Taking Liberties

By GreenJewel

Summary: A prequel to Skin Game, but can stand alone. Following his escape in Memphis, Dr. Lecter glories in his newly won freedom.

Timeline: An expansion of Chapter 43 of The Silence of the Lambs. Story begins as Dr. Lecter checks in to the Marcus Hotel in St. Louis.

Rated: Mmm

Hey, Lecterbuds! Here’s a new one-shot for you. Just a fun little scenario that precedes Skin Game, which, if you’re interested, can be read in its entirety on fanfiction.net. It’s still in progress. It just takes too bloody long to do all the formatting to post it all here.

~Jewel

~~ ** ~~

Dr. Hannibal Lecter stood at the registration desk of the elegant Marcus Hotel in St. Louis. He wore a brown hat and a raincoat buttoned to the neck. A neat surgical bandage covered his nose and cheeks.

He signed the register ‘Lloyd Wyman,’ a signature he had practiced in Wyman’s car…


The bellman who carried Wyman’s bags to the small suite got one of Wyman’s five-dollar bills in compensation.

Dr. Lecter ushered the bellman out, finally shutting a door between himself and the world at large. He turned slowly and leaned against it, his eyes closed. Palms pressed to the door, he stroked the fine wood grain behind his back, a welcomed and significant pleasure. Only a man in his position could truly appreciate his relief.

He sighed audibly, finally able to recite the quote he’d yearned to utter for many long years. Frederick Douglass understood well his mindset at this particular moment.

“Who would be free themselves must strike the blow. Better to die free than to live a slave.”

Never again, he swore. Never again.

He stood very still, ordering the adrenaline coursing his system to dissipate. The intense high of his escape had affected him profoundly, although anyone flanking him north on Interstate 55 would never have concluded him to be anything other than a common traveler. Dr. Lecter commanded ironclad control over his demeanor, revealing nothing of what he was experiencing inside. His voice was soft and pleasant, at the registration desk as well as to the bellman, but under the deceptive veneer of calm, his entire being trembled. Yes, it was true. All good things to those who wait. But sometimes, the anticipation of such good weighs heavily, even upon Hannibal Lecter.

His body responded quickly to the cessation of the potent hormone, leveling evenly with his relaxing state of mind. Still caressing the door, his eyes opened to take in his surroundings. Remarkable, they seemed, after his long confinement. A gas fireplace under an elaborate mantel graced the tidy sitting room, which was easily four times the size of the dungeon cell he’d paced so long. Across the room, windows, where he could see trees and even water. His eyes sparked at the sight, but no…

Not just yet.

True, he’d driven through the night, arriving at the city line just after three AM but there was no time to appreciate the profound beauty of the night lights. Focused fully on the task at hand, he declined his finer senses their due, in order to attain–to secure–the safety required to drink freely of the pleasures that others so casually took for granted. There was still much to do before that safety was ensured. He waited.

He immediately bore east, heading for the ghettos in that section of town. The worse the neighborhood, the safer he was, you see. Residents there lived tiny lives, fully intent on their own crimes–or on their own survival, as victims of others’ crimes–and were unlikely to look closely enough to recognize the newly escaped cannibal.

This played against his intent to secure a few high-quality luxuries, but it was well worth the sacrifice. After locating a sufficiently seedy all-night market, he pulled Wyman’s coat on and buttoned it, concealing the ambulance attendant’s whites. He donned the hat, securing it low over his eyes. Wyman was a smoker and Dr. Lecter closed his mind to the offensive odor.

Entering the store, he searched for the best toiletries available, knowing that, although mass-produced products would not exceed those provided by his chosen hotel in quality, they surely would in quantity. Dr. Lecter looked forward to his future privacy, and would tolerate no unnecessary interruptions by housekeeping, fetching him tiny bars of soap and samples of shampoo. He planned on refusing turn-down service, as well–the Do Not Disturb sign would hang constantly his first week of freedom. Only waiters bearing meals would be admitted after securing his initial delivery of extra linens.

He worked efficiently, gathering a razor and blades, shaving gel, toothbrush and paste, floss, nail clippers, cuticle trimmers, a pumice stone, shampoo and conditioner. Unscented moisturizer, body lotion and deodorant. An appropriate shade of Cover Girl foundation, sunglasses, and extra gauze and tape. He’d obtained plenty of the latter from the ambulance’s shelves, but one can never be too careful. His shopping almost completed, he headed to the check-out lane, his hand basket full. The newspapers and magazines were up front, just to the side of the cash registers. He could collect them on his way. Suddenly, a thought, and he stopped short. He stood very still, considering. Why not? He was, after all, a free man now, with nothing to hide but his whereabouts. He turned and strode back down the aisle.

