Clarice's final two weeks with the FBI crept by like a never-ending stakeout in the back of a cold van after the coffee had run out.
When she wasn't transcribing surveillance tapes or researching old files to help senior agents add context and perspective to their current cases, she was fielding concerned queries and mother-henning from Ardelia over what she was going to do with her stuff.
Or, rather, what Delia thought she shouldn't be doing with her stuff.
"You seriously want to sell your car? What if you decide you don't like traveling and you want to come back in, like, three weeks or something? You won't have a place to stay or a job or a car. That's crazy, Cee."
The answer that she couldn't give – hell no, I won't be back in three weeks; I won't be back at all – lay on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it back.
"OK, OK, Dee, you're right - I'll store the car. I'll just pile the junk I'm keeping inside and leave it at a storage place."
That wasn't a bad idea, actually; there were a few things, after all, that she wasn't quite sure what to do with. Like the gifts. They weren't like the furniture; that, cheap and impersonal, she could leave for the next tenant. They weren't like her clothes; most of those would go to Goodwill. If she knew one thing about Hannibal Lecter, it was that he wouldn't have any qualms about draping her body in piles and piles of new clothing. Which was fine, really, because she had never had the patience for shopping.
The violin required a bit more thought, because she wanted it with her – but taking it on the plane would make her stand out. Make her an odd traveler that people remembered. And she wasn't likely to need it anyway; it was a standard student violin, easily replaced. Hannibal had supplied a better one for her in Saarbrucken; he would no doubt do so again.
She frowned. They would have to talk about that – about finances. Thus far, he had provided everything. She had paid only for her plane tickets, and she suspected that he would have preferred to do that as well. She wasn't well-off, by any means, but she was no longer some poor relation in need of charity, looking to be taken in because she had nowhere else to go. She had some money set aside from work, and she could find a job wherever they settled down, couldn't she? She was hardly about to live off of his largesse for the rest of her life.
"You don't have to do that, Cee. You know you could leave your stuff in the house. I've got that spare bedroom I hardly ever need."
Right. Except for the gifts and his letters. It wouldn't feel… right, to leave them in Ardelia's hands. And she didn't want to turn them over to Jack Crawford, which, she supposed, was what he and Dee both might expect her to do. Not because she cared if they saw them – Behavioral Science already had copies filed away in the Lecter evidence boxes. No, it was because there were things she wanted to take with her, and she didn't want them to notice the missing items. And Jack would, she knew; he would realize it instantly. The pearls. The puzzle box. The lingerie. The rest of it… she really wanted to pack it all up and wave it in Jack's face. Smash the damn glass in front of him and take the knife with her. But it would only be satisfying for a few moments – the few moments before he would ask if she was going gadding about the world to chase after Hannibal Lecter, and whether she was doing so to catch him or stay with him.
"Dee, we talked about this. I don't know when I'll feel like coming back. It's not fair to you to have to carry my half of the payments, and it wouldn't be fair to you or a new roommate to have to put up with my stuff sitting around. And it's not fair to me, either. I need to make this... a fresh start."
"I know… I guess I just don't want to believe it, you know? We've been roomies for more than three years, if you count the academy. And now you're… going away. Becoming somebody else. I'm gonna miss this."
"You're gonna miss having somebody to kick your ass out of bed at six a.m. on a Saturday and force you to run for miles before you even get to have a coffee?"
Clarice bumped Ardelia with her shoulder. They had been friends, once. Might have been friends still, if she could trust Dee with her secrets. But she couldn't risk Hannibal that way – couldn't share what he meant to her. And Dee wouldn't have understood, anyway. It had taken Clarice herself years to accept that she could, and did, love him. And she still hadn't told him. Hadn't spoken the words aloud, not even to herself. So how could she possibly expect Dee to understand? She couldn't. It was that simple. Nothing could bridge that gap in their friendship now.
"Yeah, jackass. I'm even gonna miss that." Ardelia slung her arms around her in a tight embrace, and Clarice allowed it, returned it, even, because it was expected. And maybe, just a bit, because she knew it was unlikely she'd find a new female friend to take Dee's place.
From now on, it would be just her and Hannibal. Everyone else would be outside the bubble, seeing only the surface reflections, the false identities they projected to preserve their freedom. She wallowed in the loneliness for a moment, soaking up Ardelia's uncomplicated warmth, before recalling that she had never, not once, felt lonely when Hannibal Lecter looked at her. Because he truly saw her, all of her. And really, when she had that, wasn't everything else just… superfluous?
In the end, she let Dee load up the car, all but the gifts locked safely in the trunk, since she was still restricted from carrying more than fifteen pounds at a time. Dee followed in her own car as Clarice stopped at Goodwill and dropped most of her clothes in the donation bin. Then it was on to the storage yard, where she paid for six months in advance, backed the car into the little garage, and padlocked the door. Dee drove them home. It was Saturday, December 18, and by the same time tomorrow she would be airborne, crossing the Atlantic, looking forward to the moment Hannibal Lecter enfolded her in his arms. Then, she knew, she would truly be home.
