Fanfic: The Tartini Note, Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal

Do you ever get so heated by a fanfiction that is so vile you have to write 41 pages in pure rage?

I did.

The first section of this is extremely disturbing, no blood or gore or even really violence, but still. If it messed me up just editing it, I feel I should warn you.

~Donttouchthefigs

"Stop tugging at it."

Hannibal looked up from his plate. His hand had gone to the collar of his turtleneck, tugging. Beneath it the finely made leather collar was still too tight. He tried to remember why he agreed. It was hard to think, so he ceased to. Clarice had asked him. That was the reason, and it was good enough.

They were seated at their table in the hotel lobby. They had been here so many times that the staff knew them, Senor and Senora Agani. The married couple that tipped well. The servers even asked if their dogs were well, and commented when they did not visit for a long time. But now Hannibal was uneasy, and could not think why.

Perhaps it was the necklace she had gifted him. It had been a surprise and at first he had been affronted. Shackles of any kind he was adverse to, as a rule. But she had kissed him, early in the morning, barely awake and said she wanted to play a game. It was a game of trust and obedience, and the rewards promised were to be great indeed. All good things to those who wait, hmm? He had said something else and had been soothed in some way. What words had she spun to get him to do such a thing? Clarice said that she wanted to do something fun.

"It's not going to chafe, it's loose enough. You can breathe and eat, and you're supposed to notice it, darling." Under the table her foot ran along his thigh. The touch shot up his leg, and he wanted to kiss her. But he did not, instead looking back into his coffee cup. This was apart of her game. For fun. He would have his fun sometime as well, when... It was hard to think about what was to come. He stopped, instead taking a long draft of his coffee.

This was apart of the fun, the anticipation of what was to come, the journey to get there. Just as they were. Certain pleasures needed certain methods to attain, that he understood.

Clarice across from him was beautiful. The Argentinian sun light was illuminating the red in her dark hair. She seemed so young here. Her skin flawless, supple and youthful, like her. But she seemed so thin. He wondered if he should begin cooking for her again. As he regarded her over his coffee cup he lamented the loss of her beauty mark, the gunpowder. Why had she gotten it removed? He would have to ask her later, when he was allowed to speak again.

The collar wasn't the only thing chafing him.

"Eat Hannibal. Finish and stop thinking." She peeled apart her orange and inhaled the scent. Taking some coconut from the bowl between them she dabbed a little on before biting into it. He teeth flashed white in the sun as it sunk into the fruit. "And stop watching me. You're getting distracted. Come on." Her touch was warm on his cheek, and he leaned into it. She withdrew her hand and he felt it hadn't been long enough. But they had forever.

He felt tired, sluggish, every movement took a small eternity. Knife to butter, butter to bread. The crunch of it was abrasive to his ears. Was he getting sick? Everything was in hyper focus, every sensation too real. He was nervous, that is what it was. He hadn't felt it for so long, that it was all new to him. Like obedience, like ignorance, like trusting this achingly beautiful woman. Like loving her.

Hannibal could not eat more. He pushed his plate away from him and his cup too despite it all being half finished. He wanted this to be done, or for it to begin so he could reach the pleasure that was promised. Wear this, and this suit, let's have breakfast and spend the day in a hotel room. His obedience, unquestioning, he had given for a few hours now. Their life together couldn't thrive without trust, and this would test it. A test he was determined to pass, if only for the reward of her embrace. Even if it was only a game.

A game that led to sex and seduction wasn't much of a challenge. It was their norm, and a wonderful normal at that. Clarice Starling wanted him with as much complexity and desire as he wanted her. It was something beyond rationality, beyond fairytales and broken tea cups. Clarice was out of her bounds, testing her power, testing her freedom. Who was he to deny her that? There was freedom in trying something new, trying something that frightened you.

And Clarice frightened him. He was surrounded by her, in his body, in his mind. She wandered freely through the halls of his palace, placid and ever present. He was afraid of her power and awed by it. Awed by himself, what such power did to him. Obeying like a good boy, sitting here quietly trying not to think, just to do. It was like cutting off a part of himself. Like carving out his heart for her to devour.

He pulled at the collar again.

She reached out and slapped his hand. It stung, of course it would. She had strong hands, was a shooter, a fighter. Still, he rubbed it, but it wouldn't leave him. "You're getting restless," she murmured. "Come on then, my impatient one. Let's go up."

Now Lecter smiled. Enough with the toying: eat, stop, look, dick-and-jane commands like towards a child. He came and touched the small of her back as she paid with cash and led them to the elevator. She shifted a little and his fingers merely brushed her dress. He wanted to pull her close. Must the game go on, when I want you already? I have waited much longer than you, I want you even when you are in the next room let alone... But his mouth did not move. Was he that good at playing this already, that his body refused even when he wanted to break the rules?

The elevator had mirror walls and as they leaned against the golden handlebar, he watched her in the reflection. She was on her mobile phone, tapping a message into it and smiling. She was garbed in a sheath dress that was all the fashion now. He hated them, but of course on her, it had a certain simple charm. It was easy to slip off. That's why she was wearing it. He waited for that thought to douse him in warmth and want.

He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair was pure silver now, and the lines around his mouth had deepened. Not old and ugly by any standard, even his own. But older than the tight vision next to him. He had never given thought to such trite differences, but now, in this moment, seeing him in the plain black of his sweater and pants he noticed it. Not in fear, but in curiosity.

"Checking yourself out handsome?" Clarice, smiled at him, spinning her pearl earring. She held out a hand and he was grateful for it. She took his still stinging hand in hers, but did not rub the redness. She squeezed her ownership.

The doors opened, a soft polite voice letting them know what floor they were on. He took a step, and remembered the game, waiting for her. She breezed passed him, leaving a gust of cool air behind. "Come on, let's not dawdle."

He did not like being reprimanded for something he did not do, even within the confines of play. But he obeyed. Soon they would be together, the game would end and they would settle back into safe... His head hurt as he followed her. Despite how heavy he felt, he seemed to glide passed the countless white doors with their gold numbers and handles.

They reached their room, and Clarice pushed it open. "Go on. Pour the wine."

Lecter looked inside before entering. The bed as large and impressive in the middle of the room, which suited their purpose despite being garish to his taste. He went to the small table, where the gold ice bucket was, and pulled the bottle from the ice. It did not feel cold, and he wondered if it was still good.

There was a blonde woman, arranging something on the night stand behind him. He made eye contact and nodded, the polite acknowledgement of staff who prepared your evenings. She smiled back, but seemed to go slowly. He wanted to thank her in a gentle push fo her to hurry and leave but did not.

He poured them both a glass and Clarice sat down. He heard the door close and the bolt slide home. She pointed to the opposite chair and he sat, taking his glass when she did. Hannibal liked to watch her drink wine. She still, after it all, preferred whiskey. She would throw it back with a hiss after swallowing as the good burn coated her throat.

But now she pressed the glass to her lips, tipping it gently until the liquid slipped closer and she took a taste, her tongue catching the rest on her claret mouth. She took another sip and placed her thumb between her teeth. For a moment he anticipated her pulling down her dress and coating her nipple. But he felt, rather than saw the maid still here. Had he not heard the lock...?

"Come here," she said, holding out her now wine coated thumb. The watery substance dribbled down to her purlicue. "Lick. Don't mind her." She said this when he made to glance behind him, to make sure the maid was gone. "I want her to see how it is with us."

His hackles raised immediately. He wanted to order the woman out and ask Clarice what she meant. He never really could predict her, but such an assertion was grossly skewed. But they were playing a game-taking on two different attitudes. Commander and commanded; she technically was not wrong. There was challenge in her eyes, and he tried to find comfort in that, familiarity in the look. He loathed exhabitionism.

Muscles tensing, every part of him wanted to refuse, even so. But he was going to be a little brave. Not the bravery it took to face down pigs, or death, or legal bullets. The personal bravery, the bravery of letting the crossbow go and to kneel.

Besides, he could touch her now.

Leaning forward and opening his mouth, taking her thumb between his teeth and sucking. She had chosen a bitter wine. He did not like it, but licked every last drop from her hand. Her skin was cool in his mouth, and he wanted to inhale the scent of almonds that he favored on her. But she hadn't used it today. Had she found a scentless soap he couldn't detect? Behind him he heard the shatter of china.

He turned but there was nothing on the ground, nothing behind him broken.

"Wipe your mouth and my hand."

He took the white cloth napkin and obeyed as she spoke. "You take what I give you, bitter or sweet, hm? It's mine to give Hannibal, and it's your gift to have when you earn it. And when you do it'll be sweet. Like always? Isn't it?"

Drying her small hand in his, trying not to press, not to squeeze her fingers and drag her close to him and growl. She was poking him, pressing on the bruises she knew would hurt, telling him things that were only the shape of the truth, but not it's visage. Clarice Starling was free to give herself, yes, but earn? What did they both earn, besides a needle and a last meal? He had done nothing, could do nothing to earn her.

Game: earning her favor by keeping his mouth shut. Ah, there. That must be it, she was making it hard to win. He closed his eyes with the revelation and was glad of it. Glad that she was teasing him for the sake of their temporary dynamic. Still, he wasn't sure he liked it. When they went home, he would have to tell her.

"Shouldn't it be fun?"

Lecter smirked. Yes. It should be, and the monster should not spoil it by thinking about it too deeply. He lifted his head to look at her, finally understanding how to play. But Clarice was not addressing him. He turned to the maid again, and she smiled at his wife. Hannibal felt his stomach turn over. Exhabitionism in small doses was thrilling but this was a little rude, trying to bring a stranger into their sport, for them and the girl.

"It think he might die if we don't start." Clarice leaned over and kissed his cheek. "He's so determined to win our game."

We. If we don't start. That 'we' did not mean Clarice and Hannibal. He turned when she tried to kiss him again, leaning back to look in her face, his brows knit. This realization did not bring comfort, but the sensation of falling. Like being shot with the tranquilizer dart; now his vision did not fade, it became far too clear. She merely smiled, smiled wider as the moment stretched. "Relax. We're trying all sorts of new things tonight."

No, He snapped, only in his mind. No! No he would not do this thing. No, this was private between them. The world had intruded enough on them, delayed their joining, infected their relationship, what little of it there was before Chesapeake. Not only was this whimsy dangerous it was disgusting, an affront to what they had created; had become.

So was fucking a serial killer. He had asked things of her that should be vile to the normal woman, for pleasure and for freedom. He had not right to deny her the same. Here was his turn.