Ready now, he placed his basket on the conveyor, leaving Ho, the English-challenged cashier, to ring up his goods as he perused the meager periodical stand. The St. Louis American, the Post Dispatch, and the South County Times were chosen, along with the National Enquirer and the Tattler, just for kicks. Noting his own image, along with Agent Starling’s, conspicuously front and center on both tabloids, he tugged the ratty hat lower over his brow. None of his preferred journals were stocked, of course, and neither was Vogue or Gentlemen’s Quarterly, but there was a battered copy of last month’s Vegetarian Times. Sweet irony. With a chuckle, Dr. Lecter added it to his stack. Lloyd Wyman’s wallet provided the necessary cash.

Next, a gas station restroom, where he applied the bandages and camouflaged the rest of his face, neck. and ears with foundation. A search of his benefactor’s suitcase had yielded the plaid sports jacket and brown trousers obligatory to the tasteless salesman’s wardrobe. The pants were too long, of course, and the shoulders too broad, but not egregiously so. Dr. Lecter was not pleased with the idea of appearing in public dressed as Frederick Chilton, but swapped out his uniform whites in order to blend.

Now, finally and fully alone, he opted for a slow, delicious reacquaintance with the joys of personal liberty, one step at a time.

Wyman’s odiferous shoes, socks, and raincoat were jettisoned to the closet, and Dr. Lecter kneaded the deep carpet with his bare toes, savoring the sensation fully. The rich shade of blue was stunning, and the density of the fibers over heavy padding were delectably springy under his feet; a far cry indeed from the cement floors of his previous residence.

Although it was early spring and quite nippy out, the room was stuffy and much too warm. The shadows cast by a roaring fire would be sufficient lighting, so he turned the wall thermostat to its lowest setting and the filtered air blasted, cold and fresh. Lovely. He stood in the flow from the overhead vent, his face turning side-to-side to catch the breeze, his eyes closing again. Wyman’s cheap tie was loosened, top buttons of the cotton shirt released, and the Doctor hummed softly as he reveled in the experience.

Without even a glance at his much anticipated view, Dr. Lecter lit the fire, then made his way to the bedroom. He nodded approvingly at the king-sized bed. Mine. All mine. The comforter was folded and remanded to a closet. He was fully aware of how infrequently they were laundered, as well as the antics performed upon them by hotel patrons. He’d already requested, at the registration desk, that extra blankets, pillows, and towels be delivered immediately.

He lay on the bed, hands behind his head, awaiting housekeeping. He hadn’t eaten since six the previous evening and a proper meal, as well as a bath were required. He called down to the desk and requested a drink and a thick prime rib sandwich with Colman’s mustard to tide him over until breakfast.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re out of Lillet. Would you care for something else?”

“Quite all right, miss. Just a moment, please.”

Dr. Lecter considered. Something special was required. Yes. Not at all to his usual taste, but after so long an abstinence, a good Scotch sounded tempting.

“Might you have Laphroaig, thirty-year?

“I believe so. If not, will fifteen be acceptable?”

“Yes. A double, please.”

“Yes, sir. The kitchen’s quiet right now, so it’ll be about fifteen minutes. And housekeeping is on the way up right now.”

“Thank you.”

Dr. Lecter closed his eyes and stretched, spread eagle, settling comfortably on the deep mattress, a most luxurious feeling after the hard canvas of his single cot. The quiet of the room, so far from the night-screams of his former cellmates, lulled him. He drifted off into pleasant thoughts of days to come. Thoughts of wine, and of art, and of culture. Thoughts of her.

No.

Instantly, his mind obeyed and his focus shifted to the fabric of the blanket beneath him, brushing his fingers across the nap and back again.

Everything in its proper time.

A knock at the door. “Your linens, sir.”

“Please come in. Leave them on the table, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

He crept into the front room as the maid unloaded her cart, standing close behind her. A moment later, she turned, jumping back quickly with a shriek. His eyes glittered, savoring her fear.

“Oh! You scared me!”

“For you.”

