Clarice cannot sleep.
She'd never had this problem before, not since entering this place with him. He had given her all kinds of drugs to protect her mind and keep her well-rested as she healed physically and mentally from the strain she'd gone through. But the drugs were all gone now. There was nothing to quiet her mind for the torment it imposed on her now.
How long had she been accused by people like Paul Krendler that she had the hots for the cannibal? How many people—men, almost exclusively—had sniggered behind her back at the assumption that she had developed the working relationship and bond with Hannibal Lecter because she let him fuck her? Well, they were right now.
Clarice was at war with herself over it. After she took a bath and regained consciousness properly, she could not get the horrible thoughts out of her mind. On the one hand, she knew where she was and who she was with and who she was. She was Special Agent Clarice Starling of the FBI. Her life's work the last six months had been to catch Hannibal Lecter and bring him to justice. Not kill him, not let Mason Verger do whatever sick, twisted shit to him. No, Hannibal Lecter was a monster and should be locked away for his crimes. The world was not all black and white, she knew, but murder and cannibalism were wrong. Wrong and deserved to be punished. Hannibal should be locked away in a facility, just as he was before. Not that Baltimore hospital, though of course it was defunct now. He wasn't an animal to be caged, but a brilliant man who needed to be kept away from the society he threatened. Clarice knew that. It was her job to know that. It was everything she was, bringing criminals to justice. He was a criminal. She had to find a way to bring him in.
And yet… She knew what he had done for her. He had saved her life. That much was obvious. Whatever had happened at Muskrat Farm, she would have died if it were not for his actions. Though the same could be said for him. She had saved his life because for all that he was a villain who deserved to pay for his crimes, he did not deserve to die at the hands of Mason Verger. Hannibal had repaid her in kind, rescuing her as she had rescued him.
But it was more than that. He had healed her body, and then he had healed her mind. Clarice could have gone the rest of her life beholden to the memory of her father and the screaming of the lambs. None of it bothered her anymore. Not the same way it used to. She had confronted it all and cast it away. He had done that for her. Hannibal Lecter had been the cause of the change in her.
He had not changed everything about her, however. Clarice was still herself. She knew that. She knew what she needed to do. She knew she needed to come up with a plan using John Brigham's gun, to find a way to escape and to bring Hannibal in. That was what she needed to do. And she would. She would do exactly that. That's what she did. Clarice Starling caught the bad guys.
She rolled over in the big, comfortable bed that had become her sanctuary. There was a distant sound, a high-pitched whirring. Some kind of motor. Part of Clarice wanted to get up and investigate, but she decided against it. She was tired. And while she couldn't seem to fall asleep, she did not really want to do much else.
The truth was that her body was utterly exhausted while her mind remained active. An interesting change from the last few days. Weeks? Months? She had no idea how long she had been here, and she didn't really care. But she had worked so hard with her mental efforts as her body rested. Now she'd finally used her body, and it gave energy to her mind.
Clarice stretched herself. That warm bath had helped. That was why Hannibal had run the bath for her, of course, to help soothe her muscles and let her get cleaned up after…well, after.
It had been a long time since her body was used like that. When was the last time she'd had sex on the floor? This was not the first time. But it was the first time she'd done it on the floor in front of a fire and had a beautiful gown ripped off her body. The ghost of his touch, those strong and dangerous hands, whispered over her flesh even now.
She wasn't really very shy about sex. But Clarice felt herself blush. What on earth had possessed her to do that? To bare her breast to him, to drip wine over herself, to welcome him into her body? It was everything she'd always insisted was nothing close to the relationship she had with the good doctor. Not on her side, anyway. She had felt the shiver of tension between them; Clarice knew when a man was attracted to her. But she had never allowed anything like that to ever reach her conscious mind. Never, ever.
Her dreams, however, told a different story, and she knew it. He had once asked her if she thought that Jack Crawford imagined scenarios of fucking her. She wasn't sure about that and certainly didn't let herself think about that. But she had imagined scenarios of Hannibal fucking her. It had been her deepest, darkest fantasy. Something she would never even admit to herself.
And she still hadn't admit it to herself. Wouldn't admit it at all. Never mind that she had initiated what happened between them. She had been the one to make that happen. For all that she knew of Hannibal Lecter, she knew he had impeccable manners with those who earned his respect. She knew he respected her. She knew he would never be anything but a perfect gentleman toward her in any circumstance. And it was true. He had not convinced or coerced her in any way. It had all been Clarice's doing. What he had done was what she wanted him to do.
She had wanted it, and she had enjoyed it.
Clarice knew she should be ashamed of herself for that, but she couldn't really find it in herself to regret it. Hannibal's hands and mouth all over her body, caressing her and bringing her to the heights of pleasure. His body covering hers and thrusting inside her with the power that she knew he possessed. It had been exciting and passionate and incredible. Even just his kiss had been almost enough to overpower her. She had wanted him. And she knew that she still did.
But that wasn't right. It wasn't right that she should crave the pleasure she'd enjoyed with him. He was Hannibal the Cannibal. And she would have to put him behind bars again. She couldn't lie here and think about the sinking feeling she'd had when he helped her into the bath and then left her without more than a polite bid of goodnight.
Except she was disappointed. She did not want to be left alone. Not now, not after they had tangled together with passion. She wanted to curl up in those strong arms, to rest her head on his muscled chest and breathe in his scent. She wanted him to kiss her again. She wanted him to make love to her again and then stay with her. Preferably in a bed this time.
Clarice did not appreciate the direction her thoughts had taken. She did not want to think about that. She did not want to want him. She did not want to be unhappy that he had used her like this and then left her. He had not been rude, of course, but he could not have known that she wanted him to stay. She herself did not to want him to stay, but she did.
And how would she feel, though, if he had stayed? If, after they had together consumed Paul Krendler's brain—another horrific act that she did not want to allow herself to contemplate—Hannibal had transformed into an attentive lover? He had certainly been attuned to her body and her pleasure. He had kissed her with a passion that made her head spin. But what if he had joined her in the bath, had held her securely against him and left sweet, sensual kisses all over her? What would she have done if Hannibal Lecter suddenly bestowed a fairytale romance on her? Well, that had to be a worse idea. For all that she was a little disappointed now, that would have scared the hell out of her. Hannibal Lecter did not love. He remained fixated on the baby sister who had died in his youth. He had loved Mischa, and he had perhaps known how to love then. But the world had stolen that ability from him. Clarice knew that. She had studied him for months before they entered this place where they shared their innermost thoughts and needs, and she knew that love was not something that Hannibal Lecter held in his heart. Fascination, respect, lust. All within him. All powerful feelings, she knew, particularly for him. But love was not within him. And really, did she even want him to love her?
Yet another thought that did not bear contemplating.
She wished she had those drugs again, to keep her mind sequestered away and to put her to sleep. She wanted to rest, she wanted to escape from these swirling anxieties. But sleep would not come. She rolled over again and stared at the shadows on the wall. She did not know what else to do.