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“Trouble’s always gonna find you baby, but so will I.”
-Ethel Cain
Three days after Clarice killed Jame Gumb, she was gifted a color stockboard print of his autopsy photo. His eyes were glued shut, the y-shaped stitches black and brutal. A fresh bullet hole was left in the card stock. It was left in her locker and she jumped back upon seeing it. She immediately pulled it out and slammed the steel door shut, storming up to the firing range to look for the culprit, but the gangly, square-jaw group of mid-rank trainees all gave her the same shit-eating grin and mirthful look.
“Here to practice some more?”
“Watch out, you’ll be her next one.”
“Way to go, Starling. Want to handle my magnum sometime?”
It wasn’t worth it to complain to anyone. Her graduation would be soon enough. And who knows? She might be their supervisor one day.
She folded the crude offering and left it in the dumpster behind their dormitory. She knew some others would have laughed, would have taken it home, and kept it in a closet to bring out during dinner parties and on Halloween.
Only killers keep trophies, though. And I’m not a killer. Not really.
She told Ardelia about the prank over a dinner of reheated takeout and a six-pack split between them. She let out a scoff and sighed.
“Do you think they get any better with age and experience, or will they always be shitheads?”
“I wouldn’t hold my breath, Delia.” She answered, bringing a forkful of food to her mouth. “Someday soon we’ll find ourselves flanked on all sides by shitheads with age and experience.”
Ardelia looked over at her roommate, a bit jaded now and more pensive than usual.
“How are you feeling, C? Really.” Her expression showed a kind of soft-eyed concern, but nothing cloying, nothing smothering.
“Still kind of numb, honestly.” She admitted, “I’ve been sleeping okay, better than I was before. No need to keep checking the laundry room.”
“Look, I know you’re strong. And I know you’re just a few weeks away from being a fully fledged member of the BAU…but have you considered talking to someone? A professional, I mean.” Delia took a sip of beer, hoping she wasn’t fumbling. “It might help.”
Clarice considered it, her brow raising a little. She didn’t come from the type of people who sat on chaises and talked about their feelings. She had no interest in sharing what went on in her mind with someone who would observe her clinically in front of their wall of diplomas, someone who would only write things down and ask the same mild question worded in a dozen different ways. How does that make you feel? What do you think about that? How are you coping?
“I don’t think any of those types would understand. I don’t think they’d understand it at all, D.” She offered her roommate a small, reassuring smile, but didn’t explain herself. She segued instead. “You know that story People ran? Well, I was curious and grabbed a copy. They printed a photo of Hannah drawing a cart full of kids at the Lutheran Home. I had never seen that picture before. I tore it out and put it in my wallet. It’s the best thing to come out of all this attention.”
Ardelia put her hand on Clarice’s cheek and hovered there for a moment. She felt the urge to pull her friend into a tight hug but respected the distance.
If Clarice Starling wanted to come to someone, she would do so in her own time.
The young women finished their dinner in a comfortable silence. Afterward, Clarice headed upstairs early. She showered and pulled on that long FBI t-shirt that doubled as a nightgown. She climbed into bed and looked at the book on her nightstand; The Essential Marcus Aurelius. She recalled a conversation she had in the basement of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
It’s not that I don’t read, Doctor. I get bored of the masculine point of view; the emphasis on power, stoicism, and heroism for the sake of it. The valorization of ideals labels men as “ambitious” and “promising” by default and makes me just a well-scrubbed hustling rube who would do anything for advancement, anything to not be like my mother.
She ate a Mounds bar and read a few pages of her Flannery o’ Conner novel instead, trying to distract herself a little. Television was not an option. She would have felt tempted to wander to the news.
Tucked in the spine of that book— used as a page marker— was a letter with no return address.
She didn’t tell Ardelia, let alone Crawford or Bringham. Crawford already expected Lecter would reach out to her when he got bored of silence. The letter was covered in postmarks from three countries and several U.S. states. She was certain Dr. Lecter hadn’t left so much as a partial print on the paper. He would be long gone without leaving so much as a hint as to where he could be. Besides, bringing the letter back to Quantico would do nothing more than fuel the “Bride of Dracula” allegations.
She should have destroyed it, but she didn’t. It felt too dishonest, an admission of guilt of some sort, as if there was something she needed to cover up; like how the first woman, in her shame, tried to hide her knowledge from God.
Clarice Starling was not ashamed, and she didn’t hide from anyone.
She removed the letter and laid on her back. She was tempted to read it through again, even though she had memorized most of it. She chose not to, though and put it aside.
She lay flat and staring at the ceiling. The lambs have stopped screaming, for now, but Dr. Lecter was right; she would have to earn it soon again, the blessed silence.
And tonight, Jame Gumb’s terrible voice began to creep into her head. Assuming her point of view, her insecurities and doubt.
How does…it feel…to be…so beautiful?
Clarice would have answered him as a final request if she could. But it felt like a question she was unqualified for. The truth was she felt like something scrutinized, something irrevocably marked. She wasn’t sure if it was guilt or the lack of it. She touched the gunpowder burn on her cheek and pressed it to feel the sting.
Was Dr. Lecter right, did she judge herself too harshly? His words were beginning to stick to her like a bad habit. Crawford had warned her not to let him get in her head, but Lecter was not her first transgression.
Her inclination towards self-criticism began in childhood, in the clapboard Lutheran orphanage— handmade pews and worship lead with an acoustic guitar, sermons that told her people were saved from their sins by grace alone, through faith alone, based on Scripture alone. She was taught that everyone was capable of doing works that were outwardly "good", but no one was capable of doing works that satisfied God's standards for justice. Every human thought and deed was made impure with selfish motives. But no one willing to turn from sin would be rejected, not even unwanted white trash.
“Starling, your father sees you.”
It was there Clarice learned God loved her, but not enough to save her, not enough to give her a home and wash her clean. It was there she also learned nothing she ever did would ever be quite good enough to earn the Father’s unconditional love.
And only in the quiet dark of her bedroom could she admit that she hungered for it.
Maybe I do need a therapist, or a prescription for fluoxetine.
Clarice turned to her side. She found herself wondering what Dr. Lecter would think of her still small voice, where exactly he would have pressed to make her tender. Or maybe he would go easier on her than herself, that was equally likely. He’d likely be amused by her small act of rebellion, of self-preservation. It wasn’t for his sake that she hid the letter, she was just sick of being probed by grease-hearted bastards like Krendler or the assholes at The Journal of Telephone Sex. She carried the indignity of every assumption.
She wondered if Dr. Lecter looked at his stars that night— if some of them were the same as hers like he said.
She stared out of her bedroom window and imagined.
Four months passed. Jame Gumb was lowered into his final hole and he was news for weeks after, but not much longer. Graduation day arrived, and Clarice was salutatorian. Valedictorian had gone to one of the boys at the firing range, the one who asked if she’d like to handle his magnum. She was not as angry as she could have been about it, and if she was, it didn’t show.
There were other things to focus on, like her next assignment. She’d be working under assistant director Paul Krendler, handling a large-scale RICO case.
Krendler had already insinuated there were other things he would like her to handle, things that were no doubt of a much smaller scale. She had brushed him off with the well-leveled grace and aplomb she had used with Dr. Chilton, but she had a gnawing feeling it would come back to bite her.
She looked happy in her photos with Ardelia. Clarice got to see her best friend walk across the stage, and that was enough for it to be a good day. After the ceremony, the two of them ate at the classiest chain restaurant they knew and went back to the campus duplex to watch the season finale of A Different World.
She was in the kitchen looking for something sweet before bed when she heard the phone on the wall ring.
“Hello.”
“Well, Clarice, have the lambs stopped screaming...?”
She found herself stunned almost stupid at the sound of his voice. Her eyes wandered over to Ardelia, sitting oblivious in the common room.
“Don't bother calling for your roommate. There’s no need. I simply want to congratulate you.”
She gripped the phone tightly and whispered. “Where are you, Dr. Lecter?”
He sounded at ease, almost wistful. “Where I have a view, Clarice. Orion is looking splendid tonight, and Arcturus, the Herdsman, with his flock. Speaking of flock, you are no longer under Jacky Boy’s wing, are you, little Starling? Time for you to leave the nest now, let’s hope for your sake you can fly on your own.”
