The doctor stayed for hours, stepping out only when the nurse made her visits, as though instinctively respecting Clarice's need for privacy without her needing to say a word. Even when Clarice closed her eyes for a moment of rest - and when they stayed closed longer than a moment - he was sitting by her side when she woke.
"I'm sorry," she offered, taking in the lower angle of the sunlight filtering across the room. "I must be boring you, falling asleep all the time."
"Not in the least, Clarice. You'll heal more quickly if you allow your body to follow its own needs during your recovery." He paused a moment before adding, "I'm pleased that you're able to rest. And I find watching you do so a pleasant diversion. It's quite... peaceful."
She stretched out her left arm toward him, hoping he would take her hand as he had done earlier, and he did not disappoint. His open affection - well, open for him, at any rate - was a welcome reminder of just how much she had waiting for her once she had sloughed off her formerly comfortable skin of FBI special agent. It was too tight now, and it itched, and a few careful movements would dislodge it for good without anyone but him seeing the new skin waiting underneath.
She had thought, for a long time now, that this new skin - these new ideas - were wrong. That she was wrong to want them. But it was the outermost layer that was wrong. Superficial.
If she continued on her current path, she would always be fighting to maintain her principles in a sea of politicking, murky waters filled with empty promises, empty smiles, empty hearts. She feared that emptiness would gnaw its way inside her and empty her, too, until she was as superficial as the rest of her colleagues.
But Hannibal Lecter... she studied him, poised elegantly on a vinyl chair he no doubt detested, breathing air polluted with unpleasant antiseptic smells, attentive to her every action with perfect calm despite the risk he placed himself in to be here at all... Hannibal Lecter was not an empty man. The surface he presented to strangers - that was superficial. But the whole of him, the depths, were rich with meaning.
And with him, she could be the same. She might cultivate that layer of superficiality for others - the trivialities of name or hair color or residence - but beneath that, with him, she would be full. And her fullness would be true and just. It would satisfy the desires of her soul without twisting her to meet the requirements of unjust masters, more senior agents and section chiefs who thought to tell her "Stop. Enough. Only this much truth, and no more. Justice for this one, and not for that."
Because Hannibal Lecter would never tell her to stop, would he?
First principles, Clarice. ... Of each particular thing, ask: What is it in itself? What is its nature?
No, he would never ask her to deny her nature. Would never demand it of her, would never dangle the promise of reward in exchange for it. He would tell her to examine herself, to confront her true nature, to accept it, to act upon it.
Suddenly certain, she was desperate for his confirmation. Her fingers gripped his more tightly, almost to the point of pain on her abraded skin.
"If I ever needed..."
She faltered, stumbling over what she wanted to ask; when her eyes met his, she saw the spark of interest there. His gaze was intent on hers, and what she saw calmed her, allowed her to slow her thoughts to the coherency and speed her new painkillers would permit to emerge.
"If I needed - for me to be me - if I needed - if what I needed, if it put us in danger..."
He leaned forward and lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing gentle kisses to her knuckles.
"You must act as your nature dictates, Clarice. If such action is risky, we might manage that risk together, hmm? Not to be immodest, but I've some experience with the logistics of difficult situations."
She parsed his meaning more slowly than usual, but it came to her eventually. He was referring to his crimes. The planning. The execution. The way he had escaped detection for so long. And he was watching her even more intently now. Testing her, she realized - but was the test whether she would flinch at the seemingly casual reference to murder or whether she would accept that he, too, would act as his nature dictated?
"'Difficult situations'? Are we entertaining euphemisms now?"
"Not every difficult situation is the sort you're thinking of, Clarice."
"No, but that is the sort you meant."
"Yes." He answered simply, without adornment or prevarication.
"Does every conversation between us have to be a competition? A test?"
"Is that what you feel this is, Clarice?"
"Don't bullshit me. I'm sedated, not stupid."
"Technically, my dear, your prescribed painkillers are not sedatives; that function is merely a side effect."
