26Chapter 10
The Arrest of Clarice Starling
Clarice Starling was not used to sharing a bed.
As a child, she had been the eldest, but also the only daughter for a very long time. The two brothers that followed her shared a bed before their father had traded some good whiskey he'd won at a church lottery to the local carpenter for several sturdy planks of wood and made them a bunk bed. By that time Clarice was too old to be sharing a room with a boy, so her mother had ripped out the shelves of the storage room with the small window, and made a decent space for her eldest. When Clarice's little sister came, she had a mattress in their parents' room. Clarice had often wondered if her sister had taken up her little window room when she went away, or if Mommy had died too soon for any adjusting to happen at all.
From there Clarice had a brief encounter with privacy at her cousin's, but the duration was so short it barely earned a thought.
The orphanage was at least well funded enough that Clarice wasn't forced to share even a bunk bed. But her thin mattress and hand me down blanket was nothing to boast about, nor where the lumps under said mattress-her few possessions she kept there to safeguard from thievery.
In college, she had been too focused to consider shacking up with anyone, and when ever she did find the time to have her disastrous forays into romance, she was careful. It was a real mood killer that did not lend itself well to relaxing into slumber: up, washed, and out she was before the sun rose. It was a pattern that would follow her all her life, until her near celibacy three years or so after killing Jame Gumb.
Tthose years where the first cracks in her faith appeared; cracks she had easily filled with the gold of hope that if she survived this grunt work she would be rewarded. Her kintsugi never amounted to anything, except making her faith more priceless, and impossible to obtain. An antique of a simple, more ignorant time.
So it came to it that Clarice never really learned to actually sleep with anyone. And here she lay, with a man that was more things to her than simply a body or a lover.
Lecter and she had fallen asleep almost instantly, and though it was deep, her ignorance of sharing a bed woke her often. Mostly it was to simply find a cool spot on the mattress, or to poke her toes out into the chilly air, bringing in a little relief from the warm cocoon their bodies and the blankets made. One time Clarice awoke to find her head pillowed on nothing but the doctor's arm. They had somehow become catty-cornered on the bed, the pillows askew.
She had heard more than enough of men joking about their dead arms from where their wife's head claimed a pillow. Sleepily, barely registering that it was still dark, she folded his arm against his chest and pulled a pillow down. The doctor woke slightly, but only enough to adjust with her on the mattress, turning over his own pillow. When she settled on her belly, his warm hand found rest against her spine. He hadn't been awake enough to even open his eyes.
The next time she woke, the room had only lightened a few hues, from midnight indigo to a dark azure, the sun merely an idea outside her window. Her cheek was pressed firmly to the doctor's back, her arm wrapped around him, fingers against his collar. The heat radiating from his bare skin had become clammy against her face, and carefully she freed her arm and checked to see if he was disturbed.
The doctor continued to sleep like the dead, and Clarice actually stared hard for a few moments until his chest rose and fell enough to satisfy her. He had ended up with one arm dangling off the mattress the other curled, his hand tucked under his chin. She figured he must be a restless sleeper for them to turn so many times in the night, before rolling over and letting sleep claim her one last time.
Finally, when the usual traffic of work travel roused her, Clarice found herself engulfed. She had the blankets tucked under her chin but beneath, Lecter's arm was firmly wrapped around her, snug under her breasts, his hand somehow tucked between her ribs and the bed. His other arm had snaked under her pillow as well and their legs were entangled.
As her mind blearily wandered, not yet truly awake, she wondered if the man ever really slept. Being on the run, she assumed would not make for deep slumber. He, however, was more clever than quick, preferring to build a place than constantly trot the globe. A quick realization, like the glare off a passing car-she had almost caught him, she knew without a doubt one of his identities-and gone without further consideration. Not when she was, frankly, so cozy in his embrace.
Had he really not rested when he had left her side? For three days? No wonder he was out like a light. Did he not have a home to go to? She was sure he must have some kind of accommodations. After all, he was clean and put together whenever she had seen him. And he still returned...
In this large vastly more interesting world, where he could go anywhere, be anyone, he had come here. For comfort, for peace, for vulnerability (for he was oh so vulnerable now). And she-she no longer felt the press of her white blank walls staring at her like a prison for the insane, the forgotten and wasted. When was the last time you dreamed…?
Lecter sighed in his sleep, his leg pushing further between hers. Then Clarice felt his body come awake all at once, locking in position and he realized where he was, who he was with, and that it was a bright morning. Clarice turned her face towards his, his bangs brushing her cheek. She wanted to ask if Cupid was afraid to be seen by the light of day, but couldn't bring herself to break the comfortable silence.