“Dr. Lecter–”
“Goodbye, Clarice. You looked so very lovely today in your blue suit. And you deserved valedictorian. I’m afraid this is another milestone on the road to disillusionment. Expect a graduation gift soon.”
Then the sound of the receiver as he hung up.
A week later, news of gross misconduct at the academy passed through the halls of Quantico. It was revealed that a group of recently graduated trainees assaulted a man after a night of celebrating. Footage of the incident from a witness recently came to light and the victim had been discharged from the hospital after suffering a TBI, internal bleeding, and four fractured ribs. The incident was believed to be racially charged. Three of her former classmates, including the shithead from the firing range, were dismissed from the Bureau and set to face battery charges after an internal investigation. The former valedictorian tried taking his life in his dorm room that night, shooting himself in the chin with that very same magnum. He’ll live, Clarice heard, but he’ll never talk or move again.
Without missing a beat, Krendler called Clarice Starling the next day to tell her she’d work on hostage negotiations in the upcoming raid.
It was not the worst day of Clarice’s life, there was still the day her father died. She reminded herself of this as she breathed deeply in her old Pinto, parked outside of the apartment she shared with Ardelia, having moved out of the dorms and into a decent neighborhood in Buckhall.
In the winter cold, with the fogged windows, she had a little bit of privacy. She used it to cry out her anger, if such a thing were possible.
The raid had gone terribly. There were several unforeseen variables that their surveillance and strategy couldn’t have planned for, the most damning of them being one of the perps having his girlfriend and their seven-month-old baby in the warehouse they had surrounded.
Clarice tried to stall, tried to reason.
“He knew we were setting him up, sir. She’s there intentionally, as a buffer. He’s heavily armed, and he’s got a dozen of his guys disposing of kilos in there. If we go through with this, it’s going to be ugly. It will be a standoff.”
Krendler’s glare and scoff. “Then we’ll give them a standoff. Back down, Starling.”
But she couldn’t do that. She had to approach the back of the compound, just to see if there was a way she could get inside undetected. Maybe if she found one she could slip in and reach the girls, maybe if she found one she could convince Krendler to negotiate an exchange in good faith.
But she was detected, and then the shots rang out on all sides.
One of their agents fired the shot that took out the perp's girlfriend. The woman, if you could call an 18-year-old a woman, was carrying a baby in one arm and holding a handgun in the other.
Clarice was hit twice in her vest and was grazed in the hip, but she didn’t notice when she ran and gently pried the infant from her mother’s dying arms. She placed the baby beside her and kneeled over the young woman, just a girl really, and did compressions, trying, trying, trying.
Krendler wanted to suspend her but decided it would project a look of incompetence if it ever came out that he couldn’t keep his underlings in line. Instead, she would be put on desk duty in records and evidence for an indefinite period upon her return. Krendler called her while she was still under observation at the hospital.
“You’re going to be down with the boys in the evidence room doing the only thing your cornpone country ass is good for, Starling.” There was something truly hateful in his voice as he sneered. “Taking dictation.”
And it wasn’t Krendler’s disdain and malice towards Clarice that had her crying in her car, nor the fact that her name was printed beneath the headline ROUTINE RAID GONE DEADLY. It was the fact that the blessed silence was gone. The baby’s screaming kept her up at night, although she was unharmed and living with grandparents in Delaware, surely set to have a better life than the one she would have. Still, Clarice hated how it all unraveled, how everything good was so damn slippery, so hard to keep.
And it could have all been avoided if that creep son of a bitch Krendler had heard her.
What Clarice hated the most was that she didn’t fully blame him, not really. She was aware of her pathology. When she came across someone who found her lacking and inadequate, she just tried to prove herself even more.
But it was beginning to seem impossible. Praise and appreciation had a short half-life. Ethics seemed to have a short half-life as well. Would she end up like the senior management Ardelia had reviled, the ones with hearts the size of BBs? How many of the people around her, leading her, holding her future cared about doing the right thing, hell, how many of them cared?
There seemed to be no such thing as morality, only morale.
She ran herself raw trying to be the exception, but somehow she was always doing it wrong.
Clarice wiped her eyes, then in a rare moment of outturned anger, screamed and punched on her horn.
What in God’s name do I want so badly? In the past year, I’ve wheedled an escaped serial killer who has made it his hobby to stalk me, I’ve killed a man, I’ve been shot at, cummed on, demoted, and berated.
And I can’t even sleep at night.
Still glossy-eyed and with a defeated slumped stance, she got out of the car and limped up the few steps to the apartment, her hip bruised and tender.
Ardelia was in New York visiting family, she would be gone for at least two weeks. The silence of their two-bedroom was not the kind Clarice found comforting. Even as weary and resentful as she felt at that moment, she wanted someone to greet her when her key turned to the door. To her, that was the difference between a home and just a place laid her head and lost sleep in.
Clarice stepped into the sparsely furnished apartment. She threw her keys on the kitchen counter and was mentally debating whether or not she wanted to try to eat when the phone rang again.
Some part of her immediately knew who it was, and she wasn’t sure if it was intuition or wishful thinking when she answered.”
“Hello.”
A raspy, slightly agitated voice. “Clarice.” Then a slow, leveling breath. “Tell me, were you hurt in that botched raid yesterday?”
She considered whether or not she should hang up or try to call it in, but she sighed and decided to speak to him.
“I was grazed in the hip and shot through my vest. I just have a couple of bruises, that’s all. I was kept in the hospital overnight for observation, mostly running tests. Nothing to concern yourself over, Dr. Lecter.”
A pause. “I called last night. The news reached my part of the world rather quickly. Was your roommate not home?”
She tensed, a little confused and not sure where he was going with this. Clarice still believed he wouldn’t bushwhack her, no- he was getting far too much pleasure out of making her squirm.
I can’t let him hear me afraid.
“She’s out of town for the next two weeks.” She answered, her tone still polite but bordering on inpatient. “What is this about, Doctor?”
“Do I need justification to check in on my favorite FBI agent?” He queried, “Clarice, are you not getting bored and lonely in that apartment all by yourself?”
She didn’t think about the next words, they just left her mouth in a frustrated rush. “Are you bored and lonely, Dr. Lecter? Is freedom not all cracked up to be? If you’re looking to reconnect with something familiar, I could get the Bureau to trace this call.”
An amused huff. “But you won’t. That would mean having to tell them about my previous calls, and my letter. They will say I have a crush, you know. Is that why you haven’t said anything about my contacting you, Clarice? Too embarrassed? Well, it’s not as embarrassing as this most recent development…” He paused for a second, perhaps just to hear her breathe heavily on the other line. “You were in the papers today. I have followed with enthusiasm the course of your disgrace and public shaming. My own never bothered me, except for the inconvenience of being incarcerated, but you may lack perspective. In our discussions down in the dungeon, it was apparent to me that your father, the dead night watchman, figures large in your value system. I think your success in putting an end to Jame Gumb's career as a couturier pleased you most because you could imagine your father being pleased. I imagine Jack Crawford was pleased with you, wasn’t he?”
Clarice considered just hanging up and dialing the office, but she let her simmering frustration get the better, or worse, of her.
“He was.”
She could hear his tongue touch the roof of his palette in thought. “What did he do, the first time he saw you back at Quantico?”
Her voice tightened, just a little. She couldn’t lie, he would know. “He kissed me on the forehead…and told me my father sees me.”
“Mm.” Dr. Lecter replied, “Did Agent Crawford call while you were in the hospital? Surely he had heard what took place before I did.”
“No, he didn’t.” A quick rebuttal, a quick excuse. “He’s taken a temporary leave. He’s very busy caring for Mrs. Crawford.”
“Of course he is. Of course.” He hummed in the kindest of tones. “How I would like to kiss your forehead right now, Clarice. Just to comfort you, no expectation or condition attached.”
Clarice’s hold on the receiver couldn’t be any tighter, nor could the ugly, hard feeling in her stomach.
Her silence was more jarring than the telephone’s white noise.
