A/N: Last chapter. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. Oh, and be
patient…this is rather long.
~~~
Rain was cold—she liked rain. Liked the way it sounded against the roof of her duplex, liked the way it refreshed her as she jogged. Even more, she loved storms. Long, violent storms, racked with lightning and thunder rumbling in the distance, or crashing above her head. Clear nights and sunny days had not and would never describe her life. Nature's shower. Rain.
It was raining now, and she hated it.
Starling had almost made it to her car without breaking, but the feel of water skating down her face seemed to trigger tears. Against the hood of the rental, she collapsed, burying her face in her arms and letting out a few good sobs.
It's not too late…not too late. You can still go back.
Yes, she could. And perhaps, out of the continually pushed but willful goodness of his heart—that which wasn't supposed to exist—he would forgive her yet again. She wondered if he would be in the window if she turned around, beckoning her return. Though she hadn't said no, it was close enough.
Starling pulled away after a minute, plastered hair clinging to her forehead. Small goose bumps sprinkled across her skin. For long minutes, she stared at the car, this vehicle that she loved, this chariot back to Washington. A place she didn't want to go.
So why am I here?
Wasn't it obvious? She loved being a tease. Leading men on only to back away when things turned serious. After all, she had come all this way, knowing at least in theory the way he felt about her. And, in fairness to herself, she had thought she had everything worked out. Every step since she answered his letter had wheedled her further from the person she once was. The person she didn't want to be. There were the hours of debating as she rushed to beat the clock, terrified that she wouldn't make it to the payphone in time. Watching meat rotate on a piece of Shoney's undoubtedly authentic silver, heaving a man into a car when she could have chosen the trunk, even if he was faking his unconsciousness. Each time battling the will to turn around. Each time reaching the same conclusion.
What made now so different?
I'm here because I just can't get enough of saying no to a good thing.
Ouch…she attempted to shake the thought away to little avail.
Of course, she hadn't exactly said no, just not now. Was there any variation? Did she really think she could go home, agonize and brew, arrive at her conclusion and return?
("Another heartache…another failed romance…on and on…does anybody know what we are living for?")
The evidence was indisputable. Not now and no carried the same weight when compared on the scale.
Did she really want to go home?
No, Starling thought, lowering herself into the car. But where else is there?
Well, that was obvious.
What was the point of coming here if you were just going to say goodbye? Do you call that closure?
The heater assaulted her as she started the car, but she made no move to adjust its settings. Rivers of water splashed away as she activated the wipers, and a familiar Beatles song hummed gently through the speakers, courtesy of the local radio station she found a few miles outside of town.
Black night. Black ugly night.
Relying on habit, Starling steered the car out of the parking lot. She made the usual checks. Room keys? Left on the table inside. Luggage? In the back—not having bothered to move the suitcases in when she arrived. Her arms were full of something else.
Why am I doing this?
More tedious attempts at logic. She was beginning to annoy herself.
Hah!
Logicality forewarned what would happen when she arrived home. A flash revealed her unwelcoming duplex, the same darkness she encountered that night long ago, that night she received the letter that initiated this crazy, fruitless escapade. What had accepting his offer accomplished? Fooling herself? Teasing him?
Her mouth tingled with his kiss. Cold patches of skin began to burn with the remnants of his touch.
And tomorrow, should she keep driving and not stop, she would go to work as though it were any other day. She would nod her apologies to Pearsall for her abrupt leave, make up some story and return to her solitary cubicle. The curse of redundancy. Life would go on. It always did.
What a life it was.
Thus, the pattern for the rest of her days was set in stone. In time, she would come to mourn her choice, the predictability of taking the path traveled again and again. She would become one of those old spinsters in a rickety house full of cats and spiders.
("I planned each charted course…each careful step…along the byway.")
Shelbyville passed in a blur and she was soon on the interstate, continuing at a moderate speed, telling herself she was eager to put distance between herself and Dr. Lecter, but knowing it wasn't true.
What was that she had planned for herself? A shell of a life?
Familiarity stained her as wine stains carpet. For each mile recovered toward Washington, she was increasingly aware of how very much she didn't want to return. Back to that?
("Can you type and file? Can you take dictation?")
Why had she come all this way if only to turn around? Was it because she had to see? Had to see if the tabloids were right? To test her resolve? To confirm her deepest fear?
Of all the people in world to fall in love with…
The car swerved on that note.
("People will say we're in love. Would you ever say to me, stop? If you loved me, you'd stop? I love you too much for that.")
Funny how that word seemed to haunt her with each lasting encounter. Was fate trying to tell her something? Or was she just too cynical to believe that she was supposed to be with a cannibalistic fugitive from the law who was twice her age?
No…not cynical. Bitter. Why her?
Her own admission tainted the night.
("I'm not repeating it. I chose to stop.")
She had refrained from saying the words that she withheld all her life in fear of her self-made curse. Everyone she loved was dead, and this time, she was fleeing the scene. Words were cheap and untrustworthy. Still, she had said it, one way or another. At least he had that much.
Starling frowned at herself. So that was it? Her decision made?
Why did it feel like the wrong decision? Don't answer that…
I hate life…life hates me.
Sure. That's it.
Before their renewed acquaintance, she had awoken often to the night, sure his eyes on her, watching her. In the darkness, she would contrive his face from wandering particles of nothingness. An empty bedchamber. Disregard those shapes in the corners. Shadows playing on streetlights could make that harmless lamp on her dresser contrive into the image she so desired.
Desired? Even then?
Knowing now what she had suppressed for ten years was distorting memories. She identified hazy feelings, giving them the diagnoses she so long avoided. The water skating down her windshield seemed to outline his face, each contour flawless. Again and again…
Another flash. Riding back home from Memphis, staring out the plane window, playing old Oklahoma! songs through her head, bits and pieces of what she remembered.
("Your eyes mustn't glow like mine…Sweetheart, they're suspecting things… Some people claim that you are to blame as much as I. Don't praise my charm too much. Don't look so vain with me. Don't stand in the rain with me. Don't dance all night with me, 'til the stars fade from above. They'll see it's all right with me. People will say we're in love.")
It had been enough to persuade her to buy the film, and with the exception of a few, Starling wasn't a fan of musicals.
A wry smile drew across her lips. For ten years he was stuck in her head, much like that incessant song.
And do you think, by going back, that anything is going to change?
No, she knew it wasn't going to change. She knew nothing could change it. Nothing except what she left in that motel room.
On the freeway, the car came to a screeching halt. A flash of headlights from behind shined in forewarning, and she steered to the shoulder, killing the engine, breathless and tired. Exhausted. This debate was so old, so unworthy arguing. It didn't matter where she was; the conclusion would always be the same. From fleeing the comfort and security of bond to warring with herself as she sped reluctantly back to place that had ended it for her.
Which was more abusive? More dangerous? Which had wronged her, broken promises, sneered at her, kicked her while she was down? Which had nurtured her, consoled her, nursed her wounds when she fell, offered support and guidance, even after she turned away?
A prickly sensation stung her eyes again. Once more she was crying. Starling cursed aloud and made a futile attempt to regain control. That only prompted sobs, and in defeat, she curled against the steering wheel, listening to the gentle hum against the car roof, harsh splatters to the windshield. She cried long and hard, cried until her body was quivering for release, cried until she could produce no more tears. Even then, the sobs didn't cease. For long moments, her breathing came heavy, panting for air as she finally began to calm. And then the air fell awkwardly silent. Slowly, Starling turned her eyes upward, gazing to the black street ahead, shimmering with a few lights approaching from the distance. At the end of the road—somewhere—awaited Washington. Awaited the rest of her life.
If her decision hurt this much, it couldn't possibly be the right decision.
She bit her lip in thought, leaned back, and huffed out a sigh. After a minute of recollection, she jerked alert again, unhooking the safety belt and twisting awkwardly in the seat, searching for the purse she had deposited there after Dr. Lecter fell to the pavement at the beginning of his performance. Query found, she fished inside and retrieved her cell phone, reclined again and stared at it.
("I'm tired of the games, Hannibal. No more letters, no more articles in journals. I know you wouldn't trust me to let me contact you. So…just…call me.")
"Ring," she whispered, voice raspy and tasting of tears. "Ring, goddamn you."
Yes, because he's going to call the minute you realize what an insensitive bitch you've been. Because real life works that way. Honey, you'd be lucky if he's still in the motel room.
How many times had she worked herself into this position? Why did it always end the same?
Because she kept making the same decisions, only to continuously experience the same heartache time and time again. Her faith was misplaced. Old habits die hard. Old, destructive habits.
Life sure as hell ain't the way it is in the movies. That's for sure.
If it was, the phone's cue had come and gone. Someone should speak to the director.
"Ring," she repeated fruitlessly, her tone narrowing against sobs once more. "Please ring!"
Nothing.
"Goddammit!" Irately, she forcefully hooked the phone to her inside pocket, starting the car up once more and pulling forward. She had to wait until a few headlights had passed before she made the U-turn, seizing the side of the highway that felt more like home. The accelerator pumped with handling as her pulse began to race.
"You win!" Starling hissed to the night. The third reference to the game this evening, but this time, she could feel conviction in her voice. "You always fucking win!"
The road back to Shelbyville seemed longer to cover, even at her heightened speed. Every few seconds, her eyes darted the clock on the dashboard, silently daring it to tick off another minute, willing time to suspend just enough to ensure that he would be there when she got back.