The doctor finally opened his eyes. The sight before him stopped his breath, and they both heard when he took his next.
He'd seen her run in the forest, the sun combing gold through her brown locks, making her wide bright eyes dazzle. It had been a powerful image that had run straight through his defenses and into his memory until the specter of her in the sun and trees was almost free of her room in the palace. That Clarice was power and command kissed by the sun. Powerful, but apart, almost sanctified. Demanding of worship.
But here, the dawn was a gentler twin, diffusing her hard lines, making her pale skin almost glow. Aurora. And she was looking at him so calmly as if it were the most natural thing in the world to lay beside him, and have his bloody hands rest on her clean flesh. Warm autumn colors; the cream of her skin, the chocolate of her hair mixed with honey strands that reflected as flecks in her sleepy eyes, all against the alabaster sheets tucked around her.
Soft, dreamy, and-Mine. There was no echo in his palace, the word was not carried by the wind of his thoughts. It was more of a slamming door, shutting out the future for just a moment. This is mine. This Clarice belongs to me.
No thoughts of later, when she would be just a memory in his palace. No chilly reminder of the tithe he was willing (and he was...willing) to pay. Only the flush of possessiveness. Here, in this moment, this vision of her, like her pleasure, her laughter, and other delicate facets of herself she kept hidden like artifacts under glass, for the moment belonged only to him.
Given, not stolen. The distinction was extremely important to him at that moment.
Pulling his hand free, brushing his knuckles against her jaw until his hand cupped her face, holding it still. Lips brushed softly, as careful and as curious of her allowance as they were the night before.
Starling reached out to touch his face, and the doctor tasted her grin when her nails scratched the stubble she found there. It was the last crack in the remote armor that had once coated him, the facade of otherness that made him nearly inhuman had kept him safely at a distance from her heart. One cannot care for a myth, a boogeyman, and a tale of horror. But that facade had rotted and the black paint of villainous monikers peeled away, scorched by the fire of their passions and crumbled like ash.
She could care for a man beneath it all.
Now they were simply lovers, sharing a morning kiss that bled grins and was infected with soft breathy laughter as he buried his rough face into her throat. Starling writhed lazily in his arms until he had her gently pinned on her belly, his weight warm and welcome on her back. So this is intimacy, she mused. Her hand was still combing through Lecter's hair as he kissed a path down her spine until she could reach no more. The simplicity of being, the abject abandonment of pride, the shunning of shame.
Is this what they wanted, those girls Clarice had eyed with pity and some little envy, who had left school, work, and internships to become wives? It had seemed such a dismally pathetic exchange-trapped in a house, sex, and boring stability for your self-esteem and productivity. To make nothing of yourself, to be worthless, and make be merely an extension of a man. She had given lip service to the power of choice, all the while it seemed to her a type of prostitution.
She had been trained, like so many females in the office, to raise a brow at the women who dropped their careers halfway for hearth and home. Many a time a woman's laziness had been attributed to using the job until she finished, or indeed for the purpose of, finding a husband. Just like long hair, nails, or the fleck of mascara, such joyful events such as weddings, pregnancies or births had the bitter aftertaste of judgment.
But what had she produced for all her work, great judge that she was? What was she worth to the men she was selling herself for? And Clarice had sold herself, body and mind. Perhaps not for sex, but for life; how often had she stepped in front of a comrade and almost taken the bullet? How many times had she insisted on going in, more sure of her skills than her companions? And how many of those times where planned solely on anticipating her actions, hoping she would take the chance?
Starling had sold the husband and children she could have had, that had never seemed worth it. Even when Johnny was asking her as they sat at dinner, already launching into his prepared speech of why it just made sense, why should they be alone when they had each other, why couldn't it be more than familial love-why couldn't that type of love be enough?-it hadn't seemed worth it. To lose herself in another person hadn't been worth her goal.
Was her prostitution any better, to lose herself in an institution without even the benefit of a warm bed at night? Starling did not feel so superior now when her customers, bound by no life long oath, left her after taking all they wanted. It was only by Lecter's intervention that they had not used her as a shield one last time to protect lesser men.
If this simple pleasure of rest and becoming truly rested, of being herself with another and truly feeling present instead of half alive, having to act the rest, was what they left that grey fortress with its files full of hell for, Clarice could not find it in herself to judge those women now. That hard pit for scorn she threw at their glasshouses that rested in her chest now fell to shatter her own foundations.