Dr. Lecter’s voice again, even softer now. “If you found out Agent Crawford did hold some attraction towards you, even if there was no expectation to reciprocate, it would disgust you, wouldn’t it?”
“It would.”
“Are you interested in men, Clarice?”
She thought for a moment, recalling her few sticky fumblings with boys in the backseats of cars. The curious beer-tinged kisses exchanged with a girl back in the dorms at her university. A time she had looked at Ardelia walking around in a towel after a shower. In each instance never going all the way, never quite crossing that border and defining it, despite being well into young adulthood.
“Not as interested as they are in me.”
“Ah, I see.” He replied, almost kindly. “I see.”
Clarice had the opportunity to make him squirm now, and she took it.
“I’m not interested in Agent Crawford- not because of his age, or his looks. Those have never been deciding factors for me.” She took a breath and confessed something to him, in hopes of establishing a further bit of trust. “He could never see me as his equal. He doesn’t find me comparably intelligent or capable. I might be intelligent and capable to some degree in his eyes, but it is and will always be for a woman. Not even a woman, a girl. I don’t resent him for it. But that’s where my distance and displeasure lies, Dr. Lecter.”
She could almost hear him savoring that small morsel of truth about herself across his palette.
“You resent the idea of being subjugated, of being confined to a label or set position. The indignity and limitation of it, it enrages you. Some birds aren’t meant to be caged.” He murmured. “We’re similar in that small way.”
“I don’t like feeling powerless.”
His voice was almost warm in understanding. “It’s hard to find a person who does.” Then, the switch that Clarice was used to, the one that always happened when he dispensed a little bit of vulnerability. “Now you are in bad odor with the FBI, alas. Do you imagine Daddy being shamed by your disgrace? Do you see him in his plain pine box, crushed by your failure? The sorry, petty end of a brief and promising career?”
She blinked and answered him indirectly. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“That won’t do.” He tisked, “Would you like me to eat Paul Krendler? What if I made him scream apologies first? No, I shouldn't even say it because you'll feel - with your perfect grasp on right and wrong - that you were somehow an accomplice, even though you wouldn't be. Curious. Do you remember the valedictorian? Do you really think that strapping young man shot himself in the chin willingly? How did you feel when you heard the news? If it was similar to how you felt when you heard about Miggs it wasn’t much at all. Do you like these little tokens of my care, Clarice? Does it make you think of Daddy to know I’ve got my eye on you, to see how I am when I’m feeling protective?”
Clarice realized she had made a terrible mistake when talking to him, she had almost forgotten what he was.
“I don’t need you to keep asserting your influence over my life.” She retorted, her deep reservoir of patience nearly dry. “I don’t need your help”
“Of course you don’t.” His voice was calm and as pleasant as ever. “Do you think I see you as my equal, Clarice?”
She was readying herself for the insults he was no doubt preparing to dispense. He had to lick his tears where he could. “I wouldn’t dare put those words in your mouth, doctor.”
Something unexpected from him. “Do you remember when our hands touched in Memphis?”
Clarice recalled it easily because that’s how he stayed in her mind. Absorbing his first gentle touch in years, the only instant when he did not mock. Standing in his white cell, arched like a dancer, his hands tightly clasped in front of him and his head slightly to the side.
“I do.”
“In some ways, I see you as a friend, Clarice. A dear friend. And as your friend it’s only natural to want to help get you out of this, to help you find a way to regain the momentum of your career.” A pause. “What would you do if I surrendered to you?”
He was fucking with her still, she knew. He was just using a new tactic. Clarice bit her tongue and swallowed the expletives she wanted to hurl in an attempt at defense. Defensiveness never worked with him. It was best to respond with sincerity.
She made her voice plain then, her accent rolling thick like water from the Shenandoah. “I would make sure you are treated humanely and with dignity, Doctor. Turn yourself in and I promise no one will hurt you.”
“I have no doubt that is a promise you would try to keep.” A beat at the other end of the line. “But I wasn’t talking about surrendering to the boys at the Bureau. What if I surrender to you? Just you, Clarice M. Starling. What does the M stand for, by the way? I never could find out.”
She chose not to give him what he wanted. A choice that would surely come to bite her later.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Dr. Lecter.”
“No, of course, you don’t.” A tenseness in his tone, then the lick of the tears. “I’ll leave you with this: You fell in love with the Bureau— with the institution— only to discover, after giving it everything, that it doesn't love you back. That it resents you, more than the partner and the family you’ll sacrifice for it ever would. Why is that, do you think? Why are you so resented?”
She was ready for the low blow. “Tell me.”
“Tell you? Isn't it clear? You serve the idea of order, Clarice— they don't. You believe in the oath you took— they don't. You feel it's your duty to protect the sheep— they don't. They don't like you because they're not like you. They're weak and unruly and believe in nothing.” His voice took on a gentle and reassuring tone, one that hit her like buckshot in the gut. “These people you are starting to despise almost as much as they despise you. Would they ever give you a medal, do you think? Did you want one for stopping Gumb? Would you have had it professionally framed and hung on your wall to look at and remind you of your courage and incorruptibility? All you would need for that is a mirror.” A slow, deep breath. “I may call you again soon, just to check-in. Sleep well tonight, Clarice.”
He hung up. She thought there was still humming on the other end of the receiver, but it was only her blood she heard.
His words stuck to her, another fix of her growing bad habit. A few hours later, after eating two-thirds of a microwaved meal, she slid into her bed solely in her underwear since no one else was home. She laid on her back in the too-quiet dark and slid a hand into her cotton briefs.
She closed her eyes and circled her fingers idly over herself. A voice began to creep into her mind again, but it wasn’t that of the lambs, and it wasn’t her own.
“Do you like these little tokens of my care, Clarice? Does it make you think of Daddy to know I’ve got my eye on you, to see how I am when I’m feeling protective?”
“Would you have had it professionally framed and hung on your wall to look at and remind you of your courage and incorruptibility? All you would need for that is a mirror.”
Clarice’s fingers circled quicker now, warm and slick. She clenched and shuddered as she approached the edge of orgasm and sped right over it, the shame not hitting her until well after the last ebb of satisfaction.
She considered saying her prayers for the first time in a long time, feeling the need to ask someone or something for forgiveness, to ask if she was depraved. But decided against it, her eyes and limbs already heavy. Instead, she turned over, back towards the window, and slept.
They had her down in the basement. Evidence Room Three was once a fallout shelter, now it housed rows and rows of boxes on steel shelves and the desk and dusty, neglected computer Clarice worked on, tasked with assisting the rare visitor and keeping track of the log.
It was one of the worst punishments they could have legally given her. She hated having idle time on her hands.
It was no comparison to the punishment she wanted to give, to herself or Lecter.
What the fuck has gotten into me? Crawford warned me. He told me not to let that sleek little weasel burrow inside my head, and he has. Oh, I should have barged into the office with his letter unopened, I would have been leading the raid with Interpol in whatever chalet he has homed himself in. I would love to see the look on his face when I pin him face down and I put the restraints on him, right on the wrist the orderlies broke–
She stopped her thought then and felt another dull pang of guilt. She wasn’t sure why, but that train of thought seemed too cruel for her to keep following. Not cruel enough for Hannibal Lecter, of course, but too cruel for her.
She wanted her hands on him, but not to break, not to harm too badly. Besides, she agreed with Barney, slapping him around wouldn’t do any good.
She remembered how he crackled under her touch back in Memphis and tried to push that thought away as well, but to no luck.
She found herself searching for his name in the VICAP database. There was information there, papers he had published, papers the now missing Dr. Chilton had published in an attempt to quantify what he was. His profile at the border stations had five features: Psychopathy, Sadism, Reasoning, Narcissism, and Pathology.
Clarice wasn’t interested in any of it. Who was to say who or what made Dr. Lecter, if he was made at all? She wasn’t entirely sure Lecter himself knew the answer, and if he did, it probably bored him by now.
What she wanted was the objective facts, the undeniable truth of him: bare and laid out in front of her
There was little known about his origins. His application to Johns Hopkins had him down as a naturalized French citizen, his French papers noted that he was Lithuanian by birth, and a census from 1941 had him listed, aged 5, with an S. Lecter, L. Lecter, and M. Lecter. Those same names were among the missing and deceased list the Red Cross had compiled at the end of the war.