Her renewed decision charged through her like adrenaline, alongside fear that it was too late. But she couldn't focus on fear, lest she lose her nerve. Never mind the fact that Dr. Lecter had no reason to linger, no duty to feed her hopes after she had devastated his time and time again. Forget that she had tried his patience and good will before, and that even before she should have rightfully had no motivation for extending his hand in assistance in the first place.
It was nearly nine o'clock, though it felt much later. Smalltime towns were either wild after dark or desolate. A few cars were stationed outside Shoney's, most likely belonging to the employees. The payphone booth across the street was vacant, as was the parking lot of the 7/11 behind it. A few teenagers lingered outside, smoking joints and laughing at something, though there wasn't a car in sight. Perhaps they were waiting for a ride, or an opportunity to rob the place.
Clarice Starling saw none of this. Ahead was the glow of the Motel 6, deeming everything else as a mere nonentity.
The space she had vacated on her leave was still open, but she chose the nearest to her, pulling in with a large squeak of brakes that needed to be inspected soon. In the midst of the past few months, she had neglected things such as routine trips to local garages. It was still raining, pouring now. An umbrella rested in the backseat, but she didn't bother. Starling threw the door open and ran to the room without closing it, uncaring of what might become of the rental's interior. Her drying skin shriveled at the touch of new rain, and she jogged so fiercely that her teeth caught her tongue and blood spilt into her mouth. All sensory was forfeited for sight.
Cold and dripping, Starling breathed harshly as she met the door, exhausted, as though returning from a long run. The distance between the car and the motel seemed endless, but she had covered tracks and was here now. A sharp pain shot up her side. Ignoring all physical reactions, she raised a hand to the door and had to bite her lip to keep from pounding.
And she waited…
And waited…
And waited…
More knocks, these intense and fraught. Starling's eyes widened with desperation as something cold began to reel her in, reeking with dreary acknowledgement. Choking out a sob, her last attempts were lackadaisical, her fist uncurling as she hit the door with her open palm before ceasing altogether.
The area beneath the door and what she could see from the half-drawn curtains was dark. Its resident was gone.
Gone.
What fell within her was indistinguishable, for it coincided both with loss and the foreknowledge of that loss. Starling was caught between sobs, unable to cry anymore. She turned and leaned against the door, sliding until she rested at the sidewalk, drying awkwardly as wind blew rain over her. Hope was empty, and sitting there, she admitted that she had known since her revived conviction that she would return to an empty motel room. Perhaps it was only to prove herself correct while clinging to that distant wish that she was mistaken.
However, as she had established with herself time and time again, Dr. Lecter had no reason to stay here. Why would he with the conclusiveness of her leave? In a Motel 6? The thought was preposterous. Starling snickered at herself. No, he most likely left directly after she did, having somewhere warm to retreat, closer than Washington and outside this wretched little town.
What was left for her? She carried not the key to her motel room, though she knew retrieving it would be fairly simple. A fuel-up on her car and she could continue down the highway, opposite of Washington, a place she never intended to see again. Starling had seen enough criminals disappear to gauge how to pull it off successfully. She would look forward to tabloid assumptions—all of which were certain to accuse and make postulations of Dr. Lecter's plausible involvement.
Or perhaps she could sit here forever, in the rain, not move for lack of energy and will.
("Listen to my heart, can you hear it say, 'Come back to me…and forgive everything…'")
Hah. Forgiveness. Even Jesus wasn't that magnanimous.
Wearily, Starling forced her eyes upward; her eyes that were leaked clean of tears. She looked at her car, the driver's side door still open, swaying a bit in the wind. If she were to drive anywhere, she should start now. The seat was undoubtedly soaked, the interior perhaps ruined, but she didn't care. Chances were, she would never again set foot in the rental agency, and that it would soon be left abandoned in a ditch for another.
Something hummed against her hip. Starling rested her head against the door and ignored it. Maybe she didn't have the energy to drive anywhere tonight. The best option was likely to head back to the main office and rent out another room. Another room…she didn't want this one. Sleep suddenly sounded wonderful. She hadn't needed to rest like this in years.
The vibrating at her hip didn't cease, rather continued persistently until coaxing her from her daydream back to the present. A flash and her heart skipped a beat, her chilled, nimble fingers working to pry the phone from where she had left it. For a minute, she didn't want to answer it, didn't want to look at the computerized caller identification for fear of imminent disappointment.
But only for a minute. Starling eagerly brought the cell to her ear, raising her free hand to the other side of her head to block out the sound of the storm. "Hello?" she demanded, holding her breath.
A pause, and just like that, without saying a word, she knew it was him. It was instinct, knowing he would take a second to read her tone. Relief warmed her cold skin, spreading from her toes to her fingertips, and she let out a breath to release her former burden.
"How are you holding up, Clarice?" he asked a minute later, tone low, discarding the need for salutations and common trades. As though he was standing before her, they always said hello without speaking it, without needing to. Undoubtedly, he had read her understanding before needing the employment of dialogue.
"Not so good."
"Oh? Where are you? Home already?"
Starling narrowed her eyes cynically. He never asked a question like that without knowing the answer. Dead hope revived within her tired veins, beginning its dawdling, never presumptuous flow. "Are you losing your hearing, Doctor? It sounds like God is throwing a temper tantrum out here."
The sound of his laughter eased her, soothed her, reassured her. "And why might you be outside in this mess?"
"I'm at the motel, Dr. Lecter…I came back." The words left her deliberately.
"Hmmm. I see." She bit her lip, not attempting to piece a reply, sensing the indefiniteness in his voice. The next question was inevitable. "Why?"
One word. One syllable. Three letters. Perhaps the most difficult question in the English language to answer, structured in any context. A feared whisper belonging to an owner who understood in every sense how maddening its release could be. Even as Starling knew she stood on thin ice, she could feel her patience begin to ebb. And she knew, even as she fought the temptation to scream her acclaimed realization, the thorough feel of self-disgust, that she could not forfeit and bow to his every whim. That would compromise returning for the wrong reasons as a person he did not want, and would not accept.
A question. The hardest to answer. Why? Why had she returned after leaving with such uncertainty? Where did confusion end and blatant recognition commence? How do you begin to explain yourself to this man?
In that fleeting instant, Starling was thankful for their distance. She had endured his stare of silent inquiry enough for one night. Pressed hard against a motel lavatory, consumed in a sea of colors and sensations she wished to deny, but couldn't.
"Why," she repeated at last, knowing instantly that he would recognize it as stalling for more time.
"Quicker than that," he warned, voice dangerous with controlled patience. "Or perhaps you would prefer to continue at another time? It would be wise for you to get out of the rain, Clarice."
In an instant, she shot to her feet, dripping and suppressing a shiver at the clingy rainwater. "No, Doctor," she disagreed, hand pressing harder against her free ear as she raced back into the storm, diving into her car and seizing her purse, ignoring the soft mushiness of the seat and settling for a minute to catch her breath. "I'd much rather talk now."
"What are you doing?"
"Grabbing my purse. I want to 'get out of the rain' as you suggested, but in a motel room. Not my car."
"Oh?" She heard his silent inquiry for elaboration with fleeting familiarity.
"Truth be told," she said, salvaging her sharp breaths, taking a minute to enjoy their exchange without competing with the storm. "I'm dead tired and I don't feel like going out tonight." Starling was unaware of the secreted innuendo in her tone until after the statement was released. When he did not refer to it, she knew he had concluded the same.
"Don't bother in returning to the check-in office," he muttered. "Your room card is lodged in the seal of the door."
She froze in place, hand halfway wrenched for her checkbook before her nerves betrayed her and the purse fell to the car floor. It rolled beside the gas pedal and rocked to stillness. "What?" Astonishment tainted her voice, and she made no attempt to hide it.
Dr. Lecter hummed in modest amusement. "You sound so surprised, my dear. Ah well, I suppose that's logical."
"What do you mean, it's in the door?" she barked, undecided between anger and shock. There was no need to pause and categorize her emotions, as she knew he preferred them raw and unflavored by artificial spices.
"I should think it's quite clear, Clarice," Dr. Lecter hissed. "Your impending irresolution wasn't too difficult to predict, even as I know you so abhor being instituted in such a fashion. I suppose history really does repeat itself. Though you are wonderfully spontaneous, my dear, I have found a shimmer or two of patterned behavior."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that this continuous vacillation seems to be the only reliable consistency in your life. Never mind outside influences such as myself or your friends back in Washington, but in and of your life. The will to know exactly what it is that you want, but never find it within yourself." He sighed. "In a sense, Clarice, you have been institutionalized. Your illusions of your professional pedestal have always been clear, thus becoming the center of your focus."
Anger and hurt at the truth wheedled into his words flushed through her, but she could not raise her voice in opposition for knowing it was the truth. However, in scarred retaliation, she managed to find something in her throat. "I'm here now, aren't I?" It came out scarred and hurtful—a helpless whimper from a wounded animal.
"Yes," he agreed, not reacting to the winter storm in her voice. "And how soon again, do you think, before you are grasped by an overwhelming sense of conscience?"
Starling felt herself chill again, finally moving from the dry air of the car to the rain once again. There was no need for words as she jogged back, eyes catching what she missed the first time. A thin room card was wedged tightly in the door seal, just as he promised.
When she was inside, she shivered at the customarily lowered room temperature that was seemingly shared by all motel chains. Her eyes fell across the bed where he had lain so shortly before, noting the wrinkling in the comforter had been straightened and that the room, even to the plastic glass she left gathering residue by the sink, looked unused.
But she smelled him here, his cologne, the scent she had subconsciously grown used to. Grown to identify anywhere.