Simplicity...Is this my nature? I like this, her thoughts sighed. I don't want to lose it…
Tears might have sprung up if not for her stomach making it's wants known.
The lips by her ear twitched in a smirk and Lecter rolled off her, settling onto his back. Starling sat up and watched as he stretched, almost too long for her bed, and settled back onto 'his' side. In the bright morning light, she could see some of her old bite marks on his shoulders healing rather nicely. Clarice sat up to reach out to trace one.
Lecter responded by patting her belly and giving her a gentle push. He was silently telling her to go, eat something. For all their connection had relied on nothing but words, they had barely spoken a syllable-not at all if you discounted her nearly hysterical rantings or his cries in a language she didn't understand.
Leaving the bed for the sanctuary of the bathroom, Clarice did not even glance at the mirror as she stripped off the nightgown, and stepped into the shower. Avoiding her hair as best as she could, she washed up and realized her towel was gone-draped over the vanity by the bed. There was no need for modesty before him now, as he had seen everything without judgment-and the fact that when she stepped out he was, indeed, asleep again.
Drying quickly, she rummaged through the gift box and pulled on the puffed silk shorts and camisole, covering it with the cream robe that was so smooth, it felt almost wet to the touch. Fingering the embroidery on the ends of the robe's sash, she watched the doctor for a few more minutes, feeling the weight of his trust hang on her. Looking him over with an agent's eye, she gazed at the pale vulnerability of his throat, stretched and waiting as he leaned his head back against one arm.
She saw a version of herself, still bitter and angry, take his knife and slash it across that throat, then it faded and the image of his brains, soft and still wet with fresh blood, slowly dripping off her headboard took its place; crimson and garish to match the entrance wound that kissed his forehead. These tableaus of violence swam before her eyes like afterimages, floating and vibrant, like the mirage of dead men she had conjured up in her first hearing. The familiar sense of being, and not being, almost watching herself and waiting for her own reaction fell over her.
The reality and possibility of those scenarios made her still hungry stomach roil. It was the same revolution she would have seeing smashed windows of a chapel, the invasion of hatred into sacred calm. Those tableaus were their inevitability, but they were not for today. Not today-just not today, just one more day…
I'll think about it tomorrow.
Instead, she took her gun, and fished his knife from his trouser's pocket where they lay folded on her hamper, and placed both on the bedside table. When he woke, he would see she was not hiding away with both of their weapons and murderous intent.
Starling was not fool enough to believe that a good rest and a pleasant morning could change one's entire house, but the kitchen did look brighter. More white and clean than cold and barren. There was fresh snow outside, flakes still struggling to fall and survive the sun's warmth.
Clarice also did not trick herself into thinking she could attempt to cook breakfast in some well-meaning act of hosting. Best to stick with what she knew-toast and coffee. Like her perfume, her coffee things were the only luxury she allowed herself. Her coffee maker was always updated, and she had the best cream. It even came in a little glass bottle. But that was as far as her adventurous spirit went in the realm of cooking. But she could at least dress that up.
Ardelia not only allowed Clarice to enter her side of the duplex but when it came to food, encouraged her. Whether it was concern for Clarice's dwindling frame and bouts of drinking or simply to save herself from the stench of burning food wafting from the other side of the building, the invitation was open even when she was gone-so long as nothing was left from her time there. Starling quickly snuck a bar of the 'good' imported Irish butter from Ardelia's fridge, as well as a pot of jam.
She hesitated at her tea cabinet. After sparing the innocent flower painted container that housed the strong herbal leaves Mapp liked to prescribe a glare, Clarice peered at the other boxes of more pleasant flavors. Figuring that it was just like coffee in its creation (dried plant and hot water), she snatched a nice-sounding black tea as well. Lecter seemed like a tea man.
Humming to the tune of Mapp's antique clock striking noon, she returned to the kitchen-
-And nearly dropped her burden, seeing Jack Crawford standing in her back doorway. He was leaning in, one foot over the threshold, one hand still on the doorknob, the other carrying a white pastry box tied with thin red and white twine. Snow collected on his shoulders like dust on a tin soldier.
"Mr-" Starling, arrested, cleared her throat. Not too loud-not too shrill-because above her was a monster lightly sleeping. "Mr. Crawford?"