She spent the evening with Ardelia, who insisted on treating them both to a night out. It wasn't hard, pretending to be her old self, laughing and sharing stories and making up ridiculous nonsense about the people at the tables around them; it was like an old bathrobe she could slip on – comfortable, but boring. And when her distraction got the better of her, enough that even Ardelia noticed, it was easy to pass it off as jitters, nervous excitement for the new adventure she would be starting the next day.
Her sleep was uneasy; too much eagerness coursed through her for true rest. She dozed lightly and woke repeatedly throughout the night, each time turning her face to the alarm clock, continually disappointed to discover it was not nearly time yet. Finally, as dawn neared, she closed her eyes, curled her body around her pillow, and sought out the help she needed.
Talk to me, Hannibal.
Of course, Clarice. What would you have me say? Shall I tell you of your beauty? Your courage? The certainty that we shall be together in merely a day?
A day too long, Hannibal. I don't want to waste any more time.
Your dreams are not wasted time, Clarice, if you put them to good use, hmm? You do keep placing us on this soft blanket in a lovely meadow. Might we not find something other than lunch to occupy our time here?
When next she woke, the clock showed nearly noon. And she happily conceded that not a moment had been wasted. She showered and dressed, humming all the while, and went through her rooms for any stray items she had missed. Certain all was well, she carried her bag out to the hall table and headed into the kitchen.
"We have nothing for lunch," Dee announced. "We gotta go out, unless you want questionable milk on stale cereal."
Clarice wrinkled her nose.
"I'll pass, thanks. You pick a place. My treat."
They put on their coats, and Clarice picked up her bag. They could go straight to the airport from lunch; her flight would be leaving at four, and international flights always wanted passengers to arrive early.
"That's all you're taking?" Dee's face held an incredulous expression to match her tone.
"Yup. Only what I can carry." Clarice patted her injured side teasingly and looked down at her bag. A few of Hannibal's gifts, carefully laid at the bottom; some old photos from her childhood she wasn't willing to leave behind; basic toiletries and two complete changes of clothes in case their wires had gotten crossed and she needed to wait for him. Less than fifteen pounds, altogether. The sum total of her life so far. "And right now, that's not much."
Hannibal Lecter arrived in Paris on a brisk Sunday morning beneath an overcast sky. It was not yet dawn in Washington; Clarice likely still slept as he tasted the distinctive Parisian air. He dined on a late brunch before checking in at his hotel. As it was a bit cold for a walk, and shopping was nearly unheard-of in Paris on a Sunday, he took himself off to the Louvre for the afternoon to explore the expanded exhibition space. He returned to the hotel for dinner, after which he forced himself to sleep early so that he might be fresh in the morning for Clarice's arrival.
A bit of playing the absentminded and overly worried paramour, combined with a sympathetic receptionist in the airline's first-class lounge, had ensured he knew Clarice's flight number and arrival time – just after 6 a.m. Monday – and that the lounge would happily hold a message or a package for her.
Thus he had handed over the small bag he had tucked inside his traveling carryon and ensured that a courtesy call would summon her to the desk to retrieve it once her flight had arrived. It was not necessary, no, but it was a reasonable precaution and an excuse to provide for her. In the unlikely event that her departure had been flagged suspicious, a change of clothes to accompany her new persona would not go amiss.
And once she had arrived….
A flight would deposit them in Bern more quickly, but that might not be for the best. Clarice would likely require time to acclimate herself to her new situation. Another journey by airplane, this time by his side, with both of them sporting new identities... no. They would have no privacy. She would not be free to allow her true emotional responses out to play, and had she not just spent two months covering up any semblance of true feeling? He wanted her free to be herself.
But he did not wish to leave her room to run from any reservations she had about her choice. The sooner she could confront any lingering doubt, the better. Which meant that a train ride, though perhaps preferable to him because it would allow him to study her as they traveled, was also contraindicated. He would not play musical chairs with her if she desired space.
No, they would travel to Bern by car, in the Bentley Continental he - or, rather, Edmund Frei - had paid to have delivered to his hotel in Paris for just that purpose. He had made the arrangements well in advance, though Clarice would not know that. She would not, in fact, arrive knowing even the barest information about her future – not even his current alias. She was, on the strength of her faith in him alone, flying to another country with the entirety of her worldly goods in hand.
Her trust – such an unaccustomed emotion for him – still had the power to astonish. Would she take this leap for any other? He thought not. Assuming, of course, she still intended to do so. His warrior might yet choose to concede the field.
The turmoil the thought caused him was not evident as he walked the concourse not long after five o'clock Monday morning. He was not near Clarice's gate, though he watched the arrivals board in the event that the flight's on-time status should change. He would not approach her until after she had received his gifts.
It would not be long now. An hour, perhaps. And then he would know if Clarice Starling had chosen to marry her future to his.