"I have no intention of turning back, Dr. Lecter," she heard herself mutter. Her clothes chilled her skin and clung to her uncomfortably. "I've traveled that road before."
"And how many times have you looked over your shoulder, pondering your remaining options, returned to scout them out, and decided it's for the better if you remain on the safe, taken path?" he retorted. "I will give you this, Clarice: every time you reach this pivotal point, you make it a hair closer to the line."
"And you're standing on the other side of that line with open arms, I'm willing to bet," Starling retorted dryly, unsuccessfully attempting not to shiver again. The thought of venturing once more into the night to retrieve her suitcase was distasteful, but she knew she needed a fresh change of clothes if she wanted to elude a cold.
"I am there, yes. I've wanted this for you since our first encounter. However, I am not saying you will find your satisfaction and utter contentment at my side; this is not about me. It never was."
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you," she snapped, not defensive, but feeling the need to counter that statement nonetheless.
He chuckled. "I'm humbled by your need to credit me, Clarice, but really, let's be serious. Had you not met me, your downfall might have been a bit prolonged, I will admit, but it would have come someday. A person founded with your ethics has no place in any conventional society. You associate with corruption everyday."
"Something about removing the cause but not the symptom?"
There was another light-hearted chuckle, perhaps designated to lessen the seriousness of their conversation, but she didn't think so. This trade did not merit alleviating. She was very aware that her future depended on the outcome, and searing truths already shared and released stung with endearing familiarity. Though she could not see it now, apart of her started to climb with doubt.
However, Starling did not think it was Dr. Lecter's intention to push her away, rather to enlighten her on a very real likelihood. He was right, of course. They had stood here before under different circumstances, tugged ahead but she always looked back for what she might be losing. What would be left behind. And every time, she found something, a glimmer of counterfeit reasoning that shined with enough velocity to offer false hope.
"Institutionalized," she repeated at last, understanding layered in her tone. "Cripes, I'm a lost cause."
"Now now," he scolded softly, soothingly, biting and licking the wounds in the same breath. "If you were a lost cause, Clarice, I assure you, you wouldn't be here. Even those malicious symptoms have an antidote."
"So what are you saying? That…you knew I would come back because I know what I want but I'm…but that I'm not a lost cause, even though…what are you saying?"
"You proved several things to me, in your recent departure," he replied airily, as though avoiding a direct answer, though she knew that wasn't the case. "You are so close to that line, Clarice. To tasting the flavor of your own corruption—the corruption that will allow you to escape its creator. You will make it there someday, perhaps sooner than I credit. You are unpredictable to me, delightfully so, but I will not pretend it is not unnerving." The admission left her breathless, and thankfully he continued before she felt obligated to speak. Though she had known this for years, hearing him confess it seemed to heighten its value. "I have every faith that you will break free of your prison. You are your most dangerous adversary, and you are at battle with yourself."
Then he fell silent – inconclusively – though with reason. He wanted to determine her reaction, taste it through her voice since he was unable to drink it through her eyes.
Starling swallowed hard. "And after I cross that line? What then?"
"Then it is up to you." His tone indicated aloofness, uncaring where she might land, though she knew it was not so. "My own selfishness is not a factor now, Clarice. I told you that I wanted you with me, but your release might not coincide with my own desires."
A frigid silence. The hand clutching the phone began to tremble. "But it does," she heard herself choke. A burden heaved off her shoulders.
"Then tell me," he replied simply, his tone masking something else. "Tell me now and we might spare ourselves another desolate ten years."
"You knew it," Starling accused, focused on his earlier statement, paying little mind to what was said now. "You knew what I wanted, else—"
"I knew what I wanted, Clarice. I've known these long years. I suspected you wanted the same, even if you hadn't grasped it yet. I wished it so. But harboring such unfamiliar sentiments can misplace perception." He paused. "I did know you were attracted to me, but attraction is a double- edged sword, and is not enough to break a strong person from everything with which they are familiar."
That she could agree with. A truly strong willed person could overcome the incentive of physical attraction. She had proven that simply by their current telling positions, and this level of duplicity had been accomplished years ago, in the old Baltimore days. Admitting a physical reaction to Dr. Lecter was easy; there was no way she could deny her elevated pulse, quaky knees, rushing adrenaline and thighs she had to keep constantly pushed together. Physical reactions. Nothing she couldn't handle.
This, though, this was taking it far beyond that. And though she had known it for quite some time, knowing and realizing were two different bodies. For Starling, many pieces had flown together in the last meeting before his escape ten years ago; she had chosen to ignore them until now.
I've loved you since Memphis, she thought, wondering how or why she knew, but she did. Funny; though it strained in mind as their most significant encounter to date, even more so than what passed at Chesapeake, falling second only to recent developments, she remembered nothing but sweltering rage of the moment. Being angry though flustered, eyes remaining on him as she was dragged away, until one of the guard's hands coaxed her to turn around. The last glance of him in ten years. Even still, she knew that was it. That was the moment. Since they touched. The touch that perhaps initiated this for them both. I've loved you since Memphis, but that was not enough. That was never enough for me.
There was always something else. She had wanted to be Special Agent Starling more than anything, convinced such a title would grant her the filling for those gaping holes, justify the means of what she endured to reach her plinth. She wanted to reach and grasp something, make it hers, make it love her back.
Perhaps that was the reason she shied from confessing aloud the loss of her unobtainable goal. Something she felt she had given up wanting years ago, gave up wanting but never dreaming. And it was the survival of the dream that kept her from aspiring. What kept her grounded at the same unremitting place.
"So what now?" she asked at last. Her voice was scratchy and hoarse, as though she were on the brink of tears.
"What now? That's up to you, Clarice."
"I'm tired." It wasn't an excuse or a plea for sympathy—more a generalization. A statement.
"I'd suspect so."
"And I'm angry."
"At whom?"
"Myself."
"For being you?" Disapproval rumbled gutturally in the back of his throat. "Clarice, if only you knew how much ahead of the rest of society you are. A shining star among the radicals."
The compliment warmed her, a fleeting sensation that lingered with delicious aftertaste. "Some of our stars are the same," she muttered.
Dr. Lecter's smile was audible. "And they always will be."
"More than not?"
"I've always thought so. There are many stars yet to be discovered."
"Dr. Lecter?"
"Yes?"
She swallowed hard. "Where are you?"
A low hum, neutral. "Now, wouldn't that be telling? Why?"
That insufferable question again. Starling had to curb a growl. "Isn't obvious? I'd like you here."
"There?"
"With me."
"Hmmm." He seemed to consider. "As utterly tempting as that invitation is, Clarice, I don't think it is altogether wise. Not now."
Irritation stabbed brutally and her teeth gnashed, though she did take a minute to note the agonizing familiarity of his words. Not now. However, being one of less candor and patience, Starling could not help plea from escaping her throat, emitting the words he had refused when presented with the same heartbreaking statement. "Why not?"
"I would like to avoid a repeat performance of earlier this evening," he replied. "When I told you I wanted you, Clarice, I meant all of you. Competing for affection becomes tedious after so many years."
"I can't vouch for the future," Starling replied honestly, though she was quite certain of the alternative. "But I know how I feel, and I don't see it going away."
"Of course you don't," he agreed. "Not now. But who can speak for tomorrow? Views wither with age, my dear."
"Yours didn't."
"Yes, but I am always certain of what I want. And while you might not regret the choices you make now for many months, perhaps years, I never want you to wake up looking back at what you missed. What you wish you could do over."
Impatience and susceptibility began to muster again. "Then why am I here?" she growled. "How the hell are we supposed to decide when—"
"When you no longer question yourself, or my motives."
A roll of thunder stole angry words from her tongue, and collecting herself, Starling's teeth clamped on her lip as she counted to ten. The small break allowed her to realize that she was still sopping in rainwater, drying awkwardly in the unhelpful cold of the motel room. She remembered her luggage in the backseat and grasped the keys that lay on the bed without thinking, jingling them together in habit.
"Leaving again, Clarice?" Dr. Lecter asked innocently.
Stepping outside, back into the rain, Starling frowned and had to wonder if there was another motel establishment across the street. She knew he heard the keys dangling, but the unwavering trust in his voice, despite the implication, was enough to put her off balance. Could he see her? Perhaps. Dr. Lecter never second-guessed.
The cars, though, were vacant as she jogged outside. She reminded herself that she brought him here earlier, and that he wouldn't deign to larceny unless he was threatened. That also meant he had to be somewhere close.
Unless he called a cab, she thought.
"No," Starling answered finally, throwing the trunk open and grunting as she heaved one suitcase to the wet pavement. She waited until she was back inside before continuing, fresh water making her shiver. "I'm cold and my clothes are soaked. I'm going to take a shower and change, if that's all right with you."
"Perfectly," he agreed. His tone was warm and amiable. "Though might I suggest running a bath instead? I'd like to continue chatting, if you don't mind."
"While I'm in the tub?"
"The very thought provides especially enticing imagery," Dr. Lecter teased. "I suppose I could always call back later."
Starling smirked, pulling the phone away long enough to drag her sodden shirt over her head. It was consigned to the floor with a mushy flop. "Why the hell not?" she decided when she returned, holding the phone to her ear between her cheek and her shoulder as her hands became busy at her jeans. Her tone adopted a kidding jest almost naturally. By this time, she was used to falling smoothly into place with him, struggling only slightly with tagging behind. "Might as well give you some food for thought." She paused, catching herself. "So to speak."
