, Special Ex-Special Agent Starling? I couldn’t forgo the chance to watch you run again, Clarice.”

And there it is. Caprice. Whimsy. Some men take walks in the rain, he murders two trained surveillance operators for the chance to sit and sip tea with the woman who nearly bashed in his skull with a candle stick.

“You have to leave, Dr. Lecter.”

I can see the hair on the back of his neck bristle as my words hit their mark, and I am suddenly aware that I should have taken more care choosing my tone. His grip tightens around the off-white arch of the teacup’s handle.

“Do you feel yourself in a position to be dictating my course of action, Clarice?”

I try again, allowing the sweetness of a siren to replace the harpy’s edge in my voice.

“It’s not safe for you here.”

“It’s not very safe for me anywhere, really, Clarice. At least here I have a view.”

The way he looks at me makes me cast my eyes to the floor.

“Dr. Lecter, stop this.”

“Stop? I haven’t had such a lovely evening in months, Clarice.”

I summon the last of my courage, and even before I parrot the words back to him, I can feel self-hatred wrapping it’s cold, bony fingers around my throat.

“Stop. If you loved me….you’d stop.”

I have never seen his expression change so quickly. One second he is jovially baiting me, but in the next the purest, unmitigated rage I have ever seen on a perp’s face twists his features into a terrifying death-mask. Adrenaline dumps swift and nauseatingly into my system as I feel absolute terror running free and break-neck across the rocky outcroppings of my synapses. He flings the teacup away from him like a burning coal, sending shards of shattering china dangerously close to my face.

Lightning fast, his hand hurtles towards me, clamping down mercilessly at the back of my neck. Bright rivers of pain course down my neck as he twists my hair hard to the side, and I fear he might wrench my scalp free from my head.

My hands fly to the back of my head, clawing desperately at his iron grip, but he doesn’t bunch a millimeter. I dig my nails into his hand, I smell blood, but he doesn’t even flinch. Stumbling and kicking, he drags me from the kitchen. In the living room, I catch my leg on the couch and go down hard, but he hoists me roughly back to my feet. A moment later I hear the door clatter open and the salt air hits my lungs as he heaves me towards the ocean.

It’s rocky, at first, and my bare feet dance over the sharp stones, leaving weeping red ribbons in their wake. His hand is twisted inextricably in my hair, bending my forward, keeping me off balance as we plunge through the moonlit night. I try to pry his implacable hand from my neck, but my hands instinctively flee to cover my face as we careen through uncertain underbrush. And then, the ground gives way beneath the battered soles of my feet and I slide into the soft, impermanent mire of the sand. He doesn’t slow as we reach the beach, a ethereal fog reaching out to grasp us in glowing, otherworldly tentacles. Still hurtling forward, he doesn’t stop at the surf, but drags me across the border of sea and sand. The frigid black waves lick frantically at my bleeding feet, and he pulls me deeper into the water.

The cold is paralyzing, and I feel like I’ve been thrown against the unyielding black ice of a winter street. My eyes flash upwards through the darkness and I see his long black trench gliding sinuously below the waves, circling my bleeding feet like a shark. And the moment before he plunges my head beneath the waves, I think that It’s a shame that such a wonderful garment will be ruined. My eyes snap shut as he thrusts my head under the freezing gray waters. The silence is deafening. I open my mouth to scream, and burning cold water rushes in to sear my throat.

My lungs tense spasmodically, searching for air, as my numb limbs beat frantically at the liquid space that encompasses me. I make contact with his knee, hard, and I think I’ve got him off balance, but that iron grip on my neck doesn’t give an inch. I open my eyes and look up at him from my watery tomb, vision dancing black around the edges of my eyes.

And even through the murky filter of the sea, I can sense his eyes on me, his mind clicking placidly away as I thrash for my life. The grip at the back of my neck loosens just a fraction, and suddenly, a hand is thrust below the water and I grab it. He pulls me up through the surface, and my lungs burst with pain, sucking in a deep salty breath.

Sputtering, hacking, coughing, tears streaming down my face, he pulls me to the shore, tossing me down onto the white expanse of sand.

I’m face down in the grainy whiteness, the particles of sand clinging like parasites to my face and hair. And then, I feel a wave of pressure, and I’m being pushed deeper into the sinking quicksand. He is on top of me, His expensive wet clothes molding themselves to me like some ancient embalmer’s linen. He digs his weight deeper, and I shiver as I feel his hand reaching out to stroke the vulnerable hollow at the base of my throat. I’m shivering, frozen through with hypothermic kisses, locked between shore and madman, wondering, desperately, if this is finally the place I die. Not in a basement. Not in a fish market. Not among the pigs, of either porcine or human variety. Here. Now. Shivering on a beach.

I feel another wave of chills wrack my body as his hand reaches up and presses something metallic against my throat. A thin eddy of red springs up under the Harpy’s wake. I can smell the sea, and the metallic tang of blood, and wet leather, and I want to burst into racking sobs because through it all, I can also detect the heady scent of subtle and delicious aftershave. He shifts, bringing his weight higher on my body, and the voice that rasps in my ear is surprisingly warm.

“By your count, how many opportunities have I had to mete out your death tonight, Clarice?”

He expects an answer. I try to focus in and remember how words function.

“By a conservative estimate…dozens.”

“Dozens. Doesn’t that seem a trifle odd to you, Clarice?”

“You’ll either kill me, Doctor, or you won’t.”

He gives the Harpy a little tug and my skin cleaves just a fraction deeper.

“You’re missing the point, my dear. How many times have your protectors come to your aid?”

I feel like he’s thrown me back into the ocean, a sack of bricks tied to my neck, pulling me downwards to the inescapable truth.

“None.”

“And why do you think that IS, Clarice?”

I swallow hard, and start to cough again. He waits patiently, letting the racking pass, but I have no answer for him. Or at least no answer I can bear to speak out loud.

“How many times have they left you to my tender mercies, Clarice?”

“Dozens.”

“I could disembowel you right now, with a flick of my wrist, and leave you nicely eviscerated on this lovely beach. The first to find you, no doubt, would be a hapless morning jogger and his bounding pet Labrador.  He’d be horrified, shocked, applauded, maybe even throw up in the ocean. Of course, he’d have a story to tell at every cocktail party for the rest of his life, about the day he found the mutilated body of ex-special agent Clarice Starling, killed it seemed after she had dishonored her badge and been expunged from the stainless F. B. I.”

It stings. Oh, how it stings. And I curse the fact that he’s never had the need to lie to me.

“They left you, Clarice, Ma petite Sirene, My Melusine, They left you with little more protection than a mob snitch they hoped would accidentally be disposed of for them. Clarice, they’d like me to be their cleaner.”

I start to sob into the sand, and I feel his weight shift. He’s off me, and sitting on the beach beside me, and then dragging my shivering, sobbing, leaking, huddled mass into his arms. The betrayal is cutting. But oh God. Oh God. He’s right.

“I regret the theatrics this evening, Clarice, but…” He pauses to look down at me, pushing a tangled went strand of hair from my eyes.  “People only see what they are prepared to see. Sometimes, we need to view things through a filter of possible horrors, to see the mundane horrors that lie beneath the surface.”

I bury my head in his shoulder because looking at him is far too painful. He lets me stay like that for a moment, then I feel him shift and he’s helping me to my feet.

“We need to get you warm soon, before you go into shock. I have a place just up the road. Can you walk?”

“I can try.”

“Good Girl.”

And slowly, tortuously, with bleeding feet, and weeping eyes, and a soul drenched through with salt water, I make the first few painful steps towards his rented home.

It’s an endless journey on bleeding feet, tiny grains of sand worming their way into my corrupted flesh. I recall the leather bound Hans Christian Anderson book of fairy tales my father gave me for my seventh birthday. The little mermaid who traded her voice for feet that were shredded by invisible glass with every step she took towards her love. His hand nestles at my elbow, guiding me, infinitely careful now, even as I shudder at the reminder of the puckered skin of his water-logged fingers.

By the time we get to the door, I am shivering with the chill night air and the draft that sweeps across the dark corners of my soul. I scan my surroundings but find them free of would be rescuers. I think of the million ironic ways he could bring about my death and wonder at the indifference presented by my absent masters. It hurts, oh god how it hurts. And the worst part of the pain is the nagging voice that tells me I should have known.

At the threshold he pauses, gracefully kneeling before me and pulling a silk kerchief from his pocket. His hand wraps around my ankle, and I wince as he lifts my foot. The pain subsides, replaced by an uneasy erotic tingle as he brushes the clinging grains of sand from my feet with the whisper of silk. Shaking of the offenders, he folds the bloody kerchief neatly, rising as he stows it close to his heart. I have expect to hear the clink of armor as he rises. He offers me his hand and I pause a moment before willingly crossing the threshold of his rented house. In the darkness I see a faint smile turning the corners of his lip, and I know the symbolism is not lost on him. He flicks a dimmer switch, bringing the light up several degrees. I would expect the welcoming light to warm me, but my shivering becomes more violent. His grip on my forearm tightens as he leads me down the dark wood-paneled hallway.

“You’re teetering on the edge of shock. We need to raise your temperature.”

On the lips of another man, I would have searched for a sinister meeting and intonation. Instead, I obediently follow where the twisted shepherd leads. He presses open a door, and we enter a sumptuously attired bathroom. The cool marble tiles bite at the savaged soles of my feet, and an Egyptian cotton robe hangs from a brass wall hook. The centerpiece of the room is a magnificent claw foot tub, a porcelain and brass monument to his luxurious tastes. Relinquishing his grasp on my arm, I watch him turn the handles, the spigot releasing a pure stream of gently steaming water. He rolls back his wet sleeve, turning up his wrist to the tap to test the water. Satisfied, he leaves the tub to fill, and returns his attention to me. I try to steady myself, but shivers rack my body as the last vestiges of my body heat flees. He reaches into his coat. I hear a click, and see a flash of silver lightning. He folds his harpy and tucks it away as my slashed nightgown flutters to the green marble floor. I expect him to look at me, to leer or stare or slaver, but his eyes don’t drift below my collarbone. I raise my eyes to his, and I’m swept away, drowning again in a boiling crimson ocean. He takes my hand and leads me to the tub.

Stepping inside, I know the water is lukewarm, but it sears my skin like acid. I sway and he lays his hand to my waist, steadying me. It’s mate caresses my shoulder and gently eases me into the bath. I gasp at the pain of the imagined heat, and he croons softly in my ear.

“Slip into it, Clarice. Your body’s in shock from such a loss of heat. As your temperature regulates, the pain will cease. You need it.”

I lay down against the silk-smooth porcelain, my extremities screaming their objections to the heat they’ve forgotten so quickly. Like the gentle stroke of a finger through bars, there one moment, a fleeting dream the next. As he promised, the pain begins to retreat, and I sigh heavily as the shivers loose their hold on me. The blue tinge is chased away by a healthy pink glow, and I feel the blood moving once again in my veins. He pulls a small wooden stool aside the tub and perches on it’s edge. His eyes take in the planes of my neck and face, but travel no further. I have never been more naked, at yet my nudity does not seem to concern him. He smiles as he watches me think.

“A naked mind can be far more intriguing than it’s physical counterpart, Clarice…”

For the first time, his eyes drift through the glass-clear water and over the curves of my submerged flesh. Even though my chilled flesh has lowered the water temperature, it seems screaming hot again.

“Though I must admit your figure is almost as exquisite as the dark corridors of your mind.”

If I wasn’t just returning from the brink of hypothermic shock, My capillaries would be coloring me with a livid blush. Instead I lower my eyes from his, and I feel his low, guttural chuckle rippling the water of my bath. He stands, and draws open the mirrored cabinet above the sink. He removes a slender-necked glass bottle from the cabinet, and returns to my side. He uncaps the bottle and the heady fragrance of lavender and lanolin perfumes the steamy air. Sitting behind the bath, he deprives me of the chance to watch him. I can hear him rolling up his other sleeve, and then I feel his hands easing their way into the water at my shoulders. He grasps me there, softly by firmly, and runs his fingertips over my goose-pimpled skin A wave of shame courses through me as my peaked coral nipples tighten and perk, unbidden. He exerts a gentle pressure on my shoulders, sliding me forward. I placidly follow his lead, and my hair slips into the inviting warmth.

I rise slightly and I nearly cry out in a mixture of surprise and delight as his fingers stroke my scalp. The fragrance of the shampoo saturates my nostrils as he washes my hair with aching reserve.

“I’ve always wanted to feel your hair slippery and wet.”

His words kick in deep in the pit of my stomach, and I can feel my pulse thumping in my abdomen. My heart flutters, and I feel, for the first time tonight, faint. And then he leans in so close behind me that I can smell his delicious cologne. In a gesture so maddeningly erotic I‘m almost overcome, he inhales at the back of my neck. The hairs there rise, and his tongue flicks out to tease them. My fingertips dig in to the porcelain tub as I resolve to keep them as far away from my inner thighs as possible. He gently pushes my head under the water, rinsing me clean of the fragrant shampoo. And then, he’s up, leaving a cool breeze in his wake. I turn my head to see, and catch a glimpse of him taking the plush robe from it’s hook.

“Can you stand?”

“I think so.”