He held out another of Wyman’s fives, his gaze intent. She accepted it with a nod and hurried out, hand pressed to her chest and breathing hard.

I’ve missed doing that.

Emptying Wyman’s suitcase, he stocked the bathroom with his personal items and arranged the extra pillows and blankets on the bed, preparing for his evening. After the waiter brought his drink and sandwich, he stripped the bandages from his face and went to his table. He sat, simply enjoying the aromas for a long minute. An odd thing for most, certainly, but most aren’t about to partake of their first decent meal in over eight years.

The food in Memphis was an improvement over Dr. Chilton’s fare, but the fried chicken, dripping with grease, was hardly palatable. This was much better. Dark deli rye spread thick with spicy mustard. The beef was well-trimmed, rare, and very fresh. He lifted it to his mouth eagerly. The taste, the feel of it on his palate was almost orgasmic. He chewed slowly, mouth watering, an involuntary Mmmm loud in the otherwise silent room.

Dr. Lecter was at peace.

His meal finished, he swirled the Scotch in his glass and held it up to the light–its deep, dark caramel hue was most pleasing to the eye. He breathed deeply of its smoky-citrus aroma: the thirty year, definitely. A tiny sip. Yes, wonderfully complex, with malt and sherry notes, less peaty than the younger would finish. Perfection. Another sip, more generous this time. He sat back in his chair and welcomed the warmth spreading through his body.

Finally, to his view. Heady to have a window, several windows. He stood at his windows in the dark, watching the cars move across the MacArthur Bridge and savoring his drink. He felt the pleasant fatigue of his five hour drive from Memphis. The traffic, although sparse, zipped over the river, their lights contrasting with those of the boats below and the stars far above. Dr. Lecter hadn’t seen the night sky in a very long time, not one he allowed himself to enjoy, and he stood long at his windows, soaking it deep into his deprived mind’s eye.

Finally, a Palace room full and his glass half-empty, he left the window in favor of another pleasure. After long years of sponge-baths in front of closed-circuit cameras and tepid showers with grainy powdered soap under his attendant’s watchful eye, his bathroom beckoned.

He placed his glass on the edge of the tub. The mirror caught his eye and he marveled at his own visage for the first time in over eight years. Mirrors were disallowed at Chilton’s Hilton, as were razors. He’d been issued an electric shaver each morning, five minutes maximum, but only under observation. Dr. Lecter studied his face, noting the new lines and graying hair. Not bad. Not bad at all, considering.

He returned to the bedroom to disrobe, completely alone; a strange and wondrous experience after so long. Dr. Lecter stood, naked, his eyes once again falling shut as he savored his first moment of absolute personal privacy. The air conditioning brought a shiver, but the feel of it on his bare skin was mesmerizing. Never again would he relieve himself into a plastic urinal held in a nurse’s hand. Never again dignity pants and clean up by attendants after too long in restraints. Never again would he sit on his toilet as orderlies gawked, mocking the sight of Hannibal Lecter passing a bowel movement. Never again the humiliation he felt, but held in tight so his keepers wouldn’t see.

Never, never again.

Goose-flesh rising in the chilly breeze, he wrapped himself in the thick terry robe supplied by the hotel and adjusted the tap to ‘hot.’ Very hot. Steam billowed as he poured in the tiny bottle of bath oil, also compliments of the Marcus. As the tub filled, he relieved himself–by himself–giddy at his aloneness. He closed the lid and spread a towel over it, neatly lining up his toiletries.

Sinking into the supreme heat, another sigh. He laid his head back and relaxed each muscle, one-by-one, naming them aloud. His first words as a free man, unheard by any but him, resonated off the tile walls. Once fully at ease and comfortable, he sipped his Scotch and cupped water over his chest with his hand. He watched the rivulets snake down through the greying hairs and merge back into the bath.

Lazy now–drifting–pleasant thoughts again, of many things, but not of her. This was his time, and he laid claim to it, unequivocally. Another sip. Unused to alcohol in any form, a strange haze wafted through him, and a silly smile pulled at his lips. He allowed it, reminding himself that he was alone. Alone. The concept seemed foreign only hours ago, but now it settled into him deeply. He held up his glass for a toast.

To freedom. Blessed freedom.

He drained the glass, relishing the burn, and drifted once again into comforting thoughts.

