Title: Draw the Line
Author: Pseudo-Morals (Axl of LL)
Genre: Silence of the Lambs/Hannibal
Category: Romance
Rating: R, for language
Feedback: Sure. E-mails can be sent to xwhytherum@aol.com
Archive?: Confirmed at Loving Lecter (typhoidandswans.com); all else, ask.
Summary: Working from an anonymous tip, Starling hunts Lecter in a warehouse.
Author's Notes: Lyrics are credited solely to Aerosmith. Much thanks to Manzin and Steph (as far as I know, not FanFiction.net authors) for tolerance of my weapons-related questions.
DRAW THE LINE
Starling:
The flashlight beam plays over the littered floor, and Starling stares with
narrowed, squinting eyes beyond its range. It is not completely dark, but the
warehouse is dim enough that additional light is helpful, almost necessary. She
wants to look at her wristwatch, but to do so would be to lose sight of the
floor and all that could be hiding in the shadowy corners. She cannot risk
dropping her guard, not even briefly.
Even so, she estimates that she has spent an hour, at least, engaged in this ridiculous
game of cat and mouse. She is the feline now, but who knows what could happen
in only a second's notice?
She walks quickly, though at enough of a temperate pace that her footsteps are
not glaringly loud. Turning the light off is debated, but the notion is
discarded after a short while of deliberation. Starling is willing to forfeit
the element of surprise to protect her own safety. What good would she be to
the Bureau, if she were to fall victim to a grisly death?
Lecter had told her that the world was far more
interesting with her in it. She believed him then; she does now. And yet, she
cannot fathom all that he has endured over the years. Even the most restrained
man will lash out at those he holds dear, if needled to the breaking point.
A faint noise from ahead, from an unexplored area, brings her, with a jolt,
back to the task at hand. It may be a matter as unimportant as a common mouse,
but she finds it safer to be cautious. She shifts the flashlight to her left
hand, the right reaching back for her gun.
A 9mm Browning pistol, of Belgian design. Not what she
would use if she had, had time to peruse a selection of available firearms. It
was nearly an antique, a semi-automatic weapon used in Vietnam
as a personal weapon by many. It was suited mainly to confined spaces, and she
had thought it fitting for this expedition.
Starling is not currently on assignment. Nor is she, under normal
circumstances, one to jump at the arrival of any tip as to the doctor's
whereabouts, let alone an anonymous call. There is something different about
this, however. It is as if she is desperate to find him, for reasons beyond his
status as federal fugitive.
Movement: a shadow, shifting in the near distance. With a flick of the wrist,
the light dances across a wide doorway. She hears quiet scuffling, and almost
immediately associates it with shoe-soles scraping cement. Bingo.
Checkmate, honey, beat you at your own damn game.
It is a line from a song, one that she knows well. The kind of music that you
don't have to listen to, so natural it feels as though you have known it from
birth.
The song in question takes up cheerful residence behind more pressing thoughts,
providing background music to distract her from the nearly frantic beating of
her heart. The blood is roaring in her ears, the stinging taste of bile floods
her throat and she wants to gag, but she bites back the reflex, blinking
rapidly to clear away the tears that accompany acute nausea.
Starling is unsure as to whether or not she actually has the nerve to apprehend
Lecter. Though much time has passed since her eyes
last swept across his face, lined with life's experiences, she remembers all
too well the fluttering sensation. The wings of those rare
death's-head moths, licking at her ribcage.
She does not recognize it as love, as love is an emotion for friends, for
utterly forgettable strangers on the television. For anyone
but Clarice Starling. She is under the impression that the only way to
succeed, is to remain a stoic. She tries this now, with as much desperation as
she had felt, arms aching with the heavy, awkward bundle of squirming lamb,
running from the ranch with no concrete destination.
All is quiet as she edges past the doorframe, arm extended, the
pistol pointing off into empty darkness. She is counting now on being
unexpected, and so she switches the flashlight off, but keeps it, ready, at her
side.
