It had been five years since the renowned psychiatrist and infamous serial killer Hannibal "the Cannibal" Lecter ran off with the federal bureau of investigation's tarnished agent Clarice Starling. Ever since they ran off to Argentina, the pair have kept close eye on any media mentions of themselves—even trashy tabloids such as the National Tattler, which had quite a few of citations. If appearances were any indication, they enjoyed milking the idea that Starling was not dead and that she ran off with a monster—that she herself was a monster—a traitor—a treasonous betrayer of her country.
That early afternoon, the former agent was out on the balcony which extended from their luxurious and well-furbished bedroom. She held within her hands four issues of separate papers published within the last seventy-two hours. The Harold Tribune was on top, then the New York Times, then the local Argentinian paper, and finally—hidden at the bottom in a form of disgrace—the National Tattler. She wore a pair of relaxed-fit sweats, and with that was a nice black robe. However, the robe was not simply out of comfort, rather it was to conceal. Not only to retain her modesty, but to keep her rounded abdomen hidden from anyone who's prying eyes may be observing them. While it had indeed been a long time since the disappearance, people still had not seemed to be able to let it go. Perhaps it was because Starling was an important public figure? Perhaps it was because it made for a great story? After all, what better way to sell a paper than to continuously reignite a conspiracy? These people who are behind the words slewed on these pages rarely did have qualms about the reputations they were ruining so long as they got their paychecks. The auburn-haired woman did not know for sure, nor did she entirely care.
An exasperated expression came to her features as she tossed down the papers on a nearby table with little tact. Penetrating hues glared down at the image on the cover of the Tribune. It was an old photograph of her from her later years in the Bureau placed right next to a photo taken of her a year ago. It was a pesky reporter who worked for the paper that had taken the most recent of the images, though he had long since mysteriously vanished—the body never found. Of course, he would not have been. Starling and Lecter had taken care of him, so to speak. It seemed a friend of his did not wish to let this go, either. Her eyes drifted from the photograph to the text, blaring in black font and capitalized letters: "FORMER FBI AGENT SPOTTED ONE YEAR AGO: ALLEGED DEATH UNDER QUESTIONING". Sure, the Bureau was not questioning it—not any longer—but the public was certainly stirred.
Her eyes went from the headline to the article. The part she read spoke thusly: "Five years ago, the FBI's own Death Angel named Clarice Starling was thought to have been another victim of the monstrous serial killer and cannibal Hannibal Lecter. The Bureau and any other forms of law enforcement have all believed this to be true and have seen no reason to think otherwise, therefore letting her case slip through the cracks only to never be reopened. However, one of the Tribune's former colleagues who is still presumed missing was able to catch the agent in a photograph one year ago in the capitol of Argentina. There is no evidence to support that she neither was or is there with Lecter, nor is there any to suggest she is still there today, however one must ask why she would do this in the first place. It was brought up in the well-known tabloid called "the National Tattler", that former Agent Starling might have been in love with the madman. They thought their relationship to be comparable to that of a modern day, sickening, and twisted form of the fairy tale 'Beauty & the Beast'. Nothing can be said for certain, but there is just too much coincidence and too little evidence for there to be no questions or theories.'
She stopped reading and honestly, she did not wish to continue reading—at least not that paper. She wondered if the rest were worse, and if she had to guess, she would say yes. A heavy breath comes from her, but she does not let it deter her enough to keep from going through the rest of the news articles. Her left hand goes to rubbing soothing circles on her rounded abdomen whilst her right tosses aside the Harold Tribune. Next, there was the New York Times. While mentions of her and Lecter were not first page, there had been mention—the words similar and different to the Harold. They, however, wanted it to be left alone—they did believe that should Starling still be alive, it could be possible that she was living out this last half decade with Lecter—however, they countered it with the firm belief that she and her loved ones should be left at peace if she was indeed dead. They had no idea that she was alive and well, especially considering the circumstances.
This paper, like the proceeding one, found its place on the chair—askew and carelessly tossed aside. It was clear in the way she discarded these articles and the papers they were within that she held a fair amount of contempt for them. The eyes which were bright blue and made even brighter by the sunlight then went to the Argentinian article. Audible breaths combine with the sounds of the light breeze. As it blows past Clarice, her scent is carried to the entryway—where the notorious Hannibal Lecter stood, inhaling her aroma. His intensely heightened awareness of smells allows him to note the subtle changes in her natural bouquet. He believes that it has to do with her current condition, though it is all merely speculative. It is safe to say he does not have a plethora of experience in this department. After all, his medical doctoring knowledge applies more towards surgery—not obstetrics.
