Feb. 14, 1992
Relief washed over Clarice in a wave when she arrived home from work Friday, followed swiftly by annoyance.
She had spent two weeks on mandatory medical leave after the shooting, leaving the house only to attend the debriefings and counseling sessions required before she could return to work. Unable to practice with her violin because of the healing bullet wound in her left arm, she spent hours with little to occupy her time but her recent conversations with Hannibal Lecter.
Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head.
Mr. Crawford's warning was useless to her now; she doubted she could ever eject the doctor's voice from her mind, even if she lived to be 100. What's worse, she didn't seem to want to.
It shouldn't have bothered her that no packages arrived on her doorstep in those two weeks. It shouldn't have bothered her that no packages arrived in the subsequent two weeks, either. It shouldn't have bothered her that tomorrow was the third Saturday of the month and she had gotten no word of any kind from the doctor since she had visited him in January.
But she hadn't realized just how bothered she was until she saw the plain brown box sitting on the porch. The tightness in her muscles eased. Her steps seemed lighter, despite the supportive wrapping she still wore on her right foot. She felt herself grinning like a fool as she bent down to pick up the box. The slightly rough grain of the brown paper under her fingers spread contentment across her skin that lasted until she set the box down on the kitchen table.
Shit. When did I start needing his gifts like a junkie needs a fix? What am I doing? When did it all get so... personal?
She eyed the package with sudden suspicion. Today was Valentine's Day. Plenty of her co-workers had sported flowers on their desks - single long-stemmed roses, bouquets, the occasional live plant - and Ardelia had a night out with Luther planned. It was a day for romance. A deliberate choice on the doctor's part, to have his gift delivered today?
"Of course it was deliberate, idiot." She sat down at the table. "When does that man ever do anything that isn't planned out six ways to Sunday?"
So had he chosen the latest possible delivery window because of the date or because Behavioral Science wouldn't have time to study his words before she visited again? Probably both, she acknowledged. Operating on a single track wasn't his style.
She was more conscious, now, of the care she took in unwrapping the package. She recognized the rising excitement, the pleasure she took in receiving something he had chosen for her. Something he wanted her to have.
This box was a white one like the very first, a plain shirt box. She had worn the shirt and the necklace, studied the opera, eaten the meal and attended the cultural events to please him, hadn't she? It had pleased her to please him.
She felt faintly nauseated. What the hell is wrong with me?
Gripping the box in both hands, she lifted the lid. The familiar cream-colored envelope lay on a bed of pale blue tissue paper. Something darker lay beneath. She brushed the tissue paper aside as she removed the envelope and slid out the letter within.
Something between a sob and a laugh caught in her throat. He knew. Of course he'd known.
Dear Clarice,
What an inconvenience, that such a milestone as our second Valentine's Day together should be marred by your injuries and my incarceration. We simply must speak about your choice of career, my dear. I'm afraid I cannot help but worry for your safety. Perhaps Uncle Jack could find a remedy, hmm?
Did you expect, when it began, that our relationship would last so long? I confess, I did not. Please accept my apologies for doubting you, Clarice. I should have anticipated that the dogged determination expressed in your professional life would carry over into your private life. I am part of your private life now, Clarice, am I not? I do hope so. We could have some fun.
To that end, I am enclosing a gift more suited to the holiday than the one I offered last year. I don't suppose I could persuade you to wear it when you visit. No? Pity. It's for the best, though, my dear. I have no intention of sharing such a lovely sight with my keepers.
Sweet dreams, Clarice.
With fond affection,
Hannibal
She set the letter down and lifted the pile of sleek silk by its spaghetti straps. Deepest blue, floor-length, with laces criss-crossing the back. A nightgown, but not the sort comfortably worn for sleeping. A second pile of silk proved to be a matching robe. Beneath both lay a pair of ballet slippers in the same shade.
"What, no matching panties, Doctor? Because that would be crossing the line?"
Or because I wouldn't need them.
Clarice Starling sat at the kitchen table until the sun came up. For once, it wasn't the lambs that kept her from her bed.
Feb. 15, 1992
"Why me, Doctor?"
A raised eyebrow was an eloquent enough answer, he judged. Mustn't give away the game too soon.
"You know what I'm asking, Doctor, so don't give me that canny look. Would you have done the same with any agent Mr. Crawford sent to talk to you?"
"Done the same what, Clarice?" Oh, yes, he enjoyed riling her up.
"The letters, Doctor. The gifts. The snide remarks. The personal questions. The insinuations."
Well now. She hadn't taken long at all to come around to her real question. And yet evidence of his appreciation for her form as well as her mind had not bothered her previously. She wasn't aware of her own feelings then. She is now. He quelled a shiver of delight at the thought.
"It would depend upon a great many circumstances, Clarice; I cannot say for certain, but I suspect not." He smiled, slowly. "There is, after all, only one Clarice Starling."
"Why are you doing this to me, Doctor?" Her whispered plea was a heady mix of anger and pain.
"Am I, Clarice? Is it my actions that so distress you or your own?"
She looked away. Guilt, he expected. She was rather prone to it. Rooting out such deeply learned behavior would take time and patience; it was unlikely to be achieved when prison walls still separated them. He set the thought aside for later consideration.
But even her guilt could not defeat her courage or her honesty.