He stands at the side of the tub, watching me as I tuck my feet below me and rise. As I step out onto the cool marble tiles, his arms encircle me, wrapping my tight in the warmth of his cotton-lined arms. I fight the urge to surrender to it, to go limp in his arms and let him hold me. He ties the belt around my waist, giving me a little squeeze before pulling away. I want to grab at his hands, or his arms, or throw myself at his feet and cry onto his expensive, ruined shoes. Instead, I smooth my hand over my immaculately clean hair.

“You’ll find warm clothes laid out on the bed in the next room. Join me in the dining room when you’ve made yourself presentable.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me to drip tears of bathwater on the cold marble tiles.

The room is immaculate, richly appointed, and I know instinctively that it is his bedroom. I enter it cautiously, seeing it through the eyes of predator that has entered another creatures territory. Lush burgundy curtains pool around the windows in velvety shadows. The wine-hue of the curtains is echoed in the coverlet that adorns the carved, dark wood four-poster bed. His night table is sparse, embellished only by a small reading lamp and a lead crystal carafe. I am possessed by the desire to open the drawers of his night table, to sniff out any literary pleasure he has secreted away, any dark, hidden enigma that might bring me deeper insight into his fascinating mind. I curb the impulse. I might as well dig through his garbage; such rudeness would not be tolerated.

My hand brushes the coverlet, and I savor the slight crinkle of the blood rich velvet. Laid out on the bed are a variety of items, all of which are much more luxurious than I am used to. My breath hitches in my throat as I catch a glimpse of the dress. It’s the same one he sheathed me in during our escapade on the Chesapeake. Of course it’s not the SAME one. It’s ill-fated sister suffocates, bagged in an evidence locker as dark as a midnight alley. As I run my fingers over the jet black silk, a wave of conflicting emotions crashes over me with all the force of tonight’s unforgiving sea. On the floor at the foot of the bed, the black heels that I keep hidden in the back of my closet wink up at me. I dress quickly, my pulse racing as the plunging v settles over my heart. I sweep my hair back into a sleek tail, and slip on his chosen foot ware. I steel myself for whatever lies ahead, and walk to the door, but something out of place catches my eye. On his dresser, rests a black brocade bag far to feminine to be his. I open it, and am greeted by a few carefully selected cosmetics. I smudge muted copper shadow in the crease of my eyes, and a soft gloss over my lips. A light sweep of bronze over my cheekbones, and I’m through the door.

The hallway seems like an eternity, but eventually I find my way to the dining room. Candles of varying heights bathe the room in an inviting glow. A rich mahogany table is set for two. And standing at the head of the table, in what I recognize to be the identical suit he wore on the Chesapeake, is the most intriguing man I have ever met. He holds a glass of deep red wine in one hand; the other rests on the back of his chair. His eyes drink me in, and I can see the appreciation that lights them from behind.

“You’re breathtaking.”

I have no reply and so I stand mutely in the doorframe.

“Come. Sit, Please.

He sets his glass down and pulls back the chair for me. He’s pushing in my chair when I first notice the nasty scratches gouged into the back of his weathered hand. I shiver, and am grateful he hasn’t chosen to take it personally. He turns back from the table, and pulls a small serving cart with chafing dish into the room. A slight wave of uneasiness washes over me as he ladles something into a shallow bowl and places it before me. I am immediately relived to be greeted by a innocuous clear brown liquid.

“Veal consommé. I know you’re not likely very hungry now, but your body can use the nourishment.”

I take up my spoon and obediently sip the fragrant broth. It’s delicious, tangy and mellow at the same time, with a hint of some strange liquor. I resolve to purge all my cupboards of bullion, forever and ever, amen. He joins me at the table, but does not partake in the consume’. I cast my eyes down as I blush under his appraisals. After what seems like hours, I set my spoon aside, and he rises, removing the dish from the counter top. He leaves me a moment to whisk the cart away, then once again seats himself at the table.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, Thank you.”

“It will hit you again in about eight hours. A delayed reaction to physical stress and emotional upheaval. Don’t let it concern you. It will pass.”

I nod and focus in on the flickering candle flame to my right. The silence, though not awkward, is heavy. Thoughts roll around my water-logged mind, darting back and forth like a school of silver-blue fish. Do I attempt to apprehend him? The notion is laughable, as well as more dangerous than I care to contemplate. Do I politely ask to take my leave? Would he allow me to walk out the door and back to my former life? Or would he drag me back to the frigid gray ocean with blankets of sea foam and pillows of seaweed? Is there any other option? The only thing clear to me is the fact that my former master’s have jumped shipped with all the loyalty of a bilge rat. If I sink or if I swim, I at least know for certain, it will be by my own efforts. I am back in the holding cell below deck, and even in the warmth of the dining room, I can feel the death cold water licking at my naked ankles. The ship I have lived my life on for years is sinking The rigging has been slashed. The sails are in tatters. There’s a sucking hole on the port bow. Captains go down with their ships. Will I have to as well? Or is there another way?

Across the table, he cocks his head at me, scrutinizing. There is a fascination in his eyes that is both flattering and confusing. I wonder what it is about myself that could be of such interest.

“Do I detect a crumbling in an archaic moral matrix?”

The words sound smug, but his eyes look sincere.

“Archaic?”

“Archaic: Outmoded. Burdensome. Useless. Yes, Clarice. Archaic.”

My words come out harsher than I intend. How can he blame me? I’m a condemned woman, looking over the side at a harsh ten inch cedar plank.

“What do you want me to say, Doctor? Thank you for proving to me just how disposable my superiors think I am? Thank you for opening my eyes to the grand folly of my wasted life? Truth can be a cold comfort, Doctor.”

“And would you rather live in a den of lies, Clarice? What is more appealing to you Clarice, honest brutality or hidden treachery?”

I’m shivering again, but this time it’s not from the frigid ice of an ill tempered sea. It’s rage. No offense to my trusty gun, but right now I’d like to get up close and personal and stab him in the gut.

“A little girl is walking down the road, and she meets a talking snake.”

“Fairy tales now, Doctor?

The interruption colors his tone brassy with annoyance.

“A little girl is walking down the road, and she meets a talking snake. The snake says to her ‘I am freezing and if you leave me here I will surely die. Please warm me inside your coat’ But the little girl is wary and replies “No, no! you are a snake and surely if I put you in my coat, you will bite me.’ But the snake assures her that he will not bite her, and the little girl tucks him into her coat and sets off to school. The snake begins to thaw, and a few moments later the little girl feels two sharp pricks over her heart. And as the venom soaks the wound, and she falls the ground in her death tremors she manages to gasp out one final word. ‘why?’ And before he slithers off, the snake replies…I’m a snake. Snakes bite.”

“I don’t have time for stories Doctor. Is the bureau the snake, Doctor? Are you?”

“We both are, Clarice. There’s just one difference.”

With the speed of his allegorical viper he’s bridged the gap between us and kicked my chair out from under me. I hit the ground hard, and my teeth click shut. He rolls me from the chair and in a heart beat his full weight in on me, pinning me to the ground. I fight for air as his crushing strength anchors me into the plush carpeting, his lips grazing the lobe of my ear. He half whispers, half hisses into my ear.

“The difference is, Clarice, I never promised not to bite you.”

And with that he sinks his teeth into the side of my neck.

Tears sear my eyes as his mouth clamps down on my neck. His teeth, pearly, angry, feral, hold tight to my captive jugular, a thin layer of skin the only barrier between him and my death. I look up at him through the eyes of a dozen color crime scene photos. Was this the last thing they saw? Did they beg, or plead, or cry for their mother? Offer their bodies in exchange for their life? Promise to mend their ways, improve their vocabulary, tip better, anything if only…There is a blur of motion and his teeth tear up from my neck. I scream, my hand instinctively flying to my neck in a futile attempt to staunch the blood spurting from the wound. My hand makes contact, slick, warm, wet, and my stomach drops sickeningly low. Above me, his glance is calmer now, the wildness retreated back from his eyes. Realization dawns on me slowly; the skin at my neck is smooth. No mangled muscle fibers. No weeping, rubbery arterial tubing. No cricoid cartilage crushed beyond recognition. Just the slight indentation of his teeth. I slowly pull my hand away, and breathe a sigh of relief as my fingers are painted with only the slightest hint of blood.

He shifts slightly, redistributing some of his weights to his knees which have slipped around the outside of my thighs. He squeezes them in on me and I’m aware of a tightening in his groin. Pressed just below my stomach, a knot of flesh camouflaged in black wool slacks. I should be terrified, I am terrified, but underneath the terror, another emotion is welling up in the pit of my stomach. I stare into his red-flecked eyes, and he can see it. The look on his face is a strange mixture of desire, and contemplation. The rage has subsided, slunk off into another vector of his cavernous mind, and in its’ place, another primal hunter emerges. He reaches out and gently grasps my wrists, sliding them up and over my head, resting them on the floor. Lowering his head to my still damp neck, he buries his nose in my flesh and inhales deeply. For the first time this evening, I don’t feel like another hunter. I don’t feel like helpless prey. It’s far more disturbing than that. I feel like a mate.

With a maddening tenderness, his lips brush my neck, kissing the hurt he just moments before inflicted upon me. He continues to trail a line of kisses up my neck, from collar bone to the base of my skull. He stops at the ridge of my ear, whispering kisses around it’s edge. And then his warm honeyed baritone is echoing in my skull.

“When a female tiger in heat enters a male’s territory, Clarice, she’ll start to behave erratically. She’ll stray farther and farther away from her den. She’ll leave her scent in a thousand different hollows and caves. In other words, she’ll draw attention to herself.”

He pauses in his narrative to lick a droplet of blood from my neck.

“The male, on the other hand, hangs back in the shadows. He’ll follow her for days. Stalk her, observe her, scent her, bide his time.”

Now a kiss in my hair line. There a kiss on my collar bone.

“And as he stalks her, Clarice, he notices the changes in her, the way she moves, the way she sounds, the way she carries herself. And still he waits…She calls to him, cries to him, she has a vocalization that even sounds like begging… ” Here he pauses to lick my neck, his tongue rougher this time.

“And when he smells her heat upon her, the male approaches the female. There’s much hissing, snapping, they quarrel, they fight back and forth. But slowly, over time, they move closer. They almost touch. And then they do touch, gently, hesitantly at first, until…”

His hand caresses the side of my face.

“He bites her neck, and mounts her from behind.”

I stifle a startled scream as he thrusts his hand between my legs, warm, satin wetness coating his fingers. I blush hot in embarrassment, and struggle to get away but he’s got a hold of my hair and I’m pinned to the floor. I can feel his deep throated chuckle rumbling over me, as he slips his hand away from my startled shame. The hand encircling my wrists slackens, and my hands are free. I’d move them if I had any idea what to with them. I don’t know weather to slap him or to pull him to me. Gouge out his eyes or plant sweet kisses on their lids. Go for the throat, or, go for his lips. He makes the decision for me. With a startling speed, he’s shifted his weight again, caught me of guard, and roughly flipped me to my stomach. The sandy-hued carpet abrades my cheek as he presses me down into the floor. I have to struggle to fill my aching lungs with something other than Berber fibers. I can feel his excitement growing as my struggles caress him from below. His fingers snake up through my hair, Drawing it up, covering my face, exposing the sun-shaded skin on the back of my neck. A growl rumbles through his chest captures the scruff of my neck in his teeth.

His weight is overwhelming, his desire painfully apparent against my tailbone. I’ve had guns leveled at my head by crack whores and gang bangers, skin tailors and unwashed Sardinians, but up until this moment I’ve never truly tasted panic. It hits me, hard, mercilessly, and my body starts to shake. And then, as quickly as it came, the weight on top of me is gone. I’m down on the carpet, face to the floor, and I can’t move. But the weight is gone. He is gone. No. Not gone. I sense a shift in him. A second earlier, he was about to devour me in an orgiastic frenzy of blood and lust. Now, with gentleman’s manners he helps me to my feet. I can’t pinpoint the trigger for his sudden change in demeanor, and my lack of insight unnerves me. For the thousandth time this night, I wonder just what is going on. For the first time this night, I wonder if he knows.

In the flickering glow of a candlelit room, I find myself face to face with the most startling and intriguing enigma of my life. I can feel a thin stream of blood drying on my neck, my flesh beginning to mottle where his teeth have marked me. He gazes at his handiwork, and for just a moment I think I can detect a troubled look fleeting across his features. And then, so quickly that I doubt my perception, his expression has congealed once again into detached observation. He retrieves his already bloodied handkerchief from his jacket and delicately cleans my neck.

I stare down at the bit of silk, brown lines of my dried blood forming a disturbing hounds tooth pattern on ruined finery.

“I seem to have broken the skin. Please forgive me.”

As nonchalant as if he were apologizing for coming late to dinner.

“Please forgive me, I almost tore out your throat. I’ll be sure to keep better track of the time.

He tucks his kerchief back again, and I wonder why he hasn’t disposed of it. The answer lingers disturbingly in the back of my mind. It’s a memento. A memento suggests absence. My absence. Will he let me leave, or is he planning a different route for my departure. And if he will let me leave…will I? But there’s still a nagging voice in the back of my head. He had me pinned to the ground. I was painfully aware of his arousal, and much to my shame, I know he was aware of mine. And then, startlingly abrupt, over. On his feet. Civilized. Why? I try to find the words to ask him, but my mouth is suddenly dry.

