Thank you, dear friends, for your patience with me. I hit a very large emotional bump in late January/mid-February and I'll freely admit I've not been myself since then. I promise to do better for my H, and for all my very dear readers of #NMSL. Thank you so much for all your messages, and your very kind reviews, and a very special thanks to everyone who follows me on Twitter— I adore my #NMSL twitter crew and I appreciate you more than I can express. I hope to post again before May 15th, so hopefully that's something we can all look forward to. Much fanfic love, LH.
For Anna. Always.
AS DEEP AS THE OCEAN
Clarice set up in the bathroom, but only after she'd tested the humidity of the room and stabilized the ambient temperature to remain steadily above 20°c. Opening the parcels, she placed two bottles on the edge of the sink. Beside them she set a graduated pipette dropper, and a small measuring cup. She didn't need much of the actual raw materials— no more than a dropper of two of each, and that 1:1 ratio meant she didn't have complicated ratios to memorize. Clarice opened the bottle of resin mix first, carefully calculating the predetermined amount needed for her purposes.
Measuring out the volume needed, she squirted the contents into a small cup and set the container down. She watched and waited for the material to settle in the event she might need to skim any residual from the surface, but found that step wasn't necessary. Scant moments later, she measured an equal amount of liquid hardener, adding it to the small cup containing the resin. Using a tiny, flat-edged spatula, Clarice thoroughly mixed the contents. She wasn't as meticulous as might be needed for other applications, not particularly worried about clarity or color, only the strength of the cured product. When she was certain the blend was adequate, Clarice reached for the Altoids box in which she'd imprinted Popil's key. She'd asked Hannibal to carve out an opening along the long shorter edge of the box wear the top of the key would fall to provide an injectable pour hole. She also asked that he allow for an adequate channel from the top of the box leading into the Play-Doh impression, still soft from a carefully maintained seal. Hannibal also provided a graduated saline syringe from his medical bag, emptying it for Clarice so no trace of liquid would be left to taint her mixture. Dipping the syringe into her preparation, she drew back on the plunger, carefully attending the measurement markers to withdraw the exact amount needed. She injected the material within the gap, completely filling the interior of the mold. Clarice then tapped it on the counter several times to allow any bubbles to rise to the surface and allow the material to settle into the shaft of the mold. She used the piece of the tin box Hannibal had excised to cover the hole, taping that section closed with duct tape.
"All well, my Love?" Hannibal called out after tapping gently on the door.
"I've got it, H. Almost done."
She heard a satisfied…no, a proud grunt as he walked away from the door and left her to sort out the cleanup. She realized he left the suite when she heard the hotel room door close. He wasn't hovering or haunting her every move. In fact, he was probably going to see about their dinner.
He's confident in my plan. If not, he'd be standing outside the door reminding me of every single step we'd discussed, even knowing it was my plan all along. H…perfectionist personified. My brilliant man…
Clarice smiled to herself, remembering Hannibal coaching her in volume and parts per millimeter as they discussed exact chemical ratios and amounts over their evening dinner the previous night. She gathered all the materials and tossed the used mixing tools in a special Hazmat bag, Hannibal insisting he should be the one to handle disposing of these materials. It wasn't that he didn't trust her, but they both understood such dangerous materials shouldn't be trusted to open disposal in a random trash bin. He'd know what to do with it, or he'd find someone who would. By the time she cleaned up and set the small tin in a cool, dry place in their bedroom to set, Hannibal had returned with tonight's dinner.
She greeted him at the door. "Hello, my handsome man."
He paused for a moment, eye brow arched and head cocked suspiciously to the side.
"Handsome," he questioned with a glint in his eye, "It's not often I'm greeted with such blandishments. Were the epoxy ratios off? Is there some form of chemical spill or some sort of disaster needing my attention?"
She reached for the parcel holding what smelled like a Michelin star meal and kissed his cheek before sweeping away toward the table with their food. "No disasters. In fact, not to brag, but there's not been a single hiccup in the plan. Is there anything wrong with me simply appreciating the perfection that is my husband."
"Nothing wrong, Dearest," he assured as he began clearing the area for their meal. "And if I don't say it enough, know that I appreciate you as well, Clarice. We are quite the team, yes?"
"Yes…quite the team. Always have been. Always will be."
"Always…" He said that often, the word having intense meaning for him.
She noted the melancholy tone, but didn't mention it to him. They were as independent as they were inseparable. A team— it was the perfect description for their relationship. He cleared the table and laid out white linens and china as she unpacked their meal. She sat across from him, Hannibal opening a bottle of white and pouring her glass before his. "Wine?"