Starling decided that Dr. Lecter's laugh sounded something like chamber music. "And what delicious thinking it provokes," he observed. "You wicked temptress."
"I learned from the best," she fired back, not missing a beat.
In a small nook beside the lavatory awaited one of the motel's trademark white bathrobes. Casting it over her shoulders to keep warm as the tub filled, she went in to start the water, making sure it was steaming before retreating to recline a few minutes and peruse the channels.
"Television?"
"Just until the tub fills."
"I assume the horrid Mr. Sandler is no longer making a mockery of the opera."
Starling grinned, reaching with her free hand to pull her damp hair from her face, holding it back a minute like a ponytail. "You complain about me not getting enough fun out of life," she observed, "and yet you can find no amusement in things like Saturday Night Live."
"I'll admit to having watched a show or two in the seventies," he replied. "It was enough to last a lifetime."
"That's better, then. The show sucks now." She tucked her legs under her, leaning her weight on one arm. "I always did enjoy Opera Man, though."
"Please, Clarice." A sense of fondness had crept into his tone, though she suspected it was intentional. "Don't you think you better check on your bath?"
"Probably."
The room was steamy, engulfing her with protective warmth. She slipped the robe off her shoulders and sank into the tub, reaching to turn off the faucet. A low hum of approval rumbled through her throat.
"Comfortable?"
"Uh huh." She stretched sumptuously, knowing with as nice as it was, simply talking, that they had to get back on topic. Over the years, Starling became acquainted with the fact that she was not a woman who liked to be taken by surprise, or made to wait indefinitely. Before the discussion was over, she was determined to have an answer, knowing there was otherwise no way she would find sleep tonight. "What now, Doctor?"
"Certainly you don't need me to tell you that." His tone tickled of tease.
She growled. "You know what I mean."
"I wish I could tell you."
"I don't believe you. I think you're enjoying this."
There was a scoff. "Perverse torment as it is, Clarice, you can't honestly believe that our situation is any more fun on my end."
"And you're really not coming?"
"Not yet."
Her back arched in the water, as though flexing a troublesome pain away. "What is it about me?" she asked irritably. "I get all the Miggses and the Krendlers and the Chiltons…but the one man I want, I can't get over here…even if he knows he'd be catching me indisposed."
"You flatter."
"You aggravate."
"You love it."
"I guess I do, in some sick way," Starling retorted dryly. "Why else would I put up with it?"
"The human race is composed of irrational creatures, Clarice," Dr. Lecter replied. "Some motives were meant to never be uncovered."
"Yours?"
"It depends on the motive."
Starling raised her other arm up high, enjoying the feel of water dribbling down her skin, and rested it under her head. "And this one?"
"I believe we have discussed this extensively."
"Well, maybe if you would tell me, I wouldn't be so annoyingly persistent."
Dr. Lecter barked a laugh of interest. "Oh don't be so modest, Clarice. Your persistence is charming."
Her nose wrinkled. "Thanks."
Another laugh. Equally short but genuine, and it made her smile despite the aggravation boiling in her stomach, waiting to erupt. "My dear, do I press your temper?"
"Nah. What gave you that idea?"
"It's the best thing for you right now, you know." And he meant it. Though she knew he would always mean what he said, this struck her as particularly charismatic because Dr. Lecter was the only person who would do something wholly with her in mind, for better or worse.
"I know, I know," Starling agreed, understanding even if she didn't want to. "It's the smart thing to do, even if I don't like it."
"Most things usually fall under that category."
"Yeah, and you're one…no…you're the only person I know who keeps that in mind," she observed, leaning back and closing her eyes. "It's one of the reasons I love you."
A sharp breath caught on the other line, and then there was silence. Starling blinked her confusion, twitching a bit in the absence of dialogue, having grown into it for however long they had chatted. The moment stretched and tautened and would have become uncomfortable had she not spoke up. "Dr. Lecter?"
There was a beat more of silence before she heard him breathe again, slowly, as though tasting his pleasure. When he found his voice, Starling was startled to hear it rumble with passion, just a minute ago controlled and stately. "Use my name, Clarice. You did before."
The request surprised her. Something had changed, noticeably, and she had to backtrack and remember exactly what was passed before her eyes widened in understanding. She had said it. Said it without meaning to, without hesitation or segues. Without considering who might hear her, without trepidation. Even without realizing she what was confessing.
Wants had changed. No more predictions, nor reaching for something while secretly unsure if she was prepared for what she was asking for. She was very frank when she knew exactly what she wanted, and he knew this.
A piece chiseled and fell away. "Hannibal," she murmured.
He sighed and fell silent once more. This time she tolerated it, pulse racing, for she knew what it must mean. The preverbal line was crossed, and the thought was liberating.
"Clarice." By now, Dr. Lecter had reclaimed his control, though she could tell he was fighting for it.
"Hannibal?" Saying his name felt good and it rolled naturally off her tongue, as though she had called him that and nothing else every day of their relationship.
"Get out of the tub."
"Why?"
"Because I am coming over."
Instantly, Starling twisted and stood, reaching for a towel. "Are you sure you want me out of the tub, then?"
"See you soon." The line clicked and went dead.
Starling suddenly felt like a senior on prom night. As she shook excess water from her hair, she was vaguely aware that her stomach was performing a series of impressive flip-flops, though she couldn't pinpoint the cause. Not Dr. Lecter, she didn't think. More likely, it was the knowledge that she was really here; she had crossed that line without any provocation. By herself.
The line was behind her.
Glancing to the mirror after she flipped her hair over her head and back again, Starling thought once she was looking at a woman she didn't know. Eyes were alight in new emancipation, dancing with her realization. Again Dr. Lecter's methods had proven the wiser. And she understood then why he had to wait. Wait for her to come forward without pushing her supportively from behind, guiding her down any path. The admission having escaped from her lips for the first time aloud…
She understood, but didn't want to focus on her understanding and dissect it, as was her habit. Something told her there would be plenty of time for that in the future. As for tonight, though, she felt she had thought enough.
A dry robe replaced the one that now gathered bathwater on the tiles of the restroom. She wrapped her head in the towel, aware of her awkward appearance but not caring. Another glance to the mirror reassured her that she had looked better, but Starling wasn't a woman to primp. However, she decided the addition of the towel was silly and pulled her hair free. Just as she retreated to her suitcase to fish out her brush, three sharp knocks were delivered to the door.
Wow. That was fast.
Starling didn't waste a minute. Abandoning her search, she moved fluidly to the head of the room, grasped the knob and twisted it open.
They stood there for a long, quiet minute, eyes locked in exploration. It seemed it had been forever since she saw him, impossible that it was only earlier that evening. So much had passed and changed. And Starling realized with little insinuation that her journey was for the better. Had she stood here any other time she might have walked away. Not now. Never again.
Hoarsely, she cleared her throat and pulled words out of the air, barely aware that she was speaking. "Where were you?" The question was unimportant but she was curious still. "Where did you go?"
"Upstairs," Dr. Lecter replied softly.
Of course. She guessed his car was up the road a few miles by Shoney's, or better yet, the 7/11. Either way, it didn't matter now.
"You're here," she said, as though surprised.
"I am."
"I'm not leaving again."
This toss was distant and seductive, as though they hadn't spoken in years. Strangers standing together. Strangers that had known each other forever.
"Oh?" Slowly, he took a step forward, then another as she backed up, granting him space until he was completely in the room. Without breaking their gaze, he reached and closed the door behind him. "Are you sure?"
From the dangerous flashing in his eyes, Starling knew that he was asking just to heighten her pulse as he took another step. This time, she didn't attempt to gain it back, instead welcoming closeness. "I'm sure."
His breath ricocheted off her face as his lips neared, softly brushing hers in minimal, unsatisfactory contact. "How can I be sure, Former Agent Starling?" He pulled away just long enough to perk his brows in challenge. "The door is behind me, and rather convenient. Why would you want to stay here?"
Without pausing to consider the answer he was looking for, she held his gaze level and said with heartbreaking sincerity, "Because I love you." She smiled. "And I think I've finally understood that's all that matters."
As the words were uttered again without consternation of her nonexistent loss, she watched as he emitted a sigh and knew she had pushed him over the edge. The thought was tantalizing.
No further provocation was needed. Dr. Lecter claimed her mouth that was itching to accept his kiss, and his arms came around her, crushing her to his body. This time, his lips had the taste of release and freedom, even less reserved for the absence of fear that she would break. Her arms encircled him, pulling him closer as she tried to return that fire, knowing for all of her that this was where she wanted to be.
Her suitcase was relegated to the motel floor in their hurry, upside down as clothes leaked from the sides as she melted into his kiss. The robe soon followed.
* * *
Drifting, drifting…
Drifting off too sleep.
A sleep that would, for once, be without nightmares or foreboding. A sleep that would lead her to the first day of the rest of her life.
What a glorious day it promised to be.
Now, though, nuzzled in the darkness next to the one she loved, Starling thought none of this. Instead, she was intent on how sweetly labored breathing sounded as it receded, how rich was the air that filled her lungs. The cold that once inhabited this room had no place now. A gentle hum vibrated against her ear and she smiled into his chest, shifting her leg that lay across his.
Thoughts collided and jumbled with the thrill of reaction, but she forced herself to remain faithful to the promise that she would not think anymore tonight.
She was rendered wonderfully exhausted.
With a yawn, Clarice Starling finally succumbed to fatigue, slipping away into an irrelevant dreamland. Her last rational thought arose with some finale, making her smile linger and remain long after she was asleep.