M. Lecter, she thought to herself.
“What does the M stand for?”
Clarice was hit with another dull pang and closed the VICAP portal. She decided not to pry and never to ask.
The evening came with takeout and a few shots of Absolut. One benefit of Ardelia being home meant that she could wallow just a little bit. Not that wallowing helped at all.
This time, she was expecting the call that interrupted her tipsy spiraling. A little emboldened and more than curious, she answered on the third ring.
“FBIs least wanted.”
“Remember what I’ve told you about witticisms. Keep your day job, Clarice, if you can.” Dr. Lecter remarked, tone equally chiding and amused. “Have you been drinking?”
“Yes. Bottom-shelf vodka. You would hate it. Even I do.”
“Ah, so you are punishing yourself now, little Starling. All Absolut but no absolution.” He chuckled, “I take it your standing at Quantico has not improved. I wonder what Agent Krendler would do if he saw you wallowing in defeat. I bet he would just love it, it would excite him, I think. He would probably make a pass at you while you’re down. And you might even accept it, just to hurt and sabotage yourself that much more. Valentine’s Day is coming up, you know, maybe he could stop by once his wife falls asleep.”
Clarice didn’t have any patience tonight. “And what about you, Dr. Lecter? Does my wallowing stir anything in you?”
“You aren’t meant for wallowing, Clarice. You’re a deep roller, but you always know when to come up before you hit the ground.” A pause. “Clarice, it’s a year to the day since you first visited me at the state hospital. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I did.” She replied dryly. Then, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Happy anniversary, Doctor.”
A smile in his voice. “Do you remember what I gave you for Valentine’s Day last year? Klaus’ head. I think I made you very happy, didn’t I?”
“It was invaluable in catching Jame Gumb. Thank you again, Dr. Lecter.”
“Tell me, Clarice. Was Raspail truthful, was it just the head in the car, or was there another surprise? Maybe in the pants.”
She answered directly. “There was a wooden dildo in the pants.”
“Unused, I hope. Was it a favorable size?”
“I guess.” Clarice bristled, “I don’t have expertise on dildos.”
“Freud wrote that women who orgasm exclusively through clitorial stimulation are stuck in adolescence. What do you think about that?”
“I question any man’s authority on the subject of the female orgasm.” The alcohol had eroded her buffer, just a little bit. “That was probably the cocaine writing.”
An unexpected chuckle from Dr. Lecter. “I’m inclined to agree with you.” On the other end, she could hear the sound of glass clinking and liquid pouring. He wanted to mirror her, share this moment with her. “I rather like you like this, not wallowing, but loosened up a little. But no more than one drink a night from now on, Clarice. Doctor’s orders.”
“Alright.” She agreed, “I won’t drink myself stupid and wallow in self-pity despite it being an innate desire borne from my white trash lineage. Are you happy?”
“Very. You have shown time and time again you have the power to end these patterns.” He paused and took a breath. “Now, I have to think about your Valentine. I will need to one-up myself this year, considering what a hard time you’re having. Perhaps I could give you a variety of heads in different colors and sizes.” He said casually. “Goodnight.”
The last sentence made her heart pound in her chest. Perhaps it was just a joke, an unfunny one. He wouldn’t be so apparent. No, there had to be a double layer of meaning somewhere.
Clarice did not sleep much that night and kept her gun under her pillow. She was tense at Quantico the next day, Krendler not so kindly commenting on the dark circles around her eyes.
“Jesus, Starling, go to the bathroom and apply some concealer or something. You’re doing yourself a disservice walking around like that.”
He walked away before she could say anything. She was trying to string the right words together, trying to figure out how exactly to tell him about the call when the mail runner visited her in the basement.
“Package for Agent Starling. You’ll have to sign for it.”
With subtly shaking hands, she did. The package was rectangular and too narrow to have a head in it, and weighed less than 5 pounds. It must have passed the bomb screening as well.
She waited until she was home to open it, and immediately felt a rush of heat in her face.
It was three dildos of various sizes and colors. One black silicone, one stainless steel, and one pink-tinged glass. Each one with a flared base to insert into the harness, which was no doubt expensive. It was finely crafted and of genuine leather– and a women’s size medium. There was also a bottle of water-based lubricant and a pair of matching medical restraint cuffs, ones that looked eerily similar to those used in the BSHCI.
There was a note accompanying the gift, handwritten in an elegant script.
Dear Clarice,
I’m looking forward to knowing which of these heads you prefer. You need to find a way out of this rut, you need to gain some power back. I know you’re sick of being screwed over.
I have an exercise I’d like you to try with me. Do let me know if you’re interested and we can negotiate the terms of my surrender to you (and only you) Clarice. There is, of course, no expectation- and I will feel no different towards you should you choose to decline. You have my word.
The offer expires the day your roommate comes home.
Ta.
An hour later, she nearly tore the receiver off the wall when she heard the echoing ring.
“Listen here, you sniveling little cretin. You unhinged, depraved son of a bitch. You think you can ruffle me with your little gift? You thought I was going to giggle at that shit or blush like a schoolgirl? You’re no different than Krendler, or Miggs, not where it counts. You think women are meat— is that it, Doctor?”
Hannibal’s voice was calm and ever so patient. “Everyone is meat when it comes down to it. But I meant what I wrote, Clarice. I want to help you feel powerful. It will be a good outlet for your frustration. It feels good sticking it to the bad guys, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t do what I do because it feels good.” Clarice seethed, remembering who she was dealing with, remembering that sincerity was the only way to disarm him. “That wouldn’t make it good. It would make it selfish and wrong. I wouldn’t earn my blessed silence that way, Doctor.”
“It wouldn’t be a reciprocated act. You don’t have to take any direct pleasure from it, just the satisfaction of fucking over someone who deserves it.” He challenged, continuing in an oddly soft tone. “Don’t I deserve punishment, Clarice?”
She wondered, perhaps irrationally, if he knew what she’d been doing in the quiet dark of the bedroom, whose words and voice she was stuck on when she slid her hand or her vibrator into the crotch of her underwear.
Either way, she was calling her bluff. He was trying to make her squirm.
She’d make this bastard squirm, alright.
“Three days from today. Seven PM. I’m sure you know where I live.” She murmured into the receiver, “I promise it will be just me, and if you’re there, I will handle you.”
His voice, that cool, metallic rasp back again. “I’m looking forward to it, Agent Starling. Goodnight.”
The dial tone stung in her ear. The sting spread all over her face and made her cheeks burn.
Clarice was still young and novice enough to half-believe he wouldn’t show. This was another move in their game, he was bored, that’s all, and toying with her.
She was curious enough about the act to check out a tape from the back section of an adult video shop in the next town over and felt a familiar pulse in her groin and lower stomach while watching that made her turn it off, not wanting to interrogate what it meant about her.
He’s definitely toying with me. There’s absolutely no way he of all people is going to have me give it to him up the ass.
She compartmentalized the approaching date just as well as she compartmentalized everything else. She went for her morning runs, unphased and unbothered. She worked in the cold, fluorescent-lit basement updating the ins and outs of evidence and trying to stay out of trouble while not banging her head into the nearest wall. Her conversations with Ardelia were unremarkable and non-disclosing, although she did hate keeping a secret from her.
Exactly three days since she last spoke to Dr. Lecter, she came home and slid her key into the door only to find him standing in the living room of her apartment. His lithe body was straight as a dancer, his hands clasped in front of him and his head slightly to the side, almost exactly as she left him in Memphis.
She blinked twice at him as the door swung shut behind her.
“You look surprised to see me, Clarice.” He murmured, raising his wrist to look at his watch. He was no longer in a jumpsuit, just a pale-colored cashmere sweater and black slacks. He was standing in his socks, forgoing shoes to be mindful of the carpet. “You are home earlier than you usually are. Apologies for letting myself in, but I couldn’t exactly stand around and ring your buzzer, and I figured this was preferable to being late. I’ve also used your shower, I hope you don’t mind. I left some soaps and lotion in there from the Profumo-Farmaceutica I had made just for you.” He paused, waiting for her to say something. After a beat, he smiled at her. “May I take your coat?”
