A/N: An attempt at that drabble thing... If I'd known how much fun this was going to be, I would have done it years ago. My apologies for at least one quiet crossover. Furthermore, the word-count on this thing lies outrageously.

Disclaimer: There characters herein are the intellectual property of Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement is intended.

#01: Beginnings

With hindsight, it did not begin with an uneasy walk down a cold, subterranean corridor.

I mean, it was a beginning, of sorts, but not the beginning. That came later, at what turned out to be the end – at least of that chapter.

Strange, how these things turn out.

I didn't know that Memphis would be the last time I saw him, that nearly a decade would pass before I would see him again.

But I think I sensed it, even then, that something new had begun. Something had changed. It was there, in his eyes.

And he never lies.

#02: Middles

The sheer beauty of the cycle always staggered him, and moved him to tears.

From a tiny worm of a caterpillar, through pupation to emergence as a creature of delicate beauty. It was so simple, so elegantly profound.

It looked so easy, although experience told him that it was not.

His favourite part was watching them emerge from their confining cocoons, wings damp and crumpled like wet tissue. Then they would struggle upwards towards the light, dry their wings and... fly.

Breathtaking.

He would sit for hours, just watching the pupae. Watching and waiting, urging them on. This was truth.

#03: Ends

'It's over.' The harshness of his own voice surprised him, and belied his sorrow.

'So she's... dead?' That Pearsall felt the need to voice the question told those in the room all they needed to know.

Dead? Alive? Was there a difference if she was with Lecter?

A flash of maroon eyes. 'This gift is so very precious, Jack...'

'Jack?'

He smiled, sad and grim. 'You'll never find a body.'

Because there wasn't one. The words hovered, unspoken.

'It's over. Done.'

Silence.

Pearsall broke it. 'Until he kills again.'

'Yes, or...' Crawford could not voice the thought.

Until she does.

#04: Insides

How do you really know someone? How do you really know yourself?

You have to look. It sounds easy, but it isn't. What if you look too deep, and find something that you don't like? Something that frightens you, something you wish you hadn't uncovered? Knowing yourself can be terrifying.

What if someone sees you – deeper and more intimate than you ever wanted, ever thought possible? What then?

You can be torn apart and flayed alive by understanding, or you can be nurtured, loved and protected. Healed. The choice isn't always yours.

I think I learned that the hard way.

#05: Outsides

Of the two of them, he was always calm. Still. At first, she found him unreadable.

She never could quite disguise herself. Her anger always showed, and her delight. He teased her sometimes that her face was an open book – although that wasn't strictly true. It just showed in her eyes, and he came to know those moods better than anyone.

His face rarely betrayed an emotion he did not want you to see – and for many, that hint came too late as a warning.

Only she learned to read him without fear; only she was allowed to do so.

#06: Hours

The van was cramped and hot, sour with sweat and metal.

Starling shifted her weight a little and winced. Hours in this windowless box, waiting. Keyed up for action – tense with the knowledge that when – if – they got the go, there would be bullets. There would be blood. There always was. People like these almost never came quietly.

She hated the waiting, and hated not knowing when it would come to an end.

The men surrounding her were impatient and grumbling with the inaction, as always.

They just had to wait.

Wait and sweat, think and don't think. Be ready.

#07: Days

How long? How long?

She was sure it had to be days, although it felt like eternity. Days in this hell hole. Days of the stench of fear and shit, and other things she didn't want to think about.

Days with the ghosts of the girls that had gone before.

No-one was coming. There was just her, the maniac and the maniac's little dog.

But the days of terror granted her were forging her into something new.

With purpose, she knotted ragged lengths of string and gathered scraps. Damned if she was going to end her days here, like this.

#08: Weeks

She had been looking forward to this for weeks.

The cold was numbing, or would have been were they not warm in layers of wool and fur and each others' arms.

Behind and below, the city of Reykjavik nestled in its bay. Above, the Arctic night.

It was ablaze; a cathedral of colour arching away to the horizon. No earthly artist could have conceived such a design.

Starling sighed in wonder as the immaterial fires raced and rippled across the black.

'Thank you. I've always wanted to see this.'

He nuzzled close, his breath warm against her cheek. 'You're welcome.'

#09: Months

It had been months, and there was nothing. Not a trace of either of them. They might as well have vanished into thin air.

Every line in the Tattler that set out the case progress rang of failure.

His failure.

He hurled the worthless rag across the room.

He was to blame. He practically gave her to the monster. She had hardly known better at the time; and no-one could get in your head like Hannibal Lecter. He'd seen it happen before.

But he had made the choice. He had repeated an old mistake and thought himself clever for it.

#09: Years

He struggled to haul in a ragged breath. The pain showed; a testament to its strength.

'Hannibal.' She wrapped her warm hands around his cold fingers.

'Please.' His voice was a rasp. 'It's time.'

She swallowed. Grief gripped her, bleakly unforgiving. 'I... can't...'

'Clarice.' It was hard for him to speak.

She closed her eyes.

'Look at me.'

She couldn't refuse. His eyes held her whole.

'Our years have been...' He fought for strength. 'Wonderful. Beautiful. More that I could have imagined.'

She nodded, throat tight.

'Please.'

The needle slipped in smoothly.

'I love you,' he whispered.

And was gone.