It wasn't a question of whether she wanted it or not. He'd know she was asking the type.
"I've chosen a 2018 Domaine Zind-Humbrecht Gewurztraminer Rangen de Thann Clos Saint Urbain. It will pair well with our meal, no matter your choice."
He pulled out her chair, guiding her to it with a sidestep and a wide sweep of his hand, He moved like a dancer, she thought. Elegant. Athletic. Purposeful, with no wasted movement. Clarice was mesmerized watching him finish setting the table, placing the meal he'd chosen for her in front of her with the same flourish of a hand with which he'd complete a piano sonata.
"Smells heavenly."
"I went with the house specialties today. You have the choice between the duck foie gras with hazelnuts, strawberries, balsamic, and black pepper or the butter-poached lobster with sweet pea and mascarpone ravioli. Which would you prefer?"
"I'll leave the duck to you. Organ meats seem to be more up your alley than mine. I'll take the lobster, if you don't mind."
Hannibal plated her meal as if he'd been born into a life of service. She always admired that about him. His culture. His table manners. Everything about him screamed excellence, a trait she'd been forced to learn through years of trial and error. He was born to this— a life of foie gras and fine wines, while she'd been raised on tap water and government cheese. His pedigree was indisputable. Hers? Well, at least he didn't tease her about her station in life any longer. If he'd found her background objectionable they would've never had children. She told herself that every time she suffered from imposter syndrome, as she did from time to time. It was something she thought of more and more these days. They'd be leaving Paris soon and traveling to Lecter Castle in Lithuania. Lecter Castle. Unreal.
"You're not eating, Dearest? I've never known you to shy from your evening meal."
His eyes showed concern, the ring of his maroon irises shrinking around his now-dilating pupils. She breathed deeply. She could sense his worry.
"Are you afraid, H?"
He didn't say a word. Instead, he raised his wine glass to his lips and took a long sip. She watched his Adam's apple dip and rise with a swallow. It was forced, his throat tightening.
"Hannibal?" Hannibal, not H. She understood using his full name would signal concern.
"Hannibal?" he questioned, "not H? Not, my Love?"
"Your heartrate is increasing. Your pupils are dilating, and your throat is tightening. You're either horny, or you're worried, and I don't smell a spike in pheromones. Talk to me, H."
Hannibal placed his knife and fork on his plate, the tine of the fork and tip of the knife's blade touching, the utensils creating an upside down V shape signaling to a server he'd paused, but hadn't finished with his meal. A stickler for such details, even when eating at home he followed proper etiquette protocols.
"I trust you, Clarice. That's all I need say about the matter."
She watched him. He was careful to hide his tells, but she knew him better than he knew himself. His eyes ticked toward the clock and back to her.
"Seventy-two hours from now?"
"Approximately."
"Do you know what you'll do when you gain access? Do you have a plan?"
She sat for a moment. He shifted in his seat. He's uncomfortable.
"How can I have a plan, H? We have no idea what I'm looking at when I get there. My only plan is to remove whatever incriminating evidence he thinks he has, and to confirm the condition of his wife. Aside from that, I'm going to have to play it by ear. You understand that better than anyone, don't you? There's no way to account for every eventuality."
"I'll provide a disk you can use to wipe his computer. It will be much faster than attempting to factory reset and damage the hard drive enough that material can't be recovered." He lifted the knife from his plate and tapped it on the edge of the plate. "You'll have to search for as many paper documents as you can find. He's of a generation that would detail his movements in a notebook. It's something tangible. The computer may have some information, but the older, more incriminating material would be written or printed documents."
Tick, tick, tick, he tapped his knife's edge on the plate over and over again, the mathematically-timed, almost metronome aspect to the action wasn't lost on Clarice. This was the one characteristic they didn't share. He was a machine when it came to planning. He researched and strategized so he'd be able to execute his plans to perfection. Clarice preferred to make a loose plan, instead leaving room for a series of contingencies. It's not that his plans were ossified— he could think on his feet better than any criminal she'd ever come across, but he preferred to rule out such eventualities ahead of time. Criminal. She'd never actually considered him one, had she? She trusted him. From the beginning, there was a kinship. An understanding. She saw him, and he saw her. Even in the dungeon, she understood him. Felt for him, even. Their attraction was immediate. Immutable. She became his, and he became hers the moment his finger brushed along her hand just before he escaped. That touch sealed their love— even if it took nearly a decade to bring them together.