Thoughtful as always, the fucking bastard.
Clarice gathered herself and nodded. Hannibal came around behind her and slid the second-hand black peacoat off of her shoulders. She wondered if he was going to make some bitchy comment about her outfit as he did back in his cell at the asylum, but he simply leaned in and took a small inhale from the nape of her neck.
“You wore L'Eau du Temps today.” He whispered, “It’s a nice scent, but a bit mature for a girl your age. Well, it’s all about the image we want to project. You needed that extra bit of confidence and strength today, didn’t you?”
He did come here to fuck with her, she thought. To see if she would change her mind, if she would run and try to turn him in.
Clarice knew she was playing with someone more than dangerous, but she just couldn’t help herself.
She steeled her gaze and met his bright, maroon eyes, ignoring the warmth from his hovering body and how this strange closeness made her feel. “Why exactly did you propose this, Dr. Lecter? Why did you come all this way and risk your freedom? Was it not all it was cracked up to be? Did you get bored so quickly? Are you lonely?” She turned to face him, expecting an answer. “You know what I think it is? That peace and silence are unbearable for you after eight years in a cell listening to God’s creatures cry themselves to sleep every night, and whatever hell you endured before. I’ve read somewhere that a person weaned on poison considers harm a comfort. You need pain and entropy. You’re a glutton for it. You came here to get a whiff of the old scent again in a way that felt the safest.” She leaned in close to him, so close she could feel him exhale. “I don’t fuck out of pity, Doctor. You ought to know me better than that.”
He was silent for a moment and Clarice kept a brave face. They both knew he could hear the beat of her heart and perhaps even the humming of her blood.
It doesn’t matter though, at this point I’ll die being right.
Then Hannibal grinned with his small, white teeth. Clarice had noticed his face was different, but she couldn’t exactly determine what it was.
“I do know you better than that, Agent Starling. Believe me.” He took her coat and folded it, placing it neatly over the couch since she didn’t own a rack. She noticed his movements were quicker, and his speech was no longer flat and clipped. Perhaps an effect of no longer being on whatever they dosed him with in the hospital. “Don’t worry about me. I'm happy. Healthy. A little nomadic at the moment but that'll change soon enough. You, though, Clarice.” He tisked. “It’s you I'm concerned about.”
“I’m fine.” She insisted.
“You’re not.” He replied, eyes alight with a raw kind of hunger. “But you will be.” His tone shifted, and he tilted his head toward the kitchen. “I’m aware this is not intended to be a romantic evening, but I did prepare dinner for you. You didn’t have much in your fridge, but I made do. Linguine with a lemony basil sauce, and locally sourced mussels. I’ve also chilled some wine, but we are both only allowed one small glass. I won’t be eating tonight, I’m sure I don’t need to explain why.”
“Thank you. That does sound delicious.” Clarice responded politely, if a little awkwardly. Her stomach tightened a little. Was this performance anxiety, or justifiable fear? “Maybe later. Do you think it will reheat well?”
An understanding, almost kind smile from him then. “It will reheat just fine.” He paused for a second. “I will put the food away. Perhaps you’d like to go upstairs and prepare for our exercise? I suggest wearing something more comfortable.” Another pause. “Will you take me in the bedroom? Do you want me to go willingly, or would you prefer a chase and some teary resistance?”
It was a hell of a question, and a smart one too. It took Clarice back a bit and made her feel more than a little predatory now that she was on the other end of the dynamic. Such intention was the mark of a dangerously sane mind, however, and she knew Hanninal would find his gratification in whatever she chose to do or however she chose to answer.
We’re both looking for harm, and he’s expecting me to indulge in it– maybe subverting his idea of punishment is the only way I win and keep myself.
“Meet me in my bedroom in a few minutes.” She told him, noticing his small look of amusement.
Alone and behind the closed door, Clarice began to pace.
Shithouse mouse. What the fuck have I gotten myself into? Am I about to top The Chesapeake Ripper? Maybe it’s not too late to call Ardelia, to tell her to send in the best SWAT unit and two straight jackets. We could go to the BSHCI together, housed in separate units so I don’t have to look at him.
She took a deep breath and steeled herself. Nothing that happened this past year that made any identifiable sense. Considering that she killed a man who was keeping a woman in a well beneath his house to make a suit out of her skin, fucking a notorious cannibal up the ass as a kind of transubstantiative act of power did not seem like a completely unreasonable next step.
Just like shooting Gumb made the lambs stop screaming, maybe humbling Lecter would make him no longer stick to her, and would end her bad habit as quickly as it had begun.
Taking a breath, she headed to the bathroom to freshen herself a bit, then changed into the clothes that made her feel the most calm and assured. She laid out the things Dr. Lecter had sent to her, eyeing them with a kind of vulgar, detached curiosity.
The feeling of a warm body close to her back pulled her out of her thoughts.
She hadn’t even heard him walk in. He could move silently, and this confirmed that sound could play off him the same way shadows and light did.
Clarice was just glad she hadn’t flinched. She never did.
“Which one are you thinking? Smaller for shame or larger for pain? Would you like me to share the benefits and cons of each material? Metal and glass are smooth and non-porous, and can be heated and cooled to your preference. The silicone is flexible, and the most realistic….” He eyed her in her olive-colored cargo pants and FBI t-shirt. “You’re wearing your running clothes.” He stated, lip twitching upwards.
“Did you have another idea? Frilly lingerie, or nothing probably.” She scoffed.
“No, although I won’t say I wouldn’t be pleased if you had decided to wear nothing.” He smiled at her, head tilting as he looked her over again. “No, this is how I imagined you, Clarice. This is exactly what I pictured. You, fresh from a run along the esplanade, flushed and still teeming with energy.”
“You watched me run this morning.” It was posed like a question, but it wasn’t.
“I did. I often imagined you running while I was in the hospital. It’s still a source of pleasure for me. I imagine it is for the trainees who have the privilege of running behind you. How many of them choose not to speed ahead for the sake of the view? Do you think you really earned your fitness rank, Agent Starling?”
Something unfurled at his provocation, as he hoped. Her eyes flashed in mild annoyance, and she cocked her head.
“Get undressed, Doctor.”
“As you wish,” He replied, as he would have to one of the orderlies he didn't want to cause trouble for, lest they send him to the electroshock room or take his toilet. He started with his watch, taking it off and placing it on her dresser next to the gold add a bead necklace he once called tacky. His sweater was next, revealing his lithe, toned chest and his narrow waist.
Watching him, Clarice understood how he evaded suspicion for so long and why the staff at the BSHCI so easily forgot what he was when they abused him. He was a slight man, not physically intimidating at all. But in his limbs and hands, she could see the same wiry strength she possessed— and he knew how to use it.
She would not forget that fact.
Turning her head away from him, she looked around her bedroom. It was clean, plain, and modest, a symptom of her years in the orphanage and living in dormitories. A part of her felt self-conscious, but she wouldn’t show it.
Dr. Lecter noticed her eyes wander away from him and hummed as he unbuckled his slacks. “Maybe you can put up some cafe curtains.”
She tilted her head. “I haven’t really had any time or space of my own to cultivate a personal aesthetic.”
“Don’t worry, Agent Starling. You will.” Hannibal replied, a strange certainty in his tone. He slid his slacks off with all the grace of a dancer. He stood in only a pair of black briefs now, and she could tell he was already getting aroused.
He didn’t show any self-consciousness as he moved around her room, wandering to her bookshelf and the pile of records in front of it.
“I always wondered what it would be like to know you in private life, Clarice. You’ve given me a rare gift, allowing me in your bedroom.” He gave her a well-meaning little wink and his eyes ran over the books on her shelves. “I’m pleased to see you do read, even if it is mostly for escapism and entertainment. I enjoy Faulkner and O’Conner as well.” He stopped at a nearly finished crochet project on top of one of the shelves, a red acrylic yarn scarf. His fingers ran lightly over it, and he smiled to himself. “Would you play some music? I’m rather unfamiliar with your records, I’ve missed so much while inside. I want to be well-versed on the popular charts, even if so much of it is dreadful.”