I don't want to. Perhaps this game of childish commands had reduced him to a child. He shook himself. Clarice would not lead him into a trap, and she would not be so careless with his trust. If she was bored of him, she would not trick him here to find entertainment. She would leave, as it was her right to do, as it was his right to do. This was something else. Misguided, perhaps. The want to go home increased, to speak freely and have her understand.

"Off with the sweater Hannibal." Clarice was putting her hair up, and the maid...or her partner or what have you was already unbuttoning her dress. He averted his eyes from the blonde, towards the mirror on the wall as he pulled the sweater off. Why would a simple observer need to undress? He felt his skin prickle with the idea of it. There was however small comfort in obedience. All he had to do was take off his sweater. That was all.

He saw himself, small and sleek in the mirror. The diffused sunlight from the second curtain on the windows still made his hair lighter, his skin paler. White like his cell all those years ago, so white it almost seemed to glow, and against it the black matter of the collar. He touched it, and began scratching at the skin around it, trying to pull it away, so he didn't have to feel the pull of the leather sticking to his flesh.

"Hannibal." Clarice's hand was there, on his back. "Come on. If you're tired you can lay down."

He wasn't tired, he was angry, and frightened and unsure. He looked to her, looked to her bright blue gaze. But she merely turned and nodded to the bed before beginning to do away with her own clothes. Her touch left him too soon.

He went to the bed where the young girl was. She seemed about nineteen, too young for this and Clarice should know better. Perhaps he was mistaken, Clarice would not do something like this to a young woman so impressionable. She must be older than he took her. Pale under the black dress, and wearing only a slip and traditional garter stockings, she was already laying back against the pillows, waiting.

Hannibal tried to smile again. The girl returned it, but her eyes darted away. She was just being polite. She was as unsure of him as Lecter was of her. "Go on Hannibal, work your charm," Clarice said with a little laugh.

The he frowned at that, turning to her. Whether for confirmation of her joke or for further instruction he didn't know. Clarice was sitting again, but was nude already. She had her legs crossed, arms on the chair, like a queen on a throne.

The girl wasn't the observer. Clarice was.

So many terrible revelations should not be allowed in so short a time. And why had he not divined this before, the moment he stepped into the room? Why did his head hurt, why was it hard to think?

He felt tired again, and his head hurt when he tried to clear it. All he had to do was obey to win the game, all he had to do was obey and it would be over. Just a little more, just let the joke go on or a few more minutes and it would end, Clarice would stop it and reveal that it was all done now, there was no need to push himself further. It's a stupid game!

The girl slid a little closer, looking him over, and seeing all the signs of his age. He saw it register in her gaze and she found she wasn't fond of it, but still closed her eyes, lifting her chin. He felt every year weigh on him as he never had before, like an old husk, not truly fitting anymore.

Kiss her. Kiss her, and Clarice will end this. She will have gotten her thrill from the act and want you for herself, that's how far she will push it and no more. So Lecter did, pressing his mouth to this girl's cold lips. She tasted like medicinal cherry, and her mouth was hard. But he continued to kiss her, pushing when she retracted.

The command to stop never came. Neither did a laugh nor any indication that it was to be over soon. What are you doing you, you fool? Sitting here with a dog collar kissing a woman not your wife for what? Because she wants it? She is incorrect. She isn't stopping it, something is wrong.

Lecter pushed beyond that, shoving the young girl back against the pillows, leaning to kiss her again. He was being rougher than he should, he was trying to trigger whatever Clarice wanted from him to stop this. The girl turned her head, disgusted. She didn't want his kiss, she didn't want his touch. Hannibal looked back at Clarice, trying to convey what was so obvious. Do you not see? Did she not have a realization of her own that she was pushing him too far, too much-

"You've scared her," is what came instead. "Hannibal, you've been rude."

Now he was sure this was an elaborate joke. Was she serious in her displeasure? Was he to make love to a girl barely better than a child while she watched on her command? He looked to her, still unable to speak, to command words. He looked at her, willing her to break, to return to him. To alleviate this confusion she inflicted.

Clarice stood and came to the mattress, sliding along it, shaking her head.

"I'm sorry," the girl said. "He just surprised me."

"He's being petulant," Clarice said, her hands going to his belt. Lecter tried to move to stop her, to grab her wrists and tell her just how he was being. Break this silence and mock her, lash out and harm her as she was harming him. But his hand did not move, he did not stop her pulling the thin leather belt from his trousers. He was grateful she did not undress him further.

Get up. But his body did not move, no words came forth. No he watched Clarice, almost outside of himself. He looked at Clarice and did not know her. Did not want her, did not trust her. His face hit the bed before he registered she had pushed him down. He knew what was coming, and whether it was shock or anger that kept him still he could not tell. Don't hurt me, came the panicked thought. Please do not do this thing.

"Don't!"

"It's alright. He likes it."

I do not! Hannibal wanted to scream. Wanted to shout it so badly his throat hurt from the effort of it, burned with the want of voice. But nothing came. He was silent.

The first blow sounded before the line of fire bloomed across his back. He bit into the blanket. "See?"

Move. Leave. The next came and his body jerked. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt! He had felt worse physical pain he was sure, but now the pain sunk deep, infected his mind and his chest. Each blow cracked his sanity, his understanding. I will not cry out. I will not let this go on!

But he did not move. He did not leave his Clarice. And he did cry out. Suddenly and without warning he screamed, screamed until he couldn't hear anything else. His breathed deep to scream again, the gasp burned his throat and he could taste blood on his tongue. He screamed into the sheets, his back on fire, into the silk sheets soft against his mouth, his tears wetting them. They tasted sweet like Chateau d'Y quem.

Hannibal Lecter screamed into his pillow, and fell off the bed with a loud crash.

Clarice Starling, startled out of her sleep, sat up immediately, one hand going to the bedside table for her gun, the other scratching at her face to rip off the sleeping mask. "Hannibal!"

The monster screamed again, ending in a strangled wretch. He crawled along the hardwood floor of the bedroom, hands burned on the rug before the bathroom door. He just made it in, and avoided a mess.

Back on the high four poster bed was Clarice, gun in hand, pointing at the door, then to the balcony. Doorways first, then the corners: then she realized the scream had not been of pain of attack but had woken him from sleep. She heard him being sick in their large bathroom, the sound echoing off the walls.

She clicked the safety back on Johnny's gun, and put it away, sliding off the high mattress. For two people so plagued all their lives by nightmares, they had fallen quite easily into the routine of not having them. Mischa and her cousin lambs had not come to call for the entire year they had been in Argentina. There was nothing set up in preparation for it, not like their weapons on the nightstands, or the dinner table on the terrace.

Starling smoothed back her hair, finding the sleeping mask elastic tangled there. Pulling it free she tossed it on her abandoned pillow. The moon was so bright here it kept her up, but she had not wanted to close the curtains of their bedroom and block out the lovely sight. He had suggested a thin sleeping mask and it had worked wonders for the nights they did not fall asleep right after sex.

But it was by the beautifully bothersome moonlight she found her way across the room. Still unsteady on her tired legs, she got to the sitting table before their bedroom fireplace and took one of the glasses there. Filling it with the crystal pitcher the servants refilled every day, she could hear him now, no longer sick, but still frantic. Lecter anything but composed was still a novelty to her. But this was not his laughter nor his moans of pleasure. The panic in him seeped into her and she quickly went to the doorway.

Within the pale sandstone bathroom, Lecter was staring into the mirror, his hands knotted in his black hair. It was starting to go grey at the temples. Starling had pointed out they were only there after she had come into his life. It had been the first time he had laughed with her, rich and sweet like too thick hot chocolate.

She wet her lips to speak, but before she could find the words to alert him to her standing there, he was clawing at his back, as if trying to get something off; rubbing, scratching, twisting to do it. "There's nothing there," she said quickly, afraid of him hurting himself. "Hannibal you're fine, you're awake now. You're home in Argentina-"

"Don't touch me," he said, voice unnaturally high as he stepped back from her outreached hand. He bumped into the raised bathtub, leaning against it.

Clarice was not hurt, but thankful for the instruction. She had never seen him after a nightmare. After hers she just cried into her pillow. He was panicked, scared, like a trapped animal. "Alright, I'm not touching you." She placed the glass of water on the sink between them, an offering of peace. "What do I get you?"

He shook his head, holding himself. His eyes were dilated, as if he was drugged, she could barely see the red she had come to admire in them. She sat on the teak stool where his robe was rested and waited. "You're in Argentina," she continued, hoping to pull him back to a sane level with facts. Appealing to his logic rather than his sensibility.

"It is the year 2000. It's now...the seventh of March. We've just come home from Florida. We celebrated the new year in Orlando, we celebrated my birthday at the beach, we celebrated your birthday at the hotel-" He seemed to wince as if struck. But she continued, slowly, "We celebrated our anniversary for the first time on Valentine's Day. Remember? Double anniversary? Um hm. We were supposed to go look at pups today. Remember the german shepherds, good for home and hunting? Guard dogs too?"

Hannibal had sunk to sit on the edge of the tub. It was large and marble inside, sunk into the structure that also connected to the doorless shower. He was still looking into the floor length mirror. He touched his shadowed cheek and Clarice sighed. "Is it better?"

He was touching the cut on his chin. Clarice yesterday had come in and tugged on his pajama pants playfully as she went to the shower. He had been shaving and the motion made him knick himself. She had apologized and he had shaken his head, waving it off and abandoned the task to join her under the warm spray of water.

The moment seemed so far from them right now, in the middle of the night, trying to bring calm back to the room.

"Yes," he said horsley, his voice all metal. "Yes. The cut is better." He looked at his fingers, and then at Clarice.

Her hair was blonde now. She had dyed it because she hated wearing wigs and she hadn't wanted to cut it. He looked her over from head to toe. She was still a slight, slender little thing, but not thin. No, reality set back in, the walls of his memory palace resurrecting the from broken pieces. But it was slow, like working muscles in atrophy. It had been so long since a nightmare had blown apart the home he had in his memory.

She was eating better now, and wasn't drinking nearly as much. Plumpness had come into her frame, lingering around her hips, and her stomach. Her soft stomach where he often rested his head. He couldn't feel the contours of her hips jutting out like stones in the sand and was glad of it.

