They had showered together. It was not an experience he had shared before - too intimate, too indicative of a desire for sensuality, a feeling that went beyond lust. But when he had suggested, in gentlemanly fashion, that she shower first, she had simply pulled him along with her from the bed.
"You too, Hannibal. We both reek of sex."
She hadn't sounded displeased by the knowledge; in fact, she had buried her face against his chest and hummed happily. The scent was strong, both on them and in the room, clinging to the sheets and hanging in the air, but he did not rush to open a window and dilute it with fresher air. They had indulged in vigorous activity three times in less than twelve hours; it was hardly unforeseen that their mingled scents should so thoroughly permeate the room.
And although more... activity... in the shower was an idea he intended to fully explore with her, he had not done so this morning, mindful of the soreness she would be feeling today - in her abdominal muscles if nowhere else. Stretching them was an important part of healing them, but he suspected they had crossed the line between therapy and overexertion. Instead, he had enjoyed closeness without carnal intent. She had given him the right to touch her whenever he liked and trusted he would not abuse it, had she not?
So he had washed her hair for her, and soaped her body with more care than he used on his own, and watched the water run down her skin as she rinsed clean. When they stepped out, he dried her gently, once again enjoying the excuse to run his hands over her. He would know the feel of her from memory now, instantly, as vivid a sensation in his fingertips as her image woke in his eyes.
He dressed casually, in charcoal gray wool slacks and a collared shirt in a paler gray with a burgundy cable-knit sweater overtop – enjoying, as he did, the sight of Clarice, nude, rummaging through the dresser, atop which now sat a familiar puzzle box. Redecorating already, my dear? But he was pleased, in truth, at the additional sign of her comfort in sharing the same space and the depth of her attachment to the gifts he had chosen for her.
Being uncertain of her desires, he had, indeed, stocked both this room and the guest room with clothing in her size. He was unsurprised to see her select a pair of black trousers in the overly pocketed cargo-pant style she preferred, pairing it with a fitted cashmere sweater in dusky blue.
She smirked at him when she caught him watching her. He tipped his head to acknowledge the point.
"Is there anything of import you wish to do today, my dear?"
She crossed the room and circled around him slowly, her gaze warmly cataloging him from head to foot. She stopped behind him; he forced himself not to turn.
"Other than stick to you like glue?" Her nose nuzzled the back of his neck, her arms wrapping around his chest. "Nope. Can't think of a thing."
She propped her chin on his shoulder. She was quite... tactile, this morning, he noted. Relaxed. Confident. Secure in my affections, perhaps? Pleased with the new direction she has chosen for her life?
"What did you have in mind?"
"A bit of an excursion," he said, mildly, as though it were no more than a passing thought. "Today is the winter solstice. I thought we might select a Christmas tree."
With her mouth so close to his ear, he could not fail to hear the soft hitch in her breathing.
"You want to celebrate Christmas?"
"If you like."
"Together."
"I would hardly do so alone, Clarice. And it does seem to be the appropriate time for beginning new traditions and reviving those of old that bring us... comfort."
She squeezed his chest more tightly, and he raised a hand to clasp hers. Her lips grazed his neck.
"Yeah, it does seem like the right time. I want... this isn't..."
She sighed, lightly, her head tipping gently against his. When she spoke again, he could feel the reverberations in his skull.
"I feel things when I'm with you that I've never felt before. And I don't ever want that feeling to end."
It was a difficult, intimate admission for her, he knew. She guarded her emotions tightly; her trust and vulnerability in these matters were reserved for him alone. That she could make such a statement without being sleepy or drugged, without the perceived safety or distance of barriers between them, was a gift.
"Nor do I, Clarice," he murmured before dropping his hand from hers. Calling attention to her vulnerability would only send her into hiding. His voice was pleasant but brisk as he continued. "If you wish breakfast before we begin our hunt, however, I'm afraid I'll require some freedom of movement."
He turned his head slightly, until their lips nearly touched.
"Precisely how closely does 'glue' stick, my dear?"
She laughed.
"You couldn't work around me? Pretend I'm not even here?"
No, that he could not do, he thought; he had had quite enough of her absence to last him a lifetime.
"Ignore your presence? You're an entirely too lovely distraction."
She slipped her arms from around him, then, and moved toward the door.
"How's about I start the shopping list while you work."
"List?"
"Oh, yeah. No half-assing Christmas. If we're gonna do it, we're gonna do it right."
She quizzed him while he made breakfast. Pancake batter, she thought, though why he had put cranberries in a glass of orange juice first was known only to him.
"Tinsel or garland?"
"Do you truly desire to litter our abode with stray bits of tinsel, Clarice?"
"Garland it is."
She made a note, more as a way to keep her hands busy than from any true need. It wasn't as though she would forget what they wanted - and if she did suddenly develop Christmas-shopping-induced amnesia, Hannibal would hardly fail to remember.
"White lights or multicolored?"
"Did you wish for a scene of classic elegance or something more appropriate for a burlesque house?"
"So you're saying my father was running a brothel every time he strung up the Christmas lights?" She tried to keep an edge in her voice, but it was hard when she wanted to laugh.
"Most assuredly not. I expect operating such an establishment would have greatly changed the financial situation in your household – and, likewise, greatly changed the course of the values that have shaped your life."
She hadn't expected a serious answer to such a ridiculous question. But he must know something about reversals of fortune and life-changing events, she thought. Because somehow he had gone from being the beloved son in a well-off family to being a man alone, a man who thought nothing of taking another's life.
Gently, tentatively, she responded.