“You won’t like my music.” She muttered, eyes wandering to her curated record collection.
He tilted his head. “Try me.”
This was another little test of his, wanting to get under her skin a bit, to see if she’d refuse out of shame or let him scrutinize her taste some more. She was supposed to have the reins, she needed to be confident. He was in her space, he needed to feel like it.
There was also the appeal of knowing that some of her music very well may be torture to him.
Clarice went over to her little vinyl cabinet, looking for something suitably her and even more suitably not him.
There’s The Cranberries’ new record, and Talking Heads, oh he would hate that…
But one album caught her eye, one her clashing taste but also sentimental enough to be difficult for him to politely ridicule.
She laid the record onto the player and the room filled with a soft tune, a melancholy sweetness that suddenly made their current surroundings feel much more intimate.
Give you my lovin' seven days a week
I'll be your honey if you'll be sweet…
Clarice took the harness off of her quilted bed and slid it over her cargos. She did not struggle with adjusting the buckles, being used to a hostler. She met his eyes as she did it, and now she was almost sure it was his blood that was humming.
“You’re quiet, Doctor.” She spoke, “Aren’t you going to make fun of me?
People give me warnings, stay away from you…
They say you'll hurt me, I don't think that's true…
“No, Clarice.” His expression and voice were soft, “No, I’m not. The song is a bit on the nose, though.”
He took a few slow steps towards her, closing the space between them. He was only an inch or two taller than her, but he felt larger, and he knew it.
His thumb was on her chin, curious to see what she would do. Adequately disarmed, he closed his eyes and brought his mouth close to hers.
Clarice went for the offense. Using her well-trained and wiry strength, she grabbed his wrist and pulled his weaker arm toward her. Her hand around his neck, she turned his body with her hip and pinned him onto his stomach, his face shoved into the mattress. He was reminded of the way the rougher orderlies at the hospital would throw him onto the cot in his restraints while cleaning his cell, or the position he would be kept in on those terrible occasions he had to be changed when his toilet was taken away or after electroshock therapy. Dignity pants, Barney called them, in an attempt to be kind about it. Shame he couldn’t have overseen every shift.
Clarice mounted him from behind, both of her knees pinning him in place as she grabbed his hair. She pulled his face upward so that he was staring at the simple headboard. He would have preferred for her to lean forward so that he could feel her warm weight on top of him, her heart beating against his back. But no, to his surprise, she wanted to violate him, for it to be degrading and distant.
Hannibal found himself going elsewhere, deep in his memory palace where a different song was playing.
Clarice noticed something shift in him then. She pulled back and touched his shoulder, drawing him to the present.
“Have you changed your mind?” He asked, his voice raspy and distant.
“No.” She replied, her voice bordering on gentle as she surveyed him. She knew what his tense body and flat affect indicated, and decided this was not how she wanted to go about it. “No, I’d just like to see you.”
Hannibal was fully with her then, his head turned around.
“And who said we have nothing in common?” A small upward twitch of his lips as he looked at her. “I’d like to see you as well.”
“Lay down on your back, Doctor.”
He obeyed, turning around and settling onto the quilts in that narrow, creaking bed. It smelled like her, and he wondered if the quilts were second-hand or if Clarice had made them herself.
“Did I hurt you?” She asked.
“Not at all.”
“Good.”
He stared up at Clarice, bare-faced and pretty as ever. Her brown hair was tousled and falling past her shoulders, haloed with a few golden strands from the low light of her bedroom. She bore down at him, not too meek to meet his eyes. From this angle, he could see better the small gunpowder burn on her cheek. He wondered how many times she tried to cover it up and failed, he wondered if she was waiting for him to comment on it, expecting him to say something biting.
“You really are beautiful, Agent Starling.” He murmured, his eyes not straying from the spot on her face.
She held firm under his gaze. “Looks are an accident.”
“If comeliness were earned, you’d still be beautiful.”
A softened look from Clarice then, earned by his rare moment of earnestness. “Have you done this before?”
“It would be easier to ask what I haven’t done.” He gave her a coy smirk, “I suppose in some ways this will be a novel experience for both of us.”
Starling tilted her head. “Take off your briefs, Doctor. And put a pillow under your back.”
He obeyed, pulling one of her pillows and sliding it under his raised hips. His briefs were next, his lower half elevated. He did not hide his look of amusement as Clarice leaned forward and assisted in pulling them off of his legs.
She stared down at his lean, graceful body, well-toned and in good condition, especially for a man approaching fifty. He had a few raised and pigmented scars across his stomach and flank. Likely from the crossbow encounter with Will Graham that got him apprehended. Her eyes surveyed his limbs, the tanned skin and wiry muscle that composed them. His hands were small and calloused. Clarice learned this in Memphis.
His uncut, thickening cock was unremarkable in size, but nicely shaped and perfectly adequate. Not that she had much expertise in the matter. He hardly had any body hair, and she was curious if that was natural or an aesthetic choice.
Hannibal watched her face as she eyed him, both of them revealing nothing as to what was going on inside their minds.
He was vulnerable, but not ashamed. Clarice figured shame was beneath him, and he feared indignity too much to let her do anything that he wouldn’t enjoy. She found comfort and satisfaction in that, as if it made what she was doing redeemable. She’d be lying if she told herself that she didn’t want to please him just as much as she wanted to see him undone, that she didn’t want, in some small way, to take care of him.
Contradictions, contradictions.
Hannibal Lecter could never be a lamb, she knew. He was more like a feral cat only few could handle— or an old goat, kept separate from the rest of the herd and a touch demented. His previous holders kept him confined to a pen, only giving him a half-hour of exercise twice a week and taking away solid food and enrichment at will.
She would be gentle with him, she decided, fully knowing what he was, fully knowing what he’s done.
And as if he could read her thoughts, he spoke.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Something flashed in his eyes, and his voice took on a sudden hint of coldness. “I won’t tolerate pity. Not even from you.”
“It’s not pity,” Starling murmured, “You’re almost good-looking, you know, in a strange, off-putting way.” She took a breath. “It’s probably just the light.”
He smiled at her then, a truly terrible thing.
“I had some work done in Istanbul, you know. I filled in my hairline and got a chin implant. I removed my sixth finger myself.” He tilted his head as he raised his left hand, a thin pink scar where his pinky once was. “I imagine I’m more pleasing for you to look at now, aren’t I?”
“That’s not where I was looking,” Clarice answered, matter-of-factly. “You’ve gotten a nice amount of sun wherever you’ve been. You’re no longer basement pale, and you’ve put on a little weight.” Her thin, nimble fingers grazed over his ribs and stomach, padded with a solid layer of flesh. Perhaps too solid, Hannibal thought from time to time. “You’ve spent the past year somewhere warm, taking your meals from somewhere other than a tube. I’m glad for that, Doctor.”
Something crackled in his eyes at her words and her touch.
“You know, I could never quite predict you, Agent Starling.” He whispered, “You really are far from common. No wonder the Philistines don’t understand you.”
A brief, soft look from Clarice at those words, although she did not acknowledge them.
“I think we should get to business.” She replied, the southern lilt of her voice more evident.
She either was nervous or cautiously excited. Most likely a bit of both.
“Yes, we should.” Hannibal agreed, calmly laying back, his upper half resting on his elbows as he watched her in amusement. “I’m all yours.”
She looked down at the selection of dildos, some modest-sized and others punishing. He wouldn’t mind pain or damage, no– he would take it all and find it exquisite.
She chose the glass; transparent and only slightly crooked.
“We should establish a word if you want me to stop. You probably won’t use it, but we should have one regardless.” She thought for a moment. “How about Truman?”
“How erotic.” The words came out dryly, but he let out a chuckle. “Will it help you feel comfortable, if I promise to use it if I’m in distress?”
“It will help me not feel guilty.”
“Guilt should have no place at the table or in the bedroom, Clarice.” He replied, tone direct as he laid back. “You are a fully willing participant in this, are you not?”
“I am.” And just to prove that point, she took his hips in both hands and pulled him forward, using that wiry strength to slide him down a bit. She pinned his shoulders down, trapping him there with her knees straddling his sides, the cold, fake cock resting on top of his real one.