She was wearing her purple pajamas. puffed shorts and a breezy loose tank top made of satin with white lace trimming it. Her hair was a mess, and her bright blue eyes were glued to him, waiting. Her nails were painted plain rose, enough to look nice but not bold enough to distract. In her ears were the emeralds he had bought her, these were faceted and caught the light, small so she could wear them all the time.

He went over every detail once, and then again, as if to make sure this was his wife, and not the tulpa he had dreamed up. "I had a nightmare," he said finally.

"You did," she agreed. "Do you want some water? Or something else?"

"No. Thank you." Finally he reached out and took the glass in his hands. It was cool against his fevered skin, and he drank deeply, welcoming the chill in his abused throat.

"Can I do anything else?"

"I do not think so. What time is it?"

"Five in the morning. You've only slept a few hours."

"I won't sleep again."

"Alright."

He stood. "I think I need a shower." It was a dismissal. He was not going to strip in front of her and was waiting for her to leave. Clarice stood, suddenly feeling the cool tile under her feet and the absence of covering on her skin.

"I'll bring in the pitcher?"

"That's quite alright."

Starling made to leave, closing the door behind her before leaning against it. She was not stung by the rejection. She would not want someone over her either when she woke from a terror. But still, she wished she knew what to do with herself. Too early for laundry, or to make breakfast.

She bit her lip. Breakfast. More like too early for a fire, with her skills in the kitchen. So she went to the bed and pulled off the sweat stained sheets. She could clean at least. It was the second set tonight. The other one was in the hamper already. That too seemed far away. Tonight they had finished dinner and talked about their future pup, hunting and his father. They had moved to the bed, still talking, and had slipped easily into kissing. Their clothes found their familiar home on the floor after that.

It had been a wonderful discovery that sex could have different flavors. More than just gentle and rough. Safe and warm, passionate and daring, slow and driving each other beyond boundaries, or quick and needing. Tonight had been comforting, murmuring what they liked and what they needed. Afterwards they had been energized enough to change the sheets and into pajamas.

She had fallen asleep ready for the hours of rest and to wake early and excited in the morning. Now, as she put the third set on the large california king, she wondered if he'd even be able to look at her in the morning. She sat on the bed and listened to the water from the other room.

No one in this abbey was getting sleep tonight.

Breakfast was set out on the server. Anya was placing the silver lids on the dishes when the master came down. "Senor," she said pleasantly, dipping her head. They liked their breakfast on the server and Senor and Senora portioned it out themselves. Lunch was in the solar, and placed on plates for them, and dinner was up in their bedroom covered and left for however long it would take them to be up there. They never complained about their service unfairly: if it got cold because of their tardiness, so be it. But Anya had a knack for listening through walls, and feeling when they would be ready to sit for a meal.

But today she had to use the burners under the serving pans for the first time. Senora had come down, and taken aspirin from the medicine cabinet, a small cupboard near the kitchen where the extra linen and china were, that were not set up for display in their private dining room. It was filled with the basic over the counter medicine, her feminine products and sutures. With the master's hunting he sometimes came home with bite marks from not-yet-dead kills or cuts from his own arrows. He was deft at stitching himself up, retired doctor that he was.

But Senor had not come down yet. He was an early riser-as early as one could be near or around noon. But their time clock was different, as with every household. Later nights, later mornings. That suited Anya just fine. Still an upset in the schedule set her a little on edge, as did the tightness around the master's mouth. Still she smiled pleasantly and took the pot holders, quitting the room.

Lecter nodded to the Anya, and took his plate. Clarice was already at the table, pouring milk into her bowl. He did not greet her verbally, but flashed her the briefest smirk. She returned it with a smile, glad to see him up and dressed. She did not know what to expect this morning. She never knew what to expect with their days ahead, but there was always certainty that there were days ahead.

They sat across from each other, both barely eating. Clarice didn't push. He would talk when he was ready, just like when they first met; a stone templar until she arrived.

The table was small, as most of their private things were small. When they had first came to Argentina they had both had agreed on a large mansion full of rooms. The abbey was classic enough for his taste, and it was newly refurbished, as if waiting for them. An office for both of them, a library, a music room, and art room, a dining room for having guests and a dining room just for them. That had been Clarice's idea when they had walked through the airy high ceiling rooms. Private chambers, closed off from the public. She didn't want to be sharing her meals with him across some long gothic table with servants standing and watching them. They were sharing a life, they ought to share it comfortably.

They each had a bedroom as well, but Clarice's was more of a storage unit. She had at first made it a vanity to test her hand at cosmetics. She never wore them before, stating all the reasons females in her field shied away from it. It was fake, it was too much, it wasn't something that helped focused on the job, ade to attract men, made them think you slept up the ladder. But like the magazines hidden under her bed, Clarice had always been attracted to it, the simple elegance and glamor. Now she had the best products at her fingertips and liked how she could make different versions of herself in the mirror while still being Clarice.

She would come to dinner at his terrace, and the night would proceed naturally, and often with them in his bed. After a few nights sleeping on the narrow bed, and a few times almost falling off it, they had redone his room as the master bedroom, sliding her vanity to one wall and his arm chair to the other.

Enough time was gone from them, it wasn't worth talking over far gone conclusions.

So they had most everything together. Bedroom, bathroom, the dining room just for them. They were close so they could talk easily and as quietly as they wished. Or if they simply wanted to touch each other as they ate. That was a particular freedom both of them enjoyed.

"We can still make our appointment."

"Oh no, I called and postponed it, I hope you do not mind. They were understanding."

Clarice saw his eyes lift, but not his head. For a moment she wondered if that had been rude. She considered it and concluded no, and thus said no more. Apologizing unnecessarily was a habit she was working on breaking.

"No. You're correct. Thank you." He seemed to relax a little after that. "It would be foolish putting off talking."

"You have time. More than." Inside their walls, time seemed to disappear. They could spend weeks at a time never going outside, too busy in exploring ideas and each other. They seemed to live every moment at once, past and present bleeding into one another like paint in water. Talking about something that echoed to their past, realizing the harmony in present moments and not having to explain the sudden alignment.

This was nothing new to Lecter, who often retreated within his palace to relive time and memory at his leisure, seeing the past within the present. Clarice, despite her own methods, had sewn herself seamlessly into such a practise. She had broken free from her room in his mind and wandered through the halls of his thoughts, sometimes with him, sometimes just in the other room. The woman was so attuned to his changes of mood or attention, it was almost preternatural.

They were like two tones, notes playing firmly and confidently against each other, creating a third, barely detectable, but very much there. Hard to describe, but known when heard. It was there, in the Tartini tone, that they had lived the past year, changing pitch and key, but always matched.

His stomach turned and he could feel the nonexistent whip stripes on his back again, reminding him of the perversion that melody he had dreamed up. The harmony destroyed, the note gone sharp. Now this foolish thing was infecting reality. Feelings from a dream seeping into his life like a virus in a matter of hours.

Perhaps his terror had been prophetic. Perhaps now he had to test his trust in her, as she did him. He had told her about Mischa, but they had been in a moment out of time; Chesapeake was in amber, forever stationary though it was a catalyst to their current life. It had been a means to an end, not unlike the confession she had given him in Memphis; a moment where he did not mock.

"I do not want this hanging over us," he said, careful to use the plural. Us, we. Together. It was still such a novelty. They had no ceremony, they had murmured no vows, but they were bound in ways that were more cemented than a certificate with false names. Their life together, a surprising success banked on them sharing time and thought and pain.

"If you want. I'll tell Rico and Anya to take the day off."

Cook and maid were happy and surprised at the sudden if small paid vacation. They were out of the mansion within the hour after the dishes were cleaned, Anya to go to the market, Rico to pick up his children early from school. Locking the door, Starling places her head against the cool window pane.

What in God's name is going to happen?

It had only been a year, and it had been...beyond words frankly. To be free of shame and insecurity. To be with a person and have your thoughts and words seamlessly flow out of you without restraint and taken with openness and genuine curiosity. And to be a with a man who wanted you, desired you or everything about you. You body your mind, your flaws and your imperfections. To be wanted, wholesale as it were, without caveats.

Was it really too good? Would reality now burn down their church?

Clarice pushed herself off the glass, and took something good from her old life, a memory from her building palace. Her mother, locking the door and going around, picking up discarded toys and clothes. Her father's checkbook he had left on the kitchen table before going to work, closing it without looking at the small numbers. Her mother, always bent, always doing, picking up her father's discarded shoes as he slept fitfully on the couch, closing the door, blocking out the harsh morning light.

The sigh of preparation as she surveyed the mess before her, the sigh Clarice let out as she straightened from the door.

Hannibal had pulled the shades closed in the library, casting it into inky blackness. He had turned on the piano light that he read music by and turned it to cast on the coffee table. There he was standing in shadow. He touched the white gold band on his finger, and slid it off, placing it in the beam. It shined brightly, as if a source unto itself.

His companion held her breath, let it go slowly and stepped inside the room. Starling did not want this again. She did not hold a grudge against his drugging and therapy. It had indeed helped her, freed her of her own inhibitions to be truthful to herself, but the dynamic had been off. She had no autonomy and he had all the control. She wondered vaguely if she could feel the needle sting if he tried.

One look at him, however dispelled these thoughts, and it came to her all at once, a beam of light seen across light years of space, how darkness had comforted them. It was in darkness they had first talked on the same plane, both on the floor of the cell without pleasantries talking about Benjamin and his murders, her exhilaration and naked ambition. In darkness she had vented her anger over her father, and in the semi dark after dinner she had offered him new life. For all their arcs and complex, delicate constructs, Starling could sense a coping mechanism. Now the spot light on a single object was not meant to focus and hypnotize. Now it was to suck away attention from the discussion.

No longer fearing the needle, she took of her band as well, placing it against his. They sat there in the stark light, cold and everlasting, as their owners sat in their chairs next to each other. Neither were much for jewels or ornaments, but these bands they wore all the time since purchasing them, only to be removed for cleaning. It had been adopted and unspoken between them as their life had been. Once in place it felt right like most of their building life; as if the word husband and wife had been waiting for them to catch up. Words, rings, home.

"I don't believe I said good morning," she said as she tucked her legs under.

"Good morning."

"Doctor pose?" She nodded to him, how he sat, legs crossed, fingers laced before his mouth and nose. He looked down at himself and finally broke into a small smile.