He cocks his head at me, and a silver ripple of fear slithers through my heart. I see fire and ice in his eyes, and mutely lower my head. His fingers snake out and cup my chin, drawing my eyes back up to his with gentle insistence. His index finger trails across my lower lip, and he takes a step closer to me. The rightness of the situation is completely at odds with my inner Lutheran screaming out against my sin from the pulpit in my mind. He’s an inch away from my lips, and the prospect of kissing him fills me with a stab of fatalistic longing so keen that I actually feel my heart contract with pain. Don’t kiss me. Please don’t kiss me. Not there. Not my lips. I can’t. I can’t and leave. I just can’t.

“Dr. Lecter…”

He doesn’t withdraw from me, merely murmurs in his low register, warm moist air from his lungs caressing my naked lips.

“Hmmm?”

“Dr. Lecter…Why…?”

And now he pulls back from me slightly, soaking up the emotions threatening to tear me asunder.

“Why did I stop?”

Words are so costly. I manage a mute nod.

“Clarice, I’ve been dreadfully forward with you this evening. And while I trust my own control, I would hate to press my advantage.”

I’ve been half drowned then bathed in fragrant waters, frightened and fed, cut and soothed. I’ve had my world turned upside down, only to realize, like a diver in murky water, that the surface wasn’t in the direction I thought it was after all.

“I think I’ve been able to open your eyes a bit tonight, Clarice, even if the truth stings like salt water. But I can’t keep your eyes open for you. I’m afraid it’s time for you to make a decision.”

“What are my options?”

“Your options are the same as they’ve always been, Clarice. You can close your eyes and drown in your former life, or you can wrench your eyes open and swim for the shore with all you’ve got left. But whatever you decide, I won’t coerce you. In fact…”

And his warmth leaves me, as he backs away. There is now a gulf of several steps between us. The moment hangs in the grasp of eternity.

“I won’t even touch you.”

I clench my jaw.

“You’ll let me leave. Now.”

“Absolutely.”

“No consequences.”

“Only one.”

“And what is that?”

“If you turn around and walk out that door, I’ll disappear from your life permanently. Weather you think that’s a blessing or a curse, I assure you Clarice, it is a fact.”

Do I feel frigid water swimming around my ankles again. Is it possible to drown in a man’s words?

“And what would you have me do?”

“Oh no. You’ll take responsibility for your decision, Clarice, whatever the outcome. But I will say that over the course of the evening I’ve seen a tremendous and admirable expansion of your consciousness. You have a beautiful mind Clarice, and I can only begin to imagine what it would be like to savor your intimate thoughts. I would never tire of licking your tears, and drinking in your joy.”

“Pretty words, Doctor. “

“Are they?”

“Are you telling me that you…”

“That I love you? What a lonely little word, Clarice. It’s been used to justify and exonerate every crime from murder to incest, asked to shoulder a thousand different meanings, presented as an excuse for every conceivable human folly and weakness. Do you honestly want me to profess my LOVE to you, Clarice? Or would you prefer the truth?”

“What is the truth, Doctor?”

“That I am captivated by you, Clarice. Fascinated, enthralled, challenged, revitalized, enraptured, enamored, excited, inspired, surprised, intrigued, enflamed, engulfed, exhilarated…My Dear Clarice. A single word could never encompass the spectrum of my feelings for you.”

And then there is water on the floor. But not a flood. Not the sea. Just a single tear that falls unbidden from the eyes I shield from his. I can feel his eyes on me, but I can’t look up. How can he ask this of me? Why can’t he just take? Does it have to be like this? And in my waterlogged heart, I know, it has to be. Hours must pass in our silent vigil. The door is ten feet from me; He is only five, but it seems like we’re separated by miles of shattered glass. And slowly, painstakingly slow, I take a step forward. Every step towards my love is a walk through broken glass, and my heart bleeds for what I leave behind. But I know that every step back only drags me down to the depths. I’d drown before I got to the door.

He makes no move towards me, though I teeter and creep molasses slow. No out-stretched hand, no encouraging word, no smile to urge me on. Then time reclaims me and I’m standing closer to him than I’ve ever been of my own volition. With tentative tenderness I press my fingers to his lapel. The spell that divides us is broken, and he takes my hand in his own. Brining it to his lips, he kisses the top of my hand, a smile dancing in his crimson eyes. With a squeeze of my fingers, he leads me over the phantom glass, and to his bedroom.

His bedroom is warm and dark, sleek and stylish, much like the man himself. Setting foot inside seems oddly familiar, like returning to one’s childhood home long after leaving childhood behind. He stands across from me, his crimson eyes refracting the low light back like two dying embers caught in a crackling flame. And then he’s down on one knee before me, and for just a moment I’m struck with the strangeness of the situation. I wonder just what he’s doing down there on the ground, but he utters a single word to counter the confused expression on my face.

“Shoes.”

Silently, I step out of one shoe, then the other, my ravaged feet sinking into the soft plush of the exquisite carpeting. He rises, setting aside the Gucci heels, and returns his attention to me. In the back of my head, in the far reaches of my mind, there is a niggling voice coughing and sputtering in righteous indignation. I had a chance to leave, and yet, barefoot and dressed in silk finery, I stand before the man who both terrifies and soothes me. I’d love to be able to rationalize it, but know that ultimately, I have to trust my instincts. I’ve been surrounded by death of one kind or another, closing in around me on all sides, since I joined the bureau. The people I’ve killed, the people who’ve killed, the people who have been trying to kill me. Has he caught up with my total, after adding the two surveillance men his evening? I’ve racked up more in the last ten years than he has. It’s an odd twist of fate that I’d be allowed to walk free, while he’d be thrown in a cage, or worse. How fortunate that I’ve been labeled an avenging angel while he’d been labeled a serial killer. Like those two words could some him up just as well as “Special Agent” defined my world. But not anymore.

He takes my hand again, and I’m cut to the quick by the tenderness present in his exquisitely expressive eyes. I can sense conflict in him, but resignation too. Like a man who’s decided to do the right thing, even though it might cost him everything. For a moment, a wave of anxious dread sweeps through me as I wonder if he’s changed his mind. If he’s decided that, like a pup who just won’t heel, that I’m not worth the trouble.

“Clarice…I’d like nothing more than the time to break you in slowly, over the course of days, and weeks, and months. I’d relish the time to ease you in, to painstakingly gently expose you, fragment by fragment, to the person I am. But to do so, Clarice would be to do you a disservice.”

I can’t say that I was aware of him moving, but he’s closer now, just a few inches of super-charged air, hovering between us. I can feel the tingling moisture of his breath on my face.

“After tonight, Clarice, you can never go back. They’ll find those two bodies, and they’ll find you gone. You can’t change your mind six months down the road and decide to go back. They’ll hang you for it, Clarice. They’ll tear you limb from limb. On the other hand, I can leave you tied on the beach, with several superficial injuries, and make my way quickly out of the country. You’ll be able to step right back into the undertow of your former life.”

I almost cry out as he gently smoothes the back of his knuckles across my cheek bone. I close my eyes, and let everything he is telling me sink in.

“I will be brutally honest with you tonight, Clarice. I promise you a full measure of both tenderness and pain, affection and affliction. I can’t say if you’ll enjoy it, or if you’ll choose to stay, but at least you won’t be laboring under any illusions.”

He looks to me to acknowledge his words, and I slowly nod as they register. And I’m suddenly aware of the tremendous gift he has laid at my feet. Total disclosure. The kind of honesty that’s painful to both give and receive. He’s presenting me with the whole of himself, with the full awareness that it may lead to rejection. It’s almost too much, too overwhelming, to be confronted with such a window into his soul. What happens if I stare into the abyss and find even more disturbing terrors hidden below? My mind wheels, my hands shake, and then, grabbing caution by the neck and shoving it’s ugly head below the waves, I lean forward and press my lips to his.

The feeling is intoxicating. His lips are soft and smooth, and I can feel him shaking ever so slightly. It’s an interesting feeling, one I can’t quite place. And then I can. It’s the same shiver I get right before I squeeze the trigger. It’s just a split second before I snap. He sinks his teeth, hard into my lip, and I taste blood. He pulls back and the look on his face is positively feral. His lip is painted with a trickle of my blood. And then the look in his eyes retreats a bit, replaced by one slightly saner, quieter. He looks at me, and waits, with eerie stillness for my reaction. Slowly, hesitantly, I reach out, and lay my hands aside his face. And then, the hesitancy leaves me. I take the snake to my breast and he sinks in his fangs. And when the venom hits, I can feel my former life locked in it’s death throes, thrashing about, drowning in a cold sea of agony, while my new life swims for the surface.

We thrash on the bed for what seems like decades. My body is a mottled battlefield. Bruises of purple, and scarlet, an blue bloom on my skin in gardens of scratches and nicks. The sheets, fine Egyptian cotton, are stained with the remnants of our union, blood and cum, sweat and tears, agony and ecstasy. The corner of my lip is cracked, and I’ve ripped the nail of my left index finger down to the nail bed. My hair, like the sheet, is in tangles. I have a nagging suspicion that one of my toes is broken. There is pain when I move my right arm. My eyes are red rimmed and sore. Inside and out I’ve been used and enjoyed, kissed and scratched, held and held down.

Nearly spent, covered in a sheen of well earned sweat, he hovers over me. There is blood on his elegant skin, under his nails, and on his face. He is shaking with exertion, and the gleam in his eyes is almost like a glare. He seems steeled. Hardened. Like he’s waiting for a blow. Like he’s waiting for an axe to fall. Like he fears it could go either way.

I’m flat on my back, and It hurts to raises my head. He creeps closer, closer, until his face hovers inches above mine. When he speaks, his voice is cruel, the same mocking tone leaching back from Baltimore and Memphis. He spit’s the words out like poison, and droplets of angry spittle spray my cheek.

“Can you possibly stay, now that you truly know who I am?”

An eternity passes in the span of a heartbeat. I can hear his thundering away in his chest, feel the sweat dripping off him, the salt seeping in and stinging my wounds.

“Yes.”

The cold light in his eyes warms, and I can see the anger retreating from his features. It will never truly leave him, that cold, slithering presence. But it does retreat. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, he lowers his forehead to mine. With infinite care, he wraps his arms around my wilted frame, and holds me close, rocking me gently back and forth like a nurse maid. I feel something crumble in him, a twisting and breaking of the hinges of some hidden door. I cannot, just now, fully understand the significance, but one thing is clear. He too has come home. His lips whispers softly in my ear.

“Clarice…Clarice…”

We stay like that, for eons, and he rocks me to sleep.

It’s just like he said. I wake hours later, shivering, locked in the ice cold grip of panic. Sensing it, he stirs, and turns to me, looking down at me and appraising.

“Second Thoughts?”

My wounds have been cleaned and dressed. The sheets have been stripped and replaced. I can feel his heartbeat next to mine.

“No.”

What I am coming to recognize as his smile plays across his lips in relief. He strokes my hair with his fingers.

“Shhh…It will pass.”

He wraps the blankets tighter about me, and lays my head across the valley of his chest. And he’s right. As the warmth of his arms chases away the chills of the ocean, it does pass.

Fin

Copyright 2004, Natasha von Lecter

Summary:           Clarice Starling visits the past to restore the future.

Timeline:             Three years after Hannibal the film.

Rating:                R

*

The sun always gave the water the most glorious affect as it kissed the surface of the waves upon its slow and steady climb to the top of the sky. Here, on Maui, it was one of the only simple pleasures Dr. Lecter was allowed, that fine moment of the day where the beach was not over-populated with tourists, at least not from his rented condo, and the only other people awake were those to truly appreciate the sunrise like himself. Otherwise, Dr. Lecter found himself in the midst of a horridly popular tourist attraction, and loathing the separation from Europe. Had he not spent so much time in Italy, this would have been more tolerable, perhaps even enjoyable. However, sacrificing location didn’t bother him, though he was widely known as a man who did not deny himself. The wisdom of his avoidance of Europe would show once the manhunt for the more tasteful territories was called off. Having spent the first week since the Muskrat Farm incident in a cheap motel in Bermuda, he reveled in the knowledge that his inconspicuous surroundings were doing more than simply keeping him guarded from identification, they were also liberating him to a point of higher taste and appreciation for things he was missing.

In Bermuda, he learned that the authorities were mostly concerned with the flights pertaining to Europe and a few places in South America. From there, Dr. Lecter made arrangements to fly to Maui, a lovely place, yes, but ruined for the incessant flow of tourists. Once there, he rented a condo on the beach before elevating to a residence on a secluded section of the island where he was given his much needed privacy. Still, the occasional glimpse from his elaborate porch deck confirmed that young lovers had discovered his property and enjoyed using it in the hours they assumed safety, where the master of the house was asleep.