He took a sharp breath, eyes closing for just a second, as if he needed to collect himself.
“If you touch me at all, I will put you on your stomach and restrain you. Got it?
“Yes,” He answered, voice calm. “Yes, I do.”
“Spread your legs and keep them open for me.”
His hands clasped the back of his thighs then, losing no grace as he did so. Gaining no shame either as he smiled at her.
Her eyes went down from his face, to his stomach, to his hardened cock, and then the small, blush-colored ring of muscle he had no doubt meticulously prepared for this.
There was nothing about the body at this point that could make her shirk or flinch. She could look at anything if she had something positive to do about it.
“Lubricant will make things easier for both of us.” He lifted his head. “I can assist if you are not comfortable–“
“Get back down, Dr. Lecter. And don’t get up again.”
“Of course, Agent Starling.” He replied, laying still and patient.
She reached for the bottle on the nightstand. She would have considered gloves, but the thought struck her as too degrading, too uninvolved. If she was to do this, she was going to commit.
The substance on her fingers was clear and glossy. She wondered if any of this would stain her quilt. If it does, I deserve it.
He was watching every movement, so she said nothing as she trailed her finger down past his perineum and began to probe slowly into the ridged, tight hole. The heat of him almost singed her. For a moment, there was nothing but her widened eyes and his sharp, small breaths.
She searched his face. “Are you alright?”
He nodded and reached out his hand to hold onto her hip, before remembering her rule and grabbing the sheets instead. An exhale from him, his eyes fluttering shut.
“I’m very well. Feel free to continue.”
She moved two fingers in and out slowly, somewhat invested in the heat now and the way his sphincter resisted before gradually giving in the more pressure she applied.
The normal fuck, as Clarice understood it, was taken to be an act of invasion and ownership undertaken in a method of predation. Being owned and being fucked were synonymous experiences. He owns you, so he fucks you. The fucking conveys the quality of ownership. That is why Paul Krendler wanted to fuck her, that is why the valedictorian did not express interest in her until they were neck and neck in class rank, that is why Dr. Lecter asked if she thought Crawford wanted to fuck her from behind.
But this was different in a way that was difficult to name. She wondered when exactly this profane little thought sprung into Hannibal’s mind. She wondered if it was in the exact moment when he realized he couldn’t own her at all.
And she wondered if that was why she was doing this.
What does he do, Clarice? What is the first and principal thing he does, what need does he serve? He covets. How do we begin to covet? We begin by coveting what we see every day.
She regarded him then, pushing in slower, deeper as she could feel the resistance ebbing away. She curled her fingers downwards and brought them forward until an involuntary keen left his throat and his thighs quivered. She stared at his face, a face that once sneered at her cheap shoes, a face that was the last sight of many, and watched as a flush spread across his cheeks and his eyes squeezed shut.
The fact that could make him so pliant, make him so docile and undone made something in her begin to swell and pulse.
No. I don’t want him, I’m just doing this to earn the silence, to get him out of my head, to kick the bad habit. I’m not depraved. I’m not sick.
She removed her fingers quickly enough for Dr. Lecter to let out something like a whine in response. She didn’t want to feel his heat anymore, she tried to forget what he felt like from the inside.
She held his thighs now, but only to align him to the glass shaft. She moved his hands out of the way, and she could see a moment of hesitation when he didn’t quite know what to do with them. He wanted to touch her, she knew, but it wouldn’t be right.
“Behind your head or grabbing the quilt.”
His gaze wavering just a little bit, he still obeyed, grabbing the quilt. He stared up at her, his mouth parted slightly as if waiting for a grounding touch or word of reassurance before they continued. When he realized that there would be none, his nose twitched a little, and that rasping, metallic voice came back.
“Straight to it, huh? Did you learn that from your daddy or the miner’s boys back in the holler? You wanted to be just like them, didn’t you? You’d rather be like them than your mother. There’s a pathology to girls like you, you know.”
Clarice got on her haunches and rudely spit in her hand, sliding her palm along the already well-lubed glass shaft. Hannibal watched silently, his eyes wide. His tongue flitted across his teeth in anticipation.
A different tone in his voice. “Agent Starling–”
She pushed his thighs back, positioning herself. “What?”
“If I saw you every day forever, I would remember this time.”
Clarice held the base of the glass with one hand and sunk her hips forward, breeching him with a slow thrust. She watched him swallow hard, his eyes widening then squeezing shut, his knuckles white while grabbing the quilt. She eased in slowly, watching him slack so he could better take it.
After a few seconds, their hips were touching and she was fully settled between his thighs. He was breathing heavily, and she knew his pulse was well above 85.
“You okay?” She murmured.
He was going somewhere else in his head, she could see it. She brought her hand to the side of his face and gently tilted it towards her.
“I want you here, Doctor. I want you here with me.” She took his hands and intertwined their fingers as she moved them over his head. It was a difficult position, but she could manage it. She was glad for her core training when she thrust her hips forward to start fucking into him.
He let out another hard exhale, something of a groan choked and died in his throat.
“Do you need me to stop?” She asked again, slowing her movements to a halt.
He shook his head and squeezed her hands, still intertwined with his. She slowly rocked her hips into him. Their breaths were both labored and came out in huffs, Clarice first, then Hannibal. She watched as his reddened cock twitched and leaked a little onto his stomach, slick and pulsing warm between them. Starling made no effort to hide her staring, feeling another strong pulse between her legs.
It seemed as if his pleasure and hers began to blur.
You’re still in charge here, Clarice. You’re in control.
She dropped his hands as if they burned her and grabbed his thighs, pushing them back as she began thrusting into him at a quick, punishing pace. Her cheap bed squeaked, and her headboard thumped against the wall. Hannibal’s jaw was clenched tight and he swallowed hard after each thrust. Her abdominal muscles tensed and the glass kept slipping out of him. She fumbled to apply more lubricant and stick it back in, noticing how open he was when his breathless voice came slithering out.
“Imagine…if your daddy could see you right now,” Hannibal muttered, inhaling through each word. “Would he be proud? And Crawford…oh if he could see his little protege, I’d like to see the look…” He exhaled sharply and groaned, “…on his face. Do you know why it is you don’t allow yourself to take pleasure in anything? Why you are so devoted to the chase and the plight? Perhaps you don’t think you are deserving of satisfaction, or perhaps the only person who is capable of satisfying you happens to be someone you can’t accept...” His voice got quiet then, deadly quiet. “You’re afraid of betraying yourself, Clarice, of letting anyone…get too close and letting them change you only to end up alone and disappointed. Your father disappointed you, didn’t he? When he couldn’t work the slide on his shotgun. I…wouldn’t have made that mistake...” He whispered, the last word leaving his mouth with a moan. “I would have killed them all. I would have fed them to you.”
Clarice had half a mind to truly hurt him then, but she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew he was just licking his tears and knew that he was just wanting to get a rise out of her, perhaps hoping she would wrap her hands around his neck and bring her mouth close to his. There were means of influence other than violence, but violence was all Hannibal had known through his life.
She knew better, though.
Her hands came up and intertwined with his again, and she lay fully on him this time, the glass burrowed into the hilt of him, her hips flush against his hips, her heart beating over his. She watched him swallow hard and felt his legs wrap around her waist, keeping her close just like that.
She took her time thrusting and speaking, making sure it all struck the right place inside him.
“Did you ever take my advice about your high-powered perception, Dr. Lecter? You ever try pointing it toward yourself? Or are you still afraid to? Here’s what I see...” She took a deep breath and delivered another slow, pushing thrust that drew a groan from him. She stared at him in the cheap, low light of her bedroom, hovering over his flushed face, and noticed that his eyes were not maroon at all— but a warm, clay-like brown.
"I see you one of those sorry things, born in homes or hospitals. When you came into the world, your mother fed you from her breast and kept you warm. You looked normal. Nobody knew what you would be.” She grabbed his chin with one hand and held him there as she continued to thrust her hips, keeping her slow and deliberate rhythm. “There’s something empty in you. I don’t know if you were born with it or if something happened to you. Frankly, it doesn’t matter. You had no language for the emptiness. You called it hunger for convenience and it stuck. You spent most of your life building walls, seeing if anyone is smart enough to climb over them. Waiting to see if anyone is capable of knowing you, seeing you...”