Her weak spot has always been the corner.
She remembers this too late, and by the time she even begins to turn, there is
an arm around her neck. Her chin comes down hard on the angle of an elbow, and
she hears the metallic click of handcuffs, ratcheting shut around her wrist. Only one. Her fingers stiffen, and the gun clatters to the
floor. She is aware of movement around her, and the doctor's foot connects with
the firearm. It skids across the ground, to stop several feet away. Her tongue
feels heavy in her mouth, her lips dry as cotton.
A beat.
Starling has become the prey, and Lecter the
predator.
She is tugged by her single restrained limb, and when she leans back, her
shoulder blades are pressed snugly against the doctor's chest. The bundle of
nervous energy in the pit of her stomach knots even tighter. There is no
logical reason, for why his presence, so near, should bring on an attack of
both panic and excitement.
Such a pity, Starling, murmurs the critical voice from the far corners
of her rational mind. The song has long since ended, and this hollow,
disembodied tone now has the floor. You never did realize the tie between
fear and lust.
She ignores it, and the voice is quiet again, sensing that it will not be
immediately recognized. There is the hushed, clinking noise of metal against
metal, and then the support of his chest is gone. Her other hand is secured
within the steel circlet. Had the flashlight's beam found focus on her face
now, she would be wide-eyed and pale. As it is, she is beyond grateful for the
darkness, though she suspects Lecter can see every
expression that flits into being, despite the lack of illumination.
She rocks back on her heels, testing her bonds. The chain is looped around a
vertical-standing pipe. The outer edges of the cuffs press against the wall
behind, and the insides dig into her wrists. She half-enjoys the sensation of
being trapped.
He stands before her. She lets her eyes flicker up to meet his, and there is a
dreadful moment of terror when she realizes just how close he is to her.
Despite his promise to refrain from harming her, Starling is still human. She
is still afraid.
"We meet again, Clarice."
She thinks she may very well faint. It had been all too easy to face the
doctor, when there was a barrier between them. Now there is nothing to keep him
at bay, and her hands are utterly useless; her weapon lies, unattainable, on
the floor. She is tempted to kick out, to spit, but that would be undeniably
rude.
Starling is now clinging desperately to manners, as a drowning woman might
clutch a life preserver.
"So it seems."
"Trapped." It is so softly spoken, she is not even
certain that the word had been uttered. But trapped she is, and it is all too
obvious in the way she trembles as he draws even nearer.
Lecter:
He cannot resist taking a moment to catch her scent, nostrils flaring as her
perfume of choice is captured, categorized, and enjoyed. It is not her usual
preference, but he is far from disappointed.
Even in the inadequate light, his vision is honed enough that he has no
difficult seeing her attire as he glances downward.
"Your taste in shoes has significantly improved, Clarice."
She draws in a breath sharply. Not only can he hear it, as the air scrapes
along her teeth to feed her lungs, but he can feel it, as if it is he
conducting the inhalation.
"Thank you, Doctor."
He smiles a bit at her formalities, pleased by the courtesy, but does not speak
further, opting for further silent observation. He is struck by a sudden
curiosity: is her cheek as soft as it appears? The gentle slope of her face is
alluring, and he brushes the back of his hand against the curve. She does not
shy from the touch, which is heartening.
The aroma of L'Air du Temps
has been replaced by something far more subtle, less easily defined. He finds
it necessary to investigate this, and leans in once more, as if sampling the
heady scent of a wine: Chianti, perhaps.
Again, she does not object, though he catches the faintest whimper, thus
bringing his attention to her lips. They are set in a firm line, neither
approving nor fearful.
He cannot deny that he has often thought of her intimately, though his
imagination brings them together in a far different setting. His thoughts fly
freely now, as they have room to do so. As intellectuals, they often challenge
one another. He speculates that, as lovers, this would be the case, as well.
She is trembling. He cannot feel it, cannot see it, but nevertheless, he knows.
