Nightlife in small towns was always amusing to witness.   In her instance, the residents were either elderly or teenagers.  There didn't seem to be any medium.  After abandoning the phone booth, Starling sighed and headed back to her car, eyes averting again to the dimly lit trace of civilization other than her rather bleak dining options down the road.  The motel that he suggested was there, in sight.  She didn't see any sign of a fast food restaurant other than Hardee's.

Eww...Hardee's.  More unprocessed food. A disgusted rumbling from her midsection safely ruled out that option.  Not a Mr. Goodcents or Schlotzsky's in sight, her personal preference when it came to fast and easy.  At least, nine times out of ten, the offered food was edible, or somewhat close.

Starling didn't want to be out any later than was necessary.  It wasn't that she was apprehensive of potential troublemakers; more to the effect that driving as far she had nonstop with no one to trade duties with was strenuous.  She wanted to be near a bed as quickly as possible.  At the same time, her stomach growled with neglect and demanded compensation for the joke of a lunch she had offered it.  Perhaps some take out from Shoney's wouldn't be that bad.

It didn't appear she had much choice.

Shoney's was one of those chain restaurants that seemed to have identical structure and familiar help, despite location. Though she wasn't one to frequent at such diners, Starling had ashamedly visited enough to note this as she entered.

The thought of Dr. Lecter succumbing to eat at one of these high-quality establishments occurred to her, and she wondered if he would opt to do so or starve if location offered no alternative. Picturing his distaste as he examined the food selection was comically arousing, and a grin tugged her lips. As these thoughts processed – gaining levels of humor and something else – a plumpy young waitress greeted her with a menu and a cheerful smile, as though everyone should be so lucky to have her profession.

"How many?"

"Just one." Perhaps, long ago, a different time, place, even person would have felt a twinge of embarrassment to be seen dining alone, even amongst people she would never see again. However, after years of routine and the promise that this might be the last time for a long time caused the thought to flicker and die, before merging into tangibility.

The motives for this trip were becoming more and more ambiguous. When the offer was made, it was for quiet discussion and nothing more. However, the further she got from Washington, the more reluctant she found herself at the thought of turning back. It felt as though a veil had been lifted, or that someone had finally offered her a breath of fresh air. A helping hand from a cannibalistic fiend, something to recognize and grasp, suddenly felt like every achievement she had obtained within her profession. She only hoped progression wouldn't be snatched away at the same velocity.

Starling knew that Dr. Lecter did not fully trust her, and as aggravating as that was, she understood. Had she been seeking him for professional motives, she would have attempted to keep him on that phone as long as possible, even if the conversation itself was nothing anyone could define as short.

She wondered if he took that into account, and immediately berated herself for needing to question.

In this time of self-evaluation, Starling allowed herself to seriously consider the prospect of never returning. True, the thought had crossed her mind, and she had always known it was a possibility, but never one she truly *believed*. Run away from home. Run away again. Run away from the place where lambs were constantly slain, and never making headway in their plight for silence.

But was she running to someone who could stop their screaming, or would the cries intensify as a result?

Something unseen whispered the truth she didn't fully want to grasp, and Starling flinched in recognition.

Even if Dr. Lecter wasn't the answer, or if she could never confront herself or be provoked into a deeper admittance, or – however the case – had he no interest in her of this nature, she was still free. Escaped. No one said she had to go back.

Small, dull Shelbyville…pathetically superior to the Brutuses of Washington.

There was another solution. Running away from home did not constitute running away to *him*, per say. To his advice, guidance, but anything more? Starling was firstly unsure that she would agree with what he said, and secondly, very doubtful that she would allow her conscious to overflow with what had tainted her subconscious for the past decade.

Peril waited at the end of either path. The long and winding road, as it was. Starling, from experience, knew the myth was 'a thousand times more savage' than the man himself. From studying a variety of Internet web pages and chat transcripts, she concluded that the stories behind his monstrosity were often exaggerated and, in most cases, humanly impossible. Though Dr. Lecter had before defied laws of logicality, some of the feats he was rumored to have accomplished were downright preposterous. They were good for a laugh.

Starling didn't fear for her life with Dr. Lecter, in fact, she was almost reassured of it. If it came down to it, she had to force herself to confession that it was more often others that she had to worry about.