It doesn't get any better than this.
FIN
~~~
Rain was cold—she liked rain. Liked the way it sounded against the roof of her duplex, liked the way it refreshed her as she jogged. Even more, she loved storms. Long, violent storms, racked with lightning and thunder rumbling in the distance, or crashing above her head. Clear nights and sunny days had not and would never describe her life. Nature's shower. Rain.
It was raining now, and she hated it.
Starling had almost made it to her car without breaking, but the feel of water skating down her face seemed to trigger tears. Against the hood of the rental, she collapsed, burying her face in her arms and letting out a few good sobs.
It's not too late…not too late. You can still go back.
Yes, she could. And perhaps, out of the continually pushed but willful goodness of his heart—that which wasn't supposed to exist—he would forgive her yet again. She wondered if he would be in the window if she turned around, beckoning her return. Though she hadn't said no, it was close enough.
Starling pulled away after a minute, plastered hair clinging to her forehead. Small goose bumps sprinkled across her skin. For long minutes, she stared at the car, this vehicle that she loved, this chariot back to Washington. A place she didn't want to go.
So why am I here?
Wasn't it obvious? She loved being a tease. Leading men on only to back away when things turned serious. After all, she had come all this way, knowing at least in theory the way he felt about her. And, in fairness to herself, she had thought she had everything worked out. Every step since she answered his letter had wheedled her further from the person she once was. The person she didn't want to be. There were the hours of debating as she rushed to beat the clock, terrified that she wouldn't make it to the payphone in time. Watching meat rotate on a piece of Shoney's undoubtedly authentic silver, heaving a man into a car when she could have chosen the trunk, even if he was faking his unconsciousness. Each time battling the will to turn around. Each time reaching the same conclusion.
What made now so different?
I'm here because I just can't get enough of saying no to a good thing.
Ouch…she attempted to shake the thought away to little avail.
Of course, she hadn't exactly said no, just not now. Was there any variation? Did she really think she could go home, agonize and brew, arrive at her conclusion and return?
("Another heartache…another failed romance…on and on…does anybody know what we are living for?")
The evidence was indisputable. Not now and no carried the same weight when compared on the scale.
Did she really want to go home?
No, Starling thought, lowering herself into the car. But where else is there?
Well, that was obvious.
What was the point of coming here if you were just going to say goodbye? Do you call that closure?
The heater assaulted her as she started the car, but she made no move to adjust its settings. Rivers of water splashed away as she activated the wipers, and a familiar Beatles song hummed gently through the speakers, courtesy of the local radio station she found a few miles outside of town.
Black night. Black ugly night.
Relying on habit, Starling steered the car out of the parking lot. She made the usual checks. Room keys? Left on the table inside. Luggage? In the back—not having bothered to move the suitcases in when she arrived. Her arms were full of something else.
Why am I doing this?
More tedious attempts at logic. She was beginning to annoy herself.
Hah!
Logicality forewarned what would happen when she arrived home. A flash revealed her unwelcoming duplex, the same darkness she encountered that night long ago, that night she received the letter that initiated this crazy, fruitless escapade. What had accepting his offer accomplished? Fooling herself? Teasing him?
Her mouth tingled with his kiss. Cold patches of skin began to burn with the remnants of his touch.
And tomorrow, should she keep driving and not stop, she would go to work as though it were any other day. She would nod her apologies to Pearsall for her abrupt leave, make up some story and return to her solitary cubicle. The curse of redundancy. Life would go on. It always did.
What a life it was.
Thus, the pattern for the rest of her days was set in stone. In time, she would come to mourn her choice, the predictability of taking the path traveled again and again. She would become one of those old spinsters in a rickety house full of cats and spiders.
("I planned each charted course…each careful step…along the byway.")
Shelbyville passed in a blur and she was soon on the interstate, continuing at a moderate speed, telling herself she was eager to put distance between herself and Dr. Lecter, but knowing it wasn't true.
What was that she had planned for herself? A shell of a life?
Familiarity stained her as wine stains carpet. For each mile recovered toward Washington, she was increasingly aware of how very much she didn't want to return. Back to that?
("Can you type and file? Can you take dictation?")
Why had she come all this way if only to turn around? Was it because she had to see? Had to see if the tabloids were right? To test her resolve? To confirm her deepest fear?
Of all the people in world to fall in love with…
The car swerved on that note.
("People will say we're in love. Would you ever say to me, stop? If you loved me, you'd stop? I love you too much for that.")
Funny how that word seemed to haunt her with each lasting encounter. Was fate trying to tell her something? Or was she just too cynical to believe that she was supposed to be with a cannibalistic fugitive from the law who was twice her age?
No…not cynical. Bitter. Why her?
Her own admission tainted the night.
("I'm not repeating it. I chose to stop.")
She had refrained from saying the words that she withheld all her life in fear of her self-made curse. Everyone she loved was dead, and this time, she was fleeing the scene. Words were cheap and untrustworthy. Still, she had said it, one way or another. At least he had that much.
Starling frowned at herself. So that was it? Her decision made?
Why did it feel like the wrong decision? Don't answer that…
I hate life…life hates me.
Sure. That's it.
Before their renewed acquaintance, she had awoken often to the night, sure his eyes on her, watching her. In the darkness, she would contrive his face from wandering particles of nothingness. An empty bedchamber. Disregard those shapes in the corners. Shadows playing on streetlights could make that harmless lamp on her dresser contrive into the image she so desired.
Desired? Even then?
Knowing now what she had suppressed for ten years was distorting memories. She identified hazy feelings, giving them the diagnoses she so long avoided. The water skating down her windshield seemed to outline his face, each contour flawless. Again and again…
Another flash. Riding back home from Memphis, staring out the plane window, playing old Oklahoma! songs through her head, bits and pieces of what she remembered.
("Your eyes mustn't glow like mine…Sweetheart, they're suspecting things… Some people claim that you are to blame as much as I. Don't praise my charm too much. Don't look so vain with me. Don't stand in the rain with me. Don't dance all night with me, 'til the stars fade from above. They'll see it's all right with me. People will say we're in love.")
It had been enough to persuade her to buy the film, and with the exception of a few, Starling wasn't a fan of musicals.
A wry smile drew across her lips. For ten years he was stuck in her head, much like that incessant song.
And do you think, by going back, that anything is going to change?
No, she knew it wasn't going to change. She knew nothing could change it. Nothing except what she left in that motel room.
On the freeway, the car came to a screeching halt. A flash of headlights from behind shined in forewarning, and she steered to the shoulder, killing the engine, breathless and tired. Exhausted. This debate was so old, so unworthy arguing. It didn't matter where she was; the conclusion would always be the same. From fleeing the comfort and security of bond to warring with herself as she sped reluctantly back to place that had ended it for her.
Which was more abusive? More dangerous? Which had wronged her, broken promises, sneered at her, kicked her while she was down? Which had nurtured her, consoled her, nursed her wounds when she fell, offered support and guidance, even after she turned away?
A prickly sensation stung her eyes again. Once more she was crying. Starling cursed aloud and made a futile attempt to regain control. That only prompted sobs, and in defeat, she curled against the steering wheel, listening to the gentle hum against the car roof, harsh splatters to the windshield. She cried long and hard, cried until her body was quivering for release, cried until she could produce no more tears. Even then, the sobs didn't cease. For long moments, her breathing came heavy, panting for air as she finally began to calm. And then the air fell awkwardly silent. Slowly, Starling turned her eyes upward, gazing to the black street ahead, shimmering with a few lights approaching from the distance. At the end of the road—somewhere—awaited Washington. Awaited the rest of her life.
If her decision hurt this much, it couldn't possibly be the right decision.
She bit her lip in thought, leaned back, and huffed out a sigh. After a minute of recollection, she jerked alert again, unhooking the safety belt and twisting awkwardly in the seat, searching for the purse she had deposited there after Dr. Lecter fell to the pavement at the beginning of his performance. Query found, she fished inside and retrieved her cell phone, reclined again and stared at it.
("I'm tired of the games, Hannibal. No more letters, no more articles in journals. I know you wouldn't trust me to let me contact you. So…just…call me.")
"Ring," she whispered, voice raspy and tasting of tears. "Ring, goddamn you."
Yes, because he's going to call the minute you realize what an insensitive bitch you've been. Because real life works that way. Honey, you'd be lucky if he's still in the motel room.
How many times had she worked herself into this position? Why did it always end the same?
Because she kept making the same decisions, only to continuously experience the same heartache time and time again. Her faith was misplaced. Old habits die hard. Old, destructive habits.
Life sure as hell ain't the way it is in the movies. That's for sure.
If it was, the phone's cue had come and gone. Someone should speak to the director.
"Ring," she repeated fruitlessly, her tone narrowing against sobs once more. "Please ring!"
Nothing.
"Goddammit!" Irately, she forcefully hooked the phone to her inside pocket, starting the car up once more and pulling forward. She had to wait until a few headlights had passed before she made the U-turn, seizing the side of the highway that felt more like home. The accelerator pumped with handling as her pulse began to race.
"You win!" Starling hissed to the night. The third reference to the game this evening, but this time, she could feel conviction in her voice. "You always fucking win!"
The road back to Shelbyville seemed longer to cover, even at her heightened speed. Every few seconds, her eyes darted the clock on the dashboard, silently daring it to tick off another minute, willing time to suspend just enough to ensure that he would be there when she got back.
