Work Text:
Hannibal Lecter was a fairly level-headed man. Apart from the trance-like state he entered when killing, and in the deepest intimacies of sex with Clarice Starling, he maintained perfect order in his body and mind. Though the night of November 17th may be another exception. He woke to a violent gust of wind shaking their home, rain spattering against the window like meat sizzling in a greasy pan. Hannibal turned to pull Clarice closer, mindful of how the noisy storms that worsened during the winter months often disturbed her sleep. However, Clarice's side of the bed was empty. His maroon eyes scanned the dark room, and mere impressions of his surroundings were revealed as the moon over Buenos Aires was shrouded in storm clouds. The door to the ensuite stood open, but the room was empty.
To Lecter, reading people and staying ahead of them had always come with ease. Though recently, Clarice seemed to be the exception to this rule. The flustered, earnest little Starling he met in the dungeon was like an open book, but the lioness unleashed after her severance of ties with the FBI, and her closure surrounding her father, was as stoic and observant as her lover, when she wanted to be, of course.
In their two years of marriage, they had learnt to trust each other; they didn't keep secrets or hide feelings, they were both trained psychologists, even if Lecter was much more experienced in the field, Clarice spent seven years at the FBI studying him and was more than capable of deciphering the labyrinth of his internal landscape. Though recently a wedge had been driven between them, the passing of FBI Section Chief Jack Crawford in his home in early November had come as pleasant news to Lecter. He felt a new lease of liberation from his past; the three detectives who ever came close to catching him were no longer to worry him, Jack Crawford was dead, Will Graham was traumatised and disfigured from their last clashes, and, brightest of all, Clarice Starling was reborn into his muse, who would never have to face the cruelty of the bureau hienas again.
When he informed Starling of the good news the next morning, she was not as elated as Lecter had been. She went quiet and picked at her omelette for a while before disappearing for a run. It had confused Lecter, but he gave her the space he thought she needed, acknowledging the depths that Crawford's claws had dug into Starling's psyche; perhaps he had missed some attachment to him remaining after their sessions in the Chesapeake. He didn't want to therapise her, but refused to hide his feelings towards Crawford, the man who had spent eight years standing by and watching as Clarice grew miserable, being constantly ogled and harassed by the boons of the FBI, probably fantasising about preying on her himself. How could he feign grief for such a vile creature?
Frustration burned behind his sternum as he slipped out of bed to search for his wife. For such a formidable intellect, she can be so stubborn about the strangest things. He checked the room that had become a wardrobe for her vast collection of gowns, the guestroom that had remained unused for the last two years, the music room, the study, and his art studio, all of which were deserted. The dark possibility that she had gone out earlier in the night and had been caught in a storm began to press heavily against his focus. Then came a sharper, uglier thought: had she left him, or worse, turned him in? The phantom taste of betrayal forced him to a sudden, rigid halt in the centre of the stairs. He took a deep breath and tried to command whatever force was stirring these horrible scenes out of his consciousness.
The handle of the front door clicked, and his heart leapt to his chest. He gripped the bannister, and silently his gaze fell on Clarice as she walked through the doorway. She was drenched, wearing running shorts and a sweatshirt whose pocket sagged in the middle with the weight of something. She stood silently in the doorway and took a deep breath. She still hadn't seen him. She reached into the pouch of her sweatshirt and took the object to stash in the pocket of her shorts before pulling the wet sweatshirt off completely to reveal a white cotton bralette, transparent and clinging to her pale skin. She took off her trainers and removed a pair of wet tube socks, placing them on top of the sweatshirt she was now holding. Lecter moved silently towards her, conscious of the fact that the staircase was not illuminated with moonlight as she was. She closed her eyes and dropped her head back, pushing the loose hairs stuck to her face with rain out of her eyes with her free hand.
"Good evening, Clarice," he broke the heavy silence once he was standing in front of her. She recoiled away from him, her breath catching sharply as she finally noticed him, suddenly regaining any tension let go of in the small ritual she had engaged in upon her arrival.