Oh God, the monster upstairs. The monster she had been so careful to keep trust with. The monster that loathed Crawford. A monster with superb hearing and a monster who would not hesitate to rip Jack Crawford in half. And here the man was, in his old brown overcoat and hat slightly floppy from years of use, served up like a Christmas gift. Then we'd have bacon. She almost gagged, whether to hide a spout of hysterical laughter or a wretch at her own humor.
"Starling-I'm sorry. I…" He gestured behind him to the driveway. "I saw your car, and when no one answered I got worried."
Her heart lodged in her throat. Knocking-Christ. How had she not heard? How had she been so stupid? Lost in the thoughts of making fucking breakfast. Where was her head, Clarice, you fucking moron. A good roll in the hay and you can't even hear someone knock at your door? The old familiar voice of censure returned with a vengeance, like Miggs reaching out from his cell, splattering her face with shame. What now? Think, think, think...
If Lecter hadn't woken form that, he'd wake to hear their voices, for sure. She couldn't bet on him being as clouded by good fucking as she was. He would see her gun and know she was unarmed. Would he logic out the situation? Maybe, maybe there was a slim chance he wouldn't kill her-not while she was wearing his gift.
His gift. Putting the tea down with one hand, she wrapped her robe tightly about herself. Jack's eyes flickered down and she saw him swallow. She felt his eyes moving over her body, decently covered but barefoot and thinly clad, like feeling the grime of sweat and dirt after a run. He made her feel unclean in her fresh pretty silks-and guilty for thinking it of him, her last guardian angel in the FBI.
Oh God, if Lecter saw this-she wearing his gift in front of Crawford-it would be too good for him to pass up. He'd probably even come down naked, to get at Jack, show him just what this was before killing him.
She could see it play out in her head as vivid as her visions of murder before, and it made her just as sick. Still, her thoughts were captured, her tongue detained from words. What could she say to make him go?
He placed the box on the kitchen counter, taking a step into the kitchen. "I just...well I knew you were spending Christmas alone and I thought I'd check up on you. No one's heard from you for a while."
"I...I needed to be by myself."
"I understand. But it's not good to be too on your own. I thought since we're both by ourselves for Christmas that I'd bring over-"
Starling barely had time to register either the bitter comfort that he cared enough to come or the bitter resentment of his lie-there was no one left to hear from her even if she had tried-when above them, a faucet turned in her bathroom ran.
The monster was awake.
Both agent's heads snapped towards heaven. Jack looked at her again, about to question, and Clarice saw his eyes drift beyond her. "Oh."
What emotion was packed into that syllable, barely a grunt! Surprise, hurt...anger. Clarice followed his gaze and almost swayed on her feet. There on the table was a fine black fedora, a pair of leather gloves tossed over it, like a marker in the forest, claiming its territory.
"I-"
"No, I'm sorry." Jack smiled, and Clarice noticed every crack and wrinkle in his skin. When had he last smiled, even as falsely as he did now? "I shouldn't have assumed."
"Jack-"
But he wouldn't let her. His comfort, scant and barely warm as it was, was slipping from her fingers, a burden too heavy to bear like a lamb in frigid arms, sliding from her grip to the ground no matter how hard she tried to clutch it and save it from for the slaughter; from destruction. "No, Starling. Don't worry. I won't ask."
Destroyed.
For a bizarre, irrational moment, Clarice felt she might cry again. In that moment, something deep inside her cracked through the conscious earth of her mind, like a shoot finally reaching towards the sun of her consciousness.
Starling wanted Jack to ask, she wanted Jack to grow protective and inquisitive. She wanted this man to whom she looked up to almost like a mentor to demand a name and face, to demand facts and events, and to make sure she was alright, as he had claimed minutes before. Wanted Jack to try and storm up those stairs and see who left their hat like a ward against other males in her kitchen. She almost wanted to see it play out-lover and mentor fighting, sparring and spitting over her. She wanted Jack to protect her, however useless and unneeded it was.
She wanted someone to fight for her, battle-hardened and war-weary as she was.
Starling wanted Jack to reach beyond his own discomfort for once and take her into his care. Just care, just for a second. Care enough.
Jack stepped back, never realizing the gulf he created between them in the kitchen mirrored in Clarice's heart. He was a teacher by trade, and finally, his fist and best lesson was driven home in a way she would never forget.
Jack, and everyone like him, would never love her beyond his own uses. Do not fall in love with the Bureau...
And then his eyes raked over her one last time-and her first, most loyal lover returned.
Rage.