Her renewed decision charged through her like adrenaline, alongside fear that it was too late. But she couldn't focus on fear, lest she lose her nerve. Never mind the fact that Dr. Lecter had no reason to linger, no duty to feed her hopes after she had devastated his time and time again. Forget that she had tried his patience and good will before, and that even before she should have rightfully had no motivation for extending his hand in assistance in the first place.
It was nearly nine o'clock, though it felt much later. Smalltime towns were either wild after dark or desolate. A few cars were stationed outside Shoney's, most likely belonging to the employees. The payphone booth across the street was vacant, as was the parking lot of the 7/11 behind it. A few teenagers lingered outside, smoking joints and laughing at something, though there wasn't a car in sight. Perhaps they were waiting for a ride, or an opportunity to rob the place.
Clarice Starling saw none of this. Ahead was the glow of the Motel 6, deeming everything else as a mere nonentity.
The space she had vacated on her leave was still open, but she chose the nearest to her, pulling in with a large squeak of brakes that needed to be inspected soon. In the midst of the past few months, she had neglected things such as routine trips to local garages. It was still raining, pouring now. An umbrella rested in the backseat, but she didn't bother. Starling threw the door open and ran to the room without closing it, uncaring of what might become of the rental's interior. Her drying skin shriveled at the touch of new rain, and she jogged so fiercely that her teeth caught her tongue and blood spilt into her mouth. All sensory was forfeited for sight.
Cold and dripping, Starling breathed harshly as she met the door, exhausted, as though returning from a long run. The distance between the car and the motel seemed endless, but she had covered tracks and was here now. A sharp pain shot up her side. Ignoring all physical reactions, she raised a hand to the door and had to bite her lip to keep from pounding.
And she waited…
And waited…
And waited…
More knocks, these intense and fraught. Starling's eyes widened with desperation as something cold began to reel her in, reeking with dreary acknowledgement. Choking out a sob, her last attempts were lackadaisical, her fist uncurling as she hit the door with her open palm before ceasing altogether.
The area beneath the door and what she could see from the half-drawn curtains was dark. Its resident was gone.
Gone.
What fell within her was indistinguishable, for it coincided both with loss and the foreknowledge of that loss. Starling was caught between sobs, unable to cry anymore. She turned and leaned against the door, sliding until she rested at the sidewalk, drying awkwardly as wind blew rain over her. Hope was empty, and sitting there, she admitted that she had known since her revived conviction that she would return to an empty motel room. Perhaps it was only to prove herself correct while clinging to that distant wish that she was mistaken.
However, as she had established with herself time and time again, Dr. Lecter had no reason to stay here. Why would he with the conclusiveness of her leave? In a Motel 6? The thought was preposterous. Starling snickered at herself. No, he most likely left directly after she did, having somewhere warm to retreat, closer than Washington and outside this wretched little town.
What was left for her? She carried not the key to her motel room, though she knew retrieving it would be fairly simple. A fuel-up on her car and she could continue down the highway, opposite of Washington, a place she never intended to see again. Starling had seen enough criminals disappear to gauge how to pull it off successfully. She would look forward to tabloid assumptions—all of which were certain to accuse and make postulations of Dr. Lecter's plausible involvement.
Or perhaps she could sit here forever, in the rain, not move for lack of energy and will.
("Listen to my heart, can you hear it say, 'Come back to me…and forgive everything…'")
Hah. Forgiveness. Even Jesus wasn't that magnanimous.
Wearily, Starling forced her eyes upward; her eyes that were leaked clean of tears. She looked at her car, the driver's side door still open, swaying a bit in the wind. If she were to drive anywhere, she should start now. The seat was undoubtedly soaked, the interior perhaps ruined, but she didn't care. Chances were, she would never again set foot in the rental agency, and that it would soon be left abandoned in a ditch for another.
Something hummed against her hip. Starling rested her head against the door and ignored it. Maybe she didn't have the energy to drive anywhere tonight. The best option was likely to head back to the main office and rent out another room. Another room…she didn't want this one. Sleep suddenly sounded wonderful. She hadn't needed to rest like this in years.
The vibrating at her hip didn't cease, rather continued persistently until coaxing her from her daydream back to the present. A flash and her heart skipped a beat, her chilled, nimble fingers working to pry the phone from where she had left it. For a minute, she didn't want to answer it, didn't want to look at the computerized caller identification for fear of imminent disappointment.
But only for a minute. Starling eagerly brought the cell to her ear, raising her free hand to the other side of her head to block out the sound of the storm. "Hello?" she demanded, holding her breath.
A pause, and just like that, without saying a word, she knew it was him. It was instinct, knowing he would take a second to read her tone. Relief warmed her cold skin, spreading from her toes to her fingertips, and she let out a breath to release her former burden.
"How are you holding up, Clarice?" he asked a minute later, tone low, discarding the need for salutations and common trades. As though he was standing before her, they always said hello without speaking it, without needing to. Undoubtedly, he had read her understanding before needing the employment of dialogue.
"Not so good."
"Oh? Where are you? Home already?"
Starling narrowed her eyes cynically. He never asked a question like that without knowing the answer. Dead hope revived within her tired veins, beginning its dawdling, never presumptuous flow. "Are you losing your hearing, Doctor? It sounds like God is throwing a temper tantrum out here."
The sound of his laughter eased her, soothed her, reassured her. "And why might you be outside in this mess?"
"I'm at the motel, Dr. Lecter…I came back." The words left her deliberately.
"Hmmm. I see." She bit her lip, not attempting to piece a reply, sensing the indefiniteness in his voice. The next question was inevitable. "Why?"
One word. One syllable. Three letters. Perhaps the most difficult question in the English language to answer, structured in any context. A feared whisper belonging to an owner who understood in every sense how maddening its release could be. Even as Starling knew she stood on thin ice, she could feel her patience begin to ebb. And she knew, even as she fought the temptation to scream her acclaimed realization, the thorough feel of self-disgust, that she could not forfeit and bow to his every whim. That would compromise returning for the wrong reasons as a person he did not want, and would not accept.
A question. The hardest to answer. Why? Why had she returned after leaving with such uncertainty? Where did confusion end and blatant recognition commence? How do you begin to explain yourself to this man?
In that fleeting instant, Starling was thankful for their distance. She had endured his stare of silent inquiry enough for one night. Pressed hard against a motel lavatory, consumed in a sea of colors and sensations she wished to deny, but couldn't.
"Why," she repeated at last, knowing instantly that he would recognize it as stalling for more time.
"Quicker than that," he warned, voice dangerous with controlled patience. "Or perhaps you would prefer to continue at another time? It would be wise for you to get out of the rain, Clarice."
In an instant, she shot to her feet, dripping and suppressing a shiver at the clingy rainwater. "No, Doctor," she disagreed, hand pressing harder against her free ear as she raced back into the storm, diving into her car and seizing her purse, ignoring the soft mushiness of the seat and settling for a minute to catch her breath. "I'd much rather talk now."
"What are you doing?"
"Grabbing my purse. I want to 'get out of the rain' as you suggested, but in a motel room. Not my car."
"Oh?" She heard his silent inquiry for elaboration with fleeting familiarity.
"Truth be told," she said, salvaging her sharp breaths, taking a minute to enjoy their exchange without competing with the storm. "I'm dead tired and I don't feel like going out tonight." Starling was unaware of the secreted innuendo in her tone until after the statement was released. When he did not refer to it, she knew he had concluded the same.
"Don't bother in returning to the check-in office," he muttered. "Your room card is lodged in the seal of the door."
She froze in place, hand halfway wrenched for her checkbook before her nerves betrayed her and the purse fell to the car floor. It rolled beside the gas pedal and rocked to stillness. "What?" Astonishment tainted her voice, and she made no attempt to hide it.
Dr. Lecter hummed in modest amusement. "You sound so surprised, my dear. Ah well, I suppose that's logical."
"What do you mean, it's in the door?" she barked, undecided between anger and shock. There was no need to pause and categorize her emotions, as she knew he preferred them raw and unflavored by artificial spices.
"I should think it's quite clear, Clarice," Dr. Lecter hissed. "Your impending irresolution wasn't too difficult to predict, even as I know you so abhor being instituted in such a fashion. I suppose history really does repeat itself. Though you are wonderfully spontaneous, my dear, I have found a shimmer or two of patterned behavior."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that this continuous vacillation seems to be the only reliable consistency in your life. Never mind outside influences such as myself or your friends back in Washington, but in and of your life. The will to know exactly what it is that you want, but never find it within yourself." He sighed. "In a sense, Clarice, you have been institutionalized. Your illusions of your professional pedestal have always been clear, thus becoming the center of your focus."
Anger and hurt at the truth wheedled into his words flushed through her, but she could not raise her voice in opposition for knowing it was the truth. However, in scarred retaliation, she managed to find something in her throat. "I'm here now, aren't I?" It came out scarred and hurtful—a helpless whimper from a wounded animal.
"Yes," he agreed, not reacting to the winter storm in her voice. "And how soon again, do you think, before you are grasped by an overwhelming sense of conscience?"
Starling felt herself chill again, finally moving from the dry air of the car to the rain once again. There was no need for words as she jogged back, eyes catching what she missed the first time. A thin room card was wedged tightly in the door seal, just as he promised.
When she was inside, she shivered at the customarily lowered room temperature that was seemingly shared by all motel chains. Her eyes fell across the bed where he had lain so shortly before, noting the wrinkling in the comforter had been straightened and that the room, even to the plastic glass she left gathering residue by the sink, looked unused.
But she smelled him here, his cologne, the scent she had subconsciously grown used to. Grown to identify anywhere.