Too soon, the water cooled. Sitting up, his head spun and Hannibal Lecter, the supreme master of self-control, thoroughly out of character and quite beyond belief, realized that he was sloshed. But instead of chastisement, a rich laugh as he braced his hands on the sides of the tub, waiting for the room to still.

He drained the tub and refilled it, pouring his own bath oil into the water as it rose. Once satisfied, he soaped his body, scrubbing his skin with a thick washcloth until rosy pink. Next, a proper shave. He squirted green gel onto his hand, nose wrinkling at the scent, and worked up a thick lather. Carefully, aware of his altered state, he worked blind, running the razor up his throat to his chin. A forgotten pleasure. The bane of most men’s morning routines, he knew, but he cherished the ritual.

Face smooth and body clean, he drained the tub again and, with a towel laid down for safe footing, he stood slowly, acclimating to the upright position fully before proceeding. Soap and shaving lather covered his body and he watched it, intrigued with the patterns as it slipped down his skin.

A shower and shampoo later, he donned the robe again and plumped the many pillows before sitting on the bed, propped against the headboard. My pillows. My bed. My headboard. His equilibrium had returned, his head a bit clearer now, and the thought from earlier, at the market, resurfaced.

Yes. Now.

And instantly, she’s there:

Clarice Starling, courteous and determined. Clarice Starling, full of ambition and a little taste; eyes that shine like cheap birthstones as she stalks her little answers. Clarice Starling, rising from the cement floor outside the glass, wet and disheveled after a rain, her first instant of ‘knowing’ reflected in her eyes. Her eyes; slate blue, but grey in the low night lighting outside his dungeon cell.

“You know who he is, don’t you? Tell me who decapitated your patient, Doctor.”

Standing askew, unaware of her submissive posture–of her deference–but prowling and intent. Demanding. Clarice Starling, warrior in training, power incarnate…

Words fail him.

Desire wells–heady desire–and he swiftly snaps free the taut leash that held it in check for so long, so very long. Here there are no cameras, no prying eyes. Alone, at last, Dr. Lecter can visualize her as he wants to see her, not as he’s been able while locked in a cage and monitored like a quarantined beast.

My Beatrice.

Clarice, standing before him, lips parted, her hand loosing the tie of her bathrobe, wet and disheveled after a rain. Her scent rises, filling his mind, overcoming his senses, and he watches, mute, as her glory radiates searing light. He is lost in it.

She steps to the foot of the bed, meeting his gaze hungrily, and crawls–slowly, so slowly–each tiny movement exaggerated–emphasized. Her scapulas rise, jutting above the muscles of her back, working, extending, as she crouches, slinking her way toward him. Her hips sway as she approaches, and he devours her with his eyes.

Closer. One of her hands between his legs, crawling closer.

She licks her lips, slate blues in his, and he swallows against the lump rising in his throat. Come Clarice, come to me. Beside him now, her robe open. Her breast, perfect and full, brushes his side. He reaches for her, but no… she disallows it, turning her head away. He waits.

Her control regained, one toned leg rises, settling over his and lightning strikes, racing up his thigh and centering in his groin. Her eyes, lustful and wanting, crawl over his body, agonizingly slow, so delicious, to finally meet his.

“Hannibal.”

He knows she would never, of her own volition, behave in such a manner, not without years of his careful attentions and encouragements. He doubted she was able, considering her proclaimed lack of interest in fucking. But liberties are free for the taking, in a fantasy.

Her hand on his chest…

His hand floats there and he moans at the touch.

Her fingers graze his nipple. Lightly, just a whisper, really…

His hand performs the action, gentle on his skin as the scenario plays. He groans her name but at the sound, he stills. Eyes open, casting about. Yes, alone. Old habits die hard, particularly when one’s every word has been recorded and replayed, dissected and studied. Once reminded that all is well…

Her hand climbs to his neck, stroking, and he lays his head back on the pillows, submitting to her. Higher now, to his ear. Mmm. Her foot, stroking his leg and his hairs bristle. She reaches up, her face close, hovering. A long minute as she breathes him in, then her lips part and she skims his cheek.

“Hannibal.”

He wants her kiss, but she withholds, preferring a slow tease. She offers her fingers, brushing his lips, and they part, taking her in, sucking gently at each in turn. She nuzzles his neck, the scent of her hair tantalizing. His touch is permitted, finally, and he plunges his hand into its depths, twining his fingers amongst the strands. She pulls back to meet his eyes then moves in again. At last, her lips on his, heavenly, and then she’s gone… To his chest, her teeth grazing his skin, sucking his nipple into her mouth.