How dare he look at her like that? That thinly veiled disapproval, looking for a flaw and taking in the curves along the way. All of them did that. Whether it was her hair when it slipped from her tail, or her ankles or her blouse when she chose to attempt style. Her parts were ripped and sold separately, auctioned off, and graded on a mental scale that was mired in their lust, never willing to buy wholesale of Starling.
She hated it and had felt shamed by it. Stopped styling her hair, stopped wearing skirts, stopped heels and tailored jackets, and even jewelry. And she hated every moment of it, siphoning off these edges of herself to desperately fit into an ever-changing puzzle slot for them, for their wants and demands. Clarice hated them for it.
But standing here watching his retreating back Starling found she hated Jack most of all.
Starling knew Jack wanted it too, even if he could not admit it to himself. That was what his coldness and arm's length distance meant. Clarice knew she would wear his shame for desiring her forever, like a scarlet letter stitched into her flesh: B for Bella.
Clarice loathed cowardly men who hid their displeasure behind subpoenas and drops of poison in personal files. Who dealt in dark backrooms and whispers rather than in the light of day, cloaked their desires in feint praise and neglect, in interesting errands and fool's protection.
Cowards, all of them. Wanting her and none brave enough to admit it, hating her and none courageous enough to tell her plain to her face. Words locked behind frowning lips, sentiments buried in dry broken hearts stuck in time, buried with beloved wives. Starling was tough enough to withstand it, having been broken and reformed again and again; the strongest place on the bone, surrounded by arthritic fucking cowards.
"I'll call later. Goodbye Starling."
And for the last time, Clarice replied, "Goodbye, Mr. Crawford."
Anger was familiar and faithful by her side, keeping her warm, giving her purpose. But this rage was a new, wild, and freed from the affection and respect that once tempered it. She wanted to scream, a betrayed howl of an acolyte recognizing a false leader, a foolish guru, and ignorant master. It was too large for her chest, and she almost began panting to expel it.
Just the same just like them-no, worse. They hid their desires, yes. Those suits who watched her ankles more than her legs. They did not give her kindness, give her hope and false protection to cover their lust. False love was worse than cloaked hatred. She found in that moment she respected Chilton more than Jack. At least he'd made his lewd desires plain.
She looked at the glass jars she still held, and her grip tightened. It was a miracle when only the clink of her setting them down was heard rather than the total shatter of it being thrown.
Above the faucet turned off.
Blindly she stormed up the stairs. Flushed and angry, so very very angry. New rage, new emotions, new wants, and a new perspective gave her vertigo, like standing in a tall tower looking down and feeling your own mortality.
Starling burst into her bedroom just as Lecter stepped out of the bathroom. He had taken the towel again, and his face was freshly shaven. Behind him the bed was already nicely made, the curtains cracked to let in some light. He paused, took in her flushed cheeks, her bright eyes-alive with rage and a fresh sheen of tears. Immediately he was by her side, lips parted to speak, one hand holding her warm face. Then he stopped and inhaled.
He could smell Jack on her, the lingering scent of pipe smoke from a pipe the man did not have and alka seltzer that always stuck. Whether he knew it was Crawford's smell or simply that of another person, Clarice did not know nor have time to find out.
All she saw was his brows knit before her hands shot out and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, pulling him down. His soft mouth bruised against her teeth, and she knew she drew blood, but Clarice did not release him. Her nose was hurting from digging into his cheek, and she had iron on her tongue, but she still did not stop holding him down to her so much so he had to stoop their difference.
She shoved, and Lecter stumbled back until his knees hit the bed. He reached for her and Starling nearly slapped his hands away and shoved again until he sat, looking wild and perhaps even a little apprehensive. Ah, what was this, fear? Good, he was right to fear her, it showed character, even a little wisdom. Only fools felt invincible, and Hannibal Lecter was no fool as he watched Clarice, eyedher hands as she swept her hair back from her shoulders and in a sloppy knot.
They all wanted to use her, they all wanted what she desperately kept from them. Her love, physical, and ephemeral. She gave her loyalty, her mind, and her body as a shield. But she had not let any one of them near her heart or her bed. And they tried to destroy Starling for it-tried to kill her by proxy because her loyalty was to her own morales, untouched by their reeducation. Those good lawful men would have nothing but the ash of her former vows in their mouths and the chill of their empty sheets and resentful wives, dead and alive.
Well, she had learned their lessons alright, the ones too slippery for the books that sat in her closet, untouched since the Academy.
