Chapter 9 – Storm's Edge
As they move to the kitchen, Clarice decides to that she needs to lay some ground rules for the evening, for her own comfort. She thinks the doctor won't mind, given his offer and his attentiveness to her needs and wishes. "Hannibal, would it be alright if we have an informal dinner tonight? I know that the big production is very you, but it just isn't me." she tries to read his expression, without success, "That's not to say that I don't enjoy your cooking or all of the frills, I just want to keep things simple and relaxed tonight!"
"Clarice, you don't need to justify or defend your requests. I am a reasonable man –"
Her laughter stops him mid-sentence. She just can't help herself, "Oh, I'm sorry, really. It's just funny, you, know, that kind of assertion coming from you." She continues to giggle, while he offers a small smile.
"Perhaps, someday, you won't be so incredulous. Now then, since you wish to make dinner an informal affair, what, may I ask, did you have in mind?"
"I can make a request from the master chef?"
"Of course," he bows his head a bit, "tell me what you desire, Clarice," he enunciates every syllable, his tongue caressing each syllable, "you have only to ask."
She freezes, not quite willing to acknowledge the shiver his words send through her, "I, um, I think I would like some waffles, fruit, and sausage or bacon if you have it." The look on his face is priceless, and she's glad for the unintentional shift in mood, "I love breakfast for dinner! Ardelia and I do it all the time after a long week. Sometimes we throw in chocolate chips for the waffles if we've had a really bad week. It's a girl, comfort food kind of thing."
He shakes his head, then bows again, "As you wish, Clarice, though I'm fresh out of chocolate chips, I do have some German chocolate decaf, if that would suffice."
"Sounds great! What can I do?"
"Can you handle the coffee maker?"
"That I can do."
After he shows her the coffee nook, she sets about brewing and relishes the rich aroma as it fills the kitchen. She then turns her attention to Hannibal Lecter at work, measuring, sifting, and mixing the batter for home made waffles, apparently from memory, as she sees no cookbook. He moves with grace, and she takes in his form as he works. He removed his jacket shortly after they arrived in the kitchen, and she can see the outline of his wiry arm muscles through his shirt. He appears to be in pretty good shape, especially considering his age. Not that Clarice really gave that much thought. To her, the doctor has always seemed ageless. Sexless is another matter entirely, though she is honest enough with herself to admit that the thought has crossed her mind. Mrs. Rosencrantz was right; he is the sort of man who could make a girl's fur crackle. Of course, looks are an accident, but his mind, his manner, his presence are what really make Hannibal Lecter captivating. His deeds are another matter entirely. This is what Clarice must wrestle with over the coming days.
"Clarice, are you going to gawk all night, or could I trouble you to prepare the fruit while I work on the sausage?"
Busted! "Sure," she sets about washing and cutting and wondering how she might manage a life with a man who literally has eyes in the back of his fucking head. She attempts to slice some apples, but she isn't nearly as deft with a kitchen knife as she is with a gun. Heaving a sigh of frustration, she sets the first macerated red Gala aside and steels herself to do battle with the next. She gasps as she feels warm breath on her neck and a voice at her ear.
"Need some help, Clarice?" he whispers. She manages a nod as she tries not to tense. "Then allow me... " he murmurs, placing his hands over hers as they grasp the fruit and knife together. He guides her hands, and she feels the certainty and strength within his hands as they neatly chop the apple into quarters. After removing sections of core, his hands instruct hers in the art of slicing two of the quarters, and then he removes his hands, but not his body, as she completes the remaining two. She turns to face him, sporting a triumphant grin, which he returns, "Well done, Clarice." He hesitates before placing a kiss on her forehead, gentle at first, then increasing in pressure before he removes himself with apparent urgency. "I should see to your waffles."
Clarice regains her composure and finishes the fruit, while Hannibal finishes his preparation and presentation. "Would you like to eat at the kitchen table, Clarice?" he asks, his voice thick.
"Sure," she offers, still a little unsteady. She isn't sure whether the butterflies in her stomach (and some perhaps a bit lower) or his uncertainty, are more unsettling. Well, he did admit that he's in uncharted territory, too. She seats herself and he places a plate in front of her, complete with a waffle, maple syrup, and a side of sausage. Placing the bowl of fruit between them, he seats himself. Being a good sport, he joins Clarice in what is, for him, a rather unconventional meal.
When the silence threatens to become uncomfortable, Clarice decides to plunge right in. "Hannibal, I would like to ask you some questions about your gift, and the choices you wrote about in your letter."
He meets her eyes, though his expression is unfathomable, "What do you wish to know?"
"The choices that I have ... they are to remain with you, in some capacity ... um, or to leave this place and reclaim whatever's left of my life?"
"A succinct and accurate summary, yes."
"And, if I choose to leave, you'll just let me?"
"Of course, you'll be free to leave at any time. You know I never lie. All I ask is that you defer your decision until we finish the journey we began together after Muskrat farm."
"What exactly does that involve?"
He sighs, "I'm afraid, Clarice, that you are going to have to trust me and wait until the storm breaks. I understand from the local weather report that the roads should be passable the day after tomorrow. I ask for your patience, and for the next day and a half I will be most content with your company."