It was a term Clarice had used for the way he sat when he had been listening to her at Chesapeake, letting her ramble on about petty sibling jealousy and school girl disagreements before rendering her real emotion. When they had been on the run, hotel hopping through Texas, dancing closer to the Mexican border, she had been musing about how they were going to handle her disappearance; had they washed the sheets before they left? They had precious little time. Paul had been missing for twenty four hours by then and the clock was counting down, intruding on their morning afterglow. He had sat in their room's chair, legs crossed, hands before his mouth and she had asked please, no doctor pose. I'm just thinking loud. "Must be serious."

He shifted, stretching his legs out before him and crossing his ankles. More relaxed now, more comfortable in her presence than before. But still he could not lift his eyes to see her, just not yet. The images of her needle thin, nude doppleganger still danced behind his eyelids.

This ridiculous dream was keeping him from his wife, from living as he had for the past year: Comfortable and happy. If the woman he had obeyed the night before could manifest, he would wrap his hands around her throat and do away with more elegant means of slaughter.

Clarice, the true one, was watching his face closely. She saw the amusement melt into the black slate of memory before his mouth tightened in rage. It was an interesting concept that played across his features; Hannibal was very rarely angry, unlike her. Normally composed, his emotions of choice ranged between disgust and and exasperation when he had to entertain a disagreeable state. Rage was something new. Yet still she did not press. She returned to the rings in front of them, listening to the clock tick softly behind them.

Just as she thought they might sit here in silence until the sun set, she felt him take a breath. Clarice did not look up immediately, did not pressure him with her eagerness to examine his pain. But her head did tilt closer, as if trying to catch a faint sound too far away.

"We were at the Four Seasons having brunch."

"Early then?"

Lecter nodded. "Your hair was still brunette, but we were together." Another few beats before he moved on, describing all he could remember of the night terror. Every color and sight and sound, as if even the smallest detail might give Clarice the answers as to why. Why now, why not Mischa? Why would his mind create such a vision, especially when he did not dream as others do?

Finishing, his shoulders fell, his body leaning totally into the firmness of his arm chair. The telling had seemed to sap him of his posture, his body relaxing inch by inch into the fabric, leeching the aura of dread that had clung to him since his shower. Conveying it all to his wife, and hiding nothing, not even the most belittling detail, he looked at her now without reservation. The image of her cruel dead eyes did not hover over the real woman's face any longer.

No, Starling was looking at him, her brows raised high, disappearing into her side swept hair. Her surprise and undercut of angry concern was a balm, one Hannibal was grateful for but did not allow to show on his face.

"You are not so old."

Lecter matched her expression, brows raised and looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Is that the detail which impresses you the most?"

"No. But it's never been a concern before." Their age difference had never seemed to bother Clarice, wise beyond her years, older than her age. Here and there when she would talk about music or shows he never bothered to hear or see she was reminded that he, in her words, 'clocked out on culture' somewhere around 1556. Hannibal did not pay it much mind either. Perhaps when she was learning something new, or out of her experience did he pause to think about how her life was just beginning, not even fourty with her future of a head of her. A future she seemed to totally align with his.

A passing thought: he should make arrangements for her, if the practically impossible future of dying a natural death before her came to pass. It comes and goes, tucked away in a desk drawer for later musing.

There was a pause between them, and Starling seemed to think on his dream, or how best to proceed. "It is a lot," she said. "And very out of the norm."

Again, peace washed over him that she did not try to cut a segue into their talk with a witticism. Then again, she was far beyond that now wasn't she? He was also grateful she did not stop long to ponder his fear's version of her, or in anyway take identify with that poisonous persona. That, perhaps, would have been too much for him to bare. "Tell me what you are thinking."

"I am thinking something is troubling you. Sex is very important to this." She gestured between him and her, words redundant and titles ineffectual for what their arrangement was. "It's manifested in sex. And suddenly your dream weaponized it."

"Did it? Do you think I am tired of you? Do you think I've lost faith in your loyalty?"

"No."

"So sure?"

"Are you going to call me Agent Starling?" She tilted her head. "You were doing really well. You told me about it as soon as you were able, and without shame. Don't start lashing out and testing me now. That spot light isn't on you, Hannibal. It's on our rings."

Another thought, coming to her quickly, filling her mouth with the taste of copper: shame.

Her destructive emotion had always been guilt. Guilt over her lambs, over not being accepted, of not doing her job to the fullest, though it was through no shortcoming of her own. Taking in the faults of others and manifesting it as her own. Her anger, her rage sprang from that, because her logical mind, her free mind saw the illogic of it. The wrongness of it.

Hannibal's seemed to be shame. Shame for surviving when Mischa did not, which had overdeveloped his manners and air. Clarice was sure that even without such shame he would be similar now: accomplished, smart and polite. That was simply him. But the hyper focus of at all...and this dream.

Shame and punishment. Very Catholic, she pondered with some grim amusement. "What have you gathered from it?"

"Sexual deviancy usually springs from repression. Dominance and submission dynamics are common in those who lacked parental discipline and are left to find it elsewhere especially in their formative years of coming into adulthood and sexuality. Voyeurism. Hm."

"Hannibal, I loathe being cliche but that's not what I meant. I'm sure you've been analyzing it backwards and forwards for hours. And what you've just said doesn't make much sense for you. So don't try to: how do you feel?"

"Shall we start with my mother?" He glanced at her, and was pleased to find her smirking, her eyes lifting to the ceiling. The joke lightened the mood for what it was worth. "I feel disquieted. Even dreams with Mischa, I awoke to reality and put it away as I rose."

"And created a chamber where you dreaded going near."

"Yes."

"Now you have no such pitfalls. Your rooms are clear and open, the doors always slightly ajar. But that also means it's followed you into your waking hours."

"The price of mental freedom is what you are proposing."

"Something like that. Not now. So, what exactly has followed you?"

"Anger I believe. I could not look at you for hours. Until now. I was quite cruel when I woke."

"It was not taken that way."

"Thank you. You're being kind. Also anger at myself. For not leaving."

"I was surprised. You've talked about lucid dreaming before. I don't take you as someone who lays down for anything, even in your nightmares."

"I was helpless in the face of Nazis."

"But that was a relieved memory. This is an honest-to-God dream."

"Yes. A dream, a few hours and neurons in the brain, and should not disrupt our whole day." He glanced at his watch in the low light and Clarice could tell he wanted to put it away. The temporary peace he could stretch forever. But it wouldn't do. Perhaps for others a bad dream would end with a simple discussion, an embrace, a kiss or two and be washed away.

But they were not those people, whose dreams and emotions merely shaded their lives. Everything for them was vibrant technicolor, jewel tones and deep. Violent desires and violent ends, violently won peace. She didn't want him making another trap door to fear, not when they already had a year of tasting calm.

"If you're tired, maybe you can nap and we can talk about it later?"

"And take more time? No, I don't think so."

"It's time worth spending." Then leaning her cheek on her fist she gently attempted humor: "Unless the seat's a little too hot for you, doctor. Shoe on the other foot as it were."

"Revenge, that's the game is it? Time to sample my pain," he said looking at her. He had his head tilted back, resting against the chair. Clarice had the sudden urge to reach out and brush the hair from between his eyes. It was so unruly and thick he had to always slick it back to look decent. But she sometimes preferred him a little outside of put together. Because it was something only for her.

"I'd rather just have you happy. Are you happy?"

"I've gotten everything I wished and more," he said in reply. He had Clarice, his obsession for years. Not dead and not Mischa, but Clarice in all her glory and all his. He was alive, and free and no one would dare think to capture him again, not for a long time.

"You're allowed to still be unhappy with it."

"It would be ungrateful."

"Depends on the scale you use. I left mine in the dungeon, and you can't borrow it, love." A lesser woman would probably panic at his evasive answers, without his immediate confirmation. He was more than a little proud to see her placid, unaffected by his replies.

"I am not unhappy, Clarice. I would not be so resistant to this upset if I was."

"In your dream, you were trapped, and unable to leave. Do you think that reflects your life either?"

He gave it the consideration it was due and answered, "No. I do not. As you choose, I chose. We had just as much to loose as eachother. Your chance at true living freedom and mine at physical freedom. If I wish to leave you, truly leave you, I would not feel guilt. Should you wish to leave me..."

"Which I don't, and I don't like entertaining the idea."

"It remains the same that I would allow you."

That registered in her face. Her brows knit for a millisecond. "Thank you," she replied, still, knowing he was offering her something of worth, even if she found it distasteful. It was a conversation for another time. "Where does this leave us?"

"At lunch." He looked at his watch again. Between his conveying his dream and their thoughtful pauses hours had slipped by unnoticed. Restlessness, like the rage she had witnessed before was new on Starling's lover. It did not come in twitches or habits, but consistent returns to cold norm.

"Surely you are more important than food, as surprising as it is coming from me," Clarice said with a smile. "And with such a wild and vivid nightmare, after so many months of peace: I'd rather help you now."

"Perhaps it is the way for us, a price to pay for our gaps of silence."

"Forever waiting for the Inquisition's pendulum? We've moved beyond that."

"Is it so difficult to think we have mistaken this, what we have?"

"Our marriage you mean," she finally said with some steel in her voice. "You're my husband, Hannibal."

"Still clinging to your structure, Clarice?"

Clarice raised a hand. "You were right before. We've sat in the dark talking in rings around each other. Food instead."

Lecter was looking at his clasped hands. Clarice stood and shut off the light, plunging them into darkness. He heard her move around while his eyes adjusted to the sudden change, then felt her fingers. He wanted to rip away, not expecting the touch, but schooled himself. The cool metal of his ring slid back onto his finger. She did not break the solace of the room by pulling back the curtains, but left the door open behind her.

He did follow her for lunch in their private dining room but managed only a little of the crisp salad prepared. He did not retreat back to his office or library. He spent most of the day at the piano. It was no harpsichord, but it seemed to fit with it's clear, crisp notes, and lingering sounds. His hand was still a little stiff after it all. After five years of practice he was able to work around it now.

Playing Cherubini's Requiem in C minor slowly, then again before moving onto Beethoven. He needs no music, and has no newspaper clippings before him now. He stares at the horizon as the sun hides behind it, bowing below the earth, dragging the night with him. It's only when the dinner bell rings that he realizes two things: It had been hours, and he has only played requiems.

There is no trepidation when he entered the bedchambers, which is good in his estimation. There is no fear anymore, but still the saturation had been drained from him. His interest wandered from topic to topic at dinner, and neither bothered to dress for it tonight either. Clarice tried to engage him in a little Japanese, a language they were both attempting to read and write together, it's mathematical elements once fascinating now seeming sluggish and difficult.