No one considered that Dr. Lecter didn’t sleep much, if at all. Nights were almost as restless as the asylum days, perhaps to a greater extent since departing from Special Agent Clarice Starling nearly three years ago after Paul Krendler’s lobotomy, an incident that left the left side of his hand cleanly scraped. Almost a mistake there; through the cloudiness of the moment, perhaps the kiss stolen from her virgin lips that affected him more than he liked to admit, he had almost completely severed his hand. Now he hardly looked at it, finding no need to, and carried on with casual ignorance of the occasional strain that tickled his nerves when he tested the endurance of his hand. When he did look at it, however, he heard Starling’s scream as the cleaver came down, and saw the blood pouring from the side of his hand that she mistook for hers.

Dr. Lecter was carefully weighing his options. Three years had passed since he saw Starling in any form that did not include a newspaper or television interview. No contact, either, he was very careful about that. The letter sent to her betrayed him to the FBI, he learned, and despite the inconvenience and redundancy since Mason Verger’s detective had found him anyway, he congratulated Starling inwardly on her insight.

It seemed almost perverse to use the exercises previously reserved for passing the long days in the asylum at a place such as this. Dr. Lecter avoided the city unless it was absolutely essential and entertained himself periodically through the day with variations in musical instruments, perfecting those pieces by his most beloved composures to memory, and straightening the edges of several where a note or two might have been misplaced. There were the routine trips to the FBI’s website where he noted daily that not only was the photo in use outdated, the information remained relatively untouched, even with the death of Mason Verger.

However, Dr. Lecter’s intentions on the website were not solely to indulge his vanity. More or less, he knew no updates would be presented until he allowed himself to connect past a greeting and introduction with another being on this island, and he had no delusions that it was indeed time for that yet. He was extremely wealthy, and though he might have liked a curator job as the one he nearly acquired in Florence before the unfortunate leave, he was content to live off his savings. Logging onto the website ever day, he would satisfy his knowledge that he remained an enigma to the authorities before digging through for updates on his favorite FBI agent.

It was quite amusing in the days that immediately followed leaving her in the kitchen of Paul Krendler’s lake house. The collection of Tattler magazines as well as worldwide headlines concerning her and her possible relations with him over the years was something he never tired of studying. Peoples’ perception never ceased to amaze him for the outstanding ignorance displayed, and it was a terrific source of amusement.

Over the years, though, his visit to the site was more or less justified by his ever-growing concern for her welfare. It had been a great surprise, even to him, when he learned the FBI did not drop her, rather put her on six months probation. Apparently, Starling was less than enthused when she learned of her redemption, a very detailed letter of resignation having circulated on the Internets unreliable yet comically useful search engines that was supposedly written two days before her sentencing. If indeed it was authentic, Dr. Lecter couldn’t help but be pleased with her choice of words, the detailed, accurate depiction of her trials and tribulations throughout her employment in that destructive organization was most appeasing. However, he would have liked to believe that if the letter were real, she would not have accepted the granted redemption.

Dr. Lecter knew that Starling hated the idea of being labeled ordinary, and it took something with charisma to get into the FBI. Her hard-as-nails personality didn’t exactly support her plight; more or less damaged what name she had acquired as well as her radical behavior. The FBI saw her as a loose nail, a rough edge they had to watch unless wanting to suffer an infectious cut. As easy as it was to believe, the people in the front office were not completely ignorant; she was a good agent and a powerful asset to them. Dropping her would have arisen public sympathy, not something to be particularly concerned with, but it would have also made her an enemy, perhaps not with so many words, but the implication would always be there. It already was.

One interview with Starling survived over the years of rumor and accusation, one interview taken directly after her actions at the Muskrat Farm. It remained forever captured on a video cassette, the image of her alongside Jack Crawford, burnt red from a trip to Cancun, as she described without shame what she went through, and humored him with her commentary on Krendler. Jack Crawford looked less than amused, and was rather there for moral support. Dr. Lecter very much enjoyed the idea that Starling’s actions in saving him had jeopardized whatever Crawford felt for her, and chuckled at the lack of insight his former nemesis exhibited. Despite the existence of tapes of his conversations with Starling in the days of the dungeon, Crawford failed to place together the outer reasoning of her rescuing him. The thought of any living creature in a place where they are subjected to torture burned her, and though he would have liked to think that something more than sheer sympathy lured her to him that night, he was far from ungrateful.

Ever, with the existence of visuals of the interview, Dr. Lecter much preferred to listen to it and map her actions in his mind, every motion of her body, every strand of her hair committed to memory.

Now, Dr. Lecter reclined in the privacy of his elegant estate, a glass of Batard-Montrachet resting comfortably in his hand. On the television before him, the image of Clarice Starling flickered a bit in ordinance with the cameraman’s poor representation of her features, but despite the disappointing quality, Dr. Lecter was not paying attention to the screen. His eyes were closed and his head rested on the back of the chair, a look of immense satisfaction overpowering him, as though indulging himself in a lovely orchestral piece by the finest symphony, drinking in every sound and finding the taste most exquisite.

“Agent Starling, exactly what words would you use to describe your actions? What would you say possessed you to rescue Hannibal Lecter, renowned serial killer and labeled madman?”

Dr. Lecter smiled, his eyes remaining closed, as he saw the look of utter distaste Starling displayed at the careless name-calling gesture the anchor issued to him. It was hard to diagnose what she was feeling, what she meant and how much she was hurt, judging solely by eyes and voice, and he knew apart of her was glad he escaped. Another part was perhaps grieved; after all, she had just lost him whether or not she realized the depth of that loss at the time.

“First of all, you assume that just because he…was labeled by society as a monster that he is not a human being. To dehumanize him and suggest that he deserves torture is no better than what he’s done to people,” Starling replied bitterly. On the screen and in Dr. Lecter’s mind, a sharp cold wind pierced them, and Starling wrapped her arms around her torso as if to protect herself. “I…I don’t know all the reasons I went there…but I knew I couldn’t allow him to die like that.”

“Agent Starling, there are many who disagree with you. By all consensus standards, the man you rescued was a monster.”

Dr. Lecter snickered at that, marveling at the lack of experience the anchor was demonstrating. Opinions should never make their way into the news, and while many experts would agree and the mistake most likely went unnoticed, even applauded, he was quite irritated that such rules of media were discarded for the sake of publicity.

“Your consensus standards, Mr. Peterson,” Starling replied, a winter storm supporting her voice. “Mine are slightly different. With all due respect, you’ve never met him, never even seen him outside the pressroom. Maybe someday when he dissects your personality and tells you things so horribly true about yourself…you’ll understand why I couldn’t let him be eaten alive.”

“People are accusing you in aiding the death of the late Special Agent Krendler. Any comment?”

“Just because I didn’t want him dead does not mean his behavior should have expected to change. I can’t control him.” She laughed shortly at that. “And as much as he would like to, he can’t control me.”

“What is your comment to the accusations being made over your alleged relationship with Dr. Lecter, Agent Starling?”

Starling snickered. “People will believe what they want to believe. Whatever I say doesn’t make any difference.”

“Agent Starling, has Dr. Lecter ever tried to sexually assault you in any way?”

Another quip of laughter, and Dr. Lecter, reclined and perfectly comfortable, smiled.

“Dr. Lecter would never do anything like that…assault…far too rude.”

“Do you presume to know everything about Dr. Lecter?”

“I can’t presume anything. All I know is I’m standing here today. If he wanted me dead, he would’ve killed me a long time ago. He had the opportunity. He’s had plenty.”

“Did Dr. Lecter tend to the injuries you suffered after taking you from the Muskrat Farm?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Where do you think he is, Agent Starling?”

“Watching me,” she replied, and his smile grew. “Whether he’s close or not, he’s watching me.”

“Does that frighten you?”

“Not as much as it should.”

“Thank you very much for your time, Agent Starling. One last question before we go. Do you think, as an FBI agent, that you could ever be in the position to kill Dr. Lecter if he refused arrest or was a threat to another citizen.”

A significan’t pause.

“To judge things on a ‘what-if’ basis is dangerous,” she said after a minute. “We never know until it’s in front of us. I don’t know the answer.”

“Thank you Agent Starling. And now, back to you—”

The tape ended there, but Dr. Lecter remained at peace long after it was simply static flickering on the screen. No sound permeated the air, and for a prolonged minute, there was no movement in the residence. Finally, Dr. Lecter raised his glass to drink the rest of his wine and stood, moving with graceful elegance most can only envy. He switched the television off and walked to the terrace of his dwelling. There, he looked out over the ocean, his mind traveling back three years and before that.

In the fine halls of his memory palace, he saw Signora Pazzi standing before him as he handed her the timeless writing at the opera. His words to her then reflected now, and he paused for a moment of recollection. The world questioned his feelings for Starling, dangerous considering now she was bait as a weakness. In the privacy of his home, he allowed himself to admit it wasn’t entirely false. Her morals were incorruptible, her mind as stubborn as his if not more so, her brilliant sense of right and wrong almost admirable. But there was something there, a crack in the window he wished to dispense of completely. Was she a weakness to him? In all honesty, he didn’t know himself. How much would he risk for her? Enough had been risked already, only to face rejection…but with some hope.

She told him never in a thousand years would she ask him to stop. It seemed logical that all he could do was abide that wish. Stop rescuing her? Never in a thousand years. Stop thinking of her? Never in a thousand years. Stop obsessing, wheedling, sending packages, doting, practically wasting himself over her in the discreet yet obscure manner in which he executed things? Never in a thousand years.

This realization didn’t bother him, and was rather pleasing when he forced himself to think of it. In the seclusion of his residence, he had come to this conclusion time and time again, but patience was pushing and after their last visit, he was becoming persistent.

The words said to Signora Pazzi. “Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for her, and find nourishment in the very sight of her? I think so. Would she seek through the bars of his plight and ache for him?”

The very sight of her now was doing little to provide the much needed nourishment. That thought alone should bother him slightly, yet still he remained unaffected. Again, he wondered the nature, the true nature, of her persistence to keep him alive. Despite the three-year old interview he had committed to memory, he believed that she would never bring it upon herself to end his life, agent or no agent. He also believed there was another reason she came to him that night and rescued him from the pigs. In order to get to that divine level of discovery, a little needling would need to be done.

Clarice Starling, FBI agent. He mused this thoughtfully, his eyes traveling to Orion in the sky and staying there for a few minutes. Much of him believed the agent within Starling to be deceased.

However much he would like to, there was no acting upon intuition yet. Perhaps a letter would serve. Yes, a letter to test her will, to see if she was indeed the same person he left three years ago. The smile born in the parlor broadened once more. Dr. Lecter was confident the Bureau had killed the agent within her, whether or not it was a new occupation she sought. However, dissecting those two-cent morals, agent or no agent, would be a task. He felt confident that it could be done.

If there was anyone in the world to know her well enough, it most certainly was him. He could never entirely predict her, but he knew her well enough. Time had passed, time enough, and it was time now to act.

*
The days were long though tolerable, each a complete mimic of the last. One would think such utter stillness would not come out of an occupation with the FBI, but gradually over the past three years, Clarice Starling’s assignments had dwindled from dangerous to mildly interesting before falling into the fatal hole labeled a grim: waste of time. The Bureau was watching her carefully, and her mail was monitored by the day despite the lawsuits that emptily protected it for her eyes only. Anything suspicious was immediately taken in for investigation.

Such temptations as acquiring a P.O. box for possible future letters from Dr. Hannibal Lecter came and went daily. She supposed it was better to be watched by those who claimed to be her friends than leaving herself completely vulnerable to a cannibalistic psychopathic killer.

Vulnerable. When Starling did think of Dr. Lecter, which was more now than she would like to admit, much more than simply thirty seconds a day, she fought off the laugh that thought provoked. During office hours, Starling’s mind was closed to Dr. Lecter, though he managed to squeeze some time in during lunch breaks, always when she accompanied Jack Crawford to a high-class restaurant that served brains as a delicacy. These places were avoided at all costs, though not entirely escapable.

Thoughts were controlled easier than one would expect. It wasn’t until the door closed at night and the lock switched shut in nocturnal finality that the barrier between business and personal issues was broken. At first, Starling thought it was the after shock of her experience, and found no alarm in repetitive nightmares that occurred within the first few weeks.

However, though the nightmares dwindled, nightly thoughts of him certainly did not. From images of Paul Krendler, cleanly severed skull with the pink crown of his brain peeping from the top, to the last seconds in Dr. Lecter’s presence. She was tortured every night by these thoughts, relieved when none surpassed the erotic line. The feel of Dr. Lecter’s lips on her remained even though she could barely remember the moment, her memory tampered with morphine and everything that happened twisted and distorted in her mind.

“I’m Clarice Starling!” she heard herself screaming over and over again. “FBI!”

Wasn’t she?

It bothered her immensely that she was still thinking about this, debating the possibilities of why it still plagued her mind. Identity was lost in the meeting with Dr. Lecter. Lost, obliterated, distorted, ultimately blown out of proportion and now still, three years later, she was trying to scrape the remains of her former name off the ceiling.

Why did it still bother her? She was able not to think of it at work, why not at home?

Night after night, Starling stood at the mirror in her bathroom and studied her reflection, hoping to see a shimmer of the girl that was once herself. Night after night, she was disappointed, for all she could see was a lost child, wandering through the woods, dazed and confused.

Did she really need a reminder of who she was, or were those qualities still with her? It felt lost, it all felt horribly lost. Wearing a mask at work seemed to fool everyone else, but to the silence, she was not herself.

