The mushrooms and truffle shavings provided an agreeably aromatic savoriness to the baked macaroni and cheese, the doctor thought. It was all well and good to serve an American culinary staple, but certainly it could enhance the palate as well as comfort it, given the proper ingredients.
He noted Clarice's enjoyment as well, the lovely, drawn-out "mmmmm" resonating with her first bite. Of course, the taste might, in her mind, also be elevated by the cooperative culinary effort to produce it. She had done much of the work herself, with his guiding hands and quiet instructions overseeing the project. The close contact, the sense of contentment and relaxation that so pervaded her, seemed to sink into his skin as well, promising something for which even he had no words.
Their plates were quite nearly scraped clean now. Perhaps some of the remaining chocolate cheesecake would suit for dessert, as she had seemed rather taken with it, often indulging in a sliver with her breakfast.
"Have you ever been in love, Doctor?"
The question came with no warning beyond the silence that had preceded it; he had known she was thinking deeply, but upon what, well…. He had the shopkeeper to blame for this turn, he supposed.
"Love, Clarice? The word is so overused in the modern era as to be meaningless."
"Is that a 'no'?"
It was not, of course, and he sensed she would pursue the topic to its end. But what to tell her? The truth, always… simply in an appropriate context.
"I believed so, once. But I was young and mistaken."
She was studying him across the table as he answered.
"She didn't love you back? No… that's not it… or not only it…." She shook her head. "You really don't give much away, Doctor. Have you considered hanging a sign around your neck to indicate what you're thinking and feeling?"
His lips twitched. "I had not, no. Do you wish it of me?"
"No, I suppose I don't. Not enough of a challenge that way."
Yes, she did enjoy challenges – which suited him quite well, as he enjoyed presenting her with them.
"But… oh." Her eyes gleamed. "How did you know you were mistaken?"
"Perhaps the feeling diminished with time. Or perhaps, as you say, she rejected me."
"Those aren't mistakes, Doctor. You might have been in love and fallen out of it, or your love might have been unreturned, but neither of those would be reason for you to say you were mistaken." She was shaking her head, slowly, as her teeth tugged lightly at her lower lip. "To say that, you'd have to… you'd have to know. You know you weren't in love then, because you know what being in love is. So you have felt it – but not until after the experience that turned out to be… not… it."
"A logical deduction, Clarice." His voice was free of any trace of pride, though he did so enjoy watching her mind at work.
"So you have been in love before."
"No." Would she see what was wrong with her phrasing?
"Are you… in love with me, now?"
Yes, she had seen, though asking the question she truly meant to ask had revealed her uncertainty, for all that she attempted to keep her tone light. Could he convey the swell of emotion he felt in her presence? What words could show her that he had not been in love before – that it was a constant, ongoing experience that daily grew within him?
"The ocean does not speak to the moon of love, Clarice, yet its every action demonstrates the depths of its devotion. The moon rules over it utterly. It cannot escape her pull – nor does it wish to."
She watched him with narrowed eyes, considering, perhaps, how seriously to take his statement.
"This from the man who once implied that all of his thoughts spoke of love?"
Ah. She had troubled herself to look up La Vita Nuova after receiving his letter, then. Perhaps something from later in the piece… mmm, yes, that will suffice.
" '… when she goes by / Love strikes a chill in evil hearts, / so that all their thoughts freeze and perish: / and any man who suffers to stay and see her / becomes a noble soul, or else he dies.'"
"You're a romantic, Doctor." Her tone was fondly accusing, though her eyes couldn't entirely hide her slight startlement.
Was the depth of his feeling so surprising to her? Hmm. It had, he admitted, startled him at first – and he had had much more time to digest and reflect upon the development. Though the rest of the world might think him – think Hannibal the Cannibal – incapable of such emotion, surely Clarice did not.
"As all men ought to be, Clarice, when they find the one for whom their heart beats and their soul sings."
Her eyes filled then, neither with tears nor with the passion that so often brought them to the edge of disaster, but with a soft yearning that pierced him. You know that I love you, Clarice. But you must believe – that I do, that you are deserving. That we both are. Until you believe, I will forever be standing in the hall, my love as useless to comfort you as my hand pressed to the door.
She inhaled sharply as she looked away. Her voice came quietly, uncertain.
"I think I'd like some music, Doctor."
He leashed his disappointment.
"Of course, Clarice. I'll put something on the stereo. Did you—"
"No, no, I didn't mean…." Her eyes caught his again; her yearning had not diminished. "Would you play for me?"
"Always," he murmured, taking her hand in his. "You need only ask."
The doctor, it seemed, had taken her questioning as his theme. Already he had played Liszt – Liebstraume – and now he had gone from Fur Elise to Moonlight Sonata. She wondered if she ought to be taking it as light mockery or god's-honest-truth. Maybe he felt she needed the reminder?
She sensed that for all that the doctor rarely showed emotion, he felt it deeply. He had discarded his usual subtlety today. Because it was likely their final day together? Because he knew she needed directness from him? Something substantive she could use to replace the armor he accused her of wearing? What would that feel like? To be wrapped in his love, to daily feel it sheltering her even as it urged her onward to her best self?
It was unfair to him that she couldn't return his declarations. You could, you know. You could walk away from your life. You could armor him with your love. Hasn't he made himself vulnerable, stripped himself naked and presented you with his heart? What has this week been, if not that?
Love and rage ran deeply in him, she thought, in equal measure, intertwined. As they did in her. She would hurt him; there was no way she could avoid it.
He held a knife to your neck last night. You don't think he'll hurt you, too?
She sank into memory and impression. His knowing eyes had pierced her more than the knife had. The blade had been smooth and oddly warm against her throat. She hadn't hesitated to lean into it; had her anger driven her to unwise action, or had she been so certain he wouldn't hurt her? His hand had been steady… until it hadn't. Until he had leapt away from her as if she'd burned him. As if they both had found something to fear in that moment.
His knife was a sleek instrument, one flowing curve with a lethal edge. It suited him; it was, she admitted, an elegant weapon in its utility. It was the same blade he had given her, and yet it wasn't.
The blade he had gifted her, useless as anything more than a paperweight in its glass coffin, was serrated. It had teeth.
His weapon was for the clean slice, the elegant slash; hers was for ripping and tearing, for sawing through and leaving ragged, gaping wounds behind. It was the weapon of a wild, frenzied thing.
Because that's what you are. Only he's not afraid of it. That's just you.
He wants me to be as… free… as he is. To make instinct the equal of reason and analysis.
She shifted in her seat. She wanted to enjoy this night with him, not spend it berating herself once more for what she was or wasn't or might yet become. Whatever she had been, whatever she was now, whatever she would be… he wanted them all.
His face came to her unbidden, his intense stare and low, fierce words replaying in her memory: I would not have left you behind.
The room drifted into silence as he paused in his playing. She rose from her seat, then, and retrieved the violin. He was perfection alone, but they could reach perfection together, too. Couldn't they? At least for one more night?
Note: The lines the doctor quotes are by Dante, from La Vita Nuova, in the third stanza of the poem in Section XIX.