In the end he retired to use the bathroom first before bed. Clarice had started to play music from the other room, the melody he could not decipher, but the beat slow and steady. He sits in their bathtub, a towel to pillow his head as he soaked in the hot water, letting his body relax by degrees.

Clarice entering the bathroom brought in him the desire to sink lower, to avoid the sensation of being put on display. Ridiculous. I will not hide from my own wife. Lecter ended up staying completely still, even as she approached. Her hand brushed his shoulder, and she hissed slightly. "You're tense."

Their tub was built almost like a jacuzzi, with large expanses of flat stone around the rim of it for candles and bottles and dishes of soap. Clarice hopped up onto the stone and began to roll up her pajama bottoms. Carefully she had him lean forward so she could dip her feet into the water. She turned the tap on for a moment, to refresh the heat before taking one of the bottles close by. Hannibal had bought these oils to rub into her legs after her runs.

Wetting her hands with the fragrant sandalwood scented oil, she ran her hands over his shoulders. Strong fingers pressing into the muscle, skilled from years working on her own calf. He was still static at first as her hands worked, but soon the sensation of his muscles releasing under her skill welcomed him into thoughtlessness. The windows and doors of his memory palace shut for just a few moments.

Instead he devoted his attention to the feeling of her healing hands, the sound of water lapping against the porcelain, the beat of her breathing, attempting to remember a tune at the same tempo. After a moment, she touched his forehead gently, indicating for him to lean back into the water, his hair wetting. "You're not ordained," he said, eyes still closed.

Starling chuckles softly in response before lathering up soap in his inky hair. Part of her is selfish and enjoys the fact that his pain is allowing her to care for him in this basic way. Having been on the run far longer than her, he usually led in that case, as well as introducing her to many things she had once admired from afar. Always so in control of himself, never really giving her a chance to repay him in some demonstrative way.

Again he was leaned back into the water, to rinse. He opened his eyes, the bright bathroom light above sanctifying her with a gold aureole. She caught the recognition in his eyes and leaned down, brow to brow. "This too will pass," she said into his wet locks.

This night would be the first they refrained from sex for reasons other than fatigue. They lay together, the curtains on his side of the bed drawn, the ones between Clarice's posters cracked to let in the silver beams of moonlight. Lecter's companion slid her sleeping mask over her eyes, but still tilted her head up waiting. Amused at the image that others would call foolhardy (an offering to the monster, especially of the mouth), he bestowed a kiss to send her off to sleep with.

Morning came without brands on his back, or needle thin masters wielding belts. Clarice was up before him, unusual but not unheard of. He could hear her beyond the curtain of the bed, humming to herself. Parting the damask he saw her at her vanity, drying her hair.

A strange antiphony rose in him. His conscious thought reached out to her, wanting to move behind her and kiss her head, murmuring good morning. He could see himself kneeling beside her, his hand wandering to the belt of her robe and freeing her flesh from the terrycloth. But his body remained remote and cold, reluctant to obey. Even the thought of such free intimacy usually set his skin warm, as if standing next to a roaring fire. But now he could not muster up the want.

Now he was out of bed, but not towards Starling. He touched her damp locks as he passed to the closet. "Good morning," she called, watching him go.

"Good morning."

"Leaving me already?" She moved to the doorway, leaning against it.

"For a walk."

Clarice nodded, understanding the need to work out himself. When Jack had died, it had been the finality of her old life that had chased her out of their home. No amount of talking, nor companionship would have been able to exorcise her as solitude had. Coming up behind him, she smoothed down the collar of the jacket he had chosen. She thought perhaps she should say something, but no platitudes or wifely warnings seemed right. Instead she merely handed him his usual watch and returned to her mirror.

Lecter looked back up at the abbey as he walked down the drive to his Jaguar. His Penelope was in the window, and lifted a hand casually. He nodded in response before sliding into the driver's seat. He was determined to return well, and free of this shroud.

He drove to the beach, the scent of sea water filling his senses, the primal calling of the waves pleasant. Here there was a company built for the passing executives and politicians that visited the embassy close by. Horses in a stable meant for rides along the ocean, and a long stretch of beach blocked from the public.

He was allowed to rent out a powerful stallion, the teachers and director used to the powerful and rich of Buenos Aries engaging in the activity. They mostly had retired race and polo horses, but Lecter could tell this steed still had some run in him.

He too had a childhood of horses. His father had one for him and his wife, and their old stallion Caesar for pulling the cart to and from the village after buying food for the manor. Lecter rode straight backed and easy, despite his long absence from the saddle. Once far enough from the stables, he patted his steed's flank. "Let us give you one last race."

Now came his true purpose for the excursion. With nothing more than a whistle the stallion started of, building up speed along the shore line, his hooves picking up speed, digging groves in the soft sand. The activity taxed the monster's body, holding himself slightly above his seat, body crouched low behind the horse's bobbing head to avoid wind resistance. The animal's breathing and the ocean roared in his ears as it galloped, sailing along the shore bank.

Blood up, Hannibal slowed the animal to a trot and ran it through paces, laps along the sand, and even jumping over a few rock banks clawing out of the ocean's water. The activity took active focus, like hunting, draining him of any other purpose besides staying in his saddle and controlling the beast below.

Finally, legs shaking from the hard work, Lecter lowered himself to the sand. They were in between the reservation and the public beach, miles on either side giving privacy. Taking a carrot from the saddle pack, he regarded the stallion, patting it's nose as it ate greedily from his palm. Even in the cell he understood Clarice's affection for such creatures and their powerful, calm presence, even if it robbed him of a sample of her pain. "You, too, will be carting children until you die," he murmured to it, looking him the rectangle pupil of the horse's wide eye. "There's more dignity in glue."

Taking the reins, he led the beast along the shore, finding a large smooth rock , high enough to be safe from the spray of the tide. The beast was well trained enough not to wander off, and indeed knelt in the sand to rest to watch Lecter curiously as he climbed to the flat surface of the rock. He wondered now, looking over the waves if he ought to have brought a sketchbook.

The ocean was safe to them, one of their escape plans being on it. They had a boat loaded with cash, other identities, and deep sea fishing gear waiting for them should they need to escape to the water for a few months.

Now, peaceful and separate, Lecter let himself remember the dream.

He could almost feel the sweaty warmth of the leather around his throat. He supposed the symbolism there was unmistakable. A dog, a pet, obedient and kept. Never before had such labels ever been applied to him. Nothing happened to me, Agent Starling. I happened. Such had been his life, even with his burden of guilt. From childhood to his years in America he had not begged or pleaded with anyone. Facing the judge and the electric chair he had remained silent. Coming to a new country, no title, no money, nothing but a scholarship to John Hopkins, he had worked and saved and stolen. But he had never begged, never asked.

And Clarice.

Ah, Clarice. It was that Clarice had been ordering, his Beatrice. Behold a God more power then I. He had obeyed her like a child, desiring a reward. Sex, affection, comfort; sickeningly slavish to her desires and whims, hurt when she had merely slapped his hand. Had not, no, would not leave her even when she destroyed every part of them. First equality, than privacy, and at last trust.

He closed his eyes against the harshness of the sun on the water.

Clarice, Penelope, Beatrice, was there a name for her that did not fit? Was there nothing he did not have that was not infected by her? He had given up much to be near her. Given up safety, anonymity, and...

"He didn't deserve it." Clarice, sitting up in bed, the cheap light from the bathroom reflecting in her blue eyes. She didn't hide her nakedness now, the modesty she might have carried with her from the Lutheran home burned away by him under their midnight sun.

"And I still killed him. I needed the position at the Capponi, in any case."

"You can't scare me, doctor. But your whimsy does."

"I am a killer. And I will kill again to protect my freedom."

"To protect yes. In that case I am a killer to and just as willing." The ferocity in which she said that made him want to grab her by the neck and devour her mouth again, but he knew to refrain.

"I will not limit myself for you. Is that what you are asking?"

"I m asking that you think, and let me trust you to use your better judgment. You need not kill for Mischa or want. You're free of that."

"And you will not tolerate it?"

"Senseless destruction? No, Hannibal." She moved closer. "Now it is our time to create, and finish the arch. To build memories worthy of palace and not track blood in. We no longer need our armor, do we? We no longer need to fight?" Now her hand was on his chest, sliding up his throat to his cheek. "Now is our deserved rest."

"You're seducing my agreement," he murmured as she drew closer.

"No. I want you. Besides, I couldn't change your mind with a crowbar let alone a kiss."

He tilted his head back. "You are correct. Whimsy brought too many troubles to my doorstep. But I will not stay my hand if it means securing our freedom."

"That's all I ask."

Compromise, he had compromised. Not that he felt a need to kill, he simply did not find a need to refrain. Because of that he had acquiesced. It was not much of an offering, as he had envisioned a life too full to wander too far away. His obsession was in his arms. He was going to envelope himself in the surprise and danger that was Clarice Starling. Endlessly amusing, an enigma. A chrysalis he had carried for years, and now a beauty he saw emerge with his influence but not his will.

So what was left? Had he submerged himself so deep that he could not tell where adoration ended and his will began? He had planned to make her the most special person to him, Mischa's place in the world. Her blood so precious it would spill for the only thing he was willing to die for. And she had surprised him. She was more important than even he, with his aspirations, knew. She had shown him his own blindness, opened a world of possibilities that he, with all his perceived freedoms, had for gone.

Now where was he? A hedonist for normality? A defanged monster, willing to lie and be beaten? A beast tamed by a warrior beauty finding pleasure where once he would have only found disgust? Had he lost himself in Clarice Starling?

"Lost? Tell me, boy. How do you lose an entire person?"

Hannibal turned, looking down the hall of his palace. Down the long corridor where the trap door once was. There, tall in doorway stood his father. Count Lecter in his son's memory is not in his finery. He wears his simple day suit, in his arms a book and his gold wire reading glasses. Hannibal does not often think of his parents, or his past despite the monster lurking there having been defeated.

He and Clarice had been discussing the man the night of the terror, as Count Lecter had raised hunting dogs himself.

"Well? How do you lose an entire person?" He tilted his head, waiting for his answer. He expects an answer. When none comes he crooks a finger. Hannibal comes, following his father into the room of his childhood. Here is the count's wide mahogany desk, the love seat across from it by the window. The count points, and expects to be obeyed. He is right, as his child sinks into the cushions of the couch.