What was it exactly that she needed? Starling fought desperately to remember, struggling with images and sayings, things Dr. Lecter said that remained so horribly true and frightening that it brought her to tears. It was beginning to break her, and she was surprised she had managed this long. Three years, three years, three long years.

And what of her infamous morals? She clung to them now as though they were her air, but when the grip tightened, she felt nothing to hold onto. A dream, perhaps, a dream of the person she had once been, of the person she wanted to be. Dreams, dreams, dreams that were gone now.

Don’t dream it; be it.

Starling smiled grimly at that, recalling old movie lines frequently now, for they seemed to outline her life better than reality. In the days of college, restless nights and wild parties on campus, she and Ardelia Mapp had snuck out of the dormitory four times to tend to the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and gave up when it proved too wild, even for their experimental tastes.

Even now, ‘don’t dream it; be it’ sounded like a good motto. But she couldn’t apply it to her life. What she dreamt, she could never be.

Who was she? Who was she?

“I’m Clarice Starling! FBI!”

F…B…I

“…a rube. A well-scrubbed hustling rube, with a little taste. Good nutrition’s given you some length of the bone, but you’re not one generation from poor white trash, are you, Agent Starling?”

Starling smiled though she wasn’t humored, the grim reminder of whom she once was ringing into the never-ending chambers of her memory. A rube. Yes, perhaps a rube. Now? No. Her rube days were over. What was she now? A person constructed with morals, dependent on the very foundation she stood on, however wobbly it might be.

What had Dr. Lecter said about reminding herself of her incorruptible morals? Those images were clouded with morphine, though she remembered most of what he said – if not all.

“All you need for that, Clarice, is a mirror.”

Standing now before the mirror, Starling was both shaken and slightly liberated to find Dr. Lecter’s insight inaccurate. Nothing reflected in the mirror that hinted at her former self.

Mirror mirror on the wall. Is the girl I see me at all?

Starling shook her head. The answer to that seemed logical enough. Gazing into the eyes of the reflection, the girl she saw there confirmed it.

Who is that girl I see? Staring straight back at me. Why is my reflection someone I don’t know?

Starling was no Christina Aguilera fan, but that song stuck her as so horribly true it almost brought her to tears every time she heard it. Now was no different. The girl in the mirror’s eyes watered and several drops rolled lazily down her cheek, though she didn’t experience the sensation of crying. It was almost a sixth sense now; like breathing or blinking or living at all, tears could come without the need to cry, or crying at all.

The darkest part of her was not her friend, nor did it try to be. It told her the reason this was difficult, the deepest part of herself betrayed her over and over again with acclamations of the truth. Starling didn’t know if her subconscious tortured her with these thoughts because it had the power or because it was true. Even so, a dark attraction to something that knew her inside and out wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. At worst, she could compare herself to a married woman who looks at the cute cashier with a wandering eye, but knew enough not to touch.

Three years ago, the question was presented if she could ever bring it upon herself to kill Dr. Lecter. Her words to the nation sounded true to her then, and for the most part, did now. But there were new conditions, things that hadn’t presented themselves in the days of the old. Starling knew she could never shoot Dr. Lecter, she could never physically end him, but suppose his feelings were not myth and that he indeed saw her as an equal and worthy partner, what then? Rejecting that might have already shot his ego, something that suffered very rarely, and when it did, no one knew for the mask he wore was so convincing, people didn’t stop to think it might be an allusion.

Physically, Dr. Lecter was an attractive man. There was no denying that. Had circumstances been different and they had met by chance, she could see herself handing out her number and waiting eagerly by the phone in agonizing anticipation before it rang with his soothing voice on the other end. But things weren’t different. She met him in an asylum at which he was a patient for multiple murders and cannibalizing his victims. By the books, he was a madman, insane, a loony, all around nut.

At that, Starling cracked a smile. Thinking of Dr. Lecter as a loony or a nut was comical, because in reality, he was one of the more down-to-earth people she knew. And that all in itself was a frightening thought. Then, on other levels, her life was far from ordinary, and as long as people like him remained in active roles, she was assured it would always be that way.

In the darkness of her room, half drunk on sleep, it was easy to admit a forbidden attraction. It was also easy to be flattered, immensely flattered. After all, Dr. Lecter had exquisite taste, and to have the idea that she would be the one he would choose had she been on the market – so to say – she couldn’t help but feel a little exhilarated.

As was customary every night, Starling eventually tore herself away from the mirror and went to her bed. There, she sat on the edge, staring off into space for a few seconds before climbing in completely. A forlorn, perhaps mournful sigh escaped her as her head hit the pillow, tired and restless from a day of nothing. She chuckled at that, rolling over to clutch her other pillow tightly as though it were a teddy bear.

Slipping off to slumber, the dreams pounced her, something that was no longer unexpected. It didn’t frighten her anymore, and actually, she found it liberating on many levels. Unbridled thoughts allowed to roam freely, whatever they may be, without fear of reaping the consequences of a heavy conscience. Of morals she cursed at in many ways, at a life she didn’t recognize as her own.

The dreams were always the same, different perhaps only in time of day and what she was wearing. Nights filled with tormented images of Paul Krendler were over, dead and unthought of in nearly two years. These usually started with Dr. Lecter’s question that came before that stolen kiss.

“Clarice, would you ever say to me, stop? If you loved me, you’d stop?”

Only her dreams didn’t replay her true response. In these, she cried and tried to lurch forward again, caught with her hair as the lambs wailed in the distance. Her back would meet the hard exterior of the refrigerator, and she would come to the realization that she was indeed trapped. Dreaming this, it seemed she needed to be reminded that her hair had her captured, and that she was at his mercy.

No cleaver ever came into play here. And even in the dream, Starling was unaware if she was lurching forward because she wanted to bring him injury, or to pounce over him and beg him never to stop.

It was uncomfortable, putting herself in that position. After all, when she considered who she was and the thoughts she had now, it was easy to admit that she was already corrupted, that the damage was done and could never be compensated.

In the morning, she would come to her awakening, and she would be alone. Days would follow, each a mimic of the last. Feelings for Dr. Lecter, if there were truly any or if her infatuation was a result of the years she spent traumatized over their encounter, would go ultimately ignored. No word yet, and she figured it would remain that way. After all, risking everything had only caused him to lose it. Whatever began at the lake house died there, and was simply waiting to be buried.

However, this night, Starling awoke. When she found she couldn’t get back to sleep, she pulled herself from the bed and traveled to where she had a lovely view of the night, sky clouded with city lights and smog, but she was still able to see Orion gleaming brightly in the distance.

Starling had no way of knowing that Dr. Lecter was doing that very thing at that moment. Looking at the sky, watching Orion, restless, as they thought of each other.

*

Nights were becoming more restless, even for someone who didn’t sleep. Dr. Lecter was no stranger to nightmares; having had many over the years that predominantly concerned his sister, Mischa, taken and consumed by the enemy during his childhood. Not many knew of Mischa, he reflected, perhaps no one who was alive today. If the psychologists knew about her, they would have pounced and labeled her as the cause of his…career.

That only angered him, thinking anyone would have the audacity to blame his sister for his destructive nature.

But these dreams were not about Mischa. Dr. Lecter almost resented that, not particularly that the nightmares were gone, but more over with whom had replaced them. It didn’t bother him too horribly that Starling filled his sister’s shoes, but he didn’t like the idea of having another woman occupy his subconscious. Of course, that was almost in vain. Starling had been in his mind for ten years now.

Not like this, however, she had never been on his mind like this. Repetitive dreams of the most intimate kind. Dr. Lecter was not one to fantasize, and it humored him that he was suddenly a middle-aged man having thoughts as these.

However, he banished them from his daily worries. With everything there was to be concerned with, that was entirely trivial, and he managed to function without them blemishing his day in the slightest.

Today, he was finishing his letter to Starling, reading it over carefully, though he had no intention on altering the content. There was simply no need for it. The grammar was perfect as was the spelling, and the words were nothing she wouldn’t expect.

He wondered briefly if her mail was being monitored, and smiled slightly, whether at the thought or at the assumptions of the FBI.

The letter itself complete, Dr. Lecter added the necessary items, as was customary, and walked briskly into town. It was early enough that the streets were not over-populated, but still too crowded for his liking.

After mailing the letter, Dr. Lecter returned to the sanctuary of his home and closed his mind off from Clarice Starling. It was easy to close his mind to many things, and though this didn’t disprove that, he found it came with a little more difficulty. However, this hardly went noticed, and as he had in the days of long ago, Dr. Lecter emerged into the chambers of his mind. There he remained for the rest of the day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Four weeks later, Clarice Starling received a phone call from Special Agent Clint Pearsall whose voice accented his intense excitement over the phone. Twice, Starling had to ask him to slow down and restart to correctly distribute the message.

“You need to come in right away,” he said. “Your favorite correspondent has struck again.”

Once the words were understandable, Starling nearly dropped the phone in disbelief, but that hardly hampered her seizing her purse and bolting outdoors as quickly as possible.

When she finally arrived, it was all she could do not to tear the letter from Pearsall’s grasp. He was standing in her office alone, though his cell phone was making its way into his jacket pocket. The letter rested in his other hand; a box on her desk that looked like it had exploded. There was another article, too.

Again, her eyes fell on the letter, her usually calm nerves failing her, not knowing exactly why she was so anxious. Was it anxiety or dread? If it was dread, she had never experienced dread like this.

“Hello, Starling,” Pearsall said once he decided to acknowledge her, his tone ten times calmer than it had been on the phone. “I suppose you’ll want to see this.” He held up the letter briefly, yet made no attempt to give it to her.

Likewise, Starling managed not to reach for it, but knew her eyes betrayed her, if he was an observant studier of eyes. Exerting a breath, she nodded. “Yes, sir, I would like to see it.”

At first, no movement was made to her, but within his own agonizingly slow time, Pearsall nodded and handed it to her absently. Not looking at it, she managed to make her way behind her desk and wiggled into her seat before temptation finally broke her.

“They’re not going to like the content, Starling,” he said. “Nothing bad, but it’s implicative.”

But Starling was not listening. Her eyes trailed the path of the words, and her heart pounded furiously as the words on the letter reflected with his voice in her ears.

Dear Clarice,

I do realize that the aspect of my writing you now seems most inappropriate, if not a tad odd. I’m sure you need no reminder that there has been no new crisis in your life I need to answer. Do you suppose anyone remembers Evelda Drumgo, outside the Bureau that is? Then why do you still flinch as the name is said, Clarice? I can see you perfectly, without seeing you at all.

By now I’m sure you are wondering the nature of my letter, and in all honesty, there is no hidden motive. I am writing more or less out of the mere desire to be remembered, Clarice – nothing more or less. After all, I do not anticipate another career in the limelight, but as we all know, things sometimes don’t work out the way you plan them.

Considering everything we have been through together, Clarice, you still owe me information. You never told me if the lambs still scream, or any interesting stories about the Lutheran orphanage. I’d still like to know, if you would so indulge my curiosity.

Do you still think of Paul Krendler, or do you revel in the fact that his horribly unattractive personality is out of your life forever? I don’t suppose many talk of him anymore, directly to you, that is. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that the whispers in the halls continue, conversations abruptly end when you enter a room, most likely your mail is being monitored, a little of this, a little of that. Everything reflecting off you and the job you do as your colleagues wearing the ‘friend’ mask display their distrust in your judgment and actions daily. Do forgive me; I am a bit behind on the current topics, so I feel compelled to pick up where we left off.

What else have they been saying, Clarice? Behind closed doors, in the meeting rooms before you enter, huddling in hallways discussing scenarios, exchanges…I’m sure you get the idea. Surely they speak not of the late Jack Crawford, and I’m sure any further emphasizing would be a tad tedious. I’ll leave you to consider that one, Clarice.

I don’t suppose that with all the time you spend thinking about Evelda Drumgo and Paul Krendler that I wander to and fro in your subconscious. Hmm…how am I remembered, Clarice? That is an area of high curiosity for me, and I would so love for you to clarify.

As much as I would love to, don’t expect any visits from me. Tampering with this letter will get you nowhere as well; I have learned my lesson and taken extra precautions. Tell me, Clarice, thirteen years ago; when you first stood before me, did you imagine it ending like this for us? Pleasant, yet horribly misunderstood, as well as disappointing. Answer yourself first, and then think about answering me.

Ta,

Hannibal Lecter, MD

The letter was finished long before Starling tore her eyes away from the eerily elegant cursive, her nostrils flaring shortly as though trying to pick up his scent on the paper. It was a single sheet; slightly disappointing when she considered everything they had been through, but not overall surprising.

When she did look up, Pearsall met her gaze. “He sent you something else, too.” With that, he moved swiftly to the box that sat on the edge of the table and withdrew a fine piece of construction paper. Pictures of her from various newspapers made an impressive collage, Dr. Lecter’s script written in the lower right-hand corner.

The world already has their opinion on us, Clarice. I wonder…what is yours?

Some of the pictures were accompanied with the rude headlines, as though to emphasize the message of Dr. Lecter’s words. Among those selected were two of her favorites, both contributed from the National Tattler. ‘NEW HORRORS IN LADY LECTER CASE,’ and ‘FBI AGENT CLARICE STARLING ALLEDGEDLY SOLD HERSELF FOR INFORMATION ON BUFFALO BILL CASE TEN YEARS AGO.’

