The characters, as usual, belong to Thomas Harris.

 Ministrations 

Still covered with blood, Dr. Lecter picked the lite body with infinite care and made his way to the tub.

The day's events were finally catching up with him, and the physical, as well as emotional wear and tear was taking its toll.

He remembered how well things had been going from the beginning. There had been no indication whatsoever of what was to come. He was aware of the possible complications but there had been no signs, no warning whatsoever that Clarice was suddenly going to turn the way she did, and when trouble started, it was so sudden and overwhelming that it reminded him of an avalanche.

He had found himself putting his feelings aside and taking radical action before everything was lost.

To cut her, in the manner he did, at the time he did, was a fast, calculated decision into which his personal feelings had no part whatsoever.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Carefully he tested the temperature of the running water, until it was to his satisfaction.

Then, very carefully, started to wash the blood off her.

First he run his hand thru her back, the skin so unbelievable soft that he shook his head in wonderment

He was careful to keep a firm but gentle grip as he ran water over  her legs, and splattered  it between the toes,  tiny and delicate, and heard himself long ago, commenting "you have very shapely feet!."

"Clarice's feet…" he reminded himself.

He ran his hand over her head, making sure to rinse the blood from the fine hair.

He was afraid to lose grip, she was slippery and seemed to fight his ministrations, which didn't surprise him.

He turned her then and gently, cleaned the blood off her face;  working fast  because he was afraid to lose his grip.

Once all the blood was rinsed off, he gently carried her to the  table and laying her on her back, dried her carefully and began to dress her up.

He was almost finished, trying to get a thin arm thru the sleeve of the chemise, when the minute six fingered hand wrapped itself around one of his fingers.

Hannibal Lecter gasped as his chest swelled with an unfamiliar, overwhelming emotion which he could barely identify as a mixture of love and awe.

He looked at the little hand around his finger, a miniature replica of his old left hand, and his red eyes met  brand  new red ones and held there.

And thus, Hannibal Lecter, intelligent beyond measure, labeled "monster" by his peers and murder of many,  faced fatherhood at age sixty four, with eyes full of tears and a swollen heart.

He, then,  picked up his tiny daughter and held her against his chest as he spoke to her for the first time, "lets go meet your momma now; pretty girl",  he cooed as tears permitted.