Here is how Hannibal remembers his father. This man gave Hannibal his true face, the same high cheekbones, the pale skin, the bright expressive eyes. He is tall, unlike his son, however, and his voice carries a command due his station. His hands are rough, despite being a lawyer, and unlike most nobility. He learned farming alongside his people, gaining their trust from a young age, and now had their devotion.

When Hannibal is planning he feels the man's touch on him, and can smell the same leather and ink his father used in his pens, when he chooses. The monster does not have the same need to feel the parental pride as others might, and it is odd to juxtapose their Catholic sensibilities with what their son became. But now his father seems ready to inform.

"In another," Hannibal explained.

"Hmm. In a woman?"

"In Clarice."

"The woman then." His father opens his glasses and slides them on his face, looking at his son over the rim. He had those glasses the entire time the bombings happened as they hid in the basement. He read them Thomas Paine while the walls shudders and cracked but did not fall. The glass of the spectacles would be blood covered when they shot him through the back of the head.

Now they flash in the mid morning. "So you are no longer Hannibal Victoras Lecter, eighth of his name? You are no longer a man? A doctor? You have lost all of these things then?"

"No sir."

"Then you've not lost yourself." He shakes his head, dark eyes rising heavenward. "Such dramatics that Italian blood gives you. You know who you are Hannibal. You fear what you've become."

"I do not fear myself."

"Oh you don't, do you?"

"No longer."

"I know what you have done to her, and what you could not do. Whisper through the cocoon, but she burst through it herself. Right passed every carefully laid plan." He tilted his head again, brow raised. "Did you think you would remain the same, witnessed to such a thing? You have arrived in Damascus, led by hand." The count leans back in his chair, reaching behind him. Lecter can hear the creak of the wood, and remembers the echo of pain when he fell backwards in that very chair once.

Knock of wood against wood as the man rights himself, holding the family Bible. Here the monster considers standing and walking out, as there was little time until he is expected home and has no need for the neglectful father, son and spirit. But he lingers a moment more, letting his mind wander in the fantasy a little longer.

The Lecter Bible was not the gold ornate book that sat in their main sitting room, where they had calligraphers come in to write the name of the borne and the day of deaths. This was his father's Bible, given to the count by his grandfather. One day it would have been Hannibal's, had it not been used as kindling for the fires. Here the names are written in a multitude of hands, lovingly if not artfully.

The count thumbs through the thin pages, passing over proverb and parable until he found the desired page. Then he handed it over. The leather of the cover was warm to the touch, and the book was heavier than it ought to have been, but the weight was comfortable in its familiarity. As a small boy, smaller than the norm at his age, most books were heavy.

The monster reads from memory, knowing what passage his father has turned to. As he speaks he wonders why this memory has separated and risen to the surface. "'And He answered and said to them, 'Have you not read that He who made them at the beginning 'made them male and female,' and said, 'For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh'? So then, they are no longer two but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let not man separate.'"

The doctor snaps the book shut and places it back on the desk. "I understand that I have married her, in my own mind. And promised to be with her as long as she wishes."

"Tch. As long as she wishes, as long as you wish? Is that all a vow means to you?"

"We spoke no vows-"

Now the count raises a hand to stop him. It is as telling as a slap. "Made no vow? Made no vow indeed. Have you not made sacrifice to your marriage? Have you not vowed in violence? You killed for her, not once, but twice. Once for her vanity, once for her safety. Your vow is not word, Hannibal. Your vow was made in blood."

Lecter does not like this conversation any longer, and wishes to leave. He knows this sensation from Chesapeake. The cold shiver when he was offered Clarice's body and comfort. Even here he cannot escape her wandering through his thoughts. "And so I am a married man. Are you saying that I am lost because I obey, and not my wife? That I am so affected by traditions I was raised with that the loss of them now makes me suffer? I do not believe it."

His father smirks. "When has that even been the case in love? Does your mother not rule this house, do I not obey her? She can be very frightening" He spins his gold wedding band. Simonetta Lecter is felt in the room, though not there. The set up, the decoration and the furniture was all her choice, as with every room in the castle. Her imprint is on every wall, and it is in the smile both of her men have for her while she is absent.

"And this is not about your obedience. It is not about the action, Hannibal. How do you feel?"

"Incomplete." He says it before he can stop himself, forces himself to form it in his mind. Once there it was made real, and would have to be understood, have to be dealt with. Without his pain, without Mischa, with our the goal he drove towards for so long, he felt something gone from him. Like the tether he had gripped for a small eternity had finally yanked free, and he was adrift. Happy, free, but drifting with no star to guide by. But afraid.

He was afraid of Clarice. In his dream it had manifested cruelly but no less accurate. The dynamics of their dark rooms at Chesapeake had changed and been destroyed. He was no longer her caregiver and therapist. He feared her loss of affection, he feared what his own would make him do. He feared the envelopment that happened every day. A part of him was indeed trite enough to think that if he stopped, she might leave. If he did not serve she might not see a reason to be with him. A treacherous part had always wondered if she had come with him because it was a last resort to the situation that he presented, despite her frankness about her love for him.

Clarice asked and he would do. He would move and change, even requests that were not even voiced, anticipating her want. And he feared the punishment, that she would be gone, and he would be left with nothing but the scars to remind him that she had once been his.

He had replaced Mischa with a more benevolent master.

But now his father was moving again, shaking his head. He hears his son's thoughts, as Hannibal had no desire to voice them. "For such a bright lad you are exceedingly dim witted. What did you just read? You have no master, boy. That man is dead, the criminal, the servant, the haunted. You are no longer who you were. You are no longer one of two. Did you think it meant one in consummation?"

The monster raises his head. It comes to him all at once, the idea like a lone spark in a dark room, flooding the space with bright, burning light. These were the fears of a man who still served, it was the fears of the escapee who spent eight years as a mute, the library curator who had nightmares in his narrow bed in Florence. These were the trappings and darkness of a life that was no longer his.

He had not lost himself. There was nothing to lose, because that man was gone, shed like a chrysalis. Lecter had felt dry and shattered because he was holding onto useless remains. He had emerged as someone new, free and-

"Don't run," came his father's familiar call as he pushed himself off his seat

and off the rock, sliding down into the sand. The horse who had been resting, lifted its head. Seeing it's temporary master up, he stood as well, ready for another ride. Hannibal paced the sand a little, making sure he had his baring in the present. Now he was filled with a nervous energy, the same that had filled him when he had lain on the floor of his prison in Memphis in another man's skin, or when he had been playing on Chesapeake waitingwaitingwaiting.

He was glad now, to return his steed and return home. Even in the gathering dark, the lights from within seemed to illuminate and chase off the approaching night.

Anya was cooing over Rico's pictures. He had them on his flip mobile phone, and as the meat for dinner thawed, they were discussing what they did with their surprise free day. Rico had taken his two daughters to the park and had filled the memory on the device with photos of them.

As he was recounting their small adventure on the plastic slide, they heard the front door open and stilled. Master had been out the entire day, and the mistress often wandered to the windows and looked out them, as if gazing might bring him back. This had happened once before in reverse: they had not been told about it, but Anya had guessed that Senora's father had passed away in America. She had gone for a long walk, and Senor had sat outside in the garden all day reading, though he did not turn a single page.

The staff were concerned both for the well being of employers they liked, but for their positions. Should whatever had happened within the last days drive their employers apart, they would have to find new homes to work in. Anya had the keenness of her parentage who had been in a service of a kind for every generation and knew a good life-long position when she saw it. Both maid and cook leaned around the table to peer out the doorway, though they could not see the main hall from here.

Clarice Starling had planted herself in the living room with her Japanese learning books, and saw not one character on the page. She, like her staff, was thinking of Jack Crawford and his death. She had been very pleased with and proud of Dr. Lecter when he had not left the house. He had not followed her, stalked her or badgered her with questions or therapy when she returned. He would not have been rude, or pressing she was sure. But his curiosity was one of his most dangerous traits.

Now she was attempting to repay the favor, though she felt it might be easier just to strap herself to the chair. Her control was teetering close to breaking as the sun sank. She had a deeper appreciation for her husband's control. Had he felt like this when she had been suffering so greatly in Virginia?

Of course, though perhaps not with the best intentions. In fact he had come to the damn country because of it. That was not a good example, and now she fretted a little more over where he was and what he was doing.

She looked to the clock again, leg bouncing. He was fine. He could take care of himself. He didn't need her to coddle him. Clarice felt a slight sting at that. Sometimes she wished he would, an impulse and want she discredited every time it arose. It was not so much about debt, as usefulness. What they had, they had together. She had paid her dues and her place beside him was rightfully won. But beyond dodging FBI tactics and interpol, she wished to be of more use to him.

Oh, she knew he wanted her. Body and mind. It was the most freeing feeling having a partner listen to you and really hear you. Beyond that, want to hear you. She was not worried in the least about their partnership, their marriage. But he provided so much, everything in place for them that she sometimes wondered what she could add to their year long conversation. It was a small worry, one that only came to her now that she desperately needed something else but the man in question to worry over. It would be a conversation for another day.

Clarice sank back into her chair and gave up on the book completely. Hannibal, again teaching, had shown her how he had lasted those years in the cage as they called it. Pleasant thoughts to pass the time, and she needed the time to roll by. Closing her eyes (it was easier for her to close her eyes), she searched in the rooms where Hannibal was in her memory palace.

She found him first in the bedroom, mostly because she had missed him all last night and today. It was not a point of real pain. He had been thrown so off kilter by the dream: hot and cold. Ready to talk, then retracting, not wanting her to touch him, then leaning into it in the bath like a cat wanting a rub. She supposed with his ability to remember in such vivid detail it made his dreams all that much worse. Mischa had been a memory replaying adnuasiem: but a dream, a total invention by his own mind? Must have been frightening.

Focus, that's what she needed. Shaking herself she enters the halls of her memory palace and finds him there. He has shifted from exotic to domestic in her preview, having gone from construct to extreme reality in the course of her life; Clarice does not seek him in some grand room, or seated before a roaring fire in perfect half-light, or even in the stark florescent light of the cell. He is there in their bedroom, leaning against the bedpost as if waiting or her. She touches his hands first, and is happy for their firm strength and soft touch.

He is so handsome, to her estimation. She is always glad he does not alter his face into anything unpleasant even for the sake of safety. He is very careful about scaring. However in her memory palace, he has his real face, his true one. She likes this one best. One day, she did ask, if he might ever return to it. Now she touches the high cheekbones and jaw with gentle fingers.

