Interludes of the Damned… The fated back story appears! I thought it would be appreciated if we all knew the little things that happened, all that stuff I didn't put in the tale because I forgot we aren't telepathic and such. I liked my chapter title from Autumn Tidings a bit much, so it has become the series title for this bunch. It will take viewpoints from Hannibal, Clarice (gasp!) and Emily. Something to entertain between my tale postings, too. I do hope you enjoy, even if the first is mush. Ta-ta, dear ones.
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Light, dim, muted with the chatter of a hundred whispering voices. Slowly, the light brightens, bringing the room into sharp relief. The singing note of the orchestra tuning their instruments, polite chit chat echoing up to the balcony. She looks over the edge, viewing the stage and audience below. The seat next to her lays empty, her escort for the evening never having shown. She is alone, once again. The story of her life it seems. Find one man, only to lose him before she knows it. Self pity has no place in her life now. Where before she would have wallowed in it, albeit intermittently, she now can't even think of pitying herself. One of the other facets of the realization he had brought her too. She can recall the weight of the knife in her hand, the drop of blood as she pressed it to his neck. Closing her eyes, she can see him again. The eyes, her reflection in them, seeing the depths of their souls, coming to the understanding that they were just alike.
"Just alike." it is whispered and she feels a tear welling in her eye. She blinks it away as she feels a hand on her shoulder. Mrs. DeGraffe of the opera board is smiling at her, polite concern in her eyes.
"Are you okay, Dr. Christen?"
Emily clears her mind, wiping the slate before her in memory blank and closing the door. "Yes, thank you."
A nod from the plump woman. "I'd like you to meet the newest member of the board. He took over Mark Danielson's position."
Emily rises, right hand dropping to smooth the dark green fabric of her dress. "Of course. I'd be delighted, Mrs. DeGraffe." she follows the older woman into the lobby outside her balcony. Small knots of people speak quietly, catching up on the gossip of the social elite. Mrs. DeGraffe heads to a small group in the far corner, slightly distanced from the other knots. Time slows as Emily finds her legs turning leaden on her. The man with his back to her. The other people in the group look up, two women and another man look up and smile as she and Mrs. DeGraffe approach. Mrs. DeGraffe's high voice speaking to them, Emily has suddenly lost all understanding of the words. The others step away, sensing that this is going to be a private introduction. The gentleman is nodding to them, and then he turns. Her eyes follow from the champagne flute in his hand to up the arm of the silk suit, finely tailored. If time could stop for one moment in the world, we would see for that this would be that moment.
"Hello." the voice mellow, with a slight metallic rasp. Mrs. DeGraffe is handling introductions and Emily manages to snap the world back into focus.
"May I introduce Dr. Amelia Christen." Mrs. DeGraffe is beaming, and Emily slowly extends her hand to the gentleman.
"A pleasure, Doctor. I am Dr. Antonio Rinaldi." he takes her hand, bowing his lips to it, rushing a light kiss against the pale skin. His head is sleek and dark as he raises his eyes to hers. "If I may, Doctor, what do you practice?"
Her voice sounds awkward in her own ears, but neither Mrs. DeGraffe nor Dr. Rinaldi give any indication that it is so to them. "Psychiatry." He nods, a smile crossing the face. A chime, indicating that the opera is about to start, breaks her out of her zombie like feeling. Mrs. DeGraffe takes her leave, moving away on the arm of her husband. The doctors are left alone, and Emily is overly conscious of her breathing. She knows she should say her goodbyes and walk away, return to her seat in the private balcony, but she cannot. If she weren't so sure that he was real, she'd say that he was the product of wishful thinking. She can see her reflection in his maroon eyes as she stands there.
"No escort for the evening, Dr. Christen?" his words are polite, giving no hint that he does in fact know her.
"No, he had to cancel at the last moment." not that it was much of a loss. Gregory was a nice guy, but was no Hannibal Lecter. She squashed that line of thought before it grew, shoving it into a hole. Really, really bad, and now, here he was, standing before her. The words have slipped from her lips before she realizes it.
"Would you care to join me, Dr. Rinaldi?"
