A/N: Part 2, for everyone who asked so nicely. And now my muse has hijacked the story and won't give it back. So sit back, get comfy, 'cause heaven only knows how long this ride will be ::grin:: Disclaimer in part 1.
* * *
"I want to meet him," Emma said. A week had passed since she'd discovered her father's identity, a week of excitement and fear and something Emma didn't recognize. A kind of restlessness within her.
Clarice Starling choked on her mouthful of coffee, raising a hand to her mouth to keep from spitting it out. "What?"
"I want to meet my father."
Clarice closed her eyes and sighed. "Em, I haven't seen or heard from him since, well, since the night you were conceived."
"Don't you think he deserves to know he has a daughter?" Emma bit her lip, suddenly struck by a thought. "He won't, you know, want to kill me, will he?"
"Of course not."
"Well then, where's the harm in it? Surely he must have left you some way to contact him?"
Clarice shook her head. "We knew that night would have to be the last. He gave me the choice to go with him, but I couldn't. And then I found out I was pregnant and knew I'd made the wrong decision. But it was too late."
Emma was not one to give up so easily. "You could find him if you really wanted to." She raised her chin, challenging her mother to deny it.
"Emma."
"You said you still missed him. Was that a lie?"
"No." Clarice spoke so softly that Emma thought she had imagined it.
"Do you still love him?"
There was a flash of pain in Clarice's eyes, and Emma had her answer. She smiled in triumph. "I bet he'd love to see you again."
"Enough, Emma. Leave it alone. I can't talk about this right now." Clarice stood, picking up the coffee cups. Emma watched her mother leave the room, her head tilted to one side, her eyes narrowed. She would respect her mother's wishes, to a point; she wouldn't talk about it anymore. But she wouldn't leave it alone.
* * *
Clarice was pleased to see that Emma had dropped the subject of her father. She had never intended for Emma to find out the truth, certain that the news would do more harm than good. To her surprise, Emma had taken it well. Almost too well. Clarice was waiting for her to break down, uncomfortably close to a breakdown of her own.
She had known, when she found out she was pregnant, that it was going to be hard. There had been no question about keeping the baby; in leaving her, Hannibal Lecter had given her the one thing she had always wanted most: a family.
When Emma was born, Clarice had cried; tears of joy and tears of pain. How she wished that he had been there to share the moment with her. And Ardelia had held her hand and congratulated her, crying tears of her own, but she hadn't judged. Clarice had smiled gratefully and known she couldn't ask for a better friend.
And now, now that Emma knew the truth, Clarice had no idea what to do.
Did she still love him? Did she want to see him? Yes and yes, she thought, but at what cost? She supposed she could find him, if she worked at it. But there was no way to search without being found out, and Clarice had no desire to lead her colleagues to the father of her child.
She closed her eyes and buried her face in her hands. She'd meant what she'd said to Emma; she wouldn't trade her for anything in the world. She just wished things had turned out slightly differently.
Not a day passed without Clarice wondering what would have happened if she'd gone with him. The day they'd met, she had known her life would never be the same, but she hadn't realized just how much Lecter would affect her.
Seventeen years later she could still feel his touch, could still taste his kiss, could remember the finality of his "Goodbye, Clarice."
She brushed away the tears, hating herself for crying, for missing him, for letting him leave without her.
Some of our stars are the same, he'd once told her. But what did it help, she thought, when the stars were so far away?
* * *
Emma waited until she was sure her mother was asleep before she logged onto the Internet. Hacking into the FBI's mainframe was surprisingly easy; she didn't even need the codes she'd sneaked from Clarice's files.
She read with interest the accounts of Hannibal Lecter's crimes, his subsequent capture, and the trial. When she came to Miggs' death, she leaned back in her chair, chewing on her bottom lip.
He killed for her, she thought. Instead of being disgusted, as most people would be, Emma smiled and read further. Someone had helpfully scanned in the pictures he'd drawn of Clarice, and Emma's smile widened. Though they were reduced in size and clarity, they were still beautiful. She reached up to touch the screen, her fingers outlining the images.
Daddy, where are you now? she thought.
There was a noise from the hall. Emma quickly opened up another window.
"Em, you still up?" Clarice asked, opening the door a crack.
"Yeah. I'm downloading some music." She turned and smiled at her mother.
"Well, don't stay up too late, 'kay?"
Emma nodded. "Sure, Mom."
She breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed and turned back to the computer. The accounts of the Fish Market shooting told Emma nothing she didn't already know, but it was followed by the OPR hearing and the circumstances surrounding Clarice's suspension.
Emma sat bolt upright. "Now, this is interesting," she said to herself. At last, there was a possible way to contact her father. All she had to do was decide what she wanted to say.
She shut the computer down but was too excited to go to bed. She grabbed a notepad and a pen and started composing a message.
A. A. Aaron . . .
