Clarice stared blankly at the page of her Spanish text, unable to concentrate. Although she had a foundation in French, she decided early on that learning Spanish would be more practical. Fleeing to South America made the most sense, and she could always brush up on French at a later time if she wanted to. Sometimes Dr. Lecter would drop by and assist in her lessons, sometimes not. She'd counted he spoke at least six languages and wondered just how many more he knew. But today she couldn't concentrate to save her life. She was glad he didn't stop by.

Seven weeks. It had been just over seven weeks since the Verger estate. They had shared many meals and many evenings together. She was open in sharing her thoughts as she worked through coming to terms with her past and charting a course for the future. He was approving of every idea she came up with for her new life, and showed no judgment if she changed her mind the very next day and went off in a new direction. He was surprisingly open with her as well. He spoke of his childhood in Lithuania, and the fate of his sister Mischa. No conversation topic was off limits.

Seven weeks. Here, suspended in this bubble of time—what felt like an alternate reality—she had grown accustomed to their routine. She found herself looking forward to their evenings, conversing over wine and food. She enjoyed making him laugh—genuinely laugh. It wasn't often, but when it happened she felt a strange sense of accomplishment. She… liked him. Despite her better judgment, despite all of the horrifying things he'd done… she actually liked him. There was more to his nature than just the monster. He killed many, but so had she. She found herself thinking about— No. She put the pen down. Sigh… is this what Stockholm syndrome feels like? She shook her head. It wasn't that. They were both deeply flawed individuals, but in an odd way they complemented each other. No one had the ability to get under her skin like he did. He was the most infuriatingly egotistical person she had ever met… but he was also the most interesting person she had ever met.

Yes, they had spent every evening together and he had been nothing but the perfect gentleman. But she was starting to feel a certain tension between them. Never expressly stated, but it was there. She could feel it in the way he looked at her. A raw hunger caged beneath a mask of civility. He'd made no move to touch her since the first night when he had come at her in anger. She replayed that moment quite a bit as of late. The speed at which he moved, the strength in which he held her…

"His pulse never got above 85, even as he ate her tongue."

This did not frighten her, rather—it excited her, much as she was loath to admit. Here, in this place outside of space and time, she had moved well beyond conventional boundaries. She found herself imagining scenarios, exchanges... Sighing, she laid back onto the couch. She was in great need of an afternoon nap if she were to be pleasant company. Drifting between sleep and wake, her mind wondered just what it might take to get his pulse above 85.

"I want to talk about right and wrong."

"Moral absolutism. But of course." Dr. Lecter feigned disinterest. They had finished a light dinner and were conversing in the library, as they were accustomed to do.

"Ok, maybe that's not the right way to put it." She thought for a moment. "You suggested I spend sometime defining my values—self-awareness, as you put it. I want to know what your values are."

"You want to know what I deem right and wrong."

"Among other things, yes."

"And what if I have no absolute definitions of right and wrong?"

"Then I would call bullshit."

"Such crass language, Clarice," he teased.

"You have a thought framework that guides your decision-making, just like I do. Maybe your definitions of right and wrong aren't as clear-cut, but you do have them." She exhaled in frustration, trying to verbalize her thoughts. "You once said that discourtesy was unspeakably ugly to you… yet what could be more discourteous than torture and murder?"

"Oh Clarice, discourtesy– like beauty—is in the eye of the beholder." He paused before continuing. "Consider that in Asia, there is a certain species of bird called the swiftlet. It uses its saliva to build nests high upon the walls of caves, which are then harvested to create "bird's nest soup", a delicacy in Chinese and Southeast Asian cuisine. What some may perceive as distasteful, others perceive as a delicacy."

"So you're comparing torture and murder to bizarre culinary practices?"

"Who exactly sets the standard for what is bizarre Clarice? Who decides what is art and what is rubbish? Screams of agony can sound as beautiful as any symphony in the right context." Taking a sip of his wine, he continued. "Nature itself has no morality. A wolf does not evaluate the rightness or wrongness of a kill. It acts according to its nature—kill and eat, or hunger and die."

"A wolf also licks its own asshole."

"Cleanliness is next to Godliness, as they say."

She rolled her eyes. "But seriously—a wolf killing a deer is based on need—survival."

"Do you not think the wolf also enjoys killing?"

"Perhaps. But enjoyment is secondary."

"What difference does it make to the deer? Its fate is the same regardless of whether or not the wolf enjoyed killing and eating it. One could argue that enjoyment is an evolutionary convenience. Encouraging the action required for one's survival. Imagine Clarice, if over the expanse of human history there was no war. No conflict. No culling of the herd so to speak."

She remained silent.