"I feel like I'm betraying my principles, Doctor, every time I look forward to our Saturdays. When I see a box waiting for me on the porch and I feel... exhilarated."
She had substituted a word at the last, he knew; her hesitation had been obvious as she groped for her second choice. He rather suspected the word that had originally come to her mind was the same as the one that came to his: aroused.
He had anticipated her difficulty would arise eventually, of course, but it seemed the botched raid in January had unsettled her sense of self enough for his words to push her off balance. Her aggressively negative response was to be expected. No doubt she would be harsher with herself than with him. His courtship, it seemed, was proceeding quite well despite its current limitations.
"Betrayal has been weighing on your mind of late, Clarice. It's only natural that you should question yourself in light of recent events."
She threw him an irritated glance. "Yes, thank you, Doctor, for that astute summary of my mental state. I've had quite enough of people digging around in my head."
"Your Bureau psychiatrist doesn't satisfy, Clarice?"
She snorted.
"First of all, he's a psychologist, not a psychiatrist, and secondly, he's not putting in nearly as much effort as you are."
She seemed taken aback by her own words, as though she hadn't quite intended to say so much, and he allowed some of his amusement to show in his eyes.
"I do hope you've told him so."
"Oh, certainly, Doctor. In fact, the very first thing I said to him was 'You can't possibly compete with the psychiatrist already in my head. I'm sure you won't mind signing this paper immediately.' And he did, so my life is just peachy."
How interesting that even jokingly she should view this other man – this interloper in his territory – as competition for the real estate he already occupied. Despite her current upset, his place was secure; she defended it even against herself.
"If life is indeed 'peachy,' Clarice, why do you appear so tired today? Were your dreams less than sweet?"
"You have to fall asleep to dream, Doctor, and I had a lot on my mind."
"Tossed and turned all night, did you, Clarice?" Perhaps his gift had come at an even more opportune moment than he had anticipated, if it had affected her so strongly.
"Didn't go to bed at all, actually."
His brows drew together as he frowned at her, and he teasingly waggled a disapproving finger.
"You mustn't neglect your health, Clarice. You're still recovering from your injuries. Proper sleep will help you mend."
"Maybe I'd get more sleep if someone wasn't sending me inappropriate gifts."
"Inappropriate? Did you dislike the color? Was the fit imprecise?" He traced her form with his eyes, uncharacteristically blatant and deliberate in his appreciation.
It was necessary to push her as far as he dared while the opportunity existed, before too much thinking or talking with her roommate or Jack Crawford had sealed away his access. Her shell was lined with cracks just now; he might, were he to tap at the perfect angle, secure his place as more than an odd confidante whom she looked upon with toleration and curiosity. It would be enough to plant the idea, he expected; her mind, tenacious as it was, would tumble the thought round and round without any further prompting from him.
"I admit, I am forced to guess at such things, Clarice, having no… direct… frame of reference."
"And you won't be getting one, Doctor, so you'll have to content yourself with guessing."
"You won't tell me if my guess was accurate, Clarice? For shame."
Her teeth tugged at her lip as she looked away.
"Ah. You haven't tried it on yet. I'm hurt, Clarice. Is that why you didn't go to bed, hmm? So you might have an excuse at the ready?"
"It's hardly a gown for sleeping in, Doctor."
"Oh? Do tell, Clarice, for what purpose do you think the gown is intended?"
"I think you know, Doctor."
"I'm surprised at you, Clarice. I've never known you to be afraid to speak your mind."
The challenge was enough to goad her, as he knew it would be, though the glance she threw him made it clear she recognized and resented the manipulation.
"Seduction, Doctor."
"Fascinating. And in this scenario of yours, Clarice, are you the seductress or the seduced?"
"My scenario, Doctor? You're the one who sent the nightgown."
"You're forgetting, Clarice, that I slept quite well last night while you apparently spent several hours pondering the meaning of said gift. Would you care to share what you thought about, hmm? No?"
She was angry, he knew. Angry and guilty and uncertain. Pressing her was a calculated risk. She had not yet used the free pass he had granted her months ago; if she were truly that frightened of her feelings, she might use it now to beg a reprieve, to give herself time to re-armor and repress what so repulsed her.
"You're a killer, Doctor."
Or she might come to it directly. How lovely, to be greeted with such frankness. Very well; he would return the favor.
"As are you, Clarice."
She flinched, but her face showed no surprise. His words were merely a confirmation of her own belief reflected back at her, he knew. Would she draw the facile distinction between his own deeds and her state-sanctioned actions?
"You're right," she murmured. "I am."
No, he thought, pleased with her strength. She would take the harder road of self-examination rather than passing the responsibility along to another. He let the silence settle over them; she didn't disappoint.
"This is where you tell me I'm not like you, Doctor." Her mouth twisted in a mocking grin.
"Of course, Clarice." He adopted his most impassive face, his most deadpan tone. "You're nothing like me."
"Liar." Her voice was full of affection, though, and her smile was a true one.
"I trust you won't have any more sleepless nights, Clarice?"
"No guarantees, Doctor. But I won't be afraid of a nightgown anymore."
Nor the scenarios it conjures, sweet Clarice?
"An excellent beginning, my dear. Now, tell me more about this man you're seeing."
She laughed, then, but readily divulged the details of her sessions with the Bureau psychologist. He had little doubt that, of the two of them, she had been the more insightful one in that room.