"You're afraid."
It wasn't accusatory. She was simply stating a fact.
He didn't flinch, responding, "Yes."
"Why?" Clarice began eating, attempting to reduce the tension between them. Not because she felt any threat or anger from him, but because his angst was palpable. "Why are you so worried? Don't you trust me?"
"I don't trust him, Clarice. I never have. I never will. He seems a pitiable figure now, but I saw him wheel men on gurneys toward the guillotine with not so much as an uptick in his pulse. Many committed crimes against humanity during that time, and many of them, Popil included, hid behind a badge and a court order while doing it."
"I guess the same could be said about me."
"You don't believe that for a second and neither do I," Hannibal hissed.
"Maybe. Maybe not. To be honest, I'm not sure what I believe. All I know is, I'm not letting him tear my family apart. Pitiable figure or not." She shrugged her shoulders as she stabbed at a small pillow of pasta. "I do understand why you're worried, though." She gestured to his plate as she placed the forkful of ravioli in her mouth. "Eat. Your meal is getting cold."
Though he lifted his utensils, he didn't reach toward his food. "Do you understand?"
"I do, H. We're leaving for Lecter Castle, your childhood, home in a few days. This is all weighing heavily. You've lost a lot. You don't want to lose any more."
"I won't lose any more," he growled in a tone so low it was nearly leonine.
She put down her fork and knife, not worrying about the direction they fell on the plate. Walking around the table, she knelt beside Hannibal. He shifted the chair to welcome her to him, wrapping his arms around her to draw her close. Kneeling with her, he gathered her in a tight embrace. They held each other, kissing one another deeply, mouths moving as their tongues twirled and danced around one another's—arms hugging and hands grasping, pulling each other so close she could feel his heart thumping strongly against her own. Rhythms aligning, they held one another longer than either of them realized, an hour passing before Clarice looked at the clock.
Eventually they parted long enough to finish their meal, though Hannibal changed his seat to sit beside her, an arm around her or his hand massaging her thigh the entire time. They spent the next three days absolutely inseparable, Logan and Dee taking the children several hours each day to give them privacy. Hannibal spent hours reviewing every contingency he could think of to keep her safe. Clarice, for her part, listened politely, unconcerned for anything but her children, and, most importantly because of his current vulnerability, Hannibal. He was afraid. He worried for her not because he thought she was incompetent, but because he was in love with her. If she understood only one thing about her husband, it would be that when Hannibal loved, he loved until death. Not your death. His. Grief, for Hannibal, was the eternal price of love. It was something his massive ego could not control. It was something of which his mighty mind had no influence— he was powerless over love. He would never leave. He would never let go. That level of loyalty— of sacrifice…that sheer obsession and purity of his love, was not something she feared, but something, she suspected, was the only thing in the world that truly terrified Hannibal Lecter.
Seventy-two hours had passed. The following morning, just before dawn, Hannibal, ever the perfectionist, insisted on removing the epoxy from the mold and cleaning it thoroughly. He then lightly sanded the surface of the casting, smoothing out the epoxy key to clean up the grooves and depressions, making sure to remove any residual material that might alter this key's effectiveness within the lock. When satisfied, Hannibal handed Clarice the epoxy key she'd created.
"Be careful, my Love."
"I will be, H."
He pulled her close, wrapping his arms so fully around her she felt enveloped by him. Protected. Not that she needed it, but he'd become safety and comfort. He was love. "Come back to us, my Love. Come back to me," he affirmed.
She cupped his face in her hands, kissing his mouth, then gently brushed the tip of her nose against his. He grasped her face, holding her head as their noses touched. There was an intensity in the moment that surprised her. He had a sixth sense for things— things she didn't always understand, but this seemed more than the normal concern. This was unusual. Popil spooked him. There was something visceral she didn't understand going on. Perhaps he'd tell her later, but it was something for another time, not now.
Eye to eye, she assured, "Don't worry, H. I'm just going to pop in, clear the place out, and pop back out."
"I love you, Clarice. Call the burner if you have need of me?"
"I will, H. I love you more."
"Perhaps, but I will love you always. More is subjective. Always is infinite."
She kissed his forehead. "Okay, H. You win that round."
Hannibal smiled. Nodding, he stepped back, releasing her. "I won the day you became mine. Anything else is an embarrassment of riches. I'll see you when you get back."