She sees the resolve in his eyes, and decides to move on. "So, what would you expect of me, if I stay with you?"
"Circumlocution, Special Agent Starling?"
"Would you prefer I speak frankly?"
"Always."
"Fine, what am I to you? A patient? A friend? A pet, maybe?"
He sighs heavily, and rises to clear the plates. "Oh, Clarice," he whispers.
"That's no answer, Hannibal."
"If you were nothing more to me than a patient or a pet," he almost spits out the last, his annoyance and distaste more than evident, "I could have kept you drugged and manipulated you indefinitely. I am capable of that, and much, much more." His eyes darken, as does his countenance.
"I know what you are capable of, doctor," her prairie level eyes keep his and take nothing back, "I doubt no one other than Will Graham knows better than I. Yet, you gave me back my will, and my choices. I want to know why."
"If you are to remain with me, in any capacity, you will do so of your own volition and with a full understanding of the consequences. Anything less is beneath my dignity, and yours." His eyes narrow, face contorting from the weight of the admission.
The weight of the admission strikes Clarice as well, though she will not relent, "What will be the consequences, Hannibal, and what must I understand that I don't already know?"
"For that, you must wait." He turns to leave, placing his hand on the doorknob, and is stilled by her hand on his shoulder.
"What do you want with me?"
He shudders, whispering, "Need you even ask, Clarice? After Memphis, after Muskrat farm, after everything?"
She gently turns him to face her, saddened to see his face so guarded. "Hannibal, tell me what you want and need, right at this moment. Tell me without fear of ridicule or reprisal."
He smiles softly, bringing one hand to her face and gently caressing her cheek, "That isn't fair, Clarice, using my own words against me."
"Maybe not, but I would like an answer."
"No one has ever asked me such a question."
"No one had ever asked me either, until you." She moves closer to him, determined to break through his resistance.
"In that case, I will give you an answer. I want you." With that, he bridges the remaining distance between them and places his lips over hers. They kiss slowly, gently, until Clarice loses her patience and pulls him to her, bruising his lips with an urgency she was unaware she possessed. His arms enfold her as they kiss for a minute, an hour, an eternity. Time is lost for both at the moment. It is he who breaks the kiss.
He steps back, in spite of her groan of protest and attempt to pull him back, "Clarice," he murmurs with a voice roughened by desire, "as much as I wish to continue this, and believe me, I do wish to continue, I think we should wait a bit."
She stares at him, dumbfounded, "Wait? After seven years and all of the hell we've been through in the past weeks you want to wait?" Her anger wells, the familiar sting of rejection and abandonment threatening to overtake her.
"Clarice," he begins gently, "I don't want to wait. But, as I said, I want you to make your choice with your eyes wide open, and only after –"
"After what? What in the hell is so important about this 'journey' you keep taking about? God, I'm so sick and fucking tired of talking! Don't you get it? You've won! I'll go with you! I'll go to the ends of the earth with you, Hannibal Lecter!"
"Even knowing what I've done, what I am? Can you live with that? Psychology student that you are, you understand the difficulties of reparation? Can you live with what I might yet do?"
She hesitates a bit, but then says, "I don't know, but I'm willing to try. I know I need to protect you, to keep you safe. That's all I've ever wanted for you. Hell, I even told Ardelia that if you were ever cornered that I would like to take point and go in after you. I knew if I did, you would have a better shot of coming out alive. I'll stay with you and do whatever is in my power to keep you of harm's way."
He considers for a moment, and then says, "Clarice, you never cease to surprise me. Very well. If you can wait a few more hours, I believe there is a way for us to complete our journey ahead of schedule. Let me make a quick phone call."
"How? How can we travel anywhere tonight? The snow's stopped, but the roads –"
"Margot Verger owes me a favor, and I believe she would like to be out of my debt sooner rather than later. I'll ask her to send her helicopter. You'll have to bundle up, and we'll both have to make a few modifications to our appearance, but I believe it is possible for us to finish this tonight. After that, we'll see if your offer still stands. Go and pack whatever you wish to take with you when you've made your choice. I'll make the rest of the preparations."
With a profound sense of excitement and dread, Clarice Starling prepares for the night's journey.
Notes – I'm no psychologist, but I came across an interesting article from Bettina Gregory [Hannibal Lecter: The honey in the lion's mouth. American Journal of Psychotherapy 2002. 56, 1; Heath Module, pg. 100-114] that deals with the theory behind Hannibal Lecter's murderous pathology and his path toward reparation. Not sure I buy all of the psychobabble about "good objects," "bad objects," "oral aggression," etc., but it is an interesting read if anyone wants a copy.
It may take a while to get the next chapters out – I'm swamped at work and am going on a nice, long vacation in mid-July – but I promise lots of suspense, action, and hopefully a few more thrills along the way. Lemons, you ask? Well, you know me ... so it's entirely possible :) Thanks for sticking with me. I'll try not to be a great big tease!
Also, here's a big shout out to Mystic Dust for the reviews! I wasn't able to PM you to say thanks, so I'll do it here.
And ... Great big thanks to Sylistra The Scholar for one of the most flattering and gracious reviews I've ever gotten. I'm humbled and gratified, and I hope that the rest of the story lives up to your kind words.