"I have no intention of turning back, Dr. Lecter," she heard herself mutter. Her clothes chilled her skin and clung to her uncomfortably. "I've traveled that road before."
"And how many times have you looked over your shoulder, pondering your remaining options, returned to scout them out, and decided it's for the better if you remain on the safe, taken path?" he retorted. "I will give you this, Clarice: every time you reach this pivotal point, you make it a hair closer to the line."
"And you're standing on the other side of that line with open arms, I'm willing to bet," Starling retorted dryly, unsuccessfully attempting not to shiver again. The thought of venturing once more into the night to retrieve her suitcase was distasteful, but she knew she needed a fresh change of clothes if she wanted to elude a cold.
"I am there, yes. I've wanted this for you since our first encounter. However, I am not saying you will find your satisfaction and utter contentment at my side; this is not about me. It never was."
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you," she snapped, not defensive, but feeling the need to counter that statement nonetheless.
He chuckled. "I'm humbled by your need to credit me, Clarice, but really, let's be serious. Had you not met me, your downfall might have been a bit prolonged, I will admit, but it would have come someday. A person founded with your ethics has no place in any conventional society. You associate with corruption everyday."
"Something about removing the cause but not the symptom?"
There was another light-hearted chuckle, perhaps designated to lessen the seriousness of their conversation, but she didn't think so. This trade did not merit alleviating. She was very aware that her future depended on the outcome, and searing truths already shared and released stung with endearing familiarity. Though she could not see it now, apart of her started to climb with doubt.
However, Starling did not think it was Dr. Lecter's intention to push her away, rather to enlighten her on a very real likelihood. He was right, of course. They had stood here before under different circumstances, tugged ahead but she always looked back for what she might be losing. What would be left behind. And every time, she found something, a glimmer of counterfeit reasoning that shined with enough velocity to offer false hope.
"Institutionalized," she repeated at last, understanding layered in her tone. "Cripes, I'm a lost cause."
"Now now," he scolded softly, soothingly, biting and licking the wounds in the same breath. "If you were a lost cause, Clarice, I assure you, you wouldn't be here. Even those malicious symptoms have an antidote."
"So what are you saying? That…you knew I would come back because I know what I want but I'm…but that I'm not a lost cause, even though…what are you saying?"
"You proved several things to me, in your recent departure," he replied airily, as though avoiding a direct answer, though she knew that wasn't the case. "You are so close to that line, Clarice. To tasting the flavor of your own corruption—the corruption that will allow you to escape its creator. You will make it there someday, perhaps sooner than I credit. You are unpredictable to me, delightfully so, but I will not pretend it is not unnerving." The admission left her breathless, and thankfully he continued before she felt obligated to speak. Though she had known this for years, hearing him confess it seemed to heighten its value. "I have every faith that you will break free of your prison. You are your most dangerous adversary, and you are at battle with yourself."
Then he fell silent – inconclusively – though with reason. He wanted to determine her reaction, taste it through her voice since he was unable to drink it through her eyes.
Starling swallowed hard. "And after I cross that line? What then?"
"Then it is up to you." His tone indicated aloofness, uncaring where she might land, though she knew it was not so. "My own selfishness is not a factor now, Clarice. I told you that I wanted you with me, but your release might not coincide with my own desires."
A frigid silence. The hand clutching the phone began to tremble. "But it does," she heard herself choke. A burden heaved off her shoulders.
"Then tell me," he replied simply, his tone masking something else. "Tell me now and we might spare ourselves another desolate ten years."
"You knew it," Starling accused, focused on his earlier statement, paying little mind to what was said now. "You knew what I wanted, else—"
"I knew what I wanted, Clarice. I've known these long years. I suspected you wanted the same, even if you hadn't grasped it yet. I wished it so. But harboring such unfamiliar sentiments can misplace perception." He paused. "I did know you were attracted to me, but attraction is a double- edged sword, and is not enough to break a strong person from everything with which they are familiar."
That she could agree with. A truly strong willed person could overcome the incentive of physical attraction. She had proven that simply by their current telling positions, and this level of duplicity had been accomplished years ago, in the old Baltimore days. Admitting a physical reaction to Dr. Lecter was easy; there was no way she could deny her elevated pulse, quaky knees, rushing adrenaline and thighs she had to keep constantly pushed together. Physical reactions. Nothing she couldn't handle.
This, though, this was taking it far beyond that. And though she had known it for quite some time, knowing and realizing were two different bodies. For Starling, many pieces had flown together in the last meeting before his escape ten years ago; she had chosen to ignore them until now.
I've loved you since Memphis, she thought, wondering how or why she knew, but she did. Funny; though it strained in mind as their most significant encounter to date, even more so than what passed at Chesapeake, falling second only to recent developments, she remembered nothing but sweltering rage of the moment. Being angry though flustered, eyes remaining on him as she was dragged away, until one of the guard's hands coaxed her to turn around. The last glance of him in ten years. Even still, she knew that was it. That was the moment. Since they touched. The touch that perhaps initiated this for them both. I've loved you since Memphis, but that was not enough. That was never enough for me.
There was always something else. She had wanted to be Special Agent Starling more than anything, convinced such a title would grant her the filling for those gaping holes, justify the means of what she endured to reach her plinth. She wanted to reach and grasp something, make it hers, make it love her back.
Perhaps that was the reason she shied from confessing aloud the loss of her unobtainable goal. Something she felt she had given up wanting years ago, gave up wanting but never dreaming. And it was the survival of the dream that kept her from aspiring. What kept her grounded at the same unremitting place.
"So what now?" she asked at last. Her voice was scratchy and hoarse, as though she were on the brink of tears.
"What now? That's up to you, Clarice."
"I'm tired." It wasn't an excuse or a plea for sympathy—more a generalization. A statement.
"I'd suspect so."
"And I'm angry."
"At whom?"
"Myself."
"For being you?" Disapproval rumbled gutturally in the back of his throat. "Clarice, if only you knew how much ahead of the rest of society you are. A shining star among the radicals."
The compliment warmed her, a fleeting sensation that lingered with delicious aftertaste. "Some of our stars are the same," she muttered.
Dr. Lecter's smile was audible. "And they always will be."
"More than not?"
"I've always thought so. There are many stars yet to be discovered."
"Dr. Lecter?"
"Yes?"
She swallowed hard. "Where are you?"
A low hum, neutral. "Now, wouldn't that be telling? Why?"
That insufferable question again. Starling had to curb a growl. "Isn't obvious? I'd like you here."
"There?"
"With me."
"Hmmm." He seemed to consider. "As utterly tempting as that invitation is, Clarice, I don't think it is altogether wise. Not now."
Irritation stabbed brutally and her teeth gnashed, though she did take a minute to note the agonizing familiarity of his words. Not now. However, being one of less candor and patience, Starling could not help plea from escaping her throat, emitting the words he had refused when presented with the same heartbreaking statement. "Why not?"
"I would like to avoid a repeat performance of earlier this evening," he replied. "When I told you I wanted you, Clarice, I meant all of you. Competing for affection becomes tedious after so many years."
"I can't vouch for the future," Starling replied honestly, though she was quite certain of the alternative. "But I know how I feel, and I don't see it going away."
"Of course you don't," he agreed. "Not now. But who can speak for tomorrow? Views wither with age, my dear."
"Yours didn't."
"Yes, but I am always certain of what I want. And while you might not regret the choices you make now for many months, perhaps years, I never want you to wake up looking back at what you missed. What you wish you could do over."
Impatience and susceptibility began to muster again. "Then why am I here?" she growled. "How the hell are we supposed to decide when—"
"When you no longer question yourself, or my motives."
A roll of thunder stole angry words from her tongue, and collecting herself, Starling's teeth clamped on her lip as she counted to ten. The small break allowed her to realize that she was still sopping in rainwater, drying awkwardly in the unhelpful cold of the motel room. She remembered her luggage in the backseat and grasped the keys that lay on the bed without thinking, jingling them together in habit.
"Leaving again, Clarice?" Dr. Lecter asked innocently.
Stepping outside, back into the rain, Starling frowned and had to wonder if there was another motel establishment across the street. She knew he heard the keys dangling, but the unwavering trust in his voice, despite the implication, was enough to put her off balance. Could he see her? Perhaps. Dr. Lecter never second-guessed.
The cars, though, were vacant as she jogged outside. She reminded herself that she brought him here earlier, and that he wouldn't deign to larceny unless he was threatened. That also meant he had to be somewhere close.
Unless he called a cab, she thought.
"No," Starling answered finally, throwing the trunk open and grunting as she heaved one suitcase to the wet pavement. She waited until she was back inside before continuing, fresh water making her shiver. "I'm cold and my clothes are soaked. I'm going to take a shower and change, if that's all right with you."
"Perfectly," he agreed. His tone was warm and amiable. "Though might I suggest running a bath instead? I'd like to continue chatting, if you don't mind."
"While I'm in the tub?"
"The very thought provides especially enticing imagery," Dr. Lecter teased. "I suppose I could always call back later."
Starling smirked, pulling the phone away long enough to drag her sodden shirt over her head. It was consigned to the floor with a mushy flop. "Why the hell not?" she decided when she returned, holding the phone to her ear between her cheek and her shoulder as her hands became busy at her jeans. Her tone adopted a kidding jest almost naturally. By this time, she was used to falling smoothly into place with him, struggling only slightly with tagging behind. "Might as well give you some food for thought." She paused, catching herself. "So to speak."