He watches closely with astute maroon eyes as she tosses the third paper aside. He notes the absolute and irrefutable disgust on her face as she glares at the National Tattler. He knows better than anyone how she feels about the rag, especially since they tore apart her reputation after the Evelda Drumgo shooting. He cannot help but to let his micro-expressive smirk come to his face as he observes her take hold of the Tattler, both hands gripping it as if they were vices. She wants rather badly to tear it apart, to make a mess of it as it did her. There is little restraint shown, but what she does show is a bit impressive to the doctor. Starling has the ability to surprise and scare Lecter, and it is something he has grown to value—this is particularly true because he can honestly say that no one else has managed to do this. He still had yet to figure out how she manages her rage, for the simple fact that she does not. She keeps it locked away until there comes a moment she can let it all out without concern for consequence. That is not exactly management.
After reading the articles, the fiery-haired woman took hold all four of the papers before picking up a lighter nearby. A grimace comes to her face as she sets the papers ablaze and tosses them into a nearby metallic trash bin. She watches them as they burn, tossing aside the lighter. Her arms cross just above her rounded abdomen as she turns to look to the view from the balcony. Starling hopes to find some sort of calm, a form of solace from this. She does—the way the sun makes the buildings and streets glow. It is beautiful. It is hypnotic. It is life-altering, no matter how many times she has seen it, and she has seen it a lot. As she found herself getting lost in the landscape, Lecter allowed his feet to carry him slowly towards Clarice. He was almost positive she knew he was there, so it would not be as though he would scare her. Besides, she did not spook that easily, anyhow—not anymore.
Once he was close enough, he let his hand gently caress the long tresses of slightly-curled hair which fell down her back. Lecter could tell by the hum which left his beloved that she knew he was there, behind her, coveting her in a manner of speaking. His hand then maneuvered to her shoulder, soothing the flesh there. While he was not certain of the compassion he had, or was even capable of, even to Clarice after everything that had transpired between them, he knows she needs some of it now. Though, she is aware of his capabilities. She had seen him express at least some level of it towards her. Perhaps she was an exception? The hand then is accompanied by the other as they journey down her frame, only pausing once they were on her stomach, steadily growing with the life forms maturing inside her. He cannot help but to feel a profound connection to the two fetuses which were a genetic compilation of both himself and Starling. For most men it is understood that they do not truly become fathers until they see and hold their children, however it should also be understood that Lecter is not most men.
"Well, hello, Clarice." His voice comes out quite like the menacing one he had used long ago when he first said these words to her. It, like many things in the complex and contorted relationship, was something that managed to remain a reoccurring constant, something which only they shared. His mouth is right against her ear as he speaks, and because of this closeness, he can practically feel the sensations which run down her spine in response.
"Mm, hello Hannibal," Her response comes in a welcoming and warm voice, contrasting the feelings which vibrated her vertebrae merely seconds prior, however it has become the average for them, if anything could be classified as normal in their relationship.
His thumbs gently caress her bump, feeling the slight movements of the tiny children. While Clarice had grown used to these feelings, and of course to love it; Hannibal was still grasping the sheer reality of it all. He felt himself to be too much of a monster for the idea of even being able to have a child, much less having his dearest lioness being a little over seventeen weeks pregnant with twins. When the movements suddenly became stronger, he chuckles—amused and fascinated.
"And hello, little bird—little lamb—how are you two doing this lovely afternoon?" The nicknames were something both came up with early on—and they would stick later in the children's lives.
The way he talked to them, the way he treated Clarice—it all made him seem like a different person, though he was not. There's just a different level of appreciation, admiration towards them—it was not anything he could truly feel with anyone else. Many would argue that he could not feel at all, yet for his family there is something profoundly distinctive.
"They woke me up real early this mornin' with all their movin' around, I think it's a much better wakeup call than any other one I've ever gotten in my life." The comment is spoken with a contentment Starling never experienced before, a form of happiness which could only be brought about with the promise of motherhood.
"Is that so?" He questions, a notable intrigue in his tone. "Well, as humorous as that is, my love…they really ought to let you rest."
As they shared this moment, the intimacy left way for their guard to be brought down—therefore allowing the voyeur watching them to snap a few telling photographs of them together. When he pulled the camera away from his face, he could no longer see the cannibalistic couple—positioned too far away from them in order to do so. However, this did not deter him from his goal. He is not like the missing reporter. He has no affiliation with any papers. He is a private investigator, hired by three people who are all after the same thing—locating Clarice Starling. His clients were Ardelia Mapp, Will Graham, and Alana Bloom. With Jack Crawford long dead and in the ground next to his wife, it was a burden left to the three musketeers, if one should even call them that. They knew what they had to do—but they did not know the whole story. Even with the letters they had all received, they believed Starling to be a victim, a hostage. The photos the gumshoe had managed to get would provide proof that there's willingness, not coerced—no sign of force, no reservations. Perhaps the trio would think to overlook this, because—like what Bedelia Du Maurier had said—he persuades, making the act almost similar to an art.