On the other hand, she was fairly confident that the FBI would place her at the front lines of any battle at the first available chance. She was their human body shield, otherwise situated at permanent reserve.

Again, Starling reveled in her sense of newfound liberty. It was hard placing so much faith and conviction into something more corrupt than the being it was chasing.

Questions, questions, so many questions. Another probable cause for her time on hold. Dr. Lecter indubitably had revelations and conclusions to decipher himself. In the meantime, she had trivial matters with which to keep entertained, such as which country-fried delicacy she would subject to her digestive system.

And they all looked so yummy, too!

Starling ordered to go and awaited her bill and food. It wasn't until the war within her mind had dwindled that she noticed several of the male customers staring at her admiringly.

A snicker crawled into her throat as she rolled her eyes. "Never a break."

Living in a big city did have its advantages, however numbered. She didn't often have to worry about wandering into a restaurant where 'everybody knows her name.'

At least when she wasn't making headlines.

After wasting an unproductive ten minutes waiting, the same waitress approached, still smiling, and said, "It's going to be a few minutes. Do you want to sit down? We can bring you a desert menu while you wait."

A fast decision. She was tired of standing, despite her eagerness to get to the hotel. "Just bring me my food," she replied, her tone understanding in careful disguise of her agitation. "I'll eat here."

Ignoring the doting attention of men had become a science with Starling, a reason, undoubtedly, supporting the honorary title of 'cold fish.' She was led to her booth, perfectly aware of the appreciative lure from those around her. An outsider. Fresh meat.

Yeah right.

By the time her food arrived, she was no longer hungry, playing idly with her straw as her eyes wandered out the window. Twenty-four hours before she had received a letter from Dr. Hannibal Lecter concerning her future. And, without much consideration, she leapt at the chance. How much of this was real life? Sometimes her own book seemed so surreal that she half- expected to be allowed the ability to rewind, pace herself, and try again.

People operate without realizing the consequences to actions, and she, despite her knowledge and comprehension of how one minor discrepancy could lead down a world of hurt, was no different. Starling rotated a piece of beef on her fork, not really looking at it. Her mind mapped out the varieties of possible futures that lay ahead. Should she turn back after spending however much time with Dr. Lecter, what then? An unexplained leave – had she called in? She couldn't remember – well, so be it.

What if it didn't end or begin there? Starling was basing her judgment on the rather disputable possibility that she would escape any situation unscathed. This might be her conventional end as well.

Perhaps that was why he insisted on making her wait. From experience, Starling knew that Dr. Lecter often found ways of executing several points with one example. This was her personal time to reflect, to realize the gravity of the situation she had willingly placed herself in, to consider her options from here, and for him, wherever he was, to decide what to do with her.

Sighing, Starling turned her eyes back to her meal. Hell, she hadn't eaten all day, and this was as good as she was going to get. With a mental nod, as though he were watching her, she felt herself map out the words, 'You win,' as she took her first bite.

* * *

The fates themselves could not have mapped a better stage.

In the phone booth that Special Agent Starling had occupied just a little over a forty five minutes before now stood Dr. Hannibal Lecter, surrounded in the atmosphere that was still very much her, watching her across the street in – sadly – the best diner he could recommend. He was making excellent use out of a pair of field glasses, attentively studying her body language. Much could be told of a person in the matter they portrayed themselves in public. Being allowed this opportunity, and the rarity of a clear view, Dr. Lecter was careful to note everything.

She appeared to be alone, visibly tired, and aggravated at her waitress. From the prestige she offered, it was clear that she was warring with herself, which simultaneously discouraged and pleased him. If they were to continue, it was imperative that she was aware of her options, and that such extended precautions were necessary. The fact that she was debating the issue offered some hope. Dr. Lecter knew that Starling would never present herself in that fashion if surrounded by colleagues; the obvious tell of emotion playing across her face, the wear and tear of cat and mouse. She was exhausted, and she had a right to be.

But so did he.

When she finally decided to pay her meal some attention, there was a sense of resolution on her face. Dr. Lecter lowered the field glasses and mused. While her conflict seemed evident, she was too slippery to predict. He had to consider this from all angles. It could be her war engages the possibility of returning only to tell her colleagues where he is.