Whatever her reaction to this was, it wasn’t pleasing to Pearsall.

“This is all a joke to you, I suppose,” he said with a scoff.

“If you’re asking if I feel threatened, the answer is no.”

“He’s a cannibal, Starling, and he has a crush on you. You’d better be scared enough.”

Starling gave him a dry look. “That’s debatable, Mr. Pearsall. I don’t know how Dr. Lecter feels about me, but it seems a little premature to label it as a crush. And I know him…perhaps not well…but good enough to know that if he says he won’t come after me, he won’t come after me.”

“You’re blinded by faith.”

She scoffed. “Faith? Faith in what? The FBI?”

They both knew she had said too much but neither decided to reflect on it. Faith to the FBI was indeed a cliché, but never something that should be vocalized.

“Dr. Lecter is a dangerous individual,” Pearsall said slowly, as though she was a troublesome student with a learning disorder. “He has killed many, many people, and maimed anymore. He eats people, Starling. He EATS them.”

“What was that? I didn’t catch you.”

He gave her a dry look. “You’d better be scared. He’s done all these things, and he has a crush on you. It doesn’t creep you out any?”

“Didn’t I just say the crush thing was debatable? No…it doesn’t creep me out.”

“How do you feel about him?”

It was actually a serious question. Starling blinked for a few seconds, convinced she had heard wrong. No one had ever come out with it directly, no one ever dared. However, despite her surprise, she didn’t miss a beat. “How should I feel about him? He’s a person, Mr. Pearsall, a person who knows me inside and out.”

Pearsall arched an eyebrow. Starling rolled her eyes and thought Paul Krendler’s influence was affecting them even now, three years after his dead.

“Don’t even start with me,” she warned, a tone reserved for those who ultimately ticked her off. “My feelings for Dr. Lecter are mixed, and I doubt any rational being could understand. All you would do is distort my words and rekindle the case to make it sound like Beauty and the fuckin’ Beast, and I really don’t appreciate it. If you wanted me out so much, just say so. Stop teasing me with ideas of redemption.”

“Starling, I haven’t said anything. You’re the one holding onto the past.” His tone was suddenly very serious, and it took her by surprise. “Seems to me you like being teased about this matter.” If Pearsall read her distaste on that comment, he ignored it, and furthermore spoke before she could. “Now, for the real question. Do you want to pursue?”

“Pursue?” Starling echoed the word as though the thought had not crossed her mind. “I don’t think we’d get very far.”

“Why?”

“He said he…took better care of this letter.”

“And you believe him?”

“What reason have I not to? Besides, Dr. Lecter never lies.”

Pearsall snorted. “You are blinded by faith.” His arms were crossed.

“I just know Dr. Lecter never lies. And why would he leave prints on the letter?”

“To get you to follow him, why else?”

Starling shook her head. “I’ve had enough of this.” She took the letter and the rest of the material Dr. Lecter sent and packed it in the box before going walking angrily to the door.

“Where are you going with that?” Pearsall screamed after her. “That’s evidence!”

Turning then fiercely, Starling’s tone was cold and to the point. “No, Mr. Pearsall, I’m afraid not. It’s my mail. I’d appreciate being the one to receive it. Not you.”

Pearsall screamed after her again, and his words were threats. However, Starling wasn’t paying attention. At that moment, she didn’t care to ever be in the limelight of the FBI. It took that much to remember everything she had been through, and everything she almost resigned for.

Then, just like that, the words she hadn’t been able to remember a few weeks before came to her, everything in perfect articulation. Suddenly, she was three years younger and in the dining room of Paul Krendler’s lakeside house, highly drugged. Dr. Lecter was in front of her, looking thoughtful, perhaps a little discouraged.

His words, his words, she heard them now. “Given the chance, you would deny me my life, wouldn’t you?”

And what had she said? Starling tried desperately to remember before the words came rushing back. “No…not your life.”

She heard his thoughtful muse. “My freedom, just that. You’d take that from me. And if you did, would they have you back, do you think? The F.B.I.? Those people you despise almost as much as they despise you? Would they give you a metal, Clarice, do you think? Would you have it professionally framed and hang it on your wall to look at and remind you of your courage and incorruptibility? All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror.”

A mirror? A mirror?

Mirror mirror on the wall…

Starling, her eyes still blinded with rage, perhaps an argument she would later regret but now was quite assured of, shook her head.

Is the girl I see me at all?

As she struggled to open the door to her car, Starling collapsed briefly on the door, her head jolting forward which her free hand caught, tears wanting to come yet not. In a few days, she supposed she would resent herself for the things said to Pearsall and realize the dangers of yelling at her superiors, but not now. Now, all she felt was fury for him and all like him.

All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror…

Forcing herself to straighten up, she opened the door again and placed the box in the back seat. Then, she routinely traveled around the car and opened the driver’s side door.

Would you have it professionally framed and hang it on your wall to look at and remind you of your courage and incorruptibility?

She started the engine and began to pull out.

All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror…

As the car pulled into a line of traffic, one thought stayed with her, haunting her with its eerie nursery-rhyme beat. Over and over it rang, until she arrived and long after she was home.

Mirror mirror on the wall. Is the girl I see me at all?

There was only one answer she could think of, one answer that made any sense now. Undoing the sheets on her bed, she pulled the blankets down and climbed in, worn from this day, worn from everyday. Worn from the FBI.

Clarice Starling was set in morals, you see. You are far different than she.

And somehow, somewhere, Starling found liberation in that thought, and it soothed her spirit and assisted her to dreamland.

*

Silenced waters for the next few days.

Apparently, hushed rumors were circulating in the office. Starling skipped work to avoid the stares, the surprise and disappointment behind the eyes of her peers, people she had been working vigorously with in a bleak attempt to gain their respect back. Lost now, all lost, never to be rekindled.

As much as that thought should upset her, it did little more than make her smile. Ardelia Mapp, acting as a spokesperson between the two sides, had twice scolded her, but her words affected her little more than if Paul Krendler was back to tell her how to act. The FBI hurt her, and had hurt her over and over, time and time again. Even in the days that followed her heated conversation with Pearsall, that regret she had been expecting to hit remained absent. Perhaps she truly was over it.

It was the most refreshing thought she’d had in nearly three years.

However, it was obvious the FBI was far from through with her. Two weeks after her discussion with Pearsall, she received a phone call from Noonan who said they were requesting an audience with her. They didn’t suggest the content.

Finally, Starling thought. I can be over with this and get on with my life.

To her dismay, the objective of the meeting was not a final release. Quite, different, actually. Starling cursed the manipulative hand the FBI maneuvered, and took her seat when directed to do so by her superiors.

“Starling,” Pearsall said with a nod. “I suppose you’re wondering why we called you down here.”

“Not really, sir,” she retorted. “Though I can’t deny I thought it’d be sooner.”

“Sooner?”

“Do I presume to state this meeting is about my removal from the Bureau?”

Pearsall blinked as though the thought had not occurred to him. “On what grounds would we have for firing you?”

It was Starling’s turn to be surprised, and it took a minute to find her breath. A soaring disappointed struck her, and a forbidden voice arose from within, screaming, pleading at the top of its lungs: GET OUT! GET OUT NOW! GET OUT BEFORE YOU FORGIVE THEM AND BEND OVER BACKWARDS AGAIN! HAUL ASS AND GET OUT NOW!!!

Oh, how she very much wanted to abide the voice, but she was nailed to her seat.

“I…I just thought…” she heard herself saying.

“No, Starling, we’re not through with you, yet. As a matter of fact, we’ve withdrawn the monitoring of your mail. You’ve turned everything else into us, that we know of.” Pearsall’s gaze darkened, and she read immediately that this wasn’t his decision, rather instruction from his superiors, and she couldn’t help but grin a bit.

“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Pearsall.” For someone whom had never argued with Clint Pearsall before, she couldn’t help but be a bit amused.

“Starling, we have been discussing this matter thoroughly the past few days,” Pearsall said in a very business-like manner, moving from one side of the table to the other. “We all believe that you are our best hope in finding Hannibal Lecter. Whether or not he has extended feelings for you that breech the romantic heart of American society, he does see something in you that compels him to continuously pull these stunts. We believe that you can draw him out.”

The desire to jump up and flee again came with ten times the conviction of before. Starling knew the anger at the statement must have reflected in her eyes, and resented herself for it. “I believe I told you this, Mr. Pearsall, he said he doesn’t plan on visiting me, therefore he won’t. It’s as simple as that.”

“We believe otherwise,” Noonan jumped in quickly, looking down so he could spare himself her glare. “He said he wouldn’t come around. But what if you asked him to? I think that might be our best bet.”

Starling shook her head, allowing herself one smug chuckle. “You assume too much. Whatever Dr. Lecter feels for me is nothing compared to his sensibility. He wouldn’t leave anywhere because of me. He knows I’m FBI, I’m out of reach…he…”

“Starling, you’re our best hope. You are to put an article in one of the papers he asked you to, a welcoming article.”

She shook her head, standing. “I can’t accept this task. Please; find someone else.”

“This isn’t an offer you can refuse, Starling,” Pearsall said shortly. “This is an order. There IS no one else. You are our only link to him. We intend to use that to every advantage.”

“You don’t understand,” Starling retorted. “He will see through it.”

Pearsall shook his head. “It’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”

The idiocy of these people astounded her to the point of laughter. “You’re making a very big mistake,” she said. “Dr. Lecter…”

“Make the article, Starling,” Pearsall interrupted. “And have it ready for submission by tomorrow.”

“You’re all quite foolish,” she said. Without another word, she turned and paraded out, blinded by anger once more. However, she would make the article, more or less now out of curiosity. Could she make Dr. Lecter come with words? With an invitation?

Did she want him to?

The words in the letter reflected in her ears, memorized by now. ‘As much as I would love to, don’t expect any visits from me.’ Did that include an invitation from herself? Would he decline that offer?

There was only one what to find out.

When she arrived home, she ignored the blinking light on her answering machine and headed upstairs. She decided to take a nap before working on the article.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was another two weeks before Dr. Lecter left the residence for a routine trip to the market. On the streets of the small island, many women smiled nicely at him, some looking for a date, some looking for a client for that evening, all captured in the eerie charm of his smile and the piercing gaze of his eyes. The effect he had on the female populace was the envy of many men, but there was only one lady he had any interest in, and she was a thousand miles away.

The journey into town served several purposes. Dr. Lecter very much liked to shop, though he avoided being seen in public as much as possible. There was grocery shopping to do, as well as picking up one of his vintage wines he ordered off the Internet several weeks before, and then the customary magazines in which he studied for some contact from Starling.

Everything was going according to routine until making his last stop. At a small newspaper stand, his eyes traveled over the articles, and didn’t have to travel far. Sitting there, for all the world to see, was a message for A. A. Aaron.

I need to see you right away…things have changed…I have changed…

It was signed CS – too conspicuous in his book. Dr. Lecter studied it for a long moment before deciding that coming to a decision would take more than a look at it in the busy streets of a popular tourist trap. He handed over a ten dollar bill and received two seventy-five in change. Seventeen minutes later, he was home.

In the light of the residence, the article looked much different.

What on earth would compel Clarice Starling to ask an audience of him? Certainly not his letter; as much as he hinted, it was far from a persuasion paper. Dr. Lecter wished he had something else to assist in his decision; her eyes, perhaps, because people could lie on paper much easier than they lied through their eyes.

Dr. Lecter held the paper close to his face and inhaled deeply, but the only scent he caught was the bittersweet aroma of newly processed papyrus. Nothing that would betray his lovely correspondent’s motives, nothing that would hint to what her wickedly masterful mind was cooking up, nothing that would make him go, and nothing that would prevent him from not.

At worst, it could be a trap. A trap to get him where the FBI wanted him. A trap constructed by those who thought themselves of higher intelligence, who thought he couldn’t out-maneuver them. If he answered Starling in person as she requested, he would have to be prepared.

The words of his own letter arose to his memory now. He stopped himself and considered. ‘As much as I would love to, don’t expect any visits from me.’ Was he prepared to go back on his word, his highly regarded word for the sake of something that might or might not be authentic?

Dr. Lecter smiled thoughtfully as the answer came, a bit quick, even for him. Yes. Yes, he was willing to risk it all. It sounded like terrible fun, and he couldn’t say no to fun. Especially when his favorite FBI agent was involved.

This trip to Washington would at least spice up his current boredom. And he did very much want to see Starling again. However, it was by no means a permanent move. He planned to answer the article, detect the falsity or sincerity in her words, then leave. Alone or accompanied would be her decision.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Starling’s biggest fear was that Dr. Lecter wouldn’t see through the huge lie in the magazine and that she would have to face him again. In this state of confusion, in this mangled twist of lost identity, she wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to look at him and say no again.

At the same time, the agent within her hoped he would come back, hoped he would so she could lock him up. After all, he was a cannibal, as Pearsall said.