He returns her touch with a slow caress up her back. Hannibal is very good at this. Where she once lacked, and still did to some degree, in social patience, he excelled. Lecter was charming, and smooth. A man who made other men smile, and made (here she recalls with great amusement Rachel DuBerry's comments) women's fur crackle.

Had Starling been a lesser woman she might not like how he eased and charmed his way through their travels. She was almost sure there had been a few socialite wives who would have, without reserve or jest, asked her permission to sleep with him if only to have a memory of a true gentleman.

But in this regard she was not overly concerned. Since Chesapeake and his own realization, he had been focused on her to a degree that might alarm others. But for her it seemed only natural. Without knowing it was reciprocated, they had been courting and thinking of each other for seven years. Now together ,they were on borrowed time everyday, even if his identities and her insider knowledge kept them both relatively safe.

Clarice snickers and remembers something of her old life. Once you pop you can't stop. The Hannibal before her pulls a face almost comical as the phrase passes through her mind, and is not very appreciative of retail slogans being aligned with thoughts about him. He lowers his head to her ear and attempts to bring her focus back to him.

What would he do with another? Nothing. No one would give him the freedom to explore and experiment sexually, physically and mentally. She let him probe her all he wanted, walk her down thought paths that were odd, maybe even vile, just to explore the ideas. She welcomed it, in fact, and enjoyed his reactions, piecing together just how his mind worked. They found infinite entertainment in each other.

With these facts, Starling knows she is in no danger of losing her spouse. He cared for her with such naked honesty, she often wondered where the man who had so cruelly torn her down had gone. Not that she missed him overly much. The allure of the forbidden, the ever elusive 'bad boy' was a construct she had never liked, never exhilarated her. And she indeed had the baddest boy of all. While some human part of her had always acknowledged that he was handsome, and that his flirtatious overtones did in some way reach her, Starling had always been an Agent first and he a criminal aide.

It was not until she was older did she begin to understand some of what he had been trying to impart to her. And only with the death of Good Johnny Brigham and his letter did she come to feel that string of connection to him. It was an iron chord, thin but threaded well and would not be broken. There was little about them that was soft or gentle.

Except, perhaps, how he now treated her. Back to this thought: to her usefulness. Lecter was always so composed and so assured. He tended to her needs, even ones she had not anticipated. She enjoyed them, always made a point to show her gratitude. But what if it was not enough? What if he now began to see her as a demanding mistress, as his dream had partaken?

There's no offense in this line of thinking. Starling does not crumble under the thought. But she begins to wonder if there is more she can do for him. Not in payment, per say. But to show him in a way he understood. Communication through words, even through the visual beauty of Italian words was all well and good but the subconscious communications, the unspoken gestures and tones were different. Perhaps they spoke different unspoken languages? Perhaps something so simple as being appreciated was what had put him off, even if he did not himself know it.

Simpler things had gone over his head before.

Afterall, Clarice almost had to Dick-and-Jane him through understanding that he too could have total freedom from guilt. That he could lay his sister to rest is she could put down her father's badge. It seemed that for all his burning churches, his dinners full of completions, judgments, self discovery and freshly picked berries, the basest of ideas seemed to escape his notice. Like a child crawls before they walked, did he have to learn to love before discovering what he wanted from his lover?

She would ask Anya to put dinner out in the garden and she would ask him. He had so wanted to be free of the room and discussing the dream yesterday that she had not had time to formulate any suggestions.

Yes, that would do. He'd be home soon, she was sure of it, and they would resolve the sudden vacuum between them. Back to the visage of Hannibal before her in her memory palace, back into her husband's arms. She remembered a particular time he had spent hours touching her, exploring her skin with his fingers tips and mouth. It had been quite relaxing, laying in their large bed, having to do nothing more than breath and stroke his thick hair. Hmm...

Far off, a sound echos. A door opening and closing. That was real. Starling grinned, raising her arms and stretching as she comes back to reality in degrees. She would not go to him immediately. Space and time is what he needed, and it was almost dinner-

Her heart stopped for a second. Hannibal was still so silent, he surprised her. He was standing by her chair, smelling like the sea and leather from the stables. He was kneeling now, to better look into her face. The light from the fire caught the red of his eyes and glittered with purpose. Apparently he had figured it all out, because his usually composed face was alive with emotion. Clarice blinked, and gave him a smile. She wasn't going to waste this opportunity. "Everything alright?"

"Tu esi toks gražus, mano žmona."

Oh. Her eyes went wide. "Hannibal?"

"Kas atsitiko?" The moment of raw emotion lasted, as he grew a little apprehensive.

"Hannibal, sweetheart, I don't speak Lithuanian yet." Now Clarice was concerned. Reasons for the change both sound and absurd passed by her like a train, chilling her with their breeze. Had he hurt himself? Had he done something to help himself that erased his memory?

Now the monster blinked. "...Did I? Forgive me. In the rush I forgot myself." He placed a hand on his chest, as if trying to calm his steadily beating heart.

"Forgot yourself? You must have had quite an afternoon, then."

"Yes."

"Did...you think on everything?"

Hannibal opened his mouth to tell her, to explain, but no words came forth. He realized now that these things he had found in the depths of his own mind were probably already accepted fact to Clarice. Now he laughed softly. Always step a head, always a surprise to him. Finding words utterly useless and redundant, he instead surged up and took her mouth in a long kiss to tell her what he had been thinking, finding her responding readily. Her hands pulled him up, until he was almost in her chair. He would have to ask her what she had been pondering before he arrived. Later.

Holding her chin, his tongue invaded her mouth enjoying the taste of cranberries and cream he found there. She had such a sweet tooth, it always came in handy. He conveyed with his gentle, but firm touches what he had concluded. And how she responded! She moved just how he needed, her hand here, tilting her head as he raised his palm to her cheek, parting her lips just as he did, pulling back a half second as he moved forward. With actions, he communicated and confirmed all he had wanted.

But the floor was hard on his knees, and the staff was on this level. Lecter wanted to be alone with Clarice, and he wanted to erase the last few hours spent worrying. Together they rose, still engaged in their commutative kiss. They only pulled away because it would have been unwise to attempt the stairs so distracted.

Rico was trimming the steak, asking Anya to hand him his box of spices. Well aged and passed down from his grandmother, he was glad he had found a family that enjoyed his work and even his experimenting. The girl did so and watching him for a moment, even taking one of the glass spice bottles and pressing a finger to it's lip, to swipe up the remains and place them in her mouth. She nodded approval with a small, "Mmm!"

Above them, the sounds of feet on the wooden stairs quickly ascending. Both Senora and Senora by the sound of it. Anya smiled to herself. "Put it in the fridge. It will wait. What are you doing for your little one's birthday?"

Clarice fumbled behind her, finding the lock on their bedroom doors, and sliding it home. Anya would never enter without knocking, but the action conveyed just how long she was planning on taking. She felt more than heard Hannibal murmur his approval against her lips. He had already returned to their kiss.

Before long, the monster took her hand and led her over to the bed, pushing her down and helping her shift backwards until she was away from the edge. One knee on the mattress, he worked on the tie of her shoes. He was good about her clothes. Only a few shirts and one gown had ever been a true casualty. When her sock was also dropped to the floor, she flexed her foot, pressing against his stomach, and sliding down to his belt.

Lecter grinned, and caught her ankle, fingers sliding up her loose fit cotton pants. Her calf was strong, made steel from years and years of toning it. Bending, he placed a kiss just below her lateral malleolus, and then another, slightly higher, and another. No images of slavery passed through him, no thought to the rather subservient position. All the monster could think of was that the scent of almonds on her skin was possibly his favorite, and later he would ask her to continue purchasing that soap.

Apparently it was not enough for his wife, lying prone against the sheets. She pulled her leg from his ascending attentions and wriggled out of her the pants all together. Then with a tug on his shirt, pulled him onto the bed with her. The mattress bounced slightly from the sudden weight, and Lecter braced himself on his hands. He did not want to suffocate her lithe form.

When she came up for another kiss, his fingers gently stopped her and tilted her chin back, exposing her slender neck. He could see the barely there imprints of his last possessive mark. Good skin care quickly faded them, and makeup fixed a multitude of ills. She never complained about it, accepted it as readily as his harpy on his bedside table, matching John Brigham's Desert Eagle on hers.

He lowered his mouth, running his tongue along the soft, soft skin. Pale and smooth he felt the same small excitement as one would about to step into freshly fallen snow; anticipation of leaving a mark. Another wet trail along her jugular, his breath cooling her flesh as he breathes. Starling bites her lip, and the shiver seeps into her spine. He apparently has picked a spot and she could feel his teeth against her now, right at the junction between neck and collar.

But his hands are still busy. Her blouse becomes looser, button by button. The monster does not take time in enjoying the slow reveal of flesh. He wants her bare, and quickly. He wants her, full stop. Hannibal wants to be with Clarice, to make manifest and psychical the connection that had fused them together so tightly that they had shed the trappings of their previous lives.

Lecter has had other lovers before; many. Yet with Starling he feels a heart and a body that beats in tandem with him. It is the reason they have not tired of their nightly activities, even after a year. It was a splendid structure that adorned their finished arch.

Starling was small indeed compared to her lover, and he had an easy time of moving her as he peeled her clothes from her body, and adjusted her back onto the bed just how he wanted her. Such an appetizing sight, such a wonderful offering. It was hard to tell if he was grinning at her, or if his lips pulled back in a hungry snarl. Either way, Clarice sunk back against her pillows, raising a foot to his shoulder, but not to push away. The sole slid up and over his arm along his back drawing him closer.

His mouth found her belly, lips brushing over the soft skin. Her flesh jumped, his breath warm against the chill of being naked in the room. Lecter lay his cheek against the thigh of the leg slung over his shoulder. His shadow was abrasive against the smooth flesh, he saw the sensation crackle in her eyes a moment before her head fell back. A quick nip of her skin and she was looking at him again as his head lowered. Good.

Clarice Starling, as ever, was the only meal Lecter had that never left him full. In fact she aggravated his hunger, even as it left him completely satisfied. Her hands threaded into his hair, her sighs and sounds, the taste and feel of her. His hands held her hips firmly, not roughly. He did have to keep her somewhat still after all, and she had a tendency to wriggle, compliment that her writhing was. Like tuning a beautifully crafted instrument, he was guided by the pitch and tones of her as he worked.

