An effort, since it can only be called that. (A short effort as well) Inspired by Astor Piazzolla's 'Tango Sensations: Fear' (arr. Calandrelli) Performed by Yo-Yo Ma, Nestor Marconi, Leonardo Marconi, and Hector Console. It can be found on the Yo-Yo Ma album Classic Yo-Yo, available from Sony Classical.
Title: Fates
Timeline: Seven months after the end of SotL
Canon: Book
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Clarice fights memories of the Good Doctor as she tries to decipher the warring emotions Fate has given her for him.
Disclaimer: The usual. The characters involved are not mine, but are property of Thomas Harris.
*****
The emotion brushed her periphery like the brush of a moth's wings against the screen: barely there. No more than a few seconds and it flooded her entire being with its presence, permeating every cell, filling every breath with its horror. The pain it bore was excruciating, white hot ice that pulsed through her veins, threatening to push her over the edge if she didn't cling so tightly to the one thing that anchored her. Her breath began to escape in short gasps, quickening into raspy sobs as she lost her grip. A scream built in her lips as she fell into the pit below her. Falling, falling through the sparking shower of his gaze. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, she wanted to scream that at him. But all that came was the dying whisper on her lips, too late to prevent her own incorruptibility. She would never feel her body impact in the bottom of his soul, she would only know the sensation of forever falling.
She bolted upright in the bed, unsure what had awakened her from the restless slumber. Hair stood on end on her arms as she clutched the blankets around her, seeking any warmth at all. Falling. She had been falling, into the abyss. She who fought monsters had tumbled right into the gaping maw of her prey. The fall disturbed her greatly, since she knew that she had never felt impact. Rising from the bed, planting her feet firmly on the floor, which was the closest thing to solid ground at the moment. She did not move until she was sure that her footing was real, and that she would not have the world crumble the moment she put her weight on it. Slow steps to the bathroom, not bothering with the light as she ran water into the sink, splashing it on her face. Trying to grasp the strange emotion that had consumed her in the nightmare. Consumed. The word and just the thought made her shiver violently, reminding her of the chill that lingered in her body. Returning to the bedroom now, sitting on the edge of the bed, temple resting on fists as she prayed that those weren't tears she felt running down her cheeks.
Seven months since the dramatic end to the Buffalo Bill case. The end was untypically cinematic, and she was quote sure Hollywood would find some way to glamorize her efforts. Would perpetuate the myth that she loved him. Not the dead man, the escaped man. The man who had made a promise to her, not to call on her. There was a strange twinge that she didn't readily identify as she thought of him. Opposite the chill that was still sitting like a lump of burning ice in the pit of stomach. Such a warring of intangibilities, such emotions never became her, and she could not identify them. She felt her heart flutter with the intrepidness of a small bird. Slowly, she lay back into the bed, resting her cheek against he pillow, refusing to curl back under the covers, for fear they might imprison her. It struck her then, what that ball of ice was in her stomach, the searing pain that had flashed through her veins like a tidal wave. She knew what she had felt.
Like the tiny trickle of water that precedes the flash flood through the canyon walls, Clarice Starling felt the thought grow. She was swept away in the flood that filled her then, pulsing through her mind with deadly intent. She should have nothing to fear, he would not call on her. He would not harm her. That assuaged the wall of water that was bearing down on her, crushing her, tearing her through rapids formed by her own incorruptibility. Something else penetrated into the water, and she lifted her head to breathe. Warmth filled her sodden form, washed out from the canyons, basking in something more. The other conflicting emotion, so rarely felt by her, so difficult to identify, even more so than the fear. It pushed the fear away, banished it back to the ancient recesses from whence it came. The touch, barely a finger brush, in Memphis through the bars of his cage. The electric shock that had run a tumultuous course through her body, with the intensity of a lightning strike. She hadn't acknowledged it, not willing to believe in such a thing, yet there it was, filling her to capacity. The thing called love.
Fear of the monster, the being so entirely Other. The other side of the coin Fate had so carelessly thrown into the air. Love of the monster, the being so entirely Other. She could see the coin in the air, twisting as it fell, so bright and clear in her minds eye. Eyes close as she reaches a hand out to catch the coin, to hold Fate in her hand, and to decide. She can see him watching her from his shadows, trapped outside the windows of her soul, watching like a voyeur. He is as intent on seeing which side of the coin she will receive as she. Time slows, glimpses of each sensation and the reactions they cause within her, displayed on the swiftly tumbling coin. And she is at the bottom of the abyss, waiting for the answers she seeks. Which twist Fate will take, which path she will trod. A look away from the coin, into those molten eyes which burn into her with a heat no less than that of the sun. Pinpricks of maroon starlight that spin towards his center of being. Seeing the tumbling coin reflected there, as he reaches out as well, to snatch her answer away, and to make her accept his decision.
To fear or to love? The question echoes through Starling's mind as sleep claims her once again. Never knowing what would come until it had arrived on her doorstep. Awaiting the Fate of the coin, to divine her destiny.
*****
The pulse of the music is tangible in the warm air of the quiet room. Surf pounds the beach below, adding to the beat that pulses with his own. He is still and silent, relaxed in the overstuffed armchair, eyes like fire and head like pelt in the candlelight. A quick flash before his eyes, a twisting coin in the air. He reaches out to it, seizing the metallic object. It is subjected to his senses; how it feels against the pads of his fingers, how it smells when he holds it close, how it tastes as he runs pointed tongue over rimmed edge, how it looks in the reflecting candlelight, and finally how it sounds as it falls to the floor when loosed from his hand. Hard, violent, resulting of its inability to fight gravity's pull. Fate and coins have two faces, yet we can only see one at a time. For now, he remembers her fear. The faintest tinge of it on her determinedly unperfumed body that day in the dungeon. She hid it well, tucked away where others could not see it and seize upon it. As he closes his eyes, luxuriating in the living rhythm of the music, he wonders if that fear has seized her yet? Her fear of him. Yes.
Slowly, eyes remaining closed, seeming still even as he moves, he reaches for the coin. A faint ting of fingernail on metal as the coin is vaulted into the air once again, to see what Fate will decide for them next.
*****
FIN