Starling was beginning to hate the agent within her, and figured she had for a long time. The part of her that wasn’t her friend, but was growing more and more into herself told her that she wanted him free. That with all he had done, he didn’t deserve to be caged. After all, he had only killed when cornered, and before his trial, so long ago, he only killed the rude.

Free range rude.

Paul Krendler.

Starling was ashamed to find herself smiling, and unsuccessfully tried to wipe it away.

Who was she?

She was once an FBI agent, and while that was still her occupation, still what kept her fed and the roof over her head, she wasn’t an agent anymore. She once had strong morals…incorruptible, some might say…

“Would you have it professionally framed and hang it on your wall to look at and remind you of your courage and incorruptibility? All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror.”

Mirror mirror on the wall…

Starling shook her head furiously. No, she wouldn’t listen to that stupid rhyme anymore. Despite the truthfulness or whatever answer her mind managed to create, it stung, and for something that was so small, it bothered her that it stung.

Is the girl I see me at all?

GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY!!!

Something pulled her to her feet and dragged her into the bathroom. There, she found herself staring into the mirror, demanding some forbidden answer. The person she saw in the mirror was no closer to answer, perhaps even further from it. Her eyes were distant and lost, begging for some direction, for some compensation for all that she had bled. For anything.

Mirror mirror on the wall…

Starling heard a growl from somewhere. Distantly, she recognized the muffled voice as hers, clogged with stubborn tears.

Who was she?

All you would need for that, Clarice, is a mirror.

The mirror had no answer.

Shaking her head again in a violent outburst, Starling screamed at her reflection, as loud as her voice would carry, ”DAMN YOU DAMN YOU DAMN YOU!”

Her voice cut off and the silenced mocked her.

The mirror didn’t reply. It did nothing.

The answer was not in the mirror. That angered her more than anything. In a fury, Starling left the bathroom and traveled wearily to her bed. Beneath the box springs was a baseball bat, left there under the advice of Ardelia Mapp in case a prowler decided to try his luck. Reminding Mapp that she was an agent with a .45 handy proved a wasted conversation, and now Starling was glad.

She simply couldn’t stand these mirrors.

One fierce hit to the one in the bathroom satisfied her. It cracked and several pieces crumpled to the floor. Methodically, Starling traveled to each mirror she had in this wretched house and beat it in. However, it wasn’t until she destroyed the last that she realized the entire exercise had been in vain. Now, the crumpled mirrors were split into hundreds of small mirrors, and she suddenly felt she was stuck in a House of Mirrors at some cursed carnival and couldn’t escape.

Mirror mirror on the wall…

“Leave me alone!” Starling screamed to the darkness.

Is the girl I see me at all?

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” The plea was in vain, everything was in vain. Now, seven years bad luck for every mirror broken, although she couldn’t luck worse than what she had endured in this miserable journey called life.

*

Four days later, Dr. Lecter inhaled deeply the air that was intensely Washington DC, and smiled at the smell that never-failed to greet him upon arrival. With him, he carried a small bag filled with personal amusement-sources and a suitcase. By the size of it, a bystander could easily detect he was not intending a prolonged visit. At most a weekend; probably not even that.

However long he was planning on staying, that did not affect his choice of hotel. Only top-notch quality would be acceptable. A nice resort with plenty of space to navigate through; wonderfully expensive room-service, a place he could flaunt his wealth but not feel compelled to spend a dime if he cared to.

Dr. Lecter so enjoyed the power money brought, almost as much as he enjoyed disposing the world of the rude, whether or not the world decided to acknowledge his handy services.

It wasn’t until the day after his arrival that he decided to explore the city, the city that he had memorized to the very last detail. He couldn’t decide when he should call on Starling, wanting very much for it to be somewhere unsupervised. Not her home, that was for certain, not someplace where the FBI had easy access to her. However, having driven by her residence twice now, well concealed, he concluded that she wasn’t planning on leaving anytime soon. Her car remained in the driveway, the shades pulled and closed.

The phone was also off the hook. He had called three times and received a busy signal. Each call was made at various times of the day, and each concluded the same.

Dusk began to fall, and still, no sign of Starling. Dr. Lecter had been watching the house for a few hours now, shades over his eyes, despite how dark it was. His clothing was also black, and many shrugged him off as a shadow rather than an individual.

For a patient man, this wait was not unbearable, however, Dr. Lecter couldn’t deny the part of himself that very much wanted to confront her now and get it over with. However, he was not foolish, and this waiting was much more pleasant than what he was accustomed to. Tolerating this was simplistic. A breeze.

However much he continued repeating that to himself, it didn’t explain the shortness of breath he suffered, however minor it was, and he delicately forced that from his conscious.

It was well past midnight before Dr. Lecter conformed to temptation. As though he were unaware of his actions, he walked across the street with controlled stillness, and displayed no surprise to find the door unlocked. Instead, he smiled, inhaling the air that was tainted heavily with her scent.

However, the satisfied look on his face remained only a minute. Concern filled his eyes a minute later as they fell upon the broken shards of the hallway mirror sitting at his feet. Then again, down the hall, a smaller mirror, also broken. No attempt to clean the mess was evident.

Dr. Lecter, dropping all caution, looked up and sniffed the air. Again, he was only greeted by Starling’s scent; nothing to suggest there was an open cut. However, despite this reassuring discovery, he was powerless to stop himself from investigating this further, and knew it would blow his cover.

Nevertheless, he heard himself speak, and his voice carried only question and concern; no regret. “Clarice?”

No answer.

Something had to be wrong. His voice could stir her anywhere, he knew. If she wasn’t answering, this was serious.

Again, he spoke. “Clarice?”

This time, he was answered. The voice was tormented and located on the upper level of her residence. He could tell it was strained, frustrated, blocked with tears.

This voice said: ”LEAVE ME ALONE! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

Dr. Lecter’s eyebrows both arched and the amused look on his face returned. Slowly, he started upstairs, walking slowly, making sure there was no sound produced from the often-creaky steps, as he had learned during prior visits.

When he reached the top, her breaths, short and subtle, were audible. They were coming from her bedroom. Taking his time, Dr. Lecter followed the muffled sobs and paused when he reached the door, half-shut. He paused there and waited.

Nothing stirred from the other side, so he detected she was located in one place and had been for sometime. It was near impossible to tell how long she had been in her room, but judging from what he knew from watching the house for the past several hours, he gathered it had been a long time. Slowly, he pressed against the door, very lightly, and drew in a breath as it creaked and swung open.

Dr. Lecter stood in the open doorway for a long moment. From inside, there was no movement, though the hushed breaths and stifled sobs continued. With a smile, he eased inside, stopping short of the entrance before closing the door shortly. Even with the metallic click it made as he pressed it shut, the other occupant gave no sign that she heard him.

Finally, he decided to test her, now when he was much closer and susceptible to whatever she might pull. One arm held masterfully behind his back, gripping the Harpy he intended to keep out of sight unless she received any wild notions, Dr. Lecter said, “Good evening, Clarice.”

Instantly, the figure he identified as Starling jumped to her feet and shouted: ”LEAVE ME…” her eyes blanked as she saw him, as though she hadn’t truly expected him to be here. The reflection of her gaze informed him of everything he needed to know. Indeed, the article was a trap. No bother; he would work around it. Secondly, her incorruptible mind had been tormenting her for the past few days. At this, he smiled.

She struggled to find her voice for a few seconds, and when it was discovered, surprise was evident. “Dr. Lecter…” she said hoarsely.

There was nothing to reply, so Dr. Lecter settled for merely nodding in acknowledgement. “My apologies for the late hour,” he said, his voice pleasant and explanatory. “But you really left me no choice. Not leaving the house for so many consecutive hours is not good on a person, Clarice, especially one so addicted to physical fitness as yourself. Such incidences of isolation are not healthy if you are not accustomed to it. From your career choice, I can safely verify that this was not the wisest decision you’ve made.”

“Much like your decision to come here,” Starling retorted, drawing a sleeve across her face to wipe away the tears. “I thought for sure you’d see through my article.”

Dr. Lecter smiled. “Ah, yes, the article. One of the reasons I want to speak to you. Hmm…I thought that you learned your lesson never to try and trick me, and here we are, standing here because of a foolish stunt you pulled. Only there’s no glass between us this time, Clarice, and it seems you have a continuous disciplinary problem. What, if you were me, would you suggest in…correcting that tedious habit?”

“Don’t resort to threats, Dr. Lecter,” Starling said with more strength behind her voice than she knew she had. “They also grow tedious, and we both know they’re empty.”

“Empty?” He was both impressed with her insight and amused with her spontaneity. She did have courage, not only that, she also saw the truth. “My, my, my, Clarice, are you trying to evaluate me?”

“No,” she replied shortly, as though her temper was running out. “All I’m trying to do is figure out why the hell you’re here when you said in your letter that you had no plans to visit.”

“You forget – that was before you so generously invited me.” Dr. Lecter enjoyed seeing her flush, knowing it was a result of both anger and embarrassment.

However, the look did not remain long, and soon she shook her head as if in utter disbelief. “I don’t understand,” she muttered. “Why did you come? You must have at least suspected that the article was a phony!”

“My dear, are you trying to tell me at least apart of yourself is not pleased that I am here?”

That caught her off guard; a question she was not anticipating. It took a minute for her to find an answer.

“Dr. Lecter…” she began, “I…I don’t even know…I wish you hadn’t come…”

“Why?”

“Because you know what I have to do.”

Seemingly at the same time, both pairs of eyes fell to the phone, though neither of them moved for it. He sensed easily that she wanted to, desperately wanted to, but was unable to make a move for it.

“I won’t stop you, Clarice,” Dr. Lecter said, his eyes burning into hers. A smile crept on his face when he heard her breath stop, however brief, for the slightest moment of anticipation before starting again. “If you feel so compelled, be my guest. Just remember what it could cost you.” At first, he thought he spoke in vain, and expected her to flee for the phone in the seconds that followed. However, she stood there, watching him with all the intensity of which he looked at her.

“What, Dr. Lecter,” she replied in a voiceless whisper a minute later, “would it cost me?”

“Please, Clarice,” he retorted, holding a hand up. “I feel rather offended that the formalities remain after a thirteen year acquaintance. There is an institution for the overly-courteous.”

“I don’t feel comfortable calling you anything else, Dr. Lecter.”

“Clarice.” Dr. Lecter’s tone edged on the warning, but dominated more in controlling, a voice that would not tolerate disobedience.

“Dr. Lecter-”

The tone darkened. “Clarice.”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“Because you are no longer a child, Clarice,” Dr. Lecter replied simplistically. “You were a child when you presented yourself in front of my cell thirteen years ago, and you were a child at Chesapeake, slowly maturing into the real world. This is the real world, little Starling, where lies are taken away and your left looking into the plain ugly face of reality. Where you realize that everything you’ve worked yourself to be amounts to little if not nothing, and those you’ve come to trust offer the final stab in the back. You have reached that divine level of knowledge, Clarice. You are an adult in a child’s world, not so different than myself. I know that’s not an attractive thought, per sé, but that does not make it any less true.”

By the time he finished speaking, she was crying again. The cordless phone was in her grasp, and she was holding it to her chest like a small animal she wanted to protect. Tears pouring down her face, she clicked it to the dial tone and slowly punched in 911. A look of utter confusion was on her face.

Dr. Lecter sensed his logic was being defeated by morals, and fought to break through the hole he saw through that stubborn exterior.

“Do you really believe they care, Clarice?” he continued, not looking to the phone and taking a very cautious step forward. “They were just using you to get to me. After I am behind bars, what will become of you? Will they really shelter you and continue to smile through their teeth and tell you all the good doings you’ve performed? Will they-”

“Will they give me a metal?” Starling replied, her voice stronger though the tears had not stopped. The phone was again at her chest, the 911 operator asking repetitively for her name. She was quoting him now, and he loved it. “Would I have it professionally framed to hang on my wall to look at and remind me of my courage and incorruptibility? All I would need for that, according to you, is a mirror.” Slowly, she turned the phone off and set it on the bed.

“Touché.” Dr. Lecter chuckled. “You see, Clarice, you never needed me at all to point that out.”

“I’m so…” she looked away, not able to stand his incessant gaze. “Scared…”

“Of me?”

“No,” she replied, her voice barely audible. “And that’s what scares me.”

Dr. Lecter took another step forward. “What else scares you, Clarice? Certainly your tolerance of my behavior and ability to look at me as a person and not a monster is the entirety.”

“It’s not,” she agreed, her eyes, swollen and red from crying, even in the darkness, going back to him slowly. “I’m also scared of life without what I know, without the FBI. What I created myself to be, what I wanted to be…what…”

“What has gradually destroyed you.”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe that I would ever bring you harm, Clarice?”

“No.”

“Do you believe they will praise you for being the one to catch me?”

“For awhile. Then they’ll resent me. Like Paul Krendler resented me for finding Jame Gumb before him.”

“What do see in me, Clarice?”

She blinked. “I don’t understand…”

“What do you see that they don’t? What is there that shouldn’t be there?”

“Compassion.”

“And?”

“Admiration.”

“And?”