A slight bow of his head, as he extends his arm to her. "I would be delighted."
*****
Later that evening, she lays curled in the corner of the sofa, soft silk of her pajama top open as her daughter suckles her breast. She reflects that he didn't say much to her earlier in the evening. He was gracious, only once hinting at their past. When he had traced a finger across her cheek, noting the soft feel of it.
"Parted with your scars?" he asked, but before she could reply, he had hushed her with a glance, turning back to the spectacle before them. It was unusual, and it was the first time she had ever truly enjoyed the opera. It moved her, and she was pleased to find that her Italian had improved to the point to which she could follow along with ease. At the end of the evening, he had bid her farewell, bestowing a second kiss on her hand. She watched him exit into the night, and she finally forced her legs to work and made it to the Lincoln.
Home now, safe with her daughter in her arms. His daughter, she reflects. One impossible night while they were fleeing Vermont, one night before they parted ways. Fate had its ways. She did not see them as star-crossed lovers though, anything but. She sighs, and lets her eyes close for a moment, brushing a finger across Michelle's downy hair. Blonde, like her mother's, but with those fascinating red eyes. She feels a puff of air from behind her, and she can smell the familiar scent carried on it. Tennessee Lavender and fleece, almond soap, unmistakably him. She cannot turn around to greet him, Michelle has made that quite impossible at the moment. His figure, imperially slim, comes into her view, as he lowers himself to the edge of the couch. She opens her eyes and drinks in the sight of him, looking into the deep eyes, made all the more red by the low light from the fireplace. His left hand reaches out to caress her cheek, and she leans into the palm, feeling its softness. He takes it away from her and gentle lays it against Michelle's head, hand nearly covering it completely. His eyes meet hers, and she feels a rush of relief flow over her.
"She is beautiful." he speaks softly, watching the child suckle, fingers resting on the blonde fluff. "Much like her mother."
She is glad fro the low light, so that he cannot see the flush that is creeping into her cheeks. "Thank you." a pause, as she tries to find the right words. "You came."
A nod, and a finger finds its way to her breast. "I came. How could I not? Sweet, sweet Emily."
"I had my doubts." she confesses, shivering lightly, but not from cold.
"Unfounded, of course. I apologize for my distance at the theater. I didn't think our reunion should be public."
A soft breath from her lips. "No." She feels Michelle pull away, eyelids growing heavy as she decides her late night meal is done. Emily takes the cloth from her shoulder and wipes at the infant's mouth and her nipple before she returns it to her shoulder. Baby girl is raised, and gently patted, coaxing a burp from her. Carefully, she is cradled in the crook of her mother's arm. Dr. Hannibal Lecter looks down wonderingly into the little girl's face, eyes widening as hers open momentarily. He sees them, and marvels at the color. They close again and little Michelle drifts off to sleep. He looks to Emily, the question poised on his lips. She answers before he can ask.
"Yes. She is yours, Hannibal."
His hand trembles slightly as he strokes the tiny fingers. They clutch at his through instinct and he is amazed. In all his years, he never really saw himself fathering a child, much less a baby girl. But she is real, and the delight builds in him as he stares at her. Emily clears her throat, bringing him back to reality. She nods her head, indicating that she needs to get up. He moves and trails her as she heads up the stairs. The nursery is light by a lamp on the dresser, while clouds and butterflies dance on the walls and ceilings. She places his daughter in the crib, and turns on the baby monitor that hangs inside. A brush of her lips against her fingertips which are then brushed against the baby's forehead. She steps away, smiling at him as she turns off the light.
"What is her name?"
"Michelle Starling Christen" she closes the door, leaving it open only a crack. "You can stay, if you like." she offers as she pauses by the door, standing so close to him. She tilts her head as she looks at him, hoping that he will say yes. In reply, she is drawn closer, and held as his lips meet hers. She is breathless as he releases her from the kiss, hand still supporting her on the small of her back.
"Little Mischa." then, "I would like that very much, dear Emily." He lets her turn, feeling the slim hand take his as she leads him to the master bedroom. He would like that very much indeed.
*****