"Are you frightened?"
"Yes."
"Of me, Clarice?"
"Of myself."
He is surprised by her response. How honest she is! She has always been open
with him, and not only in recounting her childhood traumas. After all, Starling
had revealed to him, with barely any detectable qualms, the embarrassing truth
of what Miggs had hissed, on her way to the lone
folding chair that had marked the beginning of it all.
I can smell your cunt.
Though Lecter despises lying, he had become victim of
the vice on that particular occasion. It had been simply to place himself on a
higher plane than the man in the nearby cell. If he had been able to find the
smell of Evian skin cream, then it was most certain that he had noticed other
things, as well.
He is tempted to question her further, to demand clarification of her
statement, but he decides against it for now. Her lower lip quivers. It is,
perhaps, one of the most intriguing movements he has seen in quite awhile.
He had once asked Starling about Jack Crawford. If she
believed him to visualize encounters, scenarios. Fucking
her.
This was, of course, not only to satiate his own
stirrings of curiosity. In order to distract himself from the thoughts that had
insinuated themselves in the cracks, the corners of his mind, it had been
necessary to pin them on another.
He had desired the petite agent from the moment she appeared before him, though
he was far too much of a gentlemen to admit it.
People will say we're in love.
It had been a teasing remark. It echoes in his ears. In truth, he had not been
thinking of "people" in the slightest, at that moment. It was merely the
beginnings of confession. He looks at her now, drawing back slightly. Her
breathing is calm and regular. She shows no signs of panic. He says her name;
she looks to him, their eyes meeting evenly.
The kiss is a flame, blazing across his conscious like a brushfire. He is
unaware of anything and everything, save for his lips on hers and, more
importantly, her responsiveness. The cuffs grind against the pole as she tries
to raise her hands to his face. He makes up for her inability, cradling her
cheeks against his palms.
Lecter has seen several women since his escape from
captivity. He has not wanted any of them, until now. He is fascinated by her
canine teeth, the tip of his tongue flicking over their points, feeling the
ever-so-faint pain as they graze against him.
When he pulls away, her lips are reddened; his pulse is most certainly above
eighty. He is tempted beyond words, to spend time learning her figure,
memorizing it with his fingertips, his mouth, but he will not. Not here, not
now.
Starling:
She is pleasantly surprised by the kiss. How long has it been, since she has
responded so favorably to anyone's advances? She cannot understand why he does
not touch her again. When she speaks, it is hesitantly, in a childlike tone.
"Sir?"
"Forgive me, Clarice. I was not thinking."
"But…" His words sting as sharply as any teenage rejection, and she turns her
head, gaze seeking out the floor, the wall, anything but him.
"Someday," he begins, and instinctively she glances back over. She intends to
look away once again, but she finds herself unable to. "This will be an
option."
She nods, as if she understands his reasoning, although she does not. The
shifting of shadows indicates the moving of his arm. His hand slides into his
pocket; emerges with a small key clasped between his thumb and forefinger.
"I'll give you a head start." Her tone is halfway between playful and completely
serious. She can sense his smile as he leans over her to unlock the cuffs. She
shakes her arms, they dislodge, and she brings her hands up between them,
rubbing at the newly freed wrists gingerly.
He steps away and kneels to retrieve the fallen weapon, before straightening up
again. "I have your gun, you know."
"All the more reason for me to follow you."
His smile widens into a combination of grin and smirk. "Start counting,
Clarice." He shifts the pistol to his other hand, and moves for the door. She
doesn't watch him leave. It will be all the more fun to begin the chase anew.
She pockets the handcuffs and the key. Her fingers trail through her hair
briefly, and she sighs. Perhaps following him is a mistake, the biggest of her
career.
And yet, Starling is impulsive. She has always been forgiven for her tendency
to act out of turn. Not to mention that, the benefits are likely to far
outweigh the consequences.
Checkmate, honey, you're the only one who's got to choose, when to draw
the line.