They were very close now – Dr. Lecter staring deeply into her eyes, forbidding her to look away with his hypnotic stare. Starling was having trouble finding her breath, confusion and doubt still very present in her eyes, however she was struggling with her keener senses, trying to decide for herself that indistinct line from right or wrong. It was obvious she had considered him, considered him in the manner he never thought possible, and it wasn’t just tonight that she fought this battle. Her eyes reflected a series of nights, all calling out with the same question, all fighting the same lost cause.

Clarice Starling, agent to the bitter end, quivered slightly as Dr. Lecter brought both hands in view, and didn’t shudder or flinch or even reflect in fear at the sight of the Harpy. Instead, she seemed more at peace, perhaps ready to relax into him at last. Running his hands up her bare arms, just above the skin so he felt the hairs stand on end, Dr. Lecter smiled as he drew his face nearer, ready to claim her mouth, to savor her completely, and claim her for his own…

The sirens, provoked from the short connection to 911 made and silenced so quickly with very few words, bellowed through the night air. Starling’s eyes flew open and she stepped back, a gasp clogging her throat. They waited in stillness for a minute, and listened as the sirens came to a screeching halt in the driveway outside.

*

In an instant, the moment was gone, and everything came rushing back. The horrible realization of who she was, what she stood for, what she could and couldn’t take back.

Despite this person before her, what her inner voice was screaming in clear defiance, the morals that did little more than plague her came rushing back. Everything that kept her handcuffed to the institution that tried continuously to rid itself of her devotion tugged at her better senses.

Even if the kiss had not been interrupted, Starling could not faithfully say that it would have changed her outlook on this situation. There was no doubt in her mind that she was intensely attracted to Dr. Lecter, but not one part of her could ever act on that attraction, no matter how strong it was.

Starling suffered the distant sensation that forewarned that still part of her that was controlled and managed by the FBI. It was to the point where she questioned her morals. Take them away, and what was left? Why was it that her values seemed to leave when she was angered at the Bureau, and came back after an isolated period of ‘rational’ thinking? Why did she continue to forgive her abusive husband, knowing that doing so was an offer to be trampled again and again?

With an exhilarated breath, Starling felt those barriers slipping away as they did so many times. Only now, it seemed permanent, forever, without end. The feeling was intensely liberating.

Now the important question: take away all her morals, her ham-handed marriage to the Bureau, and what were her feelings for Dr. Lecter? Was she only attracted to him physically, or did she want his mind as well?

Starling did not want to consider that question, more or less because she knew what the answer. And the truth in this realization shook her to her very core.

But that solved nothing. Could she ever conform?

Tick tock tick tock tick tock…

From somewhere distant, a noise intruded. Vaguely, Starling recognized it as the doorbell. It had only been a few seconds since Dr. Lecter’s mouth was ready to claim hers, though it seemed so much later. Realization, when you know what you truly want, causes time to both subside and speed up. In this case, time subsided, though that didn’t stop it from likewise speeding up when it was needed most.

Damn her 911 call! Starling forgot at times how quickly a trace could be established. She supposed the muttered voices, coming out as distant sobs, convinced the 911 operators to check out the problem. Now, she wasn’t answering the door. Her feet were glued to the ground.

Move it, move it, MOVE IT!

When Starling came to her senses, she realized Dr. Lecter was no longer standing in front of her. She caught her closet door shutting, and needed no further explanation. Despite what she chose, there was one truth she knew. Nothing would ever make her want to lock Dr. Lecter up again. That was almost like aiding the enemy, as she tended to view the FBI in recent days.

Just as she moved from the bedroom, the police burst through the front door and started screaming her name. Pulling on the act that she was emerging from a deep sleep, which wasn’t far from the truth, Starling headed downstairs, holding her hands up to signify she was unarmed, and attempted a yawn.

“Clarice Starling?” the first cop she saw said, aiming his gun at her with caution.

“I’m sorry – I was asleep. I sleep like the dead,” Starling replied, surprised at her own convincing tone.

“Are you alone in the residence?”

“Yes.” Starling managed a dazed look. “Why? What’s going on?”

“We received a 911 call from your home about ten minutes ago. Did you call for help?”

Shaking her head, Starling drew in a surprised breath and replied, “No…are you sure it came from here?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Mind if we have a look around, Ms. Starling? It’s procedure.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make it sound like an option. Regulations, you know.”

Before Starling could reply, the cop pushed behind her as the others began investigating the lower level of her home.

It didn’t take long for the officer to find Dr. Lecter. From her seat downstairs, Starling flinched as she heard something heavy fall to the ground, just after a muffled scream was cut short of perturbing the air. She didn’t realize she was running upstairs until she tripped and was pushed aside by the other officers fighting to get there first. By the time she managed to get through, another was dead, but Dr. Lecter was also being handcuffed, the Harpy out of his grasp.

The one holding Dr. Lecter at bay looked accusingly at her. “Did you know he was here, Ms. Starling?”

She never got the chance to reply. Cuffing his hands and compensating the blade did little to save them from his unshielded mouth. With inhuman strength, Dr. Lecter lurched forward and sank his teeth into the jugular vein of the one glaring at Starling. There was more commotion; cops drawing out their nightsticks and hitting him to get him to release his hold, but Dr. Lecter seemed not to feel anything, his complete and utter focus on his victim. It was mesmerizing, the way he killed, biting deliciously into the man’s neck as he forced his full weight onto him, causing them both to go to the floor. From there, Starling lost sight of what happened, blood spraying in her line of vision. It wasn’t until the cold nozzle of a gun met with the back of his neck that Dr. Lecter ceased the attack. However, from her position at the door, Starling could see that his mouth was still in motion, as though he were chewing on something. Blood gushed over his young victim’s face, and as they pulled Dr. Lecter away, she saw why.

There was a large gash in the officer’s neck, marked with the capacity of another man’s teeth, but that wasn’t what she noticed first. The skin that composed of his left cheek was completely gone; eaten away. His mouth was open, scarred throat trying to gargle the blood that he could no longer choke up for the absence of a tongue. His two remaining colleagues had to pull him to his feet before he drown in his own essence.

As much as she wanted to, Starling could not look at Dr. Lecter. Partly was the fear of seeing him devour the last of the tongue, but mostly it was what she knew to expect from his famous eyes. Not those eyes that excited her so, knowing he had just added two notches to his belt. Knowing hat she could even now not see him as a monster, and knowing what that realization would cost her.

The thought that his lethal mouth had been so close to hers not ten minutes before should have disgusted her, but it didn’t. This man was fighting for his freedom; justifiable or not.

There were shouts all around her; panicked screams of the police as one still held Dr. Lecter and the other went for their savaged colleague, trying desperately to save him. Everyone in the room knew his fate. The impact on the jugular vein was too great for survival – Starling knew that simply by looking at him.

After a minute, they realized she was still there, and the impact of trouble she would be in for allowing Dr. Lecter into her home, then directly lying about his presence as well as her attempt to turn him in.

“Did you know he was here?!” screamed the cop beside his dying friend. His hands were caked in blood, his eyes full of rage and hate.

At the question, Starling subconsciously looked to Dr. Lecter, and cursed herself for allowing her eyes to gaze into his, meeting that gaze, that terrible gaze, passive in all senses. There was blood surrounding his mouth and trailing down his elegant though dark garments. She opened her mouth to reply, but was lost in his eyes.

“I…I…”

“No, I’m afraid I invited myself in tonight, gentlemen,” Dr. Lecter said calmly, careful to keep eye contact with her, inviting her to read the message behind the gaze.

“All right, doc, let’s go,” said the cop from behind, violently jabbing the nozzle against his neck. To Starling, he said, “Where’s your phone? We need to call an ambulance.”

She thought about the phone on the bed, but made no motion to suggest she had one in the room. In a small voice, she replied, “Downstairs in the family room.”

As he was led out, Dr. Lecter said pleasantly to her, “Goodbye, Clarice.”

And just like that, all three of them paraded from her room. As soon as they were on their way downstairs, Starling darted over the dying man and rolled across her mattress, reaching for the nightstand on the other side and thrusting the drawer open. There sat her back-up .45, old and reliable as always. Not taking the time to consider her actions, not wanting to be susceptible for second thoughts, Starling bolted downstairs once more and burst into the room she told them the phone was in.

Dr. Lecter saw her and smiled.

The cop she addressed in her bedroom was hunched over the phone, reaching for the dial but not getting far. With the simple pull of the trigger, he fell over. His colleague looked at her and blinked before reaching for his gun, but likewise, he didn’t get far.

When the gun smoke cleared, Starling raised her eyes to Dr. Lecter’s gaze, and realized the quantity of her heart pounding. Before she could do anything, he moved over to the fallen officers and took the keys from the nearest, freeing himself with ease. Blood still stained his mouth, something she was finding exhilarating instead of frightening.

The conversation she held with herself before the cops intruded came rushing back, and all the indecisive emotions she had then came with it. Lowering the gun slowly, she let out a breath, one that seemed to tremble the air and ran rhythmically alongside her pounding heart.

“Clarice—”

“Don’t say a word, Dr. Lecter,” she cautioned, flexing her gun hand slightly. “I wouldn’t let them take you in…but that doesn’t mean…”

“Doesn’t mean what, Clarice?”

“Just…stay there….”

“Or what?” Dr. Lecter’s eyes studied her, and she knew he knew exactly what she meant, what she was warning. He was testing her now, and loving every minute of it.

“Doctor—”

“Honestly, Clarice, we’ve already discussed the importance of you shedding the formalities.” His eyes always on her, he stepped forward, smiling lightly.

Reacting instantaneously, Starling’s arm shot up, and she kept aim on him, trembling slightly. “Dr. Lecter, I am warning you. I won’t let them take you in, but that doesn’t stop me from drawing some boundaries. Please leave, and never come back here.”

“Why am I such a threat to you, Clarice? If you answer me honestly, I’ll consider your request.”

Starling blinked. “Do you need to ask? I’m an FBI agent; you’re a fugitive. I’m risking my hide as it is in letting you go. Please don’t overestimate my generosity.”

“That’s not it, Clarice. If you were such a dedicated agent, we would not be having this conversation.”

There was a quiver of breath, more or less caused because of the truth behind his words. Tears began to swell in her eyes, but she shook her head, keeping her gun raised even as he started to move forward.

“I can’t, you know I can’t,” was all she could manage to say.

“Can’t what, Clarice?” He took another step for her.

“Stop.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. You told me once you would never ask that of me.”

“I meant stop walking toward me.”

Dr. Lecter chuckled. “First of all, you seemed quite comfortable before we were interrupted in being close, but I suppose certain events have affected that. Secondly, the context of your statement was not verified. How am I to know the milieu of that? Very simple, I can’t. And since you already told me you wouldn’t ask, I’ll overlook your slip and remind you of your own promise.” Dr. Lecter smiled as he said this and took another step forward.

Starling closed her eyes briefly, but opened them as soon as she realized the danger of that act. “Please, Dr. Lecter, don’t make me beg.”

“I am not making you do anything, Clarice.”

Her will was weakening, and she cursed herself to admit it. Tears pouring openly down her face, she watched him for anything, everything, waiting for something she could react to without feeling trapped. Dedication to the FBI was leaking, had leaked. Nothing of her former life remained, the dead bodies from her two gunshots proof of that. Now all that was left was the question, the ultimate question. What was she without the FBI? What became of her morals, of her incorruptibility when the institution of the Bureau was gone? Don’t answer that, Starling, you know what will happen if you answer it!!

Again, Dr. Lecter stepped forward. He was approximately a foot away from her.

“Dr. Lecter…”

“Hannibal.”

“Don’t think I won’t do it.” Her voice was lacking strength, and the tears rolling down her face were far from convincing.

Dr. Lecter arched both eyebrows and stepped back, showing open hands, as if inviting her to do her worst. “I am unarmed, Clarice, if you feel you must, by all means, be my guest.”

As though the act itself destroyed the morals, as she had destroyed the mirrors in the house, Starling felt her strength to avoid this leave her. “Hannibal…” she muttered, dropping the gun as she fell into his embrace. With the speaking of his name, she shut the door on the agent, on her former life forever. It was an offer, an offer of herself. They both know it.

At first it felt like it was a reflex, a reaction she would have to being boneless. However, Dr. Lecter knew, and needed no reassurance.

The bloodied mouth found hers and wasn’t modest in its hunger. Starling was frightened and surprised to feel herself reciprocate, her mouth active against his. Somewhere distantly, she heard a voice, an incessant voice, repeating over and over…

Mirror mirror on the wall. Is the girl I see me at all?

No, not anymore. Never again.

Starling took the time to consider how it was that she was here, here with Dr. Lecter, ready to leave the life she knew. Yes, she had her doubts – she had more than doubts. But those consisted of habit, and her habit was to be an FBI agent. Three years in the making, and she was finally healing that destructive web, and ready to move on with her life.

This she pondered long after they left Washington. Sometimes – even months after their reunion, nights lying the silence of the lambs, in the comfort of his arms, she wondered. She never regretted, but wondered. Finally, she believed she came upon the reason, the only reason.

The truth was, the decision was made several nights before they were brought together, with her study of her reflection. They were brought together because of a night they spent considering one another, where she didn’t flinch, where she admitted the holes in her dedication. Where she thought of him and considered, as though he were a free man. When the strings of her former life were shaking toward the blade of being cut. That night long ago, that summer sunset.

Fin