Starling decided that Dr. Lecter's laugh sounded something like chamber music. "And what delicious thinking it provokes," he observed. "You wicked temptress."
"I learned from the best," she fired back, not missing a beat.
In a small nook beside the lavatory awaited one of the motel's trademark white bathrobes. Casting it over her shoulders to keep warm as the tub filled, she went in to start the water, making sure it was steaming before retreating to recline a few minutes and peruse the channels.
"Television?"
"Just until the tub fills."
"I assume the horrid Mr. Sandler is no longer making a mockery of the opera."
Starling grinned, reaching with her free hand to pull her damp hair from her face, holding it back a minute like a ponytail. "You complain about me not getting enough fun out of life," she observed, "and yet you can find no amusement in things like Saturday Night Live."
"I'll admit to having watched a show or two in the seventies," he replied. "It was enough to last a lifetime."
"That's better, then. The show sucks now." She tucked her legs under her, leaning her weight on one arm. "I always did enjoy Opera Man, though."
"Please, Clarice." A sense of fondness had crept into his tone, though she suspected it was intentional. "Don't you think you better check on your bath?"
"Probably."
The room was steamy, engulfing her with protective warmth. She slipped the robe off her shoulders and sank into the tub, reaching to turn off the faucet. A low hum of approval rumbled through her throat.
"Comfortable?"
"Uh huh." She stretched sumptuously, knowing with as nice as it was, simply talking, that they had to get back on topic. Over the years, Starling became acquainted with the fact that she was not a woman who liked to be taken by surprise, or made to wait indefinitely. Before the discussion was over, she was determined to have an answer, knowing there was otherwise no way she would find sleep tonight. "What now, Doctor?"
"Certainly you don't need me to tell you that." His tone tickled of tease.
She growled. "You know what I mean."
"I wish I could tell you."
"I don't believe you. I think you're enjoying this."
There was a scoff. "Perverse torment as it is, Clarice, you can't honestly believe that our situation is any more fun on my end."
"And you're really not coming?"
"Not yet."
Her back arched in the water, as though flexing a troublesome pain away. "What is it about me?" she asked irritably. "I get all the Miggses and the Krendlers and the Chiltons…but the one man I want, I can't get over here…even if he knows he'd be catching me indisposed."
"You flatter."
"You aggravate."
"You love it."
"I guess I do, in some sick way," Starling retorted dryly. "Why else would I put up with it?"
"The human race is composed of irrational creatures, Clarice," Dr. Lecter replied. "Some motives were meant to never be uncovered."
"Yours?"
"It depends on the motive."
Starling raised her other arm up high, enjoying the feel of water dribbling down her skin, and rested it under her head. "And this one?"
"I believe we have discussed this extensively."
"Well, maybe if you would tell me, I wouldn't be so annoyingly persistent."
Dr. Lecter barked a laugh of interest. "Oh don't be so modest, Clarice. Your persistence is charming."
Her nose wrinkled. "Thanks."
Another laugh. Equally short but genuine, and it made her smile despite the aggravation boiling in her stomach, waiting to erupt. "My dear, do I press your temper?"
"Nah. What gave you that idea?"
"It's the best thing for you right now, you know." And he meant it. Though she knew he would always mean what he said, this struck her as particularly charismatic because Dr. Lecter was the only person who would do something wholly with her in mind, for better or worse.
"I know, I know," Starling agreed, understanding even if she didn't want to. "It's the smart thing to do, even if I don't like it."
"Most things usually fall under that category."
"Yeah, and you're one…no…you're the only person I know who keeps that in mind," she observed, leaning back and closing her eyes. "It's one of the reasons I love you."
A sharp breath caught on the other line, and then there was silence. Starling blinked her confusion, twitching a bit in the absence of dialogue, having grown into it for however long they had chatted. The moment stretched and tautened and would have become uncomfortable had she not spoke up. "Dr. Lecter?"
There was a beat more of silence before she heard him breathe again, slowly, as though tasting his pleasure. When he found his voice, Starling was startled to hear it rumble with passion, just a minute ago controlled and stately. "Use my name, Clarice. You did before."
The request surprised her. Something had changed, noticeably, and she had to backtrack and remember exactly what was passed before her eyes widened in understanding. She had said it. Said it without meaning to, without hesitation or segues. Without considering who might hear her, without trepidation. Even without realizing she what was confessing.
Wants had changed. No more predictions, nor reaching for something while secretly unsure if she was prepared for what she was asking for. She was very frank when she knew exactly what she wanted, and he knew this.
A piece chiseled and fell away. "Hannibal," she murmured.
He sighed and fell silent once more. This time she tolerated it, pulse racing, for she knew what it must mean. The preverbal line was crossed, and the thought was liberating.
"Clarice." By now, Dr. Lecter had reclaimed his control, though she could tell he was fighting for it.
"Hannibal?" Saying his name felt good and it rolled naturally off her tongue, as though she had called him that and nothing else every day of their relationship.
"Get out of the tub."
"Why?"
"Because I am coming over."
Instantly, Starling twisted and stood, reaching for a towel. "Are you sure you want me out of the tub, then?"
"See you soon." The line clicked and went dead.
Starling suddenly felt like a senior on prom night. As she shook excess water from her hair, she was vaguely aware that her stomach was performing a series of impressive flip-flops, though she couldn't pinpoint the cause. Not Dr. Lecter, she didn't think. More likely, it was the knowledge that she was really here; she had crossed that line without any provocation. By herself.
The line was behind her.
Glancing to the mirror after she flipped her hair over her head and back again, Starling thought once she was looking at a woman she didn't know. Eyes were alight in new emancipation, dancing with her realization. Again Dr. Lecter's methods had proven the wiser. And she understood then why he had to wait. Wait for her to come forward without pushing her supportively from behind, guiding her down any path. The admission having escaped from her lips for the first time aloud…
She understood, but didn't want to focus on her understanding and dissect it, as was her habit. Something told her there would be plenty of time for that in the future. As for tonight, though, she felt she had thought enough.
A dry robe replaced the one that now gathered bathwater on the tiles of the restroom. She wrapped her head in the towel, aware of her awkward appearance but not caring. Another glance to the mirror reassured her that she had looked better, but Starling wasn't a woman to primp. However, she decided the addition of the towel was silly and pulled her hair free. Just as she retreated to her suitcase to fish out her brush, three sharp knocks were delivered to the door.
Wow. That was fast.
Starling didn't waste a minute. Abandoning her search, she moved fluidly to the head of the room, grasped the knob and twisted it open.
They stood there for a long, quiet minute, eyes locked in exploration. It seemed it had been forever since she saw him, impossible that it was only earlier that evening. So much had passed and changed. And Starling realized with little insinuation that her journey was for the better. Had she stood here any other time she might have walked away. Not now. Never again.
Hoarsely, she cleared her throat and pulled words out of the air, barely aware that she was speaking. "Where were you?" The question was unimportant but she was curious still. "Where did you go?"
"Upstairs," Dr. Lecter replied softly.
Of course. She guessed his car was up the road a few miles by Shoney's, or better yet, the 7/11. Either way, it didn't matter now.
"You're here," she said, as though surprised.
"I am."
"I'm not leaving again."
This toss was distant and seductive, as though they hadn't spoken in years. Strangers standing together. Strangers that had known each other forever.
"Oh?" Slowly, he took a step forward, then another as she backed up, granting him space until he was completely in the room. Without breaking their gaze, he reached and closed the door behind him. "Are you sure?"
From the dangerous flashing in his eyes, Starling knew that he was asking just to heighten her pulse as he took another step. This time, she didn't attempt to gain it back, instead welcoming closeness. "I'm sure."
His breath ricocheted off her face as his lips neared, softly brushing hers in minimal, unsatisfactory contact. "How can I be sure, Former Agent Starling?" He pulled away just long enough to perk his brows in challenge. "The door is behind me, and rather convenient. Why would you want to stay here?"
Without pausing to consider the answer he was looking for, she held his gaze level and said with heartbreaking sincerity, "Because I love you." She smiled. "And I think I've finally understood that's all that matters."
As the words were uttered again without consternation of her nonexistent loss, she watched as he emitted a sigh and knew she had pushed him over the edge. The thought was tantalizing.
No further provocation was needed. Dr. Lecter claimed her mouth that was itching to accept his kiss, and his arms came around her, crushing her to his body. This time, his lips had the taste of release and freedom, even less reserved for the absence of fear that she would break. Her arms encircled him, pulling him closer as she tried to return that fire, knowing for all of her that this was where she wanted to be.
Her suitcase was relegated to the motel floor in their hurry, upside down as clothes leaked from the sides as she melted into his kiss. The robe soon followed.
* * *
Drifting, drifting…
Drifting off too sleep.
A sleep that would, for once, be without nightmares or foreboding. A sleep that would lead her to the first day of the rest of her life.
What a glorious day it promised to be.
Now, though, nuzzled in the darkness next to the one she loved, Starling thought none of this. Instead, she was intent on how sweetly labored breathing sounded as it receded, how rich was the air that filled her lungs. The cold that once inhabited this room had no place now. A gentle hum vibrated against her ear and she smiled into his chest, shifting her leg that lay across his.
Thoughts collided and jumbled with the thrill of reaction, but she forced herself to remain faithful to the promise that she would not think anymore tonight.
She was rendered wonderfully exhausted.
With a yawn, Clarice Starling finally succumbed to fatigue, slipping away into an irrelevant dreamland. Her last rational thought arose with some finale, making her smile linger and remain long after she was asleep.
It doesn't get any better than this.
FIN