"Let's turn our attention to your own value system, hmm," he continued. "You believe murder to be morally wrong, yet you killed three men to save me—one that society itself would deem worthy of the death penalty. In saving my life you acted immorally. Do you know why you did it, Clarice?"

She didn't have to think long—the answer, she found, was quite simple. "Because the world is much more interesting with you in it."

He smiled, clearly pleased. "In effect you value my life above those you took, and—consequently—above the lives of those I may choose to take in the future."

"At the time I didn't think about the possibility of you choosing to kill again. Only that I couldn't leave you to die."

"And now that you've considered it—if you could do it over, would you still choose to save my life, Clarice?

They held each other's eyes for a long time.

"Yes." She couldn't save her father, she couldn't save John, but she did save him. Society can go to hell.

"Then it would appear the dichotomy of our respective moralities is not as rigid as it seems. Perhaps some of our stars are—"

"The same," she finished.

His maroon eyes never left hers as he rose from his seat and stood before her. Instinctively she set her glass down and rose to meet him, recalling the lines he had written so many years ago, as if for the first time she had understood their meaning. Without further thought, she acted on impulse—closing the distance between, she leaned forward and kissed him. He closed his eyes—in immediate response he was still—so much so that she withdrew. He caught her then—her cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing against her bottom lip.

"Clarice—"

"Hannibal."

This was the first time she had used his given name. At the sound, something deep within him broke. He was on her then, suddenly—with brute force that made her stumble backward. He kissed her with vigor, hands on her jaw, caressing, touching. There was no air in the room, no light, no sound. Only sensation—his hands on her body—his mouth over exposed flesh. She had never felt such urgent need. Clothing discarded—it's impossible to say who or how—lying in front of the fire he entered her fiercely with not an ounce of control. She cried out, pleasure mixed with pain, gripping his shoulders, nails digging into flesh as he drove into her again and again like there was no end. All matter and energy condensed into this need—to possess and be possessed. He captured her mouth in a long, deep kiss as he came within her—her body rocked against him, trembling with exertion. He remained inside for a long time, his head cradled in her shoulder, listening to her breathing while she stroked his hair, speaking softly to her in a language she wished she understood.

"Ti avrei nel momento per un'eternitià…"

He had imagined the penetration of Clarice Starling many times before, but always with recreational detachment. This was a wholly different experience—to lose himself in her was unexpected and even frightening. Regaining his composure, he lifted himself, planting a tender kiss on her lips.

"Come with me. Please."

She took his offered hand, not trusting her legs to stand on their own accord. Her thighs were slick with his seed yet there was no shame. He led her up the stairs and to the master bedroom. Soft light from a single lamp cast shadows along the wall of a large four-post bed—neatly made, simple and elegant. She had not been inside his quarters before.

He turned on the water and gestured for her to enter. The water felt warm on her skin and good against her sore muscles. He watched her as she rinsed her hair, letting the water stream down her back. She was glorious—and she was his. Dr. Lecter lathered the bar of almond soap in his hands. Standing behind, he began to bathe her slowly—first moving is hands over her shoulders and down her back, gently massaging. Briefly he paused at her hips, lightly running his thumbs over the dimples in her lower back, planting a delicate kiss on her shoulder. Lathering once more, his hands roamed over her breasts, her nipples, hard to the touch against his palms. With shuttered breath, a soft moan escaped as his hands traveled to grace the skin just below her hipbone. She was breathing heavily now, composure fading as she felt the heat rush to the place where he had only just been. Her legs parted involuntarily, and she felt a low rumble as Dr. Lecter hummed his approval.

"Look at you, Clarice…" he paused, trailing his tongue along her jugular, one hand cupping her breast, the other agonizingly close…

"What a marvel you are."

His voice but a whisper, he parted her and began to stroke her lightly, his touch ever so faint. Clarice moaned in sweet vexation, undulating against him.

He stilled her hips. "Be still, or I'll stop."

Whatever had transpired before, Dr. Lecter was very much in control now. Enticed by her wetness, he slid a finger in as he continued massaging her breast, teasing her nipple to rock hard peak. She tensed ever so slightly, sore from earlier, but soon welcomed his touch—truly a sight to behold in her heightened state of arousal.

"Oh God—"

He smiled devilishly. Sliding his finger in and out working her slowly, he savored her quivering form pressed against him in sweet agony, capturing this moment in his memory palace to revisit.

"Try again."

He began stroking her in earnest now, ready give her the release she so craved.

"Oh God—

Hannibal….

"Fucckkk!"

He moved swiftly, stealing the cry from her lips in a hard kiss as she road the wave of her pleasure. He was rigid now, his own need becoming painfully evident. Visiting the cool marble of the statue of Venus in his memory palace, he steeled himself, turning off the water before drying them both.