Hannibal Lecter-murderer, monster, devil-would have what all of them wished. And he would have it freely-gladly. Fuck them all. Let the hour strike twelve, let whatever was to descend come. She wasn't afraid of it any longer, she didn't care any longer.
Clarice stalked closer to the man half sprawled and still as stone, watching for her next move. She approached him as she had the training field on the first day of the Academy, full of purpose, and maybe some reverence for her choice. She could see it in her mind's eye, the plaques nailed to the tree that prophesied her future.
HURT AGONY PAIN
LOVE - IT
Well, Starling had hurt, and she had felt agony when Johnny died and had been in bleeding pain for so long. But she no longer loved it. Clarice no longer loved the Beau for it did not love her back.
And with clarity she would marvel at later, she countered this revelation with a thought Starling knew to be true with her whole being. As she gazed down at her sometimes lover, her mind hissed but here is someone who does.
Starling would give him the crude scenario and selfish exchange she knew was etched into most men's mind, she'd give it to him gladly for it was a gift he did not want. Knees on her hard floor, she signaled her intent and the doctor reached out to halt her shoulders. Grabbing wrists and pinning them to the mattress with more strength than he perhaps thought she had, the towel was tugged away by her teeth and she felt his legs against her chest jump-either from the cold air or the viciousness of her action. Clarice felt strain in his wrists as he tried to sit up, but a hand against his stomach, shoving again, cured him of the notion.
Those fingers slid along the flat smooth plain of his belly, stretching almost to his sternum. Rather than attempt to thwart her again, his fingers curled around her wrist, holding it to him. She glanced up, only a second, to see him staring resolutely at the ceiling, submitting. It was almost serene, almost funny when the next moment his breath caught. His back completed an arch above the mattress, the muscles tensing, fingers gripping her free hand tightly where it rested on his chest.
Starling might have laughed at the breathless words that escaped his almost mute mouth, had her own been free. She wished she could understand their lettering-still in his mother tongue-but she knew their substance. The doctor finally sat up, and his fingers threaded through her hair, following her actions rather than to encourage. Each beleaguered pant she heard beat in time with her heart, and she followed that rhythm as a guide until his fingers twisted and pulled her from her task.
Starling did not have a chance to growl her displeasure. His mouth returned the favor of a vicious kiss. Lecter's hand still tight in her hair pulled her head back, his lips next on her neck. He gave her as much mercy as he was shown, and Clarice bore a brand framed with teeth marks on her throat for it.
Her back hit the mattress, and her arms stretched out to welcome him as he followed her onto the bed. The fingers that had grasped her hand almost sweetly moments before now wrapped around her throat, to hold rather than harm. But into his fearful growl of "Tu esi mano!" Clarice only smiled and tilted her chin up, offering her mouth again.
This was what she wanted, and without asking he provided. Starling wanted to be wanted. To be desired, for more than just flesh and length of bone. Wanted her lover to fight for her, to stake a claim, and remain unbowed in it. This man would not leave, would not remove his hands for fear of coming away stained as she was, dropping her when her fire burned too bright. No, he ran towards the light of her flame and burned with her.
Trial by fire, the doctor had earned her trust and her desire. And she did not know how (though at the moment it was rather hard to think as he applied his new knowledge of her pleasures) but she was not about to let anyone steal this, too, from her. Steal-
"Hannibal!"
The doctor's head lifted, his body stilling as if shot, full weight bearing down on her, trapping her against the mattress. In all their times together, despite her natural vocal tendencies she had ever whimpered his title in a fit of pleasure. Softly pleaded doctors fell from her lips, drunk up by his own to stem the leak. He pulled one hand from where it had explored her breast, returning to her throat. But now the touch gentled, thumb tracing the pliant skin of her lip.
"Hannibal," she murmured again. Starling, aware of him and all he was, coated his name in such pure wanting, that the monster felt the vengeful possessiveness bleed from him. She said it again, more a request as she shifted under his weight, flushed and wanting.
The doctor shifted to his elbows, his hands cradling her head. Their foreheads met, and as he began again, Clarice stared into his eyes. Those red eyes gone black with desire, and behind them there lay such darkness; shadows and bitterness without end. But Starling was fire and honey, and as they lay tangled in the aftermath, she contemplated how suited their natures were. It was simple.
Simplicity, what is it in itself? What is its nature?
Lecter was hunted without a protector, and Starling was a protector without a flock. She would not let the FBI, the world or even the past take her small scant of happiness.
No matter what it took.
Art Referenced:
The Arrest of Anne Boleyn at Greenwich by David Wilkie Wynfield