"You don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head."
The words had the ring of both truth and inevitability from the moment she first heard them. Yet, somehow, she can't say she fought against it – not the way she's sure Crawford would have expected, nor that she herself would have imagined, if she'd thought to try. It was difficult to put into words the effect he had on her, an effect that had begun the very moment her eyes landed on his still form inside the stone cell.
She was frightened and doing a poor job of hiding it. The long walk down the stone hallway, past the caged monsters that humanity refused to claim, shook her to the core and the remembered feel of the administers eyes roaming her body had already had her on edge. When she'd finally caught sight of him, he was so still, so calm, and despite all she knew, despite the photos and case files, despite common sense – she'd felt safe. Oh, she was nervous and afraid of doing something that would forever disappoint Crawford – or of making a foul of herself on her first real assignment in any way. And she knew there was more to her mission then the damn questioner. But when their eyes met she knew. Oddly it took him somewhat longer to reach the same conclusion. How long exactly they'd never discussed and she knew better then to ask.
He killed for her.
Oh, the analysts all said it was to amuse himself, or because he couldn't stand such behavior taking place directly in front of him. But she knew. While it was all of those things it was also for her. And while that notion should have turned her stomach, the reality was that it sent a shiver of a different sort to a very different location.
She'd thanked him sincerely but with the understanding that she didn't require such protection, although she thought it particularly kind of him to take the trouble. He had started to reevaluate her, you could see the spark of interest turn into a flame. It had been nearly tangible even through the glass.
Oh, she'd not said the words. She wasn't a foul. Their conversations were not private and no one would understand it if she came out and said what she was really thinking. But he didn't need the actual words. He could read it on her as surely as he could the words on the pages she sent into his cell.
It hadn't taken much to put a message into the "offer". Whether he understood the entirety of it as she stood there, just outside the glass, she didn't know. But he'd received it by the next time she saw him. Again, they were not free to speak but again they didn't need words. She gave him back the drawings, careful to select just the right ones. She couldn't get him a weapon, not in the traditional sense, but he didn't need traditional weapons. She'd gotten him as far as she could. The rest would have to be up to him.
It was a bargain with the devil as her father would say. A bargain forged in silent exchanges and in the white spaces between the lines of text. It could all be in her imagining. Or he could be playing her. Or it could be just as she thought it was.
She wasn't sure, not completely, not until she reached for the file and his finger had slowly caressed hers. His nostrils had flared the instant they parted and she knew that he knew the effect such a simple touch had on her.
Of course he didn't give her a name. That would have been almost an insult by this point. Besides, he'd wanted her to have the credit. It was all part of their game, the foreplay really. She hadn't expected to take on the killer herself, alone, without any true hope of backup. If he'd guessed that would be the outcome he might have altered the plan. As it was, she played her part well. Killer dead – the first time she'd ever killed anything – and case solved, girl home. She graduated and would be offered her choice of spots, BSU included, that was a given. And she waved off their concern. He wouldn't come after her, she said. Which really meant he wouldn't harm her. He'd killed the guards they argued. She didn't tell them what the guards had done – a slip of the hand, a leer, a whispered innuendo, and a knowing chuckle – he might have let them live, if they hadn't dragged her way and if they'd been just a bit more careful.
It took everything she had not to smile at the phone call. It wouldn't surprise her if it was taped, and she knew he knew that. Again, the words that really mattered were encased in the silences between the spoken phrases. He had to finish a few things, and she had to go on and prove that her success wasn't a fluke, make all her years of study count for more than a single lamb.
It would be another two years before she heard from him again. A letter, postmarked from Africa, and containing nothing of note or consequence and sounding for all the world as if it was from an old family friend. It was simply signed Bille Chanteran. The return address was for a law firm in Hamburg and so began the long and somewhat odd correspondence of a young FBI agent and the exotic art dealer. It was so obvious that she kept expecting someone to figure it out – or at least to ask how she got to know such a gentleman on an FBI agents starting salary.
But no questions came and everyone seemed to accept that she was carrying on a long distance friendship across the Atlantic Ocean with a man they knew only a name and an occupation for. She even let Ardelia read a few of their exchanges, unsure if she hoped she would see the truth or if she wanted confirmation that all was safe. Her friend seemed disappointed that all they talked about was her cases and how his search for the perfect pastel chalk was going. Ardelia had expected a grand romance and instead she read only about the simple everyday things that two pen pals might discuss. After that the letters came more frequently, the details richer, and the sketches more alive. They knew that while the FBI wasn't done looking, they didn't understand.
Of course, Ardelia didn't know to read between the lines. She didn't recognize the elegant twist of the letters or the significance of the charcoal sketches that graced the inside of every envelope.
Eventually they would decide to go after him. It was inevitable. And so, when that day came, she was there. She was ready and following in their wake. They thought she went to capture him. They thought she wanted the glory for herself.
In a way she would miss Crawford and his not-entirely-innocent mentoring. The work was interesting, often a challenge. And while the lambs were never silent they did seem far less in number.
But together, oh together they were more. She followed the sketches, down the river Bille and on. She knew the way by heart even if she'd never set foot on the continent before. She knew the way because he'd shown her.
She didn't intend to go back and he knew, without her words, that she'd done all she cared to in that life. And so he took her when the time was right.
He wasn't a perfect man, and his weight was just as heavy as she remembered, this her long lost lamb. He would always be dangerous, caged or out. But she knew how to read him, how to anticipate him, and he kept to his bargain. He sated himself on those she hunted and she contented herself with every life saved in their absence. She grew to appreciate his skill and he her quiet morality. And if Ardelia or the others wondered when it began she'd have gladly told them.
It was bitterly cold that morning as she'd run across the fields, the soft warmth of his fleece scratching at her nose as buried her face in his neck.