"Christ, Hannibal!" she breathed, her eyes finally noticing him in the dark. The damp air rolling off her carried the distinct, sharp scent of her agitation; she wasn't happy to see him.
"Care to explain your absence? I was surprised to find you gone when I woke."
Her face hardened, her jaw clenching shut. "I went for a run. I have a lot on my mind right now." The statement was true, but entirely hollow.
"In a storm?" he pried. There was a moment of understanding between them. She knew he saw through her lie; he hoped she would give in and tell him where she was, but she held her ground firm.
"It didn't start until I was gone," she explained. She kept her intense glare fixed on him. She stood rigid, clearly waiting for him to clear the path to the laundry room. She couldn't rest until she calmed herself by listening to the rhythmic, familiar thump of her clothes as they were washed.
"You must've been gone some time. How far did you go?"
"I don't know, I ran until I was tired, then ran back."
"You chose not to follow one of your usual routes when you went for a run in the dead of night in the height of sudestadas season. Are you feeling alright, my dear?" He was pushing it, but he wanted to watch her facade crumble before him.
"I'm fine, Hannibal, go back to bed," she grumbled, attempting to push past him with her wet clothes. He stepped forward, placing his palm firmly against her damp stomach before snaking his hand to her hip, where he held her. Her pale flesh was frigid, quivering against the heel of his hand. He slid into the pocket of her shorts, nimble fingers barely touching the fabric, and took the object she had been trying to conceal. Her jaw clenched tighter, and she rolled her eyes. His fondness for jibing back and forth with her was wearing thin with every brattish, infantile gesture. His fingers closed around cold smooth metal and faceted stone, he removed his hand from her to inspect his findings, it was the emerald necklace he had given her just before their dinner with Paul Krendler, Starling barged past him and towards the laundry room, he followed the sound of her wet bare feet slapping on the wooden floors, looking closer at the necklace in the glow of light from the laundry room, it was missing a stone.
"If you are pawning off your jewels to make enough money to escape me, may I remind you are free to walk away from this at any point." He kept his voice steady and cold. He stood elegant and sleek in the doorway. Starling stuffed her clothes into the washing machine. Under the harsh light of the laundry room, the wet cotton of her bralette was entirely transparent. The new light displayed the full effect of her stint in the cold on the tips of her fingers and the apple of her cheeks. "Don't be ridiculous, Hannibal," she snarled, her pitchy twang replacing the deep drawl he loved so much. She poured detergent into the drum and slammed the door closed. She turned to face him now; if her demeanour had been softer, she would look so beautiful, standing trembling and rosy in the light, but her vulgar glare spoiled any admiration he held for her.
She reached quickly and smoothly to grab the emeralds. Hannibal caught her hand, holding it tight to his pressing the sharp stones into both their palms, he pulled her closer, "Fuck off, Hannibal, what is your problem?" she spat, digging her nails into the back of his hand trying to free herself with the gems.
"You clearly think I am completely oblivious to my surroundings." A rare, dangerous fracture cracked through his composure.
"Well, you have been to my feelings. You goad me with Crawford's death like I'm your fucking prize for escaping, like everything we've built here has been a petty vengeance for Jack catching you after you were stupid enough to try to gut an FBI agent in your living room." Jack, his name sent the rage building in his chest scattering through his body, he gripped her hand even tighter, he didn't let go until the metallic tang of blood filled the air between them. When he released her, she took three steps away from him. She did not look afraid; she looked disgusted.
"I gave you the space to organise your thoughts," Hannibal lashed, his voice low and vibrating with a dangerous heat. "Clearly, I was mistaken in thinking you no longer needed me to walk you through the most basic evaluation of your own feelings."
"Basic?" she laughed, "You think whatever happened between Jack Crawford and me was basic?"
"You seemed to have deciphered me with ease. But clearly, my mind is that of a pitiful puddle compared to the deep, perverse complexities of Uncle Jack. Should I have been the one sending you to evaluate him?"