“Aaaah. Clarice. Yeees.”

Her hands stroke his sides, circling up, just below his armpits, then down, lower, lower, to his hips. His belly twitches, jumping at the unfamiliar sensation as she moves lower, her mouth eager, tongue lapping. She lingers there, savoring his response to her attentions, then works her way back, up again, to his lips.

Her leg, stroking his now, moving higher, and he spreads his, breath hitching at the anticipated contact, blood surging to his groin. But she pulls back again, rising up from his side, turning away. He watches, impatient now, but intrigued. An over the shoulder smile, blatantly teasing, and his eyes burn into hers.

“Close your eyes, Hannibal.”

“Never.”

She reaches back, running her fingertips down his eyelids, and he acquiesces reluctantly.

He feels her shift, positioning herself, kneeling at his side. He feels a hand on each of his knees, pushing gently outwards. His erection full and high, aching, and he obeys instantly, spreading wider. He reaches for her, his need to touch her stronger now than ever. But his impatience earns him a tight grip on his wrist, forcing his arm to the mattress.

“No touching. Be good… or else.”

He senses, rather than sees, her robe falling from her shoulders. Her naked body within reach, but he remains still. Her warning, he knows, is a promise, and he will not tempt fate.

She traverses his inner thighs, slowly, up and down, her fingers brushing lightly. Each stroke a bit higher, a bit closer, but she flutters away at the last, relishing his growing frustration.

“Your cock is beautiful, Hannibal.”

Her fingers graze his scrotum, eliciting a strangled gasp. His pelvis rises, into her touch, wanting more. She tsk’s, now fully conscious of her power over him, and pulls away.

Dr. Lecter scooted down in his bed and placed a pillow under each knee. Sweet comfort. He reached for his last minute purchase from the market and squeezed a generous amount in his palm. Rubbing the lubricant between his hands to warm it, he settles quickly and focuses again on his thoughts.

“Yes, beautiful. So long. So thick. Perfect.”

Her hand closes over his testicles, kneading gently.

Another gasp.

“Do you know what I’m going to do to you, Hannibal?”

Cupping his balls, rolling her fingers over them as he groans. A kiss to his belly, her tongue dipping into his navel.

“Can you guess? Hmm?”

His only reply is his breath, coming faster, ragged now. Tickling, her fingernails lightly scratching at his tender skin.

“This.”

And her hands, flat-palmed, one on each side, stroked his length. Up. And down. Up. And down.

“You like that, don’t you?”

“Uuuuuh.”

“I thought so.”

One hand back to his testicles as the other cupped the head of his penis, circling it, around and around, slowly, then dipping down the shaft. Again, up and around. Around and down. Again and again. Delectable.

“Ooooh. Clarice.”

She shifted again. Between his legs now, she runs her palms up and down his thighs as she settles onto her knees, her eyes intent.

“Hannibal?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you make me perform fellatio?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I will not request it of you, Clarice.”

“Good answer.”

She lowers her head and he shudders at the feel of her mouth, her tongue, lapping and swirling. Too soon, he’s at the edge, but the thought of ejaculating in her mouth repulses him. It’s vulgar. Not in hers, not ever.

“Stop now, Clarice. Enough.”

“What WOULD you ask of me, Hannibal? What do you want?”

“To fuck you senseless.”

“Mmm. I’d like that. What else do you want?”

“To make you scream.”

“I know you could. But that’s for later, you know. Maybe MUCH later.”

“Yes. Later.”

“For now, though, a little taste.”

“Yeees.”

“Are you ready, Hannibal?”

He nods and she massages his glans with her palm, gentle strokes. His penis jumps, twitching madly. Her fingers curl and she lowers her hand slowly, simulating penetration as he enters her loose fist. He pants, nearly delirious as he imagines thrusting into her, but she has more for him. As her hand runs down his length, the other poises, ready to descend. Over and over her hands work, the feeling of ongoing penetration driving him mad.

“More?”

“Yes.”

Her hands slow.

“YES!”

An agonizing moment as all movement stops.

The Doctor heard the words forming in his mind–foreign words–outrageous words. This is a fantasy. He controls the scenario, fully. But somehow, it’s grown, in his mind, skating some distant corner of his psyche, out of reach.