"Come closer so I can hit you." She tugged lightly, teasingly, on the hand that still held hers inches from his face.
"An enticing offer, but one I believe I'll decline." Despite his words, he tipped his head forward and kissed her knuckles once more.
"Afraid?"
"Only that you might further injure yourself, Clarice."
"I'll delay delivery of the punch until I'm healed, then." She smirked at him.
"Feeling better, my dear?"
"Is that why you teased me? To put me in a better mood?" Manipulation was his style, after all, she thought.
"I goad you because it's in my nature to do so, Clarice. That it simultaneously angers, excites, and relaxes you merely demonstrates that our natures are well-suited to each other."
The slackness in her thinking irritated her; of course he hadn't only been diverting her attention. He had been making a point. One that fed right back into their discussion.
"Even when it comes to 'difficult situations'?"
"Mmm. That is the question on the table, yes. I believe we may come to find our natures are more compatible than it seemed to you at first blush."
"'Seemed to me.' Not to you?"
"I knew what I wanted. And I knew what I sensed in you. It was not difficult to imagine that the two might... intertwine, shall we say? It was only in putting a name to such understanding that I hesitated." He smiled at her, a wry grin, she thought. "I had not imagined that such an emotion should come to rule me."
"Thus the games?"
"They seemed an appropriate means for gauging your own interest and furthering it, Clarice. You must admit, I had very few means at my disposal with which to engage you."
She bit back a giggle, hearing Delia's voice in her mind. It's not how much a man has - it's how he uses it, girlfriend!
"You managed, though."
"Because of the choices you have made, Clarice. I attempted to make you aware of the options before you. Success was not guaranteed."
No waver entered his voice; he seemed as matter-of-fact as ever. But the admission was more than she had expected from him – an acknowledgement of uncertainty and vulnerability. A statement of her… power… over him, the second such statement in the past few minutes. Much as she appreciated it, though, she wasn't about to thank him for it. Neither of them particularly enjoyed being vulnerable; pointing it out would only make it awkward.
She pulled her fingers from his, waving them with a faux-distracted air.
"Well, I'd hate to be easy."
He stood, then, bending over her and brushing her ear with his lips.
"You are infinitely complex, my dear." The lightest kiss at her temple. "I'll return in the morning."
She watched him go, and lay awake for what seemed hours as she considered the nature of the oddly savage and gentle man who loved her. He remained as infinitely complex to her as she was to him, she thought. But I'll have a lifetime to map that complexity down to the last inch.
The doctor dined in his hotel room that night. Though he was alone, his mind returned to feast on the enjoyment of his day with Clarice, an accompaniment that flavored his palate much more pleasingly than the unfortunately overcooked salmon.
It had been a significantly productive day in several respects. Clarice's comfort level with him, of primary concern, had clearly increased, even when the conversation had turned to what might, in her mind, be less savory topics.
She remained disenchanted with Jackie-boy's tactics, another victory.
She had willingly handed him control of the initial days of her recovery, trusting him to arrange matters without contradicting her wishes or forgetting to attend to any of the small details that could so easily put her in a precarious position.
She had rested easily in his presence, neither delaying her scheduled painkillers - Percocet, he noted - nor asking him to leave despite the sedative effect, to which she seemed particularly susceptible and which left her napping periodically after her lunch. Now lunch, he admitted, had clearly been a trial for her.
As he would have expected, given her injuries, she had been presented with soft, bland, semi-liquid choices for her meal. From what little she had eaten, it was not difficult to determine she had found the offerings unappealing. That was an issue that would need to be addressed; her body needed fuel to properly continue the healing process.
But her afternoon naps had provided him with a window to implement his plans. She had slept deeply for fifteen or twenty minutes at a time, awakened enough to converse with moderate attentiveness, and repeated the process several times. And as her hospital room thoughtfully provided a phone, and the calls he had needed to make would be least suspicious coming from the hospital exchange in any case, he had merely waited until she slept deeply enough to allow him to converse in a quiet, professional tone.