Hannibal was only slightly disappointed when she pushed him back, and guided him back to her mouth. Starling was pulling on his shirt, trying to work the tiny buttons with quick fingers, but distracted by their kiss. He grinned against her mouth, laughing slightly at her struggle. It earned him a little bite on his lower lip. She pushed the cloth open, her hands on his chest, finding his heart beat, before trailing down. Clarice made quick work of his belt and button, and did not bother waiting for him to remove the clothing completely.

What had she been thinking on before he came to make her so eager, he thinks again? He made a note to ask her later; pausing now to discuss it would probably earn him another bite. Tempting...

When they joined, Hannibal was surprised that the small cry of pleasure had come from him rather than his more vocal lover. Clarice grinned, holding his face in her hands, their foreheads rested against each other, eyes locked. He was cradling her head in his palm, propping himself on his free arm. Now they were unhurried, moving slowly, Clarice rising to meet him without prompting.

Somewhere, Hannibal heard the elusive third note.

Listening to her heart beat, cheek pressed into his lover's breast, Hannibal Lecter could feel sleep tugging at him. Clarice was humming some pleasant tune, her fingers combing their his hair. He could feel her waiting, however, and wondered how he would communicate that his discovery was simply that they were married in the deepest sense of the word? He smiled into her skin, anticipating her laughter.

"What's the joke," she murmured.

"A simple equation."

"A humorous equation?"

"Mmm. One and one together, make one."

"Doesn't make much sense," she said as he lifted his head to prop his chin on her sternum.

"Not at all. It's absolutely mad. People will say it's insanity. Or perhaps brainwashing?" Now he was really grinning. He could not help it, he was glad to come home. "Or they will say we're in love."

"Well I can see how it took you so long," Clarice allowed. She too was glad, not only that his darkness was lifted but that their first, if small, dilemma of their partnership had been conquered. "I was a little worried you were upset with our arrangement."

"Forgive me. I have not been as forthcoming as I ought."

"No, no. You were fine. It was a bad hypothesis anyway. It assumed that I could make you feel emasculated."

His brows shot up into his bangs. "Emasculated?"

"Well, in your dream-I had thought-Don't smirk at me that way!" Starling shoved her laughing companion onto his back, climbing up to straddle his hips. She bent over him, her hands on either side of his head. Her blonde hair was long now, and swept like a curtain on one side of his face, tickling his cheek. "You are insufferable, Hannibal." But she was enjoying his chuckling.

"You were worried that you had broken my self esteem?"

"There isn't a person alive that could do that," she snorted.

"How exactly were you planning on alleviating that? Were you thinking about it when I returned?"

"Not exactly, but it seemed our interests were aligned. Do you like the idea of me trying to alleviate you?"

"It has its merits." He took a golden strand, and curled it between his fingers.

"Well then." She straighten and took his wrists, pushing them back on the bed. "Stay still and close your eyes"

Again he raised a brow, but did not make a move to stop her. He leaned back into the softness of the pillows, and closed his eyes. He felt her relieve him of his trousers, but then her weight was gone. When he peered around to find her, her fingers brushed his face, closing his eyes again. "Relax."

"Hmm."

The bed shifted from her weight and he felt the whisper of her hair on his neck. Her lips pressed against his forehead, then nose, skirting his mouth to his jaw. Lecter tilted his head to give her more access. She hummed her thanks against the skin of his throat, teeth scraping over his Adam's apple. A shiver ran through him, and he felt her silent laugh.

Gone again, and suddenly her lips were on his chest. She must have been holding herself up carefully over him to keep him from guessing where she would kiss next. His sternum, right above his heart, stomach, throat again. Hannibal opened his eyes and reached for her, wanting to kiss her. Her actions were leaving him pleasantly warm and he could feel his body waking up.

"Hannibal, I told you to relax," she sing songed. She leaned her cheek into his palm for a moment, before taking it and placing it on their wooden headboard. Leaning over she placed his other hand there as well. "Idle hands, y'know. I don't plan on sharing my playground right now."

That earned her a rich chuckle. She seemed to consider him, head cocked to the side. Her blue eyes danced with mischief, and Hannibal was very excited on just where that streak would take her. Leaning over him, and giggling when he nipped at her ribs, she pushed aside her gun on her bedside table and picked up her black satin sleeping mask. "This always helps me. May I?"

Lecter stopped. Clarice knew what she was asking, and was not proceeding without his permission. Nothing like this dream, this was nothing like that abuse of power. She wanted to please him, to bring him pleasure and some comfort after a fashion. But still, she waited on his word.

How do you feel? The words came back to them in their simplicity. He felt...eager. And he felt safe. And he trusted her. Much more than this little sex game, much more than their careful balance of control. His Clarice would not hurt him. He nodded and lifted his head.

Darkness fell over his eyes, the mask soft against his face. It was very pleasant and had the lingering scent of Starling. Very pleasant indeed. She dropped that kiss he longed for on his mouth before disappearing again. He heard her somewhere else in the room, not on the bed. Lecter let out a sigh.

He heard her laugh. "I haven't forgotten about you." Another giggle at his noise of skepticism. "I wish I could draw. I'd like to have a picture of you like this."

Her warm slick hands on his shoulders surprised him. Her lightweight hadn't tiled their firm mattress. He smelled the oil she used on her legs after her daily runs, the one she had used last night as well. She was rubbing it into his skin, kneading there. Clarice had learned how to ease strain from him when he massaged cramps out of her legs; knew just how to squeeze and rub to relax the muscle. Hannibal let out another sigh, softer this time.

"Good? Good," she said when he nodded in response. "See? Now your relaxing."

A hum of agreement.

"Well if only I had known that a little massage would make you so agreeable." She kissed his smirking mouth. He debated on asking if she would have attempted the method in Memphis, to make her laugh, but found he did not want to speak. He lay there, letting her work to her heart's desire, her caresses leaving behind warm trails that quickly became burning need.

Still, he kept his hands still, fingers pressed against the wooden headboard. He liked this for the moment, being the seduced. Not that it took very much. "You must be loving this," came her voice from around his waist, responding to his smile of amusement. Her hands were working on his leg now, skirting around the most needy part of him.

"Hmm," was all the response he spared, glad it did not break the spell they were weaving together. Tension and patience.

Finally her mouth again, against his hip, and over his stomach. His skin twitched under her lips, his body over stimulated. Lecter realized now that his forehead was slightly damp with the effort it was taking to stay still. But prone he stayed, as her lips moved downwards, hot breath-

A soft knock on their bedroom door took Clarice's attention. He felt the mattress bounce as she vacated the bed, and heard the pull of the curtains, closing them. Clarice's scent moving farther from him. He sat up, lifting the mask a little, to peek through the damask.

Starling had her back to him, pulling on his robe It fell over her, too big and comfortable. She cracked open the door and slid out, making sure twice over that Anya could not intrude on their sanctified moment. He found himself smiling, never more glad to be foolish. The image of the voyeur, the blonde child from his terror did not reappear to him.

Nothing from that ghastly specter had hold here.

"Dinner is ready to be served ma'am."

"Oh. Hmm. One moment."

Hannibal quickly fell back against the pillows and returned the mask over his eyes. He felt Clarice's gaze before she pulled the rest of the curtains closed around the bed. The clink of china as Anya brought the plates to their terrace table.

"Keep them covered. When Senor wakes we'll eat."

"It Senor well, ma'am?"

"Oh, yes. Nothing to be concerned about. He's a little tired rom his walk in the sunlight all day."

"Very good ma'am. Goodnight ma'am."

"Goodnight Anya."

The bolt of their bedroom door. Clarice was at his side again. "Hannibal."

"Mmm."

"Did you move?"

The monster raised his brows, trying to portray an innocent expression under the black silk. Her hands were on his cheeks. "You're impossible! Worse than a kid at Christmas, I swear!" But she was laughing, hands sliding up his arms until her own pinned his wrists to the mattress. "You will stay still and be treated, damnit."

Now he was grinning, leaning his face into her kisses. He was happy to have his hands and his sight captive for the next few hours, and Clarice did not fail in leading him to a very pleasing place.

Buenos Aries, Argentina

Two years later

Rico did not mind at all when Senor came to the kitchen to ask about dinner. In fact he was pleased whenever he imparted some knowledge to expand his skill. Senor cooked himself when the whimsy came to him, and he left Rico samples from some meals. By expanding the cook's palette and experience, it made for better food served.

Tonight Hannibal was dressed for the opera. He was going over the recepie Rico had chosen for their dinner tonight. It was complex and would take time, which suited them. The opera was long, and there would be traffic on the way home.

Nodding, he handed the paper back to the cook. "Very good. When you are done, go home. Anya is capable of serving it herself.

"Yes sir. When does the opera start?"

"In an hour, I believe." He checked his watch. Nodding to the servant, he returned upstairs to the bedroom. Clarice was sitting in front of her vanity, applying her lipstick. It was liquid, and she used a brush, drawing on it's shape with deep crimson tones.

He stood behind her, checking his tie in the mirror. Her hair was already pulled back in an elegant chignon, her kobochan emeralds glittering as she moved. She turned and smiled at him, letting him inspect her handy work. Leaning close, he was tempted to destroy it all with a kiss. But she was growing skillful in her painting. Never really altering her features, but enhancing. He was glad of that. Pressing his thumb to the makeup removing cloth, he swiped at her lip, removing a crooked edge.

"Why, thank you," she said, capping her lipstick. "Alright I think I've done enough damage. Let's go."

He helped her into her wrap, and smiled at her gown. "Very nice, Clarice."

"Thank you. You ain't half bad yourself."

"I believe that was a compliment." He offered his arm with a smirk.

In the Mercedes they sat in comfortable silence, Clarice reading the program for Tamerlane as he pulled into the queue of limousines before the opera house.

There had been no more nightmares, and no more doubting. Now it was nothing but excitement and comfort Hannibal found in his envelopment. True there were times she scared him with how quick she was, how she saw straight through him. But it was the exhilarating kind, the same emotion that had made her body hum, rain soaked on the hospital floor.

She sometimes frightened him with her patience as well. He, perhaps, might not be the easiest person to live with. He chuckled to himself, and his wife's head lifted, smiling at the sound. Yes, this was a very handsome situation.

The doorman came when Hannibal rose from the driver's seat. They shared a nod, before he handed Clarice out.

"Thank you, sir," she said softly, teasing.

"My pleasure."

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