Thinking quickly, he reasons… Perhaps they sprang from his long years of deprivation. Or maybe from some deeply buried desire he’d never allowed to surface. Whatever it was, the implications were staggering. But his need burns like fire, his groin ablaze, and he can’t turn back. The words well up inside and burst from his lips…

“Beg, Hannibal. I want you to beg.”

His head falls back, astonished at the notion that sprang from his own mind.

He resists, choking back the words threatening to escape, and she moves her hands, slowly, feather-light against him. Not teasing now. No, this is torture. Deliberate, calculated. Diabolical. The agony too great, he thrashes, great beads of sweat on his skin, his entire being straining for release.

Behold a god more powerful than I who comes to rule over me.

His will shatters.

“More, Clarice. Pleease.”

And she grips him firmly, sliding her hand down, then up. And again.

“Faster.”

“Faster what?”

“Faster, please.”

“Please who?”

“FASTER PLEASE, CLARICE!”

“Open your eyes.”

And they snap open before the last word falls from her lips. She pumps him firmly, pistoning, gaining speed as his eyes burn into hers. Faster and faster, both hands tight around his ample shaft.

“Clarice, yes. Aaaaaah.”

He bucks beneath her, thrusting in synch with her hands, delirious.

He hadn’t indulged in such extravagant, luscious detail for many years; not with that insidious camera recording his every move. However, not terribly long after making the acquaintance of the Violent Ward’s nurse, he began to notice that, on Thursday nights, and occasionally others–late, after the screams died down–in the complete and total darkness of his cell, the red light on that camera would dim, for fifteen minutes exactly before glowing bright again. Once familiar with the unexplained but consistent timeframe, Dr. Lecter took full advantage of the situation, but in complete silence, always.

And afterwards, when his breathing and heart rate slowed, he’d offer silent thanks to the uncommonly decent nurse, whose wisdom and discretion insured that everything ran smoothly, down in the deep, dank underworld of the asylum. When his most infamous patient had release, Barney’s shifts were much more relaxed.

She strokes him, fast and hard, until he tenses, gasping. His orgasm mounting, she cups his testicles, kneading in time with her strokes. His eyes roll back, sparks jolting, and he is lost.

Pleasure. Wave after wave. Pure unadulterated pleasure, more intense than any he’s experienced before, because of her.

Well, sort of.

“Clarice. Clarice. Clariiiice!”

My goddess, my all… Clarice.

He pulls her to his chest and worships.

~~ ** ~~

He slept deeply, far into the afternoon hours, awakening to find a pillow encircled by his arm, clenched tight to his side. His first conscious thought was of her, and he knew, beyond doubt, that if she ever did demand it of him, he would oblige. Hannibal Lecter, despite his pride, despite his enormous ego and vanity, would beg. Willingly. But only of her.
~~ ** ~~

In his days at the Marcus, he enjoyed her company often and much, placing each encounter in his Palace to relive at his pleasure. But none was so glorious, so encompassing, so devastating as that night, his first as a free man.

Wyman’s American Express card accompanied him while shopping. He purchased many items, some of them necessary to conceal his infamous face, but most to accommodate his taste. Among them, an imported Italian cologne that he’d worn before his incarceration. Difficult to find, but well worth the effort.
~~ ** ~~

Tomorrow he would check-out, leaving the Marcus and the pleasures experienced here far behind. In the wall of a vacation cottage on the banks of the Susquehanna River were money and the credentials of another identity, one Dr. Lawrence Hastings, including a passport and the cosmetic aids he’d worn in the passport photos. Two weeks later, he’d be herded through customs with a big tour badge on his chest, ‘South American Splendor.’ The tour would take him as far as Rio. But tonight he was catching up on his correspondence, which he would have to send through a remailing service in London.

After informing Dr. Chilton of his upcoming visit and intentions, he addressed to Barney a short thank you note, a generous tip for his many courtesies tucked inside.

Last, he poured himself a glass of the excellent Batard-Montrachet and began the first of two letters to Clarice Starling. The first for Jackie and his ilk, and the second, a more personal missive for her eyes only. The latter, he misted with cologne and sealed with a kiss. Counting the days, he realized that she would likely receive them the day of his early morning flight.

He sat at his windows, looking through Time and shivered. The possibilities were endless.

©2009 GreenJewel

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