The Price of Red
By
honeyinthelion
Summary: Hannibal must once again tend to his little starling upon coming home to find her weeping. Rated 'M' for later chapters as violence will be woven into the story line and some choice words will most likely be utilized in addition.
*Please note that I am a fanfic virgin: so do please try to be gentle with your reviews!*
Disclaimer:I cannot take credit for the sensational characters created by Thomas Harris that fall under the "Hannibal Lecter" series: however much I would like to do so.
Hannibal stepped into the spacious kitchen and placed the items purchased onto the counter. He began to unpack the provisions when suddenly, breaking the wafting silence of the house, were sobs resonating from the second floor.
Hannibal stopped and tensed his mouth. Oh my little starling, why do you repine quite so?
He padded lightly up the staircase of their home: being careful to not disturb the sound equilibrium. He utilized his ears to follow the sound waves as they transmitted through the house: sojourning his steps when he determined that the cries were coming from the bathroom ensuite to the master bedchamber.
Clarice, pregnant? He mused this notion over in his head, assuming this derivation as the root of her tears.
From their first night of intimacy on the Chesapeake shoreline, Clarice and Hannibal never used birth control. Yes, he knew that it was irresponsible to say the least and that the consequences would eventually come to this; as basic biology and chance did not favor the situation. Hannibal Lecter was just a man and he too, was not cognizant of such thoughts whenever they delved into sensual delights. However, whole-heartedly he always knew that if and when such an occasion would arise, he would jump into it with two feet rather willingly.
He rasped to the doorlightly and heard Clarice intake a sharp breath, almost as if she was unaware of his presence.
"Hannibal, is that you?" Her voice sounded hoarse and he concluded that she must have been crying for an extended portion of time.
"Clarice. What is wrong ma chère?" He paused: she spoke no words. He turned the knob of the door: locked.
"Just go away Hannibal!"
"No." He paused. "Please open the door Clarice. I need to see that everything is suffice." After hesitation and a deep sigh from the other side of the threshold, a small key appeared under the space of the door.
In truth, he expected to see Clarice curled up infant like on the cool tiles of the tiled floor with a positive pregnancy test lying close to her person. However, upon opening up the door, he was surprised to see a Clarice with black streaks down her cheeks and no pregnancy test in sight. She moved into the light.
"Clarice, What-"
"The hairstylist." She sobbed. "I went to a hairstylist today to get my hair back to it's original color, and," an encore in her sobs, "and I come out looking like THIS!"
Hannibal let his eyes wander over her hair: Far from the shade of blonde that was used to disguise her true identity after leaving Chesapeake Bay, there was now a color that could only be described as vibrant hue of cherry.
"Clarice," he said slowly, trying to formulate which words should be used in the situation, so that the further upsetting of her could be avoided.
"It is atrocious I know. Hannibal, I am so upset. My hair! My beautiful hair!" A new batch of tears began to sprout from her ducts: nonetheless harder than before.
"Clarice," he said, background music to her gasping and tears "while I am not inclined to say that the new hue pleases me immensely so, I will say that you, Clarice, are beautiful to I, no matter such trivial externalities." With this, her responses began to wane until all that was left was the sound of her sniffles. He pulled her to his body tightly so (it filled the negative spaces to his) and kissed her fastidiously upon the cheek.
"Mmmm, salty." He tasted her tears against his full lips. She let out a laugh that indicated how the organs of her thoracic cavity were still quivering due to such physiological responses in correlation to her perception of the situation at hand.
She looked over his shoulder to the hanging mirror and stared at her reflection: forehead crinkling in response.
"I have hooker hair." She felt Hannibal vibrate heartily against her body in amusement. Perhaps she thought, the consonance of the sentence in relation to the depth of the situation, was even too much for someone of his steely control. He pulled away and looked into her eyes of blue.
"Well Clarice, if more hookers resembled you, I shall shamelessly admit that I would have been more inclined to have hired them on past occasions." He smiled. He winked. And she smiled in appreciation.
"Now for you," he continued, his eyes still upon her visage, "I think that it would be beneficial for you to surrender to sleep: Lest a post-weeping headache should befall you. Do you need a sedative to accomplish that or do you render yourself able, Clarice?
"I think the sedative will help H. Can you please help me to bed?"
"Certainly mon chou d'amour." His eyes lapped over her Celtic skin as she led the way.