The first and third calls had been brisk, a simple matter of arranging details. The second call, however, had required more finesse and the assumption of a flat, Midwestern American accent. Thankfully, he had been provided with more than sufficient examples in the past two days.
Once past the standard greetings and basic explanation for the purpose of his call, he had thoroughly enjoyed himself manipulating Ardelia Mapp. He replayed the experience in his mind, listening once more for any nuances he might have missed, any hint that she had entertained suspicions as they spoke.
"And will someone be home during the day to assist Ms. Starling? She will have difficulty with some tasks in the initial stages of her recovery."
Ms. Mapp's response was as expected; Clarice's assessment had been quite accurate.
"Absolutely. I can take time off of work to stay with her. We're very close."
"I see." He allowed doubt to creep into his tone. "Please be aware that such arrangements can cause difficulty, particularly when the caregiver and patient have a close relationship."
"What do you mean? I told Cee I'd be there for her. I've done it before. I know she'd do the same for me."
"Of course, of course," he soothed her. "As her patient advocate, however, I feel it's important that you understand the magnitude of the undertaking. Would you say that Ms. Starling is typically an independent person?"
Something like a snort echoed in his ear.
"That's an understatement."
"And do you think that she will accept help from you easily? That she will tell you her needs immediately, without embarrassment, and allow you to dictate the terms of her recovery? Without such a dependency causing frustration and long-term resentment, perhaps even a sense of obligation and imbalance, in your friendship with her?"
Ms. Mapp remained silent for a long moment.
"I… hadn't thought of it like that. I mean, I know she'll hate needing help to do anything…." Her voice trailed off into confused uncertainty.
Excellent. Just a bit more, I think.
"We find patients are often reluctant to cede authority, and caregivers with deeply personal ties are unlikely to enforce it. Such behavior can set back a patient's recovery process, particularly when a patient has no one to whom she can vent her frustrations."
"I don't want to slow her recovery. I know she'll be pushing to get back to work as soon as possible."
No, she won't, he thought, but doubt remained. It was possible he would not truly believe – would not shed such doubts – until the moment she walked away from the FBI and into his arms for the last time. And even then… no. He would have to learn to trust her, to trust that she was ready to accept in full what she wanted so desperately.
"In that case, I would suggest allowing us to arrange for a home health aide to visit on a daily basis until Ms. Starling is past the likely window for re-injury. A uniformed caregiver can provide a sense of authority and a safer target for frustration, which will allow you and Ms. Starling to preserve your friendship during this difficult time."
"That… sounds good, actually."
He could hear the guilty relief in her voice. Ms. Mapp had not been difficult to manage at all, once convinced she was doing the best thing for Clarice. She was, of course, unaware that it was also the best thing for Hannibal Lecter. Yes, I expect she'd have trouble with that notion.
"Is there anything I need to do to set things up?"
"Not at all; I'll simply make the arrangements in the system and Ms. Starling will be provided with appropriate assistance during her convalescence."
"There's nothing I can do? To help?"
Ah, of course. A caregiver without a task felt a certain helplessness–
Something you're familiar with, Doctor?
So formal, Clarice?
It's your mind. If you want to change my behavior here, I can't stop you.
That was true enough, he allowed, and yet there was something charmingly Clarice about her use of formal address when speaking to him even in his own mind. He smoothly shifted his thoughts back to Ms. Mapp even as his eyes studied his sleeping Starling.
"Actually, there is one thing that would simplify matters."
Ms. Mapp had, of course, rapidly agreed. She wanted very much to help Clarice; it was only her limited understanding of her friend's needs that made her a poor companion. But that was for the best, he thought, pushing the remains of his dinner and the memory aside and rising from the table.
After all, with properly supportive friends, Clarice might never have come to rely upon him at all. And that was a possibility he greatly preferred not to contemplate.