Disclaimer: I do not own none of the characters mentioned and am deathly afraid of lawyers. I'm only a college student trying to get some inspiration of my own.

Author's Note: This story takes place after Chesapeake from the alternate ending of the movie so no hands have been cut off. I'm a huge fan of the books so I'll be using a lot of canon also. I hope, readers, that you guys won't become too confused about this.

A woman awakes suddenly in the middle of the night. Her blond hair straight on her back as she clutches to her sheets. Sweat is visible on her brow. She slowly moves her left hand under her pillow and feels the reassuring weight of her .45 colt. She looks around the room and realizes her fears are unfounded.

"Just a dream," she mutters to herself.

In the moonlight, one can see the gun powder mark on her cheek in the shape of the French sign courage. She thinks about lying back down yet she cannot shake the feeling of being watched.

'Your just getting paranoid, now, Starling,' she thinks to herself and lies back down anyway. She doesn't fall asleep though.

And neither do the maroon eyes watching her from outside...

Early the next morning, FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling is found running one of the many trails in the woods by her home. These trails are a regular haunt for her. She could run each of them blindfolded with her hands tied behind her back. Though she clearly knows that would be horribly unpleasant. Her Mustang is situated at the entrance of the forest atop a small hill. She could only see it when running on the bridge nearby. She never saw the old Ford pickup parked a half mile down the road nor does she notice the shadow that follows her movements precisely. How can she notice these things when her mind is clearly in the past?

"...you only need a mirror for that, Clarice..."

"How does one begin to covet?"

"...your father, The Dead Night-watchman, and your mother, the Chambermaid,..."

"You will tell me when the lambs stop screaming, won't you, Clarice?"

She stops abruptly and shakes her head. She will never be rid of that metallic rasp of a voice in her head. She should have listened to Jack Crawford about not letting Lecter into her head. Now he was a permanent fixture. She walks quietly back to her car still contemplating the good doctor. In her minds eye she could still see him: standing as lithe as a dancer in his cell in the dungeon, white uniform almost blending with his skin, standing now in his cell in Memphis after his finger had subtly brushed hers as he gave her back her case file, and finally standing in the house he rented, fulling clothed in the best dress attire money could buy with that asshole Krendler dead next to him, the top of Krendler's skull placed neatly on the table. She sighs and tries again not to think about Hannibal Lecter. It had been an awful year since that tragic night. She faced an inquiry at work and was found to have acted "sensible" during her ordeal. She was also cleared of the charge of with holding evidence and reinstated back into the force with no prejudice. That was clearly bull shit. Every now and then she caught different people staring at her and going through her private work space. No one seemed to trust her. She hated Krendler for his interference.

The National Tattler had gone on a rampage when they found out that she had been taken care of by Hannibal Lecter. "Bride of Dracula returns from honeymoon" one article was titled. She couldn't stand to even look at the rest of the paper. Every copy that was thrown her way, was systematically ripped into pieces and shoved into the trash can. Her best mate, Ardelia Mapp, came to her defense often but was gone most of the time working on her other cases.

Clarice takes out her keys and opens the door to her Mustang. She starts for a moment when she saw a wine bottle sitting on her front seat, a note attached to it. Her hand shakes as she unties the silk ribbon holding the card to the bottle.

Clarice,

I believe I owe you this as a be-lated birthday present as the other one I had given you was lost. Also, I have not contacted you for a long period of time. I am still alive and as free as I'll ever be, Clarice. Why would you not sacrifice my life for the good of society? Is it the imbedded belief that to destroy life would mean eternal damnation for you? You had many chances, Special Agent Starling. It is beyond my comprehension that you would kill three other men, one of whom had a badge which if I recall correctly, you shot right through. Was it self-defense? One can only wonder. You still have not told me if the lambs had stopped screaming. You did promise you'd tell me. Do you really know how peaceful and beautiful you look when you run? We will have to talk about that sometime.

Ta Ta,

Hannibal Lecter, M.D.

She quickly looks all around to see if she could make out his form in the brush. Nothing is there now. She looks at the bottle of wine and sees it is the same Chateau d'Yquem from her birth year. She knows that if she were to bring it into the bureau, they would dust it for prints, find them, and then store the bottle in some basement until someone steals it. She was assigned to a different case now and felt obligated to turn in the bottle with the note.

As she drove home, she fought with herself. The bottle and note were evidence that the infamous Hannibal "the Cannibal" Lecter was in the country. No one knew where he was before. It had been a year since someone had seen hide or hair of him. Many people believed he had died. Then again this was a gift from him and in her twisted logic thought it would be rude not to accept it. Dr. Lecter did despise rude people, she thought. When she arrived home, she put the note in her desk by her bed and put the bottle of wine in her pantry. To hell with the FBI. If they didn't want her help with the Lecter case, then she would offer them none.

She pulls out the case file she is now working on. Another serial killer, she sighs, but this one is one she's never seen before...