"Oh, please, you know damn well that's not what this is about!" She was backing into a wall, her face contorted with rage, and her glare burning into him as her Appalachian twang cut the humid air between them. "You think just because I'm here with you means I'm over everything he did to me? I worshipped the man. He spent eight years fucking me over and leading me on, and I still worshipped him. He sent me down to you even after what you did with Graham. He let me loose with a badge and gun to hunt Jame Gumb in the dark. He threw away Brigham's life and my career, then locked me in a basement to hunt the madman that was sending me love notes, and I still would've killed for him. I know you like to believe you're of some sort of superior intellect compared to us mere mortals, but don't you fucking dare boil it down to some pervert playing on my daddy issues." She was seething; her eyes held a hatred he had never seen before.
"I thought you were big enough to handle this without my interference." He was trying not to escalate things, digging his finger into the fresh wound of his palm to distract himself.
"You're twenty-five years older than me, and the only person in this country that knows my real name, you're the only person that knows I'm alive right now! You might be a fortress of solitude, but I still left my entire life behind to be with you. I threw everything away and leapt into the dark with you, and now it seems like you never even cared for me. I'm just the prize for your decade-long pissing contest." Her voice cracked, her face contorted in resentment, and tears gathered in her water line. Grinding her teeth, willing herself not to cry, she looked down at the bloodied emeralds and back to him.
He was witnessing her collapse, but there was no triumph in the victory. The sensation left a bitter, tasteless ash in his mouth; he had been clumsy, cruel, and no better than Crawford. "I had a jeweller put one of my emeralds into a ring and sent it to Ardelia. I figured it would be safer to do so now with Crawford gone." Tears toppled from her eyes, she pursed her lips to hold back her sobs and pushed past him to leave with her head hung. He stood silenced, regret washing over him.
He grabbed her slim wrist as she passed him. She lifted her arm to fight him, he turned to face her; a raw, uncharacteristic fear brightened her eyes. There was such a stark contrast between her muscled arm and her shattered face; she was a warrior, a predator capable of fighting any beast, yet the man meant to be her partner, her protector, had deserted her then broken her spirit. It was tactless and mean-spirited.
"I am sorry." He let go of her hand and took a step back, the blood from his palm staining her forearm. She looked up at him through wet eyelashes, chewing the inside of her lip to stop her teeth from chattering together. "I let my personal bias blur my perspective. It was cruel of me to desert you emotionally when you needed me. Just-" the weight of his own vulnerability forced a rare, heavy sigh from his chest, "just know, any pique I held towards him was not for my encarsaration, I am not deluded enough to believe I am above the law, what I did to be caught was self-indulgent and ridiculous. When I heard the news, I thought only of your face in the paper after the Drumgo shoot out, I thought of who put you in that position and the thought of you being taken from me and having to see you as a victim to the media once more." Her watery blue eyes searched his face. He stood, earnest and open to her scrutiny. "I should have taken the time to see it from your perspective. I did not think about it enough from your point of view. How I conducted myself was tasteless, I am sorry," he repeated. Her face stayed anguished and confused as she mulled over his words.
She took a step towards him, and he prepared himself to be slapped with the necklace or spit on; instead, his sweet Starling wrapped her cold arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder. It was unexpected but welcomed. "I love you," he told her. Wrapping his arms around her shivering body and holding her to him.
"I love you too." She sniffed, wrapped her legs around his waist, and let him carry her up to bed. They both stripped naked, and he held her under the covers until she stopped shivering. It was rare to share such a vulnerable moment with her. Once she was no longer reliant on him for heat, he ran them both a bath, and she watched him work exposed in the dim light of the ensuite as she sat wrapped in their duvet.
He dressed the matching wounds they had on their palms, and dried her hair before they changed into dry pyjamas and went to sleep for the second time that night, much more content than the first time. Starling slept on his chest with their bandaged hands holding each other. They woke late the next day and spent it talking as Hannibal drew on the balcony with Clarice's head in his lap; he felt he had uncovered a deeper layer of her that day than he had on the Chesapeake, and, in a strange twist of irony, a silent gratitude to Jack Crawford for finally driving his Starling entirely into his keeping.