He turned and walked away from the door. She paused to see if he'd turn back around, but he didn't. Instead, hands clasped firmly behind his back, Hannibal Lecter strode across the room, leaving his wife to her business.
Popil's schedule was as regular as clockwork. He'd arrive at the bakery no more than ten minutes before opening on any given day. He'd be at the bakery not much longer than ten minutes to make his purchases. Thankfully it was a long walk and he was getting more and more infirmed. His body was shrinking, too. He wasn't rail-like as he'd been the first time she saw him, but near-skeletal, now. The walk would take much longer now. Occasionally he'd make additional stops on the way home, but she couldn't count on that. She wished she didn't have to be so covert. It would have been so much easier if he'd been clear about his situation, but he'd wavered between confused explanations. His stories didn't add up. His threats, however, could prove real.
No, Popil was a desperate man, for whatever reason, and desperate men are unpredictable. Dangerous, even. From the adrenaline venting from her husband any time Popil was mentioned, Clarice understood Hannibal hated this man, an unusual emotion for him. He didn't express hatred for even the most heinous of his so-called victims. Hate was a wasted emotion in his mind. Why hate what you can simply remove?
But he hadn't revisited Popil before leaving Paris. He left that chapter of his life open. Unresolved. Popil was a part of Hannibal's life when he was a very young man. A very confused, emotional young man. And though that unstable young man finally gave rise to the magnificence Hannibal had become, if Hannibal's rising was driven by the trauma of his youth, Popil was a large part of that process. And Popil cost him Lady Murasaki, hadn't he? At the very least, Hannibal believed it. Popil tainted her perceptions of him, causing her to believe he wasn't worth loving. That he was damaged goods. That he wasn't capable of understanding love— committing to that depth of emotion.
Depth of emotion? Hannibal was an ocean of love and loyalty. Popil, no more than a puddle of a man. A broken human. A shell. Clarice wanted to ask Popil when he'd given up, but the lines on his face cut too deeply for the answer to be brief. "The stench of the camps is still thick upon him", Hannibal told her, but she thought...no. It's the burden of a more recent grief that weights him now.
Clarice moved through the streets of Paris, auburn hair covered by a hood, face shielded with a scarf. She moved through crowds, careful to change her look occasionally, removing layers meant to be peeled off and discarded to hide her movements. She'd changed her look a minimum of five times before reaching his apartment, the size of her handbag shrinking as she removed each layer shift.
She approached his door, rapping on the surface to confirm no one was inside. Listening, she slipped the resin-cast key inside the lock. The tumbler mechanism responded to the carefully molded blank, releasing the lock as if she'd used the original key. She placed the resin key in her pocket, slipping into the apartment without attention.
Clarice quickly moved to the table, scooping up folders of "evidence" and placing them in a large woven shopping bag she'd brought for that purpose. Clarice opened Popil's computer. Reaching inside her bag, she withdrew a CD Hannibal burned for her. He'd written, in his impeccable handwriting so she wouldn't walk out with a mix-tape accidentally, Darik's Boot and Nuke. Burn when finished. All she needed to do, he assured, was boot up the computer with that CD in place, and not only would it erase all the data including Popil's personal files and the computer's operating system, erasing everything on the computer/hard drive, but it would actually overwrite them with useless data. She booted from the CD, crashed and overwrote the system, and removed the DBAN CD. She tossed it in the microwave and set it for several minutes. As the CD arced and burned in the microwave, Clarice moved with purpose through the house. She screened every piece of paper, searching for flash drives, or anything that may have contained any information on Hannibal, his past, journals of his movements over the years. After removing reams of paper, certain she'd covered every nook and cranny of the apartment aside from Popil's bedroom, Clarice walked down the long hallway toward the bedroom. She paused outside the door for a moment, not simply listening, but using every one of her senses to determine what she might see when she entered the room. Still unsure, but knowing she was nearly out of time, Clarice called out.
"Mrs. Popil? I hope you don't mind my visit, but your husband asked me to sit with you while he's out shopping, so please cover yourself if you need any additional privacy." She paused for a moment, then warned politely, "This is a wellness check, nothing more, okay? I'm coming into the room now."
Clarice stepped through the doorway. She'd seen a lot of things in her time with the FBI. She'd seen quite a lot in her time with Hannibal, as well. Still, none of that prepared her for what she faced when she entered the bedroom Pascal Popil shared with his wife.
Mouth agape, Clarice reached for the burner phone.
Hannibal answered before the end of the first ring.
"Dearest?"
"Come now, H. And hurry."
Until the next chapter, my friends,
LH