Unlikely. She would then have to present evidence to support her theory, thus incriminating herself.

No, she was willingly betraying the law.

Still, Dr. Lecter was skeptical. All this, simply from a couple letters? Not his Clarice, if he knew her.

Unless…

There were things to be taken into consideration. The prospect of having Starling all to himself, without competing with the many voices of her occupational obligations was entirely pleasant. However, he would not allow himself to become clumsy. She was distant and obscure. A worthy adversary, one with which true battle was no object, as well as a lot of fun.

However, true battle he had tasted, time and time again. Dr. Lecter found the flavor of good-to-honest war to be losing its charm. He and Starling had fought on that level long enough. Mind games were by far more enjoyable.

He didn't particularly want to fight her anymore.

Dr. Lecter smiled to himself. There were only so many ways of executing his taken precautions. While studying her, he was becoming more secure with her word, but the chance of a reverse change in heart did not escape him. When dealing with someone as unpredictable as Starling, all angles had to be considered.

Watching her battle with herself, above all else, pleased him. The emotions Starling released when she thought no one was watching were a sheer delight, and more telling than one might believe.

When he raised the glasses to eyes again, a frown tickled his mouth. A local had approached, a tall greasy thing, assuming the seat opposite of her, trying to make polite conversation. In gauging her for reaction, Dr. Lecter was amused to note the evident disinterest sprawled in bright colors across her face. She played with her straw, nodding and arching her brows every few seconds with a kind though irritated smile.

While Dr. Lecter did not particularly enjoy the situations she was forced to adapt to, her aggravation was almost encouraging. He had yet to experience the blatant aversion she exuded in response to such advances. There certainly was no ambiguity, or so he thought, in his feelings about her. Of course, Dr. Lecter had never made hard study of the courting habitual exercised by his gender. He was old fashioned in his methods and had no active interest in the current societal expectations.

Watching Starling now, he reflected that she had an entirely singular reaction reserved for him. The plain revulsion was something she never threw at him, even when he kissed her at the lake house. Her response then was shrouded, stony, but she didn't flinch in disgust when she could have, nor had she spat it back in his face.

And now, instead of ignoring or betraying the chance to see him again, she was here. A matter of steps separated them. Steps that he wanted to cover.

He watched her as she stood, evidently fed up with her uninvited dinner companion. When the man tried to follow her, she at last dropped her courteous exterior and snapped. Dr. Lecter grinned tightly and savored the rawness of action. From here, he could still interpret flared eyes and angrily flushed cheeks. The words 'That's my girl' were on his tongue, but he did not release them.

Hurt and belittled, her conversationalist reddened and turned away. Eagerly, Dr. Lecter surveyed her pleased response. The look of relieved satisfaction on her face was one to relish. It wasn't often that she seemed content, unburdened. Her encounter seemed to take her mind off her current troubles, and the affect of release, even on an unsuspecting victim, could be very rewarding.

He wondered how the words would taste if directed to Pearsall.

While watching her did not compromise his caution, the crave for dialogue, face to face, when he could taste her reactions, was nearly intolerable. Dr. Lecter's face did not change as Starling stepped out of the restaurant, but he had seen enough to decide to approach.

* * *

Somebody give me a medal, Starling thought dryly as she moved to her car. I'm a fucking hick magnet.

Fiery thoughts sizzled and died, though she was genuinely grateful to have something of mundane nature to occupy her mind with. Dealing with the opposite sex was becoming a sport to which she was champion. If only this were an Olympic category.

So detached were her thoughts that she didn't take time to consider the identity of the man behind her. All she felt was a tug at her arm, and something within her snapped. It didn't take much, but with as tired and irritated and hungry as she was (not having completed her so-called supper) it was more than enough. Years of FBI training had done right by her at last, and Starling, rather than deal with another ego-bruised sob story, sharply elbowed whoever-it-was in the gut. She felt, rather than heard, an 'uff' and was already halfway through a punch that sent the person to next year before something dawned on her. Something unthinkable.

Starling froze, snapping her eyes shut. Oh please, not me. Not today. Haven't you had your fun? Summoning up bravery, she turned to see who it was, now unconscious on the ground at her feet.

"Oh fuck."