A Thousand Years
-Diane-
"I came halfway around the world to watch you run, Clarice," he told her in that cultured, even voice, breathing hard and pressing her into the refrigerator with incredible strength. Clarice stared back defiantly, her chin lifted and her eyes unblinking.
He leaned in a little closer, close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. "Let me run, huh?"
They simply looked at each other for a moment, the only sound their labored breathing. Then Clarice summoned all of her strength and pushed back against him, succeeding in moving him two feet or so, holding his shoulders in a death grip.
Then she felt herself being slammed back into the fridge, the back of her skull hitting hard and then bouncing back.
She breathed in deeply. For the first time that night, she was glad that he had drugged her with morphine, which dulled her wits a bit, but at least prevented her from feeling more than a slight throbbing in her head and upper back.
She leaned her head back against the top of the refrigerator, her heart racing. His hands were gripping her arms, so close that their bodies were almost touching. He took a shaky breath. Though still in possession of above average strength, he wasn't getting any younger, and Clarice was very strong.
Suddenly he reached down to grasp the handle of the fridge and pulled open the door. Her thick ponytail slid inside, and he slammed the door and ripped off the handle, trapping her. He looked her in the eyes and pointedly held up the handle, placing it on top of the fridge, next to her head.
Hannibal took a step back, and just looked at her. Again they stood, staring and listening to the sound of their joined breathing. He leaned his face close to hers again, as if to whisper something confidential.
"Tell me, Clarice," he said softly, looking straight into her eyes. "Would you ever say to me, 'Stop. If you loved me, you'd stop'?"
She drew a sharp breath, feeling tears form in the corners of her eyes. She looked at him, not blinking.
"Not in a thousand years," she said, her voice strong but barely more than a whisper. A physical pain in her chest; the feeling of her heart breaking.
He raised his eyebrows. "Not in a thousand years," he repeated, sotto voce.
He leaning in, an infinitesimal distance between his lips and hers, and bared his white, pointy teeth. Clarice tensed but didn't flinch.
Then he paused, a sardonic grin on his face, and moved back.
"That's my girl," he whispered, and kissed her.