"I know…I know. It's all right, though, really. I get rest, I do." Clarice's voice murmured out gently as she turned in his embrace. "We're doin' just fine, we are. Y' really got to stop worryin' so much."
"I have good cause to worry, Clarice." He points it out, head cocking slightly.
"I know you do, Hannibal. I know."
"Are you by any chance hungry? I would certainly not mind preparing you anything you desire."
"Mm, yeah—I could go for a bite."
A couple days later, the private investigator had made it back to the United States, photographic evidence in tow. In FBI headquarters, Will, Ardelia, and Alana were waiting for the man—a slew of evidence tacked up onto a light brown colored board, files and papers and computers alike are also in the room. Will, hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, paced a bit throughout the room—it's obvious in his demeanor that he is becoming impatient. Alana was seated at the large table in the center of the room, book in hand. It was a piece of educational material focused on Stockholm's syndrome. It had been ages since she had read it—and she, fortunately, had not had to deal with it in her career, not yet. Ardelia, meanwhile, was seated in a corner—files with information about Clarice in her lap. As she read through them, her fingers mindlessly toyed with the emerald ring her dear friend had given her long ago. She rarely ever took it off. She knew without a shadow of a doubt that Starling was alive, though had no desire to do as her letter had said—I'm fine, and better than fine. Don't look for me. I'm sorry I scared you. Burn this. Like hell, Mapp wasn't going to look.
"Hey, sorry I'm so late. Airport was hell."
"What do you got?" Ardelia asked almost instantaneously, setting aside the files before standing.
"Well, it's good news and it's bad news. Depends on how you take it, I guess." The gumshoe replied.
"Tell us," Will spoke up, his occasionally too-observant hues locking on the man, though careful to avoid eye contact.
"I've managed to take some pictures of 'em, but, um, what I found isn't exactly what I had expected." He takes a pause before continuing on, advancing further into the room now dedicated to the location of Clarice M. Starling. "She's with Lecter. She's in Argentina. Only I—I think we might be in trouble."
"How so?" Alana spoke, the Stockholm literature now put aside for a later continuance. There's an obvious concern she demonstrates in the manner of which she speaks—and she is concerned. She and Clarice had been friends throughout most of the younger woman's time in the bureau. The doctor would even go so far as to say that she saw her like a younger sister.
"I think—I've got good reason to think she's pregnant."
A silence falls over the room as the three individuals looking into this ponder what this means. Was she raped? Was it consensual? They all obviously hoped for the latter—and even believed the former to be highly unlikely; not a part of Lecter's profile. It is indeed stunning news, regardless.
"What makes you think that?" Will asked, moving towards the table.
Riley Haines, the private detective, fumbled through his satchel—grabbing the photographs he managed to take the day he was watching the couple in Buenos Aires. In addition to the photograph he took of Starling and Hannibal on the balcony, there was one of her out on a jog, one of them walking into a store, and another of her standing in the yard as she watched birds. All of them, in one way or another, showed the redhead sporting a protruding abdomen.
"These." Haines speaks, gesturing haphazardly towards the images with his index finger.
"Oh, my God…" Ardelia spoke, a slight disgust and apparent disbelief in her tone.
"She's got to be about seven or eight months by now." Bloom added on, her hands going to sift through the snapshots.
"Can we check that for sure?" Ardelia questioned, eyes darting between the other three persons in the room.
"Maybe, but I doubt we'd find anything. They've been real careful up until now, and I don't see that changing anytime soon. If anyone besides Lecter is assisting in her medical care, then it's probably not going to be on record, or in a false name—they've had really good cover identities, too. I mean, it took us months to find them—the kid could be born before we find what we're looking for." Will pointed out, glancing to the pictures once more.
"We, um, may not have to do that. I kept watching them from a safe distance when they were at a store—Lecter was buying clothes and so was Starling, but the store had this small section of really fancy baby clothing. Looked top dollar—not anything I could ever afford. Anyway, so, I noticed as they passed the window that they got a twin set of baby dresses—so, she's most likely having twins—and since they're already at the buying baby stuff phase, I'd say it's a safe bet we can assume they know what they're having—but she doesn't look too big quite yet. I'd say she's maybe four to six months, but six would be pushing it."
"Twins?" Alana spoke.
"Great. Just when I thought we'd have one miniature version of him running around, it gets better—two!" The scorn Will feels towards Lecter is apparent in the manner in which he speaks.
"And Clarice is going to be their mom…" Mapp added, pinching the bridge of her nose.