"I'm guessing it wasn't a brothel that greatly changed the course of your life, either."
"No." Definitely pancakes, she noted, distracting herself from pressuring him for a more complete answer as he poured the batter out in perfect circles he then flipped with a light touch. With cranberries and… almonds? "It was the war, my dear. The war changed the course of many millions of lives."
He said it flatly, as though whatever the war had done to his life mattered no more to him than what it had done to those millions of others. As if his pain didn't matter. As if he didn't matter. It wasn't an experience she would ever understand, she expected. Events had conspired to make her childhood unstable, but the entire world had been unstable when he was a child.
"Your family?"
"The war came to our doorstep. I survived."
And they didn't. He hadn't said the words, but the implication was obvious. And so was the slight tightening of his shoulders, now that she was looking for it. He was waiting for her to push, she knew.
"So, angel or star? For the top of the tree."
His hand paused on the spatula.
"A star, I think, Clarice." He resumed his work at the stove. "The other would be superfluous in this house."
He took her to the Christmas market, and they wandered among the stalls like children, young lovers in the heady rush of first romance. Her giddy delight was infectious and - although he remained keenly aware of their surroundings and noted that she, too, instinctively shifted to watch for blind corners and suspicious behavior - he allowed himself to simply enjoy the experience.
So when she looked at him, laughing and red-cheeked, to offer him a slice of her Christmas orange, the juice fresh on her lips, he ignored the fruit and its seller and the crowd moving past to focus on a more pleasurable pursuit: swiping his tongue across her lips to taste their flavor before pulling her body against his and kissing her more thoroughly.
When he let her go, his hand still around her back to steady her, she watched him with dazed arousal in her eyes. Slowly, the corner of her mouth shifted into a smirk.
"We need to get more of these oranges."
"It's not the oranges, my dear." He kissed her again, with more chaste decorum. "It's you."
Silence reigned, as she took his gloved hand in hers and led him to the next stall and the next. Finally, as she studied a display of hand-blown glass ornaments, she spoke.
"I've never done this before."
"This?" he asked, though he expected he knew quite well what she meant.
"Had a… relationship. Something that wasn't just superficial." Her head turned slightly, and he perceived that she was watching him for a response. "And I think you haven't, either."
Superficial. Yes, that accurately described his previous romantic entanglements. And it described nothing of his relationship with Clarice Starling.
"Obvious, is it, my dear?"
"If I didn't know better, I'd think we were both in high school."
"Because my affection for you is so obvious, or because my stamina and technique are a disappointment?"
She laughed, fully and freely; he smiled, cherishing the sound.
"Oh god, the former, definitely. I have no complaints about the latter. But if you're feeling insecure, you can demonstrate again later." A few more chuckles slipped out before she regained her control. "It's just… such a relief. To be able to show how I feel about you. To not have to hide it."
Mulled wine and music.
It wasn't quite like the tree-decorating she remembered from her girlhood, but the feelings were the same. Comfort. Warmth. Laughter.
They had set up the tree near the front window, centered in the space, upon their return from the market. And now they had a fire in the fireplace, mugs of warm, cinnamon-spiced wine, and a stereo piping out Christmas music - more Vienna Boys Choir than "Jingle Bells," but beautiful all the same.
Clarice unwound the lights and fed them to Hannibal at a steady pace as he affixed them to the branches. Her fingers itched for a ruler, because she was pretty sure that his placement, by naked eye alone, was precisely equidistant for each bulb in all directions. When he'd finished, and she ceremonially pushed in the plug, the tree looked as though it had been draped in a shimmering white net.
They added garland next, and the ornaments they had chosen at the market. His, she noted, tended toward stars and snowflakes and geometric patterns. Their tree would not have the kitschy Santas and Rudolphs and oversized multicolored bulbs she recalled from her own childhood. But that was fine, she thought. Better than fine.
What they put on the tree didn't matter; it was the act of choosing together, the companionship now as they decorated, that mattered. And their tree would be classically elegant, a mix of pale winter blues and white with a large but not gaudy silver star on top. The sort she had once seen only in magazines, the sort she had imagined graced rich people's homes. The sort that Clarice Starling would never have in her living room.
But I do now. Classical elegance. And it's not the tree; it's him. It's us.
She slowed in her decorating efforts as she took more time to watch him. He hummed softly with the music. The fire in the fireplace crackled. The light from the tree and the flames softened edges, giving everything a gentle glow. He chose ornaments with care, as precise in their placement as he had been with the lights, though the criteria for perfection were beyond her understanding. And he hadn't challenged her choices; every ornament she placed remained where she left it, welcome bits of random whimsy in his grand design.
Because we fit. We're more than the sum of our parts. When we step back and look, it all just... falls into place.
She had never thought she'd be so cloyingly saccharine about romance. Such things were frivolous, girly, and Clarice Starling had never been either of those. But instinct told her something deeper lay at the edge of her knowledge, a feeling she couldn't quite grasp but knew the shape of, somehow. It was only natural, wasn't it? To be so caught up in each other during this... honeymoon period?
He felt it too, didn't he?
He turned to look at her then, and she realized she'd been holding an ornament, unmoving, for entirely too long. The firelight caught the sparks in his eyes. She hung the ornament and stretched her hand out for his.
"Finished, Clarice?" God, that warm, tender voice would be her undoing every time.
"It's perfect, don't you think?" She pulled her gaze from his to run a critical eye over the tree.
"I do," he confirmed, though his tone told her the tree itself had not figured largely in his thoughts.
"C'mere." She pulled him to the couch. "Let's bask in perfection awhile."