This relentless invasion, the pressure and burn of it paired with the heat of her precious body on top of him. All that he was felt like it was being abraded. What would happen if this continued? Would he lose control? Would he die, perhaps? Hannibal avoided looking into her eyes, biting down on his tongue as he struggled not to sob or scream, the safe word a thousand miles away in his mind yet so close in his throat.
“You’re doing so good. Let it out now, doctor.”
He exhaled and held her gaze. Clarice made sure to take in every detail. His reddened skin, the sheen of sweat against his hairline, the desperate, almost frightened look in his eyes.
“This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? You wanted me to see you.” She spoke to him in a soft and level voice, the ends of her words breathless. “You hate the faces of the crowd but want to know if there’s someone who could ever love the hungry thing inside you, who could have some influence on you. Maybe someone did, once. Yes, I think someone truly did. But good things are slippery, aren’t they? So damn hard to keep.”
His hands moved to push her away, but she used all her strength to keep him still, pinning down his large, calloused palms and fucking into him until he was trembling and obedient again. She wondered if he could come untouched like that.
“Imagine if they could see you know, getting fucked by some cornpone, white trash, country pussy. The well-scrubbed, hustling rube with a little taste. Do you think anyone would be afraid of you?”
She looked down at him and was surprised to see the tears welling in his eyes, spilling out onto his face.
“Clarice…” Her name left his trembling lips in a soft hiss. “I’m so close.”
“I know you are,” she whispered. “I know.”
She let go of his hands and went to his cock. She traced her finger along the slick, twitching head and took it in her hand.
He covered her fist with his, and they began to move again. Two more deep thrusts and a squeeze of his palm over hers brought him to the edge and over it.
He came with a sudden, tight sound— his eyes closed, and one hand gripped over hers, the other clutching her hip as he shuddered, his thumb pressing where the bullet grazed her. He spent across his stomach, a few pale drops of semen landing on Clarice’s hand and running shirt. Hannibal breathed deeply and stared at the way she’d been marked- a small, sated smile tugging at his lips.
Starling thought of his reaction to Miggs, just for a second. Silently, she brought her hand to his mouth. Ever polite, he cleaned her with his tongue, kissing her palm and fingertips.
A few more slow thrusts into him, just to watch him twitch. She held his thighs as she slid the glass shaft out of him. There was a slick, obscene sound. He was reddened and gaped open a bit. She wondered if it hurt.
“Thank you very much, Clarice.” He murmured, slack and staring at the ceiling. “Do you mind if I take a few moments to clean up and collect myself?”
“Of course.” She let out a breath, shrugging off her soiled top and handing it to him. “You can keep that. Would you like something to drink, maybe that wine?”
“I would. Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.” He answered, waiting for her to step out before he cleaned himself up, trying to maintain some kind of dignity.
She headed down to the kitchen, heart pounding but hands steady as she reached for the chilled Chateau d’Yquem, the most expensive thing she had held in her hands in a while. It could have paid her half of the rent for the month, but she didn’t care that a little spilled opening the cork and swallowed down her five permitted ounces before bringing some to Hannibal.
“This is not a wine glass.” He replied, amused as she handed him a ceramic tumbler.
“It’s the nicest dishware I have, Dr. Lecter. Bought first hand and everything.”
“Please do not call me “Doctor” again, Clarice.” He murmured, inhaling the scent of the wine before taking a small sip. “Such clinical formality after what we’ve shared is rude.”
“You’re right, Hannibal.” She murmured, and then she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. It was quick and chaste, almost sister-like. Clarice wasn’t quite sure how and if she should show him care in this moment, although the gesture was sincere on her part.
He looked surprised, then closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them slowly and smiled at her.
“Do you remember when I told you your eyes were like cheap birthstones?”
“I do.”
“I was wrong. It must have been the basement light.” He said this with something like shyness in his tone, perhaps an attempt at an apology. “They’re like a sunset, a winter sunset. Flecks of gold and blue on white.”
“I already fucked you, Hannibal.”
He smiled and reached out to brush the pad of his thumb against the scar on her cheek. “I know.”
Her lips came down on his properly then, hard like thunder, like heaven’s judgment. They traveled to his neck then back up again. She kissed him until he was soft-throated and moaning in her mouth, her hands clenched in his hair and his tongue sliding against hers. The wine was forgotten on her bedside table.
Clarice laid Hannibal flat again and climbed on top of him. At his age, he couldn’t manage again so soon, even if he was crazy. But she wanted to experience undoing, if just for a night.
She stripped herself of her pants and straddled him. She kissed him gently this time and guided his hand under her cotton bra. She let him slide her breast out in the open air and put his mouth on it, working her nipple hard under his tongue and pressing his hand between her legs.
“If I go down and taste you, I won’t be able to let you go, Clarice. You would have to come with me.”
“Then don’t.” She whispered, “Let’s just have this. Let me just have this.”
“I traveled halfway around the world to watch you run. Run with me. We could disappear now, tonight.” He kissed the milky expanse of her chest, his hand rubbing over her panties. “Do you think you have a future in the institution? They despise you. They don’t understand you. You’re the answer to Samson’s riddle. You’re the honey in the lion.”
She began moving herself against his palm, flushed and unashamed. “Ask me in ten years, when I’m burnt out and jaded.”
“You’ll never be.” He whispered, his other arm wrapping around her waist. “But the offer will always stand.”
Hannibal reached for the cup of wine and spilled a few drops over her breasts. He held her there and took that coral bud into his mouth again, sucking as she took her pleasure from him, gasping and rutting against him like an animal, like something uncivilized. And there was no biting remark on his tongue, no scathing word of criticism, just his praise, whispered earnestly between kisses, grazes of his teeth, and laps of his tongue.
“That’s my girl, my remarkable girl. I see you, Clarice. I’m so proud of you, my brave, dear girl, so very proud.”
And when she came, he swallowed her moan, slid two fingers into her underwear and licked them clean.
Afterward, they rested in her narrow bed, beneath the second-hand quilt. Hannibal was still and quiet, nearly on the mattress’ edge.
Clarice turned and looked over at him. He lay on his back, his eyes closed and his arms folded across his stomach. He reminded her of a restrained inmate, or a corpse.
She wanted to ask Hannibal how he slept his first night of freedom, if indeed he even slept. Instead, she shifted closer to him. There was a field of gooseflesh across his shoulder. She rubbed it warm and kissed him there.
“Goodnight, Doctor Lecter.” She murmured, but it was clear this time that it was out of fondness rather than distance.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of Hannibal’s slow, steady heartbeat. Starling felt him relax against her cheek. His hand came up to rest on her elbow, holding her to him. A new last memory of peace.
“Goodnight, Agent Starling.”
They both slept better than they had in many years.
In the morning, Clarice was alone. Her room was tidied and Hannibal’s gifts were sanitized and tucked neatly under her bed.
He had taken her shirt and the unfinished scarf. She didn’t mind. She was sure one day she’d see them again.
The other side of the bed was no longer warm, but it did still smell like him. There was an odd combination of satisfaction and emptiness in her stomach. She lay with it for a moment, then got up and headed to the kitchen.
There was a note on the counter, reheating instructions for the breakfast he made as well as yesterday’s dinner.
On the back was more.
Dear Clarice,
Thank you for indulging me and being so hospitable. I hope you’ve gotten what you needed from our exercise. I know I have.
The FBI is no place to try and make a home for yourself. I have made a space for you in mine. Think about it for as long as you need.
I have bought proper wine glasses for you and Miss Mapp. Expect them in 3-4 business days. Savor the Chateau d’Yquem properly. Think of me.
Occasionally, I drop a cup to shatter on the floor on purpose. I'm not satisfied when it doesn't gather itself together.
Perhaps, someday, it will.
I will be waiting patiently.
Yours,
H.
The letter, along with the rest, were tenderly and properly disposed of. That night, as she ate her first proper dinner in weeks and sipped the wine worth more than most of the furniture in her apartment, she thought about what awaited her back at Quantico.
If he was still alive, she was prepared to give Paul Krendler hell on Monday.