This couldn't possibly be real. Surely she was dreaming, somewhere, somewhere… Maybe she was in her duplex right now—Ardelia next door, making her grandmother's tea. She simply couldn't be here—reeling in the aftermath of an earth-shattering orgasm, courtesy of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It just wasn't possible. She was herself, but she was not herself—yet if this were a dream, she would ride out the rest of it an avid participant, leaving nothing on the table.

She followed Dr. Lecter's sleek form into the bedroom. A small candle she hadn't noticed before burned; the smell of sandalwood mixed with the almond of her skin and faintly, her own arousal. Releasing her hand, he gestured her onto the bed. She complied, moving backward to a seated position on her knees, suddenly self-conscious of her nakedness. Dr. Lecter stood before her and for the first time Starling took him in completely. He was of slender build, lean muscle underneath pale skin. He was so still, arms placed calmly by his side, almost statuesque. Semi-erect, he allowed her to look upon him, taking note of her expression as her eyes traveled… south. In truth she was not sure if she could withstand a second round so soon. The sex before had been explosive—violent even, though with no intent to harm. It was quite something, she found, to ache for and from someone, all at once.

"May I join you Clarice, or would you like a bit longer?"

"Please." She blushed slightly.

She rose onto her knees to meet him, placing her hands on his chest, eager to explore his body as he had done. Closing his eyes, he allowed her to move her hands along his forearms, biceps and shoulders unrestricted, moving back to his chest, sliding her hands down his abdomen to—

"No—" he opened his eyes, gently catching her hands. "Not yet."

Dr. Lecter advanced forward, causing her to fall back onto the pillows. He took her then in a long kiss, tongue caressing hers in an act they were made to do, his erection pressing against her inner thigh. Any and all reservations she might've had evaporated. Bracing his hands on either side of her body, he began a trail of kisses from the base of her jawline, down the nape of her neck. Dr. Lecter took his time, continuing down her sternum, the only physical contact his mouth and his breath.

"I must confess Clarice, I have often wondered just how you might taste.

His tongue grazed her nipple, causing her to arc forward, her chest rising and falling in short breaths. Pleased, he took a nipple into his mouth, suckling. She jolted as he grazed his teeth over her tender flesh—eliciting a low chuckle as he resumed drawing slow circles of sheer torture. Tracing his tongue downward along the path to her navel and to her hipbone, she was nearly undone, and oh how he enjoyed watching her writhe in agony! Widening her hips as he shifted, he planted a kiss inside her inner thigh before biting down, just enough to hurt, demanding her full attention.

"If you'll permit me," he raised his head, "I'd like to taste you now…"

He did not bother for a response. Spreading her wide, he ran his tongue along her inside flesh, savoring her sweetness, encircling the swollen bud as she moaned her encouragement.

"Oh god—"

Whether by skill or by the sheer notion of his savage mouth, she could not say. She came quickly, grasping the sheets, once again calling his name—a sound, he thought, he could never tire of. He continued to taste her slowly as she came back to herself from higher plain, his own need pressing the outer limits of his control. She withdrew from him then—pushing him back as she tasted herself on his tongue. By now she had straddled him, his cock rigid and wanting in her hands, her slickness just out of reach. She held his eyes, reveling in the effect she had on his present state. His body was thrumming with tension—he wanted to fuck the look of satisfaction right off her face—but his restraint was soon rewarded, for she took him in whole, and an audible groan escaped his lips in a breath he hadn't known he'd held. She rode him for a long time, his hips rising to meet hers in perfect union, dissolving into frenzy as they neared completion.

They stayed awake into the early hours of the morning, talking of nothing and everything until sleep overtook her. Watching her silhouette in the dark, he listened to the rise and fall of her breast, and the rhythmic beating of her heart that assured him she was very much there—very much alive. Somewhere in the ether between sleep and wake, he thought he saw a teacup fall. He returned to her breast, lost in the sound of that beating heart.

The mornings were spent in their own pursuits, but the evenings—and many afternoons—they shared together. Sex was a new dynamic they took to with much enthusiasm. Now, when they spoke of plans for the future, it became a future they shared. He began teaching her the tools she would need for a life on the run: he demanded she memorize every detail of her new identity, as well as bank accounts, exit strategies, and alternate rendezvous should they be forced to separate. She had a suspicion that Dr. Lecter intentionally prolonged their stay here, and she was glad he did, for she could no longer imagine a life that did not include him. They spoke of travel—he would show her some of his favorite places and they would discover new ones together. She would master Spanish first, then French… maybe even Italian, and hell—she might even learn to cook. Faced with ample resources and nearly unlimited possibilities, she found that all she really wanted in life were the simple things: engaging conversation, passionate sex, and a home shared with the one who understood her better than